Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

I thrust my body between them and try to force them apart. He smells of sweat and grease from his breakfast. She smells of smoke and cedar. “Stop, Kolya, leave her alone. It’s not her fault.” Inessa’s head hits mine and she cries out. Everything goes white for an instant.

My husband tries to shove me aside, but I won’t let go. “She’s my wife. Don’t you understand?”

Then the man with the scar on his chest is on us. His voice is like a blow. “hiyu· a !” [40] Stop! Strong arms do what I could not—he forces himself between Inessa and Nikolai Isaakovich and pulls them apart. The scarred man holds my husband’s arms behind his back. Inessa pauses an instant, gasping, her face a mask of disbelief, and runs outside. Her basket, one side caved in, rocks back and forth on the floor where she dropped it.

“Don’t come looking for her again,” my husband shouts.

“She’s never going with you.” He twists against the scarred man who finally lets him go and runs after Inessa.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “You hurt her.”

“I did not. Didn’t you see the way she ran out of here? There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“You can’t do that to people here,” I say. “Nobody acts like that. They’re not used to it. And now Makee’s going to think we’re causing trouble.”

“All you care about is what that Poppy Seed thinks.” His expression of disapproval makes him look like a toad.

“I’m going to work now. I’ll fix your shirt later.” I storm out of the house. There’s no sign of Inessa, and without her, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.

I walk away from the houses to the edge of the forest and stand beneath the shelter of the boughs. They’re enough to keep me dry. The misty rain falls, but the sky is light, and I think it won’t be long before it stops. Down on the beach, some men have gathered beside the canoes.

The scent of smoke in the air makes me want to go back to the house, where it’s warm and dry. But I can’t face the mess my husband’s created. Let him deal with the Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts. Let him explain to Makee. I should find Inessa, but I haven’t any idea where to go look for her.

Somebody steps outside Makee’s house. For an instant, I think it’s my husband, but then I see it’s Timofei Osipovich. He looks around and when he sees me in the shelter of the trees, he comes to me.

“You don’t need to stand out here in the rain. Come inside.”

“No,” I say. “Please leave me be.” I have no patience for him today.

He turns and watches the men on the beach, but he doesn’t go. A gust of wind blows, and heavy drops of water fall from the boughs. One lands on my head and trickles down my face. It’s cold.

The men on the beach have turned one of the canoes over. They’re running their hands along the keel, deep in discussion.

“There’s nothing you can do about it out here. Come back.”

“Everything was fine,” I blurt. “Things were finally working out for us.” Tears press against my eyes, but I won’t give in to them. “I thought he understood. He’s been working hard, hasn’t he? Just like Makee wanted?”

Timofei Osipovich peers at me, in disbelief, then laughs. “Yes, he’s been working hard.”

“Then why this outburst?”

He sighs. “Madame Bulygina, I must show you something. Come.”

We go into the forest and follow the trail that leads toward the headland. We veer away from the sea and climb, then descend on the other side. It’s the same trail I took with the girls to collect mussels.

When we’ve passed the headland, we turn off the trail and head toward the beach. Before we step out of the trees, he stops and points.

A huge patch of soil has been disturbed. All the shrubs have been torn out. Boughs have been collected and propped up against one another. We go closer. It’s a hole in the ground that’s covered with branches. There’s a tiny opening with steps cut into the earth leading into the darkness. “What is this?”

“A house. A place to live.”

“Who made it?”

“Your husband—and I.”

“Makee asked you to build a house?”

“No, Madame Bulygina,” he replies, enunciating each word. “Makee did not ask us to build a house.”

They have been working hard. It took a lot of work to build the hut. But this is not what I meant, not what Makee wants.

“It’s almost finished. We’ll move here in a few days.”

“We can’t!”

“We can.”

“We’ll never survive!”

“And why not? We’ll eat fish. Snare a few rabbits. Get some mushrooms and roots. We’ll make kvass!” He smacks his lips. “We’ll trade with the koliuzhi for anything else we need. You may not realize it, but Kozma Ovchinnikov is more than a strong and loyal man. He’s also a good carver.”

“Does Makee know what you’ve done?”

He laughs. “Why? Are you going to tattle on us if he doesn’t?”

“Does he?” I insist.

He shrugs carelessly. “Probably. There are no secrets here; he must have accepted it. He’s done nothing to prevent our little project from proceeding.”

“You shouldn’t have done this.”

He bursts into laughter. “Dear Madame Bulygina, your sanctimony is a never-ending source of entertainment. Even when circumstances are most dire, I can always depend on you to make me laugh.”

A few hours later, Makee calls out from the bench. “Anna? Please come—and ask the commander to come as well.” He’s been in conference with the three older men all afternoon.

“Why should I go?” my husband mutters.

“Get up,” I whisper. I nudge him with my knee, a little harder than I should.

Nikolai Isaakovich glares, and gets up as slowly as he can. Once up, he surveys the room as though it’s something he must map but can’t decide where to start. Lazily, he saunters over to Makee, every step defiant. When he reaches the bench, he says, “What is it—Poppy Seed?” He mispronounces Makee’s name.

Makee’s hands are folded over his cheetoolth. It rests lightly on his lap. The three men are stern. “Earlier,” Makee begins, “there was a dispute in my home.”

“We’re sorry,” I cry. “It was a misunderstanding, and it won’t happen again.”

My husband ignores my words. “Yes, there was a dispute—about how my wife is being overworked.”

“I’m not overworked,” I say. “Sorry, Makee. There’s no problem.”

“Yes, there is a problem,” my husband says. “She’s not your slave. She can’t be performing menial tasks for you. She has other obligations.”

To my surprise, Makee gives a short nod. “I understand. She’s your wife. But you hurt that girl.”

“She’s fine. She walked out of the house. I saw her.”

“She’s hurt. I saw bruises on her arms.” His spine stiffens. “She refuses to come back. Everyone is distressed. And for what? Why didn’t you come to me first? We could have worked on a resolution.”

“I told you both. There’s no problem,” I cry. “I can do whatever my husband wants—and whatever you need, Makee. There’s plenty of time in the day.”

Makee addresses me as though my husband is not here. “This is what I was trying to tell you. Whenever there are too many babathid around, the smallest feather transforms into the heaviest and most immoveable of rocks. Always.”