Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

In a cluster off to one side, there’s Maria. And Ivan Kurmachev, the carpenter. There’s the American, John Williams, so pale and thin now that with his shock of red hair he looks like a candle. Do they see me? I wave. I didn’t realize they’d all be here.

Maria comes to the edge of the water, her eyes all but invisible in their deep creases, her mouth stretched wide. “You said you’d be back, but I didn’t expect it would be so soon.” I take the hand she offers and sink into her arms once again, feeling the frail bones of her back.

Timofei Osipovich is pulled into the centre of the men. They wrap their arms around him and won’t let go. Ovchinnikov and the two Aleuts are also dragged into the wild tangle. They look like a nest of octopuses. My heart swells.

And then I realize.

He’s missing. My husband is not here.

I turn to Maria. I can’t breathe.

“He’s here,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

“Where?”

“Fishing,” she says. “Down the coast.”

“When are they coming back?”

No one knows.

All the men are thinner and more worn down. They’re dirtier and their clothes are even more ragged than the last time I saw them. Still, joy lights up their faces; it eases my worry. We’re far from being the creatures we were when the brig ran aground, but the fondness they exhibit in their smiles and their embraces reminds me of their camaraderie on the ship. It renews my confidence. We will overcome this tragedy.

Maria’s the least changed of all. The most conspicuous difference is a sinew with a beaded pendant she now wears around her neck. The pendant, made of those tubular, white beads and korolki, hangs between her saggy breasts like an artifact from happier times. It’s hard not to look at that female part of her and wonder what kind of a young woman she was and what hopes she’d once nurtured.

When the men draw apart and there’s space between their words, I ask, “Where have you been? What happened?”

They look at one another, and from the fear and pride and uncertainty and confusion in their gazes, I understand, without having heard a word, that much has happened—just as it has to me—and that it’s hard to know where the story begins. The carpenter Kurmachev answers the challenge. “We were determined to stay free men,” he says, “but as you can see, we failed. We planned an escape by sea. The moon was unfriendly that night, peeking through a rent in the clouds as though taunting us. There was so little light for a sea voyage.”

They built a canoe. It capsized in the surf. They scrambled for their lives. They got back to shore. But they lost everything.

“From that moment, there was no choice,” drawls the American. “We surrendered to these koliuzhi.”

“If I’d heeded you, Madame Bulygina, that day on the river,” says Kurmachev, “I’d still have my flask. But to each his lot is given!”

Every man speaks at once. Agreeing, disagreeing, explaining, qualifying, contradicting, exaggerating, and teasing. Multiple truths are set before me, and I’m invited to choose the ones I want. Some mesh with my story and some don’t. Some are spoken quietly, others shouted with passion. I don’t know which is most deserving, or what to believe. But I feel light as a feather, lifted up by the pleasure of hearing their voices once again.

The moustached toyon’s house overflows with guests from the village as well as up and down the coast. Makee’s sister with her silver comb sits with a group of women my mother’s age on a bench near one of the posts. The Murzik has a long conversation with Timofei Osipovich. They’ve met before and I soon deduce that our prikashchik gave him the handkerchief that caused so much trouble with the Chalat Tsar. The injured eyebrow man is also here. Not only is he here but he’s the bridegroom—marrying the moustached toyon’s daughter.

He’s wearing a breechclout, but covering it, and the top half of his legs, is a decorated apron. The queer koliuzhi creatures are woven into it—a big-snouted animal like a bear or a wolf stretched out along the top, and beneath it, a toothy creature with huge eyebrows that mirror his and a checkerboard neck. The apron is big enough to cover his scar. He also wears a new, red shirt that can only have come from us.

Nikolai Isaakovich returned from fishing just after we’d finished warming ourselves before the fire. The chill of the sea voyage had left my body. Timofei Osipovich called out to him as soon as he entered, and he stopped. He smiled, hearing the familiar voice, and when he found the prikashchik’s face, he strode across the house and they embraced, pounding one another on their backs. When my husband pulled away, I had the chance to really see him. His face was ruddy, his hair wet and stringy, and he looked savage in a way that I know would have bothered his sensibilities only a few weeks ago. Timofei Osipovich said something else to him, and he looked up and found me.

I smiled. How did he see me? I’d taken great care with my appearance. Inessa and the other girl had let me know I was pretty in my new dress. But what did my husband think?

After a long, fearful moment, his lips pressed together in an uncertain smile. I rushed to his side and threw open my arms. He embraced me. He brushed his lips against my hair, and lowered his mouth to my ear. “My God, Anya, what happened to your dress?”

I hid my face against his chest.

The evening is filled with songs and stories and dancing. Though I’m tired from the journey, I can’t look away. I press myself into the side of Nikolai Isaakovich and soak in the grand spectacle. The colourful masks. The regal clothes—sea otter capes over the shoulders of many men, and jewellery such as I’ve not yet seen anywhere. The drumming that shakes the walls. The smoke that, on a whim, conceals or reveals. The voices that soar into the rafters and plummet back down and squirm into our ears. I think our breathing has been harmonized, and our breaths together are part of the songs and stories. But not exactly a part—it’s more like they’re the canvas on which the songs and stories are embroidered. I try holding my breath to see what will happen, but as soon as I start breathing again, I follow the same rhythm as everyone else. To do otherwise would be like sailing against the wind and current.

At the end of one dance, two men begin to banter alongside a small fire. One of them is the groom—the eyebrow man. As they tease one another, women thrust kindling into that fire. It crackles and smokes for a bit, but then the wood catches and the fire flares, throwing light and shadows on everyone’s faces.

Each man is given a dish—the dishes used to serve grease. The first man raises his dish to his lips and takes a sip. The groom does the same. Afterward, both have broad smiles and glossy lips and teeth—they were drinking grease. I look at my husband, but he’s wide-eyed, watching the drama in disbelief.

The first man takes another drink—a longer, deeper mouthful. He swallows. And again, the groom does the same. The people in the house are calling out and laughing. In response, both men again drink—downing even bigger portions of grease.

“What on earth is this about?” my husband says.

They keep drinking from their dishes, back and forth, two gulps of grease, then three. Finally, the first man tilts his dish to the ceiling and drinks until the grease is drained. He tears the dish away and spits into the fire.

The fire unrolls toward the ceiling with a whoomp . Somebody screams. The faces of the nearest people are lit up like on a hot summer day. Many jump back. Everyone cheers. When the flame dies down, black smoke fills the house.