Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

“That’s madness,” my husband says.

The groom tips his dish back and drains it, too. And then, with his head tilted right back, he gestures frantically until a woman gives him another grease dish. He drinks from it, too, the grease running down the sides of his mouth and neck, and all over his new red shirt.

He throws his head forward and spits into the fire.

The flames roar and touch the ceiling. I scream. And then it ends. The fire dies down, black smoke clouds the room—and the people cheer for the groom who has won the competition.

Glistening with grease, the groom calls out and circles the house. People laugh. Some brush him away. But one man raises his arm and steps forward. He’s young—barely sprouting facial hair—but he’s brimming with a combination of masculine confidence and bashfulness. The people cheer for him.

Two ropes that I hadn’t noticed hanging from the rafters are released from hooks on the wall. They sway until they come to rest. They glisten. They’re coated with grease.

A man starts to beat on a drum and when he stops, he calls out.

The young man and the groom run, jump, and throw themselves onto the ropes. The ropes swing. They start to climb.

Everyone shouts.

The ropes are impossible to climb. Neither man can get higher than one length of his arm before he comes sliding down to the bottom. But they keep trying. The groom wipes his hands on his shirt, but it’s even greasier than the rope.

Their arms bulge as they squeeze and hold on. They twist the rope around their feet. Their toes grip like birds’ talons. Still, they slide down more than they climb up.

Finally, when the groom’s slid down once again, he lets go of the rope. He bends to the floor. He slaps his hands against the earth and something from there must stick. Because when he grabs the rope again, he climbs not one length of his arm, not two, not three. Something propels him right up to the rafters. He hooks one arm around the wood and hoists himself up. He waves in triumph.

The young man below just laughs and waves his hand dismissively. He knows, as does everyone in this room, that the winner of every contest tonight will be the groom, the eyebrow man.

I squeeze Kolya’s hand. I hold on.

When it’s time to eat, serving dishes the size of the skiff are brought into the house. They’re carved into koliuzhi creatures and painted: big heads with tongues that loll out at one end, and tails at the other. Feet and wings extend from the sides, and what would be their bodies has been hollowed out and filled with food.

Women ladle this food into trays until they’re heaped with fish, clams, steamed roots, and grease, and distributed around the house. I sit between my husband, our arms and legs barely touching, and Maria. The others sprawl out around us, and dig into our food.

Nikolai Isaakovich tears off a fragment of fish and pushes it into his mouth. He chews. Swallows. He takes another piece. I feel these movements against my side.

“I will never understand why the koliuzhi gorge like this—and then have nothing for later. Don’t they know anything about rationing?” Some of the others nod but their mouths are too full to reply. “Days of scarcity are always right around the corner. A wise man must plan—or suffer the consequences.”

No one contradicts him, but he’s wrong. The koliuzhi do prepare. When Makee caught the whale, we feasted, yes, but then we worked, preserving everything that wasn’t eaten, dividing it up and storing it in boxes and bladders. Even after all these weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised to know a few bladders of oil remain.

And it’s not just the whale. Salmon, shellfish, roots, and berries, everything stored in boxes, baskets, and bladders, and buried in holes dug deep to where the air is as cold as an icehouse. They don’t neglect to prepare for lean times. People work long hours at it. I do it, too. The planning Nikolai Isaakovich sees as absent must have been present for generations. Otherwise how would these people have survived?

When Nikolai Isaakovich is away from the houses, what does he think the women do? He’s not here to witness it, but there’s slicing and skinning and deboning and skewering, peeling, hanging, rendering, smoking, and though it’s all fundamental to his survival, he’s oblivious to it.

He’s like the men of Petersburg. All the lotions and creams and washing and brushing and curling, the ironing and pleating and tying—all so we look presentable, and if we are lucky, pretty. No man could possibly realize how much effort is involved.

He says gruffly, “Eat, Anya. Eat all you can. You may as well. Are you not well?”

“I’m fine.” I should eat, but words, stuck in my throat, won’t allow me to swallow.

“I’m sick of these koliuzhi and their ways,” my husband continues. “I’m hunting duck and geese in the rain and wind and cold—it’s so unpleasant, you can’t possibly imagine. And they become quite displeased if I can’t kill the entire flock with a single shot. The toyon here is lazy and demanding and pompous—just like that Poppy Seed.”

“Makee’s friendly,” I say. “And so is this toyon. When we first met, I sat across from him in the tent—”

“You don’t see what’s really going on here, do you?” He shifts his body away and is sullen the rest of the meal.

When the dancers and singers are exhausted and it’s time to retire for the night, we Russians are divided among the houses in this village. My husband, Timofei Osipovich, and many of the rest of the crew are to stay in the toyon’s house—along with Makee. I will go to another house to sleep alongside Maria once again.

While the arrangements are being discussed, I pull Nikolai Isaakovich to me and quickly kiss him. “Good night,” I say.

He looks surprised and confused, but he kisses the back of my hand before I turn away, and before anybody notices.

Maria and I lie next to one another as the night noises of the house begin to unfurl—fires snapping and sighing as the embers die down in the darkness, children settling, hushed conversations, and tonight, the occasional smothered laugh.

I won’t sleep until I know. “Why aren’t Yakov and Kotelnikov here?” I whisper.

Maria says no one has heard from the apprentice since he was taken away—but Maria doesn’t think he reached the Kad’iak . “It’s been so long, he would have returned for us by now if he had,” she adds. She’s heard nothing about Yakov and thinks he’s still with the Tsar’s family.

“We’ll find them,” I say bravely. “They must come home with us.” She says nothing.

“Maria? They will. We wouldn’t leave them here anymore than we’d leave you here.”

Her head, outlined in the dim light, shakes slowly. “I think I’ll live out my days here.”

“No, Maria,” I say. “You don’t have to. You’ll come home—with us. Don’t you want to return?”

“To where?”

“Your home.”

“I haven’t been there in a long time. I don’t even know who’s there anymore. If I have anywhere to live.” She sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand. I know it’s not like that for you.” It’s dark and she can’t see my face flush. “Anyway, this is a good place for an old woman. They’re very kind.”

Long after Maria’s deep and regular breathing indicates she’s asleep, I’m awake mulling this over.

The Enlightenment has shown us the errors of our past when freedom was apportioned to men based on birth and status. The Tsar has set us on a path to eliminate hypocrisy at all levels of society, but my father’s friends agree that we remain far from our destination.