Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

What have the lofty ideas of the Enlightenment done for Maria? For Yakov, the Aleuts—for Timofei Osipovich? If I’ve learned anything from my time with the koliuzhi, it’s that my father’s friends are more right than they realize, as they perch in their comfortable chairs around a table full of food and drink brought to them by house serfs. We’ve fallen short of our ideals. We’ve not yet reached the place where our values and our actions are consistent and honourable.

I wish my father were here. He would understand my doubts. He would encourage me to keep struggling.

This much I do know. There is a truth that we are taught and another truth that we come to see. Though they should be, they are never exactly the same.

The following day, during a lull in the festivities, the old carpenter Kurmachev suggests we walk to a nearby beach. It’s sunny and for the first time, the promise of summer hovers in the air. So Nikolai Isaakovich, Timofei Osipovich, and I accept. We head off following a trail that, contrary to expectations, leads into the forest.

We hike down and along a narrow, muddy path. The wet seeps through my boots reminding me it’s time to apply another layer of grease. We then ascend the other side of this gully, past berry bushes starred with pink blossoms and two moss-covered trees that fell in the shape of an X. When the trail levels out again, it broadens, and I fall back to my husband’s side.

“Do you know the beach we’re heading to?” I ask.

“How could I? They drag me up the river or into the forest every single day. Visiting a beach is a luxury.”

“I’m glad we’ll get to see it for the first time together then.” I shyly slip my arm around his waist and feel his scratchy greatcoat—now missing all its beautiful buttons—against my skin once again.

He leans over and kisses my cheek. His lips linger there, but not long enough.

“Be careful here,” Kurmachev calls from far ahead.

“Where? We can’t keep up—you’re going too fast, old man,” my husband calls back. He gazes at me but says to the carpenter, “Maybe you should go ahead without us. We’ll catch up.”

“No,” calls old Kurmachev. “The trail’s a bit confusing. I’ll wait for you before we go down.”

My husband pulls me close and kisses me on the lips, but I push him away and say, “No. Come on.”

The descent to the beach looks steep. I start walking down on the heels of Kurmachev, who’s surprisingly like a goat on the bumpy trail. My husband is right behind me, his breath in my ears. I cling to branches and place each foot carefully on the overgrown trail. Timofei Osipovich on the other hand releases himself, and with a holler, he hurtles down the hill, half sliding, half bouncing, ignoring the trail altogether. Brush crashes. He’ll be scratched to bits if he doesn’t break a leg first. He shouts when he reaches the bottom, “Hurry up, you feeble old men. You’re taking the long way!”

“Nobody’s feeble up here,” calls Kurmachev, just ahead, and he winks up at me. “This way, Madame Bulygina, only a little farther now.”

His friendly wink gives me confidence. I let the slope pull me down, two quick steps. One more. Then I slip and fall.

I slide through mud and over the rutted surface of a rock. My dress cinches up around my hips. I slip over a steep edge and keep tumbling. I reach for branches, but whatever I grab snaps off or comes out by the roots. The forest rushes by in a blur.

Then the ground levels and I come to a stop.

“Anya?” calls my husband.

“Are you all right, Madame Bulygina?” Kurmachev shouts.

“Yes—yes—I’m fine,” I call back. I scramble to my feet and pull down my dress.

Just ahead, light extends through the underbrush. I part the branches like I’m opening curtains.

The sand shimmers in the sun. The sea’s blue and green, as sparkly as a gemstone. Far to the right is the flat-topped island that dominates the view out to sea at the river’s mouth. The arc of the beach is framed by rocky headlands around which the sea curls luxuriously as the waves are drawn to shore. There are fragments of shells bleached white by the sun, and driftwood bleached grey. Thick strands of bronze kelp lounge along the waterline. Birds drift lazily overhead or bob gently just a little way from shore.

The men emerge from the trail to join me at the lip of the forest.

“Kolya?” I turn to him, my hands clasped. “It’s paradise. I fell down a hill and landed in paradise.” I laugh. He smiles in return.

I run a little way toward the water then stop short. Should I take off my boots? I do. I throw them aside and dip my feet into the surf. It’s freezing, and I run back up the beach, away from it.

I throw myself down on the sand and soak up the warmth through my palms. I squeeze the sand in my fist and let it run out like my hand’s a sandglass. I fall back, stretch out, and close my eyes. I’ve been feeling tired the last few days, but it all slips away in the sunshine that laps against my skin and sinks into my cold bones.

My husband stands over me. “Come, Anya. Let’s go for a walk.”

I put my boots back on before I take his hand and we wander down the beach, leaving the others lying on the sand.

“I’ve missed you,” he says when we’re far enough away. His words are carried away in the wind.

“I’ve missed you, too.” He drops my hand and slides his arm around me. He pulls me close, and I lean into his warmth. The surf breaks and sighs as the water runs back to the sea. Warmth from the sun cuts through the cool ocean breeze, and though it’s much too early, it feels like summer has come to the wedding, too.

When we reach the end of the beach, there’s a tall stump of a rock we can’t see around. With a quick glance back at the others, he pulls me close and kisses me. His kiss grows deeper when the waves break on the shore, and tapers off as the water runs back out. “Let’s go see what’s on the other side,” he says. I know what he’s thinking.

The tide is out. If we pass the rock on the ocean side, and time our steps around the breaking waves, we’ll get wet feet and nothing more. If we choose to pass on the side facing the shore, we’ll need to climb some rock before we get to the other side. But our feet will stay dry. Nikolai Isaakovich releases me from his embrace, but holds tight to my hand. He turns and pulls me toward the water.

I shake loose his hand and laugh. “I’ll race you,” I say, and jump onto the rocks.

The rock is dry and there are many footholds. I scramble up as speedily as I can, knowing he’s got to wait until the time is right. Every second is to my advantage. There’s a pool of sea stars and other creatures, but I don’t stop to look. I climb over this saddle of rock, picking my way across the protuberances and the hollows as quickly as I can, and start my descent to the sand on the other side. I’m going to get to the beach before him.

Then, ahead, movement catches my eye.

A wolf on the beach stares. Its ears lean forward, its neck extends, its head tilts. I hold my breath. I don’t dare move. If I call for help, the wolf may attack. Would anyone even hear me? And what could they do anyway? The wolf is huge, its legs disproportionately long, and no one’s armed.

The wolf also holds its position. Its manner is so reminiscent of Zhuchka’s. Except for the eyes—two cold, polished opals set beneath a heavy brow. I never saw such a predatory expression on my sweet dog’s face.

Old stories recount the risk of being the first to look away from a wild animal. It must not be me. Eventually my husband will come around the rock and see the wolf, too. Let him also have the wherewithal to stand tall before the wolf.