Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

The wolf breaks eye contact. It turns its lanky body to the sea. It trots to the edge of the water, dips its head and laps, its pink tongue lolling out. Then it enters the sea, delicately lifting its heavy paws until it’s slowed in the surf.

Where’s Nikolai Isaakovich? Can’t he see the wolf?

The wolf keeps going. It begins to swim. Its muzzle points into the waves like the prow of a ship, and its tail is a rudder trailing behind.

Where’s it going? There’s nothing but open ocean ahead.

It advances through the first line of surf. It swims and swims. Why isn’t it turning back?

Where’s my husband?

Then the wolf goes under. It bobs up for an instant, then submerges again. Only a ripple on the surface indicates it was ever there before it, too, disappears.

“Kolya?” I call. “Kolya!” Has he seen it? He must have.

Then the sea is slashed open. A dark, glistening object, hard and curved like a scythe, sails along the water’s surface. It’s the fin of a whale. It sails straight for a short time and a long time, before it’s swallowed by the sea.

My heart pounds in my head. I can’t move.

“Anya! Where are you?” My husband appears from around the stump. He looks up at me and beams. “I won!” he cries.

“Did you see that?”

“What?”

“That—wolf,” I say. “There was a wolf here a minute ago.”

He looks around. “Where?”

“It went into the ocean.”

“Oh, Anya,” he cries, “don’t be such a poor loser. I beat you fairly. Now, come on down.”

I climb down, keeping an eye on the sea. What just happened? Did the wolf drown? Did the whale eat the wolf? There was no struggle. As an enlightened woman, I know what’s possible. There is no vodyanoy. No spirits exist in the sea or anywhere else. I also know what I saw. How could a wolf become a whale?

My husband helps me down the last two steps onto the sand. “Now that I’ve won, where’s my reward?”

He pulls me close and kisses me, but I’m distracted. He slides his hands under the hem of my cedar dress and pulls it up around my waist. I watch the sea, I watch the forest. He bends and lowers me to the beach.

I’m afraid the wolf will reappear—and equally afraid it won’t because it’s no longer a wolf.

“What’s wrong?” my husband asks.

I woke feeling ill and uncomfortable. My insides churned, my mouth was dry, and my tongue rose against the back of my throat. It was the second morning. Yesterday, nothing came up. This morning, I retched into the moss behind the bushes, hoping no one would see, knowing that many would hear.

After the nausea had almost passed, I went to the shore and breathed in the salty air. I rinsed my mouth with salt water and then returned to the house refreshed. But by the time I arrived at the edge of our mat, the salty taste had thickened and brought on a new wave of queasiness.

“I don’t feel well again,” I say.

“Are you feverish?” He sits up and pushes away our bedclothes.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is.”

“You should rest.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Look—everyone’s getting up. Come on. It’s a beautiful morning outside.”

At the wedding feast, Makee brought my husband and me together again. He negotiated with the other toyons, and as soon as they finished distributing the baskets and boxes, the hats and shoes and dresses, the tools and utensils, the whale grease, the fish and food wrapped in fern fronds and cedar boughs, and as soon as the final dances were completed, he called over Nikolai Isaakovich and me to announce the good news. I’m disappointed we’re not part of Makee’s house—I already miss Inessa and the other girl—but at least I’m with my husband.

We’re staying with the Quileutes, in the house of the moustached toyon. This is where I belong. How could it be otherwise? I love Nikolai Isaakovich.

Makee reassured me. “When the ship arrives, you’ll all go. I promise no one will be left behind.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Anna, this is not Boston. You must remain patient.”

The negotiations were complicated and, up until the last minute, uncertain. The Tsar wanted nothing to do with us, Makee said, because we’d brought nothing but heartache to the Chalats—we’d stolen their fish, battled them and shot one of them, and then kidnapped three people. The only babathid he’d consider welcoming was Maria. At least she knew the medicine and could care for the sick.

She seemed unconcerned about going by herself.

“Wouldn’t you rather have somebody else from the crew with you?” I asked. “Who are you going to talk to?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps Yakov is still there. Whatever happens, I accept God’s will.”

“We’ll come back for you,” I promised again. “That’s God’s will.”

“I already told you—you needn’t fret. They’re good people,” she said. “Good enough for me.”

I held her hand in both mine. I smoothed the wrinkled skin with my thumbs. I thought of my mother and wondered whether I’d ever hold her hand in mine again. Maria tried to pull away, but I wouldn’t release her. Not until I said what I needed to say.

“Maria—I must ask you something.”

“What is it?” she said suspiciously.

“A few weeks ago, I made a promise to Makee. I said we’d stop fighting, and that we’d try to respect the way the koliuzhi live and help out where we could.” I lowered my voice. “But I don’t feel confident. Sometimes, the promyshlenniki make trouble. Even my own husband.”

“Don’t expect me to do anything about that,” she said. “No one’s going to pay me any heed.”

“Maria—please. You said the koliuzhi were good people. So, do it for their sake. Do it for mine. I’m indebted to Makee. If you have the opportunity, please make sure they don’t hurt the koliuzhi anymore.”

“I don’t know how anybody could stop them.”

“Try to find a way. If you can. Please.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind.

“Will you promise?”

She studied my face then gave a quick nod. When she did, I let go.

She left with the Tsar and the Chalats after the festival.

We’re scattered now among different houses, in different communities. Timofei Osipovich, his devoted Kozma Ovchinnikov, and the Aleuts remained with Makee, and Timofei Osipovich gloated about it.

“I have your Makee right where I want him,” he boasted. “We have a mutual understanding.”

“What understanding? You mean that you take advantage of Makee’s good nature.”

“I’m moving into the hut your husband helped me build. I’m going to live there. Hunt my own game. I’m going to trade with the koliuzhi. Don’t think I can’t do it.”

I thought of my promise to Makee. What could I do to stop this stubborn man? “That’s not the way people do things here. Why should Makee do anything for us if you behave so selfishly?”

“When you want to know how it’s done, let me know. I’d be happy to provide instruction.”

“Please. Think about the rest of us. And what about Makee? Don’t you care for Makee? If you don’t like him, why are you always talking to him?”

He smirks. “I’m gathering information.”

“For what? The chief manager is never going to listen to you after he hears how you’ve behaved.”

“For the book I’m going to write.”

They left the next day in the canoes. I watched them paddle into the fog. Except of course Timofei Osipovich wasn’t paddling.