Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

He drops the blanket, and it flops into the dirt. “I did it for you, Anya,” he cries. “For you and the baby.” He pushes his way out of the circle and disappears down the trail into the forest.

It’s dark now. I haven’t seen my husband or the promyshlenniki since this afternoon’s disaster. The bride took her blanket from the dirt and disappeared into the house, with the other women trailing behind her. I ran back into the forest, swept up in another wave of nausea. I vomited again and sat on an old log for a long time.

When I finally dared to venture back to the houses, I looked for my husband. I could find no sign of him, but also no sign of old Kurmachev or John Williams. I thought this was hopeful. Perhaps everything had blown over. Perhaps they’d gone to work.

As the hours passed, my theory made less sense. And now it’s far too dark for anybody to be working. Where could they have gone? The house is subdued. As I sit in my usual place, people glance over at me, then look away.

The evening meal is served. There are two chunks of fish and some tiny roasted roots. I feel hungry for the first time today. The roots are fibrous, and their edges are charred. They’re bitter, but I find that taste appealing.

I eat all I can and still my husband and the promyshlenniki haven’t returned. When everyone settles for the night, Nikolai Isaakovich is still not back. If only I knew a few words in the Quileute’s language. If I knew how to say, “where,” and “husband,”that would be enough. What words might appear in their answers? I’d need to know those as well. Fine —maybe. Coming back —likely. Home soon —that’s what I’d like to hear.

I go to our mat and curl into a ball trying to warm up before I fall asleep. I clutch the old blanket, the good-enough old blanket around my throat and close my eyes. The fire whines, then pops and exhales.

A crowd has gathered on the beach. Three canoes with long silver trails are heading for shore. Is it Nikolai Isaakovich and the others returning? I throw aside the firewood I’m carrying and run to the beach.

The first canoe pulls up to shore. He’s not in it. But it’s loaded. There are baskets, boxes, bladders, and packages wrapped in leaves and branches. The Quileutes begin unloading the cargo. My husband is not in the second canoe either. But the American is. His red hair always makes it easy to identify him, even from a distance. As the canoe lands, he wraps his arms around a box that, from the way he lifts it, must be full. He wades through the water bringing the box to shore.

I look to the third canoe. He’s not there either. But one of the koliuzhi men is wearing a black-green greatcoat with no buttons. It droops off his shoulders.

“Where’s my husband?” I cry to John Williams.

He squirms and shifts the heavy box. “Alas—”

“He’s dead?”

“No, no, no,” drawls the American. “He’s alive—God willing.”

The carpenter Kurmachev has climbed out of the third canoe. He pushes through the surf toward us. “Madame Bulygina—the koliuzhi took him away.” He pants like he’s been climbing mountains.

“Where?”

“We went north.”

“Why?”

The American’s box is carved and painted. The shells set into the wood glitter like chips of ice. The face on my side has sharp teeth and a heavy brow. “We don’t know,” he says in his flat voice. “It was many versts from here—on a huge sandy beach. Some other koliuzhi were waiting for us.”

“Is he hurt?”

Kurmachev says, “No one’s hurt. The koliuzhi gave us these things.” He nods to indicate the box and all the other goods being ferried up the beach. “And they took away the commander.”

“It was a trade,” the American says.

I look from the face of one to the face of another. I hope to see something I’ve missed—an explanation, some qualification—he’s coming back, isn’t he? I find only what their words stated. My husband is gone—again.

“They kept his coat,” John Williams adds.

“Madame Bulygina?” Kurmachev says, and he reaches his tired old hand toward me.

“Leave me alone,” I say, and I brush him aside, knowing, even as I say the word, that alone is exactly what I am, and I certainly don’t need to ask for it.

As the night noises of the house diminish, I try to understand my husband. I can’t discount his intentions, his concern for me and our child. But has he learned nothing in the months since we’ve been living with the koliuzhi? Sometimes he exhausts me. He’s enlightened, yes, but when it comes to the koliuzhi, he’s senseless. Some block stands in the way of his understanding of our situation and the people who’ve taken us in. Would he, in Petersburg, open the cupboard doors in a home to which he’d been invited, help himself to the contents—and be angry when the hostess objected? Does he think so little of the koliuzhi that he believes such outrageous behaviour would be acceptable here?

Now what will I do? I need him. Without Makee, without Timofei Osipovich, there is no one I can ask to bring him back. To take me to him.

The months ahead stretch out like a serpent in the grass. I pray that a ship will arrive soon. And if it doesn’t? I’ll be the mother of a new baby here. Who will be the nurse? The women here nurse their own children. Can I? What do babies do all day? What if mine cries all the time? The koliuzhi will help me—won’t they?

What if they hate my baby? And what if it gets sick? What if the baby is born sick?

How will I ever work? Without a mother, a sister, who will take care of my baby while I’m away? Will I be one of those women forced to juggle my child and basket over the fallen logs and buckled tree roots as I follow trails that lead to where I must collect shellfish or cut shoots or separate bark? Those women move like ancient tortoises, slow, deliberate, indifferent to their burdens. Will the moustached toyon lower his expectations of me?

I fold my hands across my belly. The fire whistles and pops. Smoke hovers over the mat.

Maybe the baby won’t be born here. Surely a ship will arrive first. The season is right. We could be home in Novo-Arkhangelsk long before the birth.

That fills me with an equal measure of dread. For who will help me there? The promyshlenniki? And what if the baby is born on the ship? At least the koliuzhi houses are filled with women like me, women older than me, and girls younger than me, all eager to wrap their arms around the new babies, to shower kisses and caresses on the children.

Without my husband, my nausea grows worse and when it does, I go to the sea. Cold ocean air makes me forget my queasiness. It has a quality that contradicts its physical form. It feels dense and pliant, as though you could cup your hands around it and shape it into something you could keep in your pocket. It feels strong, and yet I know its physical properties. It’s nothing.

I’m on the beach, near the place where the river and sea meet, seeking respite in that air when I hear my name.

“Ahda!” A man’s voice surfaces through the air and finds me.

It’s Holpokit. He’s walking from the houses toward me, waving his arm to catch my attention. A woman is with him.

The stones that lie high up the beach crunch as they cross over. Their faint voices grow stronger as they come closer. Holpokit beams.