Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

I carefully put my arm around Zaika. Her fear seeps into me like I’m a sponge.

What if it’s not an animal? What else could it be? In all my mother’s stories, did she say anything about a cave?

Something bangs. I jump and yank Zaika by the arm so hard she cries out. I drag her to the mouth of the cave. I duck between the ferns. I barely look at the narrow ledge as I fling myself up to the earth above. I swing Zaika by the arm in a way that makes no sense. Where we’re safely on top, I scoop her up and run.

I dodge between two tall trees. I slip on moss but use the motion to push myself in a new direction. I can’t look back. My head is filled with noise: my breathing, Zaika’s breath, the pounding of my feet, and the rustle of whatever is after us. I force myself to go faster. I scrape my leg against something. It hurts.

I come up against a wide tree trunk. I dart around it.

I slam into Holpokit. He grabs me by the shoulders. Zaika’s wedged between us.

“Let go! We have to get out of here,” I cry. Pain shoots through my leg.

I twist. But Holpokit won’t let go.

“No! Stop it!” I push against him, squeezing Zaika. She cries out.

“The game’s over!” What’s wrong with him? He still won’t release me.

Zaika pushes herself out of my arms and slides to the ground. She wraps her arms around my legs and won’t let go. And then there’s rustling all around. I scream. A child appears. Then another. Then a third. They pop out from behind the trees and bushes. They smile. Some laugh.

“No,” I cry, “there’s a bear—or a wolf—I don’t know—” I’m crying. No one knows what I’m saying.

Holpokit peers into my face and when he has my attention, he points.

The smiling face of a boy is poking up out of the ground. His arms appear. He boosts himself up and squirms out of a deep hole concealed by foliage. Another boy pops out of the same hole. They stand side by side before the hole, waiting. Then the second boy slowly extends his arm and opens his hand. In his palm rests the little wooden doll.

And I understand. The cave has two entrances.

“What’s going on?” I ask Zaika.

She laughs but she’s nervous. Holpokit says, “Kidatlíswali dixá tich baya á. Hitk wotaítilili.” [54] I misled you to make you laugh. My heart is sick. In his face there’s the same combination of humour and contrition.

He probably initiated the prank. All the children were in on it.

When they see that I’ve finally understood, everyone laughs and shrieks. They jump into the knot that’s me, Holpokit, and Zaika. There’s no bear, no wolf. No creature from my mother’s stories. Of course not. It was only ever us.

That night, I go to the beach to look for my Polaris. The ocean sighs softly; I think the last of the winter storms has blown itself to exhaustion. The sky is clearer than it’s been in a long time, and I easily find her, perched in the arms of Draco. My ship constellation. Surely, it’s a portent. When we’re back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, I’ll write to my father and tell him about the constellation, but when I write to my mother, I’ll tell her about how it foretold our rescue.

Corona Borealis, the northern crown, is a little to the south. Many think it’s the crown that Theseus used to light his way through the labyrinth, and that he wouldn’t have found his way home without it. I have often wondered about its shape, which I see not as a crown, but as an unfinished circle.

How perfect its arc, how tempting to try to identify stars that could complete the circle. But they are not there. They are not where one would hope to find them.

If I were on the brig right now, I would hear my husband’s footfall. From behind, he would call out, “Anya!” And before I could lower my telescope, I’d feel his arm slip around my waist and pull me toward him. I’d lean back into his solid form. Right away, I’d be warmer. His beard would scratch against the side of my face as he nuzzled into my neck. Those short moments when we stood like that, quiet, together, our faces pointed to the sky, those were the bright moments that held the possibility of making that circle complete.

I will find a way to bring us together again.

The berries are at their prime. Because of last night’s rain, they’re plump and with the slightest touch, they tumble into my fingers. The berries are as orange as salmon, each one a tiny cluster of jewels worthy of the Tsarina’s collection of jewels. The ripest dangle from high above, forcing me to stretch if I can or, if I can’t, to bend the thorny branches toward me. The canes arc, making incomplete circles that mirror Corona Borealis.

Koliuzhi Klara is here, Zaika, too, and many other women. This is the largest group with whom I’ve ever gone into the forest. Three men have come: two Quileutes, our guards, and John Williams. He tells me he’s only here to carry back one of the large baskets—there are three—all of which we aim to fill today.

The Quileute men have their bows in hand, and talk softly to one another as we weave through the bushes picking berries. John Williams, on the other hand, seems at a loss for what to do. He wanders around, stopping every once in a while to eat a berry. His hair is a brighter colour than the berries.

The dappled sun reaches through the forest canopy and warms both us and the berries. The insects hover and buzz around my ears looking for opportunities to land and bite. I swat them away, but they’re back in an instant. I pop a berry into my mouth. It bursts with a sharp sourness that slides over my tongue and turns sweet before I swallow.

Tonight, we’ll eat berries—of this I’m certain—but most of what we’ll pick today will be preserved. All winter long, we ate last summer’s berries. I’ll see how they press the berries into loaves, and how they keep birds, rodents, and insects from eating them while they dry. The children will be involved. I can imagine their delight, flinging sticks and stones and shouting at the birds who, being very clever, will dodge whatever they throw and still manage to steal a few berries.

Some of the fruit are very hard to reach without getting scratched. But the reward of a particularly plump berry or a branch that droops with the weight of many berries makes us all endure a few prickles. It seems we must risk the thorns if we want the sweetness.

Koliuzhi Klara and I move to opposite sides of a bush, picking, picking, picking as we go. We drift farther and farther away from the group. The rustling, the conversation, and the low laughter tell me we’re not alone. Eventually we lose sight of Zaika. Then we can’t see the watchmen.

I spot a heavily laden branch, and I pull it toward me. I hear a soft laugh nearby. The branch I’ve pulled aside reveals Koliuzhi Klara and John Williams. They’re not speaking but the way they’re looking at each another makes me blush. They’re so attentive to one another they don’t even notice me. I let the branch spring back up again.

I turn away from them and pick from another bush. I keep my head down and tread softly. I don’t want them to know anybody’s spotted them. I pick and pick without looking behind. The signs have been there all along. I’ve been slow to see the truth. I’d told myself that his red hair and pale skin were the only reasons anybody here would stare at him, and I thought giving him the gull egg was simple kindness. But I knew in my heart that there was nothing simple about it.