Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

In this forest, where everything seems possible, I wonder if my mother heard something in Yelizaveta’s story that she’d caught and I’d missed.

When it’s so dark that we can no longer see very well, the wolf stops. It’s dry, and the mosquitoes seem less numerous here. I sit with my back against a tree while the wolf curls next to a nearby log. We stay within sight and watch each other. When sleep overcomes the creature and it settles its head on its paws, I allow my own eyes to close. Just for a minute I tell myself. One minute is all.

When the birds wake me in the morning I’m astonished to find myself alive. The wolf sits by its log and watches me. It’s been waiting for me to wake up.

Good morning. Where are you taking me today?

The wolf’s ears are cocked. Very carefully I walk away and relieve myself without taking my eyes off it. Its ears twitch at the sound of my water hitting the earth.

When I’ve risen, it trots ahead, and, having little choice, I follow.

We stop to drink from streams but otherwise continue for a long time and a short time. Then, just ahead, I see expansive light and wonder if we’re near the sea. I don’t smell salt water, but this amount of bright light is unusual.

When we emerge through the trees, we come upon a huge lake. It’s the biggest lake I’ve seen in the koliuzhi territory. The wolf trots to its edge and wades in. It laps at the water. I walk across the spongy ground until I’m a short distance down the shore. I hear the plop of a frog, but it’s gone before I see it. Water ripples out in rings marking the place where it vanished. I splash cool water on my face and neck and arms. I drizzle some on my head. I hear the krya-krya of a duck; a flock bobs near shore. I’m surprised the wolf pays it no attention—Zhuchka would have been off on a chase—but this creature’s only waiting for me.

You’ve missed your chance for a big breakfast. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

The shore of the lake is too boggy and overgrown to follow, so the wolf leads me back into the trees. Still, I’m sure, from the marshy smell, that the lake’s not far. The path the wolf chooses is flat and only slightly moist, so we cover much distance. The sky remains grey throughout though I sense that it’s lightening and perhaps by tonight, I’ll be able to find Polaris again.

Where is the seashore? Show me the seashore so I can head north. But the wolf only continues through the forest.

Dusk eventually arrives, and the birds frolic, then settle. I’m very tired, and the more tired I feel, the more I can’t cast away my doubt. I’ve been foolish to come this far with a creature all because the tilt of its head reminded me of a dog I once loved. I’ve trusted this beast for two days, but I still I don’t know where the ocean is.

I stop walking.

The wolf pauses and looks over its shoulder.

Why can’t we stop?

It trots ahead a few paces, then turns and tilts its head.

All right.

I follow. It makes no sense to give up now. I’ve trusted this wolf. Maybe it’s trying to take me to shelter for the night.

The mosquitoes come out. Dusk crosses the threshold and becomes night. The sky is not clear. The way ahead is obscured.

Let’s stop. Please. That’s enough.

What I’d give now for a warm fire. I’d dry my feet. Put some boughs next to it and sleep. I’d wake up periodically to stoke it. I’d keep it going all night for the warmth and for the comfort. I can almost smell the smoke.

No.

I can smell the smoke.

“Zhuchka?” I cry. “Where are we?”

Ahead there’s a flicker. Light. A fire.

I go forward cautiously. Whose fire is this?

When I finally come to the edge of the trees and peer into the clearing, I see a row of about a dozen houses, whale bones gleaming around their perimeter, a wall of tall drying racks, stacks of firewood, canoes pulled up on the shore, and four totem poles facing the ocean, one, with wings stretched out, that resembles the Holy Cross. I understand. I understand, but I don’t believe it.

It’s Tsoo-yess. I’m back at Makee’s.

And the wolf is gone.

I stumble toward Makee’s house. When I almost reach the threshold, a figure is silhouetted against the door. It’s a woman. She screams.

It’s Inessa. She screams again.

“It’s me,” I cry. “It’s only me.”

She runs back inside, still screaming. I hear shouts—from both her and the other Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts.

I enter the house. I’m nearly blinded by the light from the fires. Everyone’s moving. Some are clustering around Inessa, others around their children, and still others have turned to the doorway or climbed the benches, so they can see. My vision returns to normal. In people’s faces, I see shock and fear.

And there he is. Nikolai Isaakovich.

Disbelief fills my heart and his eyes. I run, my arms stretched out, and throw myself against him. He enfolds me in an embrace, and only then do I believe it’s him. I let my body sink into his.

“Anya?” he says. “Where—how did you—?”

To respond is impossible. I don’t know the words to explain what happened these past four days.

I cling to him and remember all the times I’ve pressed up against him. None has been before so many people. There’s the brooding Kozma Ovchinnikov who’s almost smiling. There’s Makee’s wife. There’s the old woman who saw me unclothed and washed me in the pond. I feel far more exposed to her now. There’s the man with the scar on his chest; he has his arm around Inessa. On her left, the other girl is stroking Inessa’s hair and the instant she removes her hand and lays it against Inessa’s belly, I realize Inessa is pregnant, too.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

“Gone to the mountains to hunt,” Nikolai Isaakovich says.

“And Makee?”

“He took them. He’s with them.” He shifts and peers into my face. “Anya—I don’t understand. How did you get here?”

“Kolya—I’m exhausted.” I bury my face in his shoulder and try to shut out everyone who’s watching us. I let him lead me to our sleeping mat. He lies down with me, tucks the cedar blanket around us, curls into my back, and holds me. Mercifully, he stops talking and leaves me alone.

The next morning, I’m left alone to wander the beach. Everyone—including Nikolai Isaakovich—has eaten and gone to work. How will I explain my sudden appearance? I know what happened, but, even to me, it sounds like a fiction as dubious as any of Timofei Osipovich’s stories. Have I gone mad? Maybe. But even with Polaris, even with all the enlightened good sense in the world, I never could have found my way here on my own. That wolf was real.

The hunting party returns near midday with a commotion. The Kwih-dihch-chuh-ahts rush to meet them and cry out in excitement and real pleasure. The hunters have brought back two reindeer that have been butchered into haunches and shoulders, barrels of ribs still attached to the backbone, legs with black stony hooves that look like elegant boot heels, and two heads with their antlers splayed like the crown of an oak tree.

Timofei Osipovich gapes when he sees me. But his shock flits away in an instant. He smiles and calls out, “Madame Bulygina! What a delightful surprise! It’s a good thing I brought dinner.” He raises his hands, which are caked with dried blood. “I hope you’re hungry.”