Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

“Where’s Kolya?” I ask. Or, I want to ask.

“It’s too soon,” she says. “Relax. Don’t be afraid. You’re doing very well.” She resumes humming.

She drips more medicine into my mouth. There’s always more, and each time, it sets my mouth on fire. Sometimes, she gives me water so cold I think my teeth will crack. She rubs a salve into my hands. She’s trying to be careful, but my skin will peel like I’m an overripe peach if she doesn’t stop.

The pain in my abdomen is like lightning. It cuts from side to side, top to bottom. My spine is going to break. My head, too heavy for me to move, is filled with thunder.

The old woman faces the thunder with me. “No, no, no,” she says gently. “No. You’re too early.”

Who is she talking to? There’s no one here but me.

The old woman’s face disappears. I can’t see her anymore but her hands flutter over my body, the wings of butterflies in a sunny meadow. Another hand—it’s made of iron and it belongs to no one—is squeezing me out of my own body. The old woman pushes apart my knees. The pain explodes.

She touches my woman parts. I should be ashamed, but I feel only desperately afraid that she’ll leave me. “No, my child,” she coaxes, “there’s lots of time.”

“Kolya!” I scream. Or, I want to scream.

Her hands clamp around my legs. She’s stopped humming.

“Are you so determined, then?” she says softly. “Is there no talking sense to you, little one?”

How is it that I can understand what she’s saying?

The old woman pulls. It’s me and it’s not me.

The western horizon grows dusky. The path enters a dried-up meadow. As darkness creeps in, the stars leap out one by one. Sirius. Arcturus. They’re the brightest stars this evening. Pretty blue Venus sparkles near the horizon and the faint light of Jupiter flickers on and off. Eventually, it will be dark enough that Jupiter will remain alight for the rest of the night. If I had my telescope, I could count his moons. My Polaris isn’t visible yet, but she will be soon.

I see Vega, Altair, and Deneb. These stars form a perfect triangle. When we were married only a few days, Nikolai Isaakovich pointed it out to me. “All the navigators know it. Don’t you?” I knew the names of the stars, but I’d never seen the triangle they formed, never heard a name for it. There are so many possible combinations of stars in the night sky, they could never all be seen, never all be named.

“Then I shall name it,” he declared, “and I shall name it after you, Anna Petrovna.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. All summer long, the starry triangle revolved overhead and with each degree of rotation, I fell more deeply in love with my husband.

It takes only a few more minutes in the meadow before my Polaris reveals her beautiful face. She’s clear and especially strong tonight, as if she knows I need her. As soon as I see her, I feel the tiredness slip off my shoulders like a too-old mantle.

I stretch out my arms and make fists, and then count. I line up Deneb with two distant trees, and as soon as it falls out of alignment, I turn north and walk.

It takes a long time and a short time to cross the meadow. The grass is stubbly, but my feet feel nothing. When I reach the edge of the meadow, there’s no choice but to enter the forest again. I look through the bushes for a path, but I can’t find one. Eventually, I give up and just push my way through, and then I’m among the trees.

High overhead, the wind plays music in the canopy. There are the usual heaps of mossy, fallen logs, grey shadows whose outlines I can still see. Some of the ground is boggy, and my feet sink into the muck. But the way forward feels easier now that I know my direction.

I stop and look up every once in a while. If there’s enough of a gap in the trees, I see dear Polaris shining down. She gives me courage.

“Anya!”

Nikolai Isaakovich bends over me. His face, like the old woman’s, fills my field of vision. I can’t see anything else. His eyes fill. “Anya, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” I try to say, but the words are nothing but a hiss. “Where were you?”

“I can’t hear you.” He seizes my arms.

I cry out. His hands burn.

“Oh God!” He lets go and turns away. “Do something!”

The old woman is back with the ladle. She offers me medicine, but I won’t open my mouth. I can’t take any more pain.

“Anya—we have a son! Did they tell you?”

Then I notice, for the first time, that my body is different. The lightning pain inside has gone, and my stomach has collapsed. The thunder has left my head, and now it’s so light it could float away.

“The baby is fine, Anya.” I hear tears in his voice. “The baby is fine.”

The baby. I start to shiver.

My husband pulls the cedar blanket up to my chin. “Timofei Osipovich is worried.” He gently tucks it around my neck. “He carried you back here. Did you know that?”

Timofei Osipovich carried me across a beach. I bounced along, his shoulder cutting into my belly, until we saw the koliuzhi. And then he fired a musket to scare them.

“You must not worry anymore.” He lifts my hand but gently this time. He holds it to his chest. “I’ll take care of you.”

“The baby?” I cry. Or try to.

“Just rest, Anya,” he says. “I’m here. I told you I’d come back and I did, and I’m here now.”

I climb for so long I must be on a mountainside. The trees are more spread out. The canopy is thinner. Night is here, but with the forest becoming less dense, the light from the night sky makes my path slightly more visible. What lies ahead, I don’t know yet. A meadow? A lake? A beach?

I quicken my pace. Then, the underbrush thickens. The trees are shorter and even more dispersed. I’m close to the edge of the forest. I can’t see beyond the shrubs. I push aside the branches and step out of the blackness.

A wave rolls from my toes all the way up my body and ends in my head, where it washes back until it reaches my toes again. It’s not water. It’s fear.

“Kolya!”

I’m on a cliff so high above the sea that if the masts of six schooners were stacked one atop the other, they still wouldn’t reach my feet. I grab onto the brittle branches behind me. The wind whips my face.

Moonlight reflects off the surface of the ocean, which builds, then falls in lines of foam that crash against the foot of the cliff I’m balancing on. Far below where I stand, boulders as big as carriages face the waves, but they’re submerged with each upsurge. The sea roars like a monster. Something—a log?—smashes against the base of the cliff with a hollow thud that reaches the soles of my feet. The land shudders.

I desperately want to step back. But the bushes have knit their brittle fingers together and they won’t allow me.

“Kolya!” His name flies into the wind and is lost.

The old woman has changed my medicine. Now it’s warm and sweet like honey. I crave more, but when the ladle is finished, she turns away. She does not offer me another drop.

There are men’s voices at the door. They’re talking. I close my eyes. Trying to understand their words empties me.