“Anya,” shouts Nikolai Isaakovich. “What are you doing? Go to shore.”
“Now?”
“Yes now! Hurry up.”
“But I want my telescope!”
“For God’s sake, Anya. Go to shore.”
“No. I want my telescope.”
Flustered, he pounds the air with his fist. “This is not the time!”
“I’m going to get my telescope.” I let go of the mast; the brig shifts violently to one side. I stumble and grab the mast again.
“I’ll bring it to you. When I come to shore. I promise. Now go, Anya. Before it’s too late.”
“And the log! Don’t forget my star log.”
“Oh, Anya,” he groans. I wish I didn’t sound so petulant, but these things are important.
I stagger to the bulwark and throw one leg over. I hold tight to the railing. It steadies me. I wait, as I’ve seen Timofei Osipovich do, for the surf to break. It crashes against the side of the vessel, releasing an arc of spray that pricks my back. The brig tilts and the timbers moan.
I must wait.
Wait.
The sea makes a terrible sound as it retreats, like a million grains of wheat pouring through the fingers of the mighty hand of God.
Now.
I jump.
My feet meet unyielding sand. The water’s done nothing to cushion my fall. Rather, the sea catches at my skirt and tries to pull me out. The sand washes out from beneath my feet. The ground collapses. I dig in my toes. It’s no use. I’m being pulled out to sea.
It’s cold. Colder than the Neva during a Petersburg spring.
“Run, Madame Bulygina, run!” somebody screams from the brig. I try to see who, but when I turn, the next wave is upon me. It’s a grey wall charging like an angered bull.
I run.
I never could have imagined this. The cold water will break my bones. I’ll go under and drown. My corpse will float all the way back to Russia. The shore is shifting, and it’s so rimmed with froth, I can’t tell how much farther I need to go. My shoes are packed with sand and filled with water. One shoe starts to slip off.
I can’t go on without my shoes. I must not lose this shoe. I reach down. If I can just tug it back over my heel—
The surf knocks me over.
I tumble. Cold envelops me. The sea pulls me up, pushes me down. I’ve nothing to latch onto now. My body is jumbled like coins at the bottom of a pocket. I can’t tell where the sky is. I’m overcome with the irrational fear that something down here is trying to get me. Somebody’s screaming. There’s a rough tug on my arm. And then another on my other side. I’m up. I cough and spit out water. It burns inside my nose. I can’t see for the hair in my eyes, but I know two people are dragging me to shore.
Over the roar of the sea, I hear shouting, but there’s water in my ears and everything’s muffled. It’s as though the person addressing me is in another room, a distant place.
Finally, I’m lugged completely onto shore. Water streams all down my body and pools on the ground at my feet, at my shoes. Both shoes. My ears clear.
My old grey shawl is gone, thanks to my lost pin, presumably still somewhere in our quarters, gone to be with the sea and sky, as though all grey things have an irresistible affinity for one another. I touch my head. My cap has floated away, too, and now I’m bareheaded like a little girl.
Zhuchka leaps around me, barking.
“Madame Bulygina, you almost killed yourself!” Maria scolds.
“Go dry yourself by the fire,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Help her,” he orders Maria. He turns and strides into the sea, strong legs plunging through the surf and propelling him back toward the brig.
“Did your mother teach you nothing?” Maria chastises. She takes my arm and leads me to where the promyshlenniki have built a fire in a ring of smooth stones. A plume of smoke rises into the sky and bends toward the forest until I can no longer see it. I lower myself onto a piece of silvery wood and wait for warmth to enter my body. I can’t wait for night to fall. Perhaps I’ll be able to bear the inconceivable misfortune that has befallen us if my beloved Polaris is there watching over us tonight.
CHAPTER THREE
The fire crackles like a hot frying pan, and my clothes steam as they begin to dry. I adjust the folds of fabric, spreading out the layers around my legs. I extend my arms and turn them like I’m roasting them. The crew has erected two tents with, under the circumstances, a strangely respectable distance between them. I just can’t fathom that I’ll be sleeping in one of them tonight.
Zhuchka doesn’t care about drying off. Unlike us, she’s spirited and good-natured. She noses about the beach, compelled to examine every rock, every shell, every log. She chases the birds bold enough to land. They easily fly out of her reach and return once she’s not looking. Despite our circumstances, it’s impossible to begrudge her this joy. Every once in a while, she raises her muzzle and chews, having found some morsel.
It must be well past the time for our midday meal. I glance at Maria; she’s staring into the fire with a muted expression. I feel reluctant to mention hunger—it seems trivial in the face of our present adversity. I try to concentrate on the warmth from the fire and the comfort it brings.
My perch on this log faces the sea. It’s a convenient place from which to watch the crew finish unloading the boat. They haul barrels and sacks of ammunition, tools, and food through the foaming surf. They fight against the forceful sea, which pushes and pulls them in opposing directions. They make trip after trip after trip, labouring as they drag everything across the stones and through the sand, and then place it beneath the large tent to ensure it stays dry.
Mercifully, there’s no rain falling now, and it doesn’t feel as if it’s imminent. Light clouds blanket the sky far above us. The smoke from our fire merges with it and disappears. I hope we have a dry night.
My husband stands thigh-deep in the ocean, just beyond where the surf breaks, near to where a bobbing flock of black seabirds warily keeps an eye on our activity. He shouts commands to the Aleuts who are still on deck. One of them is high up the mainmast and continuing to dismantle the sails from the rigging. I’m not sure why; perhaps Nikolai Isaakovich intends to erect more tents.
Has he retrieved my telescope and star log and sent to shore yet? I hope he hasn’t forgotten. Otherwise, somebody will have to make a separate trip to fetch them.
Most of the rest of the crew is here beside the fire. The apprentice Kotelnikov sits and stands and sits again, lacking the patience to find a comfortable enough seat on the logs and rocks. Carpenter Kurmachev earlier opened his flask, but when he found it empty, he began whittling a piece of wood. He dejectedly flicks the shavings into the fire. Timofei Osipovich opens his palms to the flames. The bleeding has stopped, but his hands are raw and bruised.
He’s ordered his steadfast Ovchinnikov and the American to stand sentry. They’re a short distance away, facing the forest, their firearms loaded and resting over their shoulders. It’s the koliuzhi they await, but there’s no sign anybody’s nearby. We haven’t seen or heard anything other than what you’d expect from such a vast and desolate wilderness.
We’ve run aground in a place that’s empty and beautiful. The edge of the beach closest to the surf is covered with smooth stones. Bundles of tangled kelp mark the tideline and brilliant white seashells glow even though it’s overcast. Above the stones, there’s powdery, pale sand. A few silvery logs, tossed up on shore and dug into the sand, set up a barricade along this upper edge. Beyond this, beach grass nods in the gentle breeze, and beyond that, dense black forest beckons and threatens at the same time. Birds drift overhead and keen and call out to one another. Their cries echo eerily off the trees and rocks, rising above the incessant sound of the sea.