Ovchinnikov stops. He slips his musket off his shoulder and aims it at the forest, spreads his legs wide. Timofei Osipovich sits up and takes his hands away from the fire. The bushes at the edge of the forest begin to quiver. Then, from the darkness, six people emerge.
Zhuchka, nosing around a bundle of kelp, looks up. Her hackles rise. She barks, and then charges toward the people—all men—who don’t even glance her way.
“Steady,” Timofei Osipovich warns in a low voice. No one at the fire moves or makes a sound. Zhuchka, on the other hand, leaps in circles around the newcomers. They pay her about as much heed as if she were a swirling mote of dust.
As the koliuzhi draw closer to the fire, everyone rises, even Maria and me. Two of the six strangers advance, one a tall, moustached man carrying a spear, the other a slightly smaller version of him who is hardly an adult. This boy has a blunt object hanging from a sinew around his neck, identical to the horn-shaped objects carried by the koliuzhi who gave us the halibut. I’m no closer to knowing its function. This one is so ornately carved I wonder now if these objects are ceremonial, like the sceptre carried by the constellation Cepheus, the king who keeps one foot planted on my beloved Polaris as he spins around her.
Their heads are covered with wide-brimmed hats woven with a material very much like bast. Our peasants, however, fabricate nothing like these hats, which have angular designs woven right into them. More remarkable than the bast hats, however, are the men’s faces and shoulders, which are painted red and black and sprinkled with fluffy white feathers. I’ve never seen anything like it. Their appearance is strange and beautiful, striking and intimidating.
“Li
ats
atsdoόli,”[2] says the moustached man.
Timofei Osipovich replies—thank goodness he knows this strange language.
The koliuzhi brightens, and says, “Kwokwósas hokwachiyólit táad.”[3]
Timofei Osipovich gives a short nod and waits.
Nikolai Isaakovich watches us. Timofei Osipovich waves to say the situation is under control. My husband takes two steps toward the beach, then stops, hesitates, and eventually turns back to his tasks on the brig.
The moustached man and Timofei Osipovich continue their conversation. Timofei Osipovich’s face is a stone; I can tell nothing from his expression. Does he really understand what the man is saying? Is he pleased? As for the moustached man, sensation and thought flit across his features. I think he’s surprised to find us here, but why wouldn’t he be? I can’t yet tell if we’re welcome—or if we’re under threat.
[4] he asks.
Timofei Osipovich smiles and bows his head before replying briefly. Then he slips into Russian and says, “Madame Bulygina, Maria—come with me. The rest of you, stay here and remain alert.” We follow him into the smaller tent. The two koliuzhi in the hats join us.
It’s colder in the tent without the fire. However, I wouldn’t leave even if Timofei Osipovich ordered it. The moustached man wears a sea otter cape dark as a moonless night at sea. When he shifts, the fur’s silver highlights gleam even though only a sliver of light enters the tent. Plump tails of fur dangle from the hem. The boy, on the other hand, is dressed simply in a plain breechclout and a cedar bark vest that hangs to his hips. Beneath it, his chest is bare. He stares at Maria and me, his eyes bulging. His gaze latches onto my silver cross. There is no more space than the span of an open hand between us.
The conversation continues. Timofei Osipovich doesn’t say much, but he listens while his eyes flit around the tent, jumping from the older man, then to me, then to the young man, then Maria, then the sand, and once again the koliuzhi, then the ceiling of the tent.
The older man leans in, one hand open, moving up and down in the same rhythm as his speech. He seems earnest and concerned. About what? Is it us? Is it something happening at his home? Where is his home? There’s not a house in sight, not a sound, not even a trail of smoke leading into the sky that I can see. If he doesn’t live here, how did he get here?
Timofei Osipovich is impassive. Why isn’t he responding? Is it possible he doesn’t understand everything the man is saying?
The moustached man is mid-sentence when Ovchinnikov thrusts his head through the opening of our tent. His face blocks our narrow view of the sea, his hair obscures his eyes.
“The koliuzhi are in the other tent,” he says quietly.
Timofei Osipovich’s eyes widen. He frowns and presses his lips together. He glances at the moustached man who’s stopped talking and is watching with an intensity like smouldering coals.
“What are they doing?” asks Timofei Osipovich.
“They’re looking at our things. They keep touching them and picking them up. I don’t trust them. They’re going to steal something.”
“Watch them. I’ll talk to this one.”
Timofei Osipovich addresses the moustached man. He speaks calmly, and smiles frequently. When the man finally replies, I think I’ve been wrong. Timofei Osipovich must know how to speak their language.
In their faces, in the tone of the conversation, I feel something come to rest like when a bead of water rolls across the deck and arrives at the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich turns to Maria and me.
“Everything is fine. He’ll talk to the others,” he says. “He’s the toyon.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You don’t know toyon? It’s—a kind of emperor. Their version of it anyway.” Timofei Osipovich pauses. “There’s usually more than one. It depends on where you are. This one’s friendly.”
Whatever disaster has befallen us, it seems it’s not about to get worse. I look at our toyon who is serene and maybe even, dare I hope, a little sympathetic to our circumstance. I don’t know what’s happening in the other tent, but I suddenly have confidence in this toyon to make everything right.
Timofei Osipovich exhales decidedly and announces, “I’m going away with him.”
Maria stiffens.
“Where?” I demand.
“His house. It’s not far.”
“You can’t leave us here.”
He smirks. “Then come with me.”
Maria and I exchange looks.
“Madame Bulygina, you’ll be fine. Ovchinnikov will be in charge here until I return. If the apprentice tries to convince you to do other than what Ovchinnikov tells you, ignore him.”
“What if they turn on you?”
Timofei Osipovich raises his eyebrows and smirks again.
“Nikolai Isaakovich would never allow you,” I continue. But my logic is flawed. These matters are secondary. What’s most concerning is that he’s the only man here who can communicate with the koliuzhi. He mustn’t leave.
“In fact, Madame Bulygina, your husband would insist upon it, if he knew. But, as you are aware, he’s occupied. Would you like to ask his permission on my behalf?” I lean sideways until I can see my husband through the opening in the tent. He’s still thigh deep in the sea. His attention is on the crew members who are lowering the empty skiff into the ocean. It swings helplessly from its cables, banging against the side of the brig. Between Nikolai Isaakovich and the shore, the surf roars. Between the froth and me are stones and sand. Timofei Osipovich will be gone by the time I get to the edge of the beach. And I’ll never be able to shout loudly enough to be heard above the sea.
4
Do you wish to ask to stay? If so, I will advise the elders to decide whether they will allow it.