It troubles me greatly to see our things thrown so carelessly into the sea. Is there no way to bring them? Granted, we can’t carry such weight for sixty-five nautical miles. But couldn’t we improvise a kind of cart or sled using our skiff and tow or drag our things along? What about hiding them? The forest is vast and empty and surely there are many hiding spots. If bad luck befalls us and we’re forced to return to this beach, we’d have these things to help us. Unfortunately, there’s no time to plan. Destruction seems to be the only choice.
The final act involves the single cannon that took so much effort to roll up onto the sandy shore. The Aleuts roll it back out to sea. They struggle for some time to push it through the surf into deeper waters until it’s completely submerged.
My husband, with the assistance of Timofei Osipovich, divides up the load. Each man is given two guns and a pistol. The boxes of cartridges are evenly distributed. The least injured men will also carry the three kegs of powder. The rum is decanted into each man’s flask until the cask is dry—the wood flares in the fire. Everything else is wrapped in torn sailcloth bundles that are tied closed, to be slung over our shoulders.
The bundles of food are very small. We’ve eaten a lot in the hours since the brig ran aground—big bowls of kasha and cups of sugared tea. Sobachnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov made an extra trip out to the brig at Maria’s request to look for more food. They returned with stale bread, a withered onion, and a tub of pickles. They also found strips of the leftover halibut that Maria salted and was starting to dry. Within a few minutes, all of it was eaten.
Now, all that remains is some bruised potato, turnip, and a few carrots, a paltry quantity of buckwheat, flour, sugar, yeast, salt, and tea. How this will feed twenty-two of us, I can’t imagine.
“We still need more,” Maria says, overseeing the packing of the food. “Somebody has to go back to the brig again. I know we have more.”
“There’s nothing left,” says Kotelnikov.
“Old woman, stop worrying! We’ll hunt and fish,” Timofei Osipovich cries. “There’ll be plenty—berries, mushrooms…”
“It’s almost winter, you fool. There are no berries and mushrooms. And if you’re such a good hunter, why didn’t you get us some venison last night?”
“You want venison? Why didn’t you say so?”
“What am I supposed to make with this? For twenty-two people? We need to go back and get more.”
“There are limits to what can be carried.”
“And yet you make allowance for—trinkets?” Maria gestures dismissively at the pile of korolki, handkerchiefs, and folds of fabric waiting to be tied into a bundle. The edge of a blue nankeen cotton robe pokes out from the heap.
“These trinkets will buy you a fish or a haunch of good venison,” Timofei Osipovich says. “You’ll thank me later, old woman.”
The bundles and barrels are loaded into the skiff, and, in fours, we ferry ourselves across the mouth of the river. Zhuchka wades in. When it becomes too deep to walk, she paddles, but not for long. Once we’ve all crossed, Timofei Osipovich and the Aleuts push the empty skiff into the middle of the river. It twists one way, then the other, then makes a pretty circle before choosing a direction and heading out to sea. Does any man wish to be on it? It’s conceivable, though he’d have to believe that the fate that awaits him alone at sea would be preferable to the fate that awaits him on shore.
We don’t wait to see our little boat disappear.
Timofei Osipovich pushes aside a few branches and finds an opening into the forest. He ducks in and disappears, Zhuchka on his heels. Half a minute later, they return, Zhuchka panting.
“I found a trail,” he says. “It’s quite muddy, but not terrible. It will be easy enough to see anyway.” Zhuchka trots back to the bank of the river and laps at the water.
“Maybe we should follow the beach instead,” my husband says.
“We’ll be safer surrounded by trees and brush,” counters Timofei Osipovich. “On the beach, we’ll be too exposed. We need sentries, in front and bringing up the rear.”
I look up. Low grey clouds promise rain before long. Perhaps the forest offers shelter from that as well.
As I shoulder my bundle—mostly food, but my telescope and star log are cushioned in the centre of the load—I notice my husband watching. I stop and smile, and I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks wild and hopeful and handsome. His cheeks are ruddy, chafed by the wind and salt air. I feel a longing for him deep in my heart—to be close to him, to hear his voice in my ear, to feel his beard brush against my cheek. How reassuring his arm, tight around my waist, would be before we enter this sombre forest and begin an unimaginable voyage.
He smiles briefly, then turns his attention to his bundle. Despite his injury, he has a load as big and heavy as anybody else’s. As he pulls it up on his right shoulder, he winces. I stifle a cry. He’d want no man to notice.
As commander, he’s the first to push aside the branches and enter the forest. Timofei Osipovich, his loyal Ovchinnikov, and the American follow immediately, while the rest of us trail behind.
I follow Sobachnikov. He pushes aside a springy branch of a low shrub with his hips. I’m so much shorter than him, I must duck underneath it. I lift it and step into the gloom, letting the branch fall behind me.
And I stop. A reverential hush has fallen over our group as if we’ve just entered a beautiful old cathedral in Petersburg.
Green surrounds us, a soft and luscious green as I’ve never seen before, not even in the finest tapestries. Leaves hang heavy with moisture, and everything else seems covered in moss and lichen.
Every tree is oversized. The tree trunks tower distantly to the sky. At the base, they are gnarled and peeling, with roots that push up through the earth, as though there’s no room left for them down there. These trunks are so broad that not even four of us hand in hand could circle them. Even the fungus that clings to the trees is unnaturally large, crusty, and coloured like pretty beze cookies.
The air is fragrant and silky. Though I know it irrational, I feel I could touch it. Hold it in my hand. After so many weeks on the brig, where sea breezes could not dissipate all the foul odours of a vessel at sea, this air makes me think about the courageous and worthy things that people fight for and are capable of but somehow rarely get and even more rarely do.
Tears well up in my eyes, surely from my exhaustion, but also because I’ve never known anything as beautiful as this exists, and I realize how poor my life has been without this knowledge.
Timofei Osipovich’s trail winds through this splendour, then peters out into nothing after only a few minutes. We spread out looking for it again. I walk around a grove of ferns with brilliant green leaves on arched spines that spill over like streams of water in a fountain. Behind the ferns lie spindly branches covered in thorns. I edge around them to avoid being scratched. The ground is spongy. Cold water seeps into my shoes.
Nearby, tall Sobachnikov pushes aside another branch, and this time, when it springs back, it knocks old Yakov’s cap off his head. A small flock of birds as tiny as buttons flit overhead as though launched from slingshots.
Just ahead, Maria skirts along an old fallen log covered in moss. The log is wide like the trees that surround us. She’s dwarfed as she walks its length. Smaller trees and plants grow on top of the log as if it’s a garden. Maria has to walk some distance before she finds a place to cross over it.