Then I slip, turn my ankle, and stumble. I throw my arms out and catch myself just before I fall.
“Steady, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t injure yourself now.”
I cautiously flex my ankle. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve been speared and struck with rocks.”
He laughs. “Thank heaven for that. If you had, no doubt your husband would have ordered us to carry you. Perhaps it would have been your good fortune if he had selected me for the task.”
I bristle. “Even if I was injured, I’d do the same as any man here, the same as you. I would not add to anybody’s burden.”
I turn back to our path. The others are very far ahead now.
“What are you doing?” I cry. “Put me down!”
Timofei Osipovich has picked me up and slung me over his shoulder like I’m one of the sailcloth bundles. He laughs, and I feel it ripple through my body. His feet dig into the small stones, and we set off toward the others.
“We’re falling behind, Madame Bulygina, and we need to catch up.”
“Put me down!” I repeat and push against him. How does he manage to carry me, my bundle, and his own load all at the same time? Is this his injured side? He gives no sign that he’s in pain.
I wish Nikolai Isaakovich were here. I wish Zhuchka would come back and bite his legs. But everyone is so far ahead, no one sees us, and with the sound of the surf masking everything, no one can hear me call for help.
“I’ll put you down once we catch up with the others.” He’s fast. He trots. I bump along, my body pressed into his bony shoulder. My silver cross bounces into my mouth, and I spit it out.
“If you don’t put me down now, you’ll have to deal with my husband!”
“I have to deal with him anyway. He’s in charge. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Then I see them. Three koliuzhi. Emerging from the forest.
“Timofei Osipovich! They’re back!”
“Who?”
“The koliuzhi!”
He stops, slides me down his shoulder and turns to look. He takes his gun in hand but doesn’t raise it. I wish he would. Our entire crew has disappeared around the rocky headland. I don’t know how Timofei Osipovich alone will be able to defend us against three koliuzhi.
The koliuzhi call out, “Liká
i.”[5]
They carry bows and arrows. They wear vests and breechclouts, but no paint, and no feathers this time. They have no shoes. How do they manage on these rocks without shoes?
I recognize one—it’s the man who was in the tent on the beach with me. The moustached toyon. He looks different without the paint and feathers, without his sea otter cape. He doesn’t limp as he approaches. It wasn’t him they carried off the beach. I think about the dead boy, again and dread creeps down my limbs.
The toyon says, “Hílich hawayishka oki 
i
ixwatililo 
”[6] Timofei Osipovich frowns and squints.
“What did he say?”
He shrugs. “I think it’s about hunting.”
“I thought you understood their language.”
“Some of it. Sometimes they understand me better than I understand them.” He smiles at me. “Don’t worry. Your Timofei Osipovich also knows a thing or two about hunting.”
He asks them a question. The toyon responds. As he’s speaking, Timofei Osipovich shifts his musket and the toyon stops. We all grow still.
In a low voice, Timofei Osipovich says, “The scoundrels have been stalking us all day. I knew it.”
He asks another question and after the toyon responds, our prikashchik turns to me. “He wants to know where we’re going. I wouldn’t tell him. He also says there’s a better trail in the forest. He wants us to follow them so they can show us.”
“We can’t do that,” I cry, colour burning my cheeks. “Do they think we’re stupid?”
“Madame Bulygina, compose yourself. They can’t understand what you’re saying, but if you look and sound angry and frightened, they’re not going to respond favourably.”
He’s right. Our strength right now is our language. We can say anything we want. They won’t understand. This may help us escape, or at least hold off an attack until my husband realizes we’re missing and sends somebody back.
Timofei Osipovich turns again to the koliuzhi. I can tell the toyon is adamant about us following.
“I think this toyon needs a hunting lesson,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “Watch me—but stay calm, please, Madame Bulygina.”
He says something that seems to please the toyon, and they stop talking. Timofei Osipovich steps away from us and picks up a piece of driftwood. He sets it atop a larger log stretched on its side, just a short distance away. He jiggles the driftwood until it’s balanced on the big log.
“Be still, Madame Bulygina, no matter what. I’m going to step away now, but don’t worry. I’ll kill them all if anybody touches you.”
He takes a few steps away. He turns to see where he is. Then he walks farther. The stones clatter under his feet. When he’s a distance away, he turns, loads his gun, aims, and pulls the trigger.
The shot echoes through the forest. My ears ring. I understand now. He’s giving a demonstration—a demonstration to instill fear and respect—and at the same time, to signal to our group that we’re in trouble. It won’t be long before the others return.
The koliuzhi look sideways at one another but say nothing. Once Timofei Osipovich lowers his gun, they go to the driftwood. One of the men—not the moustached toyon—picks it up. There’s a hole punched through the wood. Splinters jut out at all angles like lightning. He gives it to the toyon.
Then they walk toward Timofei Osipovich who hasn’t moved. They walk with purpose—I think they’re counting their steps. They want to know how far Timofei Ospiovich’s musket can shoot. It takes more than a minute before they reach the prikashchik.
I don’t know what they say. They don’t even wave before they disappear into the forest. They take the shattered piece of driftwood with them.
At that moment, our group appears down the beach. They’re running as fast as they are able to on loose rock, while dear Zhuchka bounds along at their side. Timofei Osipovich hollers and waves his gun in the air.
“They’re late for the party,” he says, grinning. “In such a hurry, they miss all the entertainment.” He looks to the grey sky, which is still light. “Come on. Maybe we can manage another mile or two before night.”
CHAPTER FIVE
This cave is wet and smells like mushrooms and fermented cabbage, but we’re better off in here than out in the snow. The firewood is damp, and though we wave our caps and cloaks to direct the smoke outside, the cave has other ideas. My eyes water and old Yakov has a coughing fit—still, no one leaves the fire’s side for long. No one wants to know the exact depths of this cave and risk meeting the creatures that sprout and grow in perpetual darkness.
The mouth of the cave frames the falling snow. The flakes are as big as feathers but judging by the way they fall, they’re heavy. Snow ought to be a delight, but this fills me instead with dread. Much more of this lies ahead. It is only November, and it will only become colder.
I already miss being dry and warm under the covers of a bed where I can sleep properly. My house in Novo-Arkhangelsk is full of holes, and it leaks as bad as a barn. It’s an ugly grey block of a house, perpetually dark inside, one of many arranged so randomly they appear to have been inadvertently dropped into that outpost. The houses are clustered atop a hill dwarfed by mountains whose peaks are always concealed in cloud. The furnishings are austere and uncomfortable. But I’d rush up the rough path to its front door right now if I could, unlatch it, and enter, throw myself onto the first piece of serviceable furniture I could find and never complain again.