For the first night since the brig ran aground, Nikolai Isaakovich had the Aleuts set up a tiny tent at the edge of our circle, slightly apart from the others. “We’ll sleep here tonight,” he murmured to me. I was undecided about this closeness. While it would bring me comfort to lie next to my husband, I felt concerned about what the others would think.
We lie on my cedar cape, though there’s barely enough room for one. We face each another. He opens his greatcoat and pulls me into his chest. I feel uneasy, but his body radiates warmth. Light from the fire ripples over his face.
“Kolya!” I whisper, startled by his expression. “What’s wrong?”
He whispers back, “Anya—we’re in trouble.”
“Hush.” I press my finger to his lips. “Go to sleep.”
When I remove my finger, he says, “I don’t know what to do. We’re lost.” He cups my silver cross and slowly runs his thumb across each of the bars. His hand trembles. “It’s hopeless.”
Our situation is terrible. It’s worse than any of us ever could have imagined. If it’s not the koliuzhi who kill us, it’ll be the cold or a wild animal or we’ll starve to death. No one dares to speak it, but it’s the truth. I’d hoped my husband believed in his plan and in the wisdom of the instructions he’s been bravely issuing to the crew. They depend on his confidence, and so do I, and without it, I don’t know what could happen.
“Everything will be fine,” I whisper. “It’s hard. But we’ll get to the Kad’iak.”
He drops the silver cross and cradles my cheek. I smile. “Now go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
His hand slides from my cheek to my shoulder. “Annichka,” he murmurs. The firelight flickers in his eyes. His fingers glide down my arm to my waist. He tugs at the ribbon on my skirt and leans in to kiss me.
“Kolya,” I say quietly. I pull back. I shove his hand away from my waist.
“Come on.” He slides his hand around mine, and pulls it to his groin.
“No!” I push hard against his chest. But not before I’ve felt his stiffness.
He’s lost his mind. No. Not here, not now. I sit up and roll out of the tent.
“Where are you going?” he demands.
“I have—ladies’ business.” I scurry away, heading for the forest. Ovchinnikov, on sentry duty again, grows alert as I pass beyond the ring of guards. When I stop and reach for my skirt, he knows to discreetly turn away. Zhuchka’s awoken and followed me into the darkness.
I squat in the bushes. I can’t see far through the mist, but I know Zhuchka will let me know if there’s any threat. Like all animals, she’s acutely aware of everything surrounding us. I finish relieving myself. But I remain squatting, curled into myself, because I don’t want to go back in the tent with Nikolai Isaakovich.
“Anya?” he finally calls.
“I’ll be right there,” I reply. But I wait.
“Anya? Where are you?” he calls again after a few minutes.
“Coming.” But I still wait. Zhuchka whines and tilts her head at me. Funny girl. What does she want?
Finally, I rise. I go slowly back toward the fire. How am I to avoid this mortification? When I reach the little tent, much to my surprise, Nikolai Isaakovich is asleep. He lies on his back, in the centre of my cedar cape. His limbs are flung wide. He snores softly.
I don’t dare to wake him. I lie down as close as I can. At least part of my body is off the damp ground. Zhuchka curls on my other side. I can count on her and her fur to keep me warm.
CHAPTER SIX
On the trail, far ahead, leaves shiver and there’s the quiet crack of a branch. Ovchinnikov and the apprentice Kotelnikov, who are protecting us from the front, raise their weapons.
“Wait,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Don’t shoot.”
A woman and three men emerge through the trees and quietly approach us. The men are armed with spears, but they remain lowered. The woman is young—younger than me. She wears a cedar-bark skirt and over her head and shoulders, a bark cape that, unlike mine, has no front opening. She has boots made of brown animal hide. A soft-sided basket curls into the curve of her back. It’s strapped to her forehead. From the tightness in her neck, I presume the basket is not empty. She smiles.
The instant she does, I’m reminded of a girl from Petersburg named Klara. Klara was never without a dance partner. She knew all the steps before anybody else—the ecossaise and the anglaise and even the mazurka when most people had only just heard of it—and she never once looked my way. I tried several times to earn her kind regard by smiling at her. There were always rumours of her engagement—to a handsome prince, to a wealthy count, to whichever man was deemed the most eligible that week—but I left the city before anything was announced.
The men scan our group, looking, I think, for our toyon. Nikolai Isaakovich notices this too, and steps forward, but it’s Timofei Osipovich who greets them in that language he knows. “Wacush.”
They look surprised, but they answer in a cordial way, then pause. Timofei Osipovich replies and asks a question.
Only six days ago, the koliuzhi on the beach had been friendly when we first met them, but that changed so quickly. These koliuzhi also appear to be well intentioned, but how can we really tell? If Kotelnikov becomes impatient again or one of the Aleuts becomes too nervous and raises his weapon, the koliuzhi are so close that any one of us could be killed.
Then, with a swing of her hip and a dip of her shoulder, the woman rolls her basket around to her side. She withdraws several pieces of dried fish and offers them to Timofei Osipovich. He accepts them, says something—presumably he thanks her—and he hands the fish to Maria.
After more discussion, Timofei Osipovich turns to us. “Well,” he begins, “they’re different. Another clan altogether. And it seems they’re at war with the koliuzhi who’ve been tormenting us.”
“A different clan? They look exactly the same,” says Kotelnikov.
“What about the woman?” says the American. “There was no woman before.”
“Do you believe them?” Isaakovich asks Osipovich.
He shrugs. “Who knows? It wouldn’t be the first time some impostor has tried to fool Timofei Osipovich Tarakanov, would it? But they say terrible things about the other koliuzhi—how they raid their villages, capture their people, and then force them to work. They told me those koliuzhi steal their food and tools. They also claim that they’re more peaceful.”
“Are they at war with the other koliuzhi?”
“Who knows? They could be.”
My husband ponders this news before finally he shrugs, too. “I guess we should believe them,” he says. “After all, if they were treacherous, they probably would have attacked us by now.”
“And they wouldn’t have offered us food,” says Sobachnikov awkwardly. Timofei Osipovich gives him another withering look and the main rigger looks away. I pity him. No matter what he says and does, Timofei Osipovich finds fault with it.
“I don’t know,” says the apprentice Kotelnikov. “I don’t trust them.”
“Well, I don’t know either,” my husband says briskly. “But there are only four of them, and this woman is as scrawny as a plucked grouse. What do they want?”
After further conversation with Timofei Osipovich, it seems what the koliuzhi want is to help. They’ll walk with us, protect us, and guide us through the forest. Would they take us all the way to the Kadi’ak? A wave of fresh hope washes over me. Perhaps the worst of our ordeal is over.