“I think we should go,” says Timofei Osipovich. “If they try anything funny, we’ll kill them.” Ovchinnikov barks a cruel laugh.
I flush. I’m still not used to the fact they can’t understand us.
We don’t stop until midday when everyone’s hungry. We’ve made good progress through the forest partly because the koliuzhi know where they’re going but also because their pace is faster than what we’re used to. Koliuzhi Klara—in my mind, that’s how I’m thinking of her—sits at the fire near Maria and me. She watches us openly, in a way that’s nearly impolite, but she can mean nothing by it. I can’t imagine what she thinks of us—how filthy we are, our clothes muddy, our hair unkempt. Does she think this is normal for us? I hope not.
She seems especially curious about John Williams. He’s the only one in our group with such pale skin, freckles, and a thatch of red hair. She stares as though she’s never seen red hair before. John Williams frowns and looks away. He keeps checking to see if she’s still staring and mostly she is.
She also watches Maria as she cooks. Her eyes widen when Maria sets the pots of water on the hot coals. When Koliuzhi Klara detects the scent of the cooking fish, her eyes dart away from John Williams and back to the pots.
When the ukha is ready, Maria ladles it into our bowls. “Give her some,” she tells me, and nods toward Koliuzhi Klara. I cradle the bowl in both hands and lower it to the woman. She takes it, looks at it, then looks at me. Doesn’t she understand?
“Wacush,” I say, attempting the word Timofei Osipovich always uses with the koliuzhi, always with positive results.
Koliuzhi Klara jerks back. A few drops of ukha spill. Her eyes grow wide, then crinkle at the corners. A laugh bursts out of her. She says something to the koliuzhi men and they look amused. I blush and turn away. I have no idea why what I said is so funny.
She tries the ukha and grimaces. She says something to the men again and they laugh; they all eat it anyway. Timofei Osipovich converses with the koliuzhi men, and translates their conversation for my husband. They’ve had a mild winter so far. They caught a lot of fish in the summer. European ships have visited before, but they don’t come very often. Though the discussion is slow, with the translation flowing in two directions, the men appear to enjoy one another’s company, and I become convinced that we’re right to trust them.
When we’ve finished, we begin to walk again. Koliuzhi Klara leaves Maria and me and joins her own people in our long line. From behind, I can watch her without appearing rude. With the basket strapped to her head, her shoulders and arms are free. She swings them as she walks and uses them, when needed, to push branches from her path. She’s light on her feet and fast, almost like she’s skipping down the trail. She doesn’t stumble over exposed tree roots or rocks.
Very late in the afternoon, a clearing emerges in the distance. When we arrive, I see it’s not really a clearing. It’s the wide mouth of a river. The water ripples and gurgles over a stony riverbed, and, to the right, only a short way from where we stand, it empties into the sea. I didn’t know we were so close to the ocean. On the other side of the river sit five broad wooden buildings. They appear to be empty.
“Where is everyone?” Nikolai Isaakovich says.
“I’ll ask,” replies Timofei Osipovich. He speaks with the koliuzhi and then translates. “They say everyone’s gone to another village, but I don’t understand why. What they say—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, can we get across?” my husband asks.
I wonder if we can sleep in one of the empty houses. If no one’s here, then they couldn’t possibly mind.
“They say it’s too deep, and the current is too strong.”
“Is there a boat? Ask them if they have a boat.”
Timofei Osipovich turns his head slightly. The koliuzhi can’t see his expression of skepticism. “Apparently, it’s not deep enough for a boat right now. This is low tide.”
“Too deep, not deep enough—what is it then?” my husband demands. Then he sighs and says, “Will they bring a boat at high tide?”
“They say yes, they’ll bring one for the next high tide,” Timofei Osipovich says, with a pointed gaze to the heavens, one corner of his mouth turned down.
Every man here can count. Every man here knows—as do I—that the next high tide will fall in the blackest part of the night. The one after that won’t come until midday tomorrow.
My husband taps his lips as he considers this news. “We’ll set up camp, but not here,” he says finally. “Tomorrow, we cross this river, in daylight, high tide, low tide, no matter. Tomorrow, we’ll be on our way first thing in the morning, with or without their help.”
Timofei Osipovich says something and then we turn back toward the forest, leaving our guides on the riverbank. My Koliuzhi Klara doesn’t watch us leave; her face is turned to the grey sea, to the sky woven into it, and to the soft yellow ball of the dimming sun as it sets.
Just as he did so often on the ship, Sobachnikov takes the shift no one else wants and guards our camp until the early morning hours. Then he wakes us. The air is damp, as usual, but there’s no rain. The birds chatter and flit overhead. We each eat a small, grimy helping of kasha that tastes of fish—the pots haven’t been cleaned since yesterday morning—and a mouthful of dried kizhuch. Then we return to the riverbank.
A much different scene faces us this morning. Our guides are gone, and the deserted settlement is now dotted with men. There are at least twenty, but not more than thirty. Each is armed—I see spears, daggers, and bows and arrows—but their weapons remain lowered.
“What’s going on?” says my husband. “I thought they were going to help us cross the river.”
“That’s what they said,” says Timofei Osipovich and shrugs.
The crew spreads out along our grassy side of the river, a narrow band of water that separates stage from audience as if in a grand theatre. But who’s performing here? Who’s paid for the show? If only somebody on either side would move, I might be able to tell.
Where are the people who helped us yesterday? There are no women on their side. Koliuzhi Klara is gone. I can’t tell if any of the three men from yesterday are among those on the riverbank this morning. We’re too far away.
On their side, on the stone-strewn shore, two canoes rest, their bows pointing toward us, as though the boats are about to be launched.
Timofei Osipovich calls out, “Wacush!” His voice thunders and echoes off the trees. He must raise it if he’s to be heard. A moment later, his greeting is returned, and he responds with a long speech. The river performs a soft score that plays beneath his words. He finishes with a question, and waits. The koliuzhi don’t answer. He asks again. Once more, he waits, but it’s clear they’re not going to answer.
“Why don’t they say something?” my husband asks. “Don’t they understand you?”
“I don’t know,” says Timofei Osipovich. “They understood me yesterday.”
“I don’t think these are the same people,” says Sobachnikov, then flushes.
“What would you know?” Timofei Osipovich snaps, impatient as he always is with the main rigger. He kicks at the moss and an egg-shaped chunk rolls into the water. It bobs away with the current, spinning around the rocks.
We stand and wait for a long time and a short time. Zhuchka, who’s back in the river again, chews at something. She dips her nose in the water whenever something interesting catches her eye. She heads upriver, her tail a rudder floating on the surface behind her.