Finally, my husband stirs. “Let’s go then. No point wasting any more time. I said we’d cross today and cross we will.” He shifts the bundle on his back, turns, and sets out following the riverbank away from the ocean.
Somebody from across the river shouts. Another man calls out. Three or four koliuzhi advance to the river’s edge and wave to get his attention.
“Commander,” says Timofei Osipovich. “Wait.”
The larger of the canoes is launched with only two men onboard. It’s sleek and plain, and takes only a minute to cross to our shore. It scrapes against the bottom as it comes near our grassy bank, but they don’t land it. Instead, they manoeuvre it into a spot where the current is not so strong, and paddle so that it flutters in the channel and moves neither up nor downstream. The paddlers’ faces are turned up to the crew as they wait for us to do or say something.
“That boat is too small,” my husband says. “We can’t all fit.”
“Then we’ll split up,” Timofei Osipovich says. “Cross in two trips.”
“That’s reckless!” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. “They’re trying to trick us!” He puffs up his big chest in outrage like a cockrel on the wrong side of the fence.
My husband throws down his hands in a fury. “Tell them to bring us another boat,” he sputters, raising his voice. “I demand another boat.”
Timofei Osipovich lowers his voice to a purr. “I will ask, Commander, but if you let your frustration show, we’ll have far more than a river crossing to deal with.”
My husband grumbles but defers.
Timofei Osipovich speaks with the men in the canoe. That’s followed by shouting between the canoe and the people on the opposite shore. Eventually, the other canoe is launched, but it’s smaller than the first and most certainly won’t solve our problem.
The little canoe is proficiently paddled by one person and has a passenger. As it draws close, I’m startled. The passenger is Koliuzhi Klara. She sits quietly. Nothing on her face acknowledges that she’s seen us before. It’s peculiar. Still, I’m happy to see her. Even if we must be divided for the crossing, now I’m sure nothing untoward will happen.
Nikolai Isaakovich, however, isn’t happy. “What is this mischief?”
“You can see for yourself,” Timofei Osipovich says dryly. “If it doesn’t please you, we can try to find another way across.” He gestures upstream. “All rivers, no matter how long, have a source—somewhere.”
“No. We’ve wasted enough time.” He looks at the crew, one by one. “Remain vigilant! Do you hear me? These are my orders!” Sobachnikov colours, and shifts nervously. John Williams looks away, his pale eyes hooded. The apprentice Kotelnikov exhales loudly and frowns at my husband.
The nose of the little canoe is pulled up to shore.
“How many people can fit?” my husband asks.
“Only three,” says Timofei Osipovich. “I assume the woman is staying.”
“Filip Kotelnikov—you go,” my husband says. “And control your temper.” Kotelnikov looks startled. “Old Yakov. You, too. Make sure he causes no trouble.” Yakov nods, but we all know that no one can stop Kotelnikov. “And Maria, leave your things. We’ll take all the provisions in the larger canoe.”
Yakov slides down the muddy bank and into the boat in one motion. He’s directed toward the stern, to a seat in front of the paddler. Maria follows. She climbs into the small canoe like she’s done this many times before, and she seats herself in front of Yakov. Kotelnikov is next. He submerges a foot but otherwise steps neatly into the canoe. It rocks with his weight. He sits beside Maria.
There remains one more seat between them and Koliuzhi Klara, who occupies the bow.
“Madame Bulygina should go with this group,” says Timofei Osipovich.
I jolt, then turn red. Is he serious? The little canoe is already heavily loaded, and looks so unsteady. I want to cross with Nikolai Isaakovich.
My husband looks from him to me and back to him, and says, “Why?”
“It’s safer,” he replies. “There’s only one man and he has the paddle. What could possibly happen?”
My husband deliberates, and makes his decision quickly. “Anya. You go.”
“Are you sure? Maybe somebody else…”
“No. He’s right. It’s safer. You’ll be fine.”
I turn to the riverbank. The others’ feet have left long, thin marks in the mud. It’s slippery. I take a careful step.
“No, Anya,” my husband says. “Leave your things.”
I stop and look over my shoulder at him. “But my telescope—and the star log.” I wrap a protective arm around my bundle. “I can manage.”
“We’ll take them in the big canoe.”
“I think it would be better if I took them.”
“Anya,” he cries, exasperated. “There’s not enough room. Can’t you see?”
“I’ll bring it to you, Madame Bulygina,” says Sobachnikov. “I promise.” He blushes.
My husband looks at him quickly, then back to me, and says, “Are you satisfied now?”
I carefully set down my heavy bundle, and, because it also seems awkward, I remove my cedar cape. With only one step, I slide right down the riverbank and into the water with a splash. Now my skirt is wet. I stand in the river, clinging to the gunwales, feeling my feet sink in the soft muck. I’m not sure how to get into the canoe now, but I’m glad I left my bundle, which could have landed in the water with me.
I hear a quiet laugh. “Be careful, Madame Bulygina,” says Timofei Osipovich, “unless you’ve decided it’s an appropriate time for your bath.”
“You’re a pest,” my husband says to him. “Be quiet.” I give Nikolai Isaakovich a thankful look.
“Come,” says Kotelnikov. I use his pudgy hand to steady me while I climb back onto the riverbank. It’s easy with his support to step over the gunwales. When I put my foot down, the canoe rocks violently as it did when Kotelnikov boarded. Koliuzhi Klara grabs the gunwales. The koliuzhi man in the canoe leans to one side and dips his paddle into the river. “Sit down, Madame Bulygina,” cries Kotelnikov. When I do, the canoe rocks, then settles. I’m backwards, facing Maria and Kotelnikov. “Just stay where you are,” Kotelnikov says. “Don’t move.”
“Anya? I’ll see you on the other side,” Nikolai Isaakovich says.
“Don’t forget my things.”
“Don’t worry.”
Our canoe is pushed into the river. The instant we’re afloat, I feel how unstable the little boat really is. I cling to the gunwales. The balance is so delicate that every ripple of water, no matter how small, unsteadies us. If we capsize, who will save me?
I hear a scrape and glance over my shoulder to see what it is. Koliuzhi Klara has taken a paddle from the hull—I didn’t realize she had one. She dips it into the water and pulls.
Zhuchka swims beside us, her head a wedge that cuts through the flow. She’s so close I can hear the heaviness of her breath. Her eyes roll as they watch me. I smile to reassure her, but I don’t dare call out in case she gets it in her mind to climb into the canoe.
Facing backward, I see everything happening on our shore. They’re boarding the large canoe. They’re loading some of the bundles, passing them from man to man along a chain that runs down the riverbank and into the vessel. There’ll only be enough space for half the remaining crew. The others—and the bundles left behind—will have to wait for the second trip.
My bundle lies where I dropped it, right beside a tuft of reeds. They won’t dare forget it. I’ll go back myself if they do.
My husband is the last to board. As commander, he should be among the first to be greeted by the koliuzhi who wait on the other side. Timofei Osipovich, on the other hand, remains on shore though my husband probably could use his skills to translate once he debarks. They push their canoe out. It’s loaded so heavily it barely rides above the water.