“Maria?”
“What is it?”
The dark and the cold and my exhaustion feed one another. Questions form, and the answers are shadows in my mind. I try to suppress them but they’re hardy and insistent. Finally, I say, “What are they going to do to us?”
She doesn’t respond for a long time. Then she says, “That is written with a pitchfork on flowing water.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t know. And neither do you. Now go to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Your worrying won’t change a thing.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Well, I can. I’m tired. Good night.”
Though it’s not like me, I pray—something I haven’t done before bed since I was a little girl—and ask God to grant us our prayers, if they are good, and bring us all back together again in Novo-Arkhangelsk. But it’s futile, and I’m no closer to sleep.
Long after Maria has succumbed, I lie on my back, my eyes wide open, recreating the night sky on the ceiling. Polaris is overhead. Is my head pointing east? I think so. Cassiopeia would be over there near the post. Orion would be there, where the bundles of dried grass stir in the fire’s rising heat. Pegasus would be over there, near the door, which has been covered with some sort of screen for the night. I worry about my telescope and star log—was my bundle saved? Are my things safe and dry?
It’s not just my thoughts that keep me awake—the night noises also disturb me. I’ve never slept in a room with so many people. There’s coughing and throat clearing. Some people snore. Some call out in their sleep. One child laughs, caught in a dream.
And then, after I’ve lain awake for a long time and a short time, a certain rustling begins. Right away, I know what it is, and I’m not surprised when, before much time passes, it progresses to shameless grunts and moans. I put my fists over my ears but it’s fruitless—my imagination furnishes the imagery.
I don’t know what to do with the fish bones from our supper. My fist closed, I squeeze them lightly in my palms, feel their bend. If there were a way to reassemble them, to put the flesh back on the fish, to turn the clock back, how far back could I go? Could I identify the one miscalculation that brought me to this place—and undo it?
The next morning, I wake with empty hands. The bones slipped away in the night and they’re now woven into the cedar mat and half-buried in the thin layer of dust that coats the earthen floor. I very badly need to relieve myself. What is the koliuzhi way? Do they have some kind of gutter or a cesspit? If not, where should I go, or does it matter? I ask Maria what I should do, and she tells me to find a private place outdoors.
“Are you sure?”
The corners of her mouth turn down, and she studies me like I’m a child who ought to know better.
“Then come with me. Please.”
She shrugs. “I may as well.”
We slowly cross the floor toward the door, taking small, tentative steps. Many people watch. Then a man around my age with hair longer than mine springs to his feet. He remains right behind us as we pass through the doorway, and stays only a step back as we begin a search for a secluded spot. He must know what we’re doing; he makes no effort to prevent us from wandering away from the house. I look around the sodden forest. Drops of water as big as pearls slip one by one from the boughs overhead and plop as they hit the ground. The ground sucks at our feet. Humps of moss that look like velvet pincushions dot the forest floor.
“Should we stop here?” I say. The dripping water and the cool air aren’t helping. I can’t wait much longer.
Maria nods and says, “He thinks so.” The young man looks uneasy. He glances from us, to the house we just left, barely visible through the tree trunks, then back at us.
Before I lose my courage, I step to the side of a small shrub, turn my back, and pull up my skirt.
The long-haired young man scurries away and waits from a distance. Everywhere it’s the same: even the most courageous men are scared of ladies’ business. Maria squats on the other side of the shrub.
I try to release my water quietly, but it resounds as it hits the earth. Steam rises through my legs. Relieving myself takes forever. And when I’ve no more water to release, I wipe my hands on the moss, and then on my apron because I don’t know what else to do.
“Ready?” I ask Maria. She nods.
The long-haired young man follows in silence and leaves us only when we’re back in our corner.
We don’t have breakfast. Instead, we again assemble for speeches. Because I didn’t sleep well, I struggle to pay attention. A meal is prepared while the talking progresses. We eat fish once again and when it’s finished, there are more speeches.
The treatment we’re receiving from the koliuzhi is most unexpected. It tempers my anxiety and leads me to what I believe is the only rational conclusion. If they’ve not harmed us, and continue to feed us, they must intend to release us. I just can’t comprehend why they haven’t done so yet.
The house is warmer on our second night. Tired from my poor sleep the previous night, I easily drift off. But I wake suddenly at a much later hour to the sound of rain pounding on the roof. The din inside is as loud as the house-drumming that we witnessed the day of our capture. At least I’m dry and warm. I wonder where the crew is and how they’re managing. The tents would be useless in a deluge this heavy.
Oh, Kolya, what are you doing right now? Are you awake and wondering what’s happened to me? You’re not out in this storm looking for me, are you?
Dear Kolya. I’m all right. I’m safe.
Are you?
That day and the next and the one after are no different from the two we survived. More talking, so much talking—and not just from the three men who spoke that first day. Others also present speeches and stories long and short that unravel in the house, spin themselves around the listeners, the fires, and the things hanging from the rafters—but can’t find their way to me, Maria, Yakov, and Kotelnikov. Even after so many days, we understand so little of what is happening.
People come and go, bringing firewood, water, and food. In a corner, some women weave on queer little looms that sit on the floor. They aren’t weaving with wool; but I can’t tell what fibre they’re using. They each have baskets at their feet. Every once in a while, a woman withdraws a stick or a tool with teeth that she uses on her work.
One woman is making a basket. Her hands ripple like flowing water as she weaves thin branches together. She has a cord attached to her ankle. It leads to the head of a cradle suspended from an overhanging bough. Two babies nestle inside like fledglings. When the basket weaver moves her leg, the cradle rocks. The babies sleep on.
Older children play and whisper during most of the speeches, and we eat twice a day—more fish, and then clams and mussels, and after that, a tangle of small starchy roots, and then a hard, dried cake of berries I don’t recognize. The cakes are tough to chew, and drenched in that same fishy grease. During the long speeches that follow, I dislodge the gummy bits stuck to my teeth.
I miss Nikolai Isaakovich terribly. I miss the way he stands behind me on the deck of the brig and keeps me warm while I look through my telescope. I miss our long talks in the evening, poring over his charts, discussing the places we’d seen and the places that lay just ahead.
Why hasn’t he come for me yet? There has to be a good reason. I won’t accept that he might have been killed. I also won’t accept that he’s given up and headed south without us. What am I supposed to think? Everything I imagine is unbearable.