Anna, Like Thunder

I follow Koliuzhi Klara over the rocks. They’re slippery near the water and I’m slower than usual; my new small belly has already unbalanced me in a way that’s disproportionate to its size. The old peasant women would watch me and say I’m going to have a boy.

We arrive before a steep face of rock. The women grab onto it and begin to climb.

The first woman disappears over the top. She comes back an instant later and pokes her head over the edge. “Isha^wá k^walílho. K^wό ax^wό!”[51] she says, barely raising her voice, as though she’s conveying a secret.

The small plateau up here is scattered with nests of twisted grass and grey feathers. Each one contains two or three green-brown speckled eggs. No doubt they belong to the gulls whose cries have become even angrier, whose diving is so close now, I could touch them if I dared.

The woman who arrived first on the plateau steps on a nest. There’s a pitiful crunch. Then everyone joins in. The gulls scream and dive as the women move across the plateau, breaking the eggs and flattening the nests. The women say not a single word.

I’m baffled. This is not the way the koliuzhi do anything.

Koliuzhi Klara stops her stomping and peers at me. At my feet is a nest with only a single egg. She stomps her foot to show me what I must do.

I shake my head no. She frowns, then steps over to the nest and crushes the egg herself.

When all the eggs have been broken, we climb back down the rock and go home. Every stroke of the paddle, I hear the thud of Koliuzhi Klara’s foot and the crunch of the one egg that lay before me. I can’t reconcile what she did, what they all did, with what I know of the koliuzhi.

Two days later, Koliuzhi Klara hands me a paddle and leads me to the beach again. This time, there are two canoes waiting for us—one quite deep but much shorter. The young men tie the small canoe to our large canoe. Only two women climb into the smaller vessel. They are towed behind us, but paddle to lessen our load. The bow is pointed, once again, out to sea, and once we pass the headland, I’m certain we’re returning to the gull island.

We destroyed everything there. There are no eggs left. I don’t know why we’re going back. When the canoe bumps up against the rock, the gulls are once again furious.

I follow Koliuzhi Klara and the others. I pull myself up the steep part of our path. I’m the last to reach the top. When I do, I look around. Every nest is once again fluffed up, lined with feathers, and filled with eggs. It’s as though we were never here.

Koliuzhi Klara bends over and picks up an egg. Then she turns to another nest and takes a second egg. The other girls join in. Quietly, they move from nest to nest, ignoring the gulls, and removing only a single egg from each nest. The eggs are placed in small baskets they’ve brought. They stuff dried lichen around the eggs to cushion them.

Every egg is fresh. We know that because we destroyed all the eggs three days ago. The gulls had no problem laying more eggs—they’re no different from hens in Russia—and when we leave they’ll lay again to replace the ones we’re taking. When we eat the ones we’ve taken, we’ll know with certainty that they’re not spoiled.

The gulls will hatch their young in a few weeks and after they get their feathers, they’ll fly away, and then they’ll come back here next year and do it all over again. The survival of this bird is tied to the survival of the koliuzhi. Just as it was with the mussels and the herring roe and just about everything the koliuzhi gather from the land and sea, a cycle of give and take governs their actions. What I’d judged to be wanton destruction is part of a system that stretches out like a spider web, and just like a spider web, unless seen from the right angle, it’s invisible.

I bend before a nest. The egg is as smooth as porcelain and warm. I gently place it in my basket before moving on to the next nest.

When we return to the canoes, our baskets full, there’s a fire blazing on the rock shelf near where we disembarked. The men are tending it. The women show off the eggs, then gather around the fire. The wind gusts and pushes smoke into my face. I cough and rub my eyes. I wonder why we’re not yet going home.

Then the women rise and retrieve their cooking tongs from the bottom of the big canoe. They dig stones from the orange coals and carry them to the small canoe. Plumes of steam rise when the rocks tumble into the boats. I hadn’t realized there was water in the small canoe.

Koliuzhi Klara takes her basket of eggs and gestures to show me that I should take mine as well and follow her to the canoe. We place the eggs alongside the rocks in the hot water. Once all the eggs have been placed in the small canoe, we all climb into the large canoe and turn our bow to shore.

When we land, we remove the eggs from the water and put them back into the baskets. Then, we go house to house, giving the eggs to the oldest people. They receive them with open hands, and broad smiles that crinkle the skin around their eyes. When we get to the moustached toyon’s house, the women gesture to show me that I should give an egg to old Ivan Kurmachev.

He takes it so gingerly the women laugh. “What is it?”

“It’s a gull egg. It’s cooked.”

“What about me?” says the American.

“They’re only for the old people. You’re too young.” Then I say to Kurmachev, “Go ahead. Try it.”

He cracks the egg against his leg and peels the shell. Everyone’s watching. With his thumb, he digs into the white and slides a bit into his mouth. After a moment, he grins. “It’s good,” he says.

“What does it taste like?”

“Here.” He offers me a morsel.

“That’s not fair,” the American says. “You’re not old enough either.” I hesitate. What I said was true.

Koliuzhi Klara catches my eye and gestures, putting her fingers to her mouth. So, I take the piece of egg and put it in my mouth.

It’s fishy and greasy and a bit chewy, but warm as it is, it’s also pleasingly rich. It reminds me of turkey eggs, but only if they were eaten with dollops of caviar and sour cream.

The women watch me expectantly. When I smile and nod, still chewing, they laugh. I swallow and say, “Oo-shoo-yuksh-uhlits.” I know it’s Makee’s language, not theirs, but it’s the only word I know for “thank you.” The women shriek with laughter, but from their expressions I believe I’ve done something that has pleased them.

As our group moves to the next old man in the house, I see Koliuzhi Klara slip a gull egg to the American when no one’s looking. His face is surely as shocked as mine. He rolls the egg into his sleeve before anybody notices.

One afternoon, as I head to shore to wash my hands, I find the beach crowded with children, Holpokit is in the centre of their high-spirited play.

“Ahda!” he calls when he sees me. He says something to the children and they laugh. Zaika, the little girl who clings to Koliuzhi Klara, runs over and grabs my hand.

“Wait,” I cry. “Where are you taking me?”

Holpokit laughs at me. She’s just a child—why should I resist? I let her pull me to the others. Holpokit leads them in a kind of a chant or rhyme that they all know. When he finishes, everyone except him—and me and Zaika—runs away.

Zaika pulls on my hand and shouts desperately.

I look to Holpokit for guidance. “What’s going on here?”

Holpokit says, “Hiiláalo ka

51

There are so many gull eggs! Hurry!