kadiyás
al. Alitíta
as cha lítiksh hí
at kadiyásaliksh. Dáki
hi’adasákalawόli.”[52] He points to the forest.
I look at Zaika. We run.
Zaika and I slip into the forest. We follow a narrow vale until she pulls me up its other side. We head deeper into the forest. I hope she knows where she’s going—we’re no longer on the path. We dart among the tallest trees, avoiding the fallen logs and the thickets of berry bushes. Wet foliage sparkles like jewels. The shrubs must have dressed for an evening out.
I hear rustling near my feet. The boy who won the fern game squats beneath a moss-covered log. When our eyes meet, he puts his hands on the back of his head and pulls his face down until his hair falls like a curtain and he’s nearly invisible in the shadows.
Zaika says something in a low voice.
We arrive at what looks to be a sheer drop. The underbrush is thick, and it’s impossible to judge how deep this chasm is. There may be a path down. I see a narrow ledge that disappears into the foliage. I shake my head. It’s too dangerous.
Still, Zaika urges me forward.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say, attempting to extract my hand from hers. But she squeezes my fingers until they hurt. Then she jumps. “No!” I cry. She lands on that narrow ledge. Only by bending awkwardly am I able to stay on the edge and hold onto her.
“You’re going to pull me over.” I slide down until I’m beside her. We share a tiny space that has barely enough room for our feet. Then she leans over and parts a wall of ferns. There’s a cave.
She pulls me inside. The ferns bend back into place.
“What is this?” I say, incredulous, and my voice echoes. The cave is cool and dark—but not entirely black. It must be deep. She tugs my hand, hard, and I think she wants me to be quiet.
This is a serious game of Cache-Cache, and Zaika has a perfect hiding spot. How she ever found it is a mystery. Whoever is looking for us—it must be Holpokit—will never find us.
She squats against a wall and pulls me down next to her. The wall is cool. She shivers.
We wait. After a few minutes, my eyes adjust. The floor of the cave is earth and toothy rocks that force their way up through the ground. It’s very wet and there’s a slow plop-plop-plop of dripping water. The little light that filters through the ferns at the cave’s mouth is not enough to enable me to see much more.
Is the girl scared? She turns her head, and I see her eyes and her smile flash white in the sparse light. She’s been here so many times she’s not afraid.
We wait. I try to imagine what’s happening outside. Has Holpokit found the boy hiding under the log? Who else has he found? Do the children set boundaries on how far away they can hide? Unless Holpokit knows all the secret places, we might be waiting a long time.
I shift to get more comfortable for the tedious wait ahead and I feel a jab in my hip. It’s the small wooden doll that the carpenter Ivan Kurmachev made and gave me. It’s still tied to the end of my sash because I have nowhere else to keep it. I reel in the belt.
Zaika watches me unknot it. When I show her what’s there, she’s surprised. I offer her the doll. At first, I only mean for her to hold the doll, but when I see her expression, I want her to keep it forever.
She turns the doll over and over in her hands. She whispers, “Waaxw xwόxwa aachidáal. Kwotaasichíd. 
wόpatwali.”[53]
She gazes into the doll’s plain face then touches it to her forehead, her eyes closed. Then she pulls the doll away and tries to give it back. I shake my head, no. “I want to give this to you,” I whisper. “I hope you like it.”
She cups both her hands around the little doll. Again, her teeth are a flash of white.
Suddenly, from the back of the cave, there’s rustling—and then it stops. Zaika is rigid. Is it an animal? It could be a mouse. But it could be a wolf. Or a bear.
Should we run? Would we have time to get through the narrow opening and climb up the ledge? Perhaps we’re better off staying very still. The creature may go away.
I carefully put my arm around Zaika. Her fear seeps into me like I’m a sponge.
What if it’s not an animal? What else could it be? In all my mother’s stories, did she say anything about a cave?
Something bangs. I jump and yank Zaika by the arm so hard she cries out. I drag her to the mouth of the cave. I duck between the ferns. I barely look at the narrow ledge as I fling myself up to the earth above. I swing Zaika by the arm in a way that makes no sense. Where we’re safely on top, I scoop her up and run.
I dodge between two tall trees. I slip on moss but use the motion to push myself in a new direction. I can’t look back. My head is filled with noise: my breathing, Zaika’s breath, the pounding of my feet, and the rustle of whatever is after us. I force myself to go faster. I scrape my leg against something. It hurts.
I come up against a wide tree trunk. I dart around it.
I slam into Holpokit. He grabs me by the shoulders. Zaika’s wedged between us.
“Let go! We have to get out of here,” I cry. Pain shoots through my leg.
I twist. But Holpokit won’t let go.
“No! Stop it!” I push against him, squeezing Zaika. She cries out.
“The game’s over!” What’s wrong with him? He still won’t release me.
Zaika pushes herself out of my arms and slides to the ground. She wraps her arms around my legs and won’t let go. And then there’s rustling all around. I scream. A child appears. Then another. Then a third. They pop out from behind the trees and bushes. They smile. Some laugh.
“No,” I cry, “there’s a bear—or a wolf—I don’t know—” I’m crying. No one knows what I’m saying.
Holpokit peers into my face and when he has my attention, he points.
The smiling face of a boy is poking up out of the ground. His arms appear. He boosts himself up and squirms out of a deep hole concealed by foliage. Another boy pops out of the same hole. They stand side by side before the hole, waiting. Then the second boy slowly extends his arm and opens his hand. In his palm rests the little wooden doll.
And I understand. The cave has two entrances.
“What’s going on?” I ask Zaika.
She laughs but she’s nervous. Holpokit says, “Kidatlíswali dixá tich bayaá. Hitkwotaítilili.”[54] In his face there’s the same combination of humour and contrition.
He probably initiated the prank. All the children were in on it.
When they see that I’ve finally understood, everyone laughs and shrieks. They jump into the knot that’s me, Holpokit, and Zaika. There’s no bear, no wolf. No creature from my mother’s stories. Of course not. It was only ever us.
That night, I go to the beach to look for my Polaris. The ocean sighs softly; I think the last of the winter storms has blown itself to exhaustion. The sky is clearer than it’s been in a long time, and I easily find her, perched in the arms of Draco. My ship constellation. Surely, it’s a portent. When we’re back in Novo-Arkhangelsk, I’ll write to my father and tell him about the constellation, but when I write to my mother, I’ll tell her about how it foretold our rescue.
53
That’s not a rock dolly. Where did you get it? I like it!
NOTE: Traditional Quileute dolls are made of thin, round, flat beach rocks. Eyes, a nose, and a mouth are scratched on that face. The dolls wear dresses of woven cedar bark.