Corona Borealis, the northern crown, is a little to the south. Many think it’s the crown that Theseus used to light his way through the labyrinth, and that he wouldn’t have found his way home without it. I have often wondered about its shape, which I see not as a crown, but as an unfinished circle.
How perfect its arc, how tempting to try to identify stars that could complete the circle. But they are not there. They are not where one would hope to find them.
If I were on the brig right now, I would hear my husband’s footfall. From behind, he would call out, “Anya!” And before I could lower my telescope, I’d feel his arm slip around my waist and pull me toward him. I’d lean back into his solid form. Right away, I’d be warmer. His beard would scratch against the side of my face as he nuzzled into my neck. Those short moments when we stood like that, quiet, together, our faces pointed to the sky, those were the bright moments that held the possibility of making that circle complete.
I will find a way to bring us together again.
The berries are at their prime. Because of last night’s rain, they’re plump and with the slightest touch, they tumble into my fingers. The berries are as orange as salmon, each one a tiny cluster of jewels worthy of the Tsarina’s collection of jewels. The ripest dangle from high above, forcing me to stretch if I can or, if I can’t, to bend the thorny branches toward me. The canes arc, making incomplete circles that mirror Corona Borealis.
Koliuzhi Klara is here, Zaika, too, and many other women. This is the largest group with whom I’ve ever gone into the forest. Three men have come: two Quileutes, our guards, and John Williams. He tells me he’s only here to carry back one of the large baskets—there are three—all of which we aim to fill today.
The Quileute men have their bows in hand, and talk softly to one another as we weave through the bushes picking berries. John Williams, on the other hand, seems at a loss for what to do. He wanders around, stopping every once in a while to eat a berry. His hair is a brighter colour than the berries.
The dappled sun reaches through the forest canopy and warms both us and the berries. The insects hover and buzz around my ears looking for opportunities to land and bite. I swat them away, but they’re back in an instant. I pop a berry into my mouth. It bursts with a sharp sourness that slides over my tongue and turns sweet before I swallow.
Tonight, we’ll eat berries—of this I’m certain—but most of what we’ll pick today will be preserved. All winter long, we ate last summer’s berries. I’ll see how they press the berries into loaves, and how they keep birds, rodents, and insects from eating them while they dry. The children will be involved. I can imagine their delight, flinging sticks and stones and shouting at the birds who, being very clever, will dodge whatever they throw and still manage to steal a few berries.
Some of the fruit are very hard to reach without getting scratched. But the reward of a particularly plump berry or a branch that droops with the weight of many berries makes us all endure a few prickles. It seems we must risk the thorns if we want the sweetness.
Koliuzhi Klara and I move to opposite sides of a bush, picking, picking, picking as we go. We drift farther and farther away from the group. The rustling, the conversation, and the low laughter tell me we’re not alone. Eventually we lose sight of Zaika. Then we can’t see the watchmen.
I spot a heavily laden branch, and I pull it toward me. I hear a soft laugh nearby. The branch I’ve pulled aside reveals Koliuzhi Klara and John Williams. They’re not speaking but the way they’re looking at each another makes me blush. They’re so attentive to one another they don’t even notice me. I let the branch spring back up again.
I turn away from them and pick from another bush. I keep my head down and tread softly. I don’t want them to know anybody’s spotted them. I pick and pick without looking behind. The signs have been there all along. I’ve been slow to see the truth. I’d told myself that his red hair and pale skin were the only reasons anybody here would stare at him, and I thought giving him the gull egg was simple kindness. But I knew in my heart that there was nothing simple about it.
She’s so preoccupied with him, and he with her. I have no time to think about that. Putting aside their feelings, the possibilities and impossibilities, I see they’ve presented me with a chance. I take two steps back. Three more. They’re not coming. They’re not calling. No one is. I edge farther away until all the berry bushes are behind me. I pause at the lip of a slight depression, set down my basket, and slip over the edge.
I’m going to find my husband.
I try to keep my step light as I run through this vale. I climb the other side of the depression and head straight. I aim to find a path. And if I’m lucky, it’ll be a path that leads to the sea. From there, I need only turn right to go north.
I can’t think beyond that.
I stumble upon an old, rutted trail. Judging by the overgrown branches, it’s rarely used. I hope I’m not misreading the thick brush. If the trail’s been abandoned for long, it may lead nowhere, and I may get lost. Ahead, the thick undergrowth ripples in a slight breeze. I choose to take my chances with the trail.
The minutes slip away. Have they noticed I’m missing? Are the watchmen looking for me? Has anybody run back to the village to alert the others? I force myself to go faster. I must get as far away as I can before they notice.
Finally, my overgrown path meets another. This new path is wide and clear. I run. I step on a branch and it cracks. The sound echoes off the trees. I stop—but there’s nothing more.
Off to the side, the forest thins a little. I see sunlight. I head toward it.
I find a clearing, scented with an indescribable perfume, blanketed with wildflowers. There are the purple ones whose roots we eat. There are the tiny pale clusters of blossoms at the top of fragile stems, looking like candlesticks. There are the starry white ones with butter and sunshine in their centres. They lead my eye around as I find shapes and see the constellations they form.
But I’ve no time. I plunge back into the forest.
Using the light and shadows to guide me, I try to head in the same direction. At times, I’m blocked by the land or a fallen tree or one of countless streams. The little creeks are as tangled up as yarn, and I wish I could give one end a good, strong tug and turn them into a single long, powerful river. The kind of river that leads to the ocean.
As dusk approaches, I hear running water. I head toward it and find a fast-flowing creek. The water is glossy where it curls around the logs and rocks. It flows to my right. This is it—my path to the coast.
A shadow falls across the little stream.
One of the guards? A bear? My mother’s leshii?
No.
Koliuzhi Klara on the opposite bank. Alone.
It’s over. I’m going back. “Please,” I say. “I just want to be with my husband.”
She smiles. Her eyes glitter. “Wacush,” she says. She raises her head and swivels away. She merges into the shadows of the forest.
In a moment, I don’t hear her at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I shelter under a low overhang at the foot of a cliff. I pull my knees up to my chin and wait for sleep to come. Mosquitoes pester me and some bite before I’m able to swat them away. I try not to think too much about what I’m doing. What matters is that I’ll soon be back with Nikolai Isaakovich.
The night air sags with moisture, but the ledge above prevents it from settling on me. In a few hours, before the sun rises and erases the stars, I’ll leave. Polaris will point me in the right direction. When she fades away, I’ll find a stream, and eventually, following Polaris by night and water by day, I will reach the ocean. From there, I’ll go north until I find him.