Is my child cold? I hum one of my mother’s lullabies, one about a crying duck, careful to keep my voice low in case the Quileutes are looking for me. I don’t know why Koliuzhi Klara let me go—whether it was pity or kindness or whether her own new feelings guided her decision—but I will remain indebted to her for all my life. I drift in and out of sleep, and then, when I think enough hours have passed, but the sky is still dark, I go back to the creek where I might get a better look at the sky.
The trickling water seems louder in the dark. I take a drink, then look up. Mercifully there are no clouds.
In a break in the treetops, through a hole that’s as round as the opening of a telescope, I spot Polaris. I stretch out my arm and I measure fist by fist as my father showed me, arriving at a number somewhere between forty-five and fifty. That’s my latitude. Then I line up Alpha Cassiopeia—the brightest star in the Queen of Ethiopia—with two branches sticking out high overhead, and I wait. When the star sinks out of alignment, I know I’m facing west.
It’s difficult enough to walk in the dark, and even harder to walk along the riverbank. Shrubs with sharp branches compete with grasses and reeds for water and light. This is why so few koliuzhi trails follow the waterways. I walk a few sazhens into the trees where there’s less undergrowth. I can’t see the water any longer, but its sound is not far. It’s a friend who’s agreed to accompany me on my voyage. There’s no path, but there’s more space. Eventually, I’ll find a trail.
Are the Quileutes looking for me? I wonder what Koliuzhi Klara told them. That she couldn’t find me? Would she be audacious enough to tell them that she saw me running away—in a southerly direction? If she gets caught in a lie, they’ll punish her. Should I go back to prevent that? What if she told them that I’d gone back to my people on a ship? Or that she’d seen a wolf or a bear dragging my corpse away to its den? My sudden return could make things worse for her.
I must get much farther away, for her sake, too.
When the sun starts to rise, I’m hungry. I snap off spruce buds as I go and eat them. I stop to pick some tiny scarlet berries that I recognize. They grow in a spray and pop like fish roe when I bite them. Only half are ripe, and I don’t have time to pick very many anyway. I must carry on. I scratch gum off a tree and chew as I walk, remembering the day I did the same thing with Inessa and the other girl.
When the brig ran aground, and we first stepped into the forest, I had no notion there was anything here to eat. It was empty wilderness—nothing more. But the koliuzhi live in a kind of Eden with an abundance of berries, roots, mushrooms, and shoots. It has ponds and rivers stocked with fish, and an ocean full of seals, whales, halibut, clams, mussels—and more. Thanks to the koliuzhi—and the night sky, and the good sense my father nurtured in me—I know I can survive until I find my husband.
When the mud is deep, and when I have to walk a long way to circumvent a heap of fallen trees, and when I come up against a stream too wide and deep to cross, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Sometimes, I think I should turn back. Then the landscape changes, and my path grows easier, and every time, I decide I must not give up.
Late this afternoon, a gorge that’s gradually grown deeper forces me farther into the forest, distant from any stream. I miss the company of the flowing water, but I must go where the land permits. When the light starts to fade, and I know evening is not far, I look up. The clouds are moving in.
By the time night falls, there’s no sense continuing. There’s no stream to follow. I can’t see the stars. I might be walking back to the Quileutes.
I pray it doesn’t rain.
I look for shelter. The land is flat, and there’s no overhang that I can hide under until the sky clears. I remember the boy in the game of Cache-Cache—the one who hid beneath a fallen log—and I try to locate a log of my own, one that’s big enough and dry underneath. When I see one that’s suitable, I crawl under and prepare for another night in the forest.
I’m so exhausted I fall asleep right away. But mosquitoes wake me—and I decide to check the sky, but it’s even worse—so I crawl back under the log. I bend a bough toward me and wedge it into place, thinking it might deter some mosquitoes and maybe even keep my burrow warm. I don’t fall asleep again.
In the early morning, I decide there’s no sense staying. Even if I don’t know exactly where I’m heading, at least walking will keep me warm, and eventually I will find another stream. If I’m lucky, the sky will clear and tonight I will have the stars to guide me once again.
I stop to eat a few berries, but otherwise, I walk and walk, for a long time and a short time. Then I hear water. I follow the sound until I come across a slow-moving, murky creek. I walk downstream, along its mucky banks, until it widens, and the water is clear enough to drink. I gulp handfuls of it and head back into the forest.
On a hump of land in a clearing, I find some leaves that I recognize. They’re pale green pliant bowls that grow low to the ground, each no bigger than a fingertip, and each one with a speck of a white flower in its centre. I pick the leaves as the koliuzhi taught me, pinching them from their stems so the roots remain intact, and when I have a handful, I eat them.
I walk on. For a while I think the clouds are lifting. A few minutes later, I look again and find the grey as thick as yesterday.
I’m far from water. Hours have passed since the murky stream and while it’s been muddy in places along my route, I’ve seen no other flowing water. The land starts to flatten; ahead, the forest canopy is a little lighter. I walk in that direction, pushing branches aside. And then I find the devastating sight of the log under which I spent last night and the bough I bent to close off my burrow. “What have I done now?” I whisper and hold my head in my hands. I’ve been walking all day, and here I am, back where I started.
What is the sense of this? What foolishness made me think I could find my husband in this wilderness? I’m so lost, I couldn’t even go back.
Then I hear the crunch of a rotten branch that’s been stepped on.
They can’t have seen me—otherwise they’d be calling out. I lean into the fallen tree beside me. I put my hands on its moss-covered bark and creep down until I’m on my knees. Slowly, I lie down.
When I’m as low as I can go, I try to look around. I keep my movements slow and slight. I listen so hard my head roars.
Then a dry branch cracks right behind me. I leap up and turn around.
It’s a wolf.
Its eyes lock onto mine. Its nostrils flare, and its sides quiver. Its sharp ears point forward.
Should I run? If I do, it will chase. Its legs are long, its paws huge saucers. It knows this place and I don’t. I wait for it to move. If it attacks, I’ll stand no chance. Go away, I urge the beast. There’s nothing here for you. I’m a girl looking for a trail to the sea. I mean you no harm.
Its eyes are impossible to read.
Let me go, I urge. Please. I just want to find my husband.
It breaks off its stare. It turns its head and trots away.
I exhale. I don’t move. I’ll wait until there’s enough distance between us. And then I must move far, far away from here. Any direction will do.
When the wolf is only nine or ten paces away, it stops. It looks back.
Keep going, I again urge. You have to keep going. Somewhere far from here you have unfinished wolf duties.