“Madame Bulygina!” Timofei Osipovich bends over me. He leans so close his hair brushes my face and each strand feels like he’s plunged a knife into my cheek. “Are you all right?”
Pain radiates everywhere in my body. My knee. My elbow. My belly is being torn out. Shadows surround me.
Timofei Osipovich grits his teeth and shouts, “Say something!”
Then he disappears. Everything goes black.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An old woman with a face like wrinkled velvet gently pulls my lower lip open. She hums a song I’ve never heard. With a mussel shell ladle, she dribbles liquid into my mouth. I’m dying of thirst, but what she feeds me burns my throat. I cry out, and make no sound. Only a hiss of air escapes.
It’s silent here, wherever I am. It smells of smoke and cedar. I can’t recall coming here. The old woman’s face swims into focus. It’s so large it fills my field of vision. Her eyes are like bright stars that pierce the velvet.
“Help me,” I try to say, but nothing comes out. The old woman watches me. I try to sit up, but the mere thought exhausts me. I reach for her, but my arm won’t move.
“What happened?” I want to say but my throat is as dry as sand and my words are nothing more than puffs of air.
Despite this, the old woman answers. “You fell into the fire—or perhaps the children pushed you. Do you remember? They were playing and they may have knocked you down by accident. Now rest. Everything will be just fine.”
Pain undulates through my body, a cat’s paw scuttling across the surface of the ocean, a serpent with two heads pulling in opposite directions.
The old woman with the ladle disappears.
The path is so wide and clear that I begin to doubt the certainty with which I set off on this journey. It’s unnatural. The trees, the undergrowth, the moss, the mud—they’re here—but they’re far off the path, a distant shadow that means nothing. But then all trails change with the seasons, don’t they? Perhaps I just can’t recognize this path yet.
The trail begins to climb. It’s easy at first, just a slight incline, but then it becomes steeper. Rocks have forced themselves through the earth. They’re teeth that chew up the path. Still I follow, setting one foot in front of the other, trusting that this is the way to go. Then the path turns sharply and climbs in the opposite direction, and I doubt myself once more.
For a long time and a short time, I keep walking. My feet are cut and bruised. They’re on fire. What happened to my boots? My bones ache and press against my skin as though trying to break free just like the rocks on the trail.
I turn with the footpath again. Something ahead glitters.
It’s my silver cross. I should be surprised, but I’m not.
I must recite the incantation first. I picture my mother’s face, her rosy lips. I don’t really need them. Ever since I promised, I’ve never forgotten.
“Earth, earth, close the door
One necklace, nothing more.
Earth, earth, I command
One necklace in my hand.”
I open the clasp and once more fasten the chain around my neck.
The pain comes in waves like the surf, roaring up my body, then falling back down again in a rush of sand and stone. The old woman’s hand is like my mother’s—cool against my forehead and light as a feather. I don’t need the medicine in the ladle. Her hand will cure everything, and as long as she leaves it there, I can bear this pain.
“Where’s Kolya?” I ask. Or, I want to ask.
“It’s too soon,” she says. “Relax. Don’t be afraid. You’re doing very well.” She resumes humming.
She drips more medicine into my mouth. There’s always more, and each time, it sets my mouth on fire. Sometimes, she gives me water so cold I think my teeth will crack. She rubs a salve into my hands. She’s trying to be careful, but my skin will peel like I’m an overripe peach if she doesn’t stop.
The pain in my abdomen is like lightning. It cuts from side to side, top to bottom. My spine is going to break. My head, too heavy for me to move, is filled with thunder.
The old woman faces the thunder with me. “No, no, no,” she says gently. “No. You’re too early.”
Who is she talking to? There’s no one here but me.
The old woman’s face disappears. I can’t see her anymore but her hands flutter over my body, the wings of butterflies in a sunny meadow. Another hand—it’s made of iron and it belongs to no one—is squeezing me out of my own body. The old woman pushes apart my knees. The pain explodes.
She touches my woman parts. I should be ashamed, but I feel only desperately afraid that she’ll leave me. “No, my child,” she coaxes, “there’s lots of time.”
“Kolya!” I scream. Or, I want to scream.
Her hands clamp around my legs. She’s stopped humming.
“Are you so determined, then?” she says softly. “Is there no talking sense to you, little one?”
How is it that I can understand what she’s saying?
The old woman pulls. It’s me and it’s not me.
The western horizon grows dusky. The path enters a dried-up meadow. As darkness creeps in, the stars leap out one by one. Sirius. Arcturus. They’re the brightest stars this evening. Pretty blue Venus sparkles near the horizon and the faint light of Jupiter flickers on and off. Eventually, it will be dark enough that Jupiter will remain alight for the rest of the night. If I had my telescope, I could count his moons. My Polaris isn’t visible yet, but she will be soon.
I see Vega, Altair, and Deneb. These stars form a perfect triangle. When we were married only a few days, Nikolai Isaakovich pointed it out to me. “All the navigators know it. Don’t you?” I knew the names of the stars, but I’d never seen the triangle they formed, never heard a name for it. There are so many possible combinations of stars in the night sky, they could never all be seen, never all be named.
“Then I shall name it,” he declared, “and I shall name it after you, Anna Petrovna.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. All summer long, the starry triangle revolved overhead and with each degree of rotation, I fell more deeply in love with my husband.
It takes only a few more minutes in the meadow before my Polaris reveals her beautiful face. She’s clear and especially strong tonight, as if she knows I need her. As soon as I see her, I feel the tiredness slip off my shoulders like a too-old mantle.
I stretch out my arms and make fists, and then count. I line up Deneb with two distant trees, and as soon as it falls out of alignment, I turn north and walk.
It takes a long time and a short time to cross the meadow. The grass is stubbly, but my feet feel nothing. When I reach the edge of the meadow, there’s no choice but to enter the forest again. I look through the bushes for a path, but I can’t find one. Eventually, I give up and just push my way through, and then I’m among the trees.
High overhead, the wind plays music in the canopy. There are the usual heaps of mossy, fallen logs, grey shadows whose outlines I can still see. Some of the ground is boggy, and my feet sink into the muck. But the way forward feels easier now that I know my direction.
I stop and look up every once in a while. If there’s enough of a gap in the trees, I see dear Polaris shining down. She gives me courage.
“Anya!”
Nikolai Isaakovich bends over me. His face, like the old woman’s, fills my field of vision. I can’t see anything else. His eyes fill. “Anya, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” I try to say, but the words are nothing but a hiss. “Where were you?”