Stoney Compton
RUSSIAN AMERIKA
Acknowledgments
Over a quarter century ago I was hired by the Tanana Chiefs Health Authority to create a comic book designed to interest Athabascan youth in health careers. After the completion of the project I was put on staff as media specialist with this non-profit social services corporation. I was privileged to work with Tanana Chiefs Conference for two years. Those years and that job were an education into a culture I came to admire, respect, and to a large extent, envy.
This novel reflects my high regard for the Native Peoples of Alaska, and the Athabascan People in particular. As this is a work of fiction, I have taken a few cultural liberties, but have tried to stay true to the essence of the Dená People. Any and all mistakes are mine.
The names of my characters are similar to family names found in Alaska’s Interior, however all are otherwise complete fabrications of my imagination.
MAPS
1
Etolin Island lay to starboard and Prince of Wales Island stood fine on the horizon to port. All thirty meters of Pravda tossed like a cork in a pond. The graying seas broke into spraying foam at two meters and the wind shrilled warning.
Charter Captain Grigoriy Grigorievich couldn’t drop anchor here, nor could he just abandon the wheel and go below to mediate what was sure to turn into rape, at the very least. Both passengers were below in the main cabin. He popped open the hidden compartment on the console and poked the tiny phone into his ear so quickly he hurt himself.
“No!” Valari said.
“You will do this with me for two reasons,” Karpov said, sounding like a schoolteacher. “First, it will give us both comfort in this storm. Secondly, if you don’t do it willingly, I will beat you and take you by force. This is inevitable; besides, you used to enjoy me.”
“I was lying, you swine!” she shrieked. An oddly familiar Thonk came over the phone, and Grisha realized that someone had just been hit with a bottle. A large mass fell on the deck.
He smiled and put the earphone away. Valari was beginning to appeal to him. She raged up the steps, clutching the vodka bottle by its neck. Throwing it over the side, she grabbed the railing, braced herself on the heaving deck, and shouted at him.
“I wish to make a formal protest to be entered in the log!”
He gestured with his chin as he clutched the wheel with both hands.
“It’s right up there,” he yelled over the building wind. “Make the entry yourself.”
“But you’re the captain.”
“Do you want to take over?”
Hanging on to the railing with both hands she finally took in the sea around them. Huge swells of slate-colored water veined with submerged foam like fat in a rich man’s steak roiled up around them, rising and dropping with unimaginable hydraulic force. Wind ripped loose foam off wave tops and hurled it at the boat where it smacked the hull and topsides like thrown sand.
Pravda rolled heavily from side to side and pitched up and down as she struggled from one wave to the next. Prince of Wales Island now lay behind a seamless wall of driving water and impenetrable cloud.
“By the saints, no,” she said, nearly inaudible, swaying with the dance of the boat. She raised her voice. “Are we going to get out of this?” Water sluiced across the deck and gurgled into the scuppers as the boat labored through the shrieking elements.
“Of course!” He forced himself to smile and licked salt spray from his lips.
“You don’t lie very well. Tell me the truth.”
“We’re not far from Fort Dionysus. If the storm doesn’t get any worse we will make it easily.”
“And if the storm gets worse?”
He shrugged. “Figure it out for yourself: we won’t make it.”
“Shit! This was such a stupid idea! Now we’re all going to die. If I get out of this I’m going to get a new job.”
“Why are you here?” Grisha shouted to be heard over the storm.
She gave him a level look and smiled. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. The less you know the better off you’ll be.”
Grisha repressed the flare of anger.
Suddenly Karpov, blood streaming down the side of his head, erupted out of the companionway, slid across the soaking deck on his knees, and tackled Valari. She screamed and pounded his head with her fists.
“What are you doing, you ass?” she screamed at him. “Have you lost your mind?”
Still on his knees, the beefy man gripped her shirt with one hand, slapped her face with the other. Blood arced from her cut lip. The small sound from deep in her throat jerked open Grisha’s gut anger.
Holding the wheel with one hand, he turned and snap-kicked Karpov as hard as he could in the side of the head. Still clutching Valari, Karpov flew backward and his head smashed into the fishing-gear compartment. The door to the locker swung open as he flopped on the deck, spasming as he tried to retain consciousness.
Valari squirmed out from under Karpov’s twitching mass. “Thank you, Captain Grisha. I think he would have really hurt me this time.” She staggered across the shifting deck and hugged him fiercely. He put one arm around her. “I owe you for that one,” she said.
With a gasp she was wrenched out of his grasp and flung across the bridge deck by a seething Karpov. The large man didn’t even look back at the woman. He stood glaring at Grisha, rain and blood running down his face as bruises and lumps purpled and thickened.
“I relieve you of command!” he said with a growl, and swung his massive fist at Grisha’s face.
Grisha released the wheel, ducked under the swing and put all of his weight behind a two-fisted uppercut to Karpov’s solar plexus. Air whoofed out of the larger man and he staggered back three steps. Grisha kicked him in the crotch as hard as he could. Karpov doubled over with a moan and fell heavily.
Grisha grabbed the spinning wheel and gave his attention to straightening the boat, which had immediately turned broadside to the wind. Pravda lurched sideways off a wave top and slid to the bottom of the trough with a crash. He felt thankful the boat hadn’t rolled down the liquid incline.
Seawater crashed into the open bridge, soaking it and everyone on it. Gear spilled out of the fishing locker and slid around the deck. On the other side of the bridge, Valari pulled herself to her feet and clung to the railing, shivering.
Karpov shook his head and swung from the deck to bury his fist in Grisha’s stomach, smashing him against the bulkhead and knocking him breathless. Grisha slid down on the deck, gasping. The boat again put beam to the wind and rolled heavily to starboard, hanging for an impossibly long time before rolling back to port.
More seawater inundated them. The bridge deck swirled with the increasing water the scuppers couldn’t handle.
“Wheel!” Grisha gasped. “Get the wheel!”
Karpov threw himself on Grisha and hit him with three hammering blows. The vessel lurched in the moaning gale and crunched into a trough. Crockery shattered in the galley and Grisha twisted his body and threw Karpov off him.
He rolled over and pushed himself up, tried to hit Karpov but couldn’t find a target the few times he could put any strength behind his fist. Valari grabbed the wheel and turned it back and forth uselessly.
“Into the wind!” he screamed. “Turn into the wi—”
Karpov’s fist drove the oxygen from his lungs again. Grisha crashed back on the deck. The heavy man straddled him and began choking him with both hands.