The Great Alone (13 page)

“Yes. That is true,” the Cossack murmured, almost to himself.

Luka pushed to his feet and left the Cossack to his mental calculations of the lost profits. Unwilling to join the noisy group of promyshleniki around the card game, Luka paused beside the notched log ladder. He felt the draft of cold air from the hatchway. It swirled the thin trail of dark smoke from the stone lamps’ flames. He wondered how long the storm would last. He was anxious to resume the hunt and make up for the lost pelts.

A pair of small boys scuffled on the floor, wrestling over a dart. Luka recognized the younger of the two as his concubine’s son, Walks Straight. He watched the future sea hunters while other promyshleniki urged them on. With two so young, the fight didn’t last long. Walks Straight emerged from the tussle proudly holding the dart, his small shoulders squared and his head erect.

Belyaev walked up behind the boy and snatched the dart from his hand, then dangled it just out of reach. Laughing uproariously, he teased the boy with it, making him jump, then pulling it back. The youngster quickly realized the futility of his efforts and launched himself at Belyaev, pummeling his legs. Belyaev reacted in mock fear to the puny assault.

Luka found it amusing as well, until the boy’s mother intervened and dragged him away, scolding him for attacking his tormentor. The boy appeared downcast and a little sullen. When Belyaev offered the object to him, Walks Straight refused it and walked stiffly to another side of the room. Belyaev gave it to the woman instead. She glanced at the boy but didn’t take it to him.

Her name was Winter Swan, Luka had learned. As Many Whiskers had explained it to him, she was called after the swan that came to the islands only in the early winter. Luka had recognized the graceful bird when it stopped on its annual visit—the whooping swan from his native Russia. And there was about his woman a grace and disciplined energy, an innate dignity despite the often-bowed head. He watched as she resumed sewing the bird-skin parka she was making for him.

That night as he lay beside her in the darkness, making no demands on her, Luka considered how accustomed he had become to her strange methods of adornment. The labrets and tattoos no longer repelled him. They were no more disfiguring than the scar on his face. She cooked, sewed, cleaned his pelts, and obeyed. For a native woman, she was good.

He thought of her body, the color and texture of ivory yet warm and alive. He shifted onto his side to look at her, unable to tell if she was sleeping. The desire that hadn’t been there before now heated him. Although touching was seldom part of the act, he slid his hand under the skin robe and onto her stomach to convey his want. When he felt the swelling in an area that had always been flat, Luka hesitated, then explored the distended area with his fingers. She started to shift into a position that would allow him to mount her, but he checked the movement with the pressure of his hand.

“Are you with child?” He frowned, then saw she didn’t understand. Her newly acquired and limited Russian vocabulary didn’t include that phrase. “Child,” Luka repeated and indicated her stomach.

“Yes.” She nodded once.

He felt a small movement beneath his hand as if the infant in the womb were confirming its presence. Removing his hand from her stomach, Luka rolled onto his back. He had not considered the possibility that she might have his child. Some hunter the boy would make, he thought idly. This new land could provide great riches for a hunter. But that brought back the recollection of the fortune he might have had. He stirred in agitation, silently cursing the scant daylight of winter and the fierce storms that hampered his hunting. At least here the ocean did not freeze as it did in northern Siberia, and the waters were occupied year-round by the sea otter.

Each day the sun stayed longer in the sky, with its light only rarely breaking through the ever-hovering clouds and fog to shine on the island of Attu. The ice-choked Bering Sea that had battered the rocky coasts all winter grudgingly allowed the warm Pacific currents to dominate the island. The treeless landscape acquired a lush growth of green foliage as rye grass, heather, and
putske
—wild celery—vied with vast fields of lupine, marsh marigolds, and a host of other wildflowers.

The promyshleniki hunted at a fevered pace, conscious of time running out. Soon, too soon, they would have to make their return voyage, yet there were more sea otter, seals, and sea lion to be taken. Greed pushed them; the more pelts, the bigger their share would be. Every hour the weather permitted, they were out in their boats armed with harpoons and clubs.

For the native women, the time was equally busy. In addition to the cleaning of the skins the hunters brought back to the village, there were berries to pick and grass to dry for the making of baskets and matting. This was the season when the streams were filled with spawning salmon. The catching of these was the work of women, children, and the elderly. Rack after rack of drying salmon lined the village. They did all this, plus the cooking and sewing that went on all the time.

Returning from a successful hunt, Luka helped his Aleut partner, Many Whiskers, haul the two-man bidarka onto the beach, careful to avoid any sharp rocks that might puncture the skin sides of sea lion hide. His legs were cramped and stiff from long hours of kneeling in the boat. He simply could not sit in the bidarka with his legs outstretched the way the Aleuts did. The strain on his muscles was too much.

They unloaded the bloodied furs they’d stowed inside the Aleut kayak, having previously gone ashore to skin their kill so they could keep their load light and hunt longer. Together they carried the pelts to the village. Luka glanced at the sky, trying to gauge the hours of daylight left and debating with himself whether or not to go back out after they’d eaten. It seemed to require too much effort to make a decision, so he postponed it, hoping some hot food would replenish his energy.

Off to his right, he noticed three promyshleniki wearily tramping over the faint trail to the sweat bath the hunting party had constructed. Maybe later, he told himself, postponing that decision, too, and slogged on to the village. He spotted Winter Swan on her knees, bending over a seal skin, scraping bits of flesh from the hide. Pausing, she straightened and pressed a hand to the small of her back, arching her spine. Her stomach protruded roundly, making it appear as if she carried a large ball inside the parka. When she returned to her task, there was little space between her belly and the ground.

Luka guessed that her time would come soon, but he thought nothing of the long hours she worked. She never complained. And native women were strong. They were used to such things, so he expected nothing else of her. He walked over and dropped the fresh skins beside her.

“I am hungry. Fix me something to eat,” he ordered, then moved off a ways to escape the smell of the putrefied seal flesh. He sank to the ground in fatigue and watched her ungainly attempt to hurry to do his bidding.

“Men come.” Many Whiskers pointed to the cliff trail.

Lifting his head, Luka stared at the figures in Russian dress. As they approached the village, he was able to make out the sandy color of one man’s beard. Chuprov. Overcoming his lassitude, he stood to greet the artel’s leader.

“Tell the other hunters in camp,” he instructed the Aleut.

By the time Chuprov arrived at the village, the rest of the promyshleniki were on hand to welcome him. Cups were filled with the latest brew of raka and passed around to all. Belyaev waited until the travelers had quenched their thirst and rested a few minutes before addressing the purpose of the visit.

“What brings you to our camp, Yakov Petrovich?”

“Nevodchikov says we must sail for home within two weeks,” Chuprov stated. “We need that much time to transport all the furs to the base camp and ready the shitik for the voyage.”

“No.” Luka involuntarily protested, and once he had objected to the decision, he was obliged to defend it. “The hunting is good. The weather is good. Why should we go now? Why not wait a few more weeks?”

“Nevodchikov claims the winds favor the trip at this time of year. The voyage will be an easy one.”

“What does it matter whether the winds favor us?” Luka put his argument to the entire group. “Would you care if the seas are rough or the voyage lasted a few more days, as long as the shitik’s hold bulged with furs? Did we come all this way only to go back with less than we could have taken if we had stayed a few weeks longer? Think of how many more otter and seal we could kill in two weeks. Easily fifty, maybe a hundred. That’s nine thousand rubles in the China trade. I say that is worth staying for.”

“I agree!”

“Yes!”

“Stay!”

“Luka Ivanovich is right!”

A chorus of voices shouted agreement. Luka smiled faintly in satisfaction. He knew if Chuprov insisted on sailing so soon, the promyshleniki would vote him out of leadership.

“What do the other camps say?” Luka challenged.

“They are reluctant to leave now,” Chuprov admitted. Again a rumble of agreement came from the Russian hunters.

“You are the peredovchik,” Belyaev stated. “You still give the orders. You tell the navigator when we will sail for home.”

Chuprov surveyed the band of hunters, then gave way to the majority opinion. “We will sail in mid-August. No later.”

The loud and steady hum of bumblebees came from the thick stand of monkshood. The deep blue flowers swayed in the wind, rivaling the rare blue sky. Winter Swan ignored the highly poisonous plant in her search for edible roots, but she wasn’t so successful at ignoring the nagging pains in her back. When she stooped down to pick up her basket, the first sharp contraction stabbed her. It passed quickly, but she knew it was her time. She called to Weaver Woman, who hurried to her side. Immediately they started back to the village, walking slowly.

The contractions were strong and evenly spaced when she reached the village. Little Flower, the widow of Stone Lamp, the midwife of the village, was summoned while the other women helped her into the barabara. No mother or baby had ever died when Little Flower was present at the birthings. Even when the baby came the wrong way, she knew what to do. Once she had cut a woman open, taken the baby out, sewn her together again, and both had lived. Winter Swan had no fears with Little Flower to assist her, not even when the pains became so bad she thought they would tear her apart.

“The head comes,” Little Flower assured a squatting Winter Swan.

Then she, too, could feel the life bursting from her. A smile of joy and relief broke from her when a moment later she heard its cry. She saw Little Flower pass the red and wrinkled infant to Weaver Woman to clean.

“It’s a girl,” she told Winter Swan. “Strong like her mother.”

When the baby was placed in her arms a short time later, she lovingly inspected the tiny infant for herself. Black hair as thick and soft as duck down covered her head. The redness and the wrinkles she knew would soon go away. She gazed in wonder at the small mouth and nose, and the little fingers each with a perfectly formed nail. The eyes, however, were round—like those of the man called Luka. But Winter Swan didn’t mind. She was lucky to have such a good master, she reminded herself. He treated her well, and had never struck her in anger as some of the other men had their women. If sometimes her heart cried for happier days, she looked to her own error in speaking against peace.

But with this baby in her arms, she felt happy again. She was glad it was a girl, even though she knew the village needed hunters. A girl child could help with her work and understand certain things that a boy never would. A daughter was very special.

The baby squirmed, and her little mouth opened like a hungry nestling’s. Winter Swan guided it to her nipple. She smoothed the black fluff atop her daughter’s head with a stroking finger while the baby suckled.

Later after the baby was asleep, Weaver Woman brought Walks Straight to see his new little sister. He peered uncertainly at the baby in the wooden cradle Many Whiskers had made for it. A little fist waved in the air. When he touched it, the little fingers curled around his forefinger. His smile of surprise was filled with wonder. Winter Swan gazed proudly at her two beautiful children.

The clouds were pink-etched with twilight when Luka returned from his hunting. He looked around for Winter Swan with faint irritation, wanting some food and a cup of raka—and maybe the aching muscles in his back rubbed. Her hands were adept at easing their soreness.

“Winter Swan have baby,” Many Whiskers said.

The words didn’t register for an instant. Then Luka stared dumbstruck at the Aleut’s smiling eyes. His child was born. He tried to think what that meant. But he was suddenly engulfed by the promyshleniki in camp, their hearty voices bombarding with congratulations that were sometimes ribald and sometimes mocking. They pounded him on the back, then laughingly pushed him toward the barabara. At first Luka felt a little foolish, but as he climbed the mounded roof, there was a faint spring to his stride. He was only vaguely conscious of the men following him to have their look at the newborn infant only a few hours old.

Halfway down the ladder, he saw Winter Swan sitting beside the cradle, her legs curled under the parka, only a single bare foot showing. Her head was bent toward the yet unseen infant, the glow from the stone lamp shining on her hair. The sight triggered an image in his mind—the ikon of the Virgin in church. She looked up and the illusion vanished at the reality of the labrets below her lip corners.