The Chukchi Bible (37 page)

“It seems that the rekken have passed you by this time,” said Mletkin.

“None of ours have died,” Pakaika told him.

Bogoraz wasted no time in getting to work. He went out of the yaranga to make a sketch of the dwelling, the whale jaws, and the skin boats that rested on them. He spent the whole evening drawing a detailed study of the boat's inner skeleton, keen to know the Chukchi word for even the smallest of its component parts.

“You're not going to try and make one?” Pakaika ventured, in some surprise. “The Tangitans surely have no need? Just look at the ships you've got! Like floating islands. Some with fire-breathing machinery on board.”

“This is all going into the bank of human knowledge, which is called science,” Bogoraz told him.

“The Tangitans will do anything for science,” said Mletkin. “In America, they butcher our kin like nerpa.”

“Alive?” Pakaika was appalled.

“No, they wait until he's dead,” said Mletkin. “In New York they got their hands on a whole family of polar Eskimos, and then put their skeletons on display in glass boxes, and their brains into jars of alcohol . . .”

“What a waste of alcohol,” said Pakaika, licking his lips.

The conversation turned once more to the goings-on on shore and on land.

“Rentyrgin married off his daughter,” Pakaika informed Mletkin. “I think she might have given birth to a son already. No one died over there either, but they seem to have had an addition . . .”

A raging heat raced like a wave through Mletkin's soul; his face burned. Unable to believe his ears, he said:

“Givivneu has married?”

“Her husband worked to earn her from her father, according to the ancient custom,” his host calmly replied, and bent over the fire for a smoldering wood chip with which to relight his pipe.

Mletkin fled the yaranga. He saw the still waters of the bay stretching on until they met the opposite shore, Nuniamo Bay. Rentyrgin's herds grazed just behind the bay, near Poueten Cove. Mletkin had intended to stop there on their way back and take Givivneu home with him. And see how it all turned out awry: she was married! She had not waited for him, just as the time before. And yet Mletkin could not give her up. What could he do, when his heart could accept no other woman but her! In his mind's eye, Mletkin had seen her as the mistress of his empty yaranga. Only she could drive away the deathly cold within, only her woman's tender care, the warmth of her heart. So who could her husband be? Surely it was not that same Yanko, the chauchu deer herder from the Kurupkan tundra? No, Givivneu's place was with Mletkin, by his side! He could not imagine any other woman tending his hearth or becoming the mother of his children. It was unthinkable. She had been destined for him by the Outer Forces and nothing would stand in his way of getting her back . . .

But first he had to fulfill his obligations to Bogoraz and deliver him safely to V'yen, which the Russians called Novo-Mariinsk.

They had good sailing weather and on July 17, 1901, they rounded a
long, shingled spit that seemed to bar Anadyr's bay shut, and Mletkin saw V'ein Island. The water underneath the boat grew yellowish, and Mletkin's two companions, Seny and Gal'mo, peered at the low, boggy shore with some alarm. One thing cheered the eye: the inlet was teeming with nerpa. The seals had come in as they followed shoals of migratory fish. Every now and then a beluga whale would bob up to the surface of the brown water.

Mariinsky Post, the trading center founded in Anadyr during the previous century, turned out to be no more than a small clump of turfy huts with tiny, cockeyed windows. Between the last of the huts and the mouth of the little tundra river Kazachka there stood a long, low barracks, a Russian Imperial flag flying above. This was the headquarters of the Russian envoy, from which the enormous surrounding territory that covered millions of square kilometers was ruled; that land was sparsely populated, yet desperately attractive to enterprising Tangitans. In the summer, the bulk of the population was composed of Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese who came for the salmon fishing season. The shore was swamped with enormous camping tents and with new yellow wooden barrels, girdled in metal bands and waiting for the catch. Swarthy men chattered to one another in high, birdlike voices as they flitted to and fro in little flocks.

But Mletkin's thoughts were far away now, in the tundra near Poueten, where Rentyrgin camped for the summer with his herds, where his beloved Givivneu spent the warm nights making love with a Kurupkan man. Again and again, Mletkin pictured their bodies, entwined in passionate abandon – in his obsession, he couldn't think of anything else. His leave-taking of Bogoraz passed as in a dream, the other saying:

“I have the feeling we shall meet again in this life.”

“Could be,” Mletkin said distractedly, his blank gaze directed at the busy crowds of Chinese on the beach. “The world is growing smaller.”

With the money they had earned, Mletkin and his two remaining companions went to the local general store and bought gifts to bring home. Then, one bright, clear night, they set sail to the northwest, leaving the capital of the Russian Empire's Chukotka District behind them.

They sailed through Kytryn Bay without looking in on Pakaika, rounded Nuniamo Cape, and entered the still waters of Poueten.

Having made it across the string of hills along the beach, Mletkin forded a small river and walked uphill to get a good view of Fish River valley, and of the river itself as it flowed into sacred Lake Ko'olen. On the left bank of the river was the clutch of yarangas, glinting white, and farther off, beside a tall, snowy mountain slope, in the cool, mosquitoless air, was the grazing herd.

Mletkin ran down the slope and raced across the tussocks like a
tyrkylyn
, or stag – literally one who carries balls.

He saw the small shape of a woman from afar, holding a small child by the hand. It was she, Givivneu, whom he would have recognized among a thousand women. His heart clenched in agony, his breath caught. He slowed as he neared the camp, feeling his legs turn to lead. Each step now cost him great effort.

Givivneu stood motionless beside the whitewashed side of the tundra yaranga. She had briefly raised a palm to her eyes to shield them from the sun, but he knew that she too had recognized him from afar. As he neared, Mletkin saw ever more clearly that she was no longer a young girl but a grown woman, a woman in the full bloom of her beauty. She did not smile, and did not look frightened, but seemed merely to be waiting in a state of
heightened anticipation. There was a strange light in her eyes. A dog began to bark and Rentyrgin emerged from the yaranga.

“
Kakomei
! Mletkin!” the master of the camp exclaimed.

Mletkin paid him no heed and ignored the greeting. He walked up to Givivneu and said:

“Did you not wait for me?”

“I did wait.”

“But not long enough, it seems.”

“People don't come back from over there,” said Givivneu.

Mletkin's half-smile was bitter: “As you can see yourself, people do.”

Rentyrgin came to his daughter's aid: “We had heard that you burned to death with a Tangitan ship. There were witnesses who told the story.”

“Would you rather I had burned? You don't seem pleased that I'm still alive.”

There was an excruciating silence.

“We're glad,” Givivneu said at last. “But we could not have expected such a miracle.”

“You are always a welcome guest in our yaranga,” Rentyrgin added. “Come!” And he drew aside the napped deer hide that served as a door.

As usual, the chottagin was shrouded in gloom. Coals blazed in the corner, daylight fell through the smokehole. The singed black kettle huffed over the fire, belching white steam. The dwelling smelled of deer meat and the fermented blood that hung under the roof inside inflated, greenish deer bladders.

Givivneu was silent, aside from the occasional whisper to the little boy, who was hardly more than a year old. Every so often she would glance at Mletkin, her expression calm and composed, betraying no feeling.

Tundra tea drinking is usually accompanied by the sharing of news from both sides. Mletkin tongued a sugar lump into one cheek and slurped the contents of his dish of tea through it. Then he told them of his wanderings in America and of the big fire in Port Clarence in which he had lost his friend Nelson. He did not mention his cohabitation with Sally.

“Is it true then that in America people ride over metal strips?” his host inquired politely.

Mletkin described the railroad, the modes of city transport, the big dogs called horses, cows and other exotic domestic animals of the Tangitans.

“In the way they live, the Tangitans, they really are a different species,” he concluded when his tale was done.

As Mletkin spoke, Rentyrgin and his wife had interjected the occasional question or exclamation, but Givivneu had not said a word. Perhaps she was thinking of her husband, out with the herds? The little boy stayed close by her side, as though sensing hostility from their unexpected guest.

At last the tension grew unbearable. Mletkin turned to Givivneu:

“You're unhappy that I came?”

“I am happy that you are alive,” she answered.

“It isn't her fault,” her mother dove in. “We all thought you were dead.”

“But here I am alive, and everything must change,” Mletkin told them.

“What do you mean?” This, from Rentyrgin.

“I mean that Givivneu must return to the man she was destined for.”

“She already has a husband,” Rentyrgin's wife butted in again. “And they have a child. How can you take a wife from her living husband?”

“You thought me dead, and married off your daughter,” Mletkin's next words came slowly. “So, for her to belong to me, the one whom you now consider to be her husband has to die.”

“I want no blood spilled!” Rentyrgin spoke up adamantly.

According to ancient custom, such a situation must be decided by force of strength. Mletkin would have preferred a peaceable agreement. He recalled how meekly Yanko had given up his bride, acknowledging Mletkin's prior claim. But everything had changed. Givivneu was the Kurupkin man's wife, they had a child. It was doubtful that he would give her up willingly now.

Yanko came home that evening, when the sun had disappeared behind the distant mountains and long shadows lay upon the earth. Entering the chottagin, he stopped dead in his tracks and could not stifle an exclamation of astonishment:

“
Kakomei
!
Etti
!”

“
Ee-ee
.
Tyetyk
,” Mletkin replied. “I've come for the woman who was meant for me.”

“I had guessed,” Yanko said with dignity, working hard to conceal his agitation. “But before we talk, I'd like to eat something. Wife, serve your husband some meat.”

He settled down by a low table and stretched his wet torbasses toward the fire. The little boy came to sit by him.

Yanko took out a long sharp knife and set to his meal. He ate slowly and with relish, stripping the meat cleanly from the bones, noisily sucking the marrow, smacking his lips, burping. The memory of Sally teaching him to eat quietly, politely, to not slurp or burp at the table, or pick his teeth for all to see, looking for leftover bits of food, came to Mletkin forcefully. Yanko also had fed the child tidbits from the tip of his knife. Only after he had finished his meal and sipped his tea from a saucer, and after he had smoked his pipe, did he rise:

“I am ready!”

The men headed for a hillock, on which the low summer sun still shone.

There they halted to look one another in the eye.

“I have no spear,” Yanko said.

“Neither have I,” said Mletkin.

In this kind of dispute, where the physical removal of a rival was the aim, the traditional weapon of choice would have been a warrior's spear. But as the internecine conflicts of the Chukotka Peninsula and the bloody skirmishes with the Russians ceased, these gradually went out of use, except perhaps along the coast where they might be employed to finish off walrus on the ice.

“We'll fight with knives,” said Yanko, and unsheathed his long knife.

“Wait,” Mletkin told him. “You can still live, if you'll leave the camp before the next day dawns and never again think of Givivneu and your son.”

“My son's name is Kmol',” Yanko's voice rang with pride. “Why are you so certain it will be you left standing?”

“I am certain,” Mletkin said calmly.

“Because you're a shaman?”

“Because Givivneu is my woman.”

“Let's fight, then,” said Yanko, taking up a fighting stance, his right arm outstretched, the long knife held high.

“Let's fight!” echoed Mletkin, drawing his own knife in turn. It was shorter than that of his opponent, but the blade was wide and well-honed. The men shrugged off their overclothes and faced one another in nerpa-skin trousers and torbasses. Mletkin held himself tightly in check, mindful of using only his physical strength against the other man. He must not take
advantage of his shamanic powers, which would easily ensure his victory. Lost in thought, he missed the Kurupkin man's opening thrust, and suddenly there was a blade slicing down his naked arm. Though it bled profusely, it was a shallow wound. Again, Mletkin gave himself a mental order to stay calm, not to allow blind rage to take over his actions. He must win cleanly and fairly, otherwise the fight would be worthless. Yanko danced about like a puppy, emboldened by having been the first to inflict a wound. Unlike Mletkin, who fought in silence, he let out the occasional hoarse cry of encouragement, like a raven's caw. He tripped over a root and stumbled, nearly falling. This was the moment when Mletkin might have plunged his knife in the young man's unprotected neck, ending the fight with a single blow. Instead he took a step back and, while the other was raising himself into a fighting position once more, glanced backward. There wasn't a soul outside the camp yarangas, as though it had emptied of people in a single instant. No sound came from the camp.