The Great Alone (27 page)

From inside the barabara came a choked cry. “They are killing our wounded,” a woman wailed.

Soon the man the islanders called Solovey led his handful of Cossack murderers out of the dwelling. Tasha recognized him from the description Walks Straight had given of his hooked nose and gleaming black eyes. The Cossack leader ignored the women, walking instead to the cordon of men guarding the warriors.

One by one, Solovey ordered warriors dragged from the group and killed. Some were put to the sword and others shot. The Cossacks seemed to find pleasure in the killing. Tasha was riveted by the horror of the scene, unable to look away even when her sanity cried for a respite. Her spine tingled from the wails and grief-stricken screams of the women when a son or loved one was selected to die. The brisk wind blew the smell of death to her, and she tried to keep from breathing in the odor. She was glad Walks Straight had not returned from battle and wouldn’t have to know the terror of waiting to die.

“This is taking too long and there is no sport in it,” Solovey declared to his men. “We are wasting precious powder and lead on these scum of the islands.”

“Shall we put them all to the sword?”

“No.” The Cossack leader grinned. “I have a better idea. Who will wager to see how many men a single musket ball will kill? I have twenty rubles that say it will be ten.”

Tasha wished fervently that she didn’t understand their language, that she didn’t know what they were saying when the Cossacks shouted their wagers. A dozen warriors were dragged from the steadily dwindling group of males and tied closely together, one behind the other to form a single line. She began to notice how distracted the Cossacks were by the proceedings as they moved closer for a better view, leaving the rear area of her group unguarded. Tasha feared what would happen when the Cossacks turned their attention to the women and children. There might not be another chance to escape. Hurriedly, she claimed Zachar from the old woman and began inching her way to the back of the group. Five steps separated her from the nearest woman, yet none of the Cossacks noticed.

The instant she heard the firing of the musket, Tasha turned and ran, with Zachar bouncing on one hip. She raced for the small ridge, knowing if she could make it over the top without being seen, her escape would be successful. Voices were raised behind her, but none called attention to her flight. When she crested the grassy rise, she heard a Cossack shout that nine were dead.

She stumbled down the slope and sank to her knees. She was out of breath and panting, her arms aching from the weight of her son. She looked toward the inland mountains where there were caves in which she could hide. She didn’t dare linger so close to the Cossacks. Rest could come later when she was safely away.

Tasha sought refuge from the cold wind in a cave containing the mummified remains of an Aleut woman. All the dead woman’s possessions lay about the cave, the wooden dishes, knives, baskets, and other utensils perfectly preserved. The mummified body itself, bundled in sea lion skins and wrapped with braided sinew, rested in its wood-framed cradle atop a platform. The mummification of the dead was a custom practiced by the Aleuts of the eastern island groups, but Tasha’s people on Attu and the near islands didn’t believe in mummies. She entered the cave without concern.

It was snug and warm inside, and she was exhausted from the climb. The muscles in her arms trembled with weariness as she set Zachar on the stone floor. He crawled directly over to investigate the baskets sitting out below the platform. For the time being, Tasha left him to explore the cave, and she walked over to the platform. As she lifted the mummy bundle, its body wrapped in a tightly flexed position, she handled it respectfully and carefully sat it upright on the platform of hewn planks, so she could borrow its cradle for her son.

After Zachar was ensconced in its leather basin, Tasha sat down to rest. But each time she closed her eyes, macabre visions danced before them.

She was alone, far from her island home, without the security of a family member for the first time in her life, and unsure whether any of her new friends at the village were still alive or not. She looked at her son, frightened suddenly by the responsibility that was solely hers now.

That night she nursed her son while her own stomach made hungry growls. She knew she wouldn’t be able to keep that up for long. As she borrowed the grass mat from the mummy’s platform to cover her and Zachar while they slept, Tasha regretted that these Unalaskans didn’t provide a supply of food for their dead.

Obtaining food took primary importance the next day. Tasha couldn’t risk returning to the village as long as there was a chance Andrei was still there. Not far from the cave, the ocean offered an abundant supply of food. With Zachar in the cradle strapped to her back, she set out for the shore.

When she reached the coast, the tide was at its ebb. She paused behind a jumble of boulders that guarded a short stretch of exposed sand and scanned the area before she ventured out. A circle of rocks hemmed in a portion of the beach. Tasha left Zachar there while she went to gather their food. She dug for clams and harvested some kelp from the shallow waters, using a knife borrowed from the cave and stowing her food in a borrowed basket.

A flock of sanderlings that had been sharing the beach with her suddenly took flight. The rush of wings signaled alarm, and Tasha turned. An old man came staggering and weaving across the sand, his hair white as the head of an eagle. He was naked, his hands tied in front of him, his elbows and knees bloodied from frequent falls.

Alarmed that he might be pursued by Cossacks, Tasha broke into a run toward the circle of rocks where she’d left Zachar. The old man stumbled and fell, tried valiantly once to get up, then slumped motionless. Tasha hesitated uncertainly, listening for the sounds of pursuit. All she could hear was the ocean.

Warily she walked over to the old man. His back was one large crusty scab of dried blood with greenish pus oozing from the cracks. The sight made her empty stomach churn nauseously. She swallowed down the bile that tried to rise in her throat and tentatively touched an arm partially trapped beneath the man’s body. His skin felt fiery hot. He moaned, lying face-down in the sand. When he turned his head to the side, Tasha saw his face.

“Walks Straight.” She stared in disbelief, then ran her fingers through the white hair on his head. It was real. Nothing came off on her hand. This was her brother, although she couldn’t understand how this could happen. When the initial shock faded, she struggled to get her hands under his chest and push him upright.

After she got him on his knees, he seemed to notice her, but there was no recognition in his watery, red-rimmed eyes. “Help me,” he pleaded hoarsely.

“I will,” she promised, crying softly.

Somehow she managed to get him up the mountain to the cave. Then she began the task of cleaning his inflamed back. Mercifully, her brother passed out when she started peeling away the scabs. In all the bloody aftermath of battle, she’d never seen a wound like his. She vomited at the sight of the raw, festering flesh, then cried helplessly before finally regaining control of her emotions. The village shaman had been murdered by the Cossacks. There was no one else to whom she could go for help. She had to treat him herself.

Endlessly she bathed his back and applied poultices made from herbs she gathered. She searched for food, fed Zachar and Walks Straight, and fetched the water. Countless nights she cried from exhaustion and fear while she sat through her brother’s bouts of delirium.

One night he was fairly coherent in his wild ramblings. Tasha wiped the sweat from his face with a damp kerchief and absently listened to him begging for the pain to stop, a plea she’d become inured to. Then she thought she heard him speak Andrei’s name.

“What happened? Who did this?” She asked the questions that had gone unanswered since the day she found him, doubting that he heard her, or understood if he did.

“Tolstykh. He hit me.” Pain contorted his features. “The leather … there were teeth in it … I did not want to tell.” He sobbed like a little boy.

“Tell what?” Tasha frowned.

“Can you hear them?” He opened his eyes wide in fear. “I did not want them to die. He made me tell.”

Gradually it all came out, although Tasha had to piece much of it together. She was sobered by his confession of betrayal, not only of the warriors but also of her. Yet, over the past days, she had grown to appreciate how great his pain was. She could understand and forgive.

“I have shamed Strong Man,” Walks Straight cried brokenly. “He died bravely, defending his people. I … I was too weak.” He shuddered and mumbled something else. Tasha ached with pity for him, and saved some for herself.

His body healed slowly. Even after he recognized her, Walks Straight seldom talked. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of his shame to her, and Tasha couldn’t bring herself to tell him she already knew. Neither mentioned the recent events. Still painfully sore, he spent most of his time lying on his stomach, staring at the ground. Not even Zachar’s antics aroused his interest.

For Tasha, his gradual recovery eased the burden of caring for his every need and gave her more time to try to find food. Now she was able to leave Zachar with him so she could venture farther afield in her search. Even then she never seemed to bring back enough to satisfy all the hunger in the cave.

Snow was blowing, making the mountain trail slippery as she made her way down to the meadow nearby to search for the underground caches of rodents and steal their winter store of edible roots. A woman from the village was already there, although Tasha almost didn’t recognize the bony, gaunt-cheeked face as belonging to someone she knew. She approached her hesitantly.

“Have the Cossacks gone?” Tasha asked.

The woman nodded. “Solovey lives at his winter camp. The other boat went away.”

Relief shuddered through Tasha. Andrei was gone and she no longer had to fear losing her son. It was safe to go back. The prospect of sleeping in a warm barabara and tasting a meal of fresh fish or seal blubber almost made her lightheaded.

As if hearing her thoughts, the woman said, “There is much hunger in the village.”

“Are there no hunters left?”

“Some still live. The Cossacks killed two hundred.” The woman’s expression was marked by a quiet desperation. “Now all of us are dying slowly. Before they left the village, the Cossacks destroyed everything—the bidarkas, the throwing boards, spears, bows and arrows. The men have no way to hunt.”

The news left Tasha shaken. The villagers derived more than sustenance from the sea mammals the hunters killed. They made their kayaks from the skins, their weapons from the bones and ivory. Without the means to hunt, the men could not replace what they’d lost. They were trapped on the land, with so much of the sea’s bounty beyond their reach. Tasha realized her small family would be no better off if they returned to the village.

Later she told Walks Straight about her meeting with the woman, but omitted any mention of the destruction of the village’s means of survival. He would only blame himself more for leading the Cossacks to the site. Instead she stressed Andrei’s departure from the island and the Cossacks’ absence in the village.

“It is safe now,” she told him. “We no longer have to hide in this cave.”

But her brother sat unmoving, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. “You take Zachar and go back to the village.”

The whiteness of his hair stood out sharply against the darkness of the cave’s backdrop. It was the most obvious change in him, but Tasha had noticed too many others. There was little about the man before her that reminded her of her brother. His shoulders seemed permanently bowed, his posture slumped. Rarely did he hold his head up. There was no more defiance in him. His spirit was crushed, his pride broken. Sometimes Tasha had the feeling that she had patched together the outer shell of him but the thing inside that made him a man was missing. He was like that mummy on the shelf with all the skin and bones intact but the vital organs removed. She didn’t need to be told that he wished he was dead. Given a choice, her brother would make this cave his tomb. She couldn’t let him do it.

“I have no wish to go back to the village. Too many bad things happened there.” Now that she’d had more time to think about it, Tasha knew that for her brother’s sake, it was best they didn’t return there. “We will go to the village on the north of the island where we first stayed, as soon as you are strong enough to walk that far.” She set a wooden dish in front of him containing a portion of the roots she had collected and scraped clean. He stared at the contents with disinterest and made no move to eat them.

“Go and leave me,” he said.

Tasha tried not to show how much his reply distressed her, and instead chided him. “What would you eat? How would you live?”

“Maybe it is better if I die.”

Although she had guessed that was his wish, hearing him say it snapped something inside. “No!” she protested. All those days and nights she had spent looking after him, all that she had endured would be for nothing. She deserved something in return. “I need you.
He
needs you!” The sweeping gesture of her hand indicated her son. “Who will take care of us? Who will teach Zachar how to hunt? It is fine for you to die and have no more pain or hunger, but what will happen to us? You are his uncle!” Abruptly she turned away from him, trembling with the fear that had given rise to her anger.