The Great Alone (6 page)

Belyaev was the first to step up and closely study the quality of the furs. Then he lifted the old woman’s chin so he could see her face. “Ugly old hag.” He grinned. “Wonder if she has any teeth left?” He stuck a thumb and finger into her mouth to pry it open and she bit down—hard, judging by the way Belyaev yelped and pulled the injured digit away. “Why, you old witch—” He raised an arm to backhand her, but Chuprov checked the swing with a steel grip of his wrist.

“Neither of these hostages are to be abused.” The command was issued to everyone. “We will gain nothing if the natives learn we have mistreated the hostages.”

With an effort, Belyaev controlled his temper and slowly brought his arm down. He sneered at the woman, then turned away, changing the sneer into a jeering smile directed at Luka. “The next time you bring back spirited female hostages, Luka Ivanovich, make sure they are young ones. An old witch like this one could give me no pleasure.”

“A woman is a woman. The nights are dark. You couldn’t see her face.” Then Luka smiled. “Or maybe you fear what she might bite next?”

A dull red crept under Belyaev’s skin at the hooting laughter the remark drew. He glared at Luka, then swung away, making a contemptuous sound in his throat. The old woman took advantage of the distraction and quickly crossed the deck to the boy.

CHAPTER III

Weaver Woman, as she was called by her people, quickly looked Little Spear over to see if he was seriously hurt. There was a knot on his temple the size of a gull’s egg, but his eyes were clear. There showed in them a small gladness that she was here with him to share this ordeal.

But that was as it should be. They were
anaaqisagh
to each other. That is, dependent upon each other. It was a custom of their people that when a child is born an older person is appointed anaaqisagh to him. From the time Little Spear was small, Weaver Woman had made certain he had food, clothing, and instruction. Everything was shared between them. He was never criticized that she was not also. When he was in pain, she cried for him.

Weaver Woman had lived for sixty summers, and Little Spear for only sixteen, but the link solidly bound them in interdependence. Now her bones were getting stiff with age, her fingers gnarled with pain. Still she managed to force her aching hands to weave the grasses into the fine baskets that were the trademarks of her skill. Soon, not many summers away, it would be Little Spear who would help her out of this world as she had helped him into it, caring for her as she had cared for him.

That was the way. It was what had brought her to this strange boat made of wood among this odd-looking race of men. All that happened to Little Spear must happen to her. She would have failed in her duty to him if she had not done this.

Her legs were tired, so she sat down on the rough planks of wood. Little Spear joined her. The habits of observation had taught each of them when to speak to a man and when to stay out of his way. All the signs told them the latter for this band of men, signs easily read by anyone trained to watch for them—the look of their faces, the pulsing veins in the temples, the thinning of the lips. So they sat silently.

Weaver Woman noticed the slash in the skin side of Little Spear’s parka where it had been cut in the fight. The feathered side was against his body, as it should be, since the weather was warm and this was not a social occasion. She wished she had her needles to mend the tear for him, but they were in the hut.

Covertly she studied the men milling about the boat. The sky was full of storm signs. Weaver Woman wondered why these men did not see that. Her glance lingered in dislike on the big one with all the black whiskers on his face, the one who had stuck his fingers in her mouth. He had the cold, cruel eyes of the white-headed eagle, an evil darkness in the centers. She didn’t trust him.

The one who had stopped him from striking her, the one with hair the color of a seal pup, that one must be the chief, Weaver Woman concluded. She hadn’t made up her mind about him yet. He was the one the husband of her daughter had described after he had paddled over from Agattu Island yesterday to warn them about the strange raiders with the thunder sticks. His village had danced a welcome for them, but when this man had brought his warriors onto the beach, he had accepted a beautiful carved ivory stick, very valuable, then refused to give his iron stick in return. That was very bad. According to her daughter’s husband, he shouted to the sticks and they made a loud noise—louder than thunder. And a cousin who had been too close received a hole in his hand. Weaver Woman didn’t think the light-haired man respected the ways of the people.

Half fearfully, she wondered what was to become of them. They would probably be taken in this boat to the village of these men and made their slaves. Little Spear was young and strong, but she was old and not much use any more. Maybe they wouldn’t keep her. As the thought crossed her mind, she looked at the man with the scar eye. The jagged mark across his face gave him a mean look. She had seen the wish to kill in his eyes, yet he hadn’t thrown her off the boat. He’d made the other men let her come.

The wind picked up in strength, and Weaver Woman hunched her shoulders and lowered her chin so the stand-up collar of her parka could afford her some protection from the gale. The storm rolled toward the strange boat, appearing like a solid wall of black. Only now did these oddly dressed men notice it.

She listened to their shouts, catching the desperation in their voices without understanding the words, and watched them scurry about the boat. She wondered if they were from
alyeska,
the mainland. They obviously were not from these islands or they would know how quickly storms could strike and would watch for the signs before the wind lashed the sea into a fury.

Waves tossed the boat about wildly. The wood made groaning sounds, as if it was in great agony. Someone yelled and she saw the little wooden boat floating away, its rope trailing in the water. The rain came down in sheets, drenching everything and everyone. Some men grabbed her and Little Spear and made them go down into the belly of the boat.

As the storm raged, the shitik wallowed helplessly in the heavy seas, the gale-force winds driving it away from the island chain. Only the navigator, his mate, and occasionally Chuprov remained on deck, trying to keep some control of the shitik. Everyone else, including the two hostages, took refuge below.

The green timbers of the shitik’s hull creaked and shuddered constantly. Someone manned the pump at all times, struggling to keep the vessel from taking on more water than she could hold. The close confines below deck reeked with the smell of dried fish and unwashed bodies. Vomit created a stench that was almost unbearable. Yet no one dared venture on deck for fear of being washed overboard by the tempestuous waves.

As the day wore on with no abatement of the storm, nerves and tempers threatened to break. The feeling of utter helplessness worked on Luka. He grew angry with this hell that refused to end. He couldn’t believe that he’d come this far only to be denied the riches he sought. The idleness nearly drove him mad. He couldn’t stand to sit there in the dark, stinking hold and listen to the shuddering groans of the vessel, wondering how much more punishment it would take, wondering when he’d hear the crack of timber and feel the rush of sea water closing around him.

Getting to his feet, he grabbed the support of a cross beam to balance himself against the wild pitching of the shitik. As he made his way over to the keg of dried salmon, he stumbled over a body in the shadows. A booted foot kicked at his leg in retaliation. Luka kicked back and went on.

“Anybody want some food?” He lifted off the cover and scooped out a handful of dried chunks. Someone answered affirmatively from the near corner, and Luka tossed a piece in his direction. Beside him a man moaned. “Want one?” He offered a chunk to the half-supine man.

The man’s eyes opened and focused on the fishy object, then he gave another groan. Convulsively his stomach heaved, disgorging its meager contents. Vomit bubbled from his mouth, slowly dribbling out of a corner to roll into his beard.

Derisively Luka snorted and moved on. He paused in front of Shekhurdin, who managed to appear less disheveled than the rest of the company. He met the Cossack’s empty, hollow-eyed stare. “Better eat if you’ve got the stomach for it,” Luka advised.

Shekhurdin reached out and took a chunk of salmon, then carried it to his mouth. He tore off a dry stringy bite with his teeth and chewed on it. “Give the hostages some.”

All his instincts rebelled against sharing their meager food supply with savages, but he suppressed them, aware of the practical value of looking after hostages well. Irritably he nodded a reply to Shekhurdin’s directive.

He located the pair huddled in a corner and maneuvered around slumped bodies—some sick and some simply dispirited—to the hostages. Bracing a hand against the bulkhead, he offered the hunks of dried salmon to them. The boy turned his sickly pale face away from the sight of it, obviously fighting nausea. Luka tossed a chunk onto his lap. When he started to give one to the old woman, he was roughly shoved from the side and the lurch of the shitik sent him sprawling. He struck his head on something when he fell, and he rolled onto his side, trying to stop the spinning blaze behind his eyes.

“The woman is old.” Belyaev’s bulk towered over him. “She’s going to die anyway, so why feed her?”

“You fool, Belyaev,” Luka jeered as the shitik yawed badly and a rush of sea water spilled down the hatchway. “We’re probably all going to die.”

Metal flashed as Belyaev pulled his knife from its belt sheath. “Then let’s kill them now. If we’re going to die, let’s make sure they’re dead first.”

Luka saw the madness of a trapped animal in Belyaev’s face, the wild violence that came with the fear of approaching death. Although he believed this wasn’t the time to kill the hostages, he had no intention of risking his life against Belyaev to protect them. The natives weren’t irreplaceable; more hostages could be taken. He lay unmoving as Belyaev swung toward the pair.

Shekhurdin stepped out of the shadows and placed himself between Belyaev and the hostages. “I took them prisoner. I will say when they die, Belyaev, not you.”

“Out of my way, Cossack.” Belyaev reached out to shove him aside.

With unexpected swiftness, Shekhurdin launched himself at Belyaev, grabbing for the knife arm. Both came crashing down. Luka heard the clatter of the knife skittering across the planks and realized Belyaev was disarmed. The bodies thrashed together on the floor in the semi-darkness.

The close confines of the hold gave the advantage to the heavier, more muscled Belyaev and deprived Shekhurdin of space to use his superior swiftness. Within minutes, Belyaev overpowered him and emerged astraddle the Cossack with his stubby hands at his throat. Luka saw the killing lust that contorted Belyaev’s face as he throttled the man’s windpipe and stretched out of reach of the fingers trying to claw out his eyes.

Seeing the strength leave Shekhurdin’s arms, Luka scrambled to his feet. The killing of a fellow promyshlenik was murder. He could not sit idly by and watch. He locked an arm around Belyaev’s neck from behind and bent him backwards, straining to break the stranglehold. At last Belyaev clawed at his arm, his hands free from the Cossack’s throat. Stepping aside, Luka used his leverage to hurl Belyaev backwards to the floor. When he started to get up, Luka kicked him back down.

“The Cossack has friends who would see you dead,” he warned, then knelt beside the victim. His fingers felt the weak beating of Shekhurdin’s pulse beneath the brown beard. “You’re lucky, Belyaev. He’s alive.”

He straightened to his feet as Shekhurdin stirred, reaching to clutch his throat. Moving away, he went to retrieve the knife, hearing the revived man’s coughing gasps for air. When he returned with Belyaev’s knife, Shekhurdin was sitting up, his shoulders hunched with the effort to breathe.

Bypassing him, Luka walked over to Belyaev and gave him the knife, hilt-end first. “Sheathe it.”

Resentment glittered in Belyaev’s eyes, but he jammed the knife into its leather case.

“You’ll pay for this, Belyaev,” Shekhurdin threatened hoarsely.

“I’m trembling in my boots,” he mocked, but he threw a malevolent glance at Luka and muttered savagely, “You should have let me kill him.”

Turning, Luka saw the bitter black points of hatred in Shekhurdin’s eyes. He watched him crawl back to his space along the bulkhead, a loser in battle, and guessed that the Cossack would have preferred death to the ignominy of defeat. The promyshleniki would never elect him peredovchik now. The opportunity to bring himself to the attention of the powers in Siberia as the hunt leader was gone.

In the darkness, someone murmured prayers, but the repetitive chant had no meaning to Luka. He remembered the ikons in the church at Petropavlovsk and the black-robed priests. God lived in the church, but Luka didn’t believe He was anywhere near this hellhole of the boat. They were alone. If this storm didn’t end soon, they’d all probably go mad and kill each other. Even he wasn’t sure he could face another day of this.

In the night, the storm spent its fury and Luka awakened to rain, just rain. He went up on deck and let it wash the stench of the hold from him—a stench that also included the smell of madness.

The sails were unfurled and the navigator set a course for where he believed the island to be.