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.
Chuprov paused beside him. “We have no choice. If we find the island, we’ll have to seek a wintering place where we can beach the shitik. We’ve lost our anchor and our dinghy.” He smiled crookedly. “We’ll get there, with bozhe pomoshtch —God’s help.”
Luka glanced toward the two Aleuts on deck. At that moment, the old woman turned, a smile wreathing her face. Her pointing finger directed them to look off the port side. “Attu,” she said. Far away, on the distant horizon, Luka could see the mountainous headland of the island.
It took them a half a day’s sail to reach it. In their previous exploration of the island that the native women called Attu, they had seen a
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.
Chuprov paused beside him. “We have no choice. If we find the island, we’ll have to seek a wintering place where we can beach the shitik. We’ve lost our anchor and our dinghy.” He smiled crookedly. “We’ll get there, with bozhe pomoshtch —God’s help.”
Luka glanced toward the two Aleuts on deck. At that moment, the old woman turned, a smile wreathing her face. Her pointing finger directed them to look off the port side. “Attu,” she said. Far away, on the distant horizon, Luka could see the mountainous headland of the island.
It took them a half a day’s sail to reach it. In their previous exploration of the island that the native women called Attu, they had seen a
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