Notes from My Captivity(39)

The woods lighten. The minutes pass. The blood slowly pools in my head as I contemplate plan B, since plan A did not come off as spectacularly well as it does in James Bond movies. Clearly escape is not an option, not when they are so at home in the woods and I am such a hapless, bungling stranger. I decide to beg for my life, to appeal to whatever’s left that’s human in them. Right now I’m at dead-rabbit status at best. But a status can change.

When he reaches the part of the bank where the stream feeds the river, he turns and hikes straight up the mountain, as effortlessly as though it’s flat land, and as he hauls me up toward the hut, my heartbeat speeds up and my skin prickles with sweat. Is this the end of me?

When we arrive, the tiny family is gathered around the stones, eating gruel out of their bowls. Woody says nothing, just drops me to the ground and then dumps the dead rabbits on top of me, and there we are, welcome food and unwelcome girl, staring up at them. Nobody says anything. None of their expressions are particularly friendly, except Clara’s; she seems glad to see me back. She gives me a smile and a quick shrug.

I sit up, dead rabbits sliding off me. “Ya ustala,” I say in a strong voice as I rise, unsteadily, to my feet.

I’m sorry.

Or maybe that doesn’t mean I’m sorry. Wait a minute. Now I remember. “Ya ustala” means, I’m tired. So now I’m not only not sorry, I’m whiny too.

Clara evidently tries to argue for me, but her mother holds up her hand and Clara falls silent. The mother glares at me. I feel the urge to fill up the world with talking. If I just can keep talking, then maybe I can be spared whatever punishment is in store for me. I abandon their language. English pours out of me in a flood. “I’m sorry, I’m alone and afraid and you people are scary. The truth is, I had no right to interrupt your peace and quiet. I know you want to murder me, but it you spare me, I promise—”

I stop. Out of the corner of my eye I’ve caught sight of my open grave.

My grave is full of potatoes.

Relief floods my body. I sink to my knees and begin to cry. Tears pour down my cheeks, irritating my mosquito bites. No one says anything. When I get hold of myself and look up at their faces, they seem bewildered, as though I am one of the dead rabbits and I’ve just recited a verse from Revelation.

The family starts arguing among themselves. I wait, trying to make sense of the blur of words. Then the older brother takes out a knife from his belt and moves toward me. I cringe and cover my head, but he brushes past me. He disappears behind the hut and comes back holding a length of cord. He comes up to me, leans down to me, and ties one leg roughly. I cry out in pain as he pulls too tight, and Clara bursts out with a shriek. He glares at her and adjusts the cord slightly, then ties the other end to my left leg. There’s about fifteen inches of cord between them. Enough to waddle but not to run. If I had any thoughts of escaping again on foot, they are gone now.

“So, what’s for dinner?” I ask in English. It’s my pathetic attempt at a joke. They stare at me.

Still holding his knife, the angry man picks up the rabbits and strolls toward a wooden plank table standing a short distance from the hut. Meanwhile Clara heads toward the garden with her mother. No one pays any attention to me. The message seems clear: I am being deliberately ignored for the breach in courtesy of running for my life. I try to follow the women, but it’s super awkward to try to get up and walk with my legs tied this way. So I stay on the ground. They know, and I know, that I can’t escape. Wherever I go, they’ll come and find me and take me back. I’ll have to come up with another plan. In the meantime, I’m just glad to be alive.

When Clara and her mother return a couple of hours later, they carry a bucket of potatoes. I suppose it’s peeling time again, and I’m determined to show them I can make a good guest, or at least a good prisoner.

I wait a few moments after they disappear into the hut, then I struggle to my feet and make my way in. It’s weird, walking with your legs tied this way. Kind of a shuffling thing I’m doing. There’s something about being tied that really confirms one’s prisoner status.

They are already spreading out the potatoes on the table. Clara smiles at me, but her mother stares at me, her face as neutral as broom scratchings on a dirt floor.

“Privyet,” I say cautiously.

Hello.

“Ya khochu pomoch.”

I want to help.

“Da!” Clara affirms, but her mother glares at me, shakes her head, and waves a gnarled hand toward my chair.

“Ya khochu pomoch,” I repeat, but the old woman just goes on peeling potatoes and Clara shakes her head sadly. I suppose that peeling potatoes is a sign of status in this house, and I will have to earn my way up.

I surrender and slump in my seat, watching them. It’s going on two days since I’ve eaten, and I’m so hungry I could eat the potatoes raw. I could eat the rabbits raw. Even the boards of my cast look gnawable to me.

I glance at the window and catch my breath. There’s a face staring back at me.

It’s Woody.

I want to tell him that swinging from his shoulder with a bunch of dead rabbits was the best date I’ve had in ages, but I don’t quite have the words. I wonder if he’s still mad at me for running off, but I meet his glance and hold it. He blinks and smiles shyly but doesn’t look away.

Maybe he’s not dangerous. Maybe he’s just a guy who has never seen a girl who is not his sister. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape. I astonish him, and I wonder if he knows that he and his family astonish me. Just then Clara notices him and laughs, says something in a teasing tone of voice. These woods and these primitive conditions haven’t buried the duty of little sisters to embarrass their brothers.