SAND

пять: 5

Trudging towards the village, she puzzled over the origin of the hoard. Most of it seemed to be army supplies. There'd been a com station, with a big radar dome, bristling with antennas, that was manned by both army and navy units. They'd been recalled, and the place stripped, when she was young. But someone, perhaps a worker from the village, had been stealing supplies. When she was a child, there'd been a lot of army stuff floating about the village. Judging from the size of the hoard, they probably had a quad bike with a trailer. Did they intend to sell the stuff or were they feathering a nest?

But something had happened, sickness or death, to keep them from enjoying their ill-gotten gains. And now that she had discovered it, something bad could happen to her. She had to be careful, so careful.

She could hide this load in the house, but winter supplies had to be stockpiled in one of the tanks by the old harbour. There were usually tracks there, from the men going down to fish or heading out on the sea ice to hunt seals. If she struck off the track in the broken ice along the shore, her footprints would be hidden well enough.

As she drew near to the village, Pyotr came out to meet her. Hoping not to look suspicious, she gave him a big smile.

"I got cloudberries. They're just getting ripe. I'll drop some by at your place later."

"That'd be nice. My sister wants to go out with you— she says you know the best spots."

"I keep them secret. That's why they're still the best."

He laughed and matched his steps to hers, chatting. She felt like sharing the food with him, and nearly broke into tears. I'd trust him with my life, she thought. But not quite yet.

≈ ≈ ≈

Irina and Nadya were overwhelmed by the bounty, and suggested places to hide things. But first she had to impress upon them the danger and the corresponding need for secrecy. They must not open the door to anyone while this food was cooking or during meals. The pots and plates must be washed immediately. Sprigs of spruce must be put on the stovetop, to smoke and hide the scent of cooking. They must rinse their mouths and chew aromatic herbs before going out, so there would not be telltale odors on their breaths. The packages had to be mashed and hidden, taken far from the house for disposal.

Finally, the sealed packets and cans were old, and some of the food might be bad, even poisonous. So nothing must be opened unless two of them were present; if either thought it had gone off, it musn't be eaten.

"So many rules," Irina said. "I'll bet you had a feed when you found the stuff."

"I did no such thing. Though I wanted to. Badly."

"Shall we tell Mamoshka?"

"Let see if she notices. We can tell her we traded for this or that, without spilling the whole pot of cabbage."

"Can we share anything with our best friends?" Nadya said. "It seems mean to keep it all to ourselves."

"I've been thinking the same, but if word gets out and someone decides we should be forced to tell where the stuff is hidden, then that could be bad. Especially if Kirill and his mates find out.

"You don't think he'd hurt his own sisters?"

"I'm certain he would, if he's hungry. He killed my dog, the bastard, and made her into a stew."

≈ ≈ ≈

What her sister said about sharing weighed on her conscience. She'd been thinking about how to keep the whole hoard for her family and not at all about sharing it. But one family couldn't survive in this place, alone. Life was hard and the resources scant, so they had to help one another or perish. Better to live fewer years, without shame. How would it feel to be the last one alive?

So she put her mind to work on a way to share out the supplies without prompting a stampede or a violent conflict. Her brother and his mates were entirely capable of such an outrage. The skhod was weak and divided, with thieves and gougers in its ranks. The only action that drew complete agreement was deciding that a girl ought to be whipped. The vodka and the weapons would be particular problems. There were only a few weapons left in the village, with scant ammunition, saved for hunting seals. If there were a couple AKs and a Kalashnikov in every house, there would be havoc. One of us might go mad— some were not far from it— and slaughter everyone.

The weapons might stave off a threat from outside, but there hadn't been any contact with the outside for— what?— four years? Since she and Irina went with some friends to visit their cousins in Kya, before women were forbidden the boats. The people there were sick and starving. When she returned, Kirill had killed her dog and eaten it. She didn't even know if anyone was still alive in Kya, or in Archangelsk, for that matter. Or Moscow.

What if we're the last people on this earth?

Sometimes it feels that way.

Irina was stewing some of the beef from a ration packet that had smelled fine, with some of the shpick, likewise, and onions and carrots from their tiny garden. The scent, alone, was enough to die for. That was the danger. She rushed around the house, shutting all the windows, and scattered some boughs on the stovetop.

Mamoshka perked up and actually came downstairs to eat. The sisters eyed one another, waiting for her to ask where they'd got the food, but she didn't. She finished her bowl and then took to her chair for a mug of tea, dozing off before it was finished. Seeing her there was a comfort in itself.

But what if someone knocked at the door?

The villagers, for obvious reasons, had quit visiting around mealtimes. Tradition was to offer food and tea to a guest, but most often there was little or nothing to give. That was painful to both the host and the guest. People had come to be careful about things like that, which spoke of a certain decency, a mutual regard.

That, in itself, might allow all to share in the good fortune of a few. But how to bring out the best instincts and keep the worst in check? That night, she lay awake, letting the possibilities bloom and fade in her mind.