The girl said nothing, just studied him with open suspicion. Then she turned and called into the cabin. “Phoebe, there’s a man here. Says he’s a hunter.”
Footsteps sounded. Another woman came to the door. Older, maybe twenty-seven.
A serious, handsome face with clean, strong features. Dark, intelligent eyes. She wore a long dress, hair covered with a scarf.
“Hello there,” she said evenly. “I’m Phoebe, and this is Dora. Come in, if you mean no harm.”
Mike stepped inside. The cabin was roomy and spotless. It smelled of pine, honey, and beeswax.
In the icon corner were old darkened religious images. A lamp burned before them. At the table sat two more women.
Both young. One in a white scarf, thin, with delicate hands. The other fuller-faced, rosy-cheeked, kind-looking.
Both watched Mike carefully. Phoebe nodded toward a bench. “Sit.”
“That’s Agatha,” she said, pointing to the thin one. “And that’s Nancy. We live here, the four of us.”
Mike sat down and took off his cap. Looked around the room. Everything was old-fashioned, like stepping into a museum.
A spinning wheel in the corner, a loom, shelves of old religious books. Jars of preserves, honey, dried herbs. Clean. Plain. Not poor exactly, but spare.
“Who are you?” Mike asked. “Old Believers,” Phoebe said with a small nod. “Pomorian tradition.”
“Our people came from the old northern settlements. Our ancestors went into the woods back in the church split centuries ago. We keep a skete here.”
Mike understood. Old Believers. The people who broke away after the church reforms in the seventeenth century and withdrew into the forests.
They lived by the old rites. There had once been many of them in the northern woods. But after the Revolution, the authorities had gone after them—shut down their communities, made arrests.
The previous regime had been especially hard on them. Mike had heard there’d been another wave of pressure in the 1950s. Another state anti-religious campaign.
“You live here alone?” he asked. “No men?” Phoebe lowered her eyes.
“Alone. We had men here. Fathers. Brothers.”
“They were taken in 1955. The authorities came. Broke up the skete.”
“The men were hauled off. Five-year sentences. Labor camps.”
“We had elders too. Elder Panteleimon, Mother Ann, Mother Martha. They died in 1956 and 1957.”
“That left the four of us. We get by the best we can.” Mike said nothing.
He looked at the four women. All young. All attractive. Living out here alone, with no men around.
For three years now. How were they surviving? “What do you live on?” he asked.
Nancy answered. Her voice was soft and musical. “We plant a garden. Gather berries and mushrooms.”
“We keep bees in log hives. We had a cow, but wolves got her last winter. We keep chickens. Bake bread from the flour we stored up.”
“The flour’s running low. Soon we’ll make flatbread from acorn meal. We know how. Our elders taught us.”
Agatha added quietly, “We pray a great deal. The Lord hasn’t left us.” Mike nodded. He took a drink from his canteen and set it on the table.
Phoebe brought him a dipper of kvass, rye bread, and honey in a clay bowl. “Eat,” she said. “You’re a guest.” Mike did.
The kvass was good—sharp and cold. The bread fragrant. The honey dark and thick, buckwheat honey. The women sat in silence and watched him. Mike felt their eyes on him and grew uncomfortable.
When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood. “Thanks for the food. I’d better get moving. Still a long way to go.” Phoebe stood too.
“Wait, Mike. I need a word with you.” Mike stopped. Phoebe stepped closer and looked him right in the eye.
“Are you married?” Mike blinked. “Was. Divorced. My wife left for the city three years ago.”
“I’m on my own now.” Phoebe nodded. “Any children?”
“No.” Phoebe was quiet a moment, then said softly, “Mike, we need help. God’s help.”
“There are four of us here, no man, three years now. Our skete is dying out. We’re the last ones. If we die, our line ends.”
“Our people lived in these woods for three hundred years, keeping the faith, and now we are the last. ” Mike was silent. He didn’t yet see where she was headed. Phoebe went on.
“We need a man so the line can continue. So children can be born. You understand?” Mike understood.
The blood drained from his face. “What exactly are you saying?” Phoebe held his gaze.
“Stay with us. Be our husband. All four of us, in turn, as God allows. We’ll bear your children, continue the line, rebuild the skete.”
“And you’ll live here with us, work the place, hunt. We’ll care for you, feed you, clothe you, love you. Fair and square. No games.”
Mike stood there like he’d been hit with a board. The four women looked at him. Phoebe, steady and serious. Agatha, shy. Nancy, hopeful. Dora, curious.
They were serious. They were asking him to be husband to all four, father children, live with them. Mike backed toward the door. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t do that. That’s… how would that even work?”
“Four wives is a sin.” Phoebe shook her head. “Scripture says be fruitful and multiply.”
“King David had many wives. So did Solomon. God did not strike them down. And we are in need. We are trying to save a people. God will judge the reason.”
Mike shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. This is crazy.” He turned, stepped out of the cabin, and headed quickly for the trees.
He glanced back once. Phoebe stood on the porch watching him go. She didn’t call after him. Mike pushed into the woods, walking fast, nearly running. His heart was pounding.
Four women. Young, attractive. Offering themselves—all four of them. Offering children. A home.
On paper, a lot of men would call that a fantasy. But how was a man supposed to live like that?
And besides, he was a hunter, a free man, with the woods for home. Why would he want a family, children, a whole operation to manage?
He’d walked away from all that three years earlier when his wife, Gail, left him. Why step back into a harness? But as he walked, he thought.
He remembered their faces. Phoebe, stern and smart. Agatha, quiet and gentle.
Nancy, warm and cheerful. Dora, young and curious. All of them pretty. All of them alone.
Living out here in the backcountry, no protection, no man around. For three years. How were they making it?
There were wolves. Bears. Drifters. It wasn’t safe for women alone. And then there was the other thing.
They were right. Their line was dying out. For three hundred years their people had lived in the woods and kept the old faith. Now there were only four women left.
If they died, that was it. End of the road. Was that really how it ought to end? Mike stopped.
He stood there a long minute, thinking. Then he turned around and headed back to the cabin. But to understand why he made the choice he made, you need to know his story. Who was he?
