Phoebe stepped forward and took his hand. “Then come in.”
“You’re the head of this household now.” Mike walked into the cabin. Agatha, Nancy, and Dora stood.
They looked at him. Phoebe said, “Sisters, this is Mike. He’s staying with us.”
“He’ll be our husband. We’ll receive him by the rite. Bless the union.”
“And he’ll be our protector, provider, and father to the children we hope for.” Agatha, Nancy, and Dora came forward. Each gave Mike a respectful nod.
Mike flushed. “No need for that. I’m just a man.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No. To us, you’re an answer to prayer.”
“We prayed for three years that God would send us a man. Then you came. We take that seriously.”
Mike said nothing. He felt awkward, off-balance. Four women were looking at him as if he were some kind of providence.
And he was no saint—just a sinner, a former drunk, divorced, not especially religious. But Phoebe took his hand and led him to the table. “Sit. We’ll eat supper. Tomorrow we begin.”
The rite of receiving Mike into the community lasted three days. Phoebe, as the eldest and most learned, led it.
She knew the Old Believer books, rites, and prayers.
She had learned from Elder Panteleimon, the old spiritual guide of the community, who had died in 1956. The first day was purification. Mike washed in the bathhouse the women heated for him.
Phoebe read prayers over him and sprinkled him with holy water. Mike stood bare to the waist and listened to unfamiliar Church Slavonic words. He didn’t understand them, but the moment felt solemn.
The second day was baptism. Phoebe led Mike to a river in the woods. There, in a quiet bend, she baptized him again in the Old Believer way, with three full immersions.
The water was ice-cold. It was August, but northern streams stay cold. Mike went under three times while Phoebe read prayers. Agatha, Nancy, and Dora stood on the bank singing spiritual verses.
Their voices were clear and high. The third day was the wedding. Mike was wed to all four at once.
It was an unusual rite. Phoebe had worked it out herself, citing the Old Testament. King Solomon had many wives.
And here, one man to four wives. Less than Solomon, she said dryly, so perhaps still within mercy.
The rite was held in the cabin before the icons. Phoebe read prayers and placed an old copper cross around Mike’s neck. Then each of the four women came forward, took Mike by the hand, kissed his cheek, and said, “I receive you as my husband before God and these witnesses.”
Mike answered, “I receive you as my wife.” And so Mike Cornell became the husband of four women: Phoebe Ustin, Agatha Safin, Nancy Fisher, and Dora Yermak.
After the ceremony there was a modest feast. Nancy baked blueberry pies. Agatha made a honey drink from herbs and mead. They ate, drank, and sang spiritual songs. Mike sat at the head of the table, looked at his four wives, and could hardly believe any of it was real.
That evening Phoebe came to him and said quietly, “Mike, you’ll need to decide whose room you go to first.” Mike looked trapped. “I don’t know how to choose. You’re all good women.”
Phoebe smiled. “Then I’ll settle it. First night with me. I’m the eldest. That’s only fair.”
“Then Agatha, Nancy, Dora. And after that, we keep to a rotation. Agreed?”
Mike nodded. “Agreed.” That night Phoebe came to Mike. He lay on a broad bunk the women had made up with fresh bedding and a new fur cover.
Phoebe lay beside him quietly, modestly. Mike put an uncertain arm around her. She leaned close and whispered.
“Don’t worry. I know what to do. My mother taught me before she died. She said when a husband comes, be kind, patient, and steady.”
Mike touched her hair, her back. Phoebe’s hair was long and dark and smelled of herbs. Her skin was warm and smooth. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her lips.
Phoebe answered shyly, but sincerely. In the morning Mike woke to find her beside him, watching him. “Now you’re mine,” she said softly.
“And I’m yours for good.” Mike gave a small nod. “Understood. No turning back now.”
The next three nights he spent with Agatha, Nancy, and Dora. Each was different. Agatha was quiet and tender, almost afraid of hurting him.
Nancy was warm and affectionate, whispering sweet things. Dora was shy, embarrassed, but plainly curious. Mike adjusted.
He realized four wives didn’t mean four copies of the same woman. It meant four entirely different worlds, each with her own temperament, mood, and way of loving. With Phoebe he felt respect, even a kind of awe.
With Agatha, tenderness and care. With Nancy, warmth and ease. With Dora, youth and playfulness.
They balanced one another. Phoebe was strict, the leader, the one who handled serious matters. Agatha was quiet, the craftswoman, sewing, weaving, embroidering.
Nancy was cheerful, the homemaker, cooking, baking, singing. Dora was the youngest, the helper, carrying, cleaning, listening to the older women. Mike got to work.
He hunted as before, but now not for himself alone—for a family. Set traps for sable, took fox and mink. Stored pelts and once a month rode into town to sell them.
He spent the money on flour, salt, kerosene, matches. The things they couldn’t grow or make. The first months weren’t easy.
Mike was adjusting to a new life. Four women, four temperaments, four pairs of eyes following his every move. He felt the weight of responsibility.
Before, he’d answered only for himself. Now it was five people. Phoebe was strict, but fair. She divided the work, kept order, settled disputes.
When Mike came in from hunting tired, she met him at the door, took his pack, and said, “Go sit down. I’ll sort it.” In the evening she brought supper to the bunk, sat beside him, and asked about his day. Mike told her what game he’d seen, where he’d set traps, what he planned for tomorrow.
Phoebe listened closely and gave advice. She was a woman, yes, but she knew the woods. Her father had taught her. At night with Phoebe, Mike felt not just like a husband, but like a partner.
She didn’t fuss over him. She shared the load. They lay on the bunk, arms around each other, talking about the future. Phoebe dreamed out loud.
“Can you imagine it, Mike? Ten years from now there’ll be children running here. Ten, fifteen of them. The community will live again.”
Mike ran a hand through her hair. “Then that’s what we’ll build, Phoebe.”
Agatha was Phoebe’s opposite. Quiet, shy, easily embarrassed. The first week she was almost afraid to come near Mike.
She spoke in a near-whisper and looked away. Mike understood he had to be gentle, patient, not rush her. He brought Agatha little gifts.
Rare flowers from the woods. Pretty stones. Bird feathers. Agatha took them, blushed, thanked him. Little by little she thawed and began to talk…
