Under Alaskan Skies by Grace Carol Page A

exclaimed at the candle stubs in metal holders and at the altar made of old fir. She wondered if he could picture an old Russian priest standing there, ringing the bell, giving communion from a brass cup to a ragtag collection of Russian fur traders and Native Americans.
    “Is it ever used anymore?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But at one time both native people and Russians worshipped here together.”
    Matt examined an intricately carved wooden cabinet inlaid with mother-of-pearl that stood in the corner. He tried the door, but it was locked.
    “Too bad it won’t open,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to know what’s inside.”
    “Shall I try?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    He took his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and after gently working at the lock for a few minutes, it sprung open. She drew a quick breath of surprise. Then she reached in and brought out an old Russian Bible written in Cyrillic. They both stood staring at the gold writing on the black leather cover, then very carefully Carrie set it on the altar. Her hands shook with excitement. It was very old, almost two hundred years old, she thought. She turned a few pages, each the thickness of tissue.
    A thin piece of paper fluttered out.

    “It looks like a marriage certificate,” she said, running her finger over two very official-looking stamps on it. Two names were inscribed both in Russian script and in English. “These must be the bride and groom. I can’t believe this,” Carrie said, her voice tinged with awe. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Marriages between local people and the Russians were not uncommon. In fact, there are some in our village who claim to be part Russian.”
    “So the Russians integrated themselves into local society.”
    “Or vice versa,” she said. “The local people integrated themselves into Russian society.”
    “What must the Indians have thought of them with their strange customs and weird clothes?”
    “Imagine what the Russians thought of our Indians who knew how to catch fish with their hands and cook it over hot coals the way we still do today. They knew where the best bushberries were and the wild onions and how to make spears from stone.”
    “They must have learned a lot from each other.”
    “When they weren’t fighting,” she said dryly. “In any case, I would love to have seen this wedding. Imagine her in her soft leather dress made of the finest skins decorated with beads made of stone or shells. Imagine him in his beard and uniform. From his title here I gather he must have been a naval officer.”
    “It looks like no one uses the church anymore,” he said.
    “No, especially not for weddings,” she said. “But from here you can see…” She looked off into the distance. “On a clear day you could see the water and the mountains. Maybe it was clear the day theywere married. Maybe the guests threw rice at them, if that was their custom, maybe they drank homemade wine made of fermented berries, or vodka imported from the old country.”
    “Maybe you’d like to be married here someday,” he suggested.
    “Me?” The suggestion broke into her reverie and forced her back to the present. “Oh, no. I don’t plan on getting married. Or getting rained on while I get married,” she said lightly. She glanced up at the open roof above them. She avoided his gaze by studying the Bible. She didn’t want him to know about her broken engagement. That she’d once planned a wedding that never happened. It was too humiliating. Not that she’d been dumped, but that she’d been so wrong to think anybody would want to give up life on the outside for a life with her in the bush.
    “Why not get married? There must be plenty of men up here who are after you.”
    “There have been a few,” she admitted, taking the Bible and putting it back into the cupboard. “But no one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Some people think I’m being too choosy, but really I’m