When it comes to secrets, there is another one I am keeping for a more appropriate time. I haven’t bled for six weeks and I did a pregnancy test just before setting off on this trip. I wonder how he will react to the news that he might be a father.
Is it all worth it? Yes, I think, it’s just for this while, a temporary secret, just a bluff, but it rankles me, having to conceal, and then suffering the consequences of not being understood.
Malcolm rings the next morning, agrees to go to the festival and apologises for being grumpy the night before. He’s funny and warm and I forgive him everything. I’ll see him in less than a week if everything goes according to plan.
At the jetty, Karl is fielding enquiries from the harbour master about the Scottish boat, its cargo and its unconventional crew. Karl and Michel have already been brilliant, helping me to pack up the contents of my flat, letting me redirect everything to their address and offering to post anything I need to Scotland. But down at the shore they come into their own. There’s a customs boat in the harbour today. Jack calls it ‘The Grey Man,’ appropriately enough as every surface is painted with gun-metal sobriety. One of the navy blue-uniformed officers strides over, rifle across his back, and shakes hands with Karl and Michel. He points at the two crates on board, and nods and smiles as Karl speaks. I can barely breathe. Tanka passes a box of food to me and I busy myself with stowing it in the little galley on board, grateful for the chance to turn my back. When I look again, the customs man is strolling back to his boat, chatting to the harbour master.
Karl winks at me, and gestures me over. He takes a book out of his pocket. ‘Something to read on your trip,’ he says.
It’s called The Monkey Wrench Gang. I read the cover, briefly, and have to get off the boat to give him a hug. I turn to Michel, who gives me three kisses like a Swiss gentleman. Then Jack shouts, ‘All aboard’s goin aboard,’ and I scramble back on deck. The engine steps up a gear. Païvi and Tanka are at each end of the boat. Karl and Michel wave us away, returning Jack’s salute from the wheelhouse and tossing the big loops of rope up to the Finns as we cast off from Norway, heading homewards.
Jack Magee’s boat is an impressive gin palace, beautifully fitted, ‘And she’s fast,’ he says, ‘I don’t call her Queen Marjory for nothing.’ He lifts his Merchant Navy cap to stroke the bald head under it and winks at me. He was quiet, even rather terse, as we were loading up in the harbour, but now we’re under way he is a jovial captain, complete with pipe and blue jersey. There is even a stuffed toy parrot perched in the corner of the wheelhouse. ‘You can guess who gave me that!’ he chuckles.
We pass an easy night, the four of us, as if we’ve been sailing as a crew for years. I cook and follow instructions but there isn’t much to do. Anything nautical Jack and Tanka seem to be able to communicate about with barely a word. On deck, Païvi keeps almost constant vigil with the bears, saying she’s worried that they might overheat in their boxes. The crossing is easy, blessed by a calm sea. It all seems to be going well.
The bears have to be sedated before we arrive at Invergordon harbour to avoid attracting attention to the crates as we unload them from the boat. In sight of land in Scotland, Païvi gets out a small case of medical kit. She handles the hypodermic with ease and confidence, then looks up and sees me watching her. ‘I’m getting better at injections. I just imitate my father,’ she says.
‘Your father?’
‘He’s a vet, and his father was, too. It runs in the family. It needs to, they don’t teach anything practical at vet school.’
‘In Finland?’
‘Of course. My father wants me to take over the family practice. I guess I might, eventually, if the time seems right. Meanwhile I’m getting lots of good experience that I can’t put on my CV!’
I must be gawping at her.
‘Why are you shocked that I’m a vet?’ she asks.
‘I always just thought of you as, well, as an eco-warrior. I’ve been dead worried how to look after them.’
‘You have a PhD and a job as a government advisor,’ she points out. ‘We are all onions.’ She looks to see if I understand her. ‘Have many levels.’
I nod.
‘You play the whistle, too,’ she says.
‘I am large, I contain multitudes.’
‘Exactly.’
She is human after all, and that somehow makes her more magical than if she had been waving a wand.
As soon as we reach land, Tanka sets off to collect the van we’re hiring to transport the bears. Back in Trondheim we debated long and hard about who should do this, me arguing that, as a Scot, I would draw less attention than he would, and Tanka insisting that it is his responsibility, and should anything go wrong, he doesn’t want a paper trail to lead back to me. Eventually he and Païvi prevailed.
It should have taken him no more than an hour to reach the garage and return with the vehicle. Three hours later, the tension on the boat is reaching fever pitch. It’s well into the evening. What can he be doing? Jack has been a hero but he wants rid of us, and Tanka has still not appeared with the van.
‘I’m not too happy about sedating them again. Can’t we wait and see?’ asks Païvi.
‘I can’t have your fucking circus animals coming to life on the pier. It’s more than my life’s worth. You’ll have to shift, ken?’
Païvi shakes her head, crouches down, and peers into the crates. She straightens up and signals me over. She whispers, as if trying not to wake sleeping children. ‘Hansel is still out cold, but Gretel is showing distinct signs of life. We should have been at the first release point by now.’
Where is Tanka? I pace back and forth, like I’m the one in a cage.
As Gretel starts to roll and make a distinct grunting sound, Jack scratches his forehead and turns away with a sigh. Païvi stands with her hand over her mouth, thinking. Then she kneels for her vet kit bag and, with her back turned, delves into it. I can’t see what she’s doing but she turns back with a loaded syringe. Opening the small access hatch on top of the crate, she reaches in and parts the fur of the sleepy bear, jags it with the needle and slowly plunges the drug into it. The bear shifts and huffs again, then falls silent. Païvi closes the hatch and puts the needle back in her bag. Jack nods approval.
At last a white van approaches the pier with Tanka behind the wheel. Païvi takes a fat envelope out of her pocket, gives it to Jack and clasps his hand, saying something quiet to him that makes him smile and shake his head. Then we swing into action.
Tanka and Jack slide one crate off the deck, on to a trolley and into the van, then the other, while Païvi and I scamper back and forth with boxes and cases and musical instruments and band gear. It’s just a matter of minutes before the boat is unloaded. Jack gives me a whiskery, smoky kiss and tries to land a skelp on my bum.
‘Thanks, Jack, you’re a star.’
‘Off with you,’ he says.
It isn’t far to Glen Affric, not much more than an hour’s drive, and there is still plenty of daylight. It turns out Tanka had to go to Inverness to pick up the van, hence the delay. Nothing sinister, but still, my nerves are jangling. Païvi puts Utla on and I try to focus on the wild music. It helps, a bit. Excitement begins to bubble inside me.
As we weave along the twisting road, the last evening sun plays through the birch leaves, highlighting the granny pines on the south side of the glen. We pass a couple of cars heading in the opposite direction, walkers returning home after a long day out, or perhaps an evening tryst. I hope the spot I’ve chosen is unpopular enough to be deserted. We don’t need to find someone camping next to the release site.
The first site is up a forestry road. Tanka picks the padlock on the gate and leaves it looking secure. We lurch our way up the ruts into the pine plantation. Inside the forest, the dusk is deeper. A mile from the road we stop at a fork in the track.
Païvi dives into the back of the van. Hansel is showing the first signs of movement. Gretel is slumped in deep sleep, mouth
slightly open, head tilted on one side. Païvi chews her fingernails as Tanka and I ease Hansel’s crate towards the tailgate. It’s tough going and I wish I was stronger. Hansel isn’t a particularly big bear but shifting 150kg of crated animal is no easy business. Now I appreciate how Jack’s wordless muscle power has helped us so far.
Tanka works calmly and efficiently, setting up a ramp, giving me instructions. It works surprisingly well, his system, taking full advantage of gravity. It’s evident that this is by no means the first time he has done this operation.
With the crate on the ground, Païvi prizes open the grill, then we back off with the van and watch from the vehicle as Hansel makes his first tentative steps in the wild for eighteen months.
The bear sniffs the warm Scottish air. I sniff, too: the scent of honeysuckle and rowan blossom is rich gold and sweet like honey. My elation is pure fire.
‘Welcome to Scotland, Hansel,’ I say. Tears prickle my eyes. I can’t quite believe what we’ve done.
The bear stretches languorously and looks around, eyeing the vehicle. Then, with none of the slow wake-up I witnessed in Norway, he turns his back, steps purposefully into the thick undergrowth of willow and bracken and is gone. There’s no time to relish his furry form – we’re left with just an empty crate and the knowledge he’s free in the woods. Tanka and I look at each other. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. There’s no need for words.
Païvi is crouched in the back of the van, tugging her lip with her fingers.
‘Problem?’ Tanka says.
‘She’s not breathing.’ Païvi sits back on her heels, a tear rolling down her cheeks. ‘It was that second injection, it must have been too much for her.’
The sickness comes slowly, like a rising tide, a flooding cellar. Païvi is talking about the drugs, something about the mix of ketamine and xylazine hydrochloride, but her voice seems to be coming from far away. Nausea drenches my calves, knees, thighs. I wobble, take two paces and vomit beside a foxglove. When I stand up, Tanka is there, not quite touching me. I find my handkerchief and wipe my face. My eyes are watering but I’m not crying. I blow my nose.
I feel a bit better having thrown up. My head clears. I go and stand at the back of the van, where Païvi is squatting, her hand in the hatch on top of the crate, stroking the bear, which hasn’t moved. I peer in at her. Her mouth is still slightly open, head still askew. She has the appearance of being lost in a dream.
‘Are you sure she’s not just snoozing?’ I ask.
Païvi sniffs and shakes her head.
‘Is there an antidote?’
She tosses her head again. ‘You can use Yohimbine hydrochloride as an antagonist if you want to wake them up fast. But I don’t have any.’
‘She looks so peaceful.’ I feel Tanka’s hand on my shoulder.
Gretel is a small animal, pale brown, her fur flecked with reddish, foxy tints, her nose pert and friendly. I gaze down at the bear, through the blur of tears. She still appears only to be sleeping.
‘What are we going to do with her?’ Tanka asks. I have no idea, other than to wait for her to wake up. Or for me to wake up, whichever comes first.
I lean against the van. Hansel has snuffled off into his new home and now only the crate suggests he was anything other than a fantasy. I wonder if the drug has overtaken him again and he is lying somewhere nearby snoozing, to wake later, looked down on by a curious owl or squirrel. I hope he’ll be all right, and will steer clear of the humans at Cannich down the road or the noisy visitors who throng the Dog Falls car park and walk the loop tracks through this last fragment of Caledonian pine forest. Will he make his way out of the forest on to the scrub and moorland above the treeline and meet the many deer up there? I wonder when he will make his first kill, whether he will be seen, who will be the first to notice his scat, spoor or scrapes on trees, whose sightings will be given credibility, what Scotland’s reaction will be.
I help Tanka load the open, empty box on to the van beside Gretel’s. Païvi has almost crawled in beside the bear to try to revive her. Now she sits slumped and miserable on the tailgate.
‘I wish I smoked,’ she says.
‘We have problem now, hiding body.’ Tanka is, as ever, thinking practically. ‘We must bury her. We need spades, and some place not attract attention.’ He looks at me. This is my country.
‘Well, we simply cannot get a spade at this time of night. Not till tomorrow.’ I ponder the options, but only one seems really secure. ‘We should go to Malcolm’s croft. We can bury her there in the forest, no questions asked.’ Except by Malcolm, of course. I’ll have to tell him. Having kept the bears a secret, how will he react to my arrival, with the plan having gone awry? Will he be hurt that I have kept it secret? I’m pretty sure he has kept plenty of secrets from me.
We don’t talk much on the way to Ledmore. The road is narrow and twisty to Beauly and on to Maryburgh. By the time we turn on to the Ullapool road it is as dark as it gets at this time of year and the headlights gleam on the white birch trunks of the forest between Contin and Garve.
‘It’s taiga forest,’ Tanka murmurs. ‘Hansel will be happy to be here. He will feel at home.’
At Ullapool we turn north and by the time we swing up the track to the croft, first light is already starting to creep into the eastern sky. We pull up by the sculpted wooden bear and Tanka says, ‘Païvi, look at the bear.’ She nods like an obedient child being introduced to a relative she does not remember.
Malcolm emerges from the caravan. ‘Hello?’ he says, sleepily. Then, ‘What are you doing here?’ He’s looking at me, as I clamber down from the van, leaving the door open, and then, seeing the Finns, he says, ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Tanka jumps down from the cab. ‘Hey Malcolm.’ Païvi sits motionless in the van.
‘We’ve got a bit of a problem,’ I hear myself say. It’s a ridiculous statement, I know, so I cut to the chase. ‘We’ve got a dead animal we need to bury.’
‘You hit a deer? We’ll eat it.’
‘No, it’s a bear.’
His eyes bore into me, black with incomprehension. I feel like I’m in the headmaster’s office. Then the van headlights switch off. The space between us stretches into darkness.
‘It’s two in the morning,’ he says.
‘Shall we have a cup of tea?’ I say. When in doubt, my mother always said, have a cup of tea. I can’t believe I’ve said it.
‘Or maybe a glass of something.’ Tanka rummages in a bag and produces a bottle of whisky, which he thrusts towards Malcolm. ‘Sorry to disturb so late, man.’ He grins his charismatic best.
Malcolm manages an inhospitable grimace. There are midges biting. ‘Let’s go in,’ he musters.
Païvi heaves herself out of the cab and we all pile into the caravan. It’s as tidy as ever.
‘I didn’t tell you what we were doing,’ I begin.
‘No, you didn’t, did you?’
Tanka scratches his head and Païvi looks away. It’s too confined a space for an argument.
‘Go on then,’ Malcolm says.
He pulls glasses out of the cupboard above the table and pushes the bottle towards Tanka, who pours three serious drams. It’s a good single malt, though everyone seems oblivious. Païvi shakes her head. I think about the pregnancy test and waver, then see the cloud in Malcolm’s face and take the glass. We clink and slainte.
I sip gingerly, then fill Malcolm in on some aspects of the bear release plan. I don’t elaborate or use names and try to keep to the bones of the story, omitting all reference to Hansel. It’s a one-bear version of the tale. I talk about how awful it is for the bears in captivity in Russia. I tell him we hoped, if it went OK, to bring another bear later, but clearly it hasn’t, so… I peter out. He’s glaring at me as if I’m a stranger.
‘Will you help us cover our tracks? I mean there’s no harm done, really. We just need to bury the bear somewhere quiet…’
‘I had no idea you could be so fuckin’ stupid.’
I sit on my hands. I can feel my face redden, eyes smarting. It’s worse than the headmaster.
‘Yes, I was stupid. I’ve made a stupid, ugly mistake and I’m sorry. So can we bury the bear here? Right now we need a solution, not a telling off. If you can’t or won’t help, we’ll go somewhere else.’
It’s as if I’m talking to someone far away. Someone I no longer want to touch. The bond between us hangs loose, twisted and useless. He doesn’t understand about the bear.
‘Can it wait until morning?’ He looks between me and Tanka. Païvi is in her own world.
‘Until first light,’ Tanka says. ‘We need to borrow something for digging.’
‘There are tools in the shed.’ Malcolm stares hard at me. ‘Find somewhere up the back, away from the decent timber, in the rubbishy lodgepole pine or somewhere. And make sure it’s too deep for a dog to find.’
Tanka thanks him and says, ‘I’ll get a couple of hours sleep before we start.’
Malcolm gestures to the cushioned benches in the caravan.
‘No, we’ll leave you in peace.’ Tanka stands up. ‘We’re happy in the van.’ Païvi nudges along behind him and the two of them escape, leaving me alone with Malcolm. I envy them. The atmosphere is dense and brittle.
‘I can’t believe…’ He leaves it hanging.
‘What were you thinking?’ He downs his whisky and turns away. He somehow manages to make the few yards to the other end of the caravan seem a long distance. Once there, he steps out of his jeans, tugs off his shirt and gets back into bed, his back to me.
‘It’s about bringing something back,’ I say. There’s no response.
I stay where I am, and sit up, cradling the tumbler of whisky, musing, looking out of the window as a slow dawn hides among the trees. Tears roll down my face. One drops into the glass. I take a little sip and feel it burn, then push it away. I notice that Tanka did not finish his, either.
A silver, trembling moth presses itself against the window. I can’t imagine why it would prefer the electric light inside here to the broken mother-of-pearl moon in the dark sky.
Bear Witness Page 24
