The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  Perhaps it is the extremity of my situation that makes it impossible–or just pointless–to be afraid. Nor am I afraid of my taciturn guide. Since he hasn’t murdered me yet, despite plenty of opportunity, I have started to trust him. I wondered briefly if I had refused to go with him, what would have happened–would he have forced me? Then I stopped wondering. Walking for eight hours through fresh snow is a good way to still the mind’s restlessness.

  *

  Angus’ rifle is strapped to the dogsled and is unloaded, so offers little protection in the instance of sudden attack. When I ask Parker if this is wise, he laughs. He says there are no bears in this part of the country. What about wolves? I want to know. He gives me a pitying look.

  ‘Wolves don’t attack people. They might be curious, but they won’t attack you.’

  I tell him about those poor girls who were eaten by wolves. He listens without interruption, and then says, ‘I’ve heard of them. There was no sign that the girls were attacked by wolves.’

  ‘But there was no proof that they were kidnapped, and nothing was ever found.’

  ‘Wolves will not eat all of a corpse. If wolves had attacked them, there would have been traces–splinters of bone, and the stomach and intestines would be left.’

  I don’t know quite what to say to this. I wonder if he knows these macabre details because he has seen them.

  ‘But,’ he goes on, ‘I have never known wolves to attack without being provoked. We have not been attacked, and there have been wolves watching us.’

  ‘Are you trying to frighten me, Mr Parker?’ I say, with a careless smile, even though he is ahead of me and cannot see my expression.

  ‘There is no reason to be afraid. The dogs react as if there are wolves about, in the evening especially. And we are still here.’

  He tosses this over his shoulder as if it were a casual observation about the weather, but I keep glancing behind me, to see if anything is following us, and I am more anxious than before to stay close to the sled.

  As the light fades I sense shadows moving and closing in around me. I wish I had not brought up the subject. I sit close to the fire, tiredness not overcoming my nerves, starting at every rustle of branches and flurry of snow. I collect snow from very near the fire and make supper with less attention than it deserves. While Parker is out of sight collecting branches, I strain after him with my eyes, and when the dogs start a round of excited barking, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Later, lying like a sausage in the tent, something wakes me. I can sense a faint greyness seeping through the canvas, so either it must be close to dawn, or there is a clear moon. Then, from right by me, making me start, comes Parker’s voice:

  ‘Mrs Ross. Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper at last, my heart stuck in my throat, imagining all sorts of horrors beyond the canvas walls.

  ‘If you can, move your head to the opening and look out. Do not be alarmed. There is nothing to fear. It may interest you.’

  It is easy to manoeuvre myself so as to look out, as after the first night I have slept with my head towards the opening. I find Parker has made a gap on my side of the curtain, and I peer out.

  It is not yet dawn, but there is a cool, greyish light, perhaps from the unseen moon, that reflects off the snow and makes it possible to see, although among the trees it is dim and indistinct. In front of me is a black smudge that is the remnants of our fire, and beyond that, the two dogs are standing, bodies alert and tense, pointing away at something in the trees. One of them whines; perhaps it was this that woke me.

  At first I can see nothing else, then after a minute or two I discern a flicker of movement in the shadows. With a sort of jolt I realise there is another dog-like shape, grey against the lighter grey of the snow. The third animal is watching the dogs, eyes and muzzle faintly darker than its fur. They are watching each other, intensely interested, not apparently aggressive, but none seems to want to turn its back. Another whine comes, perhaps from the wolf. It looks small, smaller than Sisco. It seems to be alone. I watch as it approaches a few feet, then backs off again, like a shy child who wants to join in a game but isn’t confident of a good reception.

  For perhaps ten minutes I watch this almost silent communication between dogs and wolf, and in that time I forget to be afraid. I realise that Parker is right next to me watching them also. Although I do not turn my head towards him, he is so close that I can smell him. I become aware of this only gradually; normally the air is so cold it kills any scent. Something to be thankful for, I’ve always thought. But as I watch the animals, something smells of life–not the smell of dogs, or even of sweat, but something more like foliage, like the sharp, rich smell inside a greenhouse, damp and growing. I feel a sting like a nettle, and that is a memory: the memory of the greenhouse at the public asylum where we used to grow tomatoes, and how it smelt the same as Dr Watson when I pressed my face into his shirtfront or against his skin. I had not known a man could smell like that, rather than of tobacco and cologne, like my father, or more unpleasantly of bodily exertions and unwashed clothes, like most of the attendants.

  The only thing that can smell like Watson and the greenhouse in this frozen forest is Parker himself.

  At this point I cannot stop myself turning my head a little towards him and inhaling, to get a stronger fix on that memory, which is tantalising and not at all unpleasant. I try to do it imperceptibly, but I sense he notices, and have to raise my eyes to find out, and then I find him looking at me from a distance of a few inches. I start back, and then smile, to cover my embarrassment. I look back at the dogs, but the wolf has vanished like a grey ghost, and now I cannot say whether it has just gone, or whether it left some minutes ago.

  ‘That was a wolf,’ I say, with true brilliance.

  ‘And you are not afraid.’

  I glance at him again, to see if he is teasing me, but he is withdrawing into his side of the tent.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and am then annoyed at myself. It is not as though he arranged the wolf’s visit especially for me, so it is a silly thing to have said. I look at the two dogs again. Sisco is still staring intently into the trees after the intruder, but Lucie is looking at me with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out, as though she is laughing at me.

  The search parties found no trace of the prisoner’s flight, and the hysteria over Mrs Ross’s disappearance has been calmed by her husband’s stoicism. It is assumed she will meet up with Moody and her son. Mackinley has not appeared to associate the two things, and broods in his room for most of the day. Almost three days after the disappearance, Mackinley still haunts the Knoxes’ house like a vengeful spirit. He seethes with the impotent bitterness of a man who has had what he sought in his grasp only to lose it again.

  The Knox family don’t mention him by name, as if pretending he doesn’t exist will make him go away. Knox suggests that he go back to Fort Edgar and await news from Moody. Mackinley refuses. He is determined to stay while messages are sent out with descriptions of the fugitive. He is obsessed with doing his duty, or that’s what he claims he is doing; Knox is no longer sure.

  Tonight after dinner, Mackinley starts talking about luck. He returns to one of his favourite subjects, Company heroes, and is regaling Knox with the already familiar story of one James Stewart, who pushed his men through the snow in winter to deliver some supplies to a trading post, accomplishing an astonishing journey in terrible weather. Mackinley is drunk. There is a mean glitter to his eyes that alarms Knox. If he is drunk, it is not on Knox’s wine; he must be drinking in his room.

  ‘But do you know what?’ Mackinley is speaking to Knox, but his eyes are fixed on the soft, powdery snow outside, which he seems to take as a personal affront. His voice is soft too; he is trying not to shout, trying not to be a little man. Oddly, although Knox recognises that it is an affectation, the result is still chilling.

  ‘Do you know what they did to him–a fine man like that? And all because of a bit of bad luck?
He was one of the best. A fine Company servant who gave everything he had. He should be running the whole outfit now, but they pushed him aside to some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere–no furs at all, a wasteland. All because of a bit of bad luck. And that’s not right. It’s not right, is it?’

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t.’ Nor is it right that he should have been landed with Mackinley for a house guest, but there’s no one he can complain to about that. If only Mackinley had gone after the Ross boy himself, and left Moody here. Susannah would have been happier too.

  ‘I won’t let them push me aside. They won’t do that to me.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t happen. It’s not as though it was your fault.’

  ‘But how do I know they’ll see it like that? I’m responsible for law and order at my fort and its surroundings. Perhaps, if you were to write a letter … setting out the facts, and so on …’ Mackinley gazes at Knox with wide eyes as though this idea has only just occurred to him.

  Knox stifles an in-breath of disbelief. He had wondered whether Mackinley might make such a request, but thought it too shameless even for him. He gives himself several moments to frame his answer.

  ‘If I were to write such a letter, Mr Mackinley, it would be only fair if I set out all the facts as I know them, so as to avoid confusion.’ He turns his gaze to Mackinley, keeping his face blank and calm.

  ‘Well of course …’ Mackinley begins and then stops, eyes bulging. ‘What do you mean? What did Adam say?’

  ‘Adam did not say anything. I saw with my own eyes how your idea of justice is achieved.’

  Mackinley stares at him in fury, but doesn’t say any more. Knox feels a guilty satisfaction at silencing him.

  When Knox finally leaves the house, the snow and the clouds combine to produce a peculiar light, a pallor in the dusk that makes it seem colder. Although the days are short and the sun low, there is a compensatory feeling in the air–perhaps it augurs a show of the aurora borealis–that puts a lightness in his step. Strange, when he is courting disgrace in this way, to feel so carefree.

  Thomas Sturrock opens his door and releases a rich, smoky fug into the corridor. Clearly he is a man who believes fresh air should stay out of doors.

  ‘I think we will be undisturbed tonight. There has been some domestic strife, and my hosts are otherwise engaged.’

  Knox is not sure how to respond to this. But he is not prepared to face John Scott when he has been drinking. Perhaps it is better that he takes his frustrations out on his wife and maintains the public face of a good citizen. He feels ashamed of this thought, and so pushes it out of his mind.

  ‘I got your note, and I am curious as to what you have to say.’ He reminds himself to be on his guard, even with Sturrock.

  ‘I was thinking about Jammet earlier, when we were searching the lakeshore.’ Sturrock pours two glasses of whisky and swirls the topaz liquid in his glass. ‘And I was thinking about a man I used to know, when I was a searcher. His name was Kahon’wes.’

  Knox waits.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to bring this up … I asked myself, why would a trader like Jammet be killed–for what purpose? And I suspect, although I have no certainty of course–that it may have been because of the bone tablet.’

  ‘The bone tablet you spoke of before?’

  ‘Yes. I told you I needed it for some research that I am undertaking at the moment, and it has probably occurred to you that if I am prepared to put myself out to obtain such a thing, others may be prepared to go to some lengths also. However … oh, hell, I don’t even know if it is what I think it is.’ His face in the lamplight looks dry and old.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  Sturrock swallows the contents of his glass and grimaces as if it were medicine.

  ‘This will sound preposterous, but … well, I believe it may be evidence of an ancient written language of the Indians.’

  Knox’s first desire is to laugh. It does sound preposterous–a boys’ adventure story. He has never heard anything so ridiculous.

  ‘What makes you believe that?’ He has never thought Sturrock a fool, despite his shortcomings. Perhaps he has been wrong, and that is the man’s flaw; the reason why, in his sixties, he wears an old-fashioned coat with frayed cuffs.

  ‘I can see that you think it is preposterous. I have reasons. I have looked into the matter for over a year.’

  ‘But everyone knows there is no such thing!’ Knox cannot stop himself. ‘There is not a scrap of evidence. If there had ever been such writing in existence, there would be traces … there would be some document or record, or anecdotal evidence … and yet there is nothing.’

  Sturrock regards him gravely. Knox puts on a conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry if I sound dismissive, but it is … fantastic.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the fact remains that some people think it possible. Do you concede that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course they may.’

  ‘And if I am looking for it, others might be looking for it also.’

  ‘That is also possible.’

  ‘Well, then, what I have been thinking is this: the man I mentioned, Kahon’wes, was a sort of journalist, a writer. An Indian, but a very gifted one. Educated, intelligent, able to weave a pretty phrase and so on. I always thought he might have some white blood in him, but I never asked. He was fanatically proud; obsessed with the notion of Indians having a great culture of their own, in every way equal to white culture. He was fervent in the way that some men of religion are. He thought me a sympathiser, and I was, up to a point … He was unstable, poor fellow–took to drink when he did not make the sort of splash he’d hoped for.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘That he, or someone like him, who believed passionately in an Indian nation and culture, would do almost anything to get a piece of evidence like that.’

  ‘And did this man know Jammet?’

  Sturrock looks slightly surprised. ‘I really don’t know. But people get to hear of things, don’t they–you wouldn’t necessarily need to know someone to want what they had. I didn’t know Jammet myself until I heard him talking about the piece in a Toronto coffeehouse. He wasn’t close-mouthed.’

  Knox shrugs. He’s wondering if Sturrock really pulled him out of his house to tell him this bizarre story. ‘And where does this Kahon’wes live now?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. The last time I saw him was years ago. I knew him when he was travelling round the peninsula, writing articles. As I said, he took to drink and dropped out of sight. I heard he went over the border, but that’s all.’

  ‘And you are telling me this because you think he may be a suspect? Rather slim grounds, wouldn’t you say?’

  Sturrock looks at his empty glass. Already, dust has fallen onto the trails of liquid, thickening them.

  ‘Kahon’wes talked to me once of an ancient written language. The possibility of one, I mean. I had never heard of such a thing.’ Sturrock smiles a wintry smile, tight at the corners of his mouth. ‘Of course, I thought he was crazy.’ He shrugs his shoulders in a gesture that Knox finds strangely pathetic.

  ‘Then I came across the tablet. And I remembered what he’d said. It may be that I tell you this at some personal cost, but I felt you should know all the facts. It may not be important, I am merely telling you what I know. I do not want a man’s death to go unpunished because I did not speak.’

  Knox drops his eyes, feeling that familiar sense of the absurd sweeping over him. ‘It is a pity you did not confide this information sooner, before the prisoner escaped. Perhaps you would have been able to identify him.’

  ‘Really? You think …? Well, well.’

  Knox does not for an instant believe the look of dawning realisation on Sturrock’s face. In fact he is beginning to doubt the whole story. Perhaps Sturrock has some other motive for turning attention back onto the half-breed, to deflect attention from his own presence. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more ludicrous the story become
s. Knox wonders whether there ever was a bone tablet; no one apart from Sturrock has mentioned it.

  ‘Well, thank you for telling me, Mr Sturrock. That … may be useful. I will discuss it with Mr Mackinley.’

  Sturrock spreads his hands. ‘I merely want to help bring the murderer to justice.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There was one other thing …’

  Ah, now we come to the true matter, thinks Knox.

  ‘I was wondering if you could possibly stand me a little more of the filthy lucre?’

  On the short, cold walk back to his house, Knox suddenly remembers, with a hideous, piercing clarity, what he said to Mackinley earlier: ‘I saw with my own eyes how your idea of justice is achieved.’

  He had told Mackinley (or at least allowed him to form the impression) that he had not been back to see the prisoner after Mackinley’s interrogation. He can only hope that Mackinley was too drunk or agitated to notice.

  A forlorn hope, given the circumstances.

  Over breakfast, Parker talks about the night-time visitor. The wolf we saw was a young female, probably about two years old and not yet fully mature. He thinks she had been following us for a couple of days, out of curiosity, staying out of sight. It is possible that she wanted to mate with Sisco, and may in fact have done so.

  ‘Would she have followed us without the dogs?’ I ask.

  Parker shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How did you know she’d be there last night?’

  ‘I didn’t know. It was possible.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me.’