by Stef Penney
‘A few years ago …’ Parker pauses, as though surprised at himself for volunteering anything. I wait.
‘A few years ago I found an abandoned wolf cub. I suppose its mother had been killed, or it may have been driven out of the pack. I tried to raise it like a dog. For a while it was happy. It was like a pet, you know … affectionate. It would lick my hand and roll over, wanting to play. But then it got older, and the playing stopped. It remembered it was a wolf, not a pet. It stared into the distance. Then one day it was gone. The Chippewa have a word for it–it means “the sickness of long thinking”. You cannot tame a wild animal, because it will always remember where it is from, and yearn to go back.’
Try as I may to imagine a younger Parker playing with a wolf cub, I cannot do it.
*
For four days the sky stays grey and low, the air wet as if we are walking through heavy cloud. We travel gradually but distinctly upwards, all the time moving through forest, although the trees change; they become shorter, there are more pines and willows, fewer cedars. But now the forest thins out, the trees dwindle to sparse scrub, and we come, unbelievably, to the edge; the end of the forest that seemed to have no end.
We emerge onto a vast plain just as the sun burns through the cloud and floods the world with light. We are standing on the edge of a white sea on which waves of snow march to the horizon to north, east and west. I haven’t seen such distances since standing on the shores of Georgian Bay, and it makes me dizzy. Behind us, the forest; ahead, another country: one I have never seen before, glittering, white and huge under the sun. The temperature has dropped several degrees; there is no wind, but the cold is like a hand that is laid with gentle but implacable force on the snow, telling it to stay.
I feel the mounting panic I felt when first confronted with the virgin forest of Dove River: this is too big, too empty for humans, and if we venture out onto that plain, we will be as vulnerable as ants on a dinner plate. There is truly, here, nowhere to hide. I try to stifle my desire to head back under the cover of the trees as I tread in Parker’s footsteps away from the familiar, friendly forest. I feel a sudden kinship with those animals who burrow into the snow in winter, to live underground, in tunnels.
Actually the plateau is not flat, but full of mounds and cones of snow that hide bushes and hillocks and rocks. The whole plateau is a bog, Parker tells me, and hell to cross before it freezes. He points to a churned-up hollow where he claims someone sank in: one of the men we are following. We, apparently, have it easy. Even so, the ground is so rough that after two hours I can barely move my feet another step. I grit my teeth and concentrate on lifting one foot after another, but I drop further and further behind. Parker stops and waits for me to catch up.
I’m angry. This is too difficult. My face and ears are frozen, but under my clothes I am sweating. I want shelter and rest. I am so thirsty my tongue feels like a dry sponge in my mouth.
‘I can’t!’ I shout from where I am.
Parker treads back towards me.
‘I can’t go on. I need to rest.’
‘We haven’t gone far enough to rest. This weather may change.’
‘I don’t care. I can’t move.’ I sink to my knees in the snow, as a protest. It feels so good to be off my feet I close my eyes in ecstasy.
‘Then you’ll have to stay there.’
Parker’s face and voice don’t change at all, but he turns and walks away. He can’t mean it, I think, as he reaches the sled and the dogs, who have been fidgeting and tangling themselves in their harness. He doesn’t even look back. He flicks the dogs on and they begin to move off.
I am outraged. He is prepared to walk away and leave me here. With tears of fury in my eyes, I struggle to my feet and begin forcing them painfully after the sled.
My anger drives me on for another hour, by which time I am so tired that I have no feelings at all. And then, at last, Parker stops. He makes tea and repacks the bags on the sled, then indicates that I should sit on it. He has arranged it so that the bags form a rough backrest. I am as touched now as I was angry before.
‘Can the dogs manage?’
‘We can manage,’ he says, but I don’t understand what he means until he attaches another line to the sled to help the dogs. He places the loop of hide around his forehead, and leans into the pulling, shouting at the dogs, until the sled is torn free from where it has frozen into the snow. He tugs and strains and then finds the same metronomic stride as before. I am ashamed at being part of his burden, at making more difficult something that is already close to the limits of what is endurable. He doesn’t complain. I have tried not to complain either, but I can’t say I’ve been all that successful.
Clinging on to the sled as it bucks and plunges over mounds of snow, I realise that the plain is beautiful. The brightness makes my eyes water, and I am dazzled, not just physically, but awed by this enormous, empty purity. We pass bushes whose branches contain cobwebs of spun snow, and nodules of ice that catch the sunlight and split it into rainbows. The sky is a burnished, metallic blue; there is not a breath of wind, and there is no noise at all, of any kind. The silence is crushing.
Unlike some people, I have never felt free in the wilderness. The emptiness suffocates me. I recognise the symptoms of incipient hysteria and try to fend them off. I make myself think of the dark night, and relief from this blinding visibility. I make myself think of how tiny and unimportant I am, how far beneath notice. I have always found it comforting rather than otherwise to contemplate my own insignificance, for if I am negligible, why should anyone persecute me?
I once knew a man who had been spoken to by God. Of course there were many such men and women in the asylums I lived in–to the extent that I used to imagine that if a stranger from another land arrived at our door, he would think he had stumbled on the place where all the most holy of our society were gathered together. Matthew Smart was tormented by the conversation. He was an engineer who had conceived the idea that the power of steam was so great that it could save the world from sin. He himself had been charged by God with the task of building such an engine, and had sunk considerable resources into starting this project. When he ran out of money, his scheme, and his insanity, were uncovered, but taking him away from his engine was the most unbearable torture for him, because he thought that due to his enforced idleness, we were all going to Hell. He knew how important he was in the scheme of things, and would seize each of us in the grounds and beg us to help him escape, so he could continue his vital work. Among those tortured souls, almost all of them bewailing some private anguish, his beseechings were the most heartbreaking I ever heard. Once or twice I was even tempted to stick my loaded needle into him, to put him out of his misery (but not unbearably tempted, of course). Such is the torment of knowing your own significance.
Parker shouts to the dogs and we come to a bumpy halt. We are still nowhere, only now the forest has long been out of sight and I’m not sure I could any longer point to it.
He comes back towards me. ‘I think I know where they went.’
I look around, to see nothing, of course. The plain stretches away in every direction. It is truly like being at sea. Without the sun, I would have no idea what direction we are travelling in.
‘Over there,’ he points in a direction away from the sun, now sinking to our left, ‘is a Company trading post called Hanover House. Several days away. Over this way the trail leads. There is a place called Himmelvanger–a religious village of some sort. Foreigners. Swedish, I think.’
I follow his pointing finger and peer into the dazzling distance to the west, thinking of the asylum and its turbulently pious inmates.
‘So, Francis …?’ I can hardly give voice to my hope, which is clutching me by the throat.
‘We should be there by nightfall.’
‘Oh …’
I can’t say anything more, in case I destroy this great gift of luck. In the sunlight I suddenly notice that Parker’s hair is not black after all, but has
hints of dark brown and chestnut in it, and no trace of white.
He shouts to the dogs again, a wild yell that rings around the empty plain like the cry of an animal, and with it launches himself into the harness, and the sled jerks away from its standstill. The breath is jolted out of my body, but I don’t care.
I am giving thanks, in my own way.
Espen has decided that his wife, Merete, suspects something. He suggests they stop meeting for a while, until things are calmer. Furious, Line carries out her chores, kicking the chickens when they get under her feet, stabbing her needle into the quilts, pulling the thread too tight and rucking the seams. The only thing she enjoys is attending to the boy. Of course everyone knows that he is under arrest for a terrible crime. Today he looks pale and listless as she changes the sheets on his bed.
‘Aren’t you afraid of me now?’
Line is looking out of the window. He’s aware that she’s loitering. She smiles.
‘No, of course not. I don’t believe it for a moment. In fact, I think they are all fools.’
She says it with such vehemence that he looks shocked.
‘I said so to the Scottish one, but he thinks he is doing his duty. He thinks the money is all the proof he needs.’
‘I suppose they’ll take me back and there will be a trial. So it won’t be up to him.’
Line finishes turning down the sheets and he lies down again. She notices how thin his ankles and wrists are. Getting thinner. He seems so young and defenseless it makes her blood boil.
‘I would leave here if I could. Believe me, it’s a death of the soul to live in this place.’
‘I thought you were living good lives away from all temptation and sin.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Would you go back to Toronto?’
‘I can’t. I have no money. That’s why I came in the first place. Life is hard for a woman alone with children.’
‘What if you had money? Would that make it possible?’
Line shrugs. ‘There’s no point thinking about it. Unless my husband suddenly comes back, with a fortune in gold. But he isn’t going to.’ She smiles bitterly.
‘Line …’ Francis takes her hand in his, which makes her stop smiling. He has a grave look about him, which makes her heart jump. When men get that look on their faces, it usually means only one thing.
‘Line, I want you to take this money. There’s nothing I can do with it. Per wouldn’t let them take it away, so if you take it now, you could hide it, and then get away some time–in the spring, maybe.’
Line is watching him as he speaks, amazed. ‘No, you don’t mean that. It’s … no, I couldn’t.’
‘I’m serious. Take it with you now. It’s wasted otherwise. It was Laurent’s–I know he would have wanted you to have it, rather than those men. Where would it end up then? In their pockets, most likely.’
Her heart beats thickly in her throat. What a chance!
‘You don’t know what you are saying.’
‘I know exactly what I’m saying. You’re not happy here. Use it to make yourself a new life. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you shouldn’t be stuck here with all these married men … You should be happy.’ Francis trails off, a little out of his depth. Line puts her other hand on his.
‘You think I’m beautiful?’
Francis smiles, a little embarrassed. ‘Of course. Everyone does.’
‘Do they?’
‘You can see by the way they look at you.’
She feels a flush of pleasure, and it is then that she bends down towards him and places her lips on his. His mouth is warm but immobile, and despite her closed eyes, she immediately knows she has made a terrible mistake. His mouth seems to recoil in disgust, as if it has been touched by a snail or an earthworm. She opens her eyes and pulls back a little, confused. He is looking away, an expression of appalled shock on his face. She tries to excuse herself.
‘I …’ She can’t understand what she has done wrong. ‘I thought you said I was beautiful.’
‘You are. But I didn’t mean … That’s not why I want to give you the money. That’s not what I meant.’
He seems to be trying to get as far away from her as the bedclothes will allow.
‘Oh … Ah Gott.’ Line feels hot and sick with shame. How could she have made things worse for herself? As though she had got up this morning and thought of all the really stupid things she could do today, and rejected shouting her feelings for Espen during morning prayers, and sticking her needle into Britta’s fat behind (both tempting) in favour of kissing a young boy who has been arrested for murder. She starts to laugh, and then, just as suddenly, she is crying.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what has come over me. I am not myself right now. I keep doing stupid things.’ She turns away from the bed.
‘Line, please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I like you, I really do. And I do think you are beautiful. But I’m not … it’s my fault. Don’t cry.’
Line wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve, just like Anna would. One or two things have just become clear to her. She doesn’t turn round again, but only because she couldn’t bear it if he still looked disgusted.
‘It’s very kind of you. I’ll take the money, if you really mean it, because I don’t think I can stay here. In fact, I know I can’t.’
‘Good. Take it.’
And now she does turn round, and Francis is sitting up in the bed, holding the leather bag. She takes the roll of notes he holds out and resists the urge to count it, because that would look ungrateful. However it seems to be at least forty dollars (forty dollars! Yankee dollars at that), and she tucks them inside her blouse.
After all, it doesn’t matter if he sees this now.
Later she is in the kitchen, surreptitiously filling her mouth with cheese, when Jens bursts in, red with excitement.
‘Guess what? There are more visitors!’
Jens and Sigi run outside and Line follows sulkily to see the shapes of two figures and a dogsled. The Norwegians gather round and help the figure on the sled get to its feet. It staggers and has to be supported. Line catches a glimpse of a fierce dark face, and then fixes on the other person as she realises it is a white woman. It is so unusual to see a woman like that–she has, even through the layers of clothing, an air of refinement–and with this villainous-looking native, that no one knows what to say or do first. The woman is clearly so exhausted that Per turns to the native. Line does not catch the first words spoken, but then she hears, in English, ‘We are looking for Francis Ross. This woman is his mother.’
Line’s first, shameful, thought is that Francis will want the money back. She also feels a stab of jealousy. Even after the embarrassing events of this afternoon, she feels she has an exclusive bond with the boy; he is her friend and ally–the only one at Himmelvanger who does not patronise her. She doesn’t want to be displaced, even in the affections of a potential killer.
Line presses her hand to her bosom over the roll of money and holds it there.
No one, she swears silently, no one will take this away from her now.
Men and women with eager, excited faces pull me to my feet, and hold me upright when I stumble. I can’t understand why they are so pleased to see us, and then exhaustion hits me, and I am overcome with a peculiar trembling and singing in my ears. As the people clustered around nod and smile and chatter in answer to something Parker says, I don’t register anything beyond a confused buzz of noise and the fact that my eyes, though burning hot, remain completely dry. Perhaps I am dehydrated; perhaps I am ill. It is irrelevant; Francis is alive and we have found him, that is all that matters. I even find myself thanking God, in case long-rusted channels of communication are still open.
I think I succeed in controlling the upwelling of feeling in me when I see him. It has been over two weeks since he left home; he looks pale, his hair seems blacker than ever; and he is thin, a child’s body beneath the sheets. It is as though my heart swells to bursti
ng point, and threatens to choke me. I cannot speak, but lean forward to hold him and feel his sharp bones just under the skin. His arms tighten around my shoulders, I can smell him, which is almost more than I can bear. Then I have to pull back as I can no longer see him, and I need to see him. I stroke his hair, his face. I clasp his hands in mine. I can’t stop touching him.
He looks at me, prepared for my presence, I have been led to believe, but still he seems surprised, and a ghost of a smile flits across his face.
‘Mama. You came. How did you do that?’
‘Francis, we have been so worried …’
I stroke his shoulders and arms, try to fight back the tears. I don’t want to embarrass him. Besides, I don’t need to cry any more; ever again.
‘You hate travelling.’
We both laugh, shakily. I allow myself to think, for a moment, of how when we get home we will start again; how there will be no more closed doors, no more brooding silences. After this, we will be happy.
‘Is Papa here too?’
‘Oh … he could not leave the farm. We thought it better if just one of us came.’
Francis’s gaze falls to the bedclothes. It sounds like the thin excuse it is. I wish I had thought of a more convincing lie, but his absence is more eloquent than any explanation of it. Francis does not draw his hands away from mine, but there is a slipping away, somehow. He is disappointed, in spite of everything.
‘He will be so happy to see you.’
‘He’ll be angry.’
‘No, don’t be silly.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘With a tracker called Mr Parker. He kindly offered to bring me, and …’
Of course, he has no knowledge of the happenings in Dove River since he left. Of who Parker is, or might be.
‘They think I killed Laurent Jammet. You know that, don’t you?’ His voice is flat.
‘My dear, it’s a mistake. I saw him … I know you didn’t do that. Mr Parker knew Monsieur Jammet. He has an idea …’
