The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  ‘How can that be? This is a Company post.’

  He shakes his head. ‘There are posts that are badly run.’

  I think of Nesbit in his narcotic cradle. If he is in charge of administrating the post and its supplies, that is hardly surprising.

  ‘Nesbit is an addict. Opium or something like that. And …’ I look at the straw. ‘He … has a liaison with one of the Indian women.’

  I am certain that I am trying not to, but I find myself looking into Parker’s eyes for a second that lengthens and grows into a minute. Neither of us says anything; it’s as if we are mesmerised. I am suddenly aware that my breathing sounds very loud, and I am sure he can hear my heart beating. Even the wolves are silent, listening. I tear my eyes away at last, feeling light-headed.

  ‘I had better go back. I just thought I should find you to … discuss what we should do in the morning. I thought it wise to conceal our true reason for being here. I said as much to Mr Moody, though what he will want to do tomorrow I can’t say.’

  ‘I don’t think we will know more until Stewart comes back.’

  ‘What is it you know of him?’

  After a pause, Parker shakes his head. ‘I won’t know until I see him.’

  I wait for a moment, but I have run out of reasons to stay. As I make to stand up, my arm brushes against his leg in the straw. I didn’t know his leg was there, I swear it, or whether he moved it to brush against me. I leap to my feet as if scalded, and pick up the lamp. In the sway of light and shadow, I cannot tell what is on his face.

  ‘Well, goodnight then.’

  I walk out into the yard quickly, aware and hurt that he did not reply. The cold instantly cools my skin, but can do nothing for my churning thoughts; chiefly an intense desire to go back into the stable and lie down in the straw next to him. To lose myself in his scent and his warmth. What is this –my fear and helplessness overtaking me? His body brushing against mine in the straw was a mistake. A mistake. A man has died; Francis needs my help; that is why I am here, no other reason.

  The aurora shimmers in the north like a beautiful dream, and the wind has gone. The sky is vertiginously high and clear, and the deep cold is back; a taut, ringing cold that says there is nothing between me and the infinite depth of space. I crane skywards long after it sends me dizzy. I am aware that I am walking a precarious path, surrounded on all sides by uncertainty and the possibility of disaster. Nothing is within my control. The sky yawns above me like the abyss, and there is nothing at all to stop me from falling, nothing except the wild maze of stars.

  Donald wakes to daylight outside the window. For several moments he cannot remember where he is, and then it comes back to him: the end of the trail of footprints. A respite from that hellish journey. Every inch of his body aches as if he has suffered a severe beating.

  God … did he really just fall unconscious last night–out like a light? That woman who tended to his feet … he sticks a foot out from under the covers and sees that it is freshly dressed, so she was real and not a dream. Did she undress him as well? He remembers nothing but feels a prickling shame wash over him. He is, without a doubt, thoroughly undressed. His scar has even been salved and bandaged. He fumbles around the bed until he locates his spectacles. With them back on his nose he feels calmer, more in control. Inside: a small room, sparsely furnished like the guest quarters at Fort Edgar. Outside: bleak, not snowing, but soon will. And somewhere within the complex of buildings: Mrs Ross and Parker, asking questions without him. Heaven knows what they will say to Mr Stewart, left to their own devices. He struggles to get out of bed, and picks up his clothes, which have been laid neatly over a chair. He dresses, moving stiffly like an old man. Strange (and yet in a way fortunate) how much worse he feels now that they have finally arrived.

  He shuffles out into the corridor and works his way round two sides of the inner courtyard without seeing a living soul. It is the strangest Company post; there is none of the bustle he is used to at Fort Edgar. He wonders where Stewart is, what sort of discipline he keeps. His watch has stopped, and he doesn’t know what time it is, whether early or late. Finally, a door flies open further down the corridor, and Nesbit emerges, slamming it behind him. He is unshaven and hollow-eyed, but dressed.

  ‘Ah, Mr Moody! I hope you are rested. How are your, ah, feet?’

  ‘Much better. The … Elizabeth dressed them for me, very kindly. I fear I was too tired to thank her.’

  ‘Come and have breakfast. They should have managed to light a fire and get something under way by now. God knows it’s hard enough to get the devils to do anything in winter. Do you have these problems at your place?’

  ‘Fort Edgar?’

  ‘Yes. Where is that?’

  Donald is surprised that he doesn’t know. ‘On Georgian Bay.’

  ‘How civilised. I dream of being posted somewhere within shouting distance of … well, somewhere people live. You must find us very poor in comparison.’

  Nesbit leads Donald into the room where they had been first brought, but now the fire is burning and a table and chairs have been brought from elsewhere; Donald can see drag marks in the dust on the floor. Housekeeping is clearly not the priority here. He is not sure what is.

  ‘Are Mrs Ross and Mr Parker about?’

  As Nesbit goes to the door, Mrs Ross comes in. She has managed to do something to her clothes that makes them look halfway presentable, and her hair is neatly dressed. The slight thaw he detected after the snowstorm seems to have ended.

  ‘Mr Moody.’

  ‘Capital! You are here … And Mr Parker?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ She drops her eyes and Nesbit goes out, calling for the Indian woman. Mrs Ross comes swiftly over to Donald, her face tense.

  ‘We must talk before Nesbit comes back. Last night I told him we are here to look for my son who has run away, not to look for a murderer. We should not put them on their guard.’

  Donald gapes in astonishment. ‘My dear lady, I wish you had consulted me before inventing an untruth …’

  ‘There was no time. Don’t say anything else or he will be suspicious. It is best for us if they suspect nothing, you must agree with that?’ Her jaw is tight and her eyes hard as stones.

  ‘And what if …?’ He breaks off his whisper as Nesbit comes back in, followed by Norah with a tray. They both smile at him and Donald feels it must be obvious that they were whispering furtively. With any luck Nesbit will assume their secret is of a romantic nature … he finds himself blushing at the thought. Perhaps he has a touch of fever. As he sits at the table he reminds himself, with a conscious effort of will, of Susannah. Strange that he has not thought of her in a while.

  Parker arrives, and when they are all eating grilled steaks and corn bread–Donald as if he hadn’t eaten for days–Nesbit explains that Stewart is on a hunting trip with one of the men, and apologises for the poor hospitality. However he is very proud of one thing: he speaks sharply to Norah about the coffee she brought, and she silently takes it away and comes back with a pot of something entirely different. The smell precedes her into the room–the aroma of real coffee beans, such as none of them have smelt for weeks. And when Donald tastes it, he realises that perhaps he has never drunk anything like this before. Nesbit leans back in his chair and smiles broadly.

  ‘Beans from South America. I bought them in New York when I was on my way over. I only grind them for special occasions.’

  ‘How long have you been here, Mr Nesbit?’ This from Mrs Ross.

  ‘Four years and five months. You’re from Edinburgh, are you not?’

  ‘Originally.’ Somehow she makes one word sound like a reprimand.

  ‘And you’re from Perth, if I’m not mistaken?’ Donald smiles at him, anxious to make amends. Then he glares at Mrs Ross; if she does not want to arouse suspicions, she should be more gracious.

  ‘Kincardine.’

  There is a silence. Mrs Ross returns Donald’s stare coolly.

  ‘I’m sorry we can’t he
lp you with Mrs Ross’s errant son. That must be a worry.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ Donald nods, embarrassed; acting is not his forte. And angry with her for taking the initiative away from him, who should be leading in a matter to do with the Company. He feels at a loss to know how to proceed.

  ‘So, you think …’ Donald begins, but just then there is a rapid thudding in the corridor, and a shout from outside. Nesbit is suddenly alert, like an animal, senses straining, and he gets up with a jerky movement. He turns to them with a half smile, although it is more like a grimace.

  ‘I think, my dears–that may be Mr Stewart returning now.’

  He almost runs from the room. Donald and the others are left looking at each other. Donald feels slighted–why did Nesbit not invite them, or at least him, outside? He is aware of a nagging sense of wrongness, which leaves him floundering, without rules. After a moment’s silence, Donald excuses himself with a murmur, and hesitantly follows Nesbit out into the courtyard.

  Four or five men and women are gathered in a knot around a man with a sled and a tangle of dogs. More figures appear from different directions, some hanging back near the buildings, some going right up to the newcomer. Donald has time to wonder where they have all come from; most of them he has never seen before, although he recognises the tall woman who washed his feet last night. The newcomer, stout with furs, his face hidden under a fur hood, is talking to the group, and then a silence falls. Donald alone keeps walking towards them, and a couple of faces turn to him, staring as if he were something outlandish. He stops, confused, and then the tall woman, who has been in the first group all the time, lets out a long, high-pitched wail. She sinks down in a heap on the snow, making a high, thin, otherworldly noise that is neither scream nor sob. It goes on and on. No one attempts to comfort her.

  One of the men appears to remonstrate with Stewart, who shrugs him off and walks towards the buildings. Nesbit speaks sharply to the man and follows his superior. When he sees Donald he glares at him, then recalls himself and beckons him to come back inside. His face is the same colour as the dirty snow.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Donald mutters when they are out of earshot of the men in the yard.

  Nesbit’s mouth is pressed into a hard line. ‘Most unfortunate. Nepapanees has met with an accident. Fatal. His wife was outside there.’

  He sounds more angry than anything else. As if he is thinking: what now?

  ‘You mean the woman on the ground … Elizabeth? Her husband is dead?’

  Nesbit nods. ‘Sometimes I think we are cursed.’

  It is muttered, half to himself. Then Nesbit abruptly turns round, effectively blocking the way down the corridor to Donald. However, he attempts to smile.

  ‘This is most unfortunate, but … why don’t you rejoin the others? Enjoy your breakfast … I need to speak to Mr Stewart now, under the circumstances. We will join you later.’

  Donald feels he has no option but to nod, and watches Nesbit’s back disappear round a corner. He hovers in the corridor, puzzled and disturbed. There was something almost obscene about the way Nesbit, and Stewart himself, brushed aside the grief of the others, as though they wanted nothing to do with it.

  Instead of going back to the breakfast room, he returns to the courtyard, where snow has started to fall in a concentrated silence, as if to say, this is winter now; this is no joke. Its flakes are tiny and quick, and seem to come at him from every direction, blurring visibility over a few yards. Only the bereaved woman is still outside where she sits, rocking back and forth. The others are nowhere to be seen. Donald is angry with them for leaving her alone. The woman is not even wearing outdoor clothes, for heaven’s sake; just her indoor dress, which leaves her arms bare below the elbow. He goes up to her.

  She is half-kneeling, rocking, silent now, her eyes wide but fixed on nothing, tearing her hair. She does not look at him. He is horrified to see the bare flesh above her moccasin mottled against the snow.

  ‘Excuse me … Mrs Bird.’ He feels awkward, but can think of no other way to address her. ‘You will freeze out here. Please come inside.’

  She gives no indication that she has heard him.

  ‘Elizabeth. You were kind to me last night … Please come in. I know you are stricken. Allow me to help you.’

  He puts out a hand, hoping she will take it, but nothing happens. Snowflakes cling to her lashes and hair, melt on her arms. She does not brush them away. Donald is struck, looking at her, by her thin face, her fine, almost English features. But then some half-breeds are like that, more white than Indian.

  ‘Please …’ He puts a hand on her arm, and suddenly the thin keening wail rises again. He draws back in alarm; such a strange, ghostly noise, like an animal. He loses courage. After all, what does he know about her, or her dead husband? What can he say to alleviate her pain?

  Donald looks round, for assistance, or witnesses. There is no sign of movement through the dizzying snow, although, at a window opposite, he sees an indistinct figure, who seems to be watching.

  He stands up–he has been squatting–and decides to find someone else. Perhaps a woman friend can persuade her to come inside; he does not feel it is his place to force or carry her. He is sure Jacob would know what to do, but Jacob is not here. He brushes the snow off his trousers and walks away from the widow, though he cannot go without glancing back at her. She is a black shape half-hidden by the snow, like a demented figure in a Japanese print. He has a happy idea: he will bring some of that coffee out to her–it is the least Nesbit can do. He is sure she will not drink it, but perhaps she will be glad he did so.

  Line lies awake, fully dressed, staring at the curtainless window. Torbin and Anna are asleep beside her. She has said nothing to them, not trusting them to keep such a secret. Shortly she will wake them and get them dressed, making it seem like an adventure. They know nothing of her plans. She won’t tell them until they are well away from Himmelvanger. She wishes they had made the rendezvous earlier–everyone has been asleep for over an hour. An hour of travel wasted. She is uncomfortably hot, as she has put on layers of petticoats under two skirts, and all her shirts, one on top of another, until her arms look like tightly packed sausages. Espen will be doing the same. A good thing it is winter. She glances at the clock again, turns the hands to suit herself; she can’t wait any longer. She leans over and wakes her children.

  ‘Listen, we are going on a holiday. But it’s very important to keep really, really quiet. All right?’

  Anna blinks sullenly. ‘I want to sleep.’

  ‘You can sleep later. Now we are having an adventure. Come on, put these on, quick as you can.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Torbin seems more excited. ‘It’s dark outside.’

  ‘It’s nearly dawn, look–five o’clock. You’ve been asleep for hours and hours. We have to start early if we’re going to get there today.’

  She tugs Anna’s dress over her head.

  ‘I want to stay.’

  ‘Ach, Anna.’ Barely five years old; where did she get to be so stubborn? ‘Put this dress on on top of that one. It’s going to be cold. And this way, there will be less to carry.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘South. Where it’s warmer.’

  ‘Can Elke come?’ Elke is Torbin’s best friend and Britta’s daughter.

  ‘Maybe later. Maybe some other people will come too.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’ Anna is not happy and wants everyone to know it. Line gives her and Torbin a cookie each, stolen for just this occasion, to buy their silence.

  At ten to, she swears them to silence and listens in the corridor for a whole minute before pulling them after her. She closes the door on the room that has been their home for the past three years. All is quiet. The heavy bag containing food and the few personal items she cannot bear to leave bumps against her back. They cross the courtyard to the stable. It is black dark without a moon and she stumbles, cursing. Torbin gasps at the word she uses, but there is no time to worr
y about that. Line feels a thousand eyes on her back, the fear making her grip their hands too tight, until Anna whimpers.

  ‘I’m sorry darling. Here we are, look.’ She opens the door to the stable. Even darker, but warmer, with the sounds of the horses stomping in their hay. She pauses, listening for him.

  ‘Espen?’

  He’s not here yet, but they are a few minutes early. She hopes he does not cut it too fine. They could have been riding away from here for the past hour, getting further from Himmelvanger with every step. She sits the children down in an empty stall.

  Only a few minutes more, and Espen will be here.

  *

  She owns no watch, but has a fair idea of time passing by the numbness of her fingers and toes, and her fingers are like ice. The children fidgeted for a while, but now Anna has curled up and gone to sleep, and Torbin leans against her in a half-waking doze. It must be at least an hour since they came, and no one has come into the stable. At first she told herself: he’s always late. He can’t help it. Then she began to think, maybe he thought it was two o’clock, maybe he made a mistake. Then, as the hour crawled past and still no one came, she imagined that Merete had not been able to sleep, and that, what with the baby or an illness or something, had made it impossible for him to leave. Maybe he was lying awake, cursing and worrying about her.

  And then, maybe he never intended to come at all.

  She contemplates this bleak possibility. No. He would not let her down like that. Would not. Will not.

  She will give him another chance–or shame him in front of them all. She shakes the children awake, more roughly than is necessary.

  ‘Listen. There has been a delay. It turns out we cannot leave tonight after all. We will have to go tomorrow night. I’m sorry …’ She cuts off their predictable complaints. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.’

  She remembers using that phrase when telling them their father was never going to come back and they had to go and live in the middle of nowhere. ‘There’s no point complaining. That’s just the way it is.’