The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  ‘Elizabeth, I am so sorry.’

  She nods. It is easier than speaking.

  ‘I have been trying to think what might have happened. You found the place?’

  She nods again.

  ‘I am sure his spirit will be at peace, wherever he is.’

  Now she doesn’t nod. Murdered men do not lie in peace.

  ‘If you were worried … Of course you can stay here. You need not worry about your future. You will always have a home here, as long as you want.’

  She is aware, without looking straight at him, of his horrid blue eyes, like the glinting bodies of flies that feed on carrion. He is looking intently at her, trying to sap her strength, trying to bend her to his will. Well she won’t look at him, she won’t make it easy. She makes a sideways movement of her head, hoping he will go away.

  ‘I’ll leave you. If you want anything at all, please come and ask.’

  She nods for the third time.

  She thinks: in Hell.

  Outside, she hears English voices: Stewart telling the moonias: ‘I’d leave her if I were you. She is still in shock.’

  The voices start to move away. Elizabeth jumps up, from sheer contrariness, and goes outside.

  ‘Mr Moody … Please come in, if you wish.’

  The two men turn, startled. Moody’s face is a question. Elizabeth, unsure why she rushed out like that, feels foolish.

  Moody insists on sitting on the floor, like her, although his movements are a little stiff.

  ‘Are you all right? Is it better?’ Her gaze goes to his midriff, where she bandaged his wound four nights ago. A lifetime ago, when she was still a man’s wife. ‘It was a bad wound. Did someone try to kill you?’

  ‘No.’ He laughs. ‘Or, well, it was a moment of passion, deeply regretted. A long story. And I came to see how you were. If there is anything I can do to help …’

  ‘Thank you. You were kind, the other day.’

  ‘No …’

  Elizabeth pours tea into enamel mugs. She tastes again the river water, bitter with treachery. Perhaps the deer was a sign: I am killed. And you have to find me.

  If only she could pray for guidance, but she cannot go to the wooden church. That is Stewart’s church and she has an aversion to it. She never thought about her faith much, before. She assumed it was there under the surface, carrying on without conscious effort, the way her lungs breathed. Perhaps she neglected it too much. Now that she needs it, it seems to have withered away.

  ‘Do you pray?’

  Moody looks at her in surprise. He considers his answer. He doesn’t just say what he thinks he should, but really seems to give it thought. She likes that, along with the way he doesn’t rush to fill every little silence.

  ‘Yes, I do. Not as often as I should. Not nearly.’

  Just then, her little girl stumbles in through the front door. She has only just learnt to walk.

  ‘Amy, go back to Mary. I’m talking.’

  The child gazes at Donald before toddling back outside.

  ‘I suppose we only …’ His voice trails off. ‘I mean to say, we turn to God only when in trouble or need, and I have never been in great trouble or need. Not yet, thank God.’

  He smiles. He looks troubled now, puzzled. His words slower, as if he’s having difficulty ordering them. Something has happened.

  ‘I cannot.’

  He looks at her, questioning.

  ‘Pray.’

  ‘Were you born a Christian?’

  She smiles. ‘I was baptised by the missionaries when I was twenty.’

  ‘So you knew … other gods. Do you pray to them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never really prayed, before. You are right. I never had the need.’

  Moody puts his tea down, and folds his long wrists across his knees. ‘When I was a young boy, I became terribly lost, in the hills near my home. I was lost for a day and a night. I was afraid I was going to wander in the hills until I starved. I prayed then. I prayed that God would show me the way home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘My father found me.’

  ‘So your prayers were answered.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose there are some prayers that cannot be answered.’

  ‘I would not pray for my husband to be brought back to life. I would only pray for justice.’

  ‘Justice?’ His eyes widen, fixed on her, as though she has a smut on her face. He seems fascinated, as if she’s suddenly said something of intense and vital interest.

  Elizabeth puts down her cup. Neither of them speaks for a long minute, staring into the fire, which pops and hisses.

  ‘Amy. That’s a pretty name.’

  ‘She doesn’t understand why her father isn’t here.’

  Moody sighs sharply, then smiles. ‘I am sorry. You must think me impertinent. I have just had the most amazing thought. Please tell me if I am wrong, but, I cannot keep it in.’ He laughs awkwardly, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I know the time is not right. But I can’t help thinking … Your daughter’s name. And your … I don’t know how to say this … Were you ever … were you once a Seton?’

  Elizabeth stares into the flames, and a loud singing in her ears drowns the next thing he says. A surge of something like laughter threatens to choke her.

  His mouth is moving; he is apologising, she thinks from a distance. Things she thought long forgotten are suddenly clear as glass. A father. A sister. A mother. No, not her sister. She never forgot her sister.

  Slowly his voice becomes audible again. ‘Are you Amy Seton?’ Moody leans forward, flushed with excitement, with the thrill of an imminent and momentous discovery. ‘I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to. I promise on my honour to keep it a secret. You have your life here, your children … I would just like to know.’

  She doesn’t want to give him this pleasure. It is not his to take. She is not a bounty to be found and claimed.

  ‘Mr Moody, I don’t know what you mean. My name is Elizabeth Bird. My husband was deliberately killed. What am I to do? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Deliberately? What makes you say that?’

  She sees him lurch, with difficulty, from one sort of excitement to another. It disagrees with him; he cannot take it. She seems to watch from a great distance as he gasps and clutches at his stomach, his face knotted up in anguish. His face is red. He should not have asked such a personal question. At length he recovers himself, panting like a dog.

  ‘What are you saying? That … Stewart killed your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  She stares at him. He must know something; she can see him calculating behind his eyes. Then he opens his mouth.

  ‘Excuse me for asking … Was your husband mad?’

  Elizabeth stares, and feels very small and weak. She is crumbling, dissolving.

  ‘Did he say that?’ Tears are running down her face, whether from anger or grief, she doesn’t know, but suddenly her face is wet. ‘He was not mad. That is a lie. Ask anyone here. Half Man is the only mad one.’

  ‘Half Man? Who is Half Man?’

  ‘The one he doesn’t want us to talk about!’ Elizabeth gets up. It’s too much, all at once. She walks in circles round and round the fire. ‘If you’re so clever, if you can see so much, why don’t you open your eyes?’

  ‘If the weather allows, tomorrow I will leave.’

  I stare at Parker with my mouth open. There is an immediate strong pressure around my chest, as when you suffer from croup; an unpleasant stricture that makes it impossible to draw a breath. My breathing has been short since he knocked on the door of my room and I let him in, wondering what he wanted.

  ‘You can’t! It isn’t finished.’

  He stares back at me for an instant, challenged but not surprised. He must know me better than that now.

  ‘I think it is the only way to finish it.’

  I did not know what I meant when I spoke
, but now I do. We have all been relying on Parker to show us the way, from when we first met in Dove River until now. Moody too, however much he dislikes the fact.

  ‘How can you finish it?’

  Parker pauses. His face seems different now: softer, less composed, or perhaps it is just the faintness of the lamplight.

  ‘In the morning I will somehow show Stewart the marker you gave me. Then he will know, if he did not already, that I was in with Jammet. I will tell him I am leaving, and if I am right …’ Here he pauses. ‘And if he is the man I think he is, he will not be able to resist following, in case I lead him to the furs.’

  ‘But if he had Jammet killed … he may kill you too.’

  ‘I will be ready.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous. You cannot go alone. He will not be alone–he will have this … Half Man with him.’

  Parker shrugs. ‘You think I should take Moody?’ He smiles at the unlikelihood of this. ‘He needs to stay. He needs to see that Stewart follows me. Then he will know.’

  ‘But, but you are …’

  I am trying to reorder the facts again. Proof … what proof could there be, other than Stewart confessing?

  ‘You can’t go alone. I will come with you. I can be another pair of eyes. I can … You need a witness. A witness who can corroborate what you say. You should not go alone!’

  My cheeks are burning. Parker smiles again, but gently. His hand reaches out, almost to my face, but stops short of touching it. I can feel tears in my eyes, threatening to wash away my composure, my dignity; everything.

  ‘You should stay here. Moody needs you. He is lost.’

  And what about me? I think. The words seem so loud I am not sure I did not speak them, but Parker shows no sign of having heard. I try to keep my voice steady.

  ‘I don’t know what proof you think Stewart will provide, other than by killing you. That would probably be conclusive. And … and what if he sends someone else to kill you instead–how then could we link it to him? If you go on your own, and do not return, I do not think that will satisfy Mr Moody. That will not prove anything.’

  ‘Well’–Parker looks down, a hint of impatience coming into his voice–‘we will see tomorrow morning. Perhaps Stewart will tell us everything. Goodnight, Mrs Ross.’

  I bite my tongue, hurt and angry. Parker may be unaware of it, but there are two people in this room who do not give up on a thing until it is finished.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Parker.’

  He goes, closing the door silently after him. For several minutes I remain rooted to the spot, wondering, among all the things I could or should be wondering, whether he knows my first name.

  That night, I dream.

  I dream, in a way that is vague yet disturbing, of Angus. I turn my head from side to side, wanting to turn away from my husband. He does not reproach me. He cannot.

  I wake up in the depths of the night, in a silence so heavy I feel I could not get out of the bed if I tried. There are tears drying on my face, cold, making my skin itch.

  I wondered for so long why he had become so distant from me. I assumed it was something I had done. And then, when Parker told me about Jammet, I thought it was because of Francis, because he knew and hated it.

  In truth, it had begun a long time before that.

  I bury my face in the pillow that smells of must and damp. Its cotton slip is as cold as marble. It is only here, alone and in the dark, that I can allow those thoughts some rein. Thoughts that come from nowhere, from dreams, taking me delirious hostage. I long for sleep again, because only in sleep can I slip the bonds of what is possible and right.

  But as I have found so often in life, what you truly long for eludes you.

  Donald presses a hand to the windowpane. It melts the frost that has formed on the inside overnight, leaving a clear print: the cold is getting stronger. The season moves on; they must leave soon, or become snowed in at Hanover House.

  Yesterday he finished the letter to Maria. This morning he reads it over; he thinks it strikes the right note–it says nothing overly affectionate, but after laying out his thoughts–such a relief to be able to say what he thinks–he expresses the warm wish to see her and resume their interesting conversations. He folds it into an envelope, but leaves it blank. He has a horror of other people reading his letters. He is sure Mrs Ross, on one of her nosy and importunate visits to his room, noticed an earlier one to Susannah.

  Susannah. Well … not having been in this situation before, Donald is unsure how to proceed. He has an idea that she will not be heartbroken–after all, he tells himself, nothing was said, not really. Nothing that was a promise. He feels uncomfortable, because on the face of it it is not admirable behaviour, and Donald does so want to be admirable. But he sees, more clearly from a distance than he did in Caulfield, that Susannah is a robust creature. Even as he knows this, he chastises himself for taking solace in it. Perhaps he will not allow his letters to her to be delivered. Perhaps he should rewrite them yet again, to rinse them clean of any redundant yearning.

  At this juncture, with Donald still sitting at the table surrounded by missives to the Knox sisters, there is a knock at the door. It is Parker.

  Stewart is in his office, a pot of coffee on his desk, the fire lit but losing the battle with the metallic cold which advances from window, door and even through the walls.

  Donald, feeling it is his place to lead, and having said as much to Parker and Mrs Ross, clears his throat rather aggressively.

  ‘Mr Stewart, please forgive the early hour. We need to have a talk with you.’

  Stewart hears the grave tone in his voice, but he still smiles as he invites them in. He orders more cups–this time it is Nancy who answers the bell and goes to fetch them. Donald keeps his eyes on the floor while she is in the room, hoping the warmth in his face is invisible. No one looks at him anyway.

  Donald begins, ‘I think you should know the real reason for our being here.’ He ignores Mrs Ross’s look. He cannot see Parker’s expression, as he sits beside Stewart in front of the window, and is thrown thereby into shadow. ‘We followed a trail. It led north from Dove River, and we have good reason to believe it led here.’

  ‘You mean it was not Mrs Ross’s son?’

  ‘No. At least, not this far. And there are men here whose presence has been kept from us.’

  Stewart nods, his face serious, his eyes downcast. ‘I believe some things have been said that misled you. I apologise for it. Let me tell you what I know; perhaps you can then fill in some of the gaps. What I said was true–Nepapanees was one of my best men. A good worker, a skilled steersman, a great tracker. But over a year ago, something happened to him. It’s usually drink, as I’m sure you must have seen …’ He glances at Donald, but somehow includes them all. ‘But not in his case. At least not at first. I don’t know what it was, but his mind became deranged. He did not know his wife. He did not know his own children. This spring he walked out of the fort and it seemed he was living wild. Occasionally he came back, but it was better when he stayed away. He was away for a long time some weeks ago. I had a feeling he had done something. I had that feeling more strongly when you came. But by then …’ He shrugs, letting his shoulders fall.

  ‘I did not want to bring any more disgrace on his wife and family. I wanted to spare them that. Nesbit and I agreed to … cover it up. To pretend that he was dead. It was foolish, I know.’ He lifts his eyes, and they seem to be shining with tears. ‘In a way, I wish he were. He is a poor wretch who has caused much suffering to those who loved him.’

  ‘But how could you tell his wife he was dead? How could you makes her suffer so?’ Mrs Ross is leaning forward, her eyes boring into Stewart’s, her face pale and taut, some emotion, anger probably, radiating from her like a magnetic force.

  ‘Believe me, Mrs Ross, I thought about that a great deal. I decided that his death would bring less pain to her and the children than he ultimately would, alive.’

  ‘But how did you think yo
u could keep his presence from her? He was seen here two days ago!’

  Stewart goes very still for a moment, before he looks up, revealing his awkwardness. ‘It was foolhardy. I allowed myself to … Sometimes, over the past few years, in winter especially, I have felt that I am losing my judgement. But if you had seen him with his children … staring at them as they ran up to him, screaming the foulest abuse, full of hatred and fear … God knows what demons he thought they were. It was terrible to see their faces.’

  Stewart’s eyes are haunted, as though he can see them still. Donald feels a surge of sympathy. God knows, he can imagine the strain of one endless winter after another.

  Mrs Ross looks at Parker, and then back at Stewart. Almost as though Donald is not there.

  ‘Who is Half Man?’

  Stewart smiles a pained smile. ‘Ah. There you see …’ He looks up, this time directly at Mrs Ross. ‘Half Man is another unfortunate. A regular drunk. He is Norah’s husband, so we give him food now and again. He is a trapper, but not a very useful one.’

  There is a nakedness about his face that make Donald uncomfortable. What right have they to force this man to reveal his troubles?

  ‘I must apologise again for deceiving you. One wants to be thought–especially in a Company like this …’ He glances at Donald again, which makes Donald drop his eyes in embarrassment. ‘One wants to be thought of as a good leader, a father, in some ways, to those under one’s responsibility. I have not been a good father to these people. It has been difficult, but that is no excuse.’

  Mrs Ross is leaning back in her chair, a confused, distant look on her face. Parker’s is obscure, in his own shadow. Donald breaks in.

  ‘It happens everywhere. There is drunkenness, and there is madness. It does not reflect on your leadership that some men go astray.’

  Stewart bows his head. ‘You are kind to say that, but it is not so. Anyway, what concerns you now is the man you followed … I assume because of something he did. Some … crime?’

  Donald nods. ‘We will need to find him and question him, no matter what state he is in.’