The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  One thing that surprised him was that he must have kept it from his mother. She clearly felt the coldness between father and son, and it saddened her, but she did not regard him any differently; that is, she was the same impatient, unhappy woman she had been for as long as he could remember.

  It was the end of October. Francis had vowed to himself many times not to go back to Laurent’s, a vow he found impossible to keep. This particular evening he found him in, and after a while they began a long, bitter argument, saying the same things they had said before, over and over again. Francis hated himself at such moments, but was quite unable to stop. Occasionally, when alone, he could picture himself walking away with dignity, head high, but when he was standing in Laurent’s kitchen, facing the man himself–shambolic, unshaven, crude–then he was seized with a mad desire to throw himself at his feet, to beg him in tears; to kill himself; anything to end this torture. To kill Laurent.

  ‘I didn’t come to you, remember?’ Francis shouted hoarsely, as he had done many times before. ‘I didn’t ask for this! You made me like this … You!’

  ‘And I wish I’d never set eyes on you. Christ, you make me sick!’ And then Laurent said, ‘Anyway it doesn’t matter. I’m going away. For a long time. I don’t know when I will come back.’

  Francis stared at him, not believing it for a moment.

  ‘Fine. Say what you like.’

  ‘I leave next week.’

  The anger had drained out of Laurent’s face, and Francis had a cold, sick feeling that it was true. Laurent turned away, busying himself with something.

  ‘Maybe then you’ll get over it, huh? Find a nice girl.’

  Francis felt tears threaten. His whole body felt weak, as if he was coming down with a fever. Laurent was leaving. It was over. He did not understand how it was possible to feel such pain and go on living.

  ‘Hey, it’s not so bad. You’re a good kid really.’ Laurent had seen his face, and was trying to be kind. This was worse than any obscenities or cutting remarks.

  ‘Please …’ Francis did not know what he was going to say. ‘Please, don’t say that now. Just go, some time, but don’t say that now. Let’s go on, until …’

  Maybe Laurent too was tired of fighting, and that’s why he shrugged and smiled. Francis went to him, and put his arms round him. Laurent patted him on the back, more like a father than anything else. Francis clung to him, wishing he could walk away; wishing more that it was the summer of the previous year, gone for good.

  My love, who is sick to death of me.

  He stayed that night but lay awake throughout it, listening to Laurent breathe beside him. He managed to rise and dress without waking him, although before he left, he leant over and kissed him softly on the cheek. Laurent didn’t wake, or chose not to.

  And then, two weeks later, he was standing in the dark cabin, looking at the warm empty shell that lay on the bed.

  And God help him if the second thought he had was not: Oh, oh my love, you cannot leave me now.

  THE SICKNESS OF

  LONG THINKING

  Years ago, when he was searching for Amy and Eve Seton, Sturrock sat in a barroom very like this, drinking whisky punch with a young man he had just been introduced to. He had heard of Kahon’wes before, and was flattered by the younger man’s desire to meet him. Kahon’wes proved to be a tall, striking Mohawk who was trying to make his way in journalism. Though articulate and intelligent, he was caught between two worlds and did not seem to know quite where to place himself. This was evident from his dress, which on that occasion was entirely that of a young man of fashion–cutaway coat, top hat, button boots and so on. He was even something of a dandy. But on subsequent meetings, he was dressed in buckskins, or in a strange hybrid of the two styles. His language also wavered between a fluent and educated English–as at the first meeting–and a more stilted way of speaking that he seemed to feel was more ‘Indian’; it all depended on whom he was with. Sturrock was happy to talk about journalism, but he was also hoping that the man could be useful to him in his search. Kahon’wes had a wide range of contacts as he was always travelling, talking to people and generally being what the governors in Toronto called a troublemaker. Since Sturrock was also a troublemaker, they got on well.

  Sturrock told him of the search for the girls. He had already been working on it for the best part of a year, and by then had little hope of success. Kahon’wes, like most people in Upper Canada, had heard of the case.

  ‘Ah … the two girls who were spirited away by wicked Indians.’

  ‘Or eaten by wolves, I am beginning to believe. Still, the father will leave no stone unturned in the whole of North America.’

  He told Kahon’wes he had visited bands on both sides of the border, going to the contacts and men of influence who had helped him before. But he had heard nothing of any use.

  Kahon’wes paused before saying that he would ask those he met: as Sturrock must be well aware, there are times when an answer (like his own manner of speech and dress) depends on who sits the other side of the table.

  Several months later, Sturrock had word from the journalist. He was passing through Forest Lake, and was told that Kahon’wes was only a few miles away. On this occasion he was dressed in the Indian style, and his speech was altered. He was frustrated by his attempts to get articles published in the white press. Sturrock had the impression of a volatile character who, without the right encouragement, could become lost. He offered to read some of his articles and give advice, but Kahon’wes now seemed uninterested in his help.

  This was the occasion on which the two men spoke of an ancient Indian civilisation, greater and more sophisticated than the one that came after. Kahon’wes was passionate in describing such a thing, and though Sturrock did not believe in it for a moment, he could not help but be beguiled by his vision. He saw Kahon’wes only once after that, some months later outside Kingston, when they did not speak for long, and Sturrock got the impression he was drinking heavily. However, at that last meeting he did have news. He had spoken to the chief of a Chippewa band living around Burke’s Falls, who had news of a white woman living with Indians. That was all, but it was no worse a lead than many Sturrock had followed in his line of business.

  Some weeks later, Seton and he journeyed to a small village from where, after much negotiation, they were taken to an Indian camp to meet the girl. It was more than six years since the girls had vanished, three since Mrs Seton had died of a mysterious ailment, commonly said to be a broken heart. Sturrock had always felt sorry for Charles Seton, his distress ever-present like a terrible wound under the thinnest of scar tissue. But this anticipation was worse, if anything could be worse. Seton had said barely a word since they set out from the village, his face white as paper. He looked like a sick man. Beforehand, he had seemed most taken up with not knowing which of his daughters this was supposed to be: Eve would now be seventeen, Amy nineteen, but no one seemed to know how old this girl was. There was no suggestion of a name: or rather, she now had an Indian name.

  Sturrock tried to keep Seton talking, reminding him that the girl, if indeed she was his daughter, would be very changed. Seton insisted he would know her, no matter what.

  ‘I could not forget the slightest detail of their faces, as long as I live,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

  Sturrock persisted, gently. ‘But it is remarkable how changed some of them become. I have seen parents not recognise their own children, even after a short period with the Indians. It is not just a matter of the face … it is everything. How they speak, how they move, how they are.’

  ‘All the same, I would know them,’ Seton said.

  They dismounted outside the teepees and left their horses grazing. Their guide went and spoke at the largest teepee, and a grizzled old man came out, listening as he spoke in the Chippewa language. The guide translated the reply:

  ‘He says the girl came with them of her own free will. She is one of them now. He wants to know if you have com
e to take her away.’

  Sturrock intervened before Seton could speak. ‘We are not going to force her to do anything she doesn’t want to, but if she is this man’s daughter, he wishes to talk to her. He has searched for many years.’

  The old man nodded, and led them to another teepee. After a moment, he beckoned Sturrock and Seton to follow him in.

  For several moments, as they sat down, it was impossible to discern anything. The interior was close, dark and smoky, and it was only gradually that they became aware of two figures sitting opposite them; a Chippewa man and woman. Charles Seton gave a little gasp, almost a mewing noise, and stared at the woman, who was barely more than a girl.

  The skin of her face was dark, with dark eyes, and her hair was long and black, and glinted with grease. She wore a skin tunic and was wrapped in a striped blanket, although the day was warm, and stared at the ground. At first glance, Sturrock would not have taken her for anything other than a Chippewa girl. He assumed the young man at her side was her husband, although they were not introduced. After that first exclamation Seton made no other sound. It was as though he was choking on words, his mouth open but his throat closed.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us,’ Sturrock began. He thought he had never in his life seen anything so cruel as the pain on Charles Seton’s face at that moment. ‘Could you look up please, so that Mr Seton can see your face properly?’

  He smiled encouragingly at the young couple opposite. The man stared back, impassive, then rapped the girl on the hand. She lifted her head, although not her eyes. Seton’s breathing sounded loud in the confined space. Sturrock looked from one to the other, waiting for one to recognise the other. Perhaps it was all a wild goose chase. A minute crept by, and then another. It was agonising. Then, at last, Seton took a breath.

  ‘I don’t know which one she is. She is my daughter … if I could see her eyes …’

  Sturrock was startled. He looked at the girl, still as a graven image, and used her Indian name.

  ‘Wah’tanakee, what colour are your eyes?’

  At last she looked up, at Seton. He looked into her eyes, which, as far as Sturrock could tell in the murky light, were brown.

  Seton drew another painful breath. ‘Eve.’ There was a catch in his voice, and a tear slid silently down his cheek. But it was a statement. After six years of searching, he had found one of his missing daughters.

  The girl stared at him for a moment, then dropped her eyes again. It could have been a nod.

  ‘Eve …’

  Seton wanted to lean over to her, to gather her in his arms, Sturrock could feel it, but the girl was so still and forbidding he did not move. He merely said her name again, one or two times, and then struggled to calm himself.

  ‘What … I don’t know how … Are you well?’

  She moved her head in that single up-and-down movement. Now the old man spoke again, and the interpreter, who was also crammed into the teepee behind them, translated.

  ‘This man is her husband. The old man is his uncle. He has brought her up in his own family since they found her.’

  ‘Found her? Where? When was this? With Amy? Where is Amy? Is she here? Do you know?’

  The old man made some remark that Sturrock recognised as a curse. Then Eve herself began to speak, and all the time her eyes looked past them, at a spot on the floor.

  ‘It was five, six, seven years ago. I don’t remember. It seems very long ago. Another time. After we went for a walk we got lost. The other girl went first. She went off without us. We walked and walked. Then we were so tired we lay down to sleep. When I woke up I was alone. I didn’t know where I was, where anyone was. I was frightened and I thought I would die. And then Uncle was there, and took me with him and gave me food and shelter.’

  ‘And Amy? What happened to her?’

  Eve did not look towards him. ‘I don’t know what happened. I thought she had left me. I thought she was angry and had gone home without me.’

  Seton shook his head. ‘No. No. We did not know what had happened to either of you. Cathy Sloan came back, but there was no trace of you, or Amy. We looked and looked. I have never stopped looking for you since that day, you must believe that.’

  ‘It is true,’ Sturrock said into the silence. ‘Your father has spent every waking minute, and everything he has, in the search for you and your sister.’

  Seton swallowed–it sounded loud in the little tent. ‘I have to tell you, I am sorry to say, that your mother passed away three years ago this April. She never recovered from your disappearance. She could not bear it.’

  The girl looked up, and Sturrock thought he saw the first–and last–trace of feeling on her face. ‘Mamma is dead.’ She digested this, and shared a glance with her husband, although what it meant Sturrock could not guess. Although it sounds callous to say it, it was unfortunate–the presence, even at a distance, of Mrs Seton could have made a difference to what happened next.

  Seton wiped a tear from his face. There was a moment when Sturrock thought he would start to make small talk, start to release the terrible tension he had been holding, and then there would be a way forward. He was wondering how long he should leave it before bringing the meeting to an end, before anyone got irritated. And then it was too late.

  Seton’s voice seemed harsh and too loud in the confined tent:

  ‘I don’t mind what took place, but I must know what happened to Amy. I must know! Please tell me.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. I never saw her alive again.’

  The phrasing sounded odd, even to Sturrock.

  ‘You mean … you saw her dead?’ Seton’s voice was strained but controlled.

  ‘No! I never saw her again at all. That’s what I meant.’ Now the girl was sullen, on the defensive. Sturrock wished Seton would leave the question of Amy alone; harping on about her to the other daughter would hardly help.

  ‘You will come back with me. You must. We must carry on looking.’ Seton’s eyes had a far-away, glazed appearance. Sturrock leant towards him and put a hand on his arm to calm him. He didn’t think Seton even noticed.

  ‘Please, I think we should … Excuse me …’ he was talking to everyone now. ‘It’s the strain. You cannot imagine how hard it has been for him all these years. He does not know what he is saying …’

  ‘Good God, man, of course I know what I am saying!’ Seton threw his hand off with a violent movement. ‘She must come back. She is my daughter. There is no other course …’

  Then he reached towards the girl across the fire, and she flinched backward. With that movement, she revealed what the striped blanket had so far hidden–that she was heavily pregnant. The young man was on his feet, barring the way to Seton.

  ‘You should leave now.’ His English was perfect, but then he switched to his own language, addressing the interpreter.

  Seton was gasping and crying all at once, shocked, but determined. ‘Eve! It doesn’t matter. I forgive you! Just come with me. Come back with me! My dearest! You must …’

  Sturrock and the interpreter manhandled Seton out of the teepee and over to the horses. They managed to get him into the saddle. Somehow, although Sturrock’s memory is vague on this matter, they persuaded him to leave. Seton never stopped calling out to his daughter.

  A year later, at the age of fifty-two, Seton was dead of a stroke. He never saw Eve again, and despite further searching, they never found the slightest trace of Amy. At times Sturrock doubted she had ever existed. He was ashamed of his own part in it: he wanted to stop the search, because Seton’s obsession was unanswerable; the meeting with Eve had taught him that. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to walk away–the man had suffered too much already. So Sturrock carried on, unwillingly, without being much use or comfort. He should, he thought afterwards, have got someone else to take his place. But the afternoon at Burke’s Falls had somehow bound the two men into a confederacy of silence, for the strangest thing of all was this: Seton refused to admit that they had fo
und Eve; he let out that it had been another false alarm, another girl. He persuaded Sturrock to keep it quiet also, and Sturrock reluctantly complied. Only Andrew Knox had been let in on the secret, and that inadvertently.

  Once or twice Seton mentioned going back to Burke’s Falls and trying to persuade Eve to come away, but he seemed half-hearted. Sturrock suspected he wouldn’t have gone through with it. Without telling Seton, Sturrock went back a week later to speak to her alone, but could not find them anywhere. He doubted it would have done much good if he had.

  The way northward along the river exerts its pull on all of them. Now more men, it is rumoured, are getting ready to set off. Searchers after searchers. She will not be included, of course. But she feels the pull just the same–that is why she is here. A sharp wind cuts into Maria’s face as she follows the path beside the river. The trees are bare now, the fallen leaves muddied, the snow spoilt. She sees the smooth lump of Horsehead Bluff up ahead, below which the water swirls in its self-scoured basin. In summer she and Susannah used to come swimming here, but that all stopped years ago. Maria has never swum since the day she saw the thing in the water.

  She wasn’t one of the ones who found it–they were a group of younger boys who had come fishing, but their shouts attracted the attention of Maria and her best friend at the time, David Bell. David was the one person at school who sought her out; they weren’t sweethearts, but outcasts united in opposition to the rest of the world. They rambled in the woods, smoking and discussing politics, books and the shortcomings of their peers. Maria didn’t much like the smoking but liked doing something that was forbidden, so she forced herself.