The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  ‘But …’ He doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘There was horror on his face when he saw me. He never came back after that one time. He could have. It was Amy he was hoping for. She was always his favourite.’

  Donald looks at the unconcerned child; it keeps the wave of pity from overwhelming him.

  ‘He was in shock … You can’t blame him for asking. He did nothing but go on searching until he died.’

  She shakes her head, eyes hard: you see?

  ‘You were the …’ he struggles on, trying to make it better ‘… the great mystery of the age! You were famous, everybody knew about you. People wrote from all over North America, pretending to be you–or to have seen you. Someone even wrote from New Zealand.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember what happened.’

  ‘Does it matter, now?’

  ‘Doesn’t it always matter, finding the truth?’ He thinks of Laurent Jammet, of their supposed quest for truth–all those events tumbling one into another like a trail of dominoes–all leading him across the snow-covered plains to this little hut. Elizabeth gives a sort of shudder, as if a draught bothers her.

  ‘I remember … I don’t know what you heard, but we had gone for a walk. Collecting berries, I think. We argued about where to stop; the other girl, what was her name, Cathy?–she didn’t want to go far; she was worried about burning her face because it was so hot. Really, she was scared of the bush.’

  Her eyes are fixed on a point just over Donald’s shoulder. He hardly dares move, in case he breaks her thread.

  ‘I was scared too. Scared of Indians.’ She gives a tiny smile. ‘Then I argued with Amy. She wanted to go further, and I was worried about disobeying our parents. But I went along because I didn’t want to be alone. It got dark and we couldn’t find the path. Amy kept telling me not to be silly. Then we gave up and fell asleep. At least, I think … And then …’

  There is a long silence, filling the hut with ghosts. Elizabeth seems to be looking past him at one of them.

  Donald finds he is holding his breath.

  ‘… she wasn’t there any more.’

  Her eyes refocus, find his. ‘I thought she’d found the way home and left me in the forest because she was angry with me. And no one came to find me … until my uncle–my Indian uncle–found me. I thought they had left me there to die.’

  ‘They were your parents. They loved you. They never stopped looking.’

  She shrugs. ‘I didn’t know. I waited for such a long time. No one came. Then, when I saw my father again, I thought, now you come, when I’m happy, when it’s too late. And he kept asking about Amy.’ Her voice is thin and husky, stretched to breaking point.

  ‘So Amy … disappeared into the forest?’

  ‘I thought she’d gone home. I thought she’d left me.’ Elizabeth–despite everything, he can’t think of her as Eve–looks at him and a tear runs down her cheek. ‘I don’t know what happened to her. I was exhausted. I went to sleep. I thought I heard wolves, but I might have been dreaming. I was too scared to open my eyes. I would remember if I’d heard screams or cries, but there was nothing. I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  Her voice has trailed away into nothing.

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘I lost her too.’

  She drops her face until it is hidden in shadow. Donald feels ashamed of himself. Her parents had been the object of so much sympathy; everyone was in awe of their loss. But the lost grieve too.

  ‘She may be alive somewhere. Just because we don’t know, doesn’t mean she is dead.’

  Elizabeth doesn’t speak, or lift her head.

  Donald has only one sibling, an elder brother he has never really liked; the prospect of him vanishing for ever into a forest is rather appealing. He becomes aware that his right leg has gone to sleep and shifts it, painfully. He makes his voice jovial. ‘And here is Amy …’ The child on his lap is unconcernedly pulling off her stockings. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me for making you speak of it.’

  Elizabeth picks up her daughter, shakes her head. She paces for a few moments.

  ‘I want you to tell them about me.’ She kisses Amy, pressing her face into her neck.

  Outside the hut, two women are in heated discussion. One of them is Norah. Donald turns to Elizabeth.

  ‘Please, one more favour. Can you tell me what they are saying?’

  Elizabeth gives him a sardonic smile. ‘Norah is worried about Half Man. He is going somewhere with Stewart. Norah told him to refuse, but he won’t.’

  Donald stares towards the main building, his heart suddenly in his throat. Is it happening now?

  ‘Does she say where, or why? It’s important.’

  Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘On a trip. Maybe hunting … though he’s usually too drunk to shoot straight.’

  ‘Stewart said he was going to find your husband.’

  She doesn’t bother to answer this. He calculates rapidly. ‘I am going to follow them. I have to see where they go. If I don’t come back, you will know what you said is true.’

  Elizabeth looks surprised–the first time he has seen this expression. ‘It’s dangerous. You can’t go.’

  Donald tries to ignore the mocking amusement in her voice. ‘I have to. I need proof. The Company needs proof.’

  Just then Alec, her eldest son, walks out of a neighbour’s hut with another boy, and the two women move away, Norah back to the main building. Elizabeth calls out to the boy and he veers towards her. She speaks to him briefly in their language.

  ‘Alec will go with you. Otherwise you will lose yourself.’

  Donald’s mouth drops open. The boy’s head barely reaches his shoulder.

  ‘No, I couldn’t … I am sure I will be all right. It will be easy to follow the trail …’

  ‘He will go with you,’ she says simply, with finality. ‘It is his wish also.’

  ‘But I cannot …’ He doesn’t know how to say it–he feels unqualified to look after anyone in this climate; not even himself, let alone a child. He lowers his voice. ‘I couldn’t take responsibility for him too. What if something happened? I can’t allow him to come.’ He feels hot with shame and uselessness.

  Elizabeth says simply, ‘He is a man now.’

  Donald looks at the boy, who lifts his eyes to his and nods. Donald can see nothing of Elizabeth in him; his skin is dark, the face flat, eyes almond-shaped under heavy lids. He must be like his father.

  Later, when he is going back to his room to pack, Donald turns round again, and sees Elizabeth framed in her doorway, watching him.

  ‘Your father only wanted an answer. You do know that, don’t you? It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s only human to want an answer.’

  She stares at him, her eyes slitted by the setting sun out of a sky like polished steel. Stares at him but says nothing.

  Something strange has happened to the weather. It is nearly Christmas, and yet, though we walk across frozen snow, the sky is as brilliant as a sunny day in July. Despite the scarf wrapped around my face, my eyes burn with the brightness of it. The dogs are delighted to be on the go again, and in some ways I can understand. Outside the palisade there is no treachery or confusion. There is only space and light; miles done and miles ahead. Things seem simple.

  And yet they are not; it is only numbness that makes me think so.

  When the sun goes down, I find out what my stupidity has led to. First I fall over one of the dogs, managing in the process to tear my skirt and set off a cacophony of barking. Then, having set down the pannikin of snow water, I cannot find it again. Quelling a flutter of fear I call Parker, who examines my eyes. Even without his telling me I know they are red and weeping. Flashes of red and purple cross my dull vision. There is a throbbing pain behind my eyes. I know I should have covered them on leaving yesterday, but I did not think of it; I was so happy to be going with him, and the wide white plain was so good to look at after the soiled surroundin
gs of Hanover.

  Parker makes a poultice of the tea-leaves wrapped in calico and cooled in snow, and makes me press it to my eyes. It is some relief, though not as good as a few drops of Perry Davis’s Painkiller. Perhaps it is as well we do not have any.

  I think of Nesbit in the office, cornered and feral; how once that was me.

  ‘How far are we from this … place?’

  It is habit that makes me lower the poultice; impolite not to look at someone when you are talking to them.

  ‘Keep it on,’ he says. And when I have replaced it, ‘We will get there the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘And what is there?’

  ‘A lake, with a cabin.’

  ‘What is its name?’

  ‘It has no name that I know.’

  ‘And why there?’

  Parker hesitates for a long minute, so that I peer at him from behind the poultice. He is staring into the distance and doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Because that is where the furs are.’

  ‘The furs? You mean the Norwegians’ furs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now I drop the poultice and look at him in earnest. ‘Why do you want to lead him to them? That is exactly what he wants!’

  ‘That is why we are doing it. Keep it on.’

  ‘Couldn’t we … pretend they are somewhere else?’

  ‘I think he already knows where they are. If we went in another direction I don’t think he would follow. He came this way before–he and Nepapanees.’

  I think about what this means: Nepapanees, who did not come back, so must be there still. And fear steals through me, creeping into my bone marrow, making itself at home. It is easy to hide my reaction behind the sodden poultice; not so easy to pretend I am brave enough for this.

  ‘This way, when he comes, it will be sure.’

  And then what? I think, but don’t dare say out loud. Another voice in my head–the annoying one–says, You could have stayed behind. You’ve made your bed. Now lie in it.

  Then, after another pause, Parker says, ‘Open your mouth.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Can he read my mind? Shame rushes through me, just about obliterating the fear.

  ‘Open your mouth.’ His voice is lighter now, amused at something. I open it a little way, feeling childish. Something angular and hard meets my lips, forcing them wider, and into my mouth slips a jagged piece of what feels like lake ice–flat and deliquescent. His thumb or forefinger brushes against my lips, rough as glasspaper. Or perhaps it is his glove.

  I close my mouth around the object and as it warms and melts, it explodes with dark, smoky sweetness, causing a dizzying rush of water to my mouth. I am smiling: maple sugar. Where he got such a thing I have no idea.

  ‘Good?’ he asks, and from his voice I can tell he is smiling too. I tilt my head to one side as if considering my answer.

  ‘Hm.’ I say lightly, still secure behind the poultice. It makes me reckless. ‘Is this supposed to make my eyes better?’

  ‘No. It is supposed to taste good.’

  I take a deep breath–scented with autumnal smoke and sweetness, an undertow of bitter char. ‘I am afraid.’

  ‘I know.’

  I wait behind my mask for Parker’s soothing words of reassurance. He is thinking about them, choosing them carefully, it seems.

  They don’t come.

  There are five volunteers in the Search Party: Mackinley; a native guide, Sammy; a local youth called Matthew Fox, intent on proving his backwoods worth; Ross, the man with the missing son and wife; and Thomas Sturrock, ex-searcher. Of all of them, Sturrock is aware that he is there on sufferance; to the rest he must seem an old man, and no one is quite sure what he is doing in Caulfield anyway. It was only his considerable charm that bought his place on the party; that and a long evening buttering up the fox-faced Mackinley and reminding him of his past triumphs. He even talked up his tracking skills, but fortunately Sammy has had no need of help; in the pristine dazzle of the new snow, Sturrock has no idea whether they are following previous tracks or not. But he is here, every step taking him closer to Francis Ross and the object of his journey.

  Since Maria Knox came back from the Sault with her extraordinary account of meeting Kahon’wes, he has been fired with an excitement he thought he had lost for ever. In his mind he has turned it over many times–could Kahon’wes have known that he was behind it? Could the names he said have been pure coincidence? Impossible. He has decided that the tablet is written in an Iroquoian language and records the confederacy of the Five Nations. Who knows, it might even have been written at the time. Whether it was or not, the greater implications are not lost on him: the effect such a discovery would have on Indian policy; the embarrassment it would cause the governments above and below the border; the weight it would lend to native calls for autonomy. What man does not long to do good, and profit by the doing at the same time?

  Those were his thoughts for the first couple of hours. Then he started to think–because he is nothing if not a pragmatist–of the possibility that Maria was right, and the thing is a clever fake. In the deepest recesses of his mind he knows it will make no difference. He will persuade Kahon’wes to back him up; that shouldn’t be difficult. If he presents the thing with enough conviction and cleverness (no problem there), the initial splash will make his name, and any subsequent controversy can only be good publicity. As for the matter of not knowing where the tablet is, he refuses to let it worry him. He is confident that Francis Ross did take it, and that as soon as they catch up with him, he will be able to talk it into his own hands. He has rehearsed the lines he will use, many times …

  He stumbles on something uneven, his racquette catches on the crust, and he goes down on his knees. Last in the line, he pauses, one gloved hand flat on the snow, while he recovers the breath jolted from his body. His joints ache with cold. Years since he has travelled this way; he has forgotten how it takes its toll. Hopefully it will be the last time. The next man to him, Ross, notices he has fallen behind and turns to wait for him. Thank God he doesn’t walk back and offer him a hand; that would be too humiliating.

  Maria had described seeing Ross at the Sault with another woman, and speculated as to whether his wife’s disappearance was as innocent as was generally supposed. Sturrock was amused, because Maria seemed like the last person to entertain such a lurid notion. But as Maria pointed out, it was hardly more lurid than the widely accepted theory that Mrs Ross had run off with the escaped prisoner (and her husband not turned a hair!). Sturrock finds the man interesting. Nothing shows in his face; if he is worried about the fate of his wife or son, he does not reveal it. This does not endear him to the other men of the party. Ross has so far resisted Sturrock’s attempts to engage him in conversation, but undaunted, Sturrock puts on a spurt to catch up with him.

  ‘You seem easy in this country, Mr Ross,’ he says, trying to still his labouring breath. ‘I would wager you have done a fair bit of this sort of travel.’

  ‘Not really,’ Ross grunted, and then, relenting perhaps at the older man’s wheezing breath, ‘just hunting trips and so on. Nothing like you.’

  ‘Oh …’ Sturrock allows himself to be modestly flattered. ‘You must be worried about your family.’

  Ross trudges for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on the ground. ‘Some seem to think not worried enough.’

  ‘One doesn’t have to make a public display to feel concern.’

  ‘No.’ He sounds sarcastic, but Sturrock is too taken up with placing his snowshoes in the imprints made by the youth ahead of him to look at his companion’s face.

  And after a moment, Ross says, ‘The other day I was in the Sault. I went to a friend of my wife’s, just to see if she had heard from her. While I was there I saw the elder Knox girl. She saw me and gave such a start–I suppose word has got all over town that I have a fancy woman.’

  Sturrock smiles, guilty but relieved. He is glad Mrs Ross has someone who cares about her. Ross casts him a dry look. ‘Aye, I th
ought so.’

  On the second day out from Dove River, Sammy stops and holds up his hand for silence. Everyone pauses in mid-stride. The guide confers with Mackinley at the front, who then turns to the others. He is about to speak when there is a cry from the trees on their left, and the sound of crashing branches. All the men turn in panic; Mackinley and Sammy raise their rifles in case it is a bear. Sturrock hears a high-pitched cry and realises that it is a human–a woman.

  He and Angus Ross, being nearest, start forward, plunging into deep, drifted snow and hampered by brushwood and hidden obstacles. The going is so difficult that it is some moments before they can see who is calling them. Glimpses through the trees: Sturrock thinks there is more than one figure–but a woman? A number of women … out here in the middle of winter?

  And then he catches her in plain sight: a thin dark-haired woman struggling towards him, her shawl trailing behind her, her mouth open in a cry of exhaustion and relief vying with terror that they might, all these men, be just a figment of her imagination. She plunges through the brush towards Sturrock, collapsing in a heap just a few yards away, as Ross catches a child in his arms. Another figure darts through the trees behind them. Sturrock reaches her and goes down on one knee in an awkward parody of romance, his snow-shoes getting in the way. The woman’s face is sharp with exhaustion and fear, her eyes haunted as if she is afraid of him.

  ‘There now, it’s all right. You are safe now. Hush …’

  He’s not sure she understands him. Now a young boy has come up behind her and stands with one hand protectively on her shoulder, staring at Sturrock with dark, suspicious eyes. Sturrock never knows what to say to children, and this one doesn’t look friendly.

  ‘Hello. Where have you come from?’

  The boy mutters some words he cannot understand, and the woman answers him in the same strange tongue–not French, which he knows, nor is it German.

  ‘Do you speak English? Can you understand me?’