The Wolf Border

by Sarah Hall

  Warning signs flash overhead. Roadworks around Birmingham – long delays. She follows the Vargis van onto the M6 toll road, which is glossy and empty. They pass through the Midlands. Black Country residue. Towns bleeding together along the river basin. It would have been easy to have taken them from visitor centres in Norfolk or Reading, but they must be unhabituated. They must understand range, be able to hunt, or the project will not work.

  She sips water from a bottle, not much – she does not want to have to stop at a service station. Neither does the driver of the van pull over for a break – probably they have helpful devices to relieve themselves. The country rolls by. She indulges in a dark daydream, imagines the Vargis men stopping in a layby, stepping into the nearby bushes to urinate. When they return the vehicle is gone, opportunistically stolen. Miles away in a lock-up its doors are pried open. She imagines the shock of these particular spoils – the thieves recoiling. What the hell? Is that a . . . Then incremental bravado, goading the animals with a stick or a piece of pipe through the crate hatches – bragging and phone calls. Either they’d be kept by some thug on a chain in an outbuilding, or dumped in the fly-tipped hinterlands of England amid old washing machines and corrosives. Worse: they’d be pitted against some trained brute of a dog in a gore-smeared ring. A mastiff. A cross-hound. Such things do occur. She’s seen appalling Spanish footage of a wolf matched against a Presa Canario, the most hellish of breeds, 160 pounds of thick-packed muscle, its ears illegally cropped. The fight was brief. A torrent of snarling, spittle flying, eyes filling with red – both of them up on their hindlegs, heaving against each other like boxers, their heads shaking. Within seconds the dog’s brindle was muddied with blood, its jowls torn, and the wolf’s side rent open. The onlookers cheering and exchanging bets, chanting the name of the dog, Rafa, Rafa, Rafa, which would, given the extent of its injuries, still have had to be shot. People look at her with surprise when she says that hunting is at least an honest sport.

  The thought passes. The blue van makes steady progress. By Manchester she begins to relax. The roads are relatively clear. She turns the radio on, then off again. The tarmac hums under the wheels. Her phone rings – the number unlisted. She does not answer. Probably Thomas, who was hoping to be present for their arrival, but is sitting in the House. Traffic slows over the ship canal. The road rises and falls, then everything speeds up again. There are multiple lanes around Preston, a cavalcade of undertaking and overtaking. She grips the wheel tightly, flashing her lights and cursing as a car veers between her and the transport van, across three lanes, onto the slip road. The northern cross motorways draw much of the traffic off. After Lancaster the way is clear. They exit the motorway and take the dual carriageway along the county’s southern edge. Oyster-coloured skies above Cumbria. The estuary glimmers in the sunlight. Shallow waves traverse its surface, moving both directions at once – a Janus tide.

  She concentrates. It will take another hour to get to Annerdale. She signals to the van, overtakes, and leads the convoy – it is unlikely they will get lost but she doesn’t want to take the chance. They continue on, into the mountains, sedately, like some kind of royal procession, the diplomatic arrival of a crowned couple. And it is historic, she thinks. It’s five hundred years since their extermination on the island. They are a distant memory, a mythical thing. Britain has altered radically, as has her iconography of wilderness, her totems.

  Once in situ, she knows they will divide the country, just as they will quarter the imagination again. Always the same polar arguments. Last year, during documentary filming at Chief Joseph, two hunters had shouted in her face. They devour their victims alive, while their hearts are still beating! They revel in death! As if the animals were some kind of biblical plague – many do believe it. She had calmly explained on camera the hierarchy and tactics of the hunt, the fact that eighty per cent of hunts fail; the fact that herds, after the culling of the weak by predators, are always healthier. Facts versus fear, hatred, and irrationality. As for glee during a kill, such a thing cannot be ascertained, though females seem to express great excitement the first time they hunt after a new litter has been weaned.

  Ahead, the mountains seem to smoke, white clouds pluming above as if they were not dead volcanoes, but live. The new bracken is electric green in the lower valleys. She leaves Alexander a message, so that he will know to set off. She slows for a humpback bridge and sounds the horn to warn oncoming traffic, checks her rear-view mirror. The van is close behind, carefully navigating the narrow structure, its wing mirrors only inches from the stone walls. The screen is tinted; she cannot see the drivers. Its hold might be carrying anything: gold bullion, masterpieces, the body of Jesus Christ. There has not been a public announcement about the arrival – she does not want to risk any controversy. The Annerdale wolves are being brought in, to all intents and purposes, secretly, under the radar, like contraband.

  In the quarantine enclosure, Rachel and Huib stand next to the crates, boiler-suited and disinfected, their hands placed on the sliding-door mechanisms. Outside the fence, Sylvia is filming. Alexander is with her, observing – he will do so every day for the next week and then weekly. Michael is not in attendance. A new deer carcass lies at the far end of the pen, wet, aromatic, freshly cut. After six months they will be freed into the main enclosure with the herds, as close to a hard release as possible.

  The crates are silent, but the sedation will be lifting. Huib looks over at Rachel. He holds up a thumb – ready. Rachel signals back. They open the doors and step quickly behind the crates. In no more than a second or two the pair has bolted, the male a fraction faster, startlingly pale, with Merle hard at his heels. Huib punches the air.

  Boom!

  The wolves divide round a stack of logs, make for the end of the pen, and are lost from sight behind a cluster of bushes.

  Let’s leave them to it, Rachel says.

  She and Huib wheel the crates backward towards the gate, where they are stowed. They step into the disinfectant zone and change shoes, strip out of the boiler suits. Rachel shuts and locks the inner gate, which is screened. Although they can no longer be seen, they are well within the auditory and olfactory field, and will always be detected when this close to the pair. They wash down, strip out of the suits, exit the outer gate, and join Alexander and Sylvia in the viewing area. The pair have gone to ground and remain hidden from sight. The group speak in low tones, almost whispering, congratulating each other. Sylvia keeps the camera still and trained through the hide’s panel. Alexander nods to Rachel.

  Looking good, very alert.

  Let’s see if they eat anything, she says.

  They take up their field glasses and wait. After five minutes, pointed ears come up out of the grass, then heads emerge. The wolves step out from behind the bushes, cautiously, sniffing, a forepaw held aloft. There’s a cold austerity to the male’s bluefired gaze, a rarity. Merle is quietly confident in the new surroundings; she beings to lope towards the carcass, investigates it, but does not eat. She returns to the male and he licks her muzzle. They make short forays, close together, in the bottom half of the pen, criss-crossing scent trails to the fence and back, keeping their noses to the ground, lifting them and reading the air. The enclosure is big, several hectares, though as quarantine progresses it will seem limited, Rachel knows, and will induce lazy behaviour, habituation. She has prepared a series of preventative tactics. In the centre of the pen is a pile of dead wood where it is likely they will den. They move closer, towards the hide. For a long while the male stands looking in the direction of the screen where the humans are hidden. The strong April sunlight renders his fur brilliant, pale gold and silver-white, like the blaze of a matchhead. He could almost set fire to the trees. He’s going to vanish, Rachel thinks, against the snow and the limestone pavements on the moors, against the blonde sward of the grassland.

  I think he knows we’re still here, Sylvia says.

  Ja. I feel like he knows what I had for breakfast, Huib says.r />
  Alexander laughs quietly.

  Muesli, and he’s not impressed.

  He is going through a health checklist, ticking boxes, the first of many formal documents. They are inquisitive, their tails are up; there is no lethargy. A good score. Sylvia keeps recording.

  I wish Mummy could have seen this, she says after a time. She was the one who first suggested the idea to Daddy. She’d be so, so happy.

  Rachel glances over. This is the first mention of the project’s conception she has heard, and was not aware of the memorial aspect. Sylvia is dressed as a standard volunteer: T-shirt and jeans, a fleece jacket, work boots. Her face is not made up; her hair is tied back, though there is still a quality of refinement to her, a strange Martian beauty. She has spent her first full day on the project, preparing the carcass with Huib, answering the phone. There has been no cause to doubt her commitment, and now Rachel understands why. She is doing it for her dead mother, the most banal and powerful of all motivations.

  The pair lope softly to the bottom of the enclosure again and disappear. Sylvia lowers and switches off the camera.

  I’ll upload this when I get back to the office, she says. I’ll send it to Border News and the BBC. Daddy left us some champagne, by the way, if anyone feels like it.

  This day gets better and better, Alexander says. Merle is a great name, by the way, Rachel. I saw The Dark Angel when I was a kid. I think I would have sent my best friend off to his death for Kitty Vane.

  Ja, me too! Huib agrees. Good job you didn’t call her Kitty, Rachel.

  Alexander snorts.

  Kitty the wolf.

  I didn’t have you two down as film nerds, Rachel says. But we should think about a name for our boy. Anyone?

  Sylvia holds her hand up, eager as a schoolgirl.

  May I suggest something?

  Rachel thinks back to the welcome party, her assumptions about Sylvia’s mettle and her tastes. They can always vote on it if needs be. But the mood is high, it is a celebratory day, and she does not want to dampen the spirit by penalising a member of the team. She will have to learn to trust the Earl’s daughter.

  OK. Go on.

  Well, he’s just so very bright and brilliant. What about Ra?

  As in the sun god? I like that, says Huib. I like that a lot. Our creator!

  Sylvia’s smile broadens; she is lit up with keenness, and looks a tiny bit smug. Rachel nods.

  Actually, I like it too.

  Alexander is bent forward, peering through the viewing panel again.

  Hey up, he says. Action stations.

  They take up their field glasses. There is movement in the enclosure. Cautiously, Merle is approaching the carcass for a second time. She stands over the downy body, sniffs, assessing the state of decay. Scavenging is not the preferred mode, or perhaps she is still suspicious after the recent poisoning. As Stephan Dalakis pointed out, she was extremely lucky the incident did not permanently affect her stomach and bowel. Whatever the meat was laced with left her desperately sick. Another way of killing them. Over the years Rachel has seen several cases along Idaho’s sheep superhighway where the hunters use Xylitol, which is easy to buy and toxic to their livers.

  Merle looks towards Ra. Her ears rotate forward, black-tufted. Her eyes are tear-shaped, dark-ringed, her expression quizzical. The eye might be drawn to her big, pale mate, but she is more than beautiful, Rachel thinks. Ra arrives and they begin to tug at the flesh. The legs of the deer jerk as they pull it about. Another tick in Alexander’s boxes. After feeding, they retreat towards the dead wood, and lie down in the grass. Merle inches over and they lie close together. Ra yawns. He is not yet fully interested in the advances; she is simply practising until he is. She yawns too, puts her head on her paws. She may not have a godly name, Rachel thinks, but she is the vital one, everything rests on her ability to breed. She is the true grey, true to the name; she is tawny as the landscape, and utterly congruent.

  *

  Once news of their arrival has broken, protesters flock back to the estate. They set up camp at the gate again, and settle in for the duration. The previous motley band has grown somewhat, Rachel notices, as she and Huib drive up. Numbers have swelled. Now there are placards, banners, even costumes. She parks the Saab in the row of cars along the verge, by the estate’s high wall, and they get out. The crowd mills about. Someone is videoing on a mobile phone and the local newspaper has sent a photographer, who looks a little desultory. There are children, including a girl dressed in white party frills and a red cape, some kind of fairytale motif, or perhaps she is simply on the way to a party. Lurking at the side of the group is a man wearing a pinstripe suit and papier-mâché wolf’s head. The head is lewdly made, though not unskilfully, with giant teeth and a red tongue. He is carrying a briefcase. The photographer singles him out and he poses. This is perhaps some kind of comment on Lord Pennington himself, Rachel assumes, rather than the wolves. The apex class; the financial raiders in charge. It all seems a peculiarly British display, Shakespearean almost: absurdity combined with intellect, adults engaged in mummering. They approach the group.

  Nice day for it at least, Huib says.

  He seems unfazed, amused even. But then, he has faced down illegal poachers in Africa, armed, ambitious, and far more dangerous.

  Watch that guy, will you, she says, gesturing to the wolf-headed man. He seems quite full on.

  Probably nothing, she thinks, but he has gone to a lot of effort with his costume. She wonders for a moment if this man is the mysterious ‘Nigh’, whom they have had several more rabid emails from. Something in the exhibitionism of the disguise and the lack of inhibition fits. But the presentation is too articulate, not in keeping with the chaotic communications pinging into her inbox. As they approach, she steels herself; such confrontations are never easy, even if harmless. She feels embarrassed for those who have misunderstood, the irrationals of the world. When the crowd realises she and Huib are not joining the group, but are here to defend the project, the protesters take formation, hoisting their painted placards. Right to Roam. Protect Our Children. The wolf-headed man begins his pantomime. He drops the briefcase and holds his hands up as if they were claws. The fingertips are painted red. He begins to stalk forward, growling. There are murmurs in the crowd, and nervous laughter.

  Great stuff, someone says – the photographer.

  He crouches down and snaps off a few shots.

  Bit slower, can you? Look over to me, Mr Wolf.

  The man continues forward, towards Rachel and Huib. The growling intensifies. The courage of the masked – clearly he has rehearsed and wants to perform. Rachel feels a blush begin to creep up her neck. How to tackle the silliness of it? But she does not have to. Huib applauds and steps into his path.

  Bravo, mate, bravo. Minor criticism – the sound’s not quite right. It’s a little low-pitched for an attack. You’ve got to get more of a moan sound in there.

  His voice is non-confrontational, but deliberately loud, loud enough for the lecture to be heard by the crowd. He begins to make a snarling noise himself. The impression is honed, and surprisingly accurate. He is physically blocking the pantomime’s progress. The wolf-headed man stops.

  And for a happy greeting, you’ve got to whimper or whine. A bit like this.

  He delivers another wolfish impression. The crowd is watching him now – he is stealing the show. Genius, Rachel thinks. She sidesteps them and addresses the rest of the group.

  My name’s Rachel. I’m project manager here. I can answer any questions you have and address any concerns.

  The group rallies, begins a song – a ditty whose lyrics have been written to the tune of Jerusalem. She musters patience. She will let them have a verse or two – it’s what they came for. She puts her hands in her pockets and waits. The little girl in the white frock and cape breaks from the group, prances forward, and smiles up at her. There’s grime on the hem of the dress where it’s been trailing on the ground, which is quite pleasing. Rachel s
miles back. The girl seems too young to know what’s going on. She skips off. The song concludes. A woman in the crowd – the self-selected spokesperson, perhaps – pipes up, complains about the danger to children that the Annerdale wolves pose. She places her hands on the shoulders of two of the other children present, boys of about six or seven, smartly dressed in breeches and velvet Victorian-style jackets. Brothers to the little capering princess, no doubt. The boys step forward and present themselves, to illustrate a point, certainly the point of their being children, if not in mortal danger. They look past Rachel to the wolf-man, who Huib is still corralling – a far more interesting scene.

  We want to speak to Lord Pennington, the woman declares.

  Her tone is rightful, entitled, as if she is requesting an audience with her bank manager after the erroneous bouncing of a cheque.

  I’m in charge of the project, Rachel repeats. How can I help?

  The woman glares at her, sizes her up, and then looks around, as if Thomas Pennington might materialise, simply from her summons, not unlike the devil. She does not want a representative, no matter how expert, but the real thing, a tall poppy with a worthwhile head to scythe. Rachel decides to follow Huib’s lead – to explode rather than defuse the situation.

  I take it you’re worried about your children getting into the enclosure by accident, perhaps? Or being curious and trying to break in?

  From the corner of her eye she sees the photographer angling the lens, catching her in profile. She turns her head away.

  No, the woman says. No! They wouldn’t do that. They’re good kids.