The Tenderness of Wolves (21 page)

Francis is staring at the ceiling. ‘If you care so much
about justice, why aren’t you following the other footprints, the ones the murderer left? You must have seen them. I could follow them. Even if you don’t believe me, you must have seen them.’

Something has given within him and the words keep on coming, rising in volume.

‘You could have followed the tracks just to make sure you got somewhere safely.’ Donald leans forward, as if he feels he’s getting somewhere at last.

‘If I were going to run away, I wouldn’t run here! I’d go to Toronto, or get on a boat …’ Francis rolls his eyes up to the ceiling with its familiar cracks and lines. Unreadable signs. ‘Where would I spend the money up here? It’s crazy to think that I killed him, can’t you see that? It’s crazy even to think it …’

‘Perhaps that’s why you came here, because it’s not obvious … You hide out up here and go where you want when things have died down–pretty smart, I’d say.’

Francis stares at him–what’s the point in talking to this idiot, who has already decided what happened? Is this the way it’s going to be? If so, then so be it. Now his throat is tight and the taste of sick is in his mouth. He wants to scream. If they knew the real truth, would they believe him then? If he told them what it was really like?

Instead, he opens his mouth and says, ‘Fuck you, fuck you! Fuck you all.’ Then he turns his face to the wall.

The moment he turns away, something comes to Donald’s mind. He has at last remembered what has been nagging at him for the last few days–the thing about Francis that reminds him of a fellow he knew at school but, like everyone else, avoided. So perhaps that was the motive. Hardly surprising, really.

Something extraordinary happens. As the weather continues utterly still and windless, and we carry on walking north through the forest, I realise I am enjoying myself. I am shocked and feel guilty, as I should be worrying about Francis, but I can’t deny it: as long as I am not actually thinking about him lying hurt and frozen, I am happier than I have been for a long time.

I never thought I could stray so far into the wilderness without fear. What I always hated about the forest, although I never told anyone this, is its sameness. There are so few varieties of trees, especially now, when the snow makes them all cloaked, sombre shapes and the forest a dim, twilit place. In our early years in Dove River I used to have a nightmare: I am in the middle of the forest, and turning round to look back the way I came, I find that every direction looks exactly alike. I panic, disoriented. I know that I am lost, that I will never get out.

Perhaps it is the extremity of my situation that makes it impossible–or just pointless–to be afraid. Nor am I afraid of my taciturn guide. Since he hasn’t murdered me yet, despite plenty of opportunity, I have started to trust him. I wondered briefly if I had refused to go with him, what would have happened–would he have forced me? Then I stopped wondering. Walking for eight hours through fresh snow is a good way to still the mind’s restlessness.

*

Angus’ rifle is strapped to the dogsled and is unloaded, so offers little protection in the instance of sudden attack. When I ask Parker if this is wise, he laughs. He says there are no bears in this part of the country. What about wolves? I want to know. He gives me a pitying look.

‘Wolves don’t attack people. They might be curious, but they won’t attack you.’

I tell him about those poor girls who were eaten by wolves. He listens without interruption, and then says, ‘I’ve heard of them. There was no sign that the girls were attacked by wolves.’

‘But there was no proof that they were kidnapped, and nothing was ever found.’

‘Wolves will not eat all of a corpse. If wolves had attacked them, there would have been traces–splinters of bone, and the stomach and intestines would be left.’

I don’t know quite what to say to this. I wonder if he knows these macabre details because he has seen them.

‘But,’ he goes on, ‘I have never known wolves to attack without being provoked. We have not been attacked, and there have been wolves watching us.’

‘Are you trying to frighten me, Mr Parker?’ I say, with a careless smile, even though he is ahead of me and cannot see my expression.

‘There is no reason to be afraid. The dogs react as if there are wolves about, in the evening especially. And we are still here.’

He tosses this over his shoulder as if it were a casual observation about the weather, but I keep glancing behind me, to see if anything is following us, and I am more anxious than before to stay close to the sled.

As the light fades I sense shadows moving and closing in around me. I wish I had not brought up the subject. I sit close to the fire, tiredness not overcoming my nerves, starting at every rustle of branches and flurry of snow. I collect
snow from very near the fire and make supper with less attention than it deserves. While Parker is out of sight collecting branches, I strain after him with my eyes, and when the dogs start a round of excited barking, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Later, lying like a sausage in the tent, something wakes me. I can sense a faint greyness seeping through the canvas, so either it must be close to dawn, or there is a clear moon. Then, from right by me, making me start, comes Parker’s voice:

‘Mrs Ross. Are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ I whisper at last, my heart stuck in my throat, imagining all sorts of horrors beyond the canvas walls.

‘If you can, move your head to the opening and look out. Do not be alarmed. There is nothing to fear. It may interest you.’

It is easy to manoeuvre myself so as to look out, as after the first night I have slept with my head towards the opening. I find Parker has made a gap on my side of the curtain, and I peer out.

It is not yet dawn, but there is a cool, greyish light, perhaps from the unseen moon, that reflects off the snow and makes it possible to see, although among the trees it is dim and indistinct. In front of me is a black smudge that is the remnants of our fire, and beyond that, the two dogs are standing, bodies alert and tense, pointing away at something in the trees. One of them whines; perhaps it was this that woke me.

At first I can see nothing else, then after a minute or two I discern a flicker of movement in the shadows. With a sort of jolt I realise there is another dog-like shape, grey against the lighter grey of the snow. The third animal is watching the dogs, eyes and muzzle faintly darker than its fur. They are watching each other, intensely interested, not apparently aggressive, but none seems to want to turn its back. Another
whine comes, perhaps from the wolf. It looks small, smaller than Sisco. It seems to be alone. I watch as it approaches a few feet, then backs off again, like a shy child who wants to join in a game but isn’t confident of a good reception.

For perhaps ten minutes I watch this almost silent communication between dogs and wolf, and in that time I forget to be afraid. I realise that Parker is right next to me watching them also. Although I do not turn my head towards him, he is so close that I can smell him. I become aware of this only gradually; normally the air is so cold it kills any scent. Something to be thankful for, I’ve always thought. But as I watch the animals, something smells of life–not the smell of dogs, or even of sweat, but something more like foliage, like the sharp, rich smell inside a greenhouse, damp and growing. I feel a sting like a nettle, and that is a memory: the memory of the greenhouse at the public asylum where we used to grow tomatoes, and how it smelt the same as Dr Watson when I pressed my face into his shirtfront or against his skin. I had not known a man could smell like that, rather than of tobacco and cologne, like my father, or more unpleasantly of bodily exertions and unwashed clothes, like most of the attendants.

The only thing that can smell like Watson and the greenhouse in this frozen forest is Parker himself.

At this point I cannot stop myself turning my head a little towards him and inhaling, to get a stronger fix on that memory, which is tantalising and not at all unpleasant. I try to do it imperceptibly, but I sense he notices, and have to raise my eyes to find out, and then I find him looking at me from a distance of a few inches. I start back, and then smile, to cover my embarrassment. I look back at the dogs, but the wolf has vanished like a grey ghost, and now I cannot say whether it has just gone, or whether it left some minutes ago.

‘That was a wolf,’ I say, with true brilliance.

‘And you are not afraid.’

I glance at him again, to see if he is teasing me, but he is withdrawing into his side of the tent.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and am then annoyed at myself. It is not as though he arranged the wolf’s visit especially for me, so it is a silly thing to have said. I look at the two dogs again. Sisco is still staring intently into the trees after the intruder, but Lucie is looking at me with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out, as though she is laughing at me.

The search parties found no trace of the prisoner’s flight, and the hysteria over Mrs Ross’s disappearance has been calmed by her husband’s stoicism. It is assumed she will meet up with Moody and her son. Mackinley has not appeared to associate the two things, and broods in his room for most of the day. Almost three days after the disappearance, Mackinley still haunts the Knoxes’ house like a vengeful spirit. He seethes with the impotent bitterness of a man who has had what he sought in his grasp only to lose it again.

The Knox family don’t mention him by name, as if pretending he doesn’t exist will make him go away. Knox suggests that he go back to Fort Edgar and await news from Moody. Mackinley refuses. He is determined to stay while messages are sent out with descriptions of the fugitive. He is obsessed with doing his duty, or that’s what he claims he is doing; Knox is no longer sure.

Tonight after dinner, Mackinley starts talking about luck. He returns to one of his favourite subjects, Company heroes, and is regaling Knox with the already familiar story of one James Stewart, who pushed his men through the snow in winter to deliver some supplies to a trading post, accomplishing an astonishing journey in terrible weather. Mackinley is drunk. There is a mean glitter to his eyes that alarms Knox. If he is drunk, it is not on Knox’s wine; he must be drinking in his room.

‘But do you know what?’ Mackinley is speaking to Knox, but his eyes are fixed on the soft, powdery snow outside, which he seems to take as a personal affront. His voice is soft too; he is trying not to shout, trying not to be a little man. Oddly, although Knox recognises that it is an affectation, the result is still chilling.

‘Do you know what they did to him–a fine man like that? And all because of a bit of bad luck? He was one of the best. A fine Company servant who gave everything he had. He should be running the whole outfit now, but they pushed him aside to some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere–no furs at all, a wasteland. All because of a bit of bad luck. And that’s not right. It’s not right, is it?’

‘I’m sure it isn’t.’ Nor is it right that he should have been landed with Mackinley for a house guest, but there’s no one he can complain to about that. If only Mackinley had gone after the Ross boy himself, and left Moody here. Susannah would have been happier too.

‘I won’t let them push me aside. They won’t do that to me.’

‘I’m sure that won’t happen. It’s not as though it was your fault.’

‘But how do I know they’ll see it like that? I’m responsible for law and order at my fort and its surroundings. Perhaps, if you were to write a letter … setting out the facts, and so on …’ Mackinley gazes at Knox with wide eyes as though this idea has only just occurred to him.

Knox stifles an in-breath of disbelief. He had wondered whether Mackinley might make such a request, but thought it too shameless even for him. He gives himself several moments to frame his answer.

‘If I were to write such a letter, Mr Mackinley, it would be only fair if I set out all the facts as I know them, so as to avoid confusion.’ He turns his gaze to Mackinley, keeping his face blank and calm.

‘Well of course …’ Mackinley begins and then stops, eyes bulging. ‘What do you mean? What did Adam say?’

‘Adam did not say anything. I saw with my own eyes how your idea of justice is achieved.’

Mackinley stares at him in fury, but doesn’t say any more. Knox feels a guilty satisfaction at silencing him.

When Knox finally leaves the house, the snow and the clouds combine to produce a peculiar light, a pallor in the dusk that makes it seem colder. Although the days are short and the sun low, there is a compensatory feeling in the air–perhaps it augurs a show of the aurora borealis–that puts a lightness in his step. Strange, when he is courting disgrace in this way, to feel so carefree.

Thomas Sturrock opens his door and releases a rich, smoky fug into the corridor. Clearly he is a man who believes fresh air should stay out of doors.

‘I think we will be undisturbed tonight. There has been some domestic strife, and my hosts are otherwise engaged.’

Knox is not sure how to respond to this. But he is not prepared to face John Scott when he has been drinking. Perhaps it is better that he takes his frustrations out on his wife and maintains the public face of a good citizen. He feels ashamed of this thought, and so pushes it out of his mind.

‘I got your note, and I am curious as to what you have to say.’ He reminds himself to be on his guard, even with Sturrock.

‘I was thinking about Jammet earlier, when we were searching the lakeshore.’ Sturrock pours two glasses of whisky and swirls the topaz liquid in his glass. ‘And I was thinking about a man I used to know, when I was a searcher. His name was Kahon’wes.’

Knox waits.

‘I wasn’t sure whether to bring this up … I asked myself, why would a trader like Jammet be killed–for what
purpose? And I suspect, although I have no certainty of course–that it may have been because of the bone tablet.’

‘The bone tablet you spoke of before?’

‘Yes. I told you I needed it for some research that I am undertaking at the moment, and it has probably occurred to you that if I am prepared to put myself out to obtain such a thing, others may be prepared to go to some lengths also. However … oh, hell, I don’t even know if it is what I think it is.’ His face in the lamplight looks dry and old.