The Tenderness of Wolves (46 page)

Line jumps, heart pumping painfully, as Jutta ambles through the trees towards her, and then sighs with trembling relief as the horse sticks her nose in Line’s armpit. The relief seems to be mutual.

‘We’re all right,’ Line tells the horse fiercely. ‘We’re all right. We’re all right.’

She holds onto the horse’s mane until she stops trembling, then goes to rouse the children, to tell them they must go on.

Donald watches Parker and Mrs Ross leave the post. They walk out of the gate and head into the north-west without a backward glance. Nesbit and Stewart wish them a good journey and go back to their offices. Nesbit manages to give Donald an unpleasant, meaningful look as he does so, defaming both Mrs Ross and Parker, and somehow Donald himself, in the process. Donald bears it, but it riles him. He thought Parker a fool when he had explained his reasoning, and worse when he said Mrs Ross was going with him, although it seemed to be Mrs Ross’s wish also. He pulled her aside and told her his opinion. Was it his imagination, or was she amused by him? Both Parker and she impressed upon him the importance of watching Stewart’s movements, and though he thinks there is little point, he supposes he will do it.

He watches Stewart walk over to the village to enquire after Elizabeth. Despite her sullen hostility, Stewart does not cease to take an interest in her. As for himself, he cannot restrain the urge to visit her again. He has developed an overpowering curiosity about her since conceiving the notion that she is one of the Seton girls, albeit based as it is, somewhat tenuously, on the name of her daughter. No, not just that; on her features, which are undoubtedly white, and which to his mind bear a faint but discernible resemblance to those of Mrs Knox. He finds himself outside her hut after Stewart has gone back to his office, waiting for a signal to go in.

The fire stings his eyes, and he breathes through his mouth to acclimatise himself to the smoke and smell of unwashed bodies. Elizabeth squats by the hearth, wiping the face of the little girl, who has been crying. She flings Donald a brief, dismissive glance, and then picks up the squalling child and hands her to him.

‘Take her. She’s giving me the devil of a time.’

Elizabeth walks behind the partition that divides the room from the sleeping quarters, leaving Donald with the girl, who squirms and wriggles in his arms. Nervously, he jiggles her up and down, and she stares at him, affronted.

‘Amy, don’t cry. There, there.’

Were it not for his experiences with Jacob’s children, this would be the first time he had ever held a small child. He holds her as if she were an unpredictable small animal with sharp teeth. However, by some miracle she stops crying.

When Elizabeth comes back, Amy has discovered Donald’s tie and, enchanted by its strangeness, is playing with it. Elizabeth watches for a moment.

‘What made you think of the Setons?’ she asks suddenly. ‘Was it just the name?’

Donald looks up, caught off guard. He had been about to ask her about Stewart.

‘I suppose so. But the story was in my mind, you see, because recently I was told it by someone who was very close to it.’

‘Oh.’ If she has a more than passing interest, she hides it well.

‘I recently made the acquaintance of the family of Andrew Knox. His wife was, well, she is …’ he is watching her now, while the child gives his tie a sharp tug, almost throttling him ‘… she is the sister of Mrs Seton, the girls’ mother.’

‘Oh,’ she says again.

‘She is a delightful, kind person. One can tell that even after so many years, she finds the memory of the disappearance deeply distressing.’

There is a long silence in the hut, punctuated by noises from the fire.

‘What did she say about it?’

‘Well, that it … it broke the parents’ hearts. That they never got over it.’

Donald tries to read her face, but she looks angry more than anything.

‘They–the Setons–are both dead now.’

She nods briefly. Donald finds he has been holding his breath, and exhales.

‘Tell me about Aunt Alice.’ She says it very quietly, with a sort of sigh. Donald feels a great leap inside him. He tries not to show it, or to look at her too hard. She stares at her daughter, avoiding his eye.

‘Well, they live in Caulfield, on Georgian Bay. Mr Knox is the magistrate there, a very fine man, and they have two daughters, Susannah and Maria.’ Emboldened he adds, ‘Do you remember them?’

‘Of course. I was eleven years old, not a baby’

Donald struggles to keep the excitement out of his voice, but it makes him squeeze the child more tightly. She pushes her fist into his spectacles in retaliation.

‘Susannah … I can’t remember which was which. The last time we saw them, one was only a baby. The other was no more than two or three.’

‘Maria would have been about two,’ he says, with a warm feeling at saying her name.

She stares into the shadows, and he has no idea what she is thinking. He removes the child’s surprisingly strong fingers from his mouth.

‘They are all well, and … they are a charming family. All of them. They have been very kind to me. I wish you could
meet them. They would be so happy to see you … you cannot imagine!’

She smiles queerly. ‘I suppose you will tell them about me.’

‘Only if you wish it.’

She turns her face away, but when she speaks her voice is unchanged. ‘I have to think of my children.’

‘Of course. Think about it. I know they would not force you into anything you did not want.’

‘I have to think of my children,’ she says again. ‘Now, without a father …’

Donald manages with difficulty to extract his handkerchief from under the child’s body. But when Elizabeth turns back, her eyes are dry.

‘Did they tell you my father found me?’

‘What? They said you were never found!’

Her face flickers with something–pain? disbelief? ‘He said that?’

Donald doesn’t know what to say.

‘I refused to go back with him. I was not long married. He kept asking about Amy. He seemed to blame me for her not being there too.’

Donald can’t keep the shock from his face.

‘Can’t you understand that? They lost their daughters, but I lost everything! My family, my home, my past … I had to learn to speak again! I couldn’t break from everything I knew … again.’

‘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 surroundings of Hanover.