The Tenderness of Wolves (31 page)

Something wakes me. It is almost dark, and silent except for the wind. For an instant I think that there is someone else in the room, and I sit up with an exclamation I can’t control. As my eyes grow accustomed to the near-dark, I realise there is no one there. It is not yet dawn. But something woke me, and I am alert, heart hammering, ears sensitive to the slightest sound. I slip out of bed and pull on the few clothes I took off before succumbing. I pick up the lamp but somehow
don’t want to light it. I tiptoe to the door. No one outside either.

Creaks and whines come from the roof timbers, the hum of wind slipping under shingles. And a strange crackling noise, very light and indistinct. I listen at each door for a long moment before turning the handle and peering inside. One is locked; most are empty, but through a window in one of the empty rooms I see a greenish shimmer outside, a flickering curtain of light in the north that perforates the darkness and gives me this dim sight.

I open one door and see Moody, his face young and vulnerable without his spectacles. I close it quickly. Parker, I think. I must find Parker. I need to talk to him. About what I am doing, and before I do something inconceivably stupid. But behind the next few doors I find nothing, then one gives me a shiver of shock. Nesbit is lying in a fathomless sleep, or stupor, and next to him lies the Indian woman who served dinner, one broad arm flung over his chest, dark against his milk-white skin. Their breathing is loud. I had formed the impression that she hated him, but here they are, and there is an innocence about their tainted sleep that is curiously touching. I look for longer than I mean to and then, not that they are going to wake all of a sudden, I close the door with especial care.

At last I find Parker, where I half expected: in the stables near the dogs. He is rolled into a blanket and sleeps facing the door. Suddenly at a loss, I light the lamp and sit down to wait. Although we have slept under the same few yards of canvas for many nights, under a wooden roof it seems improper that I should be watching him sleep, crouched in the straw beside him like this, like a thief.

After a few moments, the light wakes him.

‘Mr Parker, it is I, Mrs Ross.’

He seems to surface quickly, without experiencing the
impenetrable fog that surrounds me on waking. His face is as unreadable as ever; apparently he is neither angry nor surprised to see me here.

‘Has something happened?’

I shake my head. ‘Something woke me, but I couldn’t find anything. Where did you go last night?’

‘I saw to the dogs.’

I wait for something else, but nothing comes.

‘I had dinner with Nesbit. He asked what we were doing. I said we were looking for my son, who has run away, and was last seen at Himmelvanger. I asked him if anyone here has recently returned from a trip, and he said he didn’t know. But I don’t think he was entirely frank.’

Parker leans against the stable wall and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I spoke to a man and his wife. They said that no one had been away recently, but they were unhappy. When they spoke they looked into the distance, or over my shoulder.’

I don’t know what to make of this. Then, very faint but distinct, as though from a great distance, I hear something that sends a cold prickling up my spine. An ethereal howling, mournful yet indifferent. A symphony of howls. The dogs wake and a low growling comes from the corner of the stable. I glance at Parker, at his black eyes.

‘Wolves?’

‘Far away.’

I know that we are surrounded by strong walls, and that those walls are armed with cannon, but still the sound chills my blood. I experience a nostalgia for the cramped quarters of the tent. I felt safer there. It is even possible that I shiver, and move closer to Parker.

‘They are short of things here. The hunting is bad. There isn’t much food.’

‘How can that be? This is a Company post.’

He shakes his head. ‘There are posts that are badly run.’

I think of Nesbit in his narcotic cradle. If he is in charge of administrating the post and its supplies, that is hardly surprising.

‘Nesbit is an addict. Opium or something like that. And …’ I look at the straw. ‘He … has a liaison with one of the Indian women.’

I am certain that I am trying not to, but I find myself looking into Parker’s eyes for a second that lengthens and grows into a minute. Neither of us says anything; it’s as if we are mesmerised. I am suddenly aware that my breathing sounds very loud, and I am sure he can hear my heart beating. Even the wolves are silent, listening. I tear my eyes away at last, feeling light-headed.

‘I had better go back. I just thought I should find you to … discuss what we should do in the morning. I thought it wise to conceal our true reason for being here. I said as much to Mr Moody, though what he will want to do tomorrow I can’t say.’

‘I don’t think we will know more until Stewart comes back.’

‘What is it you know of him?’

After a pause, Parker shakes his head. ‘I won’t know until I see him.’

I wait for a moment, but I have run out of reasons to stay. As I make to stand up, my arm brushes against his leg in the straw. I didn’t know his leg was there, I swear it, or whether he moved it to brush against me. I leap to my feet as if scalded, and pick up the lamp. In the sway of light and shadow, I cannot tell what is on his face.

‘Well, goodnight then.’

I walk out into the yard quickly, aware and hurt that he did not reply. The cold instantly cools my skin, but can do nothing for my churning thoughts; chiefly an intense desire to go back into the stable and lie down in the straw next to him. To lose myself in his scent and his warmth. What is this
–my fear and helplessness overtaking me? His body brushing against mine in the straw was a mistake. A mistake. A man has died; Francis needs my help; that is why I am here, no other reason.

The aurora shimmers in the north like a beautiful dream, and the wind has gone. The sky is vertiginously high and clear, and the deep cold is back; a taut, ringing cold that says there is nothing between me and the infinite depth of space. I crane skywards long after it sends me dizzy. I am aware that I am walking a precarious path, surrounded on all sides by uncertainty and the possibility of disaster. Nothing is within my control. The sky yawns above me like the abyss, and there is nothing at all to stop me from falling, nothing except the wild maze of stars.

Donald wakes to daylight outside the window. For several moments he cannot remember where he is, and then it comes back to him: the end of the trail of footprints. A respite from that hellish journey. Every inch of his body aches as if he has suffered a severe beating.

God … did he really just fall unconscious last night–out like a light? That woman who tended to his feet … he sticks a foot out from under the covers and sees that it is freshly dressed, so she was real and not a dream. Did she undress him as well? He remembers nothing but feels a prickling shame wash over him. He is, without a doubt, thoroughly undressed. His scar has even been salved and bandaged. He fumbles around the bed until he locates his spectacles. With them back on his nose he feels calmer, more in control. Inside: a small room, sparsely furnished like the guest quarters at Fort Edgar. Outside: bleak, not snowing, but soon will. And somewhere within the complex of buildings: Mrs Ross and Parker, asking questions without him. Heaven knows what they will say to Mr Stewart, left to their own devices. He struggles to get out of bed, and picks up his clothes, which have been laid neatly over a chair. He dresses, moving stiffly like an old man. Strange (and yet in a way fortunate) how much worse he feels now that they have finally arrived.

He shuffles out into the corridor and works his way round two sides of the inner courtyard without seeing a
living soul. It is the strangest Company post; there is none of the bustle he is used to at Fort Edgar. He wonders where Stewart is, what sort of discipline he keeps. His watch has stopped, and he doesn’t know what time it is, whether early or late. Finally, a door flies open further down the corridor, and Nesbit emerges, slamming it behind him. He is unshaven and hollow-eyed, but dressed.

‘Ah, Mr Moody! I hope you are rested. How are your, ah, feet?’

‘Much better. The … Elizabeth dressed them for me, very kindly. I fear I was too tired to thank her.’

‘Come and have breakfast. They should have managed to light a fire and get something under way by now. God knows it’s hard enough to get the devils to do anything in winter. Do you have these problems at your place?’

‘Fort Edgar?’

‘Yes. Where is that?’

Donald is surprised that he doesn’t know. ‘On Georgian Bay.’

‘How civilised. I dream of being posted somewhere within shouting distance of … well, somewhere people live. You must find us very poor in comparison.’

Nesbit leads Donald into the room where they had been first brought, but now the fire is burning and a table and chairs have been brought from elsewhere; Donald can see drag marks in the dust on the floor. Housekeeping is clearly not the priority here. He is not sure what is.

‘Are Mrs Ross and Mr Parker about?’

As Nesbit goes to the door, Mrs Ross comes in. She has managed to do something to her clothes that makes them look halfway presentable, and her hair is neatly dressed. The slight thaw he detected after the snowstorm seems to have ended.

‘Mr Moody.’

‘Capital! You are here … And Mr Parker?’

‘I am not sure.’ She drops her eyes and Nesbit goes out, calling for the Indian woman. Mrs Ross comes swiftly over to Donald, her face tense.

‘We must talk before Nesbit comes back. Last night I told him we are here to look for my son who has run away, not to look for a murderer. We should not put them on their guard.’

Donald gapes in astonishment. ‘My dear lady, I wish you had consulted me before inventing an untruth …’

‘There was no time. Don’t say anything else or he will be suspicious. It is best for us if they suspect nothing, you must agree with that?’ Her jaw is tight and her eyes hard as stones.

‘And what if …?’ He breaks off his whisper as Nesbit comes back in, followed by Norah with a tray. They both smile at him and Donald feels it must be obvious that they were whispering furtively. With any luck Nesbit will assume their secret is of a romantic nature … he finds himself blushing at the thought. Perhaps he has a touch of fever. As he sits at the table he reminds himself, with a conscious effort of will, of Susannah. Strange that he has not thought of her in a while.

Parker arrives, and when they are all eating grilled steaks and corn bread–Donald as if he hadn’t eaten for days–Nesbit explains that Stewart is on a hunting trip with one of the men, and apologises for the poor hospitality. However he is very proud of one thing: he speaks sharply to Norah about the coffee she brought, and she silently takes it away and comes back with a pot of something entirely different. The smell precedes her into the room–the aroma of real coffee beans, such as none of them have smelt for weeks. And when Donald tastes it, he realises that perhaps he has never drunk anything like this before. Nesbit leans back in his chair and smiles broadly.

‘Beans from South America. I bought them in New York when I was on my way over. I only grind them for special occasions.’

‘How long have you been here, Mr Nesbit?’ This from Mrs Ross.

‘Four years and five months. You’re from Edinburgh, are you not?’

‘Originally.’ Somehow she makes one word sound like a reprimand.

‘And you’re from Perth, if I’m not mistaken?’ Donald smiles at him, anxious to make amends. Then he glares at Mrs Ross; if she does not want to arouse suspicions, she should be more gracious.

‘Kincardine.’

There is a silence. Mrs Ross returns Donald’s stare coolly.

‘I’m sorry we can’t help you with Mrs Ross’s errant son. That must be a worry.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ Donald nods, embarrassed; acting is not his forte. And angry with her for taking the initiative away from him, who should be leading in a matter to do with the Company. He feels at a loss to know how to proceed.

‘So, you think …’ Donald begins, but just then there is a rapid thudding in the corridor, and a shout from outside. Nesbit is suddenly alert, like an animal, senses straining, and he gets up with a jerky movement. He turns to them with a half smile, although it is more like a grimace.

‘I think, my dears–that may be Mr Stewart returning now.’

He almost runs from the room. Donald and the others are left looking at each other. Donald feels slighted–why did Nesbit not invite them, or at least him, outside? He is aware of a nagging sense of wrongness, which leaves him floundering, without rules. After a moment’s silence, Donald excuses himself with a murmur, and hesitantly follows Nesbit out into the courtyard.

Four or five men and women are gathered in a knot around a man with a sled and a tangle of dogs. More figures appear
from different directions, some hanging back near the buildings, some going right up to the newcomer. Donald has time to wonder where they have all come from; most of them he has never seen before, although he recognises the tall woman who washed his feet last night. The newcomer, stout with furs, his face hidden under a fur hood, is talking to the group, and then a silence falls. Donald alone keeps walking towards them, and a couple of faces turn to him, staring as if he were something outlandish. He stops, confused, and then the tall woman, who has been in the first group all the time, lets out a long, high-pitched wail. She sinks down in a heap on the snow, making a high, thin, otherworldly noise that is neither scream nor sob. It goes on and on. No one attempts to comfort her.

One of the men appears to remonstrate with Stewart, who shrugs him off and walks towards the buildings. Nesbit speaks sharply to the man and follows his superior. When he sees Donald he glares at him, then recalls himself and beckons him to come back inside. His face is the same colour as the dirty snow.

‘What’s going on?’ Donald mutters when they are out of earshot of the men in the yard.

Nesbit’s mouth is pressed into a hard line. ‘Most unfortunate. Nepapanees has met with an accident. Fatal. His wife was outside there.’