The Tenderness of Wolves

  ‘Good Heavens,’ he says with obvious irritation. ‘So it’s true …’

  ‘Hello!’ Donald is even more cheered to hear a Scottish accent.

  ‘Well … welcome.’ The other man recovers a little. ‘Forgive me, it’s such a long time since we had visitors, and in winter … extraordinary. I have quite forgotten my manners …’

  ‘Donald Moody, Company accountant at Fort Edgar.’ Donald sticks out his hand, swaying.

  ‘Ah, Mr Moody. Er, Nesbit. Frank Nesbit, assistant factor.’

  Donald is momentarily troubled by the phrase ‘assistant factor’, which is not a position he has ever heard of, but remembers himself enough to make a flourish towards Mrs Ross. ‘This is Mrs Ross, and that is …’ Parker reappears in the gateway, a menacing figure with a large stick ‘… er, Parker, who has guided us here.’

  Nesbit shakes their hands, then gazes down at Donald’s feet with horror. ‘My God, your feet … have you no boots?’

  ‘Yes, but I have been in some discomfort, so I took them off, over there … it is nothing, though, really. Merely blisters, you know …’

  Donald experiences a pleasantly light-headed sensation, and wonders if he is going to fall over. Nesbit shows no inclination to take them indoors, even though it is nearly dark and freezing hard. He seems nervous and jumpy, wondering out loud whether he can expect them to use the terribly neglected guest rooms, or whether he should turn himself out of his quarters … Eventually, after dithering for what seems to Donald like hours in which his feet, already cold, lose feeling altogether, he leads them round the corner and through a doorway. He leads them down an unlit corridor and opens the door of a large, unheated room.

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to wait here for a moment. I will fetch someone to light the fire and bring you something hot. Excuse me …’

  Nesbit withdraws, banging the door behind him. Donald hobbles over to the empty fireplace and sinks down into a chair beside it.

  Parker disappears, claiming he has to see to the dogs. Donald thinks of Fort Edgar, where visitors are always a cause for celebration and treated like royalty. Perhaps half the staff here have deserted; he notices the fireplace is extremely dirty, before succumbing as the exhaustion that has been waiting to claim him closes his eyes like a velvet hand.

  ‘Mr Moody!’

  Her voice is sharp, causing him to open his eyes again.

  ‘Mm? Yes, Mrs Ross?’

  ‘Let us not say anything about why we are here, not tonight. Let us see how things are first. We do not want them to be on their guard.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He closes his eyes again. He cannot imagine holding a coherent conversation until he has had some sleep. Just to be out of the raw, cutting cold is bliss.

  He shut his eyes for what felt like only a moment, but when he opens them again the fire is lit and Mrs Ross is nowhere in sight. The window has turned black and he has no idea of the time. But it is such a luxury to sit in this warmth that he cannot bring himself to move. Only if there were a bed; that would probably get him going. Then through his monumental tiredness he realises there is someone else in the room. He turns to see a half-breed woman who has brought in a bowl of water and some bandages. She nods to him and sits on the floor by his feet, where she begins to unwrap the blood-crusted linen.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Donald is somewhat embarrassed by this attention, and the disgusting state of the bandages. He tries and fails to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn. ‘My name is … Donald Moody, Company accountant at Fort Edgar. What is your name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Bird.’

  She barely looks at him, but sets about cleaning the wounds on his feet. Donald allows his head to loll back against the chair, happy not to talk, or even think. His duties can wait until tomorrow. Before that, to the rhythm of the dark woman’s hands wiping his feet, he can sleep and sleep and sleep.

  The courtyard is completely dark and I cannot hear dogs anywhere, which is odd. Normally, when dogs arrive at a place, there is a frenzied contest of barking and snarling, but when we came, there was silence. I call for Parker. A wind whips round me and a few flakes of snow sting my face. There is no reply, and I experience a lurch of dread; perhaps now that we have arrived, he has gone on to wherever his business takes him. Just when I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes, someone opens a door to my left and spills a rectangle of light onto the snow. There is a hurried, urgent argument, and I hear Nesbit’s voice.

  ‘You’d better not say anything about him if you don’t want to feel my hand. In fact, it would be better if you just stayed out of the way altogether!’

  The other voice is unclear–but it is a woman’s voice, remonstrating with him. Without thinking clearly, I have moved deeper into the shadow of overhanging eaves. But nothing else is audible, until Nesbit finishes the argument, if that is what it is, with a querulous, ‘Oh for God’s sake, do as you like then. Just wait till he comes back!’

  The door bangs shut and Nesbit starts across the courtyard, scrubbing one hand through his hair, which doesn’t make it any tidier. I open and close the door behind me and step out into the courtyard to meet him, as though I had just that moment come outside.

  ‘Oh, Mr Nesbit, there you are …’

  ‘Ah, Mrs …’ He stops dead, his hand groping in the air.

  ‘Ross.’

  ‘Mrs Ross, of course. Forgive me. I was just …’ He gives a short laugh. ‘I apologise for abandoning you. Has no one lit the fire? You’ll have to forgive us at the moment. We’re a little short-staffed I’m afraid, and at this time of year …’

  ‘There is no need to apologise. We have imposed rather suddenly on you.’

  ‘No imposition. No imposition at all. The Company prides itself on its hospitality and all that … More than welcome, I assure you.’ He smiles at me, although it seems to be something of an effort. ‘You must join me for dinner … and Mr Moody and Mr Parker as well, of course.’

  ‘Mr Moody was asleep when I came out. I fear he has suffered a great deal with blisters.’

  ‘And you have not? I must say that is remarkable. Where did you say you have come from?’

  ‘Why don’t we go inside? It’s so cold …’

  I’m not sure how to broach this one. I wanted to talk to Parker about it, but Parker is nowhere to be seen. I follow Nesbit down another corridor–there seem to be any number of doors leading off it–into a small warm room where a fire burns in the grate. A Sutherland table sits in the centre, with two chairs. Pinned to the walls are coloured pictures of racehorses and prizefighters, cut from magazines.

  ‘Please sit down, please. Yes. A bit warmer in here, eh? Nothing like a good fire in this God-awful place …’

  He suddenly and without warning leaves the room, leaving me wondering what has just happened. I haven’t opened my mouth.

  Among the fighters and the horses are a couple of good prints, and I see that the furniture is also good; brought over, not country-made. The table is mahogany, burnished with use and age; the chairs fruit-wood with lyre backs, possibly Italian. Above the fire is a small hunting scene in a rich gilded frame, dark and glowing with the red coats of the huntsmen. And there are glasses on the table of a heavy lead crystal, finely engraved with birds. There is a man here with taste and cultivation, and I suspect it isn’t Nesbit.

  Nesbit bursts back into the room with another chair. ‘Normally, you see …’ he speaks as though he never left the room ‘… there are only the two of us–officers I mean, so we are very quiet. I have asked for some supper, so … Ah ha, of course!’ He springs up again, having just sat down. ‘You’d like a glass of brandy, I expect. We have some that is rather good. I brought it myself, from Kingston, summer before last.’

  ‘Just a small glass. I fear, any more, and I will fall asleep on the spot.’ This is the truth. The warmth is soaking into my limbs for the first time in days, making my eyes heavy.

  He pours two glasses, taking considerable trouble to make sure the levels are the
same in each, and hands me one of them.

  ‘Well, slainthé. And what brings you and your friends here–this unexpected but welcome pleasure?’

  I put down my glass carefully. It’s annoying that we didn’t have time to discuss our story before arriving; or rather, not that we didn’t have time, since we had six days, but that somehow it never seemed the right time to bring it up. I run over my story one more time, testing it for weaknesses. I hope Moody doesn’t wake up for a long time.

  ‘We have come from Himmelvanger–do you know it?’

  Nesbit stares at me with intense brown eyes. ‘No, no, I don’t believe I do.’

  ‘It is home to a group of Lutherans. Norwegians. They are endeavouring to build a community where they can live good lives in the sight of God.’

  ‘Admirable.’

  The fingers of his right hand fidget ceaselessly with a stub of pencil, flicking it back and forth, twirling it round, drumming it faintly on the table; and something clicks into place. Laudanum, or perhaps strychnine. God knows what misfortune brought him all the way up here, far from druggists and doctors.

  ‘We undertook this journey because …’ I stop and sigh heavily. ‘This is painful to relate … my son ran away from home. He was last seen at Himmelvanger, and from there, there was a trail that led in this direction.’

  Nesbit’s face, his eyes so intently on me it makes my skin crawl, relaxes a little. Perhaps he was waiting for something else after all.

  ‘A trail in this direction? All the way here?’

  ‘It seemed so, although after the snowstorm we could not be certain.’

  ‘No.’ He nods his head thoughtfully.

  ‘But Mr Parker thought this the most likely place. There are not many settlements in this part of the country, I believe–in fact, very few.’

  ‘No, we are quite isolated. Is he … very young, your son?’

  ‘Seventeen.’ I drop my eyes. ‘You can understand how worried I am.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And Mr Moody …?’

  ‘Mr Moody kindly offered to accompany us since we were coming to a Company post. I believe he is anxious to meet your factor.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I am sure … Well, Mr Stewart has gone on a short trip, but he should return in the next day or so.’

  ‘You have neighbours?’

  ‘No, he has gone hunting. It is a keen interest of his.’

  Nesbit has already drained and refilled his glass. I sip mine slowly. ‘So … you have not seen or heard of any stranger?’

  ‘Alas, no. No one at all. But perhaps he may have met an Indian band, or some trappers … All sorts of people do come and go. You’d be surprised, even in winter, how people gad about.’

  I sigh again, and look despondent, which is not difficult. He takes my glass and refills it.

  The door opens, and a short, broad Indian woman of indeterminate age comes in with a tray.

  ‘The other man, he wants to sleep,’ she says, with a baleful look at Nesbit.

  ‘Yes, all right Norah. Well, put it down … thank you. Could you see if you could possibly locate the other visitor?’

  There is a trace of sarcasm in his voice. The woman dumps the tray on the table with a crash.

  With clumsy panache Nesbit uncovers the tray and serves me a plate of moose steak and corn hash. The plate itself is good, English, but the steak is old and gristly; not much better than the stuff we have been eating on our journey. I have to struggle to keep my eyes open and my wits about me. Nesbit eats little but drinks steadily, so fortunately his perceptions are not the sharpest. I feel an urgent need to get him to talk now, tonight, while he still has no reason to suspect.

  ‘So, who lives here? Are you a large company?’

  ‘Lord, no! We are very small. This is not exactly the heart of fur country. Not any more.’ He smiles bitterly, but not, I think, from any thwarted personal ambition. ‘There is Mr Stewart, the factor, and he is one of the finest men you could hope to meet. Then there is your humble servant, general dogsbody … !’ He sketches a sardonic bow. ‘And then there are several half-breed and native families around the place.’

  ‘So that woman who came in, Norah–she is the wife of one of your men?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Nesbit takes a swig of brandy.

  ‘And what do the voyageurs do in winter?’ I think of the half-dressed man in the courtyard. He could barely stand. Nesbit seems to read my thoughts.

  ‘Ah, well, when there is little to do, like now, I’m afraid they are … prey to temptations. The winters are very long.’

  His eyes have lost their focus and look glassy and bloodshot, though whether from alcohol or something else, I don’t know.

  ‘But people travel around, even so …’

  ‘Oh yes, there is hunting and so on, for the men–and Mr Stewart … Not my cup of tea.’ He makes an elegant expression of distaste. ‘A little trapping, of course. We take what we can get.’

  ‘And has anyone from here come up from the south-west recently? I just wonder whether the trail we saw could be one of your men, and not my son. Then we would know to … look elsewhere.’ I try to keep my voice as neutral as possible, but tinged with sadness.

  ‘One of ours …?’ He assumes a look of extreme vagueness, his brow almost comically furrowed. But then, he is drunk. ‘I can’t think … no, not that I know of. I could ask …’

  He smiles at me frankly. I think he’s lying, but I’m so tired it’s hard to be sure of anything. The longing to lie down and sleep has suddenly become as imperative as a physical pain. After another minute I can’t fight it any longer.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Nesbit, but I … have to retire.’

  Nesbit stands up and grips my arm, as though he thinks I am about to fall, or run away. Even the sudden chill in the corridor cannot rouse me.

  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 experienci
ng 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.’