The Tenderness of Wolves

  She swears them to secrecy–if they tell anyone about this, they won’t be able to go on holiday at all, and she has painted a picture of the warm south that appeals to both of them. Hopefully one day they might even be able to go there.

  As she stands up and starts to usher them back to their bedroom–at least it is still dark–there is a movement near the door. She freezes, and the children freeze too, infected by her sudden fear. Then a voice:

  ‘Is someone there?’

  For a moment–the shortest fragment of a second–she believes it is Espen, and her heart leaps. Then she realises the voice was not his. They have been discovered.

  The man walks towards them. Line is immobile with the shock. What can she possibly say? It takes her another second to realise that he spoke English, not Norwegian. It is the half-breed, Jacob. She isn’t lost; not yet. He lights a lamp, and holds it in the air between them.

  ‘Oh, Mrs …’ Then he realises that he doesn’t know, or can’t pronounce, her name. ‘Hello Torbin. Hello Anna.’

  ‘I’m sorry if we have disturbed you,’ Line says stiffly. What is he doing here? Does he sleep in the stable?

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Well then. Goodnight.’ She smiles and walks past him, then, when the children are walking in front of her across the yard, she turns back.

  ‘Please, it is most important to say nothing of this, to anyone. Anyone at all. I beg you … or my life is not worth living, I cannot stress this too much. Can I trust you?’

  Jacob has put out the lantern, as if appreciating the need for secrecy. ‘Yes,’ he says simply. He does not even sound curious. ‘You can trust me.’

  Line helps the children undress and watches as they fall asleep. She is too agitated to sleep. She pushes the bag behind a chair. She cannot bear to unpack, it seems too much like an admission of failure. In the morning she will have to strew clothes around to disguise it; hopefully that will fool anyone who chooses to look in. Oh, to go somewhere where she has her own house, with doors you can lock. She detests this lack of privacy; it chafes like a bridle.

  At breakfast she is wary, showing her bland and cheerful mask to the community. She does not even glance towards Espen until halfway through the meal, and then his head is bowed. He does not look in her direction. She tries to assess whether he or Merete looks particularly tired, but it is hard to tell. The baby is crying, so perhaps it has colic. She will have to bide her time.

  It is afternoon when she gets her chance. He comes to her when she is feeding the chickens. One minute he is there, although she did not see him arrive. She waits for him to speak.

  ‘Line, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to tell you … Merete couldn’t sleep for hours and I didn’t know what to do.’ He is fidgeting, restless, his eyes everywhere but on her. Line sighs.

  ‘Well, it’s all right. I made up some story for the children. We will go tonight. One o’clock.’

  He is silent for a moment.

  ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  He sighs. She finds she is trembling.

  ‘Because if you have, I won’t go without you. I will stay, and I will tell everyone that I am carrying your child. I will shame you in front of everyone. In front of your wife and children. If Per turns me out, I don’t care. We might freeze to death. Your child will die and I will die. And you will be responsible. Are you prepared for that?’

  Espen’s face goes pale. ‘Line, don’t say such things! That’s awful … I wasn’t going to say I wouldn’t come. It’s just hard, that’s all. What I have to leave behind … you don’t have to leave anything behind.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘Who? Merete? You know I don’t. I love you.’

  ‘Tonight at one, then. If Merete can’t sleep you will just have to think of an excuse.’

  His face is resigned. It is going to be all right. It is just that he is a man who needs to be led, as many do.

  *

  Still, Line does not know how she gets through the remaining hours of the day. She cannot sit still, and observing her restless fidgeting as they sew their quilts, Britta says, ‘What’s the matter, girl? Ants in your pants?’ It is all Line can do to smile.

  But finally, of course, finally it is one o’clock and they are on their way to the stables. As soon as they push the door closed, she can feel that Espen is there. His voice whispers her name in the dark.

  ‘It is us,’ she replies.

  He lights a lamp and smiles at the children, who look at him with a doubtful, suspicious shyness.

  ‘Are you looking forward to your holiday?’

  ‘Why do we have to go in the middle of the night? Are we running away?’ This from sharp Torbin.

  ‘Of course not. We need to leave early, so that we can cover a good distance before it gets dark again. This is the way people travel in winter.’

  ‘Hurry up, no more chatter. You’ll see when we get there.’ Line is worried and her voice is sharp.

  Espen straps their bags behind the saddles–he has already made the horses ready. Line feels a surge of fondness for the stout, slow-moving creatures; they do whatever is asked of them, without fuss or argument, even at one o’clock in the morning. They lead them outside, where the yard is so muddy their hooves make no noise. There are no lights in the whole of Himmelvanger, but they lead the horses to a copse of scrub birch, out of view of any windows, before Espen helps the children and Line onto the horses’ backs and then springs into the saddle behind Torbin. Line has a stolen compass in her hand.

  ‘We go south-east to start with.’ She looks up at the sky. ‘Look, there are stars. They will help us. We are going towards that one there, see?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask God to bless our journey?’ Torbin squirms round to look at his mother. He can be a pedantic boy at times, always wanting to be correct, and he has lived at Himmelvanger for three years, where you barely move without saying a quick prayer.

  ‘Of course. I was just about to.’

  Espen reins in his mount, and drops his head. Mutters quickly, as though Per’s pious ears can pick up a prayer for miles around, ‘May the Lord God who is King of all there is in heaven and on earth, who sees and protects all, watch over us in our journey, guide us safe from dangers, and keep us on the right path. Amen.’

  Line digs her heels into her horse’s sides. The dark mass of Himmelvanger grows smaller and smaller behind them. With the clear sky, it has got cold. Much colder than the night before. They have left just in time.

  Ever since her father came home after his incarceration, he has seemed a different man. He sits alone in his study, not reading or writing letters or in other ways occupying himself, but staring out the window for long periods without moving. Maria knows this because she has peered in through the study keyhole, having been forbidden to disturb him. It is not like him to cut himself off from her, and she is worried.

  Susannah is also worried, but for different reasons. Of course she is concerned for her father and his peculiar behaviour, but he still takes all his meals with the family, and is cheerful enough. It’s not as though, as she says to her sister, he can go on with his magisterial duties at the moment; so what else should he be doing? No, Susannah has decided to become passionately concerned for Donald. He and Jacob have been gone for three weeks, which is not particularly long, although they did expect to be back sooner. Maria and Susannah have speculated on the reason. The most obvious answer is that they have not found Francis Ross. If he were dead, they would have returned. Likewise if they had found him nearby.

  ‘But what if they found Francis, and he killed them to escape justice?’ Susannah asks with rounded eyes, on the verge of tears.

  Maria is scornful. ‘Can you really see Francis Ross killing Mr Moody and Jacob, when they are both armed? Besides, he wouldn’t have the strength. He’s no taller than you. Really, that’s about the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Maria …’ her mother remonstrates f
rom the chair where she does her sewing.

  Susannah shrugs, irritated. ‘I just think they would have sent a message before now.’

  ‘If there are no people to carry messages, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not as though they are in the middle of … Outer Mongolia.’

  ‘Actually, Mongolia is far more densely populated than Canada,’ Maria can’t stop herself from saying.

  ‘If that is supposed to reassure me, well … it doesn’t!’ Susannah gets up and walks out of the sitting room, slamming the door.

  ‘You could be kinder,’ says Mrs Knox, mildly. ‘She is worried.’

  Maria bites back a rejoinder. She may be worried too, but as usual everyone is more concerned for Susannah’s emotional state than her own.

  ‘The fact is, it is worrying. One would have expected to get some sort of message by now. In a way I’m surprised the Company hasn’t sent someone to look for them.’

  ‘Well, in my experience …’ Mrs Knox bites off a thread with a snap ‘… bad news always travels fastest.’

  The atmosphere in the house is stifling, what with her father sitting like a sphinx in his study, and Susannah’s tears, and her mother’s weird calm. Maria decides she needs to get away from them all. The truth is she was slightly disturbed by her own reaction to the discussion about Moody. She too has been wondering what has happened to them, and hoping that he is all right; just as you would be concerned about any friend you haven’t heard from in a while. It doesn’t mean anything. But she has been thinking about his face, surprised at the detail that has remained with her: the freckles high on his cheekbones, the way his spectacles slip down his nose, and the humorous smile whenever he is asked a question, as though he doubts his ability to answer it, but is prepared to have a go anyway.

  She reaches the store with a few inches of icy mud clinging to her boots and skirt. Mrs Scott is behind the counter, and only lifts her head a fraction when Maria comes in. When she greets her, Maria catches sight of a swollen, yellowing bruise high on her left cheekbone, spoiling the perfect symmetry of her face. Mrs Scott–or Rachel Spence as she was once known–played the Virgin Mary in the school nativity. Older townspeople still remind her of it, but it is a long time since they enquired after one of the frequent accidents she seems to suffer nowadays.

  Mr Sturrock is in his room. Maria waits by the stove downstairs, not certain that he will see her, but he comes down a minute later.

  ‘Miss Knox. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Mr Sturrock. Boredom, I’m afraid.’

  He shrugs elegantly, taking it in the spirit in which it was meant. ‘I am glad of it, if it brings you here.’

  There is something about his expression that makes her slightly self-conscious. If he were a younger man, she would suspect him of making love to her. Perhaps he is. She thinks it would be typical if the only male interest she elicits is from a man older than her father.

  Sturrock calls for coffee and then says, ‘Would you think it very improper if I were to invite you up to my room? Only there is something I would very much like to show you.’

  ‘No, I would not think it improper.’ And, the strange thing is, despite her suspicions, she doesn’t.

  His room is musty, but clean. He clears the table by the window of a pile of papers, and arranges the two chairs. Maria sits down, enjoying his attentions. He must have been a remarkably handsome man when young, and indeed is still so, with his thick silver hair and clear blue eyes. She smiles at herself for her foolishness.

  The view from the window is of the street in front of the store; excellent for a watcher of human traffic. Everyone in Caulfield comes to the store sooner or later. Even her own house is partially visible in the distance, and obliquely beyond, the expanse of grey water brooding under low cloud.

  ‘Hardly palatial, but I find it serves.’

  ‘Are you working here?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He sits down, and pushes a piece of paper towards her. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Maria picks up the page, torn, not freshly, from a notebook. It has pencil marks on it, but at first she cannot decide which way up it is meant to go. There are small angular marks–mainly lines in various configurations: diagonals, parallels and so on. Around these marks are sketched a few small stick figures, but in no discernible pattern. She studies it carefully.

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can make nothing of it. Is it complete?’

  ‘Yes–as far as I know. It is copied from a whole piece, but there may of course be others.’

  ‘Copied from what? It’s not Babylonian, is it, although in some ways it looks rather like cuneiform writing.’

  ‘That was my first thought also. But it isn’t Babylonian, or hieroglyphics, or Linear Greek. Nor is it Sanskrit, or Hebrew, or Aramaic, or Arabic’

  Maria smiles; he is setting her a puzzle, and she likes puzzles. ‘Well, it isn’t Chinese or Japanese. I don’t know, I don’t recognise it–these figures … Is it an African language of some sort?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I would be impressed if you could. This is something that I have taken to museums and universities and shown to many experts on languages, and none of them had any idea what it was.’

  ‘And something makes you think that it is more than a … an abstract pattern? I mean, these figures look quite childish.’

  ‘I fear that is more to do with my lack of skill at reproducing them. The originals have a definite presence. As you said, this is only part of it. But yes, I do think it is more than a few scratches.’

  ‘Scratches?’

  ‘The original is cut into a piece of bone, and coloured with some black pigment, possibly a soot mixture. It is very carefully done. There are these figures all around the outside, in a chain. I think the marks are a language and record an event of some sort, and the figures illustrate it.’

  ‘Really? You deduced all that? Where is the original?’

  ‘I wish I knew. It was promised to me by the man who owned it, but …’ He shrugs. Maria watches him closely.

  ‘This man … was it Jammet?’

  ‘Well done.’

  She feels a thrill of satisfaction. ‘So then it will be with his effects, won’t it?’

  ‘It has gone.’

  ‘Gone? You mean, stolen?’

  ‘I cannot say. It was either stolen, or he sold it or gave it to someone else. But I think the last two are unlikely; he said he would keep it for me.’

  ‘So … are you waiting to see if Mr Moody brings it back?’

  ‘It may be a vain hope, but, yes.’

  Maria looks at the paper again. ‘You know, it does remind me of something … or rather, the figures do. I’m not sure what, though. I can’t remember.’

  ‘I would be grateful if you would try.’

  ‘Please Mr Sturrock, put me out of my misery. What is it?’

  ‘I regret I cannot. I do not know.’

  ‘But you have an idea.’

  ‘Yes. This may sound fantastical, but … I have a–well, I suppose hope is the best word. I have a hope that it is an Indian language.’

  ‘You mean … American Indian? But there are no written Indian languages–everyone knows that.’

  ‘Perhaps there were once.’

  Maria absorbs what he has said. He looks entirely serious.

  ‘How old is the original?’

  ‘Well–I would need to have it to find out.’

  ‘Do you know where it came from?’

  ‘No, and it will be hard to find out, now.’

  ‘So …’ She considers her words carefully, not wanting to offend him. ‘Of course, you have thought of the possibility that it could be a fake?’

  ‘I have. But fakes are generally only made where there is something to be gained by it. Where there is a market for such artefacts. Why would anyone go to the quite considerable trouble of making something that has no value?’

  ‘But it is the reason you are he
re, in Caulfield, isn’t it? So you must believe in it.’

  ‘I am not rich.’ He smiles, self-mocking. ‘But there is always the possibility–however slight–that it is genuine.’

  Maria smiles again, unsure what she thinks. Her natural scepticism is a barrier put up to protect herself from ridicule, and it is her way to play devil’s advocate. But she is afraid that he is following a false trail.

  ‘Those figures … they do remind me of Indian drawings I have seen. Calendars, and so on, you know.’

  ‘You are not convinced.’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps if I saw the original …’

  ‘Of course, you would need that. You are right, that is why I am here. It is an interest of mine, Indian affairs and history. I used to write articles. I was known for it, in a small way. I do believe …’ he pauses, glances out of the window ‘… I do believe that if the Indians had a written culture, their treatment at our hands would have been different.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I had a friend, an Indian friend, who used to talk of such a possibility. You see, it is not entirely unheard of.’

  If Sturrock is disappointed by her response, he does not show it. Feeling as though she has been harsh, she reaches for it.

  ‘May I copy it? If you would allow–I could take it away and … try some things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Writing is a code, isn’t it? And any code may be broken.’ She shrugs, disclaiming any expertise in that area. Sturrock smiles and pushes it over to her.

  ‘Of course, you are more than welcome. I have tried myself, but with no success to speak of.’

  Maria is very doubtful that she will be of any use, but it is, at the least, something to take her mind off the frustrations and concerns that surround her on every side.

  He is of middle age and height, with striking blue eyes in a weathered face, and close-cut hair that is halfway in turning from fair to grey. Apart from the eyes his appearance is unremarkable, but the overall impression is modest, attractive, trustworthy. I can imagine him as a country lawyer or doctor, some sort of public servant who has channelled his intelligence to the greater good–except perhaps for those eyes, which are piercing, far-sighted, bright yet dreamy. The eyes of a prophet. I am surprised, even charmed. For some reason I was expecting a monster.