But still, a keen face, or was once.
‘There are no written native languages, so why would your friend think that?’
‘I know, but, well … he has researched it. And these little figures–you see, this is just a copy, but they are like Indian drawings I have seen.’
For some reason she is pushing her copy towards him, repellent though he is. She wants him at least to take her seriously.
He studies the paper for a long time but says nothing. Maria wishes she were back at the hotel.
‘What is it a copy of?’
‘A bone tablet.’
He picks up her other papers, the ones with her tentative workings out. ‘What are these names?’
‘Oh, they’re not names; they’re what I got from trying out certain letters and sounds, you know, substituting for the marks here …’
He studies the sheets, holding them up in the light to focus better. His finger stabs the paper. ‘Deganawida. Ochinaway. You think this is what it says?’
His manner has become more aggressive. Maria lifts her chin defiantly. There is nothing wrong with her method. She learnt it from the Edinburgh Review.
‘Well, I was guessing. You have to make certain assumptions about which sounds the marks might mean, and try them out. I tried many, many things. This is what came out with one … one combination of …’
The man leans back in his seat and smiles at her; a sneering, hostile grimace. ‘Lady, is this some kind of joke? Who told you I was here?’
‘No, of course not. I had no idea … I don’t know who you are!’ She looks round, nervously, for Fredo, but he is serving some newcomers.
‘Who was it? Was it that fat bastard McGee? Huh? Or Andy Jensen? Was it Andy?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re implying, this is quite uncalled for!’
Now Fredo has heard the tone in her voice; he glances towards her … he is coming over, at last.
‘What’s your friend’s name, lady?’ insists Joe.
‘Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Joe, you’ll have to leave.’
‘I just want to know his name.’
‘Mr … Joe seems to think I am playing some sort of trick on him.’
‘Joe, apologise to the lady. Come on now.’
Joe shuts his eyes and bows his head; an oddly ethereal mannerism that restores to his ruined face a delicacy that has been blurred by time and alcohol.
‘I’m sorry. I’d just like to know the name of your friend who has this … whatever you called it.’
Maria feels braver with Fredo standing over her. And something in the man’s face when he closed his eyes, something endlessly long-suffering and pained, sad even, makes her want to answer.
‘Well, his name is Mr Sturrock, since you ask. And it is no trick. I do not play tricks.’
‘Sturrock?’ Joe looks serious. His whole demeanour sharpens, as though his connecting threads have been pulled together, transforming him. ‘Tom Sturrock. The searcher?’
‘Yes … he was. Do you know him?’
‘Did once. Well, I wish you luck, lady, and tell your friend Kahon’wes said hello.’
Maria frowns, struggling with the word. ‘Ga-hoo’ ways?’
The man, whatever his name is, gets up and walks out of the bar. Maria looks at Fredo for an explanation. But he is as surprised as she is.
‘I am so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know he would be like that. Normally he is so quiet, he just comes in and drinks, but is perfectly pleasant. Let me get you another sherry, or a piece of …’
‘No, thank you. I really must be going. My father will be waiting. How much do I …?’
‘No, no, I cannot let you pay.’
After some minutes’ insisting on both sides, Maria prevails, feeling it would not be a good precedent to become obliged to a stranger. She leaves with a flurry of papers and thank-yous, and keeps her gaze rigidly fixed ahead as she hurries away from the waterfront.
The morning has been more of an adventure than she bargained for, the path of knowledge a rocky and alarming one. But at the very least she will have something to tell Mr Sturrock, and perhaps something to rouse her father from his lethargy as well. With a sense of relief at having left the docks behind, Maria slows down to compose her story and, as she rearranges her adventure into a suspense-laden narrative with an intrepid heroine, almost manages to convince herself that she was not afraid at all.
The light is dim under the trees, and it goes early, so they stop, because the children are whining so badly. Espen tries to hide his fear, but he has no real idea how to build a snow shelter, nor how to light a fire when the snow is this deep. He clears a bare patch on the forest floor, manages after some time to light a fire with damp wood, but before their water has boiled the surrounding snow banks have melted and doused the flames. The children look on through tears of disappointment and cold. Line keeps talking and encouraging, her throat dry with thirst, lips cracked with cold. She has never talked so much in her life; she is determined not to give in, not to look scared, not to cry.
When Torbin and Anna have finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, she says, ‘We’re bound to hit the river tomorrow. The snow has slowed us down, but we’ll get there.’
Espen does not speak for a while. She has never seen him look this unhappy. ‘You didn’t see it, did you?’
‘See what? What are you talking about?’ Her imagination peoples the forest with bears, axe-waving Indians, lamp-eyed wolves. Espen looks at her sourly.
‘Our trail. This morning we came on our own trail. I saw it, and turned away. We had gone in a circle.’
Line stares back at him, wondering for a moment what this means.
‘Line, we have been going round in circles. I can’t tell what direction we’re going in. Without the compass, or seeing the sun, I have no idea.’
‘Wait. We went wrong.’ She needs to take him in hand, steady him, let him know that she is still in charge of things. ‘So we went wrong once. It probably wasn’t a big circle. We are not going round in circles. The forest has been changing. The trees are changing, getting taller, so we must be getting further south. I have noticed that, very particularly. We just need to keep going. I am sure that tomorrow we will find the river.’
He doesn’t look as though he believes her. He looks down, like a mutinous child who doesn’t want to give in, but has nowhere else to go. She takes his face in her mittened hands–it is too cold to attempt greater intimacy.
‘Espen … my darling. Don’t give up now. We’re so close. When we get to Caulfield, and we can get some rooms, we’ll be sitting in front of a roaring fire and we’ll laugh about this. Such an adventure to start our life together!’
‘And if we don’t get to Caulfield? My horse is ill. They haven’t got nearly enough to eat–or drink either. It’s been eating bark and I’m sure they’re not supposed to.’
‘We’ll get there. We’ll get somewhere. It’s only three days to cross the forest. Tomorrow we might come to the lake! Then you’ll feel foolish.’
She kisses him. This makes him laugh.
‘You are a vargamor. Unbelievable. No wonder you always get what you want.’
‘Ha.’ Line smiles, but thinks this unfair, as well as wrong. Did she want Janni to disappear into the wilderness? Did she want to go and live in Himmelvanger? Still, at least he is more cheerful, and that is the main thing. If she can keep him going, keep them all going, then they’ll be all right.
As they lie together under their pitiful shelter, clasping the children between them, Line hears things through her tiredness: the pistol crack of freezing sap, the sough of snow slipping off the branches. And once, very far away, she thinks she hears wolves, howling into the empty night, and her skin prickles with sweat, despite the cold.
In the morning Espen’s horse refuses to move. It has been eating bark and a thin diarrhoea drips down its haunches and stains the snow. It stands in a posture of abject misery. Espen tries t
o feed it a mixture of warm water and oatmeal, but it turns away. Eventually, when they set off, Espen leads it, and both children sit in front of Line on her horse. It is harder work leading–or rather dragging–the horse than simply walking, and after an hour Espen calls Line over.
‘This is crazy. It would be faster to leave him behind. But that would be terrible. What if we are nearly at the river?’
‘Let’s go on a bit longer. He might improve. The snow’s stopped and it’s a little warmer.’
It is true: the snow has lessened to nothing and it is possible to say–in certain places at least–that it seems less deep.
‘It gets harder and harder. He just wants to stand still. I think he might lie down soon. It’s exhausting me.’
‘Do you want me to lead him for a while? You can sit up with Torbin and Anna until you are rested.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do this. Not … You can’t do it.’
The horse–Bengi, although Line has schooled herself not to think of him by name–flattens his ears at them. His back seems more sunken than yesterday, his eyes dull.
‘What if we left him? We could always come back to find him later.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Line sighs. She had imagined many things, but not a sick horse throwing obstacles in her path. A few yards away, the children have dismounted and, under orders to move around to keep warm, are playing some rather dispirited game.
‘Poor old Bengi.’ Line pats his neck. The horse flicks his eyes to her in warning. She makes up her mind. ‘We leave him. If he can’t keep up, we’ll have to leave him. We’ll tell the children we’ll come back and get him, or something.’
Espen nods heavily. In a different place, another Line would weep for the horse being abandoned to its fate. But not this one.
They walk back to the children. Just then, as Line opens her mouth to explain, a loud crack resounds among the trees. It’s so loud Anna flinches and nearly falls over. They all stare at each other.
‘A hunter!’ Espen exclaims in excitement.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t just sap freezing?’ Line asks, because someone should.
‘It was too loud, and it’s different. It’s a rifle. Someone is hunting round here.’
He sounds so sure. The children whoop with such delight and relief that Line is won over. Human beings are here. Civilisation is suddenly within reach.
‘I’ll see if I can find him … Just to check we’re on the right path,’ Espen adds hastily.
‘How will you get back?’ Line says sharply.
‘Light a fire. I won’t be long. He must be very near.’ Espen starts to shout in English. ‘Hello! Hey. Who’s there? Hello!’
Without waiting for a reply he turns back to them. ‘I think it came from over there. I won’t be long. If I don’t find him, I’ll come straight back, I promise.’
Espen gives them all a big, confident grin, and walks off between the trees. His footsteps vanish into the silence. The other horse, Jutta, emits a long equine sigh.
It is interesting to note the ebb and flow of personnel at the post. The way people divide up, or are drawn together. Just from my own observation, it is evident that Olivier is not popular with the other employees. He sticks close to Stewart, runs errands for him, even apes some of his mannerisms. From the others, there is a sense of distance between white and non-white, and it is as though Olivier is a turncoat who has gone over to the other side. Initially I thought they respected Stewart, and were even fond of him. Now I’m not so sure. There is respect, but it is of a wary sort, the kind with which you might regard a potentially dangerous animal. Norah hates him, and while she presumably cares for Nesbit, she is equally rude to both. She treats Stewart with such insolence it makes me wonder if she holds some sort of power–otherwise I cannot imagine how she is allowed to get away with it. And a few times I have seen the pretty one–Nancy–in the corridor here. Since she does not appear to clean or serve, I wonder what she has been doing. Cooking, perhaps.
I am waiting for something to happen. Two hours have passed since the search party returned. I have been hovering between my room, the kitchen and the dining room–I keep finding petty things that need to be addressed, a lack of kindling (because I have thrown it outside), or spilt coffee. I am very unpopular with Norah as a result, but just after six o’clock I am rewarded by the sound of shouting from Stewart’s office. The raised voice belongs to Nesbit; it has a hysterical note.
‘For God’s sake, I keep telling you I don’t know! But it’s gone, there’s no doubt about it.’
Low murmuring from Stewart.
‘Christ, I don’t care. You promised! You’ve got to help me!’
Some more muttering–something about ‘carelessness’.
I am in the corridor, tiptoeing closer, praying to the god of creaking floorboards.
‘It has to be one of them. Who else would do that? And there’s something else … Half Man–you’ve got to keep better control of him.’
The murmuring gets even lower. For some reason, this chills me more than anything. I don’t dare go closer. What does Nesbit mean by ‘half a man’? Is he insulting Stewart? Or someone else?
Heavy footsteps approach the door. I scuttle past, and make the dining room door safely before anyone comes out. From his chair by the fire, Moody looks up as I come in.
‘Mrs Ross. There is something I would like to discuss with you …’
‘Just a moment …’ I put the coffeepot down. Outside, all seems to be quiet. ‘I’m sorry Mr Moody, I seem to have forgotten something. Excuse me a moment.’
His face droops in the narrowing rectangle as I close the door.
I walk back down the empty corridor. Stewart’s door is shut. I knock on it.
‘What is it?’ Nesbit’s voice. Very bad-tempered.
‘Oh, it is I, Mrs Ross. May I come in?’
‘I am rather busy right now.’
I open the door anyway. Nesbit looks up from the desk–I have the impression that he had just been sprawled forward over it; his face is sweaty and pale, his hair more dishevelled than ever. I feel a stirring of sympathy. I remember what it is like.
‘I said …’
‘I know, I am sorry. It is just that I feel terrible. I have broken the milk jug, I am so very sorry.’
Nesbit looks at me with a frown of mixed incomprehension and irritation. ‘For goodness sake, it really doesn’t matter. If you don’t mind …’
I take another step inside the room and close the door behind me. Nesbit flinches. There is a murderous look in his eye; a cornered animal.
‘Have you lost something? I know how vexing that can be. Perhaps I can help you?’
‘You? What are you talking about?’
But almost as soon as I closed the door, he got the idea. I have his full attention now.
‘Why would you assume I had lost anything?’
‘He keeps it for you, doesn’t he? He makes you beg.’
It is as though I have torn away a mask; his face is so white it is almost blue. His fists clench; he wants to strike me but he dares not.
‘Where is it? What have you done with it? Give it to me.’
‘I will give it back, if you tell me something.’
He frowns, but it gives him hope. He stands up and takes a step towards me, but doesn’t come too close.
‘Tell me who needs to be controlled. Who must not be spoken of?’
‘What?’
‘The first night, I heard you telling a woman not to speak of him. Who were you talking about? Just now, you told Stewart to keep better control of him. You said he was half a man. Who? Tell me who it is, and I will give it back.’
He deflates. His head turns this way and that. He half smiles. Something in him seems relieved.
‘Oh. We didn’t want Moody to find out. If it gets back to the Company … One of our men has gone mad. It’s Nepapanees. Stewart is trying to protect him, because of his family …’
‘Nepapanees? You mean he isn’t dead?’
Nesbit shakes his head.
‘He lives on his own, like a wild man. He was all right until a few weeks ago, but now he’s quite crazy. Maybe dangerous. It would mean terrible shame for his family. Stewart thought it better if they believed him dead.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s all. Ha …! I mean, it’s terrible.’
‘And he’s been away … hasn’t he, recently?’
‘He comes and goes.’
‘Three weeks ago …’
‘I don’t know where he goes. He returned about ten days ago.’
I don’t know what else to say. Or ask. He looks furtively at me. ‘Can I have it?’
For I moment I consider smashing the bottle on the floor, because something has gone wrong and I can’t put my finger on it.
‘Please.’ He takes another step towards me.
I pull it out of my pocket and hold it out: the bottle I took from beneath his mattress yesterday while he was with Moody. He grabs it, checks it to see if I’ve stolen any–a reflex, momentary action–then turns away and drinks from it. A remnant of dignity wanting to preserve some privacy. It takes a while for it to work that way, but perhaps he has no other. He remains in that position, staring at the curtains.
‘And where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. Far from here, I hope.’
‘Is this true?’
‘Yes.’
I can just see the bottle in his hand. What would I not give to take it from him, and drink?
He doesn’t look at me again. His voice is low, already composed again. It brings me back to myself. I leave him standing by the desk, his back to me, but with shoulders squared and defiant.
I walk back to the dining room. Nepapanees a madman. Nepapanees Jammet’s insane killer? This is, it seems, what I wanted to find. But I feel no triumph. No satisfaction. I don’t know what to think, but I can’t keep from my mind the picture of Elizabeth Bird, sitting in the snow, deliberately scalding her flesh out of grief.
Stewart comes to her house when they get back. He looks concerned, like a father with a wayward child; ready to be indulgent, but only up to a point.