The Tenderness of Wolves

  So that is why I force myself to look, however much my eyes burn. I have to see. I have to remember this.

  The snow is thinner on the ground under the trees. The derelict cabin has become so weathered that it is invisible until you are right up against it. The door is ajar, drooping from rotten hinges, and snow has found its way inside, forming a partial barrier. Parker climbs over this, and I follow, pulling my scarf from my face. There is only one shuttered window, and it is blessedly dark. The interior holds nothing that indicates it might once have been a habitation, just a heap of bundles, whitened with drift.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Trapper’s cabin. Could be a hundred years old.’

  The cabin, sagging and dilapidated, its timbers silver with weather, really could be that old. I’m fascinated by the thought. The oldest building in Dove River has been on this earth exactly thirteen years.

  I stumble over something on the floor. ‘Are these the furs?’ I point to the bundles. Parker nods, and goes to one, slicing a binding with his knife. He pulls out a dark, greyish pelt.

  ‘Ever seen one of these before?’

  I take it, and in my hands it is supple, cold and unbelievably soft. I have seen one before, in Toronto I think, wrapped around the wattled throat of a rich old woman. A silver fox fur. People were commenting on it, how it was worth a hundred guineas, or some such extraordinary sum. It is silvery, and heavy, and as slippery and smooth as silk. It is all those things. But worth all this?

  I feel disappointed in Parker. I don’t know what I expected, but somehow, at the end of all this, I hate to admit that he has come all this way for the same thing as Stewart.

  We set up camp in the cabin without speaking. Parker works silently, but it is a different sort of silence, not the usual total absorption in whatever he is doing. I can tell he is preoccupied with something else.

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’

  ‘Not long.’

  Neither of us specifies what we mean, but we both know it is not the task at hand. I keep peering out of the cabin door, which faces south, so you cannot see the route we took. The light outside is dazzling; every glance sends a stabbing pain deep into my skull. But I can’t stay in the cabin; I have to be alone.

  I keep within the trees that line the west shore, moving up to the black, unfrozen part of the lake, drawn by the falls at its head, which move but are uncannily silent. When I see them I pick up dead branches in a desultory way, for firewood. Will we even have a fire, if we are waiting for Stewart? There is a sour, metallic taste in my mouth that I have come to know well. The taste of my cowardice.

  It is only a hundred yards to the head of the lake, so you would think it would be impossible to get lost. But that is exactly what I do. I stay close to the edge of the lake, but even walking back along the shore, I cannot see the cabin anywhere. Initially I don’t panic. I retrace my steps to the falls, where the water is dark, smoking, ringed with progressively paler ice. I feel that urge–as the walker on the cliff is impelled to go ever closer to the edge–to walk out onto the ice, from white to grey, to see how strong it is. To walk as far as I can, and then a little further.

  I turn back, keeping the setting sun and its fiery flashes to my right, and walk into the trees again. The trunks break the sunlight into pulsing waves that streak and smear across my sight, making me dizzy. I shut my eyes, but when I open them I can see nothing at all–a burning blankness wipes over everything and the pain makes me cry out. Despite what I know, I have the sudden fear that my eyes will not recover. Rare for snow-blindness to become permanent, but it has been known. And then I think, would that be so bad? It would mean Parker’s would be the last face I ever saw.

  I am on my hands and knees, tripped by what seems to be a mound of churned snow. I pat the ground with my hands: the lair of some animal, perhaps. The earth is dark and loose beneath the snow. A flicker of fresh alarm ignites in me; it must be a very large animal to have dug up so much earth, and so recently–it seems friable and fresh, yielding under my hand. I start to push myself up and my hand meets something just under the earth that makes me stagger back with a yell before I can stop myself. It is soft and cold, with the unmistakable give of cloth or … or …

  ‘Mrs Ross?’

  Somehow he is next to me before I hear him approach. The blankness dissolves a little and I can see his dark shape, but my eyes are playing tricks on me; red and violet shapes blur with branches and patches of white snow. He takes my arm and says, ‘Shh, there’s no one here.’

  ‘Over there … something in the ground. I touched it.’

  A wave of nausea fills me and then recedes. I can no longer see the earth mound, but Parker scouts around and finds it. I stand where I am, wiping the tears that run ceaselessly (for no reason, as I am not crying) from my eyes. If I don’t wipe them away immediately, they freeze onto my cheek in little pearls.

  ‘It’s one of them isn’t it? One of the Norwegians.’ I can’t get the feeling of it off my hand, which is unaccountably bare.

  Parker is squatting now, scraping earth and snow away. ‘It isn’t one of the Norwegians.’

  I heave a sigh of relief. So an animal after all. I pick up handfuls of snow and scour my hands to clean them of that terrible feeling.

  ‘It’s Nepapanees.’

  I take a few steps towards him, unsteady, as my eyes cannot be relied on to tell the truth. Parker on the ground flickers and burns before me like a guy on the fifth of November.

  ‘Stay back.’

  I can’t see much anyway, and my feet keep moving closer of their own accord. Then Parker is on his feet and holding me by the arms, blocking me from the thing in the ground.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  After a moment he steps aside, but keeps hold of my arm as I kneel beside the shallow grave. By keeping my eyes almost closed I can make out what’s on the ground. Parker has scraped away enough snow and earth to uncover a man’s head and torso. The body lies face down, its braided hair soiled, but the red and yellow thread binding the braids is still bright.

  I don’t have to turn him over. He didn’t go through the ice and drown. There is a wound in his back the size of my fist.

  It isn’t until we get back to the cabin that I notice my latest imbecility. I must have lost my mittens somewhere in the trees, and the skin on my fingers is white and numb. Two cardinal sins in as many days; I deserve to be shot.

  ‘I’m sorry, stupid of me …’ Apologising again. Useless, stupid, helpless burden.

  ‘They’re not too bad.’

  The sun has gone for the night, the sky is a tender blue-green. A fire burns inside the cabin, and Parker has heaped up a fortune in furs as a bed.

  This is only the second time I have let this happen to me; the other was during my first winter here, and I learnt my lesson then. I seem to have forgotten much in the last few weeks. Like how to protect myself. In all sorts of ways.

  Parker chafes my hands with snow. The feeling in my fingers is creeping back, and they have started to burn.

  ‘So Stewart was here–he knows about the furs.’

  Parker nods.

  ‘I am worried I won’t be able to use the gun.’

  Parker grunts. ‘Maybe it won’t be necessary.’

  ‘It would probably be best if you took them both. I can just …’

  I was going to be another pair of eyes. Look out for him. Protect him. Now I can’t even do that.

  ‘I’m sorry. I am no help.’ I smother a bitter laugh. It seems inappropriate.

  ‘I am glad you’re here.’

  I can’t see his expression–if I look straight at him, bright flares fill the centre of my vision; I can only see him in glimpses, from the corners of my eyes.

  He is glad I am here.

  ‘You found Nepapanees.’

  I pull my hands away. ‘Thank you. I can do that now.’

  ‘No,
wait.’ Parker unbuttons his blue shirt. He takes back my left hand and guides it inside, to where his right arm meets his body, where he traps it in his warm flesh. I reach my right hand into the other armpit, and so we are locked like that, an arm’s length apart, face to face. I put my head on his chest, because I do not want him staring at my face, with its red, weeping eyes. And its burning cheeks. And its smile.

  With my ear against a sliver of bare skin I can hear Parker’s heart beating. Is it fast? I do not know if this is normal. My heart is fast, I know that. My hands are searing, coming back to life with the warmth of skin I have never seen. Parker pushes the bundled silver pelt under my head; a hundred-guinea pillow that is soft and cool. The weight of his arm rests on my back. When, some time later, I move a little, I find that he is holding the hair that has come loose, twisted into a rope in his hand. He strokes it, absently, like stroking one of his dogs. Possibly. Or perhaps not. We don’t speak. There is nothing that can be said. No sound but our breathing, and the hiss of the fire. And the unsteady beat of his heart.

  To be honest, if I could be granted one wish, I would wish that this night would never end. I am selfish, I know. I do not pretend otherwise. And very probably wicked. I do not seem to care for the men who have lost their lives, not if it means that in the end I get to lie here like this, with my lips close to a triangle of warm skin, so that he can feel my breath come and go.

  I do not deserve to have my wishes granted, but then, I remind myself, whether I do or not, it makes no difference.

  Somewhere out there, Stewart is coming.

  I am woken by a light touch on the shoulder. Parker crouches beside me, rifle in hand. Instantly I know we are not alone. He hands me his hunting knife.

  ‘Take this. I’m going to take both guns. Stay inside and keep listening.’

  ‘They are here?’

  He doesn’t need to answer.

  There is no noise from outside. No wind. The clear, icy weather continues, the stars and a waning moon lending a soft almost-light to the snow. No birdsong. No sound of beast or man.

  But they are here.

  Parker positions himself beside the makeshift door and peers out through the cracks. I shuffle over to the wall behind the door, clutching the knife. I can’t imagine what I could do with it.

  ‘It’s nearly dawn. They know we’re here.’

  I’ve always hated waiting. I don’t have the gift that all hunters have, of letting time pass without worrying at every moment. I strain to hear the slightest sound, and am beginning to think that Parker may be mistaken, when there is a light scraping outside, on the very wall of the cabin, it seems. The blood seems to go slack in my veins, and I make a sudden involuntary movement–I swear I can’t help it–and the blade of the knife knocks against the wall. Whoever is outside must hear it too. There is an intensifying of the silence, then the softest sound of footsteps in snow, retreating.

  I don’t feel like apologising any more, so I say nothing. Then there are more foot-sounds, as though whoever owns the feet has decided it’s not worth the effort of being quiet.

  ‘What can you see?’

  I speak so softly it is less than a breath. Parker shakes his head: nothing. Or I’m to shut my mouth. On the whole I would have to agree with him.

  After another endless clump of time–a minute? twenty?–there comes a voice: ‘William? I know you’re there.’

  It’s Stewart’s voice, of course. Out in front of the cabin. It takes me a moment to realise he’s speaking to Parker.

  ‘I know you want those furs, William. But they are Company property and I’m going to have to return them to their rightful owners. You know that.’

  Parker looks at me quickly.

  ‘I have men out here.’ He sounds confident, unworried. Bored.

  ‘What happened with Nepapanees? Did he find out about Laurent?’

  Silence. I wish Parker hadn’t said that. If Stewart knows we have found the grave, he will never let us go alive. Then the voice comes again.

  ‘He was greedy. He wanted the furs for himself. He was going to kill me.’

  ‘You shot him from behind.’

  I swear I can hear a sigh, as though he is running low on patience. ‘Accidents happen. You know that, William–you of all people. It wasn’t … intended. I’m going to have to insist that you come out.’

  A long gap now. I see Parker’s grip on the rifle tighten. My eyes still burn but I can see. I have to see. The other rifle is slung crosswise across his back. The sky is lighter. Dawn is coming.

  William Parker, you are my love.

  It hits me like a runaway horse. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of him walking out of that door.

  ‘We can make a deal. You can take some of the furs, and go.’

  Parker says, ‘Why don’t you come in and talk?’

  ‘You come out. It’s dark in there.’

  ‘Don’t go out! You don’t know how many men he’s got.’ My teeth are clenched on the words. I’m praying with every tattered remnant of faith I ever had that he will be spared.

  ‘Please … !’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He says it very softly. He’s looking at me. And now there is enough light to see his face in sharp relief. And I can see every detail of his face, each curving line that I once thought savage and cruel, each furrow, indescribably dear.

  ‘Come out into the open first. Let me see you’re not armed.’

  ‘No!’

  It is I who says that, but under my breath. There is some noise outside, and then Parker pulls the makeshift door, and steps outside into a grey twilight. He closes the door behind him. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the bullet.

  It doesn’t come. I position myself behind the door, so I can see through the cracks. I can see a figure that must be Stewart, but not where Parker is; perhaps he is too close to the cabin.

  ‘I don’t want a fight. I just want to take the furs back where they belong.’

  ‘You didn’t have to kill Laurent. He didn’t even know where they were.’ His voice comes from somewhere to my right.

  ‘That was a mistake. I didn’t want that to happen.’

  ‘Two mistakes?’ Parker’s voice again, moving further away.

  I cannot see Stewart’s expression from where I am, but I can feel the anger in his voice, like something hard and rigid stressed to breaking point. ‘What do you want, William?’

  Having spoken, Stewart moves suddenly, disappearing from my field of vision. A shot rings out, and a flash, bursting from somewhere in the trees behind him, and something thuds into the cabin wall at the far end, to my right. There is no other sound. I don’t know where Parker is. The powder flash seared my eyeballs like a white-hot needle stabbed into my brain. My breath comes in loud ragged gasps that I can’t quiet. I want to cry out to Parker. I can’t seem to get my breath. Now no one is in sight. There is some sound to my left, then I hear cursing. Stewart.

  Cursing because Parker got away?

  Footsteps outside; very near. I grip the handle of the knife as tightly as my numb fingers can manage; I’m poised behind the door, ready …

  When he kicks the door in, it’s very simple. It slams into my forehead, knocking me over, and I drop the knife.

  For a moment nothing else happens; perhaps because his eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. Then he sees me grovelling on the floor at his feet. I scrabble for the knife; by some miracle it has fallen underneath me, and I seize it by the blade and manage to get it into my pocket before he grabs my other arm and jerks me roughly to my feet. Then he pushes me, in front of him, out of the door.

  When Donald hears the shot, he starts to run. He knows this is probably not the wisest thing to do, but somehow, perhaps because he is a tall man, the message doesn’t get to his feet in time. He is aware of Alec hissing something behind him, but not what it is he says.

  He is near the end of the lake; the noise came from the trees on the far shore. He keeps thinking, they were right. They
were right–and now Half Man is killing them. He knows he is extremely, foolishly, visible, a running figure against the ice, but he knows also that Stewart would not shoot him. Some simple solution can be reached; they can talk, like two reasonable men both in the employ of the great Company. Stewart is a reasonable man.

  ‘Stewart!’ he shouts as he runs. ‘Stewart! Wait!’

  He doesn’t know what else he is going to say. He thinks of Mrs Ross–bleeding to death, perhaps. And how he did not save her.

  He has almost reached the trees at the foot of a large hillock when there is a movement up ahead. The first sign of life he has seen.

  ‘Don’t shoot, please. It is I, Moody … Don’t shoot …’ He is holding his rifle by the barrel, waving it to show his peaceful intentions.

  There is a flash of light from under the trees, and something strikes him with tremendous force in the midriff, knocking him over backwards. The branch, or whatever it was he ran into, seemed to hit him just over his scar, not helping matters.

  Winded, he tries to get up, but can’t, so he lies for a few moments, trying to get his breath. His spectacles have fallen off; really they are not the thing for Canada, always frosting or steaming up at the wrong moments, and now … he gropes around him in the snow for them, encounters nothing but coldness everywhere. Surely someone could think of something more convenient.

  Eventually he finds the rifle, and picks it up. At this point, because the stock is slippery and warm, he becomes aware of the blood. Raising his head with a great effort, he sees blood on his coat. He is annoyed; in fact, he is furious. What a bloody fool he is, charging into trouble like that. Now Alec will be in danger too, and it is all his fault. He thinks of calling out to the boy, but something, some greater sense from somewhere, stops him. He concentrates on getting the rifle into position; at least he can fire a shot, not roll over and die without a murmur. He will not be entirely useless; what would his father say?

  But there is silence, as though he is, once again, the only person for miles around. He will have to wait until he can see something. Well, the person who fired, whoever it was, obviously doesn’t think he needs to come and finish off the job. Fool.