The Tenderness of Wolves (16 page)

After the second day, Donald found every movement brought a pain somewhere in his body. He had become accustomed, previously, to think of himself as a fairly strong, fit young man, but now he finds that he is just beginning to learn about endurance. Jacob tramps ahead of him, shoulders the heavy load, makes detours to scout the trail, and when they stop in the late afternoon it is Jacob who gathers wood, builds a fire and cuts branches for their sleeping shelter. At first Donald protested that he was going to do his share, but he was simply too tired and clumsy to be of any use, and their camp was set up much quicker if he left it all to Jacob. Jacob kindly but firmly told him to sit down and concentrate on boiling some water.

Early this morning they left the forest and began to cross a barren, hummocky plateau where nothing seems to stand
between them and the wind blowing off the frozen Hudson Bay. Despite heavy clothing, it finds its way into his tender places with sharp, prying jabs. Very quickly it emerges that the plateau is one enormous bog. Pools of black water ooze from the ground, skimmed with ice. Reeds and ground willow catch the blowing snow and hold it in tangled skeins. It is impossible to find more than a couple of firm footholds in a row, and Jacob has given up trying to keep his feet dry, but plods from hummock to hollow with a grimly monotonous tread. No matter how determined he is to keep up, Donald has had to call out to him to slow down on three occasions, and now Jacob pauses every so often, waiting for him to catch up. He manages to do this without making Donald feel inadequate, but instead makes it seem as though he has stopped to update Donald on the state of the trail. It is clear that he is finding it harder to follow in this landscape, but Donald listens with mounting indifference; yesterday he found it hard to care whether they ever found the boy; today it has occurred to him that he might not even return from this journey. He is not sure he cares about that either.

Increasingly, they pass the corpses of animals. Now they plod past the skeleton of a deer, which must have been here some time, since it is picked clean but a dark yellowish brown. The skull faces them, within shouting distance of its scattered bones, watching Donald through empty eye sockets, silently reminding him of the futility of their endeavour.

Donald tries to turn his thoughts to Susannah, to shut a door between what his body is enduring and what he is feeling. Disappointingly he hears his father, instead, lecturing him: ‘Mind over matter, Donnie. Mind over matter. Rise above it! We all have to do things we don’t want to do.’ He feels the old irritation bubble to the surface like marsh gas. His father–an accountant in Bearsden–never had to march through an endless bog in the Canadian winter.

Tucked inside his shirt, close to his heart, lie three letters to Susannah. He is disappointed by his lack of eloquence, but it is, he consoles himself, hard to write witty prose while trying to get close enough to the fire to see without igniting one’s hair. He fears the letters are rather smudged and grimy, and probably smell of smoke, if not worse. Perhaps, if they ever find civilisation again, he can copy them out on clean paper, or even start all over again, in an improved literary style. That would probably be best.

At four in the afternoon, Jacob is confused. He makes Donald wait while he scouts around in a circle, then signals for Donald to join him. They retrace their steps for some time. Donald silently curses the wasted effort, but is too exhausted to ask questions. A thin snow is falling and visibility is poor. The air feels both wet and sharp. Jacob breathes out slowly, a habit with him when he is thinking hard.

‘I think they went different ways here.’

Donald peers at the ground but can see nothing to indicate that anyone has been here before, ever.

‘They both left the forest at the same place. The trail was clear until then, but I think the second man was getting slower. Now one goes off that way, because there is a footprint frozen into the mud pointing in that direction. But it’s some distance away and a trail is hard to follow in the bog. I think the second one lost him, and went on this way …’ He points to where the ground dips to form a shallow incline. ‘There are signs here that someone got stuck, and went on. I should have seen it earlier.’

Donald inwardly agrees. ‘And you think Ross was the second trail?’

‘The first trail is a fast traveller, used to going long distances. He knows where to go without having to stop and look. So yes, the second is the boy, and he is tired.’

‘But where the hell are they going? I mean the forest is one thing, but this … My God, look at it! No one can live here!’

As far as they can see, there is nothing, just scrub and these infernal pools of water. There are no elements of landscape that are generally felt to be attractive (rightly so, Donald feels)–no contrast of mountain and valley, no lakes, no forest. If this land has a character, it is sullen, indifferent, hostile.

‘I don’t know this place very well,’ Jacob is saying, ‘but there are posts in this part, further north.’

‘God. Pity the poor bastards who have to live in them.’

Jacob smiles. They have fallen into the roles of novice and tutor with some relief. It makes it easy to know what to say, for one thing. Easy to know how the other will react. Over the past few days, they have established a familiar routine.

‘People live everywhere. But they call this Starvation Country.’

Donald blasphemes. ‘Then we’d better find him as soon as possible.’ He doesn’t need to describe the alternative.

‘Perhaps the first man was going to one of the posts up there.’ Jacob points into the howling wind in a direction that looks as unpromising as all the others.

‘And the second?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was lost.’

They resume the painful slow pursuit, picking their way over tussocks and hummocks of rock that suddenly breach the marsh vegetation. These rocks are sometimes startling colours–dark green, or purple, or dull orange. And sometimes the pools of black water are frozen hard, but at other times a foot will break through a crust of ice and sink into a vile darkness of icy water and mud. Donald feels awed at the thought of finding only a body, which must now be a strong possibility. How long could anyone survive in this, lost and
alone? He tries to tell himself that they are not far behind him, but he is seized with the morbid thought that Jacob might leave him, inadvertently, behind, and then he, Donald, would be alone just like the boy. How long would he survive? He struggles after the dark figure up ahead, determined that he will not let that happen. By some ironic twist of physiology, the recently healed wound under his ribs has started throbbing again, reminding him of his frailty–or is it reminding him that Jacob, on whom he depends for his survival, recently stabbed him?

At length the two men come to a river that worms invisibly through the landscape. Black as oil between iced banks. Jacob stops him and points to a turmoil of mud, frozen into peaks and troughs.

‘There were people here. And a horse. I would say he joined them.’

Jacob smiles, and Donald tries to feel pleased. But mainly he feels he can’t go on much longer. He nurtures a growing hatred for this landscape that is quite unlike anything he has encountered before. People aren’t meant to be here. The thought of a man on a horse picking up the boy is potentially horrifying–God knows how much further they will have to walk now. He cannot understand why Jacob wouldn’t let them bring the horses; he entertains the possibility that the whole thing is an elaborate attempt to finish off what the knife wound failed to achieve.

Jacob leads them away from the river, and Donald struggles in his wake, his eyes doggedly fixed on the treacherous ground, numb to their progress.

Suddenly Jacob has stopped and Donald walks straight into the back of him, so dulled is he to his surroundings. Jacob takes his arm and laughs into his face.

‘Mr Moody, look! Look!’

He’s pointing into the snow and the dusk, which has
crept up on them imperceptibly. And in the swirling grey-ness, Donald sees points of light. He grins hugely, and feels something warm run down his chin–his lip has split. But nothing can quench this ferocious joy. There will be houses, people, warmth … there will be fires, and even better, walls! Walls that will come between him and the elements. In a moment of fiery elation he relives the excitement of seeing the moon’s surface, he feels the undiluted pleasure of the fourteen-year-old boy, and he experiences such a pure happiness that all the past days’ toil, in fact, all the privations of the past year and a half, seem worth it. He claps Jacob clumsily on the shoulder, convinced he is the best, the finest fellow he has ever met in his life.

Forty minutes later they walk into a large courtyard surrounded by neat wooden buildings. There are barns with livestock penned, steaming, inside; a small church with a stubby spire, topped by a cross painted a dull red. Lights are on, spilling out of windows onto the icy yard, looking like the promised land. Donald chokes back tears of gratitude as they make for the largest of these buildings, and knock on the door.

I used to think, when I was a girl, and even later when I was in the asylum, that when people married they never felt alone again. At the time I doubted I ever would; I assumed I was destined to be an outcast from society, or worse, a spinster. I had friends in the asylum, even, in Dr Watson, a special kind of friend; but being the muse of a mad-doctor did not make me feel as though I belonged to the normal world, nor that I was safe. My husband gave me something I never expected: a feeling of legitimacy. And the feeling that here was someone I did not have to hide anything from. I didn’t have to pretend. I suppose what I’m saying is, I loved him. I know that he loved me, I’m just not sure when that stopped being true.

It is late, and I am sleepless again, thinking about my next meeting with the prisoner; Knox has agreed that I can go back, as long as I am very discreet. I think he was hurt by my using his wife’s tragedy against him, and it is to his credit that he agreed. He fears the Company man. He fears, too, being thought too soft. I lie beside my husband for a time, and Angus, in his sleep, turns and folds himself over me; something he has not done for a long time. I don’t dare move, wondering if he knows, or dreams of, what he is doing. After a while he grunts and turns over, his back to me again. And I don’t think, even in my darkest moments in the asylum after my father died, that I have ever felt so alone. If Olivia had lived, would things have been different? If Francis had never come to us?

Pointless questions. My favourite kind.

I despise this weakness in myself–this endless one-sided conversation that takes the place of action, and I wish at certain times (usually late at night), that I was more like Ann Pretty. Her surname may be unfortunate, but sometimes I think she is the perfect model of a backwoods pioneer, being an inveterate survivor, tough, unimaginative and unscrupulous. She would not lie awake at night wondering what her husband, or anyone else, was thinking of her. She would not lose her child to the wilderness.

I get out of bed and, for something to do, start to assemble a pack for the journey I maintain I am planning. Truth to tell, I don’t have much heart for it; I am very nearly face to face with my fear of the wilderness, my lack of courage. Who knows, perhaps Moody and the other man will be here tomorrow, with Francis. I don’t care if they have to arrest him, as long as they find him and he is all right. Then perhaps it will be him in the warehouse in Caulfield, shivering in the dim cavernous space, but safe. Telling myself this, I assemble my warmest clothes and a selection of hardy, indestructible foods. It is a bit like planning a winter picnic; if I think of it like that, it doesn’t seem so bad.

The softest of knocks on the door doesn’t surprise me as much as it might have: I’m thinking of Francis, so perhaps it seems inevitable that my longing should at last be answered. I pull the door open with a gasp of joy, words gathered to tumble out at him, along with tears, when the darkness yawns at me. I look around, whispering his name–it is strange that I whisper, as though I have a sort of premonition.

He is standing in the darkness–to alleviate the shock, I suppose, so that my eyes have to find him and only gradually realise who it is.

The prisoner holds up his hand in a placatory gesture. ‘Please, don’t scream.’

I stare at him. I wasn’t going to scream. I pride myself on not screaming, even under trying circumstances.

‘I’m sorry to startle you. Knox has released me. I am going to follow your son, because I think he saw the killer. But I need provisions, and my rifle is impounded. And I believe you have my dogs.’

I stare at him in total disbelief, barely understanding what he is saying.

‘Mrs Ross, I need your help, and you need mine.’

So that’s how it happens: mutual need is what makes people co-operate; nothing to do with trust or kindness or any such sentimental notion. I don’t really take in what he says about Knox and why he released him in this underhand way, but looking at his violated face I can believe that Mackinley has done it. Parker wants a rifle and food and his dogs, and I want a guide to follow Francis, and maybe he thinks Francis will talk more readily if I am there–Francis has something he wants too. And so while my husband sleeps upstairs we pack–and I prepare to go into the wilderness with a suspected killer. What’s worse, a man I haven’t been properly introduced to. I am too shocked to feel fear, too excited to care about the impropriety of it. I suppose if you have already lost what matters most, then little things like reputation and honour lose their lustre. (Besides, if the worst comes to the worst, I can remind myself that I have sold my honour far more cheaply than this. I can remind myself of that, if I have to.)

A light snow falls as we walk out of Dove River, the two dogs padding silently beside Parker. An hour past the Pretty place, he goes to a cache among some tree roots and swiftly builds a sled from the materials he finds there–a light, slender structure of willow boughs with a sort of seat made from stiffened hide. I am about to express gratitude for his thoughtfulness when he ties the bundles of food and blankets to the seat. The dogs are excited by the snow and the
sled, letting out a couple of whining barks. Throughout this operation, which takes about half an hour, Parker does not look at me, nor say a word. Somehow I do not think he is very interested in separating me from my honour. He gives the harness a final tug and sets off again, northwards, along the course of the Dove, guided only by the sound of the river, and a dim, amorphous glow that seems to come from the snow itself.