Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

‘I’ll leave you. If you want anything at all, please come and ask.’

She nods for the third time.

She thinks: in Hell.

Outside, she hears English voices: Stewart telling the moonias: ‘I’d leave her if I were you. She is still in shock.’

The voices start to move away. Elizabeth jumps up, from sheer contrariness, and goes outside.

‘Mr Moody … Please come in, if you wish.’

The two men turn, startled. Moody’s face is a question. Elizabeth, unsure why she rushed out like that, feels foolish.

Moody insists on sitting on the floor, like her, although his movements are a little stiff.

‘Are you all right? Is it better?’ Her gaze goes to his midriff, where she bandaged his wound four nights ago. A lifetime ago, when she was still a man’s wife. ‘It was a bad wound. Did someone try to kill you?’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘Or, well, it was a moment of passion, deeply regretted. A long story. And I came to see how you were. If there is anything I can do to help …’

‘Thank you. You were kind, the other day.’

‘No …’

Elizabeth pours tea into enamel mugs. She tastes again the river water, bitter with treachery. Perhaps the deer was a sign: I am killed. And you have to find me.

If only she could pray for guidance, but she cannot go to the wooden church. That is Stewart’s church and she has an aversion to it. She never thought about her faith much, before. She assumed it was there under the surface, carrying on without conscious effort, the way her lungs breathed. Perhaps she neglected it too much. Now that she needs it, it seems to have withered away.

‘Do you pray?’

Moody looks at her in surprise. He considers his answer. He doesn’t just say what he thinks he should, but really seems to give it thought. She likes that, along with the way he doesn’t rush to fill every little silence.

‘Yes, I do. Not as often as I should. Not nearly.’

Just then, her little girl stumbles in through the front door. She has only just learnt to walk.

‘Amy, go back to Mary. I’m talking.’

The child gazes at Donald before toddling back outside.

‘I suppose we only …’ His voice trails off. ‘I mean to say, we turn to God only when in trouble or need, and I have never been in great trouble or need. Not yet, thank God.’

He smiles. He looks troubled now, puzzled. His words slower, as if he’s having difficulty ordering them. Something has happened.

‘I cannot.’

He looks at her, questioning.

‘Pray.’

‘Were you born a Christian?’

She smiles. ‘I was baptised by the missionaries when I was twenty.’

‘So you knew … other gods. Do you pray to them?’

‘I don’t know. I never really prayed, before. You are right. I never had the need.’

Moody puts his tea down, and folds his long wrists across his knees. ‘When I was a young boy, I became terribly lost, in the hills near my home. I was lost for a day and a night. I was afraid I was going to wander in the hills until I starved. I prayed then. I prayed that God would show me the way home.’

‘And?’

‘My father found me.’

‘So your prayers were answered.’

‘Yes. I suppose there are some prayers that cannot be answered.’

‘I would not pray for my husband to be brought back to life. I would only pray for justice.’

‘Justice?’ His eyes widen, fixed on her, as though she has a smut on her face. He seems fascinated, as if she’s suddenly said something of intense and vital interest.

Elizabeth puts down her cup. Neither of them speaks for a long minute, staring into the fire, which pops and hisses.

‘Amy. That’s a pretty name.’

‘She doesn’t understand why her father isn’t here.’

Moody sighs sharply, then smiles. ‘I am sorry. You must think me impertinent. I have just had the most amazing thought. Please tell me if I am wrong, but, I cannot keep it in.’ He laughs awkwardly, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I know the time is not right. But I can’t help thinking … Your daughter’s name. And your … I don’t know how to say this … Were you ever … were you once a Seton?’

Elizabeth stares into the flames, and a loud singing in her ears drowns the next thing he says. A surge of something like laughter threatens to choke her.

His mouth is moving; he is apologising, she thinks from a distance. Things she thought long forgotten are suddenly clear as glass. A father. A sister. A mother. No, not her sister. She never forgot her sister.

Slowly his voice becomes audible again. ‘Are you Amy Seton?’ Moody leans forward, flushed with excitement, with the thrill of an imminent and momentous discovery. ‘I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to. I promise on my honour to keep it a secret. You have your life here, your children … I would just like to know.’

She doesn’t want to give him this pleasure. It is not his to take. She is not a bounty to be found and claimed.

‘Mr Moody, I don’t know what you mean. My name is Elizabeth Bird. My husband was deliberately killed. What am I to do? What are you going to do?’

‘Deliberately? What makes you say that?’

She sees him lurch, with difficulty, from one sort of excitement to another. It disagrees with him; he cannot take it. She seems to watch from a great distance as he gasps and clutches at his stomach, his face knotted up in anguish. His face is red. He should not have asked such a personal question. At length he recovers himself, panting like a dog.

‘What are you saying? That … Stewart killed your husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he?’

‘I don’t know why.’

She stares at him. He must know something; she can see him calculating behind his eyes. Then he opens his mouth.

‘Excuse me for asking … Was your husband mad?’

Elizabeth stares, and feels very small and weak. She is crumbling, dissolving.

‘Did he say that?’ Tears are running down her face, whether from anger or grief, she doesn’t know, but suddenly her face is wet. ‘He was not mad. That is a lie. Ask anyone here. Half Man is the only mad one.’

‘Half Man? Who is Half Man?’

‘The one he doesn’t want us to talk about!’ Elizabeth gets up. It’s too much, all at once. She walks in circles round and round the fire. ‘If you’re so clever, if you can see so much, why don’t you open your eyes?’

‘If the weather allows, tomorrow I will leave.’

I stare at Parker with my mouth open. There is an immediate strong pressure around my chest, as when you suffer from croup; an unpleasant stricture that makes it impossible to draw a breath. My breathing has been short since he knocked on the door of my room and I let him in, wondering what he wanted.

‘You can’t! It isn’t finished.’

He stares back at me for an instant, challenged but not surprised. He must know me better than that now.

‘I think it is the only way to finish it.’

I did not know what I meant when I spoke, but now I do. We have all been relying on Parker to show us the way, from when we first met in Dove River until now. Moody too, however much he dislikes the fact.

‘How can you finish it?’

Parker pauses. His face seems different now: softer, less composed, or perhaps it is just the faintness of the lamplight.

‘In the morning I will somehow show Stewart the marker you gave me. Then he will know, if he did not already, that I was in with Jammet. I will tell him I am leaving, and if I am right …’ Here he pauses. ‘And if he is the man I think he is, he will not be able to resist following, in case I lead him to the furs.’

‘But if he had Jammet killed … he may kill you too.’

‘I will be ready.’

‘It’s too dangerous. You cannot go alone. He will not be alone–he will have this … Half Man with him.’