Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

And then, two weeks later, he was standing in the dark cabin, looking at the warm empty shell that lay on the bed.

And God help him if the second thought he had was not: Oh, oh my love, you cannot leave me now .

Years ago, when he was searching for Amy and Eve Seton, Sturrock sat in a barroom very like this, drinking whisky punch with a young man he had just been introduced to. He had heard of Kahon’wes before, and was flattered by the younger man’s desire to meet him. Kahon’wes proved to be a tall, striking Mohawk who was trying to make his way in journalism. Though articulate and intelligent, he was caught between two worlds and did not seem to know quite where to place himself. This was evident from his dress, which on that occasion was entirely that of a young man of fashion–cutaway coat, top hat, button boots and so on. He was even something of a dandy. But on subsequent meetings, he was dressed in buckskins, or in a strange hybrid of the two styles. His language also wavered between a fluent and educated English–as at the first meeting–and a more stilted way of speaking that he seemed to feel was more ‘Indian’; it all depended on whom he was with. Sturrock was happy to talk about journalism, but he was also hoping that the man could be useful to him in his search. Kahon’wes had a wide range of contacts as he was always travelling, talking to people and generally being what the governors in Toronto called a troublemaker. Since Sturrock was also a troublemaker, they got on well.

Sturrock told him of the search for the girls. He had already been working on it for the best part of a year, and by then had little hope of success. Kahon’wes, like most people in Upper Canada, had heard of the case.

‘Ah … the two girls who were spirited away by wicked Indians.’

‘Or eaten by wolves, I am beginning to believe. Still, the father will leave no stone unturned in the whole of North America.’

He told Kahon’wes he had visited bands on both sides of the border, going to the contacts and men of influence who had helped him before. But he had heard nothing of any use.

Kahon’wes paused before saying that he would ask those he met: as Sturrock must be well aware, there are times when an answer (like his own manner of speech and dress) depends on who sits the other side of the table.

Several months later, Sturrock had word from the journalist. He was passing through Forest Lake, and was told that Kahon’wes was only a few miles away. On this occasion he was dressed in the Indian style, and his speech was altered. He was frustrated by his attempts to get articles published in the white press. Sturrock had the impression of a volatile character who, without the right encouragement, could become lost. He offered to read some of his articles and give advice, but Kahon’wes now seemed uninterested in his help.

This was the occasion on which the two men spoke of an ancient Indian civilisation, greater and more sophisticated than the one that came after. Kahon’wes was passionate in describing such a thing, and though Sturrock did not believe in it for a moment, he could not help but be beguiled by his vision. He saw Kahon’wes only once after that, some months later outside Kingston, when they did not speak for long, and Sturrock got the impression he was drinking heavily. However, at that last meeting he did have news. He had spoken to the chief of a Chippewa band living around Burke’s Falls, who had news of a white woman living with Indians. That was all, but it was no worse a lead than many Sturrock had followed in his line of business.

Some weeks later, Seton and he journeyed to a small village from where, after much negotiation, they were taken to an Indian camp to meet the girl. It was more than six years since the girls had vanished, three since Mrs Seton had died of a mysterious ailment, commonly said to be a broken heart. Sturrock had always felt sorry for Charles Seton, his distress ever-present like a terrible wound under the thinnest of scar tissue. But this anticipation was worse, if anything could be worse. Seton had said barely a word since they set out from the village, his face white as paper. He looked like a sick man. Beforehand, he had seemed most taken up with not knowing which of his daughters this was supposed to be: Eve would now be seventeen, Amy nineteen, but no one seemed to know how old this girl was. There was no suggestion of a name: or rather, she now had an Indian name.

Sturrock tried to keep Seton talking, reminding him that the girl, if indeed she was his daughter, would be very changed. Seton insisted he would know her, no matter what.

‘I could not forget the slightest detail of their faces, as long as I live,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

Sturrock persisted, gently. ‘But it is remarkable how changed some of them become. I have seen parents not recognise their own children, even after a short period with the Indians. It is not just a matter of the face … it is everything. How they speak, how they move, how they are.’

‘All the same, I would know them,’ Seton said.

They dismounted outside the teepees and left their horses grazing. Their guide went and spoke at the largest teepee, and a grizzled old man came out, listening as he spoke in the Chippewa language. The guide translated the reply:

‘He says the girl came with them of her own free will. She is one of them now. He wants to know if you have come to take her away.’

Sturrock intervened before Seton could speak. ‘We are not going to force her to do anything she doesn’t want to, but if she is this man’s daughter, he wishes to talk to her. He has searched for many years.’

The old man nodded, and led them to another teepee. After a moment, he beckoned Sturrock and Seton to follow him in.

For several moments, as they sat down, it was impossible to discern anything. The interior was close, dark and smoky, and it was only gradually that they became aware of two figures sitting opposite them; a Chippewa man and woman. Charles Seton gave a little gasp, almost a mewing noise, and stared at the woman, who was barely more than a girl.

The skin of her face was dark, with dark eyes, and her hair was long and black, and glinted with grease. She wore a skin tunic and was wrapped in a striped blanket, although the day was warm, and stared at the ground. At first glance, Sturrock would not have taken her for anything other than a Chippewa girl. He assumed the young man at her side was her husband, although they were not introduced. After that first exclamation Seton made no other sound. It was as though he was choking on words, his mouth open but his throat closed.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us,’ Sturrock began. He thought he had never in his life seen anything so cruel as the pain on Charles Seton’s face at that moment. ‘Could you look up please, so that Mr Seton can see your face properly?’

He smiled encouragingly at the young couple opposite. The man stared back, impassive, then rapped the girl on the hand. She lifted her head, although not her eyes. Seton’s breathing sounded loud in the confined space. Sturrock looked from one to the other, waiting for one to recognise the other. Perhaps it was all a wild goose chase. A minute crept by, and then another. It was agonising. Then, at last, Seton took a breath.

‘I don’t know which one she is. She is my daughter … if I could see her eyes …’

Sturrock was startled. He looked at the girl, still as a graven image, and used her Indian name.

‘Wah’tanakee, what colour are your eyes?’

At last she looked up, at Seton. He looked into her eyes, which, as far as Sturrock could tell in the murky light, were brown.

Seton drew another painful breath. ‘Eve.’ There was a catch in his voice, and a tear slid silently down his cheek. But it was a statement. After six years of searching, he had found one of his missing daughters.