Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

‘Of course. I was eleven years old, not a baby’

Donald struggles to keep the excitement out of his voice, but it makes him squeeze the child more tightly. She pushes her fist into his spectacles in retaliation.

‘Susannah … I can’t remember which was which. The last time we saw them, one was only a baby. The other was no more than two or three.’

‘Maria would have been about two,’ he says, with a warm feeling at saying her name.

She stares into the shadows, and he has no idea what she is thinking. He removes the child’s surprisingly strong fingers from his mouth.

‘They are all well, and … they are a charming family. All of them. They have been very kind to me. I wish you could meet them. They would be so happy to see you … you cannot imagine!’

She smiles queerly. ‘I suppose you will tell them about me.’

‘Only if you wish it.’

She turns her face away, but when she speaks her voice is unchanged. ‘I have to think of my children.’

‘Of course. Think about it. I know they would not force you into anything you did not want.’

‘I have to think of my children,’ she says again. ‘Now, without a father …’

Donald manages with difficulty to extract his handkerchief from under the child’s body. But when Elizabeth turns back, her eyes are dry.

‘Did they tell you my father found me?’

‘What? They said you were never found!’

Her face flickers with something–pain? disbelief? ‘He said that?’

Donald doesn’t know what to say.

‘I refused to go back with him. I was not long married. He kept asking about Amy. He seemed to blame me for her not being there too.’

Donald can’t keep the shock from his face.

‘Can’t you understand that? They lost their daughters, but I lost everything! My family, my home, my past … I had to learn to speak again! I couldn’t break from everything I knew … again.’

‘But …’ He doesn’t know what to say.

‘There was horror on his face when he saw me. He never came back after that one time. He could have. It was Amy he was hoping for. She was always his favourite.’

Donald looks at the unconcerned child; it keeps the wave of pity from overwhelming him.

‘He was in shock … You can’t blame him for asking. He did nothing but go on searching until he died.’

She shakes her head, eyes hard: you see?

‘You were the …’ he struggles on, trying to make it better ‘… the great mystery of the age! You were famous, everybody knew about you. People wrote from all over North America, pretending to be you–or to have seen you. Someone even wrote from New Zealand.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t suppose you remember what happened.’

‘Does it matter, now?’

‘Doesn’t it always matter, finding the truth?’ He thinks of Laurent Jammet, of their supposed quest for truth–all those events tumbling one into another like a trail of dominoes–all leading him across the snow-covered plains to this little hut. Elizabeth gives a sort of shudder, as if a draught bothers her.

‘I remember … I don’t know what you heard, but we had gone for a walk. Collecting berries, I think. We argued about where to stop; the other girl, what was her name, Cathy?–she didn’t want to go far; she was worried about burning her face because it was so hot. Really, she was scared of the bush.’

Her eyes are fixed on a point just over Donald’s shoulder. He hardly dares move, in case he breaks her thread.

‘I was scared too. Scared of Indians.’ She gives a tiny smile. ‘Then I argued with Amy. She wanted to go further, and I was worried about disobeying our parents. But I went along because I didn’t want to be alone. It got dark and we couldn’t find the path. Amy kept telling me not to be silly. Then we gave up and fell asleep. At least, I think … And then …’

There is a long silence, filling the hut with ghosts. Elizabeth seems to be looking past him at one of them.

Donald finds he is holding his breath.

‘… she wasn’t there any more.’

Her eyes refocus, find his. ‘I thought she’d found the way home and left me in the forest because she was angry with me. And no one came to find me … until my uncle–my Indian uncle–found me. I thought they had left me there to die.’

‘They were your parents. They loved you. They never stopped looking.’

She shrugs. ‘I didn’t know. I waited for such a long time. No one came. Then, when I saw my father again, I thought, now you come, when I’m happy, when it’s too late. And he kept asking about Amy.’ Her voice is thin and husky, stretched to breaking point.

‘So Amy … disappeared into the forest?’

‘I thought she’d gone home. I thought she’d left me.’ Elizabeth–despite everything, he can’t think of her as Eve–looks at him and a tear runs down her cheek. ‘I don’t know what happened to her. I was exhausted. I went to sleep. I thought I heard wolves, but I might have been dreaming. I was too scared to open my eyes. I would remember if I’d heard screams or cries, but there was nothing. I don’t know. I don’t know.’

Her voice has trailed away into nothing.

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘I lost her too.’

She drops her face until it is hidden in shadow. Donald feels ashamed of himself. Her parents had been the object of so much sympathy; everyone was in awe of their loss. But the lost grieve too.

‘She may be alive somewhere. Just because we don’t know, doesn’t mean she is dead.’

Elizabeth doesn’t speak, or lift her head.

Donald has only one sibling, an elder brother he has never really liked; the prospect of him vanishing for ever into a forest is rather appealing. He becomes aware that his right leg has gone to sleep and shifts it, painfully. He makes his voice jovial. ‘And here is Amy …’ The child on his lap is unconcernedly pulling off her stockings. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me for making you speak of it.’

Elizabeth picks up her daughter, shakes her head. She paces for a few moments.

‘I want you to tell them about me.’ She kisses Amy, pressing her face into her neck.

Outside the hut, two women are in heated discussion. One of them is Norah. Donald turns to Elizabeth.

‘Please, one more favour. Can you tell me what they are saying?’

Elizabeth gives him a sardonic smile. ‘Norah is worried about Half Man. He is going somewhere with Stewart. Norah told him to refuse, but he won’t.’

Donald stares towards the main building, his heart suddenly in his throat. Is it happening now?

‘Does she say where, or why? It’s important.’

Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘On a trip. Maybe hunting … though he’s usually too drunk to shoot straight.’

‘Stewart said he was going to find your husband.’

She doesn’t bother to answer this. He calculates rapidly. ‘I am going to follow them. I have to see where they go. If I don’t come back, you will know what you said is true.’

Elizabeth looks surprised–the first time he has seen this expression. ‘It’s dangerous. You can’t go.’

Donald tries to ignore the mocking amusement in her voice. ‘I have to. I need proof. The Company needs proof.’

Just then Alec, her eldest son, walks out of a neighbour’s hut with another boy, and the two women move away, Norah back to the main building. Elizabeth calls out to the boy and he veers towards her. She speaks to him briefly in their language.

‘Alec will go with you. Otherwise you will lose yourself.’

Donald’s mouth drops open. The boy’s head barely reaches his shoulder.

‘No, I couldn’t … I am sure I will be all right. It will be easy to follow the trail …’

‘He will go with you,’ she says simply, with finality. ‘It is his wish also.’