Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

From the rise behind the cabin that night, a long time ago, Francis saw a light through the parchment window. He started down the bank, quietly, in case Laurent had visitors. He often does–did–and Francis stayed out of the way if that was the case. He didn’t want another telling-off from that vicious tongue. He heard the door open and saw a man with long black hair come out into the yard. He held something in one hand, Francis couldn’t see what it was, that he tucked carefully into his pouch, looking about him, or rather listening, with the alert stillness of a tracker. Francis stayed still and quiet. It was midnight and quite dark, but he knew it was no one from Dove River–he knows the way they all walk, move, breathe. This one was different. The man spat on the ground, turning towards the open door, and Francis caught a swift impression of dark, reflective skin, greasy hair curling round his shoulders, a stony, closed face. Not young. He moved back into the cabin, disappearing from view. Then the light in the cabin went out. The man left, muttering something under his breath, and moved off towards the river, northward. His tread was silent. Francis breathed a sigh of relief–if a trader was around, he would have to keep out of the way. But this man was not staying.

Francis crept down the bank and padded round to the front of the cabin. He could hear no sound within. At the door he paused before opening it.

‘Laurent?’ he whispered, ashamed of himself for whispering. ‘Laurent?’

There was every chance Laurent would be angry with him–it was only a day and a half since their last argument. Or–a chill strikes his heart at the thought–what if he has already left on his mysterious final journey, giving him the slip? He might have chosen to go earlier than he said, to avoid him, to avoid a scene. That would be like him.

Francis pushed the door open. Inside there was silence and darkness, but also warmth from the stove. Francis felt his way over to where a lamp usually stood, and found it. He opened the stove door and lit a rush, touched it to the lamp wick, and blinked in the sudden light. There was no response to his entrance; Laurent has gone, but for how long? He could be out tracking. He might not have left for good, for surely he would not have left the stove burning? He could be …

There were only seconds of his old life left, and Francis squandered them thoughtlessly, fiddling with the lamp wick. When he turned round, he would see Laurent lying on his bed. Would see instantly the curious red patch in his hair; would then move swiftly to where he would see his face, his neck, the fatal wound.

Would see that his eyes were still moist.

Would feel that he was still warm.

Francis blinks away the tears. Jacob is speaking: he says he is going outside–he doesn’t like sitting for long periods. Jacob puts a hand on his shoulder–everyone is being nice to him today; he can hardly bear it–will Francis be all right here for a while? He no longer needs to threaten him not to run away … ha!

Francis assents, somehow, and his expression is taken for grief at Line’s imagined fate.

After he had seen Laurent’s body, after he had stood in shock for heaven knows how long, Francis decided he must follow the killer. He could not think of anything else to do. He could not go home, knowing what he knew. Did not want to stay in Dove River a moment longer without Laurent to make it bearable. He found Laurent’s satchel and packed it with a blanket, food, a hunting knife–bigger and sharper than his own. He looked round the cabin, seeking a sign, a last message from Laurent to himself. There was no trace of Laurent’s rifle–had the man been carrying one? He tried to picture him; suddenly realised what the man had tucked so carefully into his pouch and felt his gorge rise.

Keeping his eyes from the bed, Francis prised up the loose floorboard and felt for Laurent’s moneybag. There wasn’t much in it, just a small roll of notes and the funny piece of engraved bone Laurent thought was valuable, so he took that as well. After all, Laurent had tried to give it to him, months ago, when he was in a good mood.

Finally he put on Laurent’s wolfskin coat, the one with the fur on the inside. He would need it, at night.

He said goodbye in his mind. And walked away in the same direction the stranger had taken, not knowing what he would do if he ever found him.

I remember a time once, when I set out on a long journey, and I suppose it has stayed in my mind so vividly because it marked the end of one period of my life and the beginning of another. I am sure the same is true of a great many people in the New World, but I am not referring to the voyage across the Atlantic, unspeakable though that was. My journey was from the gates of the public asylum in Edinburgh to a great crumbling house in the Western Highlands. I was accompanied by the man who was to become my husband, but of course I had no idea of that then. And I had no idea of the significance of the journey, but once begun, my whole life began to change absolutely and for ever. I would never have guessed it, but I never returned to Edinburgh, and indeed, as the carriage left the asylum behind on its long curved drive, certain ties were severed–from my past, from my parents, from my relatively comfortable background, from my class, even–that would never be reconnected.

I liked to think of that journey, afterwards, imagining the hand of fate at work, snipping the threads behind me, as I sat in stupefied ignorance in that jolting box, wondering whether I was mad (so to speak) to have left the asylum and its relative comforts. And I wondered, how often are we aware of irreversible forces at work while they are in operation? Of course I was not. And conversely, I suppose, how often do we imagine that something is of great significance, only for it to evaporate like morning mist, leaving no trace?

Whatever my musings, we have arrived at last. The end of this journey, which feels so important. But perhaps it is just the fear of violence that makes it seem so.

The country is less monotonous here; it has developed bumps and creases like a rug that needs pulling flat. And there in front of us, I can see through the fiery flashes, a small lake. It is long and crooked like a finger that beckons us, kinked round a hulk of rock that rears up a hundred feet or more, halfway down its length. There are trees on the further shore, but more of a coppice than a forest. Most of the lake is frozen over, smooth and white like a curling rink. But at one end, where a river pours into it down a short fall of rock, steam rises from black water, the turbulence of the falls keeping it free of ice.

We walk across the frozen lake. The sun shines coldly out of the west; the sky is a wash of perfect cerulean blue, the trees a charcoal sketch against the snow. I try to imagine we are here for another reason, a good reason, but the truth is, there could be no other reason for me to be here with Parker. We have nothing in common except the death that ties us together: that and a desire for justice of some sort. And when that is done–whatever is done–there will be nothing tying us together at all. And that is something I cannot bear to think about.

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.