Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

With my ear against a sliver of bare skin I can hear Parker’s heart beating. Is it fast? I do not know if this is normal. My heart is fast, I know that. My hands are searing, coming back to life with the warmth of skin I have never seen. Parker pushes the bundled silver pelt under my head; a hundred-guinea pillow that is soft and cool. The weight of his arm rests on my back. When, some time later, I move a little, I find that he is holding the hair that has come loose, twisted into a rope in his hand. He strokes it, absently, like stroking one of his dogs. Possibly. Or perhaps not. We don’t speak. There is nothing that can be said. No sound but our breathing, and the hiss of the fire. And the unsteady beat of his heart.

To be honest, if I could be granted one wish, I would wish that this night would never end. I am selfish, I know. I do not pretend otherwise. And very probably wicked. I do not seem to care for the men who have lost their lives, not if it means that in the end I get to lie here like this, with my lips close to a triangle of warm skin, so that he can feel my breath come and go.

I do not deserve to have my wishes granted, but then, I remind myself, whether I do or not, it makes no difference.

Somewhere out there, Stewart is coming.

I am woken by a light touch on the shoulder. Parker crouches beside me, rifle in hand. Instantly I know we are not alone. He hands me his hunting knife.

‘Take this. I’m going to take both guns. Stay inside and keep listening.’

‘They are here?’

He doesn’t need to answer.

There is no noise from outside. No wind. The clear, icy weather continues, the stars and a waning moon lending a soft almost-light to the snow. No birdsong. No sound of beast or man.

But they are here.

Parker positions himself beside the makeshift door and peers out through the cracks. I shuffle over to the wall behind the door, clutching the knife. I can’t imagine what I could do with it.

‘It’s nearly dawn. They know we’re here.’

I’ve always hated waiting. I don’t have the gift that all hunters have, of letting time pass without worrying at every moment. I strain to hear the slightest sound, and am beginning to think that Parker may be mistaken, when there is a light scraping outside, on the very wall of the cabin, it seems. The blood seems to go slack in my veins, and I make a sudden involuntary movement–I swear I can’t help it–and the blade of the knife knocks against the wall. Whoever is outside must hear it too. There is an intensifying of the silence, then the softest sound of footsteps in snow, retreating.

I don’t feel like apologising any more, so I say nothing. Then there are more foot-sounds, as though whoever owns the feet has decided it’s not worth the effort of being quiet.

‘What can you see?’

I speak so softly it is less than a breath. Parker shakes his head: nothing. Or I’m to shut my mouth. On the whole I would have to agree with him.

After another endless clump of time–a minute? twenty?–there comes a voice: ‘William? I know you’re there.’

It’s Stewart’s voice, of course. Out in front of the cabin. It takes me a moment to realise he’s speaking to Parker.

‘I know you want those furs, William. But they are Company property and I’m going to have to return them to their rightful owners. You know that.’

Parker looks at me quickly.

‘I have men out here.’ He sounds confident, unworried. Bored.

‘What happened with Nepapanees? Did he find out about Laurent?’

Silence. I wish Parker hadn’t said that. If Stewart knows we have found the grave, he will never let us go alive. Then the voice comes again.

‘He was greedy. He wanted the furs for himself. He was going to kill me.’

‘You shot him from behind.’

I swear I can hear a sigh, as though he is running low on patience. ‘Accidents happen. You know that, William–you of all people. It wasn’t … intended. I’m going to have to insist that you come out.’

A long gap now. I see Parker’s grip on the rifle tighten. My eyes still burn but I can see. I have to see. The other rifle is slung crosswise across his back. The sky is lighter. Dawn is coming.

William Parker, you are my love .

It hits me like a runaway horse. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of him walking out of that door.

‘We can make a deal. You can take some of the furs, and go.’

Parker says, ‘Why don’t you come in and talk?’

‘You come out. It’s dark in there.’

‘Don’t go out! You don’t know how many men he’s got.’ My teeth are clenched on the words. I’m praying with every tattered remnant of faith I ever had that he will be spared.

‘Please … !’

‘It’s all right.’ He says it very softly. He’s looking at me. And now there is enough light to see his face in sharp relief. And I can see every detail of his face, each curving line that I once thought savage and cruel, each furrow, indescribably dear.

‘Come out into the open first. Let me see you’re not armed.’

‘No!’

It is I who says that, but under my breath. There is some noise outside, and then Parker pulls the makeshift door, and steps outside into a grey twilight. He closes the door behind him. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the bullet.

It doesn’t come. I position myself behind the door, so I can see through the cracks. I can see a figure that must be Stewart, but not where Parker is; perhaps he is too close to the cabin.

‘I don’t want a fight. I just want to take the furs back where they belong.’

‘You didn’t have to kill Laurent. He didn’t even know where they were.’ His voice comes from somewhere to my right.

‘That was a mistake. I didn’t want that to happen.’

‘Two mistakes?’ Parker’s voice again, moving further away.

I cannot see Stewart’s expression from where I am, but I can feel the anger in his voice, like something hard and rigid stressed to breaking point. ‘What do you want, William?’

Having spoken, Stewart moves suddenly, disappearing from my field of vision. A shot rings out, and a flash, bursting from somewhere in the trees behind him, and something thuds into the cabin wall at the far end, to my right. There is no other sound. I don’t know where Parker is. The powder flash seared my eyeballs like a white-hot needle stabbed into my brain. My breath comes in loud ragged gasps that I can’t quiet. I want to cry out to Parker. I can’t seem to get my breath. Now no one is in sight. There is some sound to my left, then I hear cursing. Stewart.

Cursing because Parker got away?

Footsteps outside; very near. I grip the handle of the knife as tightly as my numb fingers can manage; I’m poised behind the door, ready …

When he kicks the door in, it’s very simple. It slams into my forehead, knocking me over, and I drop the knife.

For a moment nothing else happens; perhaps because his eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. Then he sees me grovelling on the floor at his feet. I scrabble for the knife; by some miracle it has fallen underneath me, and I seize it by the blade and manage to get it into my pocket before he grabs my other arm and jerks me roughly to my feet. Then he pushes me, in front of him, out of the door.

When Donald hears the shot, he starts to run. He knows this is probably not the wisest thing to do, but somehow, perhaps because he is a tall man, the message doesn’t get to his feet in time. He is aware of Alec hissing something behind him, but not what it is he says.

He is near the end of the lake; the noise came from the trees on the far shore. He keeps thinking, they were right. They were right–and now Half Man is killing them. He knows he is extremely, foolishly, visible, a running figure against the ice, but he knows also that Stewart would not shoot him. Some simple solution can be reached; they can talk, like two reasonable men both in the employ of the great Company. Stewart is a reasonable man.