Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

True panic comes only days later, while looking in the bathroom cupboard at the unused tampon box. How many weeks have passed? There was a little bit of blood maybe; she has sore breasts. She picks up her keys and walks out to the truck in her T-shirt, her trainers unlaced, impervious to the chill, zombie-like. She drives to town, to the all-night pharmacy, does not even wait to get home before opening the packet and doing the test, but squats at the side of the road like a destitute. Positive.

She drives back to the Reservation, pulls off the road, sits in the pick-up, and stares ahead.

Now every rule is broken. Her programming is that of the serialist, she knows it, and that’s fine. Romance fails because it is never supposed to work, past the act itself, the momentum of lust. She was raised by an expert. Binny was practically Roman in her operations: arriving in the village, taking the spoils, then razing everything to the ground. Through the walls of the post office cottage Rachel could sometimes hear the sound of male weeping, a sound exotic and horrendous. And her mother’s vexed responses. Buck up, man, there was never anything to it. Go back home to her . How desperately they tried to convince her of love.

The next day she calls her doctor’s office, then calls her insurance company, but there is no additional rider to her policy; she is not covered, and there is no life endangerment. She’ll have to find a doctor and pay for it herself, after state-directed counselling and a wait period. She is furious with herself. A baby! It seems impossible. It is the worst possible scenario, the worst of all failures. Not even a stranger, but her best friend, her colleague, whom she must face every day. In the storm of it all, she does not consider that for years they have been together, companions, lovers of sorts, mutually obsessed with the family under their care — with their feeding, their nurture, their scat, the routes along which they travel — as if parents already.

*

It is mid-February when she calls the estate office and asks to speak to Thomas Pennington. Honor Clark puts her through. The line is bad, the sound of an engine, he is in transit, on board a plane perhaps. If the position is still open, she will take it.

Yes, yes, he says. Wonderful, Rachel, I’m so glad you are joining us. Honor will get a press release together immediately.

As if she is some kind of celebrity. She does not ask about salary, or for any contractual details. She writes a formal letter of resignation, though to whom can it be sent? She is project manager; the Chief Joseph Trust is a cooperative entity. Kyle will run the project solo, until a replacement can be found at a later date. Almost ten years of her life; it is no small commitment. In the end it’s more difficult to break the news to Kyle than she had expected, but he hears it almost as he would an expected weather forecast.

Yeah, fair enough. That’s about right.

They are sitting on his deck, drinking beer and wearing heavy coats against the cool wet mist. Mist drifts between the trees, conveying the fetid, arable smell of the paper mill downriver. He laughs.

Off to live in a castle. Well, we can’t compete with that.

Hardly. Anyway, I won’t be living at the hall. Just somewhere on the estate, I think.

On the estate!

She does not apologise for leaving, or offer any explanation, and he does not ask her why. He goes to get another beer, uncaps it, holds it to his lips.

I’m going to grill some steak. Want some?

OK.

Over the food, they talk about the same old things. Perhaps he is a little quieter than usual. Later that evening she books a one-way flight. Two weeks, then she will be gone.

News from the northern partners is that the pack has reunited and is coming south. She hopes she’ll see them before she goes. The workers track their progress towards the Reservation. They arrive a few days before Rachel’s flight. The yearlings have all survived. There’s the glinting of eyes on the night camera, the writhe and scramble of black bodies near the earth walls. The breeding pair, Tungsten and Moll, are sleeping close together. He is attentive, licking her muzzle. Good signs for a new litter. The centre prepares for spring visitors and Rachel packs up her cabin. There’s not much to box. Meanwhile, some breathtaking aerial footage is sent down from Canada, which Oran uploads onto the website. The pack is on the frozen edge of a lake, waiting in formation for a cornered grizzly bear and its cub to come out of the water. Tungsten and Moll flank, their tails lowered, inching forward, the others are lined up like guards, like a firing squad. The bear cub flails around and its mother roars at the hunters, but they do not retreat. The pilot circles back over the scene, saying, Holy shit, Andy, are you getting this ; and the co-pilot, filming, replies, Yeah, is that even possible? Within twenty-four hours it has 20,000 viewings.

Rachel watches the clip again and again in the office. Over the years she has learnt never to be complacent, that they are capable of extreme feats, but the manoeuvre is astonishing: their audacity, their strategy. The aircraft circles twice more, then pulls up and continues on its course. Whether the kill was made, she will never know. But, watching the footage, the decision to leave Chief Joseph suddenly feels easier. They are matchless predators; they exist supremely, she is irrelevant to them.

There’s a small, low-key leaving party. Two of the tribal elders attend and some friends from the Reservation. They drink punch from plastic beakers, barbecue. It has been a warm day; it’s a warm evening. There are no speeches. When pressed, Rachel stands up and thanks everyone. They give her a tourist sachet of wolf hair, with Cat Repellent written on it, and a Kwakwaka’wakw carving of a she-wolf by one of the local artists. The woodwork is beautiful, a fecund representation, the muzzle elongated and stylised. There are many teats beneath her belly and the shell eye glimmers. No one knows her condition, but she wonders for a moment — have they guessed? She is moved, uncomfortable in her skin, and excuses herself to fetch more beer.

On the day she is due to leave, Kyle takes her to the airport. She does not have much luggage. Her books are being sent via freight. Her employment documentation will be surrendered to the embassy at a later date, if she doesn’t come back.

I might come back, she says. Who knows.

Well, we aren’t going anywhere, Kyle says. Unless they come fracking for oil.

They drive in companionable quiet most of the way. From time to time she glances at him. When they speak it is about the pack. He pulls into the airport parking lot.

Thanks a million, she says.

She does not want him to come inside with her. There’s no point, he’ll just be hanging about, and, finally, there might need to be acknowledgement of their actions. The information she is living with is too sensitive — better to cut and run. He parks, turns off the engine, opens the door.

Come on, he says. Let’s do this properly.

Do what?

Rachel. Don’t be a hard-ass.

OK.

They print her ticket from the machine in the terminal. She checks her bags. Through the window they watch the plane landing from Pullman, steering down, nose pulling up at the last moment, a burst of smoke from the tyres as it touches down. She turns to him, looks at him properly — for the first time in weeks, it seems. His hair is very long again; he hates having it cut. Dark eyes. He is attractive.

You will keep me up to speed about them, won’t you?

Yeah, of course.

The plane taxis up. The propellers are cut. The ground crew wheel the steps up; passengers dismount and filter into the terminal building. The stewardess begins to take and tear in half the boarding passes of the outbound.