Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

OK, Rachel. We need to find a good place nearby and get clearance. Thomas says with luck we’ll be with you in the next twenty-five minutes.

What? Twenty-five minutes?

Yes, about that, Huib says. We have to get clearance and permission to land — it can’t be too close to any structures. I’ll call you back once we’re up with a rendezvous.

She realises then, not without a small thrill, that they are coming in the helicopter. Thomas Pennington has the means to traverse the entire county privately, by air.

OK, she says. Bring some more darts.

Yes, we are. We got lucky with the weather, Rachel. I think we’ll find them very quickly now.

She hangs up. She does not know about luck; the day has issued none so far. She looks up at the sky. A shale-blue expanse, light cloud cover, feathered cirrus. It is a beautiful window between the storms. Even the climate favours the Earl when he needs it to, she thinks. Now he is paying attention of course, now there’s reason, excitement. But she must quash the bitterness. Whatever advantages are at their disposal must be accepted, for the sake of the pack.

Got a plan? Lawrence asks, when she comes back over.

Yeah. You’re not going to believe it, she says.

She hurriedly eats the pastries her brother has brought and finishes the flask of lukewarm coffee. Ten minutes later, Huib calls back. The sound of the helicopter almost drowns him out, a rhythmic thrumming, the whine of the rotor; they are already airborne or about to take off.

Go to Arthur’s Seat, he shouts at her, on the Ullswater road. Thomas says the field beside the monument. Can you hear me, Rachel?

Yes, just about.

She checks the map book — the round table is about ten miles away. She needs petrol, but will make it. She kisses Charlie goodbye, thanks her brother again, and is about to get in the car when he stops her.

Wait, hold up. Won’t it be better to leave your car here? I’ll drive you. I know the place he means.

There’s no time to argue and no good reason. Nor, if she’s honest, does she want to be parted from her family just yet. Lawrence quickly transfers the baby seat. She takes what equipment she needs from the boot of the Saab and they start out. Her brother drives fast, but not dangerously, through St John’s Vale, past the small greenish mere, soupy with reeds, to the broadland before the northern fells. There is little traffic on the roads, only a few late-season tourists. Lawrence overtakes a caravan, accelerating with determination, pulling back in and reducing speed.

Is he asleep back there? he asks.

Yes, spark out. Poor thing, he’s really tired.

I bet.

I had to take him with me.

I know. Sorry I wasn’t around. I was in a deposition all day.

How are you? she asks.

I’m alright. Good days, bad days.

You look well.

Thanks. Rachel, don’t worry; he’ll be safe with me.

I know that.

As her brother drives, she texts the picture of the dead wolf to Sergeant Armstrong, and to Alexander. Thanks for Justine’s number. No joy . She looks out at the landscape, moors burnished along the base of the mountains, furze, sedge-coloured fields. They are out there, somewhere, and moving fast. As they near Arthur’s Seat, she checks the sky for the Gazelle coming in to land, but there’s only empty drifting blue.

Lawrence parks near the monument. They get out, leaving Charlie asleep in the back. The landing site is not so much a field as a slightly raised plateau of common land, covered with flocks of rush and grass. From the south, they hear it coming. The sound bends around the nearby fells, makes locating the helicopter difficult. She sees it down the valley, a dark blue insect suspended between the brown withers of the mountains, ominous-looking, dropping altitude slowly. The helicopter circles, begins its descent towards the ground. The noise of the engine and the blades fills the valley. A hundred feet from the ground, the grass begins to flutter, then to billow in the strong wash, and is crushed flat as the craft puts down. The turbulence tugs at Rachel’s clothes.

Charlie’s going to wake up and freak out, she shouts to Lawrence.

He nods.

Maybe I should go now?

I think so.

He gives her a quick hug, releases her.

Take care of him.

I will! We’ll watch you go up from down the road. Good luck! It’ll be alright.

He makes his way to the car, gets in, and drives back along the road. She cannot see her son. She suddenly feels unwilling to leave, but she has no choice now. The helicopter door opens, and Huib beckons to her. The blades have not been cut; the wind coming from the machine is extraordinary. Her clothes flap and twist as she approaches. She bends low and runs towards the helicopter. Huib takes the case and the tracker from her, and she climbs in. The door is shut and secured. Inside, the racket is only slightly milder. The body of the craft judders, seems too lightweight, too frail for the power of the rotor. Huib puts his thumb up. She takes a seat and fastens the belt. He passes her headphones with a microphone attached. She fits them and hears Thomas talking, saying, Hello, Rachel, glad you could join us , and she realises, with a feeling of dread, that he is piloting. Sylvia is sitting next to him up front. She turns, reaches back, and takes hold of Rachel’s wrist, smiles, mouths something. Why is she here? Rachel wonders. All fools together? On the headphones, Huib is talking about the signal, the last reading, but her heart is flurrying and she cannot concentrate. She is not afraid of flying. But this feels like madness, an event choreographed to put an end to it all, to conclude the entire, year-long fiasco. She’s never going to see her son again. She will never see him grow up or be able to tell him anything that matters — what he meant to her, who his father is, that he was a gift, the greatest of all gifts, and she could hardly believe he was hers.

She closes her eyes. The pitch and roar increase. There’s a swinging sensation. When she looks, the helicopter has lifted off, is nodding left and right, tilting hard to the side, and gaining altitude. The ground slides away beneath them at a sharp angle. She feels incredibly sad for a moment, almost resigned. Everything tends towards iron . They lift up, up. The monument grows smaller — the outline of the architectural site appears, a deep barrow in the earth. Down on the road, she sees her brother, holding the baby and waving. Please, she thinks, love him like I do, and then they are gone, and the Gazelle is moving swiftly across the landscape. The moorland blurs. A slow version of the blades is visible through the glass roof, an illusion created by speed. They pass along the valley, the space melting away as if it were nothing, fields and upland enclosures, three white wind turbines on a sacrificed hill, and the river like silver rope, unwinding. She looks down. Over a low summit is a hidden ghyll, running from a mountain tarn, the waterfall deeply channelled, wound-like. The upper crags of the fells draw level, weeping with grey and blue scree. And higher, they are above the peaks; there are contours that she has never seen before — that very few have or ever will — a land suddenly revealed, as if in a dream.

The geography of the northwest mountains makes it impossible to find them on the first day. The peaks veer into the sky and must be given a wide berth. The helicopter cannot pass too closely in the tight glacial valleys. Thomas obeys the regulations; he is not an unsafe pilot, in fact he is skilled, and she thinks again, It wasn’t him who crashed, though the stigma has been with him for over a decade. Occasionally, the transmitters’ signals are faintly read, then disappear. They are following the route, more or less, that Rachel predicted. The helicopter circles and tracks back, circles and tracks back, looping one valley, then the next. She scans the ground for movement, a migrating formation. The search method is efficient, but they will have to get closer to the ground if there’s any chance of tranquillising them. She has tracked in planes several times before and knows the animals are very good at evading pursuit, chicaning, doubling back, even on open ground. Space in the Gazelle is limited — they will not be able to transport the bodies back to Annerdale and it would be too dangerous to try. She imagines wolves tumbling from the sky, like some kind of Roman myth. But there is a ground unit on standby, she learns from Huib — a private company. The police and the mountain rescue centres are also ready to assist.