The Tenderness of Wolves (40 page)

‘You mean like French, or Italian?’

‘Yes … although I think it is an Indian language, and there are so many.’

‘Ah. Then you need some help.’

‘Yes. From someone who is fluent in all of them.’ She shrugs and smiles, as this is unlikely.

‘Ma’am, if I may make a suggestion? You see the gentleman sitting over there? He knows many Indian languages. If you like, I could introduce you.’

He sees her doubtful glance at the hunched shoulder and greasy hair curling over the collar. ‘He is perfectly … pleasant.’ He smiles, as though he hasn’t managed quite the right word, but decides it will have to do. Maria feels a blush threatening. This is what comes of walking into disreputable
establishments; she is impaled on the sword of her own daring. She looks at her papers and feels like a silly schoolgirl.

‘Of course, you would rather not. Forget I said it. It was impertinent.’

Maria draws herself upright. If she is to be a scholar, a thinker, she cannot shirk from the path of knowledge because of a greasy collar.

‘No, that would be very … nice. Thank you. If he doesn’t mind the bother, that is.’

The barkeep goes over to the other table and speaks to the man. Maria catches a glimpse of bloodshot eyes and has second and third thoughts about her decision. But he gets up and comes over to her table, carrying his glass. She smiles at him briefly; professionally, she hopes.

‘Hello. I’m Miss Knox. You are Mr …?’

He sits down. ‘Joe.’

‘Ah. Yes. Thank you for …’

‘Fredo says you want someone who knows Indian tongues.’

‘Yes, I have here part of a code, and, um, a friend of mine thinks it might be for an Indian language. I have been trying to decipher it, but since I don’t know what language it represents …’

She smiles too much, giving a slight shrug, even more scared now they are face to face. The man is older than she first thought, with streaks of grey in his hair. The skin below his eyes is pouchy, the cheeks slack. There are red threads in the whites of his eyes. He smells of rum.

But still, a keen face, or was once.

‘There are no written native languages, so why would your friend think that?’

‘I know, but, well … he has researched it. And these little figures–you see, this is just a copy, but they are like Indian drawings I have seen.’

For some reason she is pushing her copy towards him, repellent though he is. She wants him at least to take her seriously.

He studies the paper for a long time but says nothing. Maria wishes she were back at the hotel.

‘What is it a copy of?’

‘A bone tablet.’

He picks up her other papers, the ones with her tentative workings out. ‘What are these names?’

‘Oh, they’re not names; they’re what I got from trying out certain letters and sounds, you know, substituting for the marks here …’

He studies the sheets, holding them up in the light to focus better. His finger stabs the paper. ‘Deganawida. Ochinaway. You think this is what it says?’

His manner has become more aggressive. Maria lifts her chin defiantly. There is nothing wrong with her method. She learnt it from the
Edinburgh Review
.

‘Well, I was guessing. You have to make certain assumptions about which sounds the marks might mean, and try them out. I tried many, many things. This is what came out with one … one combination of …’

The man leans back in his seat and smiles at her; a sneering, hostile grimace. ‘Lady, is this some kind of joke? Who told you I was here?’

‘No, of course not. I had no idea … I don’t know who you are!’ She looks round, nervously, for Fredo, but he is serving some newcomers.

‘Who was it? Was it that fat bastard McGee? Huh? Or Andy Jensen? Was it Andy?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re implying, this is quite uncalled for!’

Now Fredo has heard the tone in her voice; he glances towards her … he is coming over, at last.

‘What’s your friend’s name, lady?’ insists Joe.

‘Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Joe, you’ll have to leave.’

‘I just want to know his name.’

‘Mr … Joe seems to think I am playing some sort of trick on him.’

‘Joe, apologise to the lady. Come on now.’

Joe shuts his eyes and bows his head; an oddly ethereal mannerism that restores to his ruined face a delicacy that has been blurred by time and alcohol.

‘I’m sorry. I’d just like to know the name of your friend who has this … whatever you called it.’

Maria feels braver with Fredo standing over her. And something in the man’s face when he closed his eyes, something endlessly long-suffering and pained, sad even, makes her want to answer.

‘Well, his name is Mr Sturrock, since you ask. And it is no trick. I do not play tricks.’

‘Sturrock?’ Joe looks serious. His whole demeanour sharpens, as though his connecting threads have been pulled together, transforming him. ‘Tom Sturrock. The searcher?’

‘Yes … he was. Do you know him?’

‘Did once. Well, I wish you luck, lady, and tell your friend Kahon’wes said hello.’

Maria frowns, struggling with the word. ‘Ga-hoo’ ways?’

The man, whatever his name is, gets up and walks out of the bar. Maria looks at Fredo for an explanation. But he is as surprised as she is.

‘I am so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know he would be like that. Normally he is so quiet, he just comes in and drinks, but is perfectly pleasant. Let me get you another sherry, or a piece of …’

‘No, thank you. I really must be going. My father will be waiting. How much do I …?’

‘No, no, I cannot let you pay.’

After some minutes’ insisting on both sides, Maria prevails, feeling it would not be a good precedent to become
obliged to a stranger. She leaves with a flurry of papers and thank-yous, and keeps her gaze rigidly fixed ahead as she hurries away from the waterfront.

The morning has been more of an adventure than she bargained for, the path of knowledge a rocky and alarming one. But at the very least she will have something to tell Mr Sturrock, and perhaps something to rouse her father from his lethargy as well. With a sense of relief at having left the docks behind, Maria slows down to compose her story and, as she rearranges her adventure into a suspense-laden narrative with an intrepid heroine, almost manages to convince herself that she was not afraid at all.

The light is dim under the trees, and it goes early, so they stop, because the children are whining so badly. Espen tries to hide his fear, but he has no real idea how to build a snow shelter, nor how to light a fire when the snow is this deep. He clears a bare patch on the forest floor, manages after some time to light a fire with damp wood, but before their water has boiled the surrounding snow banks have melted and doused the flames. The children look on through tears of disappointment and cold. Line keeps talking and encouraging, her throat dry with thirst, lips cracked with cold. She has never talked so much in her life; she is determined not to give in, not to look scared, not to cry.

When Torbin and Anna have finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, she says, ‘We’re bound to hit the river tomorrow. The snow has slowed us down, but we’ll get there.’

Espen does not speak for a while. She has never seen him look this unhappy. ‘You didn’t see it, did you?’

‘See what? What are you talking about?’ Her imagination peoples the forest with bears, axe-waving Indians, lamp-eyed wolves. Espen looks at her sourly.

‘Our trail. This morning we came on our own trail. I saw it, and turned away. We had gone in a circle.’

Line stares back at him, wondering for a moment what this means.

‘Line, we have been going round in circles. I can’t tell
what direction we’re going in. Without the compass, or seeing the sun, I have no idea.’

‘Wait. We went wrong.’ She needs to take him in hand, steady him, let him know that she is still in charge of things. ‘So we went wrong once. It probably wasn’t a big circle. We are not going round in circles. The forest has been changing. The trees are changing, getting taller, so we must be getting further south. I have noticed that, very particularly. We just need to keep going. I am sure that tomorrow we will find the river.’

He doesn’t look as though he believes her. He looks down, like a mutinous child who doesn’t want to give in, but has nowhere else to go. She takes his face in her mittened hands–it is too cold to attempt greater intimacy.

‘Espen … my darling. Don’t give up now. We’re so close. When we get to Caulfield, and we can get some rooms, we’ll be sitting in front of a roaring fire and we’ll laugh about this. Such an adventure to start our life together!’

‘And if we don’t get to Caulfield? My horse is ill. They haven’t got nearly enough to eat–or drink either. It’s been eating bark and I’m sure they’re not supposed to.’

‘We’ll get there. We’ll get somewhere. It’s only three days to cross the forest. Tomorrow we might come to the lake! Then you’ll feel foolish.’

She kisses him. This makes him laugh.

‘You are a vargamor. Unbelievable. No wonder you always get what you want.’

‘Ha.’ Line smiles, but thinks this unfair, as well as wrong. Did she want Janni to disappear into the wilderness? Did she want to go and live in Himmelvanger? Still, at least he is more cheerful, and that is the main thing. If she can keep him going, keep them all going, then they’ll be all right.

As they lie together under their pitiful shelter, clasping the children between them, Line hears things through her tiredness: the pistol crack of freezing sap, the sough of snow
slipping off the branches. And once, very far away, she thinks she hears wolves, howling into the empty night, and her skin prickles with sweat, despite the cold.

In the morning Espen’s horse refuses to move. It has been eating bark and a thin diarrhoea drips down its haunches and stains the snow. It stands in a posture of abject misery. Espen tries to feed it a mixture of warm water and oatmeal, but it turns away. Eventually, when they set off, Espen leads it, and both children sit in front of Line on her horse. It is harder work leading–or rather dragging–the horse than simply walking, and after an hour Espen calls Line over.

‘This is crazy. It would be faster to leave him behind. But that would be terrible. What if we are nearly at the river?’

‘Let’s go on a bit longer. He might improve. The snow’s stopped and it’s a little warmer.’

It is true: the snow has lessened to nothing and it is possible to say–in certain places at least–that it seems less deep.

‘It gets harder and harder. He just wants to stand still. I think he might lie down soon. It’s exhausting me.’

‘Do you want me to lead him for a while? You can sit up with Torbin and Anna until you are rested.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do this. Not … You can’t do it.’

The horse–Bengi, although Line has schooled herself not to think of him by name–flattens his ears at them. His back seems more sunken than yesterday, his eyes dull.

‘What if we left him? We could always come back to find him later.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Line sighs. She had imagined many things, but not a sick horse throwing obstacles in her path. A few yards away, the children have dismounted and, under orders to move around to keep warm, are playing some rather dispirited game.

‘Poor old Bengi.’ Line pats his neck. The horse flicks his
eyes to her in warning. She makes up her mind. ‘We leave him. If he can’t keep up, we’ll have to leave him. We’ll tell the children we’ll come back and get him, or something.’

Espen nods heavily. In a different place, another Line would weep for the horse being abandoned to its fate. But not this one.

They walk back to the children. Just then, as Line opens her mouth to explain, a loud crack resounds among the trees. It’s so loud Anna flinches and nearly falls over. They all stare at each other.

‘A hunter!’ Espen exclaims in excitement.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t just sap freezing?’ Line asks, because someone should.

‘It was too loud, and it’s different. It’s a rifle. Someone is hunting round here.’

He sounds so sure. The children whoop with such delight and relief that Line is won over. Human beings are here. Civilisation is suddenly within reach.

‘I’ll see if I can find him … Just to check we’re on the right path,’ Espen adds hastily.

‘How will you get back?’ Line says sharply.

‘Light a fire. I won’t be long. He must be very near.’ Espen starts to shout in English. ‘Hello! Hey. Who’s there? Hello!’

Without waiting for a reply he turns back to them. ‘I think it came from over there. I won’t be long. If I don’t find him, I’ll come straight back, I promise.’

Espen gives them all a big, confident grin, and walks off between the trees. His footsteps vanish into the silence. The other horse, Jutta, emits a long equine sigh.

It is interesting to note the ebb and flow of personnel at the post. The way people divide up, or are drawn together. Just from my own observation, it is evident that Olivier is not popular with the other employees. He sticks close to Stewart, runs errands for him, even apes some of his mannerisms. From the others, there is a sense of distance between white and non-white, and it is as though Olivier is a turncoat who has gone over to the other side. Initially I thought they respected Stewart, and were even fond of him. Now I’m not so sure. There is respect, but it is of a wary sort, the kind with which you might regard a potentially dangerous animal. Norah hates him, and while she presumably cares for Nesbit, she is equally rude to both. She treats Stewart with such insolence it makes me wonder if she holds some sort of power–otherwise I cannot imagine how she is allowed to get away with it. And a few times I have seen the pretty one–Nancy–in the corridor here. Since she does not appear to clean or serve, I wonder what she has been doing. Cooking, perhaps.

I am waiting for something to happen. Two hours have passed since the search party returned. I have been hovering between my room, the kitchen and the dining room–I keep finding petty things that need to be addressed, a lack of kindling (because I have thrown it outside), or spilt coffee. I am very unpopular with Norah as a result, but just after six o’clock I am rewarded by the sound of shouting from
Stewart’s office. The raised voice belongs to Nesbit; it has a hysterical note.