The Wolf Border (17 page)

The wolfery?

Quarantine. It was originally a joke someone made. But it's sort of stuck.

They follow the fence towards the pen. She is walking slower than usual, not winded exactly, but the humidity and the extra weight of the bump are having an effect, on her gait, her heart. She can feel the extra blood. Lawrence slows, obligingly.

Why does there have to be a fence on this side of the lake, anyway?

If it was open both ends, they'd swim across, she explains. We'd lose them.

They could swim across? All the way?

Yes.

Her brother turns and gazes back over the water. The rim of the lake is darkly tinted. There are patches of yellow and white light drifting like aurorae across the surface.

It wasn't like this when we were growing up, was it? he says. It felt less – owned.

It was probably just more affordable then, less fashionable.

True. We looked into getting a house up here a few years ago, but there's no way.

He looks over at her.

Sorry I never came to the States to see you, Rachel.

It doesn't matter.

It does matter. Stupid to have gone years without being friends at least.

There's upset in the margins of his voice again. She should tell him not to worry about what can't be changed. The past damages, the old wounds. The trick is not to limp; one has to forget one was ever limping, like Ra, whose leg has healed. One day he could simply run again, without affliction. She puts a hand on Lawrence's arm.

Quid pro quo. I've never been to Leeds.

He grins. They continue along the fence. Either side of the wire is an abundance of tall grass, insects ferrying between the stalks, and butterflies. The landscape is beginning to thicken and become fragrant; the heather blossoming, and the gorse bushes exploding with heady yellow petals.

You must have missed all this while you were away, he says. I know I do.

Yeah. It was a good place to be a kid. You end up wanting to
be outdoors all the time, wherever you are. I sometimes slept out in John Stacy's barn. And in the lime kiln. If I'd had a row with Binny.

Her moorland solitude. She still cannot really imagine herself as a mother, and does not regard her own upbringing as idyllic – far from it – but there is something reassuring or important about knowing the baby will grow up in the territory where she grew up. And then she thinks of Kyle, and the Reservation, and she feels the inching of guilt.

Well, I'm glad you're back, Lawrence says. Gives me a good excuse to come up here.

She nods but does not answer. The fence rolls on across the shallow gables of grassland, through stone pavements and cleared woods, to the near horizon. Seen at this angle, it looks as if it runs indefinitely, the illusion of holding, like the Viking stone walls up the steep mountains of Cumbria.

Hey, her brother says, and stops walking. I just figured out why you do what you do, Rachel. All that sleeping outside. You were exposed.

In the screened hide, she scans the pen, locates them, and hands Lawrence a pair of binoculars.

Behind the big tree trunk. Just left of it.

He takes the glasses and adjusts the focus, moves them away from his face, and then brings them back to the bridge of his nose. He is unaccustomed, she can tell.

Can't see anything except ferns and bushes, he says.

It might help to scan quadrants, she suggests. Think of a grid.

Right.

He continues to search. She wonders if this is the first time
he will have seen one. Even with all the zoos and parks of the modern age, most people do not come into contact. Setterah Keep had closed by the time Lawrence was old enough to be taken, the animals donated to other centres or destroyed. She suddenly hopes it is the case – she would like to be the one to show him. He adjusts the focus again. They are well camouflaged, but he'll find one, if he's patient. Or they'll move and make it easier. She remembers again the mystic at the 500 Nations powwow, asking her for some kind of spiritual response to her first sighting, her blunt dismissal. After, Kyle had told her he'd gone through the weyekin ritual at the age of twelve – about the fasting and fireless nights, the alteration of mind, and the idea that attributes of the gained spirit would be lent to a person for life. It was unclear whether he subscribed or not. If Lawrence enjoys seeing them, if he is moved or simply appreciative, that will be enough for her.

He peers through the glasses. He tells her he can see an ear, twitching in the thistles and fronds; he thinks it's an ear. They are lying down, almost hidden in the tangle of undergrowth.

Bingo.

Rachel holds her own binoculars steady. They are in the shade, close to each other, keeping cool. A cloud of gnats hovers above them, and their ears flick now and then. After a few minutes, Ra stands and shakes off, expelling the dirt and flies, his ears flapping. He gazes at the hide.

Wow! Incredible! He's looking right at me. Am I talking too loud?

No. You could say nothing, he'd still know where you are. They're getting too used to us, which is a bit of a problem.

Ra sniffs the air, his long nose tipped up, the black, leathered nostrils flaring. He yawns and drops back down to the warm
dusty earth, in plain view, as if doing them a favour by exposing his great lean body. He has given up scouting for exits and digging. The hot weather is making him doggish, as are the fresh carcasses being dumped at various places in the enclosure each week. Now he slumps to the side, rolling in the grass and exposing his underbelly. They will have to start implementing some scare tactics, prevent the pair from becoming too used to hotel life and human stewards.

They spend half an hour at the wolfery, watching. Lawrence is fascinated, asks when they might mate. The following winter, after release, she tells him. On the way out, they bump into Huib and Sylvia. It feels odd, introducing a member of her family to colleagues; she has never done so before. She stumbles and says
half-brother
, which is an unnecessary distinction, but no one seems to notice. They chat pleasantly for a moment on the wooded path, in dappled sunlight. It amazes her, the ease with which everyone can get along, as if it is the most natural thing in the world; perhaps it is. Sylvia mentions law school, and Lawrence wishes her luck.

I'm not sure about it any more, she confesses. I'm enjoying working here with Rachel too much.

Lawrence glances admiringly at his sister. The feeling of companionability is nice, she admits, though the compliment is unwarranted. Sylvia has been undertaking the menial work of any volunteer, albeit enthusiastically.

We're going to the pub for lunch, if you want to come along, she says to the others.

It is the weekend. The project requires daily work, but there is room for play, and the staff members have yet to socialise together without Thomas Pennington being present, hosting like a king.

Maybe we'll join you for a drink later, Huib says.

OK. Has Alexander been down today?

First thing. He charted and then had to go. He said to say hi.

They seem nice, Lawrence says as they walk on to the pub. That was the Earl's daughter, was it?

Yes.

She seems normal. No pearls and frills.

I wouldn't quite go that far. But she is doing well.

Outside the Horse and Farrier, they pass Michael Stott's utility vehicle – the small world of Annerdale. The gamekeeper greets them through the open window of the truck.

How do, Mrs Caine.

He seems less sullen than usual, perhaps because Rachel is with a man, perhaps because she is pregnant – the news is known on the estate now – and he assumes she might leave the project. A sleek, brindled lurcher pants on the passenger seat next to him, its pink tongue spooning out, brown bandit patches over each eye. She has yet to discuss the deer population with him, and a possible cull, but she does not want the mood of the day spoilt with a terse exchange. She nods hello, and follows Lawrence into the bar. He turns to her with a smirk.

Orange juice?

She points at the Guinness pump.

No, I'll have a half.

Of stout?

Binny had stout every day when she was pregnant with you, she tells her brother. She said the doctor told her to – something about iron deficiency. It might just have been an excuse.

Well, I turned out OK, he says.

Anyway, I've been reading the studies. The latest evidence is
alcohol in moderation is fine. Caffeine and alcohol, yes, smoking and class A drugs, no.

Right-o, he says, grinning. This is a nice pub. I'm going to try something local.

He orders a pint of Helvellyn Gold. They sit at a table by the window with menus and their drinks. Now she has stopped walking, Rachel can feel the baby moving – a sensation somewhere between tender thumping and flapping, a sudden burst under the skin. Nothing is as she anticipated. There are moments she feels genuinely joyful, irrationally so, and other times the decision to go ahead seems ludicrous, a madness. But the screening results came back good. The second scan was clear – no anomalies, the baby is developing well, heart chambers, brain, spine. She glances at her brother, who is looking out of the pub window at the kempt village green, sipping his pint. He is decent and kind, though under the surface he often seems conflicted, true parts of himself hidden away. But then, is she not also reticent, giving herself over only gradually, if at all? It would be good to have him as a friend.

I have thought about it, she says. I have thought maybe I'll be a hopeless mum. Like her.

Lawrence turns back, barely missing a beat.

No, he says, firmly. No, Rachel. You'll be brilliant. I know you will.

He looks her squarely in the eye.

You'll be a brilliant mum, he repeats.

It is an irrefutable assertion. He does not know her, any more than she knows him. Life divided them early, made them strangers. How can he know anything so certain from the handful of times they have met? But it is not hysterical optimism or crazed fantasy. He means to believe and so he believes. Perhaps it is
survivalism, she thinks, the method he used to get away from the intolerable reign of Binny, still a teenager, vulnerable, only half made. He could so easily have fucked it all up – school, a profession, his love life. But he didn't. He left, and he prospered. If he were the elder, if she had been less autonomous, less isolationist, he probably would have tried to take her with him. Whatever demons he carries, he also succeeds, she thinks. For a moment she feels almost ashamed, and humbled by his generosity. It is she who should express admiration.

Thank you, Lawrence. That means a lot.

He holds up his pint glass.

Right-o, he says. Cheers. Here's to the baby.

*

High summer. The district bakes in a rare spell of unbroken heat, week after week of open blue sky, elegantly cut through by swallows and martins. The upland grass parches, and in the valleys and the corners of fields, the smell of hay beginning, an elative smell – reassuring to the agricultural memory, perhaps. Heat shimmers on the roads as the horizons soften, and the tar melts. The wolves become nocturnal, moving about the enclosure at night, keeping to the shade in the day.

The morning that she and Alexander perform the surgery is beautifully warm. He arrives with sterile equipment and sheeting on which to work. His sleeves are rolled. Rachel moves quietly round the enclosure until she can get a clear shot with the gas-projector. The first barbiturate dart hits Ra in the hindquarters. He whimpers, turns to bite at the spot, takes a few paces. His back end sinks, and he drops. Merle tucks her tail, step-crouches away
from him, pauses, looks back. Rachel reloads quickly and darts her.

Nice shot, Alexander comments. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you.

They enter the pen, dressed in plastic suits and gloves, carrying the implants. It is hot inside the suit – the internal zip only just closes over Rachel's stomach. She blindfolds the wolves, to protect their eyes from the sun. They set up a makeshift outdoor theatre and move the two limp bodies onto the sheeting. She is careful of bending and lifting, her ligaments have started to soften and her back aches a little, but the work is not too difficult. Alexander does not ask if she would rather, in her condition, assist or sit the procedure out, and she is grateful for the assumption of capability.

While unconscious, the pair are weighed, checked over, blood samples are taken. A section of their abdomens is shaved and cleaned. They are laid out on their backs, their hind legs splayed. Both are moulting, leaving hair on the sheeting and the suits. Their heartbeats are monitored on a Doppler. Alexander works calmly, opening a clean wound in Ra, parting the sides of flesh, inserting the transmitter. The devices will be kept away from vital organs and muscles, Merle's uterus.

Deep enough? he asks.

Yes, great. Just so long as it doesn't travel to the skin and irritate.

He tucks the implant inside, secures it, stitching the inner lining tidily, then closing the outer with a subterranean line that will be harder to chew out. He repeats the operation on Merle. Though the technique is new, it is clear he is used to performing such procedures on site; he is efficient but unhurried, his gloves barely stained red. Sweat gathers on his brow, rolling down his temples. She feels beads slide down her back under the plastic material. The surgery is brief, twenty minutes in all.

You must have taken Home Ec in school, she jokes. Embroidery?

Oh, yes. And I can make a mean stuffed pepper, too.

Stuffed with what? she asks.

With pepper.

He cuts the last thread. He gives each animal a shot of precautionary antibiotics. They turn them on their sides, pack away the equipment and remove the blindfolds, then leave the enclosure, disinfecting on the way out. Within a minute or so the wolves come round, stand woozily, shake, and move about. Ra sits and licks his belly. Merle sniffs his underside; he hers. Iodophor. Something has passed while they were asleep, but what? They investigate their small territory but find no intruders. They drink from the well stream, lope back to the bushes, and lie down. There seems to be no inhibition of movement or negative effect.