We’re only a few days late.
Shouldn’t we get back? Lawrence says. We’ve been gone a while. I could do with getting back.
Her brother’s lack of desire to be outside, away from the cottage, seems uncustomary. But again, Emily expresses a preference to visit the stone circle, and Lawrence concedes. They walk half a mile, onto an open rise. The mountains appear built like a stadium, encircling them, the summits recognisable — a geological alphabet. Round the base of the stones, the grass is long and ragged. There are sixty or so monoliths, slanted in all directions, some tipped over completely and impacted in the earth. A single sandstone pillar stands twenty metres off, exiled from the ring, a vast exotic geode hauled west across a nameless country, like the red stone of the Hall, millennia later. They tread around it. Emily examines the spirals carved into its body, unknowable symbols. There is a deep groove sculpted on top. She and Rachel speculate about the type of machinery required to get it there and upright: wooden rollers, piers and joists, excavation. Lawrence is quiet and a little agitated; his patience seems forced. They stand between two portal stones in the circle — the setting sun is close to the pillar’s groove, but off-centre. Thousands of years of astronomical bustle. If ever the planetary cogs were accurate, they have now slipped.
It reminds me of Skara Brae, Emily says.
Lawrence looks at her, and then at Rachel.
In Orkney, he says. I proposed there.
There were huge hailstones, Emily says. Like golf balls.
He puts his hand against his wife’s back. The moment might be tender, but there seems no tenderness in the gesture. His hand lingers and then drops. It is not Emily punishing Lawrence, Rachel realises. Emily is pushing ahead, gamely, trying to be positive, trying to reconnect and fix. The husband routine is automatic, and Lawrence knows he must kneel for forgiveness before the one he has hurt, but something in her brother seems to have switched off. Rachel turns away and begins down the slope towards Seldom Seen. It is painful to see the withdrawal, like having a mirror held up before her, or her former life, revealing her incapacity.
Later, in the cottage, Lawrence seems more content and at ease. The Christmas dinner is a success, and they exchange gifts, turn the tree lights on. He gives the baby a fluffy toy lion. He stalks it along the carpet, growling, much to Charlie’s delight. They christen the lion Roary. For the moment, all seems well.
*
A few weeks later, in the office, Rachel watches an early preview of Gregor’s film footage with Charlie on her knee. The camera closes in on each wolf, on the wolves together, their candid moments. They work in unison to bring down a young deer, closing in from either side, trapping it in a narrow granite gulley. It tries to cut back, spins about as they attach themselves to its neck, and drops. They open it up, work at the red flesh, and afterwards lick each other. Sleet drives across the moor, catches on their longer fur, lines their backs. Blood, snow, their immunity; they are in their element. She has missed seeing them.
There’s footage of Ra emerging from the den, which has been dug in the broad root system of an oak tree, on a mound not too far from the stream where the sighting with Chloe was made. Gregor has managed to stow himself in a position close enough not to unsettle them. Above the dugout, the oak trunk is immensely solid, spreading widely and guarding against collapse. The loose soil underneath has been moved. There are two entrances. The hollow openings are large, distinctive. Freshwater, a vantage point, a stronghold. The herds range on all sides. There’s a wonderful stretch of film of Ra clearing the site — flares of earth from his back paws as he digs the den run.
Look, she says to Charlie. Look at clever Mr Wolf. What’s he doing? Is he tidying up?
The baby lunges forward and then presses the back of his head against her chest. He kicks. He wants to be down, able to move, but his muscles aren’t yet coordinating. She holds him in a standing position, his tipping feet on her thighs, bounces him up and down. He looks at the screen, and she thinks, it is a nursery story of sorts — the wolf and his bride.
What’s Mr Wolf doing? She asks.
What indeed. Biological theories of behaviour: much is guesswork, or extrapolation. The rising prolactin levels in his mate are motivating him, perhaps. There is still insufficient data to be sure and the implants are not yet subtle enough, cannot measure protein and hormone levels. Ra sniffs the air, continues working. The camera focuses in. He scrapes the ground. The fur along his throat and round his ears is tinted beige. Smuts of grey and even black around his face. The glacial eyes seem colourless, then, in the tilting light, like shale flame. He lopes off.
Later, in the snowy rain, Merle stands next to him with her muzzle resting on his back — a beautiful moment of ritual bonding, all the more intimate for the unedited nature of the film, the lack of narration. Though they are a naïve pair, Rachel has confidence. It is a natal den. Merle will encourage him, and Ra will work out how to mount her. This is her marker for the project’s success. Not that they should be accepted by the land, as if ascending to a throne; Thomas’ goal was never in doubt. She wants them to be unexceptional, common. They should exist here as anywhere, and in so doing recreate their common selves.
Charlie helps or tries to help the bouncing movement, and chirps with delight.
Look at Mr Wolf, she says. What’s he doing?
The same phrases, repeated a hundred times a day. Where’s Charlie? Say Mama. She sometimes feels like an automaton. But he is learning, and fast.
Gregor comes into the office with a battered duffel bag and a reinforced laptop case.
Hi, Rachel. And if it isn’t bonny prince Charlie, he says, laying a hand on the baby’s head. What a handsome fellow you are.
Charlie cranes back. Rachel pauses the film.
This is amazing. Thank you.
No bother. It’s a bit rough but I thought you’d like it. Just popped in to say toodle-oo. This fellow’s getting big!
Are you flying out this evening?
Wednesday. I’m away up to Dundee first to see my beloveds.
Though he has been camping in the bothy for weeks during the winter, Gregor has gained weight. His full, curly beard is trimmed short, as is the white hair; he does not look as if he has suffered privation. The Annerdale gig has been soft compared to Nepal. A stove to heat food and water, a local pub. He is taking two months off to return to the leopards, and will come back in spring for the final stage of Merle’s pregnancy, should it occur, the early phases of pup development.
Thanks again, she says. Have a good trip. And best of luck.
Gregor nods, tickles Charlie’s belly, and Charlie squeals again.
I’ll bring you back a parasite. Keep watching that — there’s a good bit coming up.
He hoists his bag over his shoulder and heads out the door. She presses play and continues to watch.
*
After Lawrence and Emily’s visit, Rachel becomes determined not to mess things up with Alexander. Seeing their helpless atrophy was depressing. She does not want that part of herself to be vestigiaclass="underline" a withered stump of a heart. She will try to be open and giving. Almost as soon as the resolution is made, she finds herself mired in a series of misunderstandings, as if sabotaging herself. Randomly, he sends her flowers. They did not exchange Christmas gifts — neither one of them felt the necessity — and she becomes immediately suspicious. The note reads, Dear Rachel, looking forward to later. A x They are due to have dinner, then Alexander will probably spend the night. But why send flowers? Is it not a raising of the romantic stakes, a declaration? Does he want something more from her? She broods all day, panics on and off about the meaning of it. The flowers are beautiful, all winter reds and whites, luxurious, expensive; she leaves them under the cellophane wrapper, only taking them out and arranging them in a vase an hour before he arrives.