The Wolf Border(40)

In the quarantine enclosure, Rachel and Huib stand next to the crates, boiler-suited and disinfected, their hands placed on the sliding-door mechanisms. Outside the fence, Sylvia is filming. Alexander is with her, observing – he will do so every day for the next week and then weekly. Michael is not in attendance. A new deer carcass lies at the far end of the pen, wet, aromatic, freshly cut. After six months they will be freed into the main enclosure with the herds, as close to a hard release as possible.

The crates are silent, but the sedation will be lifting. Huib looks over at Rachel. He holds up a thumb – ready. Rachel signals back. They open the doors and step quickly behind the crates. In no more than a second or two the pair has bolted, the male a fraction faster, startlingly pale, with Merle hard at his heels. Huib punches the air.

Boom!

The wolves divide round a stack of logs, make for the end of the pen, and are lost from sight behind a cluster of bushes.

Let’s leave them to it, Rachel says.

She and Huib wheel the crates backward towards the gate, where they are stowed. They step into the disinfectant zone and change shoes, strip out of the boiler suits. Rachel shuts and locks the inner gate, which is screened. Although they can no longer be seen, they are well within the auditory and olfactory field, and will always be detected when this close to the pair. They wash down, strip out of the suits, exit the outer gate, and join Alexander and Sylvia in the viewing area. The pair have gone to ground and remain hidden from sight. The group speak in low tones, almost whispering, congratulating each other. Sylvia keeps the camera still and trained through the hide’s panel. Alexander nods to Rachel.

Looking good, very alert.

Let’s see if they eat anything, she says.

They take up their field glasses and wait. After five minutes, pointed ears come up out of the grass, then heads emerge. The wolves step out from behind the bushes, cautiously, sniffing, a forepaw held aloft. There’s a cold austerity to the male’s bluefired gaze, a rarity. Merle is quietly confident in the new surroundings; she beings to lope towards the carcass, investigates it, but does not eat. She returns to the male and he licks her muzzle. They make short forays, close together, in the bottom half of the pen, criss-crossing scent trails to the fence and back, keeping their noses to the ground, lifting them and reading the air. The enclosure is big, several hectares, though as quarantine progresses it will seem limited, Rachel knows, and will induce lazy behaviour, habituation. She has prepared a series of preventative tactics. In the centre of the pen is a pile of dead wood where it is likely they will den. They move closer, towards the hide. For a long while the male stands looking in the direction of the screen where the humans are hidden. The strong April sunlight renders his fur brilliant, pale gold and silver-white, like the blaze of a matchhead. He could almost set fire to the trees. He’s going to vanish, Rachel thinks, against the snow and the limestone pavements on the moors, against the blonde sward of the grassland.

I think he knows we’re still here, Sylvia says.

Ja. I feel like he knows what I had for breakfast, Huib says.

Alexander laughs quietly.

Muesli, and he’s not impressed.

He is going through a health checklist, ticking boxes, the first of many formal documents. They are inquisitive, their tails are up; there is no lethargy. A good score. Sylvia keeps recording.

I wish Mummy could have seen this, she says after a time. She was the one who first suggested the idea to Daddy. She’d be so, so happy.

Rachel glances over. This is the first mention of the project’s conception she has heard, and was not aware of the memorial aspect. Sylvia is dressed as a standard volunteer: T-shirt and jeans, a fleece jacket, work boots. Her face is not made up; her hair is tied back, though there is still a quality of refinement to her, a strange Martian beauty. She has spent her first full day on the project, preparing the carcass with Huib, answering the phone. There has been no cause to doubt her commitment, and now Rachel understands why. She is doing it for her dead mother, the most banal and powerful of all motivations.

The pair lope softly to the bottom of the enclosure again and disappear. Sylvia lowers and switches off the camera.

I’ll upload this when I get back to the office, she says. I’ll send it to Border News and the BBC. Daddy left us some champagne, by the way, if anyone feels like it.

This day gets better and better, Alexander says. Merle is a great name, by the way, Rachel. I saw The Dark Angel when I was a kid. I think I would have sent my best friend off to his death for Kitty Vane.

Ja, me too! Huib agrees. Good job you didn’t call her Kitty, Rachel.

Alexander snorts.

Kitty the wolf.

I didn’t have you two down as film nerds, Rachel says. But we should think about a name for our boy. Anyone?

Sylvia holds her hand up, eager as a schoolgirl.

May I suggest something?

Rachel thinks back to the welcome party, her assumptions about Sylvia’s mettle and her tastes. They can always vote on it if needs be. But the mood is high, it is a celebratory day, and she does not want to dampen the spirit by penalising a member of the team. She will have to learn to trust the Earl’s daughter.

OK. Go on.

Well, he’s just so very bright and brilliant. What about Ra?

As in the sun god? I like that, says Huib. I like that a lot. Our creator!

Sylvia’s smile broadens; she is lit up with keenness, and looks a tiny bit smug. Rachel nods.