The Wolf Border(41)

Actually, I like it too.

Alexander is bent forward, peering through the viewing panel again.

Hey up, he says. Action stations.

They take up their field glasses. There is movement in the enclosure. Cautiously, Merle is approaching the carcass for a second time. She stands over the downy body, sniffs, assessing the state of decay. Scavenging is not the preferred mode, or perhaps she is still suspicious after the recent poisoning. As Stephan Dalakis pointed out, she was extremely lucky the incident did not permanently affect her stomach and bowel. Whatever the meat was laced with left her desperately sick. Another way of killing them. Over the years Rachel has seen several cases along Idaho’s sheep superhighway where the hunters use Xylitol, which is easy to buy and toxic to their livers.

Merle looks towards Ra. Her ears rotate forward, black-tufted. Her eyes are tear-shaped, dark-ringed, her expression quizzical. The eye might be drawn to her big, pale mate, but she is more than beautiful, Rachel thinks. Ra arrives and they begin to tug at the flesh. The legs of the deer jerk as they pull it about. Another tick in Alexander’s boxes. After feeding, they retreat towards the dead wood, and lie down in the grass. Merle inches over and they lie close together. Ra yawns. He is not yet fully interested in the advances; she is simply practising until he is. She yawns too, puts her head on her paws. She may not have a godly name, Rachel thinks, but she is the vital one, everything rests on her ability to breed. She is the true grey, true to the name; she is tawny as the landscape, and utterly congruent.

*

Once news of their arrival has broken, protesters flock back to the estate. They set up camp at the gate again, and settle in for the duration. The previous motley band has grown somewhat, Rachel notices, as she and Huib drive up. Numbers have swelled. Now there are placards, banners, even costumes. She parks the Saab in the row of cars along the verge, by the estate’s high wall, and they get out. The crowd mills about. Someone is videoing on a mobile phone and the local newspaper has sent a photographer, who looks a little desultory. There are children, including a girl dressed in white party frills and a red cape, some kind of fairytale motif, or perhaps she is simply on the way to a party. Lurking at the side of the group is a man wearing a pinstripe suit and papier-maché wolf’s head. The head is lewdly made, though not unskilfully, with giant teeth and a red tongue. He is carrying a briefcase. The photographer singles him out and he poses. This is perhaps some kind of comment on Lord Pennington himself, Rachel assumes, rather than the wolves. The apex class; the financial raiders in charge. It all seems a peculiarly British display, Shakespearean almost: absurdity combined with intellect, adults engaged in mummering. They approach the group.

Nice day for it at least, Huib says.

He seems unfazed, amused even. But then, he has faced down illegal poachers in Africa, armed, ambitious, and far more dangerous.

Watch that guy, will you, she says, gesturing to the wolf-headed man. He seems quite full on.

Probably nothing, she thinks, but he has gone to a lot of effort with his costume. She wonders for a moment if this man is the mysterious ‘Nigh’, whom they have had several more rabid emails from. Something in the exhibitionism of the disguise and the lack of inhibition fits. But the presentation is too articulate, not in keeping with the chaotic communications pinging into her inbox. As they approach, she steels herself; such confrontations are never easy, even if harmless. She feels embarrassed for those who have misunderstood, the irrationals of the world. When the crowd realises she and Huib are not joining the group, but are here to defend the project, the protesters take formation, hoisting their painted placards. Right to Roam. Protect Our Children. The wolf-headed man begins his pantomime. He drops the briefcase and holds his hands up as if they were claws. The fingertips are painted red. He begins to stalk forward, growling. There are murmurs in the crowd, and nervous laughter.

Great stuff, someone says – the photographer.

He crouches down and snaps off a few shots.

Bit slower, can you? Look over to me, Mr Wolf.

The man continues forward, towards Rachel and Huib. The growling intensifies. The courage of the masked – clearly he has rehearsed and wants to perform. Rachel feels a blush begin to creep up her neck. How to tackle the silliness of it? But she does not have to. Huib applauds and steps into his path.

Bravo, mate, bravo. Minor criticism – the sound’s not quite right. It’s a little low-pitched for an attack. You’ve got to get more of a moan sound in there.

His voice is non-confrontational, but deliberately loud, loud enough for the lecture to be heard by the crowd. He begins to make a snarling noise himself. The impression is honed, and surprisingly accurate. He is physically blocking the pantomime’s progress. The wolf-headed man stops.

And for a happy greeting, you’ve got to whimper or whine. A bit like this.

He delivers another wolfish impression. The crowd is watching him now – he is stealing the show. Genius, Rachel thinks. She sidesteps them and addresses the rest of the group.

My name’s Rachel. I’m project manager here. I can answer any questions you have and address any concerns.

The group rallies, begins a song – a ditty whose lyrics have been written to the tune of Jerusalem. She musters patience. She will let them have a verse or two – it’s what they came for. She puts her hands in her pockets and waits. The little girl in the white frock and cape breaks from the group, prances forward, and smiles up at her. There’s grime on the hem of the dress where it’s been trailing on the ground, which is quite pleasing. Rachel smiles back. The girl seems too young to know what’s going on. She skips off. The song concludes. A woman in the crowd – the self-selected spokesperson, perhaps – pipes up, complains about the danger to children that the Annerdale wolves pose. She places her hands on the shoulders of two of the other children present, boys of about six or seven, smartly dressed in breeches and velvet Victorian-style jackets. Brothers to the little capering princess, no doubt. The boys step forward and present themselves, to illustrate a point, certainly the point of their being children, if not in mortal danger. They look past Rachel to the wolf-man, who Huib is still corralling – a far more interesting scene.