Once There Were Wolves Page 3

  I flushed.

  Mum stroked my hair once, then lifted me onto her lap with strong arms. On the desk were folders that opened with a flap. Inside, pictures. Women’s smiling faces. “These,” Mum told me, “are the women who have been killed this month by their husbands or boyfriends.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “It happens once a week in Australia.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that worrying about trees is not a good way to spend your energy. Worry about this. Other people. Your mirror-touch makes you vulnerable and on top of that you’re too kind, Inti. If you’re not careful—if you’re not vigilant—someone’s going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

  She took a pocket knife from the desk drawer. Her baton and Taser were in the same drawer, but the gun stayed at work. I had never seen her wearing it but Aggie used to draw pictures of her with it all the time, and asked about it constantly.

  Mum flipped the blade open and without warning sliced her index finger.

  I yelped in pain and grabbed my finger tightly, trying to stem the blood, only there wasn’t any and I knew there wouldn’t be any but still it had me tricked, every time.

  Aggie charged into the room, shouting, “Don’t!”

  “Relax, Aggie,” Mum said. “She’s fine. Open your eyes,” Mum told me and then, as I watched, she cut her second finger, cut my second finger, and then her third and fourth and fifth. I was crying as she said, “This isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong to you. When your brain tells you otherwise it’s lying. So you must form a defense.”

  “I’ll be her defense,” Aggie said.

  “I know that, but you won’t always be together—she needs one of her own.”

  Aggie and I looked at each other and mutually dismissed that comment.

  “How?” I asked Mum.

  “Any way that you can, because people harm each other. I see it every day. You need to start protecting yourself. I’ll cut myself until you don’t feel it anymore.”

  And so she did.

  * * *

  The camera monitors in the base camp aren’t doing it for me so I hike out to the pen and climb a tree. With binoculars I watch Number Six and Number Nine deciding how they feel about each other.

  It isn’t going to work. I’m sure of it. The world is not that kind; I am not so lucky.

  And then it does. Because really it has nothing to do with me and my luck.

  He pads over to her and she rises to meet him. I am sure they will finally fight, the fight to end one of them, undoubtedly the smaller female. But instead Number Nine touches his muzzle to hers and settles himself next to her, where their bodies will keep each other warm. They nuzzle and lick each other, then rest their faces together.

  The first pair of wolves to mate in Scotland in hundreds of years.

  It is easy to tell myself that what passes between them is only biology, nature, but then who said love does not exist in the nature of all things?

  I climb down from the tree. Whether or not any of the females fall pregnant this season, we now have three breeding pairs, which means we are one step closer to returning the wolves to Scotland. Only then will the forest come back to life.

  * * *

  I take a detour home so I can stop and walk the hill on which this entire project is relying.

  The first thing Evan did when I arrived in Scotland a few weeks ago was bring me to this hillside. It’s the chosen spot for the vegetation survey that will eventually inform our report to the government. Evan, who was a botanist in another life, has been liaising with the botanist consultants independently running the survey.

  A large transect of about a hundred meters has been set up, with smaller square intervals marked out. “These are four-by-four quadrants,” Evan explained to me that first day. “They’re monitoring the species diversity and abundance and they’ll continue to do so over the next few years to see what physical impact the wolves are having on the habitat regeneration.”

  My eyes scanned the plant life on this windy patch of hill, just as they do again now. There are very few trees and only short grass beneath the ling and heather. A favorite grazing ground of the red deer that cover the Scottish Highlands.

  “So this patch of land is going to determine if we’ve been successful or not,” I’d said.

  “Aye. And she better get on with it too because she’s looking right hackit.”

  * * *

  As I’m arriving back at base camp my phone rings. I’m in a bit of hot water with Anne Barrie from the Wolf Trust for placing the wolves in the pens without being given the go-ahead. I think mostly she’s pissed because she wanted to be there to see it. She’s worked so hard to make it happen, it was a bit of a shit thing of me to do, but then again, keeping them in those crates would have been negligent. I almost don’t answer her phone call, not in the mood to be chewed out again.

  “Hey, Anne.”

  “I trust you’ll be at the meeting tonight?”

  I sigh.

  “You’re going, Inti. The head of the project needs to show her face there.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “But you aren’t going to say anything, okay? Leave that to Evan. He’s charming and you’re not.”

  “Cheers.”

  “I mean it. This is an opportunity to defuse some of the tension, not stir it up further.”

  “I was planning on taking a vegan power sign. Do you think that would help?”

  “Please don’t take the piss right now, Inti, I don’t have time.”

  “Why are we pandering to the unions, anyway?”

  “Oh, Jesus, don’t even start with that. I know you are not that stupid.”

  I can’t help grinning. She’s easy to stir.

  “Just, please, don’t lose your shit.”

  “I won’t, I’ve got it.”

  * * *

  The school auditorium has no heating; the air within feels even colder than it does outside. My fingers are turning numb as I sink into a back-row seat beside Niels and Zoe. There is a woman in the audience holding a sign that reads CIGARETTES AND WOLVES, KILLERS THAT COME IN PACKS and a kid waving one that says WILL THERE BE ANY DEER LEFT WHEN I GROW UP? I roll my eyes.

  On the stage sit a row of people. Evan is among them, our spokesperson, chosen not only because he is articulate and charismatic, but because he’s the only one in our core team who is Scottish, and this, we’ve been told, is likely to land better with the locals. Niels by contrast is a stiff Scandinavian who has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of our field but zero people skills and a thick Norwegian accent, Zoe is an American data analyst who doesn’t like the outdoors and makes no secret of this, while I am a bad-tempered Australian who finds it hard to hide contempt and sucks at public speaking. Next to Evan sits Anne, the warrior who singlehandedly got this project through Parliament and also a massive pain in my ass. I don’t know who the rest of the people up there are, I suppose prominent members of the community. In the crowd I know there are members of the farmers union, the gamekeepers union, and the Hillwalkers group, plus dozens of landowners from the entire Cairngorms region—all of whom have opposed our project. And despite my teasing with Anne, I do understand why. There are no members of corporate agriculture here tonight. These people are mostly local farmers living under massive financial pressure, and a perceived threat to their hard-earned livelihoods is a frightening thing. It’s Evan’s job to try and ease some of that fear.

  One of the men on the stage stands to speak, white-haired and pairing his traditional tartan kilt with a more casual knit pullover. “Most of you know me but for any who don’t, I’m Mayor Andy Oakes,” he says. “This meeting’s been called to give you some necessary information and for you to voice your concerns and hopefully have them appeased. Here to speak to us tonight is Anne Barrie, head of the Wolf Trust, in cooperation with Rewilding Scotland, and Evan Long, who’s one of the biologists with the Cairngorms Wolf Project.”

&nbs
p; Anne gives a little thank-you speech that could not be more brown nosing if she tried, then she yields the stage to Evan to explain the situation: that there are now three pens holding a total of fourteen wolves within the Cairngorms National Park and that come the end of winter the wolves will be released from these pens to live freely in the Scottish Highlands. They are here specifically for a rewilding effort in a broader attempt to slow climate change, and on an experimental basis.

  “What we have here in Scotland,” Evan says, “is an ecosystem in crisis. We urgently need to rewild. If we can extend woodland cover by a hundred thousand hectares by 2026 then we could dramatically reduce CO2 emissions that contribute to climate change and we could provide habitats for native species. The only way to do this is to control the herbivore population, and the simplest, most effective way to do that is to reintroduce a keystone predator species that was here long before we were. The vital predation element of the ecosystem has been missing in this land for hundreds of years, since wolves were hunted to extinction. Killing the wolves was a massive blunder on our part. Ecosystems need apex predators because they elicit dynamic ecological changes that ripple down the food chain, and these are known as ‘trophic cascades.’ With their return the landscape will change for the better—more habitats for wildlife will be created, soil health increased, flood waters reduced, carbon emissions captured. Animals of all shapes and sizes will return to these lands.”

  I look around at the faces I can see; most appear somewhere between pissed off, bored, and plainly confused.

  Evan continues. “Deer eat tree and plant shoots so that nothing has a chance to grow. We are overrun with deer. But wolves cull that deer population, and keep it moving, which allows for natural growth of plants and vegetation, which encourages pollinating insects and smaller mammals and rodents to return, which in turn allows the return of birds of prey, and by keeping the fox population in check the wolves also allow medium-sized animals to thrive, such as badgers and beavers. Trees can grow again, creating the air we breathe. When an ecosystem is varied, it is healthy, and everything benefits from a healthy natural ecosystem.”

  A man from the crowd stands. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and tie and holds his tweed flat cap in his hands. His gray handlebar mustache is a sight to behold, even from my angle. “That’s all well and good for nature,” he says in a deep, resonant voice, “but it’s costing me land I could be grazing sheep on. Agriculture is the third-largest employer in rural Scotland. You threaten that and you threaten the entire community.”

  There are a few rumbles of agreement.

  “It is unacceptable to me,” he goes on, “that animals could be introduced that would destroy the Highlander way of life. I want to see a thriving community, I want to see glens dotted with sheep and people. People are the lifeblood of a place.”

  A whistle, a smattering of applause. I stare at the back of the farmer. This world he describes, empty of wild creatures and places, overrun instead by people and their agriculture, is a dying world.

  “We propose that there can be both,” Evan says. “Balance is paramount. I can assure you that societies cope economically with both wolves and farming, we see it all over the world.”

  “You’ve done this before,” the farmer says. “You came here and convinced us it was in our best interests to reintroduce the sea eagles. I lived through that and watched those eagles eat the lambs. And now you want to add wolves on top of the eagles? You’ll be the death of farming in the Highlands.”

  “There are methods of deterring wolf depredation,” Evan says. “Guard dogs, llamas, donkeys, shepherds. Audio guard boxes emit wolf sounds to scare off any approaching wolves.”

  “They tried that in Norway,” the farmer says. “It didn’t work, not completely.”

  “They also tried it in America and the results have been excellent. The only reason we’re even attempting this project here is because we have such a strong precedent. The reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone National Park in America has been a staggering success. It’s brought the park back to life, and there have been few negative impacts on the local people and agriculture.”

  “Do I need to point out that Scotland is a wee bit smaller than America?” the man asks, which causes a ripple of laughter throughout the hall.

  Evan keeps his cool but I can see him growing frustrated. “But it is large enough to sustain this. Look, we have to expect a certain number of off-take by predators—it’s normal! It happens all over the world. But unlike in many places, here you’ll be financially compensated for your losses, which, statistical modeling tells us, are going to be extremely low anyway.”

  “And how will you compensate me,” the farmer says, deep and slow, “for the tragedy of watching something I love, something I’ve spent a lifetime breeding, savagely slaughtered?”

  “We’re not asking you to watch that,” Evan answers. “If you find a wolf attacking your livestock, you may shoot it.”

  There is silence at that. I don’t think they were expecting it.

  My eyes are drawn to the side of the auditorium, to where a man is standing by the door, the man I met by the river today but whose name I didn’t learn. He’s not watching Evan or the farmer, but the rest of the crowd of people, his eyes scanning each of their faces. I wonder what he is looking for among us.

  “This population of wolves is small and experimental,” Evan explains. “It is protected but up to a point. If you can prove the wolf was attacking your livestock then you’re permitted to shoot it. You are also permitted to report it to us and we have a legal obligation to gather evidence on which wolf has done the predation and to go out and destroy it ourselves. But if you kill one for sport or simply because you’ve spotted it, that’s punishable by fines and jail time.”

  “If you think I’m going to let wolves anywhere near my children then you’re sorely mistaken,” a woman calls out, and there are murmurs of agreement. “Will it take one of our kids getting killed before you decide the ‘experiment’ has failed?”

  “The chance of a person getting attacked by a wolf is almost nonexistent,” Evan assures them. “This is a shy, family-oriented, gentle creature. We should never have been taught to fear them.”

  “That is a lie, sir,” says the farmer. “Predators are feared and hunted because they’re predators—they’re dangerous. My ancestors risked their lives to rid this land of those beasts and now you want to dump them back on our doorsteps. Are we expected to keep our children inside?”

  Signs wave amid a lifting of angry voices. If Evan ever had control of the room he’s losing it fast.

  I stand. “What’s dangerous,” I say, “is the unwarranted spreading of fear.”

  The farmer turns to look at me, as do a hundred other faces. Anne’s sigh of exasperation on the stage might be comical at any other time.

  “If you truly think wolves are the blood spillers, then you’re blind,” I say. “We do that. We are the people killers, the children killers. We’re the monsters.”

  I sit down within the silence. The cold seems to have deepened in the auditorium.

  My eyes are drawn to the man by the door. He’s watching me and I realize what he was searching for in the crowd because he seems to have found it in me. A disruption. A threat.

  * * *

  I push through the back doors and let them swing shut behind me. A sucking of air into my lungs. Trembling hands.

  The others are emerging from a different set of doors and streaming toward the carpark. I lean against the cold brick of the auditorium and look up at the silver moon. I have a strange yearning for her that is as likely to disturb me as ease me. A large figure moves to block my view. I can’t make out his face well, but I know he is the farmer who spoke up, the man the others allowed to speak for them. To match the impressive mustache is a set of thick, pointed eyebrows.

  “Red McRae,” he says, offering a hand.

  I shake it. “Inti Flynn.”

  “My name’s Ray
but everyone calls me Red. I wanted to take the chance to introduce myself because mine’s a name you’re going to come to know well.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that won’t be fun for me?”

  Red leans forward so I can see his face under the shadow of his cap. It is weathered, leathery, might be appealing if it weren’t so full of disdain. “Because if one of those wolves takes a bite out of a single one of my sheep,” he says, “I will take myself and my people into that forest and I won’t stop until I have hunted down every last one of them.”

  “Sounds like you might be looking forward to it, Red.”

  “Well now maybe I am.”

  In the following silence I take the measure of him, as he wants me to. But I see more than he might imagine. I’ve met him so many times I could laugh, except that I will not make the mistake of underestimating the damage an angry man can do, not again.

  I straighten off the wall. “You went on in there like there’s still something to be decided. It’s done. The wolves are protected. You hunt them, you go to jail. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Red tilts his cap to me and walks away.

  I spot the other guy, the one from this morning, walking swiftly down the street with a pronounced limp. It is either a recent injury or a very bad one; every step causes him pain, watching causes me pain. “Hey!” I call, jogging after him.

  He glances back and pauses when he recognizes me.

  “How’s the horse?”

  “They’re destroying her.”

  I stare at him, maybe looking for some sign that he gives a shit. I don’t see it. “When?”

  He looks at his watch. “Soon. Now. Might already be done.”

  I nod and turn for my car.

  Then stop.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “Where do they live?”

  “What are you gonna do, girl, barrel out there and stop them yourself?”

  “Sure, maybe. Where do they live.”