“‘It’s no use,’ he said.
“I looked searchingly at him.
“His face clouded with anger, he scowled at me. ‘Well? What do you expect? It’s no use, I tell you!’ He gestured at the trap. ‘The big brown bears can’t open these, what can I do? Eh? What can I do? Sometimes when a bear is caught like this they escape. You know how this is, eh? They escape by gnawing their foot off. That’s how. The big bear chews his own paw through, so what do you expect me to do?’ I said nothing. Gradually his anger lessened. He glanced towards the tree. ‘I might chop the tree down,’ he said, but even as he spoke we both knew it was impossible. He had only the hand axe, the tree was large, even if it were possible it would take far too long. ‘Even then, you would still be trapped. I would have to carry you, dragging the trap and chain. Or build a litter and haul you behind me. If one had a rifle, the spring could be shot apart, of course. But one does not have the rifle.’ He looked sharply at me as he said this. Despite the growing pain, I felt indignant at this reproach; said, ‘That’s right. We haven’t the rifle. So what shall we do?’ He didn’t answer for a while. Then he shrugged. ‘I will need tools. The hacksaw, the crowbar. Also the first aid kit. The spare first aid kit . . .’ He nodded to me, to himself. ‘Yes, that will be necessary, your leg must be treated before you can be moved.’
“‘But those things are at the cabin,’ I said.
“Charles looked away.
“Then I felt the first awful weight of panic . . .”
Claymore looked at me almost with challenge. I was staring, open mouthed, completely absorbed in his tale, caught up in the complex mood behind the words.
“He left you?” I asked.
Claymore nodded.
“Yes. He left me. It was the fact of not having his rifle, you see. I feel certain that, had he not lost the weapon, he would have found some other solution; wouldn’t have abandoned me. But he had lost the gun and, with it, his courage, his confidence. All his experience was related to the possession of a firearm, and without it he could not function, he could not relate circumstances to past experience. Standing over me he seemed to have no more substance than his shadow; could no more direct his own behaviour than that shadow could defy the commands of the fading light. And then, of course, there were the wolves . . .
“All our efforts, although they seemed to have lasted a long time, had passed quickly. Time had been suspended by stress. The sky was still violent with gold and fire behind stratocumu-lus formations. I distinctly remember turning to look at this flaming sunset; noticing it without relation to my plight, as my mind turned away from reality in self-defence. I thought quite composedly how beautiful the colours were with the dark pines thrusting up like a palisade. And then, gradually, I became aware of other broken silhouettes above the ridge. It was as if the tournure of the land had shifted subtly, as if during our suspended period of time the world had continued to age and upheavals had altered the contours. I shielded my eyes and stared into the incandescent sunset and gradually the objects took form and became the wolves.
“The pack sat on top of the ridge and regarded us in silent hunger. I spoke – I used my voice, although the syllables were broken and did not take verbal form – and Charles turned to look; jerked up sharply, his face mangled by fear. The wolves followed his motion with their yellow eyes. ‘They never attack humans,’ I said. And Charles knew this as well as I, but he did not have his gun. He whispered, ‘They have no fear of us. You would not let me kill them . . .’ Trying to shift the responsibility on to me, of course; to justify his act even before he committed it. And then I knew, definitely, that he would leave me.
“Charles began making preparations then, without another word. I watched him in silence with the fires of agony spreading through my thigh and hip, eager for fuel. He made a fire. He gathered all the wood in the immediate vicinity and stacked it beside me. He took the blankets and sleeping bag from my pack and wrapped them carefully – tenderly even – around me. His actions were stiff and jerky and he could not look at me; could not bring himself to tell me he was leaving. Strangely enough, I felt I should make it easier for him, since it was an irrevocable decision. I asked, ‘How soon can you be back?’ He looked at me then; seemed relieved that I was not pleading or arguing; that I accepted the necessity. He assured me he could travel very fast alone and unencumbered; that he could be back in two days, maybe less, no more. ‘All right.’ I told him. ‘Obviously you must have tools to free me. “And the other rifle,’ he added, quickly. The axe was still jammed in the ground and he drew it out; looked at it for a moment, reluctant to part with his only weapon. Then he handed it to me. He held it out by the handle, as if still undecided – as if he might snatch it away at the last moment. But when I grasped the blade he let it go. He tied his snowshoes on, fumbling with the laces and glancing sideways at the ridge. Then he stood up and nodded. ‘It is the only way,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is how it must be. “I will hurry. I will return with the rifle.’ The way he said it, I could tell he believed he would be returning not for rescue, but revenge. Then he moved off, swinging the big snowshoes wide and moving fast. I watched him until he had passed into the trees. Then I turned and watched the wolves and they watched me . . .”
“My God,” I said, the exclamation forced from me as Claymore paused. He was looking at the mounted wolves across the clearing. It was lunchtime now and no one else had passed through the hall for some time. We seemed very much alone and, somehow, I got the impression that Claymore was talking more to himself than to me. I had no wish to destroy the mood with which he spoke, and stilled the urge to comment. He lowered his eyes and regarded his legs then looked at the wolves once again. They stared back with glass eyes.
“I took stock of the situation,” he said. “I felt, at first, that I would be able to survive until Charles returned. I kept telling myself that there are few, if any, recorded instances of wolves attacking humans in North America. I had the axe and my sheath knife and the fire. I had a plentiful supply of firewood. I tried to look upon my plight as an experiment, a chance at first hand observation, and actually managed to feel almost cheerful for a short while. But it could not last. I don’t suppose I’d expected it to, really. There was the pain and there were the wolves. The pain had become unbearable and the wolves were hungry. I told myself the wolves would not approach the fire and fashioned a tourniquet for my leg, using one of the groundsheets and turning it tight with the axe handle. I was able to cut off the pain this way, but was afraid of stopping circulation too long and each time I released the pressure the agony flooded back worse than before, increasing with each turn of the axe. Time passed with incredible slowness. The sunset lingered, the wolves waited. Then, at last, it was night. I shifted another length of wood on the fire, raising the flames and increasing the circle of light. I could no longer see the wolves, but I could hear them panting. And then, suddenly, I could see them. They had come down the slope to the very rim of the firelight, formless grey shapes with glowing eyes. I threw small flaming sticks at them and they backed away calmly. I held the axe in one hand and the knife in the other, turned my back to the fire and waited. Panic faded into a stupor. I blacked out.