Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘I have to be going, Colin.’ Imogen turned without another word and began the stiff climb. She had to lead Keira the first bit, till she was out of sight at least. That would mean Patterson could stand there and watch the stiffening muscles in her limbs, the length of her legs under the boots, her hair flapping against her backside. She could feel his eyes on her every step of the way, determined, however, not to look back.

  ‘You were lucky,’ he called. And now she had to turn. He made an open-handed gesture at the field. ‘With all this. Good old John MacGregor.’ He looked very small and dark against the horizon, the expanse of Loch Duich and the foothills of Skye. That’s how she would paint him—God forbid that she ever did—very small and dark. With a brief wave, he turned and trotted down the path like a puppy suddenly pleased with itself.

  Imogen led Keira between the twin fingers and through the little gully with the sheep trails hewn out of its middle. She was glad of the rough path: the grass was greasy at this time of year, even when it was bone dry. It was long and tough, the stems sharp if you plucked them, and its length made it slippery. The heather didn’t grow here. It started on the far side of the hills and climbed with the summer sun right into the mountains. She couldn’t avoid thinking of Patterson and his parting shot about MacGregor. Patterson knew about MacGregor. Everyone knew about poor John; he made it so painfully obvious. Sometimes she would see him when he came out of the Kirk on a Sunday, black suit, black hat, like something from a bygone age. He always wore a hat, except when he was actually in church. On Sundays it was the antiquated homburg and the rest of the week the deerstalker. She wondered if he prayed to God to marry her.

  She was angry with herself for allowing Patterson to interrupt her mood, the first opportunity she had had to get away since she had made the discovery on Tana Coire. She had meant to go long before now, but her mother had phoned from Edinburgh and then came up last weekend without her father, which was very strange. They had had one of their extremely rare semi-meaningful discussions, and her mother hinted that she feared Imogen’s father was seeing someone else.

  Imogen was shocked, watching her as she sat at the wide kitchen table, her hand fisted, the knuckles bumps of bone that reminded Imogen of her great aunt. Her eyes were tight, pocketed in wrinkles of flesh, her cheeks a powdered white, like parchment dusted with chalk. She hadn’t seen her mother this close to tears since Ewan had died. Tears, indeed any form of emotion, were not something she showed very often.

  ‘Why?’ Imogen said. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. I’m probably just being silly. It’s just that I found a phone number on the bill which I didn’t recognize, that’s all.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I know, I know. But I always check the bill, and there’s only so many numbers we call. You know how I am about keeping the costs down. I recognize numbers and I’ve never seen this one before.’

  ‘Where was it, d’you know?’

  ‘Edinburgh. Musselburgh, I think.’

  ‘And you don’t know who it is?’

  Her mother looked up at her and shook her head.

  ‘Have you phoned it? That’d be the best way to find out. I mean, it could be anyone: a plumber, a shop where he bought something. It could be just about anything.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. No, I couldn’t do that. That’d be prying. Anyway, it’s probably just nothing.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Dad?’

  Her mother got up then, still shaking her head. ‘I’ll make some tea, shall I.’

  And that had been the end of it, the subject broached and dismissed again without anything really being discussed, just the surface scratched before emotion was dusted back under the carpet.

  Imogen had wanted to ask what the number was, feeling positive her mother would have memorized it. Imogen had suspected the same thing for some time after finding an unknown Edinburgh phone number on her bill at the end of last summer. It had coincided with the time her parents had stayed, and when curiosity finally got the better of her she had phoned it herself. A woman answered and Imogen hung up.

  She knew her mother would never phone it or ask her father outright. If it was another woman it would just be a fling. There was no danger that he would ever leave her, which is why she could brush it aside. Imogen’s father blamed himself for Ewan’s death, and to break up the family even more would compound that guilt beyond his ability to cope with it. Quite why he blamed himself, Imogen didn’t know. How he could possibly begin to think that he was in some way responsible was beyond her. Maybe it was because, for a few years afterwards, her mother seemed to blame him, perhaps in the absence of anyone else.

  Thoughts of the past clogged her mind on a beautiful summer’s day when all she could hear were the burred voices of ewes calling to half-grown lambs, and the steady hoof beat of her pony. She paused at the height of the incline and looked back across the water. This was a spectacular view, the horizon bordered on either side by the greening walls of the twin-fingered hill. Dropping the reins, she stood for a long moment, gazing between Skye and the mainland at the grey-green channel of Kyle Rhea. The sun was high and the day shimmered in the still light of summer. From the copse of larch trees she heard wood pigeons calling. The horse carried on up the trail, pausing as she came out of the gully to crop the grass. Imogen remained a few moments longer, watching the colours change as the shadows shifted over the water.

  Catching Keira, she mounted, leather creaking as she fitted her slightly built frame into the saddle. She kicked her feet into the stirrups and gathered in the reins, bringing the pony’s head up without pulling harshly on the bit. She paused, looking between the mountains and choosing a path that would take her deep into the wilderness.

  A couple of miles in she picked up Redynvre’s tracks; he was ambling with a band of other stags, as always at this time of year. He liked to walk slightly apart, though, as if he knew he was bigger and stronger, as if he didn’t want the fraternity to become too close in view of the rut to come later. His slot was easy to trace. Most of the red deer Imogen tracked had average-size hoof prints, Redynvre’s were deeper and measured over ten centimetres from tip to base. He also had a chip on his right fore hoof which never seemed to grow out.

  She caught up with the trail on the lower slopes of Corr Na Dearg, a 3,000-foot peak five miles northeast of the field. The heather clawed at the land here, climbing darkly from the lower slopes to the blue-grey granite bluffs. A small burn ran from the summit and the water was some of the freshest she had ever tasted; she could hear the rumble now in the stillness. No wind today, and the sun was working steadily higher. Redynvre had passed this way only a matter of hours before, and she knew she would find him maybe a mile or so further on, where the heather was thick on the upper slopes. He had paused to rub himself on the Seer Stone where the log bridge forded the River Leum. Imogen had no idea how she knew that; a thousand deer must have passed this way.

  She found him where she thought she would, rounding a bend on the flattened track-strewn trail, muddied still in the middle by the last serious rainfall. The path opened into the sloping vale of Leum Moir, a vast mantle of ochre and green which crested in the savage, black tooth crags above Tana Coire. Maybe Redynvre saw her, maybe he scented or heard the approaching horse, but he lifted his great head, standing slightly apart from his peers, some younger some older than him, and bellowed across the land. Imogen stopped, the familiar thrill in her breast. She had trailed him for three years now and he seemed to know when she was coming. She had watched him cast his antlers in March and snort and dance away from his bachelor band as each autumn beckoned. She had watched him in the rut, when his great voice rang out so loud and long that he had up to twenty hinds in his harem. As far as she knew he had never been beaten in a fight, and he was in his prime at about eight or nine years old. Stags normally only roar during the October rut, but he always called when he saw her, as if he were practising, as if in some
way he sensed her femininity. It was August now, and his antlers were still covered with velvet. They would start to fray in late September, and by early October they would be full grown, ten or twelve points, hard and sharp and strong.

  Keira whinnied across the valley and the other stags, clipping at the heather, looked up. Redynvre stood chewing the cud, the wildness in his eyes, black nostrils flared. The horse and woman rode closer; the other, younger stags looked to Redynvre for the lead, but he didn’t move away. Imogen slid from Keira’s back and left her to browse the grass. For a moment she stood with the wind in her face, watching the deer, her pack still between her shoulders. Redynvre was on the downward slope facing her and beyond him lay the chilled waters of Loch Thuill, where the height of the sun reflected. Above him a clustered outcrop of granite sparkled with slivers of crystal. Imogen saw movement in the rocks above the coire and a pulse began at her temple. Sliding the pack from her back, she took out her binoculars and scanned the horizon. Then her breath stilled as she caught him in full flight, descending low over the loch. He was enormous, his body at least three feet long, wing span not less than nine from tip to tip. White fanned tail feathers, hooked yellow bill and yellow-skinned feet. His wings frayed into fingers against the pockets of wind. She knew he shouldn’t be this far inland, but he was. Iolaire suil na greine. The eagle with the sunlit eye. He soared again, circled, and then, dropping like stone, he scoured the waters for fish.

  Four

  CONNLA SAT IN AN armchair in Holly’s office at George Washington University, letter in one hand, TV remote control in the other. Holly was standing at her desk across the thick pile carpet, speaking on the telephone and watching him. From outside, in the corridor, Connla could hear the crash and clatter of students. He rewound the videotape, then ran it forward, stopped and froze the frame. Sitting straight now, sleeves pushed up, copper band exposed at his wrist, he squinted at the screen. For a moment the letter detailing his trip to the UK was forgotten as he studied the head of the leopard. Bigger than the female, and broader, he weighed half as much again. Right now he was squatting on a termite mound, surveying the sea of grass. His tail, longer than his body and white-tipped, curled behind him and pointed up at the sky. He was intent on a small group of impala, specifically two fawns. Game was good, but there were lion and hyena to contend with. A small impala could be hoisted out of harm’s way up a tree.

  ‘Connla, I wish you’d ask.’ Holly had come in and found him in front of the TV screen. She was about to say something when the phone had rung. She stood behind her desk now, hand fisted on her hip, petite, with short dark hair, pale skin and high cheekbones.

  Connla pressed the play button and spoke without looking round. ‘I’m sorry, Holl; there was nowhere else to go.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can just waltz in here whenever you feel like it. I didn’t even know you still had a key.’

  Connla did look round now. ‘You gave it me, remember?’

  She pursed her lips at him. ‘That was years ago.’

  Connla lifted his shoulders. ‘You never asked for it back.’

  Holly blew out her cheeks. ‘God, you’re really amazing, you know that.’ She looked at the TV screen. ‘What are you watching anyway?’

  ‘Steve Hutchings’ film for National Geographic.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what you want to do?’ She steepled her fingers, elbows on the desk before her. Connla looked at her. ‘I’ll always prefer stills,’ he said. ‘But six months in the Masai Mara with a film crew—yeah, I’d give it a shot.’

  As Connla taught only infrequently, and wasn’t an official part of any faculty, he used to share Holly’s office when they were married. She had given him a key some two and a half years previously. ‘Who was on the phone?’ he asked.

  ‘My father.’ She had her fingers steepled to her chin, watching Connla, as if quietly deliberating. She swung herself lightly from side to side in the swivel chair.

  Connla was looking at the leopard again. He was off the termite mound now and slinking through the swaying yellow grass, belly to the ground, shoulder muscles almost mechanical against his skin. ‘God, would you look at him move.’ Connla shook his head. ‘They are so different to cougars, Holly. They move differently. A cougar’s belly’s lower at the front, or higher at the back, whichever way you look at it.’

  Holly sighed then and shook her head. ‘D’you have any idea how many times you’ve told me that?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, a dollar a throw would be nice.’ She stood up. ‘Connla, you can’t keep doing this: invading my life when it suits you, then clearing off when something better comes along.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Holl.’

  ‘It’s perfectly fair, believe me. Have you ever thought about getting an office of your own?’

  Connla made a face. ‘You mean getting the job that goes with it? I couldn’t do that, Holly. Besides, we create a lot of gossip round here. People wouldn’t know what to talk about.’

  ‘Not funny, Connla. It stopped being funny a long time ago.’

  Connla flicked the television off and got up to pour some coffee. ‘So how is your father, anyway? Does he still wanna be president?’

  ‘My father’s fine. He’s another one who thinks I let you take advantage of me.’

  ‘So what’s new? He always thought that, even when we were married.’

  ‘He’s my dad, Connla. He looks out for me.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Of course he does.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means he wants you to stay his little girl. You watch him, Holly. He’ll do the same thing to Mario as he did to me.’

  Holly laughed then. ‘He gets on fine with Mario. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that it might just be you he didn’t get along with.’

  Connla grinned. ‘I guess he never did appreciate my charm, huh. My wit across the dinner table.’

  ‘You mean your infantile sense of humour.’

  ‘Infantile. Really! I thought you liked it.’ He laid down the coffee cups and cracked a lopsided grin. He was tall, over six feet, with green eyes, like a cat. ‘I thought that was why you married me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, slowly. ‘But I divorced you. Remember?’

  He sat down again and picked up the letter.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’ she asked him.

  ‘The invitation from England. You know those two Canadian cougars.’

  She perched on the arm of his chair and Connla handed her the sheet of paper. It was from the Verwood Zoological Park in the New Forest.

  ‘William the Conqueror planted that forest,’ Holly informed him. ‘It’s a thousand years old.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Connla tried to remember his European history. ‘Was he the guy that shot that other guy in the eye?’

  Holly laughed. ‘I don’t think it was actually him, but you’re close.’

  Connla took the paper back. ‘I’m really up for this, Holly. Should be a great trip.’

  ‘Are you getting paid?’

  ‘Something. Expenses, certainly.’

  She looked at him from under her eyebrows. ‘What about the summer school?’

  ‘Who needs summer school? You’ve got me two semesters, starting September.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She let breath hiss between her teeth. ‘Although, God knows why. But I tell you, I sure as hell expect you to be here for them.’

  Connla flew into Heathrow airport in early August, the aircraft turning in a wide arc over London. He had been sitting next to a little old lady who told him she was from a place called Bagshot, and Connla had visions of some crusty English gent with a blunderbuss under his arm. London was multicoloured from the air: expanses of green dotted here and there, rugby posts, soccer nets and the odd tennis court amid the concrete. He recognized Hampton Court from old pictures he had seen in a magazine, and the woman seated next to him confirmed it. He had no idea where he was going once he h
it the ground, but he had been wired his airfare and a rental car had been organized, so he guessed he would figure it out from there.

  The airport was heaving. The plane landed at Terminal 3 and the crowds strained at the barrier as he came through, carrying his travel and camera bags. Nobody was meeting him and he wasn’t due at the zoological park until the following morning, so he slowed things down, all at once weary from the journey. He bought himself a beer in the bar on the other side of the barrier, finding respite in the form of a metal-based stool. He sat and sipped at a Bud, his Pendleton hat, with its broad flat brim, upturned on the counter at his elbow. The bartender was polishing glasses and Connla caught his eye with a tip for the beer.

  ‘How far is the New Forest from here, buddy?’ he asked.

  The young man, Asian with black eyes and black hair, scooped the coins into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘About a hundred miles.’

  ‘Is it easy to get to?’

  ‘Are you driving?’

  ‘I will be.’

  ‘It’s down the M3. Follow the signs west; it should be pretty straightforward.’

  Connla thanked him, finished his beer and went in search of the rental company.

  The zoo had organized a small car for him, and Connla studied the picture as the assistant did the paperwork.

  ‘This isn’t very big, right?’

  The girl looked at the picture. ‘It’s an Astra. It’s about average, I suppose.’

  Connla smiled at her and leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘What else you got?’

  ‘The zoo only paid enough for this type of car, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But what else have you got?’

  ‘A bigger car, you mean?’

  ‘Car. Truck.’ Connla was looking at the Land-Rover Discovery. ‘I’m used to driving a truck. How much is this?’

  ‘Quite a lot more, sir.’