Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  ‘I don’t know, Jean. Isn’t it just coming down to their level?’

  ‘’Course not. Come on. We should think of a name first.’

  ‘All right, what about James?’ Imogen said, trying to enter into the spirit of it. ‘I like James.’

  ‘James is good. Nice and strong and Scots. Let’s give him a really good job. I know, an advocate.’

  ‘Or a doctor.’

  Jean shook her head. ‘Advocates earn more money.’

  Imogen laughed then. ‘Money’s irrelevant, Jean. It’s make-believe. No, I’d prefer a doctor. Bedside manner and all that.’

  Morrisey was in the middle of the loch now and he lifted his hand to acknowledge them. ‘Men like Morrisey are all right,’ Imogen said, waving back briefly.

  ‘Yes, because they just exist. They don’t do anything; don’t say anything.’ Jean gazed across the lightly tufted waves, kicked up by a new breeze coming in from the west. ‘They just are. They’re easily manageable. Sometimes they even have their uses.’

  They wandered back to the table and finished their tea, then whiled away an hour or so joking about the make-believe man. After Jean had gone, Imogen sat with her shoes off and her sketch pad on her knees, watching the colours change on the surface of the loch. Morrisey was still there, fishing this time. Imogen wondered about the daft conversation. Perhaps it wasn’t actually so daft. Maybe the only way to stop the vicious, wagging tongues was to create a mythical man. The past clawed at her then—Peter and university, so long ago now and yet he had been her last serious boyfriend. More than a boyfriend; she had nearly married him.

  It scared her to think of how much time had passed between then and now. Years ago, at university, when she did art and he did computing—back when computing was still in its relative infancy—he had pursued her, and she’d barely noticed him at first. That was nothing new, though; throughout her youth she had never noticed when somebody was interested in her. Invariably a man asking her for a date took her completely by surprise. It was as if she had no confidence in herself.

  But she did have confidence in her work; in her ability with a paintbrush, clay or stone. Maybe it was because she was so engrossed in her work that Peter’s approach came completely out of the blue. Later, after the two of them had got together, his friends told her he had done nothing but moon over her for weeks before he’d plucked up the courage to ask her out. Imogen had had no idea. She had known who he was, had seen him around the campus, in the refectory or, on occasions, the students’ union bar. He had always said hello, and perhaps once had bought her a drink, but nothing more than that.

  He made her laugh, and he wasn’t unattractive, despite being fractionally shorter than her, but that only bothered her when they got more serious and marriage was mooted. Somehow she had always imagined her man being taller than her, protecting her in a way, perhaps. But in the early days, when they were both footloose students, ambitious in their own way, he had been fine. He’d wooed her, bought her flowers, taken her to dinner at a pizza bar in Edinburgh, which was all he could afford on the meagre student grant he received.

  She liked his company; he was witty and intelligent and pleasant looking in a blond-haired, blue-eyed sort of way. Sex was awkward initially. Imogen had had a couple of interludes prior to meeting Peter, neither of which were serious and both of which she’d regretted later. How experienced he was, she couldn’t really tell, but the first time was in his room and it was fumbled, buckles and belts, jeans round their ankles, not romantic at all. Maybe she never thought about it, maybe she did, but the romance, the real passion, if that’s what she was looking for, never came.

  Her parents met him and seemed to like him; he was a good sensible boy. But Imogen always felt that deep down they didn’t really care one way or the other. There was a vacancy about their attitude, particularly her mother. Ever since Ewan had been killed she had felt that about her mother. As if the best part of her life had been taken away so what did the rest matter. It was the same when she’d told her the wedding was off. Notwithstanding the preparations and the money that had been spent already, her reaction wasn’t much more than indifference; a sort of silent Whatever you think is best, dear.

  Since Peter there had been the odd fling, little relationships here and there, but nothing that could even vaguely be described as serious. Down in the depths of her soul, though, for all her independence, Imogen missed it; she knew she did. It was the closeness more than anything. Not just being able to curl up in bed with someone; it was the deeper closeness, the knowledge that there was somebody out there for you, someone who knew you and cared about you. She shook her head and laughed at herself. The kind of relationship she wanted didn’t exist. Women themselves perhaps, in their bid for freedom, had changed all that. The rules were gone, not that they were ever efficient rules in the first place. But women had forged ahead and she got the impression that most men had no real idea of their role in life any more. So many of them just seemed to wander around lost, or had mid-life crises, like Patterson and MacGregor.

  She didn’t want a half-hearted relationship, one that most people considered normal. She wanted something more, something deeper, something that didn’t get lost in the humdrum nature of daily existence. She wanted to be aware of someone else’s soul, and for them to be aware of hers. She wanted to be moved, really moved; the way the land moved her, and the way Redynvre moved her. Whoever he was, he needed to feel as she did, to see things the way she saw them, to think deep in his soul as she did.

  She closed her eyes and was back in the valley with the Seer Stone, bent and wizened like an old woman gazing into the future; the rattled passage of the Leum in her ears and Redynvre roaring across the hillside. She imagined him as September dwindled and the velvet spilled from his antlers, an adversary, suddenly, to those who ran with him most of the year. His harem, come October: fought for, defended and cared for. The way he would run alongside each hind and nuzzle her, always watchful for would-be suitors, sending them skuttling for cover with a savage dip of his head. He always kissed his women before he mated, gently, muzzle to muzzle, tongue against their faces. Imogen tipped back her head and laughed at herself. If that was the kind of man she wanted, no wonder she was alone. Inside the house the phone was ringing. She jumped up and ran in to answer it. ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Imogen? This is Daniel Johnson from the RSPB.’

  ‘Hello, Daniel. Have you come up with anything?’

  ‘Yes, we have. We wondered if you’d like to keep an eye on the eagles’ nest for us.’

  ‘I’d love to. But what about Atholl McKenzie?’

  Johnson was quiet for a moment. ‘I want to visit the site with you, take in the lie of the land. I’ll make a decision about him when I’ve had a chance to see it.’

  Eight

  CONNLA CROSSED THE SOUTHERN uplands and passed through Peebles. Beyond the town the road mimicked the path of the river at the bottom of the steep-sided gully, where the sun broke through the trees only occasionally. Then Neidpath Castle reared up on his left like some savage window on the past. He had to stop, could see nowhere obvious, so bumped the Land-Rover up against the barrier and walked back to a gap in the trees. For a long moment he just stood there, hands loose at his sides, the breeze that lifted from the white necks of water ruffling the weight of his hair. The castle seemed fixed in time, silent grey stones rising as part of the rock that secured them deep in the river bed. The stillness was awe-inspiring; no cars passing, no man-made sounds for a full five minutes. It was the kind of stillness he associated with the Powder River Pass back home; 9,000 feet above sea level and only the souls of dead Indians for company. The stillness was something that hooked into your being, and for a brief second in time Connla felt the history in the core of the land. Then a car rattled by, snapping him from his semi-trance, the reverie he had slipped into. His ancestry was Celtic, he was sure of that. Connla was very much a Gaelic name and he felt a oneness with this place. He had exper
ienced it, subconsciously perhaps, the moment he’d crossed the border, like a gently soothing salve seeping into his soul.

  He turned and walked back to the truck, glancing behind once more to see the castle gradually disappear, shrouded again by the trees. He sat for a few minutes behind the wheel and then turned the engine over. He drove slowly, taking in every curve in the road, every shaft of sunlight—God’s sunlight coming through the trees, the kind of brilliance associated with the covers of religious books. At length, he came out of the narrow valley, and the low-lying Pentland Hills took shape on his right. Farmland gave way to moors, scattered here and there with deciduous forest, the perfect habitat for a panther.

  Balerno was at the northernmost tip of the Pentlands, an affluent suburb of Edinburgh on the south side of the city bypass. He came upon it suddenly at the bottom of a hill and swung right past the fire station and the school, following signs erected by the SSPCA. Jenny, at the Verwood Zoo, had told him that the SSPCA was the same as the RSPCA, only Scottish, which made sense given that they were in Scotland and were no doubt fiercely proud of their independence.

  He left what appeared to be the main road behind as he passed the tiny town centre on his right. The tarmac narrowed ahead, then the central white lines disappeared, and for a moment he wondered if he might have missed a turn. But instinct kept him going and all at once the welfare centre appeared on his left, a series of stable-like buildings with the shop and offices set on the other side of a paved courtyard. Behind the shop a field stretched and a hundred dogs barked as one from the labyrinth of cages. He had to park the Land-Rover on the stretch of open ground close to the road and walk down to the shop. A concrete ramp lifted to the door, which was locked. For a moment Connla stood peering through the glass, then someone scraped their foot over stone behind him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned and looked into the face of Lydia Dodds, the helper he had seen the day before yesterday on television. He smiled broadly and pushed the hat back on his head.

  ‘Yes, I think you can.’ He jumped off the ramp and crossed the yard. A small horse moved behind Lydia and Connla smiled again. ‘What’s with him?’ he asked, nodding to the pony which was secured by a rope rein and swayed from side to side like the ruined polar bear he had once seen in Auckland Zoo.

  ‘He had a touch of colic. Nothing to worry about. He’s OK. Just likes the attention.’

  ‘Rescued?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ She lifted her eyebrows. ‘All the animals here have been rescued.’

  Connla held out his right hand and she took it somewhat cautiously. ‘My name’s McAdam,’ he said. ‘Connla McAdam. I’m from the United States. I saw you on TV yesterday.’

  She blushed. ‘Oh, God. That interview. I looked just awful.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You looked fine. Besides,’ he said, ‘you’d had a bit of a shock.’ He broke off and looked back at the shop. ‘Listen, I’d like to talk to you about yesterday. Is there somewhere I can buy you a coffee?’

  They sat in the small staffroom behind the shop, Connla in a dusty armchair, ankle across his knee, watching her as she filled the kettle. ‘It was just about a mile from here,’ she said. ‘I live in a wee cottage up on the hill. It was very early. Not long after dawn, in fact. I do the morning shift. I’m late today. You’re lucky to have caught me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She turned to face him then, leaning against the work surface, and hugged herself. ‘It scared the living daylights out of me, I can tell you.’

  ‘A big cat.’ Connla cocked his head to one side.

  She stared at him a little oddly for a moment, and then something like recognition spread across her face. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You did that picture of the tiger; the one for the BBC.’

  Connla grinned at her. ‘Fame,’ he said. ‘I knew it’d get me in the end. You’re the second person in as many days who’s remembered that.’

  ‘Anyone’d remember it,’ she said, turning back to the boiling kettle. ‘Anyone who had an interest in wildlife would, anyway.’

  ‘You wanna tell that to the people back home? I could sure do with the publicity.’

  She laughed then. ‘Didn’t it chase you up a tree?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It most certainly did.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘A Siberian tiger.’

  ‘Yep. I was on the ground to begin with. Till he charged me, that is. Then I climbed, thinking he wouldn’t. Only he did, so I figured I might as well get the picture before he ate me.’ He made a face. ‘Then he fell out of the tree.’

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘No kidding.’ Connla got up then and took the mug of coffee from her. ‘Yesterday,’ he said, ‘what happened?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not a lot, really. Not when you compare it with your tiger.’

  ‘Now wait just a minute.’ Connla raised an index finger. ‘There’s a fundamental difference, Lydia. Number one, I got paid. Number two, I went there deliberately looking for tigers. You, on the other hand,’ he sipped coffee, ‘you just got the pants scared off you.’

  She nodded, cupping her mug with both hands. ‘You don’t expect it, not in Scotland. It was a black panther, Dr McAdam. I know what they look like and it was definitely a panther.’

  Connla stared at her for a long moment, feeling a little bubble of excitement in his chest. ‘Lydia,’ he said, ‘you wanna show me where it happened?’

  The road was a track, muddied and unmade, but the ground was pretty hard. He could see the tyre marks from her car, but nothing else. He bent to his haunches, looking carefully at the ground, and decided that she must have driven over any prints, if any were left in the first place.

  ‘Right here?’ He looked up at her, index finger pointed at the ground.

  ‘Aye.’ She was leaning out of the open doorwell of the Land-Rover, her eyes suddenly hunted. Connla stood up, knees creaking, and listened to the sound of the starlings in the trees. The track led from the paved road up the hill to three small cottages, one of which was Lydia’s. Hedges grew on either side, not thickly set and with gaps here and there, plenty big enough for a leopard to get through. Again he glanced at her. ‘Coming left to right across the road, yeah?’

  She nodded.

  Connla screwed up his face and climbed the far bank. Fields met his gaze, stretching to the slope of hills against the horizon. He thinned his eyes, the sun bright all at once and the wind nipping at his cheeks. He inspected the skinny, chipped twigs of the hedge with an expert eye, knowing exactly what he was looking for, some sign that an animal had passed this way. He glanced back at Lydia. ‘Black leopard, you say?’

  ‘Yes. They’re the same, aren’t they? A panther is just a black leopard.’

  Connla nodded and looked back at the gaps in the hedge. There were various ones at various heights and he checked each possible way off the road. There were tiny hairs tacked to the edges of a few branches, some of them black, but he could tell at a glance that they weren’t from a panther, a badger perhaps or some smaller animal. If the panther had passed this way there was no trace of it now. He felt a little downcast, foolish when one considered the possibilities. Panthers were as elusive as animals get; you saw them by chance or not at all. Lydia moved at his elbow.

  ‘No sign then, eh?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t really expect there to be. Come on, I’ll drive you back.’

  He pulled back into the car park outside the welfare centre and left the diesel engine running. A four-hundred-mile drive on a whim. He had done it before; no doubt he would do it again. ‘Who do I speak to?’ he asked. ‘In Scotland, who knows about big cats?’

  Lydia looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know really. You’d best go on to Edinburgh and ask at our headquarters. It’s on the left, opposite the Crammond Inn, on the road out to the Forth Bridge. Not the motorway, mind, the other way.’

  Connla thanked her and reached across to open the passenger door. ‘Don’t worry about what h
appened to you,’ he said. ‘The chances of a panther wanting to eat you are very slim indeed.’ He glanced towards the hills. ‘There’s enough game up there to keep a forest full of them happy for ever.’

  The drive to Edinburgh was straightforward and hardly any distance. He followed the route on the map, locating the series of roundabouts off the city bypass until he came to the road signposting the Forth Bridge. He almost missed the offices of the SSPCA, which were hidden behind a farm-type gate just off the main road. He swung the wheel hard left without indicating, and a frustrated motorist hooted his horn behind him. Connla smiled and waved politely at him, muttering under his breath, then parked the truck against the wall on the left. He stopped for a moment at the main doors and studied the statue of James V being attacked on his horse by brigands. The king’s nose had rusted off.

  The woman behind the reception desk was in her late forties, small boned, with dyed blond, almost yellow hair and perhaps a fraction too much makeup. She wore gold chains on her wrists and dangling from the loosening skin of her neck. She smiled at him.

  ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

  Connla leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘I hope so, ma’am. My name’s McAdam.’

  ‘You’re American?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I love America. New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans.’

  ‘You like the cities, huh?’

  ‘Och, yes. They’re so vibrant, so full of life, so—’

  ‘Dangerous?’ he finished for her.

  She laughed then. ‘I suppose so. Me, I was brought up in the tenements o’ Glasgow, so I’m used to all that.’

  ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Listen. This may sound stupid, but I want to talk to somebody about the big cats that people have reported running wild up here. You’ve got one over at Elgin.’