Cry of the Panther

by Jeff Gulvin

  The two of them sat across the table from one another and Imogen found herself telling him pretty much everything about her life. When she’d returned to Scotland as a child it had been very hard at first. Her parents had found things awkward as well, difficult to make the adjustment back after living a different way of life for so long. She’d found the school system very different and her accent didn’t help, singling her out for ridicule with the kind of cruelty that only children can muster. After that it was secondary school, then her highers, where she excelled in art. She lost herself in it. Her tutors saw her talent and encouraged her, gently advising without stifling her creativity. At college she had been told she was good enough to go all the way, wherever ‘all the way’ was.

  ‘To be professional? Paint for a living?’ Connla said.

  ‘I suppose.’ She finished her drink. ‘I suppose I could’ve gone further, but I loved landscape and wildlife and didn’t really want to experiment in the way I would’ve been forced to. Artists are expected to be outrageous these days.’

  He laughed then. ‘And you didn’t want to be outrageous?’

  ‘Not for the sake of it, no. Anyway, somehow I got into teaching, then my aunt died and left me the house in Gaelloch. I gave up my post in Edinburgh and applied for the school at Balmacara.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I love the children. I only teach the young ones, mind; the ones who haven’t begun to be conditioned yet. And I love the country. The west coast is everything: white beaches, the Atlantic and the mountains, of course.’

  ‘Not to mention the deer.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You know, you’re very perceptive.’

  ‘Am I?’ Connla rested his chin on his palm. ‘You think so?’

  ‘You seem to be. You seem to have an eye for what I’m about when I’m painting.’ She hesitated because she knew it would sound silly, then she said, ‘It’s weird, but I feel as if there’s something familiar about you.’

  Connla sat back. ‘Maybe I’ve got a double somewhere. Maybe you saw me in a former life.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘Do you believe in former lives?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. Nobody knows what’s out there, do they. We’ve only ever got what other people have told us; society, religion, other people’s experiences and opinions.’ He rested his arm on the back of the chair, not wanting the evening to end, but guilt ridden again and all at once feeling fraudulent.

  ‘You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘For good?’

  Connla looked at her for a long moment. ‘I don’t know. There’s some work I have to finish.’

  ‘And then?’

  He sighed. ‘I guess it’s back to the States. I’ve got those semesters to think about.’ She glanced at the clock. The barman had called last orders. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said.

  ‘Right.’

  They drove in silence, skirting the loch to the twin bridges and finally the gravelled road, bereft now of wandering livestock. Connla pulled into the drive and stopped, leaving the engine running. Again they sat in silence, neither of them looking at the other. Connla was about to switch off the engine, but he didn’t know what his motives were. He desperately wanted to tell her who he was, but somehow he just couldn’t.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No.’ She rested a hand on his forearm. ‘Thank you. I really enjoyed talking to you.’ Connla was aware of the warmth of her hand on his flesh. He looked into her eyes.

  ‘I’m glad. I really enjoyed talking to you, too.’

  She nodded and smiled, then gazed through the windscreen to the quiet waters of the loch. She opened the door. ‘It’s a beautiful night. D’you fancy a walk?’

  ‘Why not.’ Connla switched off the engine and they walked side by side, close but not touching, across the lawn and down to the shore. There was no cloud tonight; the stars were led by a brilliant Venus and the moon was a pale shadow caressing the surface of the water. Connla pointed at the sky. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Venus is lying directly under the moon.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘That’ll bring you luck.’

  Imogen smiled at him. ‘Just me?’

  ‘Well, me too maybe. But you for sure. This is your home.’ Connla looked into her face then. He wanted to kiss her, but she bent for a pebble and skimmed it across the water. She turned to face him again and the faintest breath of wind lifted the weight of her hair. He stepped closer, then gently laid a hand on her shoulder and kissed her. Arm in arm, they walked back to his truck. ‘Guess I’d better be going,’ he said.

  ‘Have you a long drive tomorrow?’

  ‘The other side of Grantown-on-Spey.’

  ‘Far enough.’

  They stood again by the truck and Connla held her just above the hips, her flesh warm under the cotton of her dress.

  ‘Goodnight then, John,’ she said.

  ‘Goodnight, Imogen.’

  They looked at one another, neither of them knowing quite what to say or do next.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘if this is goodbye, it was great to meet you.’

  He smiled and kissed her lightly. ‘It isn’t goodbye. And it was great to meet you, too.’ Then he pointed again at the sky. ‘There was an old Cherokee medicine man called Rolling Thunder. He said, if you want to have good dreams, pray to the grandmother moon.’

  Nineteen

  CONNLA DROVE EAST, WATCHING the dawn break with one hand on the wheel, slumped half sideways in the seat with the window rolled down. The crispness of the air caught the breath in his chest and he stared at the mountains which bordered the road on either side. It might be hot today; it was so hard to tell up here, one moment the sun was shining and the next storm clouds rolled off the sea. He felt a strange numbness inside, as if part of his emotions had been awakened and part of them anaesthetized. Imogen’s face had dominated his dreams for the past two nights now, as clear as day—every line, every contour and the great depth in her eyes. He still couldn’t tell himself exactly why he had lied to her. He could see the snippets of recognition in her face, although he knew she had no idea what they meant. Sometimes you got those feelings about another person; the affinity with them could be so strong, so familiar, that you felt you knew them already. She would put it down to that. He drove on, slightly numbed now and very unsure of his motives. Perhaps this was all some kind of macabre voyeurism on his part? Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt to exorcize the past. Whatever it was, none of it was fair on Imogen. She had probably forgotten all about the past and busily built a life for herself, and here he was quietly ruining it for her.

  Cullen was waiting for him at the hotel in Tomintoul. Connla had turned north on the A9 once he hit Dalwhinnie and had driven beyond Aviemore, then east through Grantown-on-Spey. He pulled up behind the battered VW and saw the pitbull slobbering at him from the tailgate. He climbed out, stretched his limbs and went into the hotel. Cullen looked up from his perch on a bar stool, a cloud of grey cigarette smoke like mist around his head. He had a tall glass of beer in front of him.

  ‘Ah, you made it then.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The spoor’ll be cold by now.’

  Connla was irritated, other thoughts clouding his brain this morning. ‘No it won’t.’ He sat down on a stool and ordered a cup of coffee. Cullen cackled suddenly and squinted at him. ‘Frosty this morning, eh. Whose bed did you get out the wrong side of?’

  Connla ignored him and stirred two packets of sugar into his coffee. He looked sideways at Cullen, who was unshaven and toothless. He could smell gun oil and grime on his parka, and one trouser leg was stuck in his workboot, as usual. ‘So what did you find out?’ Connla asked him.

  Cullen’s face was suddenly serious. ‘We’ve definitely got tracks.’

  ‘You mean a paw print?’

  ‘No, I mean tracks. If you want to finish your coffee I’ll show you.’


  They took the Land-Rover as before, only this time Cullen insisted on driving. Connla didn’t mind; he was weary after his restless night and the four-hour drive he’d already done. He sat in the passenger seat while Cullen took the wheel, the dog a semi-silent barrier between them.

  ‘Where we headed?’ Connla asked.

  ‘A farm out by the castle.’

  ‘The one on the TV?’

  ‘Aye, John McIntyre’s place. He’s a pal of mine.’

  Connla shook his head and smiled. ‘Who isn’t a pal of yours?’

  Cullen grinned wickedly, showing the gaps in his teeth. ‘Oh, not many people, Mr McAdam.’ He looked forward again. ‘I make a bad enemy.’

  Connla sat up straighter then, glanced at the dog and hunched himself into the door.

  ‘Have you got a sleeping bag with you?’ Cullen asked him. ‘If we pick up the trail we might need to stay out.’

  ‘I always carry a sleeping bag.’

  ‘Boy Scout were you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  They took the road south-east, following the line of the Conglass Water till they came to the northern end of the Lecht. Connla stared left and right out of the window; hills greened to brown on both sides of the road, and ridges of new heather and bracken stretched in waterless ponds of black. The farm was north of Corgarff Castle, along a pitted dirt track at Cock Bridge. The track ran for perhaps half a mile before the straggle of grey stone buildings settled between two gentle summits came into view. Cullen had an unlit roll-up between his lips, which flapped up and down as he spoke.

  ‘McIntyre’s had trouble before,’ he said.

  As they entered the farmyard the pitbull pricked up its ears and spittle drooled from the side of its mouth. Connla watched it splash against the vinyl panel between them.

  ‘Stay here,’ Cullen growled. The dog whimpered, glanced at its master, then cowered against the back seat. Connla opened his door. The afternoon had clouded over considerably, and at this height the wind was brisk and teased out the gaps in their clothing. Connla zipped up his field jacket and looked round at Cullen. ‘Did he keep the carcass?’

  ‘Aye. He was going to burn it till I persuaded him that you should look at it first.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Connla looked around for the farmer.

  ‘He’s a busy man, Mr McAdam. Not much money in farming these days. He’s away in the hills with the sheep.’ He led the way into the barn.

  Connla could smell the flesh beginning to rot as soon as they entered. The barn was dark inside and hung with cobwebs as thick as cord. Bits of broken machinery cluttered the concrete floor, and the hayloft above his head was loose and full of holes. Cullen bent by a sheet of tarpaulin, which lay across a bale of straw. ‘I told him we’d burn it for him after.’

  The ewe had a long tear in its throat, edged by a stiffened flap of skin, and bloody, blackened tissue hung from the folds of discoloured wool. There were no other obvious wounds, but Connla eased the wool aside and looked at the deep scoring he knew he would find on the flank. He gauged the depth and position of the claws in his mind. ‘I’d say this was a female leopard. She attacked, but the sheep got free and ran some before it died.’ He pointed to the dried blood on the ewe’s legs and the spatter marks on the underside of the belly. Then he indicated the scoring of the claws. ‘See the depth, the spread? That indicates a female to me.’

  Cullen looked sceptical. ‘You can tell the sex of a cat by its claw marks?’

  ‘I reckon I can, if it’s a mountain lion. A leopard’s pretty similar, Bird Dog. I’d say this baby weighed about a hundred pounds.’

  ‘The ewe had two lambs,’ Cullen told him. ‘You think maybe she tried for her, got it wrong and took the lambs?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are the lambs missing?’

  Cullen nodded.

  ‘Then maybe that’s what happened.’

  ‘Well,’ Cullen got up with a cracking sound from his knees. ‘We’ll find out if we catch her.’

  Connla looked up at him. ‘You told me there were tracks.’

  Cullen crooked his index finger.

  Outside, they crossed the yard as the first spots of rain began to slap the concrete. Connla turned his collar up and tugged at the brim of his hat. He followed Cullen past the elbow of the buildings and over a five-bar gate. The field had been used by sheep, although it was empty now, and their droppings littered the shortened grass by the fence.

  ‘The ewe was attacked here,’ Cullen said. ‘McIntyre had brought the flock down so he could check their feet and dip them.’

  ‘This was dawn yesterday morning?’

  ‘Aye. He was just on his way out when he saw the panther run off up the hill.’ Cullen pointed into the distance. ‘That’s where the tracks are.’

  ‘Have you followed them?’

  ‘Only as far as the tree line.’ Again he pointed, this time to where a grove of larch trees straddled the hillside, white trunked and heavy with foliage.

  They climbed the hill and the grass grew thinner, mud taking over where the ground had been churned by a hundred cloven hoofs. The mud was smoother, however, the closer they got to the trees; and about fifty yards out Cullen stopped and pointed at the ground. Connla recognized it immediately; it wasn’t deep, but there was no sign of any claws—the print of a big cat. He felt a surge of excitement and dropped to one knee. This was the best he had come across yet, not just one track, but a well-spaced group of them, and he imagined the panther, black against the hillside, loping into the trees. He stood up and looked at Cullen. ‘You want to wait here?’ he said. ‘I’ve got stuff to make a plaster cast in my truck.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Cullen rolled a cigarette. ‘The trail’ll be cold by now, but we might as well follow it anyway.’

  ‘Can you track through woods?’

  ‘If there’s something to track.’

  They looked at one another for a moment, silent competition between them. ‘I’ll get the gear then,’ Connla said.

  He laid his camera equipment, collapsible tripod, shoulder stock and remote exposure gear on the hillside while he made a plaster cast of the first paw print. Silently, he congratulated himself on his expertise; twenty years of studying cougars had not left him without knowledge. This was a female leopard all right; melanistic, if that’s what the farmer had seen—black fur with the spots, or rather rosettes, still visible. It wasn’t uncommon for a spotted mother to give birth to one black and one spotted cub, or even two black ones.

  He checked the consistency of the ground, which was quite hard, the mud having formed from just a light rainfall. He considered the depth of the print and decided one hundred pounds would be about right. When he was finished he stood up, took off his hat to wipe the sweat from the leather band and waited for the cast to dry. He marked the exact spot where they’d found it on his map, then slipped the cast into a clear polythene bag and labelled it. Cullen stood watching him, his back to a larch tree, the butt of his hunting rifle on the ground between his legs.

  ‘You got a gun in that pack?’ he asked.

  Connla shook his head. ‘We won’t need a gun, Bird Dog. If we find the leopard, which I very much doubt, we certainly won’t need a gun.’

  Cullen smiled then, showing his receding gums. ‘Better to be safe than sorry, though. Eh, Mr McAdam.’

  Connla shouldered his pack and looked again at the prints. They led directly into the thinly spaced trees. Cullen had his dog sniffing around already. Connla doubted it would be much use as a tracker, though he did think, if they were lucky enough to find it, the dog might just tree the leopard long enough for him to photograph it. But he would rely on his own instincts and abilities to track it. He had tagged a whole heap of cougars in South Dakota and he had never used a dog for tracking.

  He followed the line of prints into the trees, then stopped. The farmer had startled the leopard and it was probably carrying a lamb in its mouth. Lambs were born in the spring, so this one would be plump and fat by now.
No problem; a leopard could haul three times its own body weight up a tree if it had to. The trees thickened further into the copse. Connla studied the undergrowth and figured out which was the most instinctive path to follow, the one with the least resistance, yet cover. The prints were smaller spaced as they trailed through the trees: the leopard had obviously slowed to a walk. Connla followed them as best he could, though the ground was much drier here. He paused at the far side, with Cullen alongside him, where the hillside rolled into a valley; there was no cover other than bracken. He turned to Cullen, whose dog seemed to be getting nowhere. ‘Goes on like this, huh, the territory?’

  Cullen half smiled and waved his arm in a circle. ‘Aye, it does. Exactly what you see, Mr McAdam. Mountain and valley, the odd wee loch, a burn here and there. Yon heights are the Grampians. Keep going West and you’re in the Cairngorms.’ He looked back at the tracks himself now and pushed out his lips. ‘If I was yon beastie, I’d make for the higher ground.’

  They both looked west then, where the hillside climbed steeply to a ridge of exposed rock. Connla nodded and they struck out for it. Halfway across the valley he paused and dropped to his haunches, the grass was weak and bent back and scarred with a brown stain.

  ‘Sheep’s blood.’ He glanced up at Cullen, again the excitement building. Cullen shifted the rifle from one shoulder to the other and pressed his dog’s snout to the spot. This time it ran off a little way, heading for the line of rocks, where it paused and came back again.

  ‘Could do with a bloodhound,’ Cullen muttered. But then the dog lifted its head, looked at both of them for a moment and scampered over the ridge. The two men exchanged a glance and followed.