Doglands

by Tim Willocks

  And her howl summoned the pack as if from nowhere, as in days of old. Heavy footfalls drummed across the carnival. Furgul’s instinct told him who they belonged to, but he couldn’t believe it. He turned.

  Pounding across the fairground—his paws leaving shallow craters in the dirt—came Brennus. From the blackness beneath the roller coaster came a yap—and Zinni pelted toward them. From somewhere above came a familiar voice.

  “It’s okay, Furgul!” said Skyver. “I’ll get you out of here!”

  Furgul looked up as Skyver skipped down from the top of the truck. As he landed in front of Dervla, he attempted a flashy pirouette and fell flat on his face.

  “Ooohff!” gasped Skyver. “That usually works perfectly.”

  Brennus and Zinni hauled up.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Furgul.

  “We found the poor little pup outside the Sanctuary,” explained Zinni. “He told us what had happened. Then Jodi drove him to the animal hospital.”

  Brennus said, “We figured you were in trouble.”

  “We’ve come to take you home,” said Zinni.

  “But how did you find me?” asked Furgul.

  “Easy,” said Skyver. “We followed the sweet smell of Chumley’s Curry Supreme.”

  “This is Dervla,” said Furgul. “Dervla, meet Brennus and Zinni.”

  Furgul helped Skyver to his feet. “This is Skyver. He’s the scruffiest dog in the world, but you won’t hear him brag about it.”

  “At your service,” said Skyver. He tried to get a sniff of Dervla’s hindquarters. “You look like you need some tender loving care.”

  “But you don’t look like the one who’s going to supply it,” Dervla snapped.

  Skyver retreated to Furgul’s side and whispered, “I think she likes me.”

  “This is a bad place,” said Brennus. He, too, sensed the twisted essence of the fairground beneath his paws. “We should leave.”

  They reached the mobile home. Furgul introduced Cogg and Baz to the gang.

  “Spotty tried to get out,” said Cogg.

  “But we controlled ourselves,” said Baz.

  “He can still walk,” Cogg reassured them.

  “I’d say it’s more like a hobble,” suggested Baz.

  “Let’s call it a limp,” conceded Cogg.

  “Forget about Spotty,” said Furgul. “You two can go to Appletree with the others. It’s a great place, but if you want to work for Chumley again, Jodi will make sure you get home.”

  Furgul looked at Dervla. She needed Jodi. Jodi healed wounded dogs.

  “Dervla, I want you to go back to Appletree too.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Dervla.

  “I’ll follow you later,” said Furgul. “Wait for me there.”

  Brennus said, “So you finally found Dedbone’s Hole.”

  Furgul nodded. Dervla looked questioningly at Brennus.

  “It’s the slave camp for greyhounds where Furgul was born,” said Brennus. He looked at Furgul. “His moment has come. He’s going back to Dedbone’s Hole—to set the wrong things right.”

  “Keeva threw the race at the track tonight,” said Furgul. “I know Dedbone. In the morning he’ll drive her away in a cardboard box, and she’ll never come back.”

  “What kind of resistance can we expect?” asked Brennus.

  “I’m not asking any of you to go with me,” said Furgul.

  “And I’m not asking your permission,” said Brennus.

  “Neither am I,” said Dervla. “Count me in.”

  “There’ll be at least two men, with shotguns,” said Furgul. “Plus a pack of guard dogs who’ll protect Dedbone to the death. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Sounds perfect,” growled Cogg. “We can prove we’re real dogs again.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to do it here,” agreed Baz.

  “We’re all coming, Furgul,” piped Zinni. “Whether you like it or not.”

  “We are?” said Skyver, aghast.

  The others looked at him.

  “I’ll pop back to Appletree and get some more help!” said Skyver.

  “You’re right, Skyver,” said Furgul. “You head on home. Jodi needs you.”

  Skyver glanced at the others, as if ashamed of himself.

  “You’re a free dog,” said Brennus. “No one here will think the worse of you.”

  “Good luck, Skyver,” said Zinni.

  Skyver avoided Dervla’s gaze. For once he was lost for words. He turned and trotted away until he melted into the shadows and was gone.

  “Well,” said Brennus, “looks like we’ve got us a Dog Bunch.”

  They all turned at once as the mobile home door swung open and Spotty clattered out, a suitcase in his hand. He stumbled toward the pickup truck, the bloodstained rags of his pants flapping round his ankles.

  Dervla took off after him. Like silent death.

  Spotty dropped his suitcase and fled for the carnival.

  “Dervla!” called Furgul. “Come back!”

  Dervla didn’t stop. Neither did Spotty. They disappeared.

  “Wait here,” said Furgul to the others.

  He sprinted after Dervla. As he left the mobile home site he saw them.

  Spotty staggered toward the big wheel while Dervla trotted in silence at his heels. He blubbered with terror, glancing over his shoulder at the black German shepherd with the pitiless eyes. Dervla could have taken him down anytime she wanted. But she was torturing him with fear, just as Spotty and Tattoo had tortured her.

  As Furgul gained on them, Spotty reached the big wheel and climbed into one of the buckets. Dervla sprang after him, and Spotty screamed.

  “Dervla!” barked Furgul. “No!”

  Dervla stood on her hind legs in the bucket. Her forepaws pinned Spotty’s shoulders to the seat. A coward’s tears tumbled down his cheeks as he begged for mercy. Dervla stared into Spotty’s face, her deep black eyes devoid of pity. She bared her fangs, inches from his throat, and Spotty closed his eyes. He knew he was a dead man.

  “Dervla, look at me,” said Furgul.

  Dervla turned her head. Her gaze met Furgul’s.

  “Do you remember that day we met? In the park?” said Furgul.

  For the first time since they’d met in the filthy pen, when she’d killed three dogs without making a single sound, Furgul saw her soul glimmer in her eyes.

  “We played,” said Furgul. “We fought. We laughed. We ran. You made me feel free for the first time in my life. It was beautiful, Dervla. You were beautiful.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Dervla.

  “I watched them kill my father,” said Furgul. “They starved Brennus till they thought he was dead, then dumped him on a garbage heap. In the morning they’re going to kill my mother. That day in the park was a long time ago for all of us.”

  Dervla blinked. She closed her jaws.

  “Spotty’s broken,” said Furgul. “You’ve broken him.”

  Dervla looked at the pathetic, sniveling wretch between her paws.

  “He’s helpless,” said Furgul. “You don’t need to kill him. He’s nothing.”

  Dervla looked back at him. And Furgul saw in her face once more the free spirit that had called him across the park when they both were young.

  “I want you to run with the winds,” said Furgul. “I want you to find the Doglands, not lose them forever. I want to run with you again, Dervla.”

  With the grace and power that she’d never lost—even when lost in hatred—Dervla leaped from the bucket. She landed by Furgul’s side. She heard Spotty whimper in the bucket, curled into a ball. She stepped to a red lever at the base of the machine. She raised a paw and pushed it down. The big wheel groaned and clanked and started to turn. Spotty’s bucket rose into the air. He still whimpered, but this time with relief.

  When the bucket reached the top of the circle, Dervla threw the red lever again, and the big wheel lurched to a halt. Spotty’s pimpled face peeped ou
t, then ducked back.

  Then Dervla turned to Furgul.

  “I want to run with you too.”

  The Dog Bunch loped across the carnival as if the moonlight had conjured phantoms from the Doglands’ darkest dreams. They crossed the empty roads with their ugly yellow lights, and soon they’d left the sleeping town behind them. Open country beckoned, and they took to the fields.

  Furgul led them on at a steady pace with Dervla and Zinni close behind him. Then came Cogg and Baz. Brennus padded along at the rear.

  Brennus heard a sound. He looked over his shoulder and grinned.

  “Trouble ahoy!” he called.

  Furgul glanced back as Skyver galloped up alongside Brennus.

  “I suddenly realized, you’d never pull this off without me,” panted Skyver.

  Brennus gave him a look.

  “Okay, so I was scared of the dark.” Skyver glanced at Furgul in the lead. “Speaking of which, how does he know where he’s going?”

  Brennus said, “Because Furgul is the dog who runs in darkness.”

  PART THREE

  THE DOG

  BUNCH

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE PLAN

  As the sun climbed above the easternmost edge of the world, the Dog Bunch topped the crest that marked the craggy northern ridge of Argal’s Mountain. They’d covered more miles in fewer hours than any other dogs they’d ever known. They themselves could hardly believe that they’d done it. Only one among them knew what the secret might be, yet he, too, was astonished. They stopped to watch the distant ball of fire drag itself into the sky. It left blood-red claw marks on the clouds.

  “Shepherd’s warning,” said Brennus.

  No one else spoke. From the ridge, the rock sloped down toward woods and pasture. Beyond the fields a dirty smudge marred the land, which Furgul knew was the slave camp at Dedbone’s Hole.

  They descended a hundred feet to a mountain stream, and there they slaked their thirst. While the others drank, Furgul wandered to a ledge and looked down. He saw the dirt track that wound up the hill from the valley below. At the top end of the track he saw the entrance to the cave of death.

  He expected grim memories to flash through his mind, but they didn’t. Instead he felt dizzy. A strange current flowed up through his legs and through his body. It was as strong as the torrent that had swept him down the river, yet he didn’t move. It was as powerful as the strongest wind, yet not a hair on his coat was ruffled. It had no sound. It had no taste. It was invisible. And yet it was there. And he knew that it could tear him apart like a leaf if it chose to.

  Furgul shook himself down and stepped back from the ledge, and the strange sensation was gone. When he turned he found Brennus nearby. Brennus had been watching him. Furgul felt safer. He went to stand closer to the old Saint Bernard. Brennus nodded to the stream, where others paddled and rested.

  “None of them felt it,” he said.

  “Did you?” asked Furgul.

  Brennus nodded. “Yes. But nowhere near as strongly as you did.”

  “Do you know why we were able to get here so fast?” said Brennus. “We should still be panting our way toward the far side of this mountain.”

  Furgul shrugged. “We’re a tough, fit, wild bunch of dogs.”

  “Not if you include me.” Brennus smiled. “At least, not the fit part. We did it because you led us along a Dogline. And you didn’t even know it. Did you?”

  Furgul shook his head. “It just felt like the best way to go. But it felt nothing like that—thing—that just went through me. What was that?”

  “I’m not sure. The knowledge of Ancient Dog Lore has almost vanished from our species,” said Brennus. “As the human race became more and more remote from its own wild origins—as humans sold the truth of their inmost hearts for TVs and hair products and safety—then so we dogs lost touch with our origins too. We stopped asking ourselves the most fundamental question of life: What is the nature of wildness? We stopped asking our mothers and fathers—What is the nature of wildness?—just as they had stopped asking theirs. Like the humans, we, too, sold our truth. And for what? For a pat on the head from the masters and a bowl of meat we no longer even know how to hunt and kill for ourselves. We ate our food from tin cans, like they do. We lay down by their kitchen hearthstones and forgot who we once had been. I did it myself, to my shame. And so now, in all the world, there are only a handful of wise dogs left who have any grasp at all of our ancient knowledge. The knowledge we had when dogs owned the earth and humans were helpless as children.”

  “And you’re one of those wise dogs.”

  “No. Not me. But I met one once, when I was young—and when she was old. She was named Murgen, which means ‘from the sea.’ But Murgen must be long gone now, at least from the world of blood, bone and fur. No, Furgul, I’m not wise. I just remember some fragments of lore that I was too foolish to value until it was too late. But you could be such a dog.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Furgul. You. If you searched the Doglands for long enough—if you sought the answer to the question: What is the nature of wildness?—if you were willing to pay the price—you could rediscover the Dog Lore.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” said Furgul.

  “You know how to find the Doglines.”

  “I don’t really understand what the Doglines are.”

  “You understand them better than me. I have the crumbs of a few old ideas. But you can feel these things in your bones. That’s why you must seek out the Dog Lore.”

  “What was that feeling I just felt—that force from the rocks that you felt too?”

  “The Doglines are the pawprints of the ancestors, first laid down by wolves in the time before long, long ago. But just as a wolf or a dog or any living creature may be right or wrong, a Dogline may be right or wrong. A right Dogline can take you somewhere good—like Appletree—but a wrong Dogline can take you somewhere bad—like Dedbone’s Hole. The old ones believed that the Doglines can get tangled—like knots in string—which concentrates their force and makes their fluxions—the flow of power—much stronger. I can’t be sure, but I think there are two knots inside this mountain—one right and one wrong. The force we felt was the contrary fluxions—the two knots—pulling against each other.”

  Furgul had a realization. “One is in the chasm beneath the hill of dead dogs. That’s a wrong knot. A wrong place. The right knot is in the crystal cavern.”

  “How do you know?” asked Brennus.

  “Because I’ve been to both places, wrong and right. I left my sister Eena’s body at one knot, and my sister Nessa’s body at the other.”

  “You see?” said Brennus. “Your search has already begun.”

  “But I wasn’t searching. I was just a pup, running for my life.”

  “No, you were running the Doglines.”

  Furgul thought back to his escape from Dedbone’s Hole, his journey through the mountain and down the river. Brennus was right. It wasn’t luck that had saved him. It was the Doglines. He saw the excitement in Brennus’s eyes.

  “Furgul, you’ve been running the Doglines—and searching for the Dog Lore—since you were born.”

  “What else can you tell me?” asked Furgul.

  “Only one more thing, the last of my crumbs, but a dark one. The Doglines are powerful—as you just felt better than I. And they give you a choice. Each Dogline is made stronger every time you run it. Some dogs run the right lines, and some dogs run the wrong. And just as you can change the Doglines, the Doglines can change you.”

  “Did Argal run right Doglines?”

  “Yes, on the whole, he did, though he only sensed them. Argal’s own natural wildness was so strong, so defiant, that he had no patience for the Dog Lore. He was too busy fighting for freedom. Argal’s brother, Sloann, is just as strong, but cooler in temper and more brilliant. Sloann knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s always chosen to run the wrong Doglines, to harness their strength against the mas
ters. If you ever get wind of Sloann, stay away from him.”

  Dervla came padding up to the ledge. “We should press on,” she said.

  Furgul wondered if Dervla felt the Doglines too. He sensed that she did. But now wasn’t the time to ask her. It was time to go to Dedbone’s Hole and find out if the right was stronger than the wrong.

  They studied the layout of Dedbone’s Hole from a grove of trees. The main compound was just as Furgul remembered it—a scrubby rectangle of barren land surrounded by a high wire-mesh fence. A fence too high for even Furgul to jump. Inside were long rows of crates, stacked two deep, one crate on another, where the greyhounds lived their miserable existence. On the top row lived the males, and on the bottom the females. In another corner were the whelping cages where Furgul had spent his first days. At the far side stood the troughs where the greyhounds ate.

  Less familiar to him were the wider surroundings.

  The place still looked like a junkyard. Telephone poles carried paired black cables to Dedbone’s house, though it was less a house than a filthy cabin festooned with antennae and TV dishes. Outside stood Dedbone’s pickup truck, the one that Furgul and his sisters had ridden as pups. Strewn about the yard were rusting trailers and derelict cars, oil drums, empty bottles and stacks of old tires. A smattering of dilapidated sheds stood alongside a hog pen. Half a dozen billy goats grazed the parched grass. Beyond all this the main road out of Dedbone’s Hole rolled away into the distance.

  There were no humans to be seen.

  “Dedbone must have been stuck at the track until late last night,” said Furgul. “He must be sleeping in.”

  “You’ll never get over that fence,” offered Skyver, who was licking his travel-worn footpads. “Or under it. We’ve come a thousand miles for nothing.”