Sky Wolves

by Livi Michael

  There was a brief, tense pause.

  ‘Right,’ said Checkers. ‘Well – we have to fight him anyway.’

  Black Shuck raised his voice in a howl that blasted the last leaves from the shrubs. ‘Pull the other one,’ he said.

  Checkers wondered where all the knocking noises were coming from, then he realized it was his knees. The dreadful pounding must be his heart, and the funny rattling and clattering would be his teeth. If he could just untangle the muscles of his throat, he might be able to say something sensible.

  ‘Can you take us to him?’ Boris asked.

  Black Shuck laughed again – a terrible, howling laugh. It sounded as though several screech owls were practising their wolf impersonations, while being passed slowly through a vacuum cleaner.

  Checkers flattened himself to the ground. At least, he hoped it was the ground, for he had lost all sense of where anything was.

  ‘Take you to him?’ Black Shuck bellowed/roared/howled/screeched. ‘The way to his dread abode may not even be described! It is a quagmire of boiling whirlpools, surrounded by desolate wastes, through which lost souls pass, like numberless insects, moaning and gibbering and trailing their blood-soaked limbs. The boiling whirlpools belch corrosive slime into the river of death. And the stench,’ Black Shuck said, ‘passes all understanding.’

  Boris turned to Checkers. ‘Sounds like Center Pares,’ he said. ‘I’ve been there before.’

  ‘It is not like Center Pares,’ said Black Shuck. ‘It is a vast, desolate plain where the mountains of corruption loom over the chasms of despair and the deplorable gloom is relieved only by diabolical shade. None who go there may return.’

  ‘Right,’ said Boris. ‘So – how do we get there?’

  Checkers looked at him with admiration. He couldn’t even speak, but Boris was managing to ask all the right questions.

  The great hound flicked his monstrous tail. It might almost have been a wag, but it was much more sinister. He looked at Boris with an appreciative light in his eyes.

  ‘No living creatures may cross the waters of the underworld,’ he said. ‘But if you like, I will take you as far as the birdless lake.’

  Checkers couldn’t help wondering why Boris did not appear to be frightened. Checkers was the brave one who knew no fear, but now look at him. He was clinging desperately to the ground, as though he might be about to fall off. He felt winded and shown up at the same time.

  Boris didn’t have the sense to be frightened, he realized suddenly. It was Gheckers’s duty to protect him from himself. Besides, he couldn’t stay cowering on the ground forever, it wasn’t dignified. Shakily, he stood.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Which way do we go?’

  Black Shuck bayed a long, drooling call that sounded like the cries of lost souls. Checkers flattened himself against Boris and managed not to fall over this time.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Boris, old son,’ he gasped. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘All roads lead to that dread entrance,’ Black Shuck said. He twitched his tail again, thinking. ‘You are brave dogs,’ he said eventually. ‘You are walking foolishly into the jaws of death. I like that. I tell you what I will do. I will take you to the birdless lake, where you may enter the caverns of darkness, which lead to the river of death.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr – er – Shuck,’ Boris said.

  Checkers was speechless. River of death? he was thinking. But he fell in behind Boris as the great dog set off in front of them, scorching the earth with his feet as he passed. He had the feeling that things were about to go terribly wrong, if in fact they hadn’t already. But Boris seemed to be in a conversational mood.

  ‘So – if you’re not the Guardian,’ he said, ‘what is it that you do, exactly?’

  ‘I am one of the hounds of hell,’ said Black Shuck, turning his head a little. ‘I hunt for human souls. For thousands of years I have traversed lonely roads, stalking the souls of the damned so that I may take them to the Guardian. Most do not see me, but those that do invariably die.’

  ‘Sounds a bit grim,’ said Boris, trying to keep up.

  The great dog expelled a sound that might have been a sigh.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is unutterably boring. Apart from when people beg. That livens things up a little.’

  ‘So – why do you do it, then?’ Boris asked, and the great dog paused.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What else is there to do?’

  ‘Well – I don’t know,’ said Boris. ‘Lots. You could hunt rabbits, run after cats – or chase balls.’

  Black Shuck turned round, baring his enormous teeth. ‘Chase balls?’ he said. ‘Do I look like a pet?’

  ‘No,’ said Checkers, very definitely.

  ‘Chase – balls,’ said Black Shuck with withering contempt. Obviously no one had ever suggested that to him before. ‘That is man’s game. Along with every other foolish game ever invented for the race of dog. In fact, you could say that man invented the race of dog just so that he had some way of playing his foolish games. For man is afflicted with imagination, and man’s imagination is the dog’s curse.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Checkers, appearing finally from behind Boris. ‘Men didn’t invent dogs!’

  ‘Indeed they did,’ said Black Shuck. ‘For in the ancient times dogs were wild, like wolves and jackals. Man used both their hunger and their intelligence to tame them. Dogs were the first domestic creatures,’ Black Shuck said, imbuing the term with a world of scorn. ‘We were soon indispensable, as hunters and guides, as warriors and herders and trackers and guardians. We fought their battles, herded their flocks, protected them, hunted with them, searched for them when they were lost. It might almost be said, in fact, that dogs invented the race of man, for without dogs man as we know him would not exist. He would never have farmed his animals, built his cities, vanquished his enemies without us. And what is our reward?’

  Black Shuck looked at them with enormous, glowing eyes.

  ‘Kennels!’ he said with a scorching contempt. ‘Leads. Tinned dog food! He has built his cities with the help of dogs and now there is no room in them for us. He prevents us breeding and curtails our right to sniff, our freedom to even move. He calls us his best friend, but when he has no further use for us, it is a quick trip to the butchers they call vets. Barbaric.’

  Boris and Checkers looked at one another. They had never thought about it that way before.

  ‘I don’t think it’s that bad,’ Boris ventured.

  ‘No?’ said Black Shuck, turning on them his thousand-watt gaze. ‘What about your own homes? Happy, are you? Well treated? And if so, why are you here, instead of stretched out on your own comfortable hearths?’

  Boris opened his mouth to protest, but said nothing. He was remembering the dogs’ home. Checkers too was remembering, with unease and a growing resentment, how his mistress had locked him into the tiny room, without light or food, and then, when he had chewed up a bit of paper, as any dog would, his master had threatened to beat him.

  ‘See?’ said Black Shuck, just as if they had spoken aloud. ‘And you probably haven’t seen the worst of it. I’ve seen sights that would make a grown dog howl. Stray dogs kicked and abused, pelted with stones, forced to fight one another, starving around restaurants where humans glutted themselves with food, or flung out of cars on to roads by men who think no one is watching. But I am watching. Because that is what I do.’

  He turned again and trotted on briskly through the dripping wood.

  ‘But some of them are nice,’ Boris said, almost pleadingly.

  ‘Nice?’ said Black Shuck, stopping so suddenly that they almost fell over him. ‘Nice? Because they pet you and take you for walks? Because they feed you that indigestible muck they call dog food? Or because they decide when you live or die, when and if you will mate, when, if ever, you get to go out?’

  ‘Sometimes they play,’ said Boris, trying to remember the time before the baby came, but Black Shuck gave an indescriba
ble snort.

  ‘When it suits them,’ he said. ‘But mainly they play at building roads and railways and huge apartment buildings, and creating a world where no dog belongs. They use dogs for sport and throw them away. They have forgotten, conveniently, that they ever needed us. How many times have you waited patiently, all day, for your human to return and take you out, then, when he comes in, he collapses in a chair and doesn’t want to know? They are so obsessed with themselves and the world they have created that they don’t even know they are doing wrong. Until they meet me on some lonely road,’ Black Shuck said ominously. ‘Then they do.’

  Checkers and Boris didn’t know what to make of all this. Black Shuck seemed very sure of himself, and very knowledgeable and wise. Everything he said seemed to make awful sense. They could each remember the times when they had been neglected or ignored, then punished for behaving badly. Checkers had been smacked for widdling on the carpet when no one had taken him out. Boris had tried to help his owners get rid of the baby and look where that had got him. They each thought there must be a flaw in the argument somewhere, but neither of them could think what it was, and secretly their grievances and resentments began to burn. Which, of course, was exactly what Black Shuck intended.

  Around them the trees started to thin out, but a swirling mist filled the spaces between, so they still couldn’t see where they were. They could smell water that was not like the water that dripped from the trees, but only when Black Shuck paused again did they realize that they were near the edge of a vast, dark lake.

  ‘This is the birdless lake,’ Black Shuck said, and indeed there was an oppressive silence, as if no bird or any other living creature had ever flapped, crawled or croaked in that vicinity. ‘On the other side of this lake there is a cavern, with a hundred broad shafts, like mouths. Only one will take you into the underworld. Its rocky throat will lead steeply down to the bowels of the world, where flows the River Styx. No living creature is allowed to set foot in those waters, but the ferryman may be induced to take you across. If he is in a good mood.’ He looked at them. ‘He is not usually in a good mood. In fact, he has been in a bad mood as long as I have known him.’

  ‘H-how long is that?’ asked Checkers.

  ‘Since the dawn of time,’ Black Shuck said. ‘But who knows – you may be lucky. And whether you are lucky or not, you will have to cross the water to reach the Guardian’s lair. That is,’ he added, with an amused glint, ‘if you are still determined to fight him.’

  Neither Checkers nor Boris felt very determined at that moment.

  ‘Er – isn’t there another way?’ asked Boris.

  ‘No,’ said Black Shuck, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Well – how do we get across the lake?’

  ‘You must swim it, of course. Unless you can fly.’

  Checkers and Boris looked at the lake. It was black and stagnant and looked very deep. A sulphurous vapour rose from its murky depths.

  ‘Try not to swallow any,’ Black Shuck said unnecessarily, ‘for to taste the waters of the birdless lake means certain death.’

  ‘Now you’re just trying to cheer us up,’ muttered Checkers.

  But Boris said, ‘How will we know which cave to go into?’

  ‘When the wind blows, the mouths of the cave will speak,’ Black Shuck said. ‘One of them will call your names. Try not to go in that one – it will be the Harpies, I’m afraid. They sound just like sirens, but if you follow them they will feast on your flesh and drink your blood. Follow the one that sounds like the tolling of a bell. It will lead you steeply downwards, to the bowels of the earth, wherein lies the river of death.’

  Boris and Checkers looked at one another in growing dismay. The air was oppressive and very still, as if no wind had blown for a thousand years.

  ‘Sometimes the wind doesn’t blow for a thousand years,’ Black Shuck said. ‘You’ll just have to wait. Seems like a waste of time to me. Might I ask why you are so intent on fighting the Guardian?’

  Checkers looked at Boris and Boris looked at Checkers. ‘Well – it might not come to that,’ Boris said. ‘He might just – come with us.’

  Black Shuck shook his head a little, as if he couldn’t have heard correctly. ‘Why would he do that?’ he said.

  Hesitantly, interrupting one another, Boris and Checkers told him their tale. It sounded much less convincing as they spoke, and certainly it no longer seemed like a good idea, except that it had something to do with preventing the end of the world.

  ‘So you see – we don’t want to fight him as such,’ Boris finished lamely. ‘We just want him to come with us – and defeat Fenrir.’

  Black Shuck looked as amused as a smouldering hell hound could. ‘Well, that’s all right, then,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could throw a ball for him. Oh –I forgot – you haven’t got one.’

  Checkers and Boris were feeling definitely discouraged by now. Squashed, even.

  ‘Ragnarok,’ Black Shuck said thoughtfully, as though to himself, and the ground around them quivered. ‘So you are trying to save mankind. Just like a dog,’ he added in tones that suggested they deserved everything coming to them.

  ‘Not just mankind,’ Checkers said.

  ‘We have to save the whole world,’ said Boris.

  ‘Because a mistletoe twig told you to,’ Black Shuck said, and both the dogs were silent.

  ‘Of course, it’s always possible,’ he went on, ‘that if this world were to end, another, better world would take its place. One in which mankind did not dominate the rest of creation and each animal had its rightful place.’

  Boris and Checkers looked at him.

  ‘Just a thought,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d love to hang around a bit longer, discussing the best way to save mankind, but there’s people to stalk, lonely travellers to frighten out of their wits, that kind of thing. I’ll have to be going.’

  And he twitched his mighty tail and turned round.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Checkers called. ‘You can’t just leave us here!’

  ‘I’m afraid I can,’ Black Shuck said, then he reached up towards a single, flowering twig and snapped it off with his great jaws. ‘You might need this,’ he said to Boris, and he lowered his head and tucked it into Boris’s collar. ‘For the ferryman.’

  Then he turned and walked into the mist, leaving a trail of smoking stubble in his wake.

  ‘Come back!’ Checkers barked, his voice falling on muffled air. He stared regretfully at the space where the great hound had been. ‘I quite liked him,’ he said to Boris. ‘He was all right, really. Better than –’

  He meant, better than being all alone on the shores of the birdless lake, which led to the caverns of the underworld and the river of death. Not to mention the unspeakable Guardian. Boris understood this, but neither dog wanted to finish the sentence.

  At that moment, the mist swirled back and they could see the furthest shore.

  On a bright, sunny, cloudless day the scene in front of them would have been merely depressing. However, in the dank grey mist it was a sight grim enough to make both dogs burst into tears, if only they’d known how. The water looked as though it was coated with slime. It was more like a swamp than a lake. From time to time stinking bubbles broke the surface, discharging noxious vapours into the reeking air. No life stirred. Only a few straggling reeds hung over the edges of the lake, as though broken in spirit. And there, on the other side of the lake, was a vast rock face, full of caves that looked, as Black Shuck had said, exactly like open mouths.

  ‘Right,’ said Checkers on an outbreath. ‘Er – what did he say, about crossing it?’

  ‘You mean about the certain death?’

  ‘No,’ said Checkers. ‘Not that bit.’

  ‘He said we had to swim,’ said Boris.

  Checkers was not a dog who usually held back from swimming. He had swum in the sea, in the canal, in the children’s swimming pool and even in a silage tank. Wherever there was water, Checkers dived in. But this blac
k, stinking swamp was something new in his experience, something he had no desire at all to go near. He hung back.

  ‘You can go first, if you like,’ he said generously to Boris.

  After a moment, Boris trotted to the edge of it and gingerly stuck one paw in, withdrawing it instantly.

  ‘Boris,’ said Checkers, ‘this is your big chance. You always wanted to be a hero.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Boris. ‘That was you.’

  He looked at the water. The paw he had dipped in felt curiously deadened.

  ‘There’s something funny about this place,’ he said.

  And at that moment the caves began to moan.

  18

  In Which Gentleman Jim and Pico Come to the End of the World

  Meanwhile, Gentleman Jim and Pico had also emerged from the storm, into a snow-covered world. The snow was crisp and dry and crunched under Gentleman Jim’s paws. Frost-stiffened grass crackled as they passed and the occasional shower of snow fell from the branches of a shrub as they went by.

  The snow glittered all around them, in every direction as far as they could see, and the frost formed itself into patterns on rocks and stones, wreathing them in flowers. Everything was perfectly still, as though they were the only living creatures on the earth. It was rather beautiful, but Gentleman Jim felt a growing sense of unease.

  Apart from the imminent ending of the world, not to mention such concerns as where they were and how they were supposed to find this mighty hunter, there were three things troubling Gentleman Jim.

  First, the silence was rather eerie. Where were the birds and wild animals? Had everything suddenly gone into hibernation? Where was the noise of the city? In all of Gentleman Jim’s considerable life, he had never been anywhere where there was no noise at all.

  Second, there was no sign of the sun or moon. They seemed to have entered a vast twilight in which only the first pale stars pricked the dull sky. The stars were in themselves beautiful, but Gentleman Jim hoped very much that the sun and moon hadn’t already been devoured by ravening wolves, in which case they were already too late.