Peter drifted off to sleep again, this time staying asleep until he was woken by his aunt wanting to know if he was going to sleep all day or did he want some breakfast?
As it was Saturday and promised to be very warm, Aunt Angela suggested they spend it on the beach, taking a picnic lunch with them.
"In that case,” Uncle Paul said dryly, “we'd better use the car. It's not my idea of fun lugging to the beach on foot a woman's idea of a picnic."
Aunt Angela looked indignant. “You'd be the first to complain if I provided only measly sandwiches and a flask of tea!"
Uncle Paul laughed. “Well, what are we having then?"
"I've some Cornish pasties in the freezer, also bread rolls I can crisp up in the oven. There's ham and chicken and some tomatoes and a lettuce in the fridge and I'll hard-boil a few eggs and grate some cheese. There's also home-made cake I can defrost."
Uncle Paul laughed. “A feast fit for a king. I'll put some chilled wine in the chilly bin and a bottle of soft drink for Peter. By the way, when's high tide?"
"Not till two. So we might as well leave around lunch time."
"Can Dreyfus and I go now?” Peter asked. “That is, if Aunt Angela doesn't want any help with the picnic,” he added.
Aunt Angela laughed. “Be off with you. I think I can just manage to defrost bread, pasties and cake without help."
Peter returned her grin and he and Dreyfus went bounding down the stairs.
"Make sure you put plenty of sunblock on,” Aunt Angela called after him.
"I will."
Within a matter of minutes the front door banged behind Peter and he and Dreyfus charged up the drive, leaving Aunt Angela to her preparations.
When Peter arrived at the beach, where the tide was too far out for swimming, he found a stick and threw it for Dreyfus to fetch. In this way they drew further away from the main beach until the clubhouse and jetty were out of sight. Peter and Dreyfus were alone in a world of their own—a world made specially for dogs, where Dreyfus was having the time of his life and getting dirtier by the second. Peter stood watching as for the umpteenth time the dog charged madly after the stick, which this time had landed among some boulders near the bush. Dreyfus's tail waved wildly until, before he reached the stick, his whole body went rigid. His tail went between his legs and his ears flattened as he picked up a scent he clearly didn't like. Head down, he began to follow an invisible trail.
Peter followed, knowing it was pointless calling him back. Dreyfus had found a rough path—obviously someone's private access to the beach. Aunt Angela had told him the reserve, known as the Avondale South Domain, was administered on behalf of the Government by the Auckland City Council, who kept the public paths clear. But no attempt had been made to clear this one: long grass trailed over it from both sides and it would have been nothing short of treacherous in wet weather. As it was, there were patches of damp that were still slippery, and the bracken growing thick along the sides was strong enough to trip the unwary.
The track reached a wider path, less overgrown. To the right it ran downhill and Peter noticed a flight of steps. Straight in front of him was another narrow track running through thinning vegetation to the bottom of someone's garden. Between two scraggy trees, Peter saw the back of a house. Curious, he walked toward it. The steeply sloping lawn was overgrown and weed-infested and someone had made a path through it. Above the weeds and grass Peter could see the house, a two-storeyed, many-gabled wooden villa that had obviously been moved there and set on a deep basement at the back. Its very height made it look narrower than it was. Although in better condition than the lawn, it frowned at Peter from beneath the bristling brows of its gables. Its tall uncurtained windows seemed to glare down at him. To Peter they became all-seeing eyes urging him forward. Anxious to get his dog back into sight, however, he managed to resist the house's magnetic pull and dodged back along the broader path. He soon realized that Dreyfus, who had been sniffing the ground at the intersection, was nowhere in sight. He plunged along the broad path away from the house, his only concern to find Dreyfus.
He had gone some way before he saw the dog. This time Dreyfus was sniffing the area where another narrow path branched off the main one, leading away from the houses in the street down to the beach. Dreyfus nosed along it, then stopped, sniffing at an area of hanging ferns and other vegetation. Unaccountably, Peter felt the hairs on the nape of his neck start to bristle.
"Dreyfus!"
But Dreyfus took no notice. He vanished into the undergrowth. Peter followed. To his intense surprise he found himself standing in front of a small cave mouth.
Instantly he realized where he must be. But before he could force a retreat a strange sound—a high, sweet voice—poured from the cave.
"Pie Jesu, Domine, Dona eis requiem..."
The singing was unsteady, as though the singer was nervous. The voice was a boy's, singing with expression not often heard from a treble voice.
The fact that the person inside the cave was someone no older than himself did nothing to calm Peter's fears. The hairs on his head continued to prick his scalp like needles. Dreyfus looked twice his size. Then the dog moved.
"No, Dreyfus!” Too late; Dreyfus was through the opening.
Peter forced himself to follow. Reaching out in the semi-darkness, his finger's closed over Dreyfus's tail.
"Stop, Dreyfus!” he hissed. “Wait!"
The dog was crouched on the floor and apparently had no intention of moving anyway. He growled softly. Peter put his hand in his pocket and brought out the packet of matches he always kept there. Briefly he let go of the dog's tail. With shaking hands he struck a match, put the box back in his pocket and grabbed Dreyfus's tail again.
The singing started to waver. There were pauses between words and phrases that weren't in the music. Then the singer stopped.
"Who's there?” a small, quavery voice demanded. “Who is it?"
"Who's that?” Peter cried.
There was a stifled sob and a scuffling noise. Then the other voice rang out, strong and clear: “Keep out! Cerberus guards us!"
But it was too late. At the shout from inside the cave, Dreyfus tore himself from Peter's grasp. Before the match burnt his fingers and he dropped it, Peter saw something that made his gasp of pain catch in his throat with terror. As Dreyfus brushed past him, out of the cave's hidden depths leapt an animal that looked to have three heads: a huge dog with three pairs of red, glowing eyes. It made straight for Dreyfus's throat. Both animals went down in a snarling, snapping heap.
Instinctively Peter leapt forward to help Dreyfus. But those same instincts screamed at him: there's nothing you can do. One boy can't fight a pack of wild dogs. Reluctantly he drew back again. He opened his mouth to scream—but his throat felt too dry. When a scream echoed and re-echoed around him, the sound of his own voice only heightened his terror. The cave burst asunder with the force of the noise. A red whirl of glaring light filled the air. His screams turned to a roaring sound in his ears. The cave floor started falling away beneath his feet. “Dreyfus!” he heard himself yelling through the din.
Chapter 2
Terror in the Cave
"DREYFUS—Dreyfus—"
His voice sounded in his ears like the mumble of someone not yet awake. Over it, Peter thought he could hear again the mystical strands of bell-like music. When he opened his eyes, he saw someone standing some distance away. But for some reason his vision was blurred. The figure was more a shifting confusion of blue and white than a recognizable form. And he sensed an intense anxiety. It was as if someone wanted to know if he was hurt—longing to come to him but being held back. He tried to stretch out his hand—to tell the apparition he was all right. But his throat choked up. The areas of blue and white quivered and an inexplicable longing swept through him. He blinked to clear his vision. But the figure was gone. A few notes of the eerie music hung in the air like ice crystals. The silence left behind was almost creepy.
Peter tried
to sit up. His head hurt, as did his shoulder. Apart from that he was unharmed. He stared at where he thought he had seen the figure. No one was there. He must have been unconscious and imagined everything.
Abruptly remembering what had happened, he forgot the vision. Heart hammering in terror, he jerked upright. In dismay he realized he was nowhere near the cave but lay in a small clearing on top of a bed of bracken. Frantically he looked around for Dreyfus. At a whimper from behind he turned.
Dreyfus lay several yards away and but for the whimper Peter would have thought his pet was dead. He scrambled up and ran to the dog's side. Dreyfus turned his eyes up pleadingly, gave another whimper and sank back on the bracken. Blood ran from wounds in the side of his neck.
Peter tore his shirt off, ripping off buttons in his panic-stricken haste. Thank goodness he wasn't wearing his usual knitted tee-shirt. He made a padding for the wound with some of the material and ripped the rest into a makeshift bandage. As he worked, he blessed the hours of boredom forced on him at school in learning first-aid. When he was sure he had staunched the flow of blood he whispered, “Stay there, boy. I'll be back as soon as I can."
He ran with heedless speed along the rutted track, his breath coming in gasping sobs. Tree roots appeared underfoot, making him stumble. Trailers of bracken swept across the path, tripping him. Branches reared out and caught his swimming trunks—or poked at his bare chest—or tried to hit him in the eye. It was as though the bush itself conspired to stop him getting help. He arrived at the bottom of his uncle's garden feeling scratched and bruised all over.
With what breath he still had Peter yelled as he raced up the lawn, “Aunt Angela! Uncle Paul! Come quickly! Dreyfus is hurt!” By the time he reached the house, Uncle Paul had come out of his workshop and Aunt Angela was hurrying through the back door. Peter met his uncle on the back drive. “Dreyfus—he's been attacked! He's hurt!"
Uncle Paul's eyes quickly took in Peter's state. “Where? In the bush?"
"Yes. I've bound him up with my shirt—but we'll have to carry him back."
By this time Aunt Angela had joined them. Her horrified gaze scanned Peter's dishevelment but she had no time to say anything before Uncle Paul rushed out of his workshop with a folded tarpaulin.
Peter set off at a pace that made the adults run. Before, he had thought he would never arrive at the house. Now the way seemed longer. What if Dreyfus had tried to follow him and was bleeding to death where they couldn't find him?
But Dreyfus was still there. He lifted his head, whined and thumped the end of his tail in the dirt. With his blood added to the sand and mud coating him, he looked a sorry sight.
It felt like ages to Peter before they arrived at the emergency surgery where Dreyfus was taken for treatment. After a nail-biting wait the vet emerged from the surgery and asked to have a few words with Peter on his own. Uncle Paul and Aunt Angela looked at each other in mounting concern as Peter followed the vet into the surgery.
"I had to give him an anesthetic before stitching the wounds,” the vet explained, “so let him sleep it off. But I need to know exactly what happened. Wild dogs have enormous teeth, much larger than domestic dogs. Those that attacked your German shepherd had teeth larger than any I've ever seen, and they could be extremely dangerous. It could be a child next time—and the child could be killed."
Peter reddened with embarrassment. How was he going to make this kindly man believe that Dreyfus had been attacked by a dog with three heads? But had the dog really had three heads? After all, the light had been poor. Had he been seeing things, as he must have with the spider?
He found himself stammering. “I-I didn't see the dog properly—it was down in the bush—"
The vet frowned. “Anything you can think of—no matter how small—might be helpful. Was anyone else around? Did you hear anything?"
Peter gulped. “I-I thought I heard a boy's voice, before the attack. The boy called the dog Cerberus. At least that's what it sounded like."
The vet pulled a face. “A very apt name for an animal that leaves teeth marks the size of those. Did the dog belong to the boy?"
"N-no, no, I don't think so. I-I really don't know what happened. It was over too quickly. I screamed—I think—and-and everything went black. I—I guess I fainted.” He felt himself reddening again, this time with shame.
"I can't say I blame you. So you've no idea who owns the dog?"
"No."
"I think perhaps you should show me where it all happened. The SPCA may have to be called in. It may even be a matter for the police. There's a very dangerous animal—or animals—at large. I won't be able to leave surgery today I'm afraid. I'm the emergency vet and I can't find anyone else to take over. But as soon as I can, I'll come to your uncle's place and you can show me where it happened ... unless you'd rather your uncle show me?” he ended gently.
"No. Uncle Paul doesn't know where it happened, only where I left Dreyfus while I went to get help."
"Okay. Well, you can take Dreyfus home now. He'll be groggy to start with. But that's probably a good thing. Let him sleep it off and keep him quiet for a few days. Get the receptionist to make an appointment for him to have the stitches out. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Peter nodded unhappily. Having made the appointment and paid the bill, Uncle Paul helped the vet carry the drowsy dog to the car and they drove home.
"I think you'd better take me down to this place where Dreyfus was attacked, and where you say you heard a boy singing,” Uncle Paul said. “And we'd better arm ourselves with something heavy in case we get attacked too.” He gave Peter a grim sideways look in the driving mirror. Fortunately Peter was unaware that his uncle had a good view of the misery writ all over his face.
Uncle Paul himself was looking as shaken as though he himself had undergone Peter's ordeal.
"What on earth would a boy be doing down in the bush singing late on a Saturday morning?” Aunt Angela said. “What was he singing, by the way, Peter?"
"I don't know. I couldn't understand a word. It didn't sound like English. He had a jolly good voice but sounded tense and nervous. He was a bit shaky on a couple of words."
"Practicing for a singing exam, perhaps?” Aunt Angela said. “And you say he called the dog Cerberus?"
"Yes.” Peter was now wishing he had told the adults nothing of what sounded like a far-fetched story.
He tried recalling what he had seen by the matchlight. Had there been two or more dogs? Had he only imagined the three heads had been attached to one body?
"The vet said Cerberus was a very apt name for a dog that could leave such huge teeth marks,” he told his uncle. “What did he mean?"
"Cerberus was the mythical three-headed dog who guarded the gates of hell.” Uncle Paul shot Peter a quick look in the mirror as the boy uttered a stifled gasp. Uncle Paul gave a laugh that was more of a snort. “It's only a myth, Peter. The three-headed dog never existed."
Peter began to feel a sense of guilt at having caused his aunt and uncle so much anxiety. Uncle Paul couldn't have looked more worried if Peter himself had been attacked.
Once back at the house they carried the drowsy dog into Peter's bedroom and put him in his basket.
"Sit with him till we come back, Angela. Peter and I are going down to the bush to have a look at where this attack took place."
With considerable reluctance Peter followed his uncle outside and down to the bottom of the garden. Uncle Paul carried a shotgun and gave Peter a crowbar, telling him to stay behind him. Peter gave his uncle directions and soon they stood where hanging ferns and other plants concealed the entrance to the cave so well that it looked like solid rock.
"This is it."
Uncle Paul put his hands out to part the greenery. There was nothing behind but solid rock. The face he turned to his nephew was grim. Silently he waited for Peter's explanation.
Peter felt his face begin to burn. “B-but it was here—I'm sure it was!"
He looked around. Yes, the
path curved to the right in the same way—and there was that fallen tree over there that he'd noticed. He rushed to the bank of growth and pushed it this way and that, trying to find an opening. But the rock over which the ferns and other plants were hanging was solid, and looked as though it had always been there. He prodded it, certain that the man must have blocked the entrance. But the rock wasn't just a stone rolled over an opening. There wasn't a crack to be seen anywhere.
"What's going on?” Uncle Paul demanded. “All this story about singing boys and a dog named Cerberus. There's more to this than what you've told me. Is there anything you're keeping from me?"
"No—of course not!"
"Peter, I need to know.” Uncle Paul's voice was pitched low but was all the more compelling. “No matter how bizarre it may seem, you've got to tell me everything that's happened to you since you arrived in Auckland."
Peter kicked miserably at the dry bracken. “You won't believe me."
"Try me."
Peter told his uncle everything, trying not to leave out anything, including the old house and the uneasy feelings it had produced in him.
"Oh, yes, I know the place you mean. I've seen the owner around quite a lot. I've had the impression for a while that he might be spying."
"What for?” Peter was vastly relieved that his uncle appeared to believe his story. However, the idea of anyone spying on Uncle Paul was ridiculous.
Uncle Paul made no reply. After one quick look around he grabbed Peter's arm and hustled him back along the way they had come. “Let's get out of here.” He said nothing else until they emerged into the sunshine at the bottom of the garden.
"Well, I guess we'll have to wait and see what the vet says tomorrow when he comes. But no talk of caves and boys singing, please, Peter. We'll keep that to ourselves. In the meantime, until this dog is found and destroyed, you're to stay away from the bush. Understand?"
The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1] Page 2
