‘You could call me a warden,’ the man nodded. ‘You could call me,’ he paused, self-importantly, ‘the Guardian of the Woods.’
‘The King of the Woods, eh?’ Beede murmured.
‘What?’
‘In ancient English myth there was this perplexing figure called The King of the Woods. He guarded a large Oak in the centre of the forest. He never slept…’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ the man demurred, taking an unsteady step back.
Beede aimed the torch down at the forest floor again and bent over to recommence his search. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his left shoulder as he moved it –
Ouch
‘Did you see the deer?’ he asked, suddenly remembering the deer, almost with a jolt.
‘I’ve seen deer,’ the man said, ‘I’ve seen plenty of deer. But not tonight.’ ‘There was a huge deer,’ Beede said, ‘a stag. An old stag. Standing about 7 or so feet away. A magnificent creature.’
‘I lost my bird,’ the man said (defensively, almost competitively). ‘I wasn’t just hanging around.’
‘Pardon?’
Beede glanced up again.
‘My kite. My red kite. I keep birds of prey.’
‘And you lost it?’
‘Yes.’
‘A red kite?’
‘Yes. I flew him this afternoon – in the clearing just to the south of here – and while he was flying this other bird started to bother him, to harass him – which they will do, sometimes. It was a dark bird, a small bird, probably just a starling. But fierce. Crazy. Really caught him on the hop – put him on his mettle – until suddenly he got it into his stupid head…’
He tutted, ‘He was an ounce over. Just an ounce. But that was all it took.’
‘An ounce?’
‘Yes. He was too heavy to fly…’
‘If you fly them when they aren’t hungry,’ Beede said (plainly very familiar with this concept), ‘then there’s no incentive for them to return. They’re remarkably pragmatic creatures, aren’t they?’
‘It’s all about weight with birds of prey,’ the man continued (as if Beede hadn’t actually spoken). ‘If they aren’t hungry then they won’t come back. He was an ounce over his flying weight, but I flew him anyway. I suppose I got too cocky, too bold…’
As he spoke he drew a large flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid and took a long swig of its contents. He shook his head, bitterly. ‘I thought there was a bond between us – a strong bond – but I was wrong. He deceived me. I was a fool – a soft-touch. I shouldn’t’ve trusted him.’
He proffered Beede the flask. It smelled of rum and coffee.
‘Thanks,’ Beede said warily, ‘but I’m fine.’
‘Suit yourself.’
The man scowled at him and then took a second, even longer swig.
‘Will he survive out here?’ Beede wondered. ‘In this bitter weather?’
‘No.’
Silence
‘He’ll die.’
The man shoved the flask away again as Beede continued his search. ‘I don’t know how I’ll get home without my glasses,’ Beede murmured, growing increasingly pessimistic about his chances of finding them. ‘I couldn’t possibly drive…’
‘Where to?’ the man asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Where’s home?’
‘I live in Ashford.’
‘Oh.’
The man grimaced, as if coming from Ashford was somehow unconscionable.
‘I’m Beede, by the way,’ Beede straightened up and held out his hand, ‘Daniel Beede.’
The man stepped forward (he was huge: 6'4", 6'6"…) and grabbed hold of Beede’s outstretched fingers. Then he squeezed them (Beede winced), and squeezed them. He held on to them for four – perhaps even five – seconds longer than Beede might’ve thought appropriate. He had huge hands. Spotlessly clean. Dry. Surprisingly warm.
‘You have very cold fingers,’ the man slurred, ‘very cold.’
Beede managed to disengage himself from the man’s tight grip and then continued his search. Gringo joined in. She sniffed around in the pine-needles with an audible enthusiasm. Then she began to dig. Soil and needles flew everywhere.
‘Careful, girl,’ Beede cautioned her, flinching, not sure if her contribution was entirely helpful. But the dog ignored him. The man stood by and watched, making no effort to restrain the dog or to help in the search himself.
After several minutes, Beede stood up again. ‘I just can’t seem to find them,’ he said, worriedly.
‘What will you do?’ the man wondered.
‘I don’t know,’ Beede shrugged (perhaps a fraction irritably).
‘Well at least the rain’s stopped,’ the man volunteered.
Beede peered up into the sky. The rain had stopped and the wind had calmed, but the cold was even fiercer than it had been previously. His hands were almost frozen. He shuddered, then shoved his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew –
Eh?
– a piece of unfamiliar fabric. Damp. He blinked as he unfolded it –
Oh, yes…
The pair of boxer shorts. He shone the torch at them for a moment, then he scrunched them up and shoved them away again, pushed his hand into his other pocket and withdrew his gloves. He pulled them back on, then slowly ran the torch over the forest floor one final time.
‘It’s like they’ve just vanished,’ he said, mystified.
‘Are those your shorts?’ the man asked. His voice had a new, slightly menacing tone to it.
‘Pardon?’
‘In your pocket. The shorts. Are they yours?’
‘Uh…’
Beede put a tentative hand to the pocket.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I found them in the Brambles. A few minutes ago. I thought they might actually belong…’
He paused, judiciously. The man stared at him, in silence.
‘I should probably start to try and work my way back,’ Beede said, turning and aiming the torch in the approximate direction of the larger track.
‘These woods are packed full of mischief,’ the man murmured, ‘like you wouldn’t hardly believe.’
Beede opted not to comment. He grabbed hold of his compass.
‘Due north east,’ he said cheerily, inspecting it closely in the torchlight. He pointed the torch ahead of him again. Everything was just a blur.
‘The things I’ve seen,’ the man said, his voice suddenly an unsettling mixture of rage and longing, ‘behind the trees and in the bushes. Things I can’t get out of my mind…’ he slammed his hand, hard, into the side of his own head. ‘Just can’t seem to get rid…’
‘Right,’ Beede said abruptly. ‘Well good luck with the kite. I do hope you find it.’
He took a rapid step forward.
‘Hey…’
The man called out. Beede half-turned.
‘Your glasses!’ He pointed towards his feet. ‘Down there. Look!’
Beede directed the torch to the the place he’d indicated. As he angled it he could’ve sworn he saw something glinting in the man’s hand. A blade, perhaps. A long blade. His heart began racing. ‘I can’t run,’ he thought. ‘If I run then I’m done for.’
‘I am the Guardian of the Woods,’ the man’s voice boomed, portentously.
‘I don’t see the glasses,’ Beede said (at normal volume).
‘I am the Guardian of the Woods,’ he boomed again.
‘I spent ten years in the Merchant Navy,’ Beede announced. He spoke with confidence. He threw back his shoulders. He tried to look like a proposition.
‘You know what they say about sailors,’ the man sneered.
‘I don’t, actually,’ Beede said, sharply.
‘Anyway,’ the man continued, ‘you’re looking in the wrong place. I meant over there…’
He pointed to his left, and as he pointed he staggered slightly.
‘I already searched over there,’ Beede said, firmly.
‘Perhaps you should look again,’ the man said, thickly.
‘No,’ Beede stood his ground, ‘the glasses are gone. I don’t want to waste any more time on this.’
He turned.
‘Here they are!’ the man exclaimed.
Beede glanced over his shoulder. The man was holding out his huge hand. Inside his hand were what looked like a pair of glasses. Beede paused. He turned the torch on to the man’s hand. Yes. They were definitely his glasses. They stared at one another. The man’s other hand (his right hand) was hidden behind his back.
?
Beede suddenly heard a curious grunting sound and redirected the torch downwards. There he saw the dog – Gringo – rocking back on to her haunches and panting.
‘Is your dog all right?’ Beede asked.
‘I am the Eyes of the Wood,’ the man intoned, sonorously, drawing his hand from behind his back. The hand held a knife; a long, sharp hunting knife.
‘Good for you,’ Beede said, ‘but I’m actually more concerned about your dog right now…’
‘I am the Ears of the Wood,’ he chanted, almost trance-like.
‘She seems in some discomfort,’ Beede persisted.
‘I am the Heart of the…’
He shot the dog a quick, sideways glance. The dog was panting quite loudly.
‘Stop that, Gringo,’ he said harshly. Then, ‘She’s fine,’ he insisted.
‘No. No she isn’t. There’s blood,’ Beede murmured, ‘there’s definitely blood…’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘It’s pretty bad,’ Beede said, drawing in closer. ‘I’m virtually blind without my glasses and even I…’
‘Where?’ he butted in.
‘Her hindquarters. At the back. It looks like a…a haemorrhage of some kind.’
The man crouched down. ‘Shine the torch on her,’ he instructed.
‘More closely. Up closer.’
Beede shone the torch. There was blood everywhere, but it appeared black in the torchlight. The man reached out his hand and lightly touched this dark stain, perhaps believing that it was just a shadow.
‘Oh shit!’ he exclaimed, feeling the warmth of it, seeing it leak on to his fingers. ‘What the hell’s happening here?’
‘Pass me my glasses,’ Beede instructed him, ‘so I can take a proper look.’
The man hesitated.
‘I know about dogs,’ Beede lied.
The man handed him his glasses. Beede put them on. He squatted down. ‘She’s whelping,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘What?’
‘She’s whelping. She’s pregnant. She’s giving birth.’
The man looked astonished, then appalled, then enraged, ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ he growled. ‘She’s ten years old. She’s neutered.’
‘Look at the size of her nipples,’ Beede insisted, ‘they’re all distended…’ His eyes widened. ‘Good Lord. I believe I can almost see a head – the crown of a head…’
The man sprang back, in horror, almost losing his balance. He held out his knife, as if to defend himself with it.
‘That’s a lie!’ he yelled.
‘It’s no such thing,’ Beede said calmly. ‘Whether you like it or not, she’s giving birth.’
‘She’s neutered,’ the man repeated, ‘she’s a virgin. She’s a good girl. She’s ten years old.’
Beede stretched out a hand to try and aid the poor creature.
‘Don’t touch her!’ he roared, brandishing the blade.
‘Calm down!’ Beede snapped. ‘You’re upsetting her. She’s stressed enough as it is. And she’s old. She’s probably as mystified by all of this as you are.’
Gringo had fallen on to her side and she was panting, heavily. ‘Who did this to her?’ the man yelled, brandishing the knife again (as if Beede might’ve been responsible). ‘Which dirty, interfering bastard did this to my girl?’
‘That head looks rather large, ‘Beede observed. ‘It’s as much as she can do to squeeze it out…’ He grimaced. ‘She might need some help…’
Gringo’s breathing became more strained.
‘Enough!’ the man gasped, overwhelmed. ‘Stop this, Gringo! Get up. Up. Up!’
The dog tried to struggle to her feet and then collapsed back down.
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Beede snapped, ‘and you’re confusing her.’
The man continued to hold out the knife, but his confidence was starting to waver.
‘Put that knife away,’ Beede instructed him. ‘I need you to hold the torch.’
The man stared at him, terrified. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘Nothing. Not a damn thing until you calm down and put away your blade.’
He took off his rucksack and began unbuckling the main flap. The man slowly slid his knife into its holster.
‘Is she going to die?’ he asked.
‘Not if we keep our heads about us,’ Beede said, passing him the torch and then removing a clean shirt and a clean vest from inside.
‘We need to keep her warm…’ He wrapped the shirt around the dog, ‘and we need to stop her from going into shock…’
‘Gringo! WHY?!’ the man bellowed, starting to sob uncontrollably. ‘Hold the torch properly,’ Beede barked. ‘Control yourself. I need to see what I’m doing here.’
‘I don’t want her to die,’ the man whined, ‘don’t let her die. Please don’t let her die.’
‘Okay, Gringo,’ Beede whispered, pulling off his gloves, stroking the dog’s head, trying to reassure her. ‘You’re doing fine. Good girl. You’re doing fine.’
Gringo pushed.
‘That’s it, girl, a couple more of those and we’ll have it sorted.’
‘Pull it!’ the man yelled hysterically. ‘Grab it! Get it out of her!’
‘Quiet!’ Beede snarled. ‘If I pull too soon I could cause a rupture…’
The man squeaked.
Beede touched the pup’s head. ‘Come on, lad, you’re almost out, you’re nearly there…’
‘It’s HUGE,’ the man squealed.
‘It’s big,’ Beede confirmed, ‘but she’s doing a grand job. Good girl, Gringo, one more push. That’s it. One more push…’
Gringo pushed again. The pup was almost half-way out now. Beede slowly tried to ease its progress. Gringo pushed again. The pup plopped neatly into Beede’s hand followed by a quick mess of afterbirth. The man dropped the torch, in shock.
‘For God’s sake,’ Beede admonished him, ‘pull yourself together. We need some light here…’
‘Sorry.’
He picked up the torch and pointed it at Beede again.
‘Not in my eyes…’
He redirected its blaze.
The puppy was still neatly contained inside its shiny, amniotic membrane.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ the man asked, horrified. ‘It just looks like snot.’
Beede carefully held the pup up close to the bitch’s face. She sniffed at it, fascinated, then inspected the umbilical cord, opened her mouth and bit it cleanly in half.
‘Well done,’ Beede congratulated her. ‘Now you just need to tear the membrane…’
Instead of inspecting the pup, however, the bitch seemed far more interested in the afterbirth. She licked at it for a few moments and then took a furtive bite.
‘Leave that alone! Don’t be filthy!’ the man admonished her.
‘She’ll want to eat it,’ Beede muttered, still preoccupied by the tiny pup, ‘it’s only natural. Instinctive. She knows it’ll be full of vital nutrients…’
As he spoke he gently tore away the membrane then cleared any spare mucus from the pup’s face with his thumb. When this was done, he rubbed it, gently, with the vest. The pup opened its mouth and mewed.
‘Good,’ Beede said, ‘that’s the first one sorted. By rights I should let it suckle, but the conditions here are hardly conducive. I think you should probably just store this little fellow inside your shirt.’
The man stared at him, horrified.<
br />
‘It’ll die otherwise. It’s freezing cold out here. Take it. Put it inside your shirt, but make sure you don’t smother it…’
The man didn’t move.
‘Take it!’ Beede hissed.
The man reached out his hand. He took the pup. He stared at it, in wonder.
‘Inside your shirt,’ Beede repeated, returning to the mother. ‘Okay, Gringo, how’re we doing here?’
He rested a gentle hand on the dog’s womb. She’d given up on the afterbirth and was panting again. He wrapped the shirt closer around her.
‘Is there someone else inside there, girl? Have you got your breath back? Are you going to try and push again, eh?’
Gringo tried to push.
‘That’s it. That’s the way…’
Gringo pushed again. Then again. Another head began to crown. ‘That was quick,’ Beede said, glancing up, ‘usually the wait is longer. But the pup doesn’t look nearly so large this time…’
The man had now tucked the puppy inside his shirt. ‘Well done, Gringo,’ he said, moving forward slightly, his voice wavering with emotion. ‘That’s my girl.’
The dog pushed.
‘She’s responding positively to the sound of your voice,’ Beede encouraged him. ‘Keep on talking.’
‘Well done, Gringo,’ he repeated. ‘Clever Gringo.’
The dog pushed again.
‘Don’t die, Gringo…’ His voice cracked. Tears began rolling down his cheeks again.
‘Try and hold it together, will you?’ Beede said brusquely. He softly stroked the dog’s head. ‘Okay, girl,’ he murmured. ‘We’re gonna need one more big push. That’s it. One more. One more big push…’
Gringo pushed.
The second puppy plopped out into Beede’s hand, followed by its own sudden squelch of afterbirth. Once again Beede held the pup up close to the bitch’s face, but on this occasion she refused to pay it any heed.
‘We’re going to have to cut this ourselves,’ Beede said; ‘hand me your knife.’
‘What?’
‘Your knife. Pass it over.’
The man put his hand to his waist and fingered the handle, but he didn’t look happy.
Darkmans Page 55
