"And you've got some of that in you."
She was so exhausted she drifted into unconsciousness. There, in her half-dream sleep state she heard someone moaning from pain. Having a lot of experience with physical ordeal, her empathy kicked in. She was thinking, "Who is that? Why doesn't someone help them? Someone should help them. I should help them." She struggled to wake so that she could go to the aid of the person in distress. She was climbing, climbing, fighting the desire to cocoon and sleep forever, almost reaching the surface of consciousness. And then she was awake, to find she was the one moaning.
Oh, gods, it's me. I'm the one who needs help. Ram. Where are you?
The pressure built until she couldn't suppress a scream. It wasn't a choice. It tore from her voice in a primal fury that exposed the illusion of control. Civilization - thumbs and language - just a light coating of veneer over the truth of our bestial natures.
The wolves lying next to her moved away. There wasn't light for her to see what they were doing, but every time Elora screamed they stood together in a tight pack, facing the entrance to the lair, and howled in harmonies that were both discordant and beautiful. When the contraction ended and her scream trailed off, the howls ceased. It was as if they were disguising the sound of her scream to keep from alerting other predators that someone was in distress.
She didn't have the energy to think about the fact that this was odd wolf behavior, at least it was behavior that had never been recorded.
When it grew quiet, she resumed her conversation with Helm, though she was so tired she couldn't be sure what she was saying.
"He's gonna be mad when he finds out that you're not two weeks away after all. He's gonna say we scared him. A lot.
"But then he's gonna wrap us up in his arms and give us big hugs." She could picture it in her mind and thought she could almost feel it. "And lots of kisses."
When it got quiet again, she thought she heard a whistle of air, like wind trying to make its way down the ramp into the lair. That was followed by a larger whoosh that could easily have been the sound of many trees surrendering fall leaves to a gust.
The wind was blowing hard.
The contractions were so close together they were just letting up long enough to give Elora a chance to breathe. When her body began pushing involuntarily she was amazed, but let instinct take over. She had the passing thought that she wouldn't know if something was wrong, not that she'd be able to do anything about it. When her uterus pushed, trying to expel the baby, Elora worked with it. When the muscles relaxed slightly, she stopped pushing and sat panting, waiting for the next wave.
One of the strangest phenomena of reproduction is the surprise of a first baby. For many long months the intellect pretends to understand that a baby is coming. Preparations are made. Names are chosen. And yet, when a tiny human being arrives, it's a shock. The chasm between 'knowing' there's a fetus in gestation and greeting the miraculous result of that for the first time is an experience so transformative that no one is ever the same afterward. That is how Elora felt when she realized Helm was emerging from her womb.
She reached down and felt the top of his head. When the next wave came, she waited for it to crest and then pushed as hard as she could. The baby's head slipped out and she held it in her hands. The next push was almost immediate. With that contraction she slowly pulled him from her body and then held him in her hands.
Elora could tell by the movement on her left side that Blackie had come to his feet and was growling at the wolves. He had perceived some threat from them. It was then she realized just how completely vulnerable she was, blinded by darkness, reeking of blood and other fluids, wounded and holding a newborn infant in her hands. When Blackie grew quiet, she took that to mean that she and Helm weren't in immediate danger.
Her uterus continued to contract while it expelled the placenta, but it no longer hurt. She remembered something from the hospital movie that she had seen before she had to remove Ram from the room; something about clearing the newborn's air passage of mucus. She put her finger in his mouth and swished it around the baby's gums to make sure there was no blockage. She took his slippery ankles, making sure she had a good hold, and held him upside down. The action made her wince because she disturbed the torn shoulder and caused it to start bleeding again.
When she heard his little cry, so angry, so indignant, for the first time since the ordeal began she gave herself permission to cry along with him.
A stream of gray light was filtering into the den and she could make out shapes, if not the features, of the wolves. Since it was still too dark to see Helm clearly, she used her hands for eyes and felt all over his body. Everything was there; ten fingers and toes. Last she gently ran her fingers over his face. When she touched the tiny, beautifully shaped point of his ear, a sob bubbled up from nowhere.
In a few more minutes it was light enough to see around her. The legs part of the pants she'd been sitting on had partially dried overnight in the winter air. She pulled the pants out from beneath her and arranged the dry parts next to her so she could lay Helm down.
The wolves were clearly curious and wanted to come close enough to investigate. At one point Flame got close enough to lick the placenta and Blackie almost took her face off. She yelped/whined as she scurried back and then licked her muzzle; a sign of submission.
Elora removed the puffy coat, her red knit sweater, and the knit cami she had worn underneath that. If she could crawl to the underground stream, she could wash him properly, but she had to have one arm to support her weight and one arm to hold the baby and her shoulder was beyond being able to do either one. So she used the soft cotton cami and the two wipes she had in her coat pocket to clean Helm up as best she could.
She didn't know what to do about the umbilical cord, but instinct told her she needed to do something. So she took a shoe lace out of one of her boots and tied off the cord a few inches from the baby's beautiful and brand-new-to-the-world, little body. Then she chewed the cord in two on the other side of the knot she had made.
She tossed the ruined cami away, wrapped him in the sweater and put her puffy back on. Leaning back against the rock that had been her birthing bed, she placed the baby on her chest, and pulled the puffy closed over both of them.
"Don't worry, Helm. Daddy's coming. I can feel it."
Exhausted in the truest sense of the word, she fell asleep again.
Elora jerked awake when she heard Blackie barking. She had her arms around something... She had her arms around her sweet baby!
Thank you for letting me live to hold him.
Was that voices? Someone calling Blackie? She put her free hand out and touched the dog's back.
"Shhhh. Let me listen."
Blackie instantly quieted.
Fourteen years later.
CHAPTER ONE
It was Yule Eve, but Blackie didn’t know that when he climbed the hill to his favorite spot. He didn’t trot or run, as he’d been known to do in his younger days. He ambled, telling himself that he could trot or run if he was so inclined. He just didn’t feel like it that minute.
He was ancient for a big dog, but his mistress had pleaded with Monq to give the dog the same super-rich supplements that had been developed for knights. The supplements kept the knights at the peak of physical perfection and health – no need for flu shots, but there was a side effect that was one of the Order’s best kept secrets. It slowed the aging process. Not permanently, of course. Blackie was still well over middle-aged, but physically he was not yet ten.
The hill above the Laiken kennel and farm had the very best view of the surroundings. When he was there he could imagine himself to be protector of all he surveyed; his people, the land, the wolf dogs.
There’d been a light snow the day before, but the morning’s bright sun had melted a small clearing that formed a patch of bright green grass. Bright sun was unusual in northern Ireland at that time of year, but dogs don’t analyze changes in weather or atmospheric co
nditions. They simply accept what is and adapt as best they can. When the sun shines warm on old bones, they accept it.
After stopping at a patch of green, where the sun broke through clouds now and then, and turning in a circle three times, Blackie sunk down into a sphinx-like pose and indulged himself in a satisfied sigh.
Being the exceptional dog that he was, Blackie’s memory was better than most. The catalog of mental pictures that formed his history and experience was not chronological, but it was intact. He knew that he’d been mistreated at one time. He knew that he’d been rescued and redeemed by a mistress who didn’t smell like the other two-legged creatures. He knew that he’d been singularly devoted to her until the birth of a tiny male who smelled a lot like his mistress. At that point his devotion was expanded to include the elfling.
Helm.
It was a name Blackie could almost speak out loud. Certainly he’d tried often enough. Though his vocalizations didn’t sound exactly like ‘Helm’, the elfing always recognized his name in Blackie’s throat and responded with laughter. Sometimes laughter and a treat. And nothing in the world was better than Helm’s laughter and a treat.
He sat on the hill that looked down on the parcel of earth that he thought of as his farm. The casual observer would say he was overlooking the farm, but in Blackie’s mind he was overseeing his farm. His raison d'etre was protection, take care of the mistress and her elflings – at any cost. But there was lots of time to pass in between instances of demonstrating his prowess as guard extraordinaire. Sometimes years in fact.
During those times of passive duty, he enjoyed the peace and tranquility of a semi-retirement well earned.
Perhaps old dogs do what old people do. They divide their reveries between recollection and remorse. Because even the best of us could have done things better. If an exception to that existed, it might be Blackie. Because he had never failed to give his whole heart and effort to any given task in any given moment. Perhaps dogs as smart as Blackie are like humans, recalling this corner of a moment or that fragment of a song at odd and inexplicable times.
Blackie melted onto his side and curled up for a little nap. In seconds he was dozing. When a crow flew low and gave him a single scolding ‘caw’, he opened one eye. As he did he continued to see the images he’d been dreaming; a bitter cold day with icy rain in a forest. He was hurt. So was his mistress. He was limping as she crawled. He thought maybe he extended his neck enough to give her a tentative lick of encouragement on the cheek.
As he was dozing off he heard one of the wolf-dog pups aim nose to sky and howl. And he remembered the wolves in the dolmen den where Helm had been born, shadowy images of a time long ago.
At fourteen, Helm was almost six feet tall and bragging that soon he’d be able to look down at his da.
Elora would be quick to reply to that kind of talk by saying, “You will never be able to look down at your father if you grow to be ten feet tall.” One day Ram had stopped just outside the kitchen door to hear that exchange. His heart never ceased to swell with emotion when he heard his mate reaffirm that she was glad the Powers That Be had seen fit to make them a pair. And he thought the world would be a better place if everyone woke up next to someone who thought they were the prize.
Ram knew that, indeed, one morning he would come to breakfast and realize that Helm’s line of vision was higher than his own. He wasn’t dreading that day. Ram had spent years in B Team with three taller teammates before Elora took Lan’s place. He didn’t care how tall Helm was so long as the boy knew that height was no reason to brag, anymore than any physical feature.
Helm had inherited some of his mother’s unusual physical attributes. He was every bit as beautiful and charismatic as his psychic auntie, Aelsong, had predicted before his birth.
“Good looks are no’ an accomplishment. ‘Tis a gift and nothin’ more. Ye have no reason to lord it over those less comely.” Ram repeated this sentiment or something like it every time he suspected Helm was feeling proud about his physical good fortune. And Ram hoped he was getting through on a deep and unforgettable level.
Ram and Elora had used their considerable influence with The Order of the Black Swan to arrange to have Helm educated as a non-prospect. The Order agreed that one of the training institutions was the best place for an adolescent male with Helm’s unusual abilities, not to mention the fact that he might someday choose to accept the mantel of King of Irish Elves. Black Swan thrived on discreet connections in high places and, therefore, agreed to make a place for him at the German unit. For the first time in the history of Black Swan, a student’s board and tuition was paid for by his parents.
Helm had started that fall. He was so eager to go he was practically jumping out of his skin. As he prepared to leave only one thing made his eyes sting and threatened to compromise his manhood with tears. Blackie.
He could manage without his mum, his da, and Paddy-Lovin’ sisters. But going for months at a time without a heart-to-heart conversation with Blackie while stroking dark silky fur? There’d be nothing fun about that.
For him, there was no such thing as a world without Blackie. The idea of that black dog was as constant as was the idea of his father, Sir Rammel Aelshelm Hawking, Black Swan Knight Emeritus, Prince of Irish Elves, and his mother, Lady Elora Laiken, Black Swan Knight Emeritus, former Princess of Britannia, Stagsnare Dimension. Helm was familiar with the grandiose pageantry of his parents’ titles, but didn’t typically think of them in those terms. He knew he had famous parents, but since he had no idea what it might be like to have other parents, that was of little consequence to him.
His earliest memory was the sight of a black muzzle appearing between the bars of his crib, subtly moving from side to side in time with the wagging of a thick tail. With intense and intelligent brown eyes, full of light, Blackie would stand at the side of Helm’s bed for long periods, staring at the young elfling like he was the most precious thing in the universe.
Helm had never confronted the prospect of surviving Blackie and simply couldn’t imagine life without the big black dog. It was impossible. Or if not impossible, then at least unthinkable.
Elora had been Blackie’s world. Until Helm was born. When the mistress breezed through the room, she would laugh and say, “Blackie. Are you staring at the baby again? Don’t you ever get tired of that?”
Blackie would withdraw his head so that he could look at Elora over his shoulder, wag his tail a little harder, then go right back to watching Helm as if the elfling might otherwise disappear.
After that he was Helm’s constant companion, being the self-appointed guardian and best friend. Blackie accepted that duty before Helm made his first appearance in the world. He’d kept the feral wolves at a distance while his mistress gave birth to the future king of Irish elves.
Helm’s mother didn’t mind sharing Blackie’s love and loyalty. It was a pact made silently between the mistress and her dog. ‘We’ll take care of the elfling together.’ Then she’d winked. He didn’t know how she did that, closing one eye and not the other. It was disconcerting at best and disturbing at worst. It was one of a long list of elf behaviors that worried him and prompted him to seek reassurances that all was well, in the form of soothing words and pets. Maybe treats, too.
In the last days before Yule it was cold and there were a scant seven hours of daylight and no hours of sunlight. The time was too precious to waste. So Blackie took full advantage of the enjoyment derived from his perch on the rise. From there not a single movement, no matter how slight, escaped his notice. It was the nature of Alsatians to stay close to the pack and be perpetually alert.
And the Hawking family was Blackie’s pack.
He heard the buzz of the old woodie’s engine coming up the road. He sat up and watched the progress of the car from a mile away. It followed the intricate in and out of the curved and narrow country road until it pulled past the gate to his farm.
Blackie was contemplating whether or not he’d make the eff
ort to trot downhill and greet Ram returning home from some errand. He was still trying to decide when the passenger door opened and he heard Helm’s voice.
Helm followed the direction Ram’s finger was pointing as he said, “Somebody’s glad to see you.”
Blackie was sprinting down the hill so fast he was little more than a streak, Helm’s joyful laughter spurring him on. Helm barely had time to kneel before Blackie plowed into him, unable to contain his exhilaration. Helm allowed Blackie to knock him over and cover him in wet kisses, while keeping a paw on the elfling’s chest as if to proclaim that Helm was his.
Such a thing wouldn’t have been possible without Helm’s cooperation. It would have taken more than a powerful dog weighing nine stone to knock down the son of Elora Laiken. Helm had a bit of his mother’s dense, alien muscle and the extra weight that went with that.
Ram stood and watched the display of dog reunited with his elfling, thinking that Elora would be brought to tears by the scene. “Come on, you two. The mist is turnin’ to drizzle and may freeze on your face.”
Blackie ran to the mud room door, went through his custom-made door flap, and stood wagging his tail when Ram and Helm entered. He wouldn’t dare go ahead of Elora, but everybody else let him get away with pretending he was second in command. Dogs who are very smart must have their amusements.
“We’re home!” Ram called.
Elora was in the kitchen making Irish stew and soda bread, Helm’s favorite. She dropped the big wooden spoon in the pot and wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried to the mud room. Letting Helm go away to school was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but after countless nights talking it over with Ram, she’d agreed it was the best thing for him.
Black Dog: A Christmas Story (Knights of Black Swan Book 13) Page 2
