Awakening

by William Horwood

  ‘What now?’

  ‘You’re the route finder, Barklice,’ said Jack.

  The verderer clambered up the nearest mound, cursing the rats as he went. When he reached the top he looked about, his form lit red on one side and a silhouette on the other, with smoke drifting the way he pointed.

  He slithered back down and said, ‘Short of climbing up a mound of this stuff every five minutes the only way we’re going to get a bearing to take us out of here is to follow the drift of the smoke and hope the wind isn’t flukey and doesn’t change direction.’

  Jack nodded, looked behind, saw no one in pursuit but for the reflective eyes of some creature of the night, and off they went, Barklice now in the lead.

  It was ten minutes later that Stort said, ‘I don’t want to worry anyone but we’re not alone out here . . .’

  He stopped and pointed, first to their right and then to their left. The eyes of the kind Jack had spotted before had increased in number. What creatures they were it was impossible to say, for they hung back in shadows too deep to betray their form.

  There are none ahead,’ said Barklice, ‘so let’s just hurry along and hope they’re harmless and more scared of us than we need be of them.’

  Stort however gulped audibly enough for Jack to hear.

  ‘Well?’ said Jack in a low voice, for something was on the scrivener’s mind. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve lost the gems.’

  ‘No, they’re safe inside my jerkin,’ said Stort, ‘but they are not my present concern. I am thinking about what Parlance said as we fled out here. He mentioned chiens méchants. It’s French for dangerous dogs, plural. Meaning more than one. It seems to me that those staring eyes represent a lot more than one.’

  ‘They might be rabbits,’ said Jack.

  ‘Rabbits have a pleasing and cheerful roseate colour to their friendly eyes,’ said Stort. ‘These eyes are dirty yellow and mean green and I saw a pair earlier that were cruel blue.’

  ‘Rabbits!’ said Jack firmly. ‘Now let’s—’

  There was a throaty growl to their right, and a preparatory snarl to their left. The eyes were closing in.

  ‘Hurry,’ called out Jack to Barklice, ‘hurry!’ for when he looked behind he saw that the eyes were closing in from that direction too.

  All hydden know that when dogs are on the prowl, hurrying is not the best strategy. But this was not a promenade in Brum.

  This was in swirling, smoky darkness, with a stench to the air and the dreadful sound of the first pattering of a pack of dogs, sniffing and snarling as a prelude to attack. Dawdling was not an option, nor was mere hurrying. The eyes were getting closer, the forms of their pursuers ever clearer, as the snouts and tails, claws and muscled flanks of dogs behind, to right and to left began to show themselves.

  ‘Run for your lives!’ shouted Jack and run they did.

  On, and on, the pack chasing in pursuit, barking and snarling, weaving in and out of the mounds of rubbish, running across their path ahead, snapping at their heels and hands and calves from every side.

  Running until their breaths grew shorter, their chests tighter, the pack closer.

  ‘Jack,’ cried Barklice suddenly, ‘they . . . they’re herding us.’

  It was suddenly plain that they were, for they had veered from the bearing the drifting smoke above their heads had given them, round a little, then a little more, then on and on and then right again until, barely able to run any more, they almost fell through a narrow gap in the rubbish and found themselves in an open space, dogs all about, circling them, snapping at each other, closing in on all sides. They were in a canine killing field.

  The best they could do was back themselves to the nearest mound of rubbish, hoping that in amongst it somewhere there might be a line of retreat. But such gaps as there were – dark little avenues barely a foot wide and ending in more walls of waste – went nowhere.

  Worse still, the fire they had first run from was suddenly near again, the walls of the Hall no more than a hundred yards away.

  ‘They’ve brought us almost back to where we started!’ said Feld.

  They turned to face the dogs which, stepping forward here and then over there and then suddenly at the side, were impossible to deal with singly or together. One got hold of Feld’s stave, its teeth splintering the wood as it nearly wrested it from him.

  Another leapt at Barklice and was only driven back by a blow from Jack’s bigger stave.

  They formed a semicircle, warding the dogs off, each trying to work out a strategy between running for it and getting caught or staying as they were and being worn down and eventually turned to dogs’ meat.

  ‘The thing is,’ panted Stort, ‘they’re not coming any closer . . . just near enough to keep us trapped here and . . . well.’

  He jabbed ineffectually at a snarling dog, loosening his grip on his stave which, at once, was pulled from his grip altogether into the main mass of the dogs. They attacked it ferociously, tearing its hard wood to shreds, chewing its splintered parts as if they were meat.

  ‘Which is what will happen to all of us if we stay here much longer,’ said Barklice.

  ‘All we can do,’ said Feld, ‘is to run and hope for the best!’

  ‘Agreed?’ said Jack.

  Barklice nodded and said, ‘You choose the moment, Jack.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Stort, who, now he was without a stave, had been forced to take a position in a small gap in the rubbish behind them, ‘we might just ask before we run what is it the dogs are waiting for? In my studies of the canine tribe I think I can safely say that all have a leader, an alpha male, and looking at these beasts it is a puzzlement they have not got one. Anarchy rules among the dogs of Bochum it seems . . .’

  He had no sooner said this than they saw, at the rear of the pack, a commotion among the dogs which rapidly turned into a fight between rival groups.

  ‘Our moment may come when they are sufficiently distracted,’ said Jack. ‘Be ready for my call!’

  But not yet. On either side the dogs kept watch on them, punishing the lightest movement with snaps and snarls, while in front of them the dog fight quickly turned into an unequal battle for the leadership of the sort Stort had suggested was to be expected.

  A thickset, muscular pit-bull terrier, the evident leader of one of the tip’s more brutal tribes, was ranged against a taller, broader beast of a dog with fine Labrador blood, the leader of a rival gang. But this dog, more intelligent-looking, his coat a fiery ginger, was bleeding from its flank and the loss of blood had weakened it. What was more, it was handicapped by having to defend an injured dog that was barely more than a pup, but with the same ginger hair.

  The thickset pit bull crouched low, its teeth bared and its small evil eyes narrowed, and moved in for the final assault. The bigger dog did its best but it could not defend itself and the pup, which they guessed was one of its own.

  ‘The last,’ said Barklice quietly, pointing beyond the dogs to the shadows where lay the pitiful spectacle of a bitch and three more pups, all torn and dead.

  The end of the fight for dominance was swift. The bull terrier lunged in fast, grabbed the leg of the pup before its father could save it and tossed it squealing over its head to where its followers began tearing it to death.

  Jack saw their chance and shouted, ‘Run!’

  Unfortunately it was just at this critical moment that Bedwyn Stort happened to look behind himself, no doubt thinking that perhaps there might be a route out that way after all. So when he heard Jack’s sudden cry he ran instinctively – in the wrong direction.

  The gap was indeed another impassable cul de sac, and as he charged into it and got stuck the others fled quite another way. When Stort emerged he was horrified to see the last of them, Barklice, disappearing round a corner into darkness, many of the dogs in pursuit, while he was left alone facing, what?

  He stared in horror at what stared at him.

  It was the defeated dog.

  His
last pup had been torn to death . . . his mate and their other young were lying dead beyond. Once the leader, he was sidelined now. He was big, square-headed, huge-clawed, his eyes hazel and clear.

  He saw the trembling Stort and, no doubt, saw a chance to redeem himself.

  His nearly beaten spirit found then some last vestige of aggression and will. He turned and growled at his former pack, its members already trying to sneak away, tails between their legs, flanks shivering in defeat. They stopped, turned, waited and watched.

  Could he still find a way to show his strength?

  He thought he could, growled low, hackles rising, teeth showing, and advanced slowly towards Stort. The other dogs, even the great pit bull, stopped to stare. A kill, especially of hydden, was always worth the watching.

  He growled again and came forward faster, smelling fear.

  It was a situation from Stort’s worst nightmares.

  ‘Help!’ he whispered, his throat constricting. All he could do was bend down and retrieve a short spar of his broken stave and hold it in front of himself with a shaking hand.

  The big dog speeded up, his great feet thundering on the ground, his snarl already nearly victorious.

  Stort backed way, realized his bit of stave would not serve, and all he could think to do was heave off his portersac and hold it as protection in front while he squeezed backwards into the gap behind.

  ‘Help!’ he whispered again, but no help came.

  The dog, puzzled by the portersac, slowed, its former followers bunching up behind, trying to squeeze round it and be the first to sink their teeth into Stort’s freckled flesh.

  But their erstwhile leader was big, his shoulders broad. He had not been their leader for nothing.

  He shrugged them off, snarling and sniffing as he did so, the scent of Stort a welcome one as his teeth tore great lumps out of the portersac. Stort, pushing his way backwards into the constricted space, utterly trapped, no help in sight, the scene made worse by the billowing flames of the Hall nearby, pulled his portersac up closer.

  It was then, in what seemed the last moments of his life, that he spied that pocket of his ’sac which Cluckett had thoughtfully labelled ‘For emergencies’. If this was not one of those, Stort would never after know what might be.

  He opened the pocket and pulled out its contents one by one.

  Twine, useless.

  A small bandage. Was Cluckett mad?

  A spoon. ‘I think not,’ muttered the desperate Stort.

  A clothes peg. Stort laughed madly.

  The dog pressed nearer still.

  Then more of the same from the pocket, trivia and trinkets, all useless in the emergency Stort now faced. He dug deeper still, and threw what he found into the air crying, ‘Useless, Cluckett, no good at all!’

  Until there was nothing left, nothing to pin his hopes on except . . . except . . . right there at the bottom, what was this?

  A piece of paper? She was not just mad but insane!

  He pulled it out and stared in astonishment.

  It was an envelope and written on it, in his own hand, was the number 63.

  He felt hot breath upon his legs as the last of his ’sac begin to disintegrate and the doggy tongue licked about as if in search of the best place to bite.

  ‘What is this?’ cried Stort, holding the envelope to the light, unable to remember what was in it or why . . . or why . . .

  It was his sixty-third attempt to achieve the near-impossible – a powder which, if wafted in the face of a dangerous dog, will cause it to retreat, turn tail and run. Such, at least, had been the hope. With that, and with a dramatic devil-may-care gesture, he tore the envelope open and scattered the anti-canine powder into the jaws of the beast he faced.

  There was a strange moment of puzzled silence which communicated itself mysteriously to the entire snarling pack behind, which also fell silent.

  Then the dog swallowed what Stort had thrown at him, envelope and all. It gulped strangely and fell back a step, licking and chopping its jaws as if it had just consumed an ice-cream sundae and wished to get the benefit of what remained.

  Then something odd: a dreamy look came into the great dog’s eyes. It looked about as one who has seen the light but has temporarily forgotten where it is. Then, spying the eyes of Stort, who stared at him almost from the same level, the dog looked upon the scrivener in a way no creature, animal or mortal had ever looked at him before, not even his own mother: it gazed at him with utter devotion, total loyalty, fierce pride and terrifying protectiveness.

  Then without more ado it leapt at Stort who, bemused by a range of expressions which naturally made no sense to him, thought his end had come. Two great clawed paws settled on his shoulders, but instead of bites he suffered something nearly as bad: the licking of a new and eager love.

  Doggy love.

  Love beyond any love another mortal may know.

  Love as great as the great Universe itself.

  By comparison the embrace of Ma’Shuqa, which had at the beginning of Summer very nearly caused the death of Stort, was a mere peck on the cheek.

  ‘Aaagh!’ he gasped. ‘Oh . . . help!’

  His powder, it seemed, did not have the power to disperse at all, but rather to engender immediate, uncontrollable adoration.

  Then Stort felt a painful bite on his shin.

  One of the other dogs had thrust in its nasty, snivelling snout and was chewing at Stort’s leg.

  ‘Ow!’

  Then, as he struggled to fend off the big dog another smaller one bit the other leg.

  ‘Ow!’

  Then an ankle!

  ‘No! Help!’

  Help?!! The big dog heard it and seemed to think: Is my master under attack? Can it be that another dog dares to threaten him?

  Such, or something like it, were the thoughts that lumbered through the canine’s brain.

  It ceased licking Stort.

  It stared into his eyes and seemed to say, ‘Leave this to me!’

  It turned like a trained athlete, torn though its shoulder was from its earlier fight, and it growled.

  The other dogs backed off at once.

  It looked back at Stort for clear instruction.

  Master, what shall I do? Only tell me, I shall obey!

  Stort understood.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose . . .’

  The other dogs moved aside and the big bull terrier reappeared.

  ‘Um . . .’ continued Stort, ‘perhaps you could . . .’

  The bull terrier moved forward fast.

  ‘Kill!’ cried Stort.

  The dog launched itself off at once, now a canine army all by itself, its shoulder no longer seeming to hurt at all.

  Kill? Your wish is my command!

  It dived in, grabbed the murderer of its mate and pups, shook it about as Cluckett might shake a duster at Stort’s front door on a Friday morning, and then tossed it away, its lifeless body falling into shadows.

  Stort was getting the idea.

  ‘Heel!’ he cried.

  The great beast came to heel, blood dripping from its maw. It looked at Stort in expectation of a pat or two, which it duly got.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Stort, realizing that the dog had a collar. The dog was or had been owned by a human and it had a name.

  Stort read the metal tag aloud: Georg Friedrich Händel.

  ‘Strange name,’ said Stort, ‘distantly familiar, but plain Georg will do!’

  At this utterance, Georg’s happiness was complete, his identity returned. It looked up at Stort with pride and pleasure for a job well done, it bent its head a little as if to say ‘What next?’ and when Stort began walking the way the others had come, it trotted behind him, its head not much below Stort’s, but its position a respectful two paces behind.

  Stort spoke his thoughts aloud, as was his habit: ‘I wonder where the others might be?’

  Georg took this as a command, ran forward a little, sniffed about in the rubbish
a good deal, and then having found a scent, looking back to see that Stort was following, he set a fair pace forward, twisting and turning through the maze of the rubbish piles and leading Stort confidently on.

  Jack and the others were in dire straits.

  They had realized they had lost Stort, and with him the two gems; it was too late to go easily back, for they were pursued by too many dogs to fight.

  They slowed down, hoping that the dogs would disperse, which rather mysteriously they did, and then very cautiously they headed back. But the fire in the Hall had died, the wind had grown as flukey as Barklice had feared, and with no moon or stars showing it proved nearly impossible to get their bearings. They had wandered and wandered until, despair and tiredness overtaking them, they stopped.

  ‘All we can do,’ said Jack judiciously, ‘is to rest a little, wait for dawn, and hope against hope that the gems in their pouches may still be found . . .’

  A growl, deep-throated and threatening.

  A great dog’s face peering round the mound at the base of which they had stopped.

  ‘More dogs,’ muttered Barklice as they all stood up to fight once more.

  The dog stood proud, looked back the way it had come to what they thought must be its fellows. Instead Bedwyn Stort appeared, a majestic, heroic silhouette against the clouds, the gems safely on his person.

  ‘I feared for a moment I might have lost you,’ he said, before pointing at Georg and speaking words he thought he would never hear himself say: ‘Don’t worry about him, he doesn’t bite.’

  Of their five-day escape from Bochum and Germany a good deal was afterward said.

  The truth was simple.

  Stort proffered the gems in their pouches for the dog to sniff and said softly, ‘Now . . . find a way to get us home.’

  No challenge, not even that one, was too great for Georg. He cocked his head, peered about a bit, sniffed again and seemed to get in touch with something beyond himself because he offered up a howl to the very Universe itself.

  He went to Jack and then to each in turn.

  Then back to Stort, biffing him with his head as if to say, ‘Trust me, I know where to go.’