Doglands

by Tim Willocks

  “I don’t think he looks so bad,” said Zinni.

  “You can’t see the buckshot scars,” said Skyver. “A dog doesn’t get himself shot for nothing.”

  Furgul felt his tail hanging down. He didn’t see any point in explaining why he’d been shot. Had he escaped from Dedbone’s Hole just to die in some stinking dog pound? He remembered the promise he had made, to go back and set Keeva free, and set the wrong things right.

  “I won’t give up hope,” he said.

  “Good for you,” said Skyver. “As my long-suffering mother used to say: ‘Skyver, life is like a bowl of dog food. Most of the time it’s like eating your own poop. But every now and again somebody leaves a raw steak lying on the table.’ ”

  A sudden buzzing and squawking exploded from the radio inside the driver’s cab. The driver squawked back. A siren wailed. Then the dogs were thrown against the bars of their cages as the truck made a sharp turn and picked up speed.

  “Blue lights!” said Skyver. “Some big bad dog is causing havoc somewhere!”

  • • •

  The truck hurtled along and took several more violent turns. The other dogs became quite frightened, even Skyver, but Furgul had a funny feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but he was exhilarated. The truck screeched to a halt. The Traps jumped out of the cab and they weren’t smiling anymore.

  Outside, beyond the doors, Furgul heard the sound of a roaring dog.

  It was a roaring such as he had never heard before—proud and defiant and enraged. It made all the hairs on his shoulders stand on end, but not with fear. It made his heart pound faster in his chest and his tail wag high in the air. The roar was savage, yet it thrilled him. It was a sound such as the last free dog in the world might make.

  Tess cowered in her cage. Zinni was full of curiosity. Skyver slunk down as close to the floor as he could get, like a pile of cowardly dead cats.

  As well as the savage roars, Furgul heard the terrified shouts of the Traps. He heard the wailing of sirens. Flashes of dim blue light winked around the inside of the truck. It sounded like a battle was being fought. Then the snarling roars were choked off and replaced by a low, monstrous growl. Something slammed into the doors of the truck, and a Trap cried out in agony. There was scuffling and shouting and groaning. And then even more shouting and more yells of pain.

  Furgul could smell the great dog that stood beyond the doors. He had never picked up this scent before—and yet he felt as if he had. There was something in the scent that he recognized, something he could not describe—as if he’d known that scent from the very first day he was born. Or even before that. Though he did not know why, the tiny flame of hope in Furgul’s chest burned brighter.

  The other dogs seemed to sense something too.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Skyver.

  “It can’t be,” whimpered Tess.

  “What do you mean?” piped Zinni.

  The doors of the truck were flung open, and Furgul blinked.

  Night had fallen outside, but the headlamps of several vehicles lit up the darkness. In the background a man lay moaning on a little bed on wheels. Two other men pushed the bed into the back of a white van with a flashing blue light on the top. Another man sat in the road, holding his head with both hands. Several other men—cops and Traps—were standing around with clubs and guns.

  In the middle of the chaos stood the biggest dog that Furgul had ever seen.

  He had the rough red coat of an Irish wolfhound, but his huge head was shaped more like a lurcher’s. Keeva had told Furgul something of the history of the wolfhounds. They had roamed the wild Doglands for thousands of years, in the old times long before masters—before fire, before the wheel, before collars and leashes and muzzles. They had fought for the ancient Celts as dogs of war. They had struck fear into the ancient Romans. They’d even fought and killed lions in the arena. They had fought against the English and dragged the knights in armor from their horses. They’d killed wolves and wild boars. In those long-gone days the wolfhound had no equal on the earth.

  The great hound outside the truck fought against three of the nooses on poles that were looped around his neck. Each pole was held by two Traps, and the dog was so strong he almost pulled all six of them off their feet. He rolled his huge shoulders and strained the muscles in his neck. His jaws gaped open, panting for air. Blood gleamed on his fangs. Behind him another man locked a chain around his ankles. Then all seven of them tried to manhandle the mighty hound into the truck. Even though he was choking, the hound dug his paws into the ground and would not move.

  “It is him,” gasped Skyver, with awe.

  “Who?” squeaked Zinni.

  “Is it true he’s escaped from prison a dozen times?” asked Tess.

  “More,” said Skyver. “Stone and chain cannot hold him. They say he’s cheated every executioner that ever tried to kill him. Some places down south they use a gas chamber, not the needle. One time they dragged twenty-five dogs in there and gassed them for thirty minutes. At the end of it he was the only one still standing. They were so amazed they let him go.”

  “I thought he was just a legend,” said Tess. “I didn’t think he really existed.”

  “There he stands,” said Skyver. “But they’ve got the old outlaw cold this time.”

  “But who is he?” cried Zinni. “I’m dying to know!”

  Furgul wanted to hear the answer too, though he already knew it in his bones. Outside the outlaw hound had still not budged an inch, and the Traps were sweating and cursing. The Trap at the back opened a long gun—a bit like Dedbone’s shotgun—and slotted a plastic cylinder with a bright shiny needle into the barrel. He snapped the long gun shut.

  Furgul clawed the bars of his cage.

  “Don’t shoot him!” he barked at the top of his lungs.

  Furgul’s bark was so fierce that all the Traps stopped and looked at him.

  The great hound looked at him too. His gaze met Furgul’s, and Furgul felt the world shift beneath his paws. The hound’s eyes were like tunnels bored back into the long-gone days when wolfhounds and greyhounds roamed the vast wild Doglands in absolute freedom.

  As the wild hound stared at Furgul, his rage seemed to melt away. He reared up on his enormous hind legs, and the Trap raised his gun. But the hound didn’t fight anymore. He put his forepaws on the floor of the truck. He looked at the Traps as if to say, “It’s over. Let’s go.” The Trap lowered his gun.

  Again the hound looked Furgul right in the eye.

  The hound said, “You’re the dog who runs in darkness.”

  Furgul remembered the whisper on the wind that he had heard inside Dogsnout Mountain. It had said the same thing. Furgul swallowed a lump in his throat.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s me.”

  “Strange winds,” said the hound. “Strange winds blow us here tonight.”

  He climbed into the truck. The Traps released their nooses, and he backed into the cage facing Furgul. The Traps locked the door and closed the back of the truck.

  Furgul couldn’t take his eyes off the wild fighting hound.

  “Please,” hissed Zinni, “just tell me who he is!”

  A whisper came from the heap of fur, as if Skyver hardly dared to speak the name.

  “It’s Argal.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE NEEDLES

  The Trap truck rumbled through the night toward the Needles.

  Argal was squeezed into the cage facing Furgul’s. Skyver, Tess and Zinni lay in silence, in awe of the renegade hound. There wasn’t much light in the truck, but Furgul could see Argal’s face and the gleam of his eyes in the gloom. Furgul himself felt intimidated. He dropped his gaze in respect.

  “Don’t turn away,” said Argal. “Look at me.”

  Furgul looked at him. Argal didn’t say anything. He just stared back at him—for ages and ages and ages. Furgul wanted to look away again. He didn’t know why. Argal’s deep wild eyes were overpowering. They were fri
ghtening. Furgul ground his teeth together. He just knew he would have to turn away soon. Then Argal spoke again.

  “You look like Keeva more than you look like me,” said Argal. “That’s good.”

  “So I am your son?” Furgul still couldn’t quite believe it.

  “You’re asking me for reassurance,” said Argal. “That weakens you. Don’t ask me, ask yourself. What does your nose tell you? What does your instinct tell you? What does your heart tell you? If you can’t trust those, you won’t survive.”

  “You’re my dad.”

  “Yes. I’m your father. Wildness flows in your veins where blood should run. And that will make your road in life tougher than you can imagine. It already has, otherwise you wouldn’t be locked in that cage with only five days left to live.”

  Argal’s face came closer to the bars. If pieces of flint could have burned like coals, such would his eyes have looked like. They were cold yet full of fire.

  “Think hard, son,” he said. “Are you ready for such a life? For the hungry days and the lonely nights? For the killing, the fighting, the scavenging? Living on the run, hiding in the dark, waiting for the Traps to come? If you try to live without a collar, every man will turn his hand against you. Are you sure that’s the way you want it to be?”

  Furgul thought hard, though he already knew the answer.

  “If you’re smart,” said Argal, “you’ll turn away from the wild and rambling road. You’ll take my advice. Learn how to please the masters. Flatter their vanity. Learn how to live with their whims and their rules. Love them if you can—and if you can’t, pretend to. Quench the fire that burns inside and live a long, comfortable, well-fed life. Be a pet.”

  “I’ve already been a pet.”

  Argal nodded slowly, as if he were sad for Furgul but also proud of him.

  “You should listen to Mister Argal,” said Skyver. “He knows what he’s talking about—and so do I.”

  Argal gave Skyver a look. Skyver groveled on his belly in fear.

  “You might not remember me, Mister Argal,” whimpered Skyver.

  “No. I don’t,” said Argal.

  “Oh,” said Skyver. His lopsided ears drooped with disappointment. “Well, I once saw you take down three angry malamutes. Perhaps it was four. Or even five!” He chuckled, obviously hoping that Argal would like him. “I bet they wish they’d never left Alaska.”

  “I’m talking to my son,” said Argal, without smiling.

  “Yes, sir. I was taking good care of young Furgul myself, even before you turned up. Wasn’t I, Furgul?” Skyver licked the sweat off his nose. “Boy, wait till my old mother hears about this.”

  “Shut your yap or you won’t live to tell anyone,” said Argal.

  Skyver crawled to the back of his cage and hid his head beneath his paws.

  Argal turned back to Furgul. For the first time Furgul saw some warmth in Argal’s face, the love of a father for his son. But with the love came a shadow of fear.

  “We haven’t got long,” said Argal, “so listen. Whether you decide to be a pet or you decide to let the winds of the Doglands take you where they will, your next step is the same. If you can’t be smart, at least you can learn some cunning.”

  “Whatever you say, Dad.”

  “Think of your mother, Keeva. Don’t close your eyes. Picture how beautiful she is. Remember how much she loves you.”

  Furgul did as he was told. He pictured Keeva. He started to feel sad.

  “Perfect,” said Argal. “We’ll call that your Keeva face. Now think of a time when you were happy. Think of the happiest day in your life.”

  “When I played at fighting with Dervla in the park?” said Furgul.

  “Good,” said Argal. “Picture that day.”

  Furgul pictured it without closing his eyes. He felt his ears prick up. He held his head high. He wagged his tail without even thinking about it.

  “Good,” said Argal. “We’ll call that your Dervla face. Do you know how to sit and heel? And those other silly commands that make the masters feel as if they’re in control?”

  Furgul nodded. “I learned them when I was a pet.”

  “Even better. Now, you have to get out of the dog pound within five days. Do you know why?”

  “I explained all that, Mister Argal. Didn’t I, Furgul?” said Skyver.

  Argal gave Skyver another look. Skyver bowed and scraped, as if even a scowl were an honor. Argal turned back to Furgul.

  “That means that within five days you have to persuade a dog lover to pick you out from all the other dogs. You have to make them want to take you home with them. And you have to persuade the workers at the Needles to recommend you. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” nodded Furgul.

  “Show the workers that you’re obedient, even if you don’t feel like it. Act like a good, responsible dog—all the time. Avoid fighting, even if your blood is boiling. And no play-fighting either—most humans can’t tell the difference. Don’t bark. Don’t whine. Keep your cage clean. Make their lives easy. And give them your Dervla face—your happy face—every time you see them. The strange thing is, the humans who work in the dog pound really love dogs, more than most of all the other humans in the world. Win the pound workers over and they might even give you more than five days. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Sooner or later you’ll find strangers—maybe with children—looking at you through the bars,” said Argal. “Show them your Keeva face, with your big brown eyes. Lift one paw toward them, but slowly and gently—and don’t look too desperate.”

  Furgul nodded again. “I can do that.”

  “The strangers might make those ‘aawwwh’ noises they make when they see something cute. If they do, you put on your happy Dervla face and wag your tail. Stick your tongue out and pant—they like that—but don’t bare your teeth. If they bend down and start waffling at you, you’re nearly there. Keep on your happy face and croon at them, as if they’re already your best friends. Don’t bark or snarl, even if they pat you in places you don’t like—such as on the head. Pretend you love it. Keep looking right at them. There’s a good chance they’ll want to take you home right there and then. If they start to walk away, give them your Keeva face again. And don’t worry—humans love to shop around. It makes them feel powerful and clever. If they come back to see you a second time, you can close the deal. Just give them a super-happy Dervla face, with lots of tail wagging, and they’ll have you outside on a leash within fifteen minutes. Can you remember all that?”

  “Yes,” said Furgul. “What do I do next?”

  “They’ll take you to their home,” said Argal. “And then, in time, you make your choice—to be a pet, or to escape and run with the winds.”

  Skyver had crept back to the front of his cage. “Excuse me, Mister Argal, sir, but was that ‘stick your tongue out and pant’ or ‘don’t pant’?” he asked.

  Argal gave Skyver a dark look. “Listen, fleabag, if you try any of this before Furgul is free, I’ll have your skin peeled off. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” whimpered Skyver. “Perfectly.”

  The truck came to a halt. The rumble of the engine stopped.

  “We’re here.” Argal lowered his voice to a whisper so that Skyver couldn’t overhear. “Stick close to me. I haven’t much time left—and I want to spend it with you.”

  “What do you mean, not much time?” whispered Furgul. “We’ll have five days.”

  The back doors of the truck swung open. Six nervous Traps peered in.

  “I won’t get five days,” said Argal.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve already been sentenced to death. First thing in the morning they’ll kill me.”

  The Needles was a long gray concrete building with harsh lights outside. Beside it was an exercise yard surrounded by a high wire fence. As the dogs got out of the van, Argal was quiet and obedient. The Traps mopped sweat from their faces, relieved that they didn’t
have to use their nooses. They smiled again, though Furgul could see that the smiles were false, and said “Good boy!” Furgul hated being called a boy. He wasn’t a boy. He was a dog. He was sure that Argal hated it even more. But Argal stayed cool. He let them put a collar and leash on him and didn’t fight them. They leashed Furgul and the others too, and Furgul stayed close to Argal. The Traps took them into the Needles side by side.

  Inside were more harsh lights and lots of corridors. The Traps met with the shelter workers. They were both women, one with blond hair and one with red, and both with very kind faces. They gave the dogs treats and lots of smiles. The Traps talked to the women while looking at Argal, and the women looked concerned and sad.

  “Watch,” said Argal. “They’re going to blunt my teeth.”

  The blond woman brought a muzzle and strapped it round Argal’s snout. Argal didn’t struggle. He gave her a mournful look and shook one hind leg. The chains on his ankles rattled. The blonde unlocked the chains and took them away. She took the leashes of Argal and Furgul from the Traps, and the redhead took the leashes of Skyver, Zinni and Tess. Then the two shelter women took the dogs to the cellblock.

  “They’ll put me in a cage first,” said Argal. “Try to get in there ahead of me.”

  When they reached the cellblock the redheaded woman switched on a light to reveal a huge room filled with long rows of cages. In front of each row was a concrete gutter and a series of metal grates in the floor. In nearly every cage lay a sleeping dog. The smell of so many dogs was tremendous, and Furgul could tell that most of them didn’t keep their cages clean. The light woke them up and a chorus of woofing and whimpering and whining arose. Argal barked just once.

  “Quiet!” commanded Argal.

  It wasn’t an angry bark or even a loud bark. It didn’t frighten the two shelter women. But its effect was amazing. Silence fell over the cellblock in an instant as every dog obeyed Argal. The two women looked at each other. They realized that Argal was a dog among dogs. The blonde said something sad to the redhead, and the redhead nodded. Furgul sensed that they were sorry that such a dog as Argal would have to die.