Doglands

by Tim Willocks

Furgul jumped on the hood of the truck and onto the roof beside Skyver.

  “This is the thanks I get for planning and leading the task force to Dedbone’s Hole,” Skyver complained. “They won’t let me ride inside the car, even though I’ve got a broken neck.”

  “Your neck’s broken?”

  “Jodi says it’s just a whiplash, but what do Vets know? And—you’ll never believe this—guess why they won’t let me inside?”

  Despite the fresh air, Furgul detected the overwhelming aroma of goat.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Furgul.

  The doors of the car opened, and Jodi, Keeva and Zinni climbed out.

  Furgul jumped down to join them.

  “Furgul?” said Skyver. “Furgul! Tell them to get me off this thing!”

  The dogs surrounded Furgul in a festival of sniffing and snuffling. He was glad to see them too. Keeva rubbed her neck against Furgul’s shoulder. Tears of relief shone in her eyes. Zinni grinned and gave him her happiest tail wag. Jodi, too, was glad to see him alive.

  “Furgul?” whined Skyver. “Are you there, old buddy? It’s freezing up here! And I need to cock a leg! Isn’t anyone listening? Skyver needs a pee!”

  “Skyver told me everything,” said Jodi.

  “I’m sure he did,” said Furgul.

  “You must be incredibly proud of him,” said Jodi.

  “Dogs will tell the tale of Skyver for a thousand years.”

  “That’s exactly what Skyver said.”

  “Did Cogg and Baz make it?” asked Furgul.

  “If you mean the two giant schnauzers,” said Jodi, “they locked themselves in the smokehouse and won’t come out. Apparently there’s a priceless collection of smoked-pork products in there. They said they’d defend their bacon to the last rasher. Chuck Chumley’s sending a truck so they can take it all home.”

  Furgul’s spirits soared as Dervla stepped down from the rear of the car.

  She watched Furgul from a distance with her dark, haunted eyes. She carried a dozen wounds from the battle. The sadness within her reached out and touched his soul. Furgul smiled. The smile came from deep in his heart. Dervla raised her tail. But she didn’t smile back. Despite all that she’d been through, despite her scars inside and out, despite that she was the Dog Who Never Smiles, Dervla was as lovely as the dog he’d played with on that long-ago day in the park.

  “The protection society have rescued the greyhounds,” said Jodi. “They’ll find good homes for them. We’re going back to Appletree. Jump in the car and we’ll get going.”

  The dogs all looked at Furgul. He didn’t know what to say.

  Dervla said, “Furgul’s not coming to Appletree.”

  Furgul saw the way Dervla looked at him. He realized that she was right. She had known it even before he had known it himself. He wasn’t going back to the sanctuary.

  “Is that true?” asked Jodi. “You’re not coming with us?”

  Furgul nodded.

  “But where will you go?” asked Jodi.

  Furgul hadn’t thought about that. He looked at Dervla.

  “He doesn’t know,” said Dervla. “He’ll find out when he gets there.”

  Keeva looked at Furgul. She wanted him to stay. Then she saw something behind him. The light changed in her eyes. She trotted past him. Furgul turned.

  Two small whorls of dust were skipping back and forth outside the mouth of the cave. Keeva started whirling around with them. Her face was radiant with joy.

  “What’s got into her?” asked Skyver. “And by the way, will someone get me off this roof? Anyone? Please?”

  They were all entranced in watching Keeva dance. Furgul’s heart clenched.

  “It’s Eena and Nessa,” he said. “They’re free.”

  From the throat of the cave came a distant howl, like a pack of greyhounds baying for the chase. The howl rose into an ecstatic roar. Then the ghost hounds hurtled from the cave on a mystic hurricane.

  As Furgul felt their spirits rushing by, his own spirit soared. Dervla and Zinni and Keeva felt it too. On the roof of the car Skyver let out a long yowl of fright.

  The ghost hounds surged down the slope and through the valley, flattening the grass and bending the trunks of even the strongest trees. In the distance the flames of Dedbone’s Hole erupted into an inferno. The buildings were flattened. The junkyard was cleansed. The wire-mesh walls of the compound were torn down. Empty dog crates and eating troughs were blown away like leaves. Then, just as abruptly, the fiery blaze was snuffed out. The phantom hounds galloped on across the sky. And of Dedbone’s Hole they left not a wisp behind.

  “Hey!” shouted Skyver. He was sniffing his own fur and struggling against the safety straps that held him down. “I’m clean! I’M CLEAN! They blew away all the goat poop! All of it! Honestly! LET ME DOWN!”

  For the moment everyone ignored him. They were all too stunned by what had happened. Then one last wind emerged from the cave. Warm, huge, gentle and wise. It was the spirit that had gone into the chasm to free the ghosts of the greyhounds trapped inside the hill of dead. As Brennus brushed by Furgul’s cheek, Furgul heard what sounded like a whisper in his ear.

  “Seek the Dog Lore.”

  Furgul looked at Keeva. It was hard to leave her again. He couldn’t tell her why he had to go, because he didn’t really know. Keeva stepped over and licked his face.

  “You know where to find me,” said Keeva. “Don’t forget.”

  “Yes, Mam,” said Furgul. “I won’t forget.”

  Furgul could feel a Dogline beneath his feet. The pawprints of the ancestors. He felt as if they were singing to him, telling him a story he did not yet understand. The story began in the faraway distant past and led toward a faraway distant future.

  Toward the Doglands.

  Furgul looked at Dervla.

  “Have you ever been to the Doglands?” he asked.

  “No,” said Dervla.

  “Dogs like us could find them. If we tried.”

  “With you, I’ll try anything.”

  Furgul said, “Shall we run?”

  “Yes,” said Dervla.

  And the Dog Who Never Smiles smiled at last.

  It was the most beautiful dog smile Furgul had ever seen.

  Dervla said, “Let’s run.”

  Furgul didn’t hesitate. He turned and loped away across Argal’s Mountain.

  Dervla ran away with him.

  “Furgul!” barked Zinni. “We love you, Furgul!”

  “Furgul?” howled Skyver. “FUR-GUL!”

  Keeva watched Furgul and Dervla go, her sweet heart aching for her son.

  The son she had named the Brave when he was born.

  Furgul didn’t stop. He had never stopped.

  Keeva knew he never would.

  Furgul was the pale dog running.

  Running.

  Running.

  Running as if he would run the Doglines forever.

  And perhaps he would.

  Furgul and Dervla crested the craggy ridge and paused against the wild blue sky.

  Furgul looked down at his mother, and for an instant Keeva hoped he might come back. But he turned to Dervla. Together they craned their necks and yip-yip-yarooed a last farewell from the mountain. Then the two dogs galloped away.

  And Furgul was gone.

  And though Keeva was sad, she was happy.

  For she knew Furgul was running to where he belonged.

  To where she knew Furgul would always be.

  To where dogs would always find him.

  Nowhere and everywhere.

  Running, always, with the winds.

  In the Doglands.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Doglands was conceived during an epic hike along the Kerry Way with my friend and fellow writer David Cox. At every stage—every chapter—of the novel’s subsequent composition, David provided the kind of unflagging inspiration, encouragement and faith that constitute a gift far beyond price. This novel would not exist without him, a
nd his largeness of spirit pervades it.

  Thanks also to the great Al Zuckerman, who provided expert editorial guidance as well as being the book’s champion in the “wilderness of tigers.”

  There was someone else on the hike that day, sniffing, marking, scouting, sprinting and occasionally—if inadvertently—putting the fear of canine gods into the other dogs we met along the way. This book wouldn’t exist without him either, because it was inspired by what little I know of his life. Feargal, an Irish lurcher of mysterious origins, boasts numerous buckshot wounds, several dueling scars and an indomitable heart, and is one of the most remarkable individuals I have ever known. This novel may embellish his adventures, but not, I believe, his sensibility and inner beauty.

  Feargal was saved from death in the Dublin dog pound by Mary-Jane Fox, creator of Orchard Greyhound Sanctuary (orchardgreyhoundsanctuary.com), and so the book owes its existence to her too. Beyond that, she deserves the thanks, respect and support of all of us for the magnificent work she does in rescuing some of the loveliest creatures on earth from cruelty and destruction.

  TIM WILLOCKS was born in the North of England and became a doctor of medicine in 1983. He has written four novels for adults and has lived with four unforgettable dogs: a German shepherd called Gul, a black-and-white greyhound called Auda, a black greyhound called Lily, and a white lurcher called Feargal. Tim lives on a mountain in Ireland.