The Plague Dogs: A Novel

by Richard Adams

  Be this as it may, how terrible, to some, can be the return from those dark sea-caves! Ah, God! we stagger up through the surf and collapse upon the sand, behind us the memory of our visions and before us the prospect of a desert shore or a land peopled by savages. Or again, we are dragged by the waves over coral, our landfall a torment from which, if only it would harbour us, we would fly back into the ocean. For indeed, when asleep we are like amphibious creatures, breathing another element, which reciprocates our own final act of waking by itself casting us out and closing the door upon all hope of immediate return. The caddis larva crawls upon the bottom of the pond, secure within its house of fragments, until in due time there comes upon it, whether it will or no, that strange and fatal hour when it must leave its frail safety and begin to crawl, helpless and exposed, towards the surface. What dangers gather about it then, in this last hour of its water-life—rending, devouring, swallowing into the belly of the great fish! And this hazard it can by no means evade, but only trust to survive. What follows? Emergence into the no-less-terrible world of air, with the prospect of the mayfly’s short life, defenceless among the rising trout and pouncing sparrows. We crawl upwards towards Monday morning; to the cheque book and the boss; to the dismal recollection of guilt, of advancing illness, of imminent death in battle or the onset of disgrace or ruin. “I must be up betimes,” said King Charles, awakening for the last time upon that bitter dawn in January long ago, “for I have a great work to do today.” A noble gentleman, he shed no tears for himself. Yet who would not weep for him, emerging courageous, obstinate and alone upon that desolate shore whither sleep had cast him up to confront his unjust death?

  When Snitter woke in the near-darkness of the shaft, it was to the accustomed sense of loss and madness, to the dull ache in his head, the clammy sensation of the torn and sodden dressing above his eye and the recollection that he and Rowf were masterless fugitives, free to keep themselves alive for as long as they could in an unnatural, unfamiliar place, of the nature of which they knew practically nothing. He did not even know the way back to Animal Research or whether, if they did return, they would be taken in. Perhaps the whitecoats or the tobacco man had already decreed that they were to be killed. He had several times seen the latter remove sick dogs from their pens, but had never seen him bring one back. He remembered Brot, a dog who, like himself, had been put to sleep by the whitecoats, but had woken to find that he was blind. Brot had blundered about his pen for several hours before the tobacco man, coming in at his usual time in the evening, had taken him away. Snitter could recall clearly the desperate and hopeless tone of his yelping. He himself had no fear of going blind; but what if his fits and visions were to increase, perhaps to possess him altogether, so that—He started up from where he was lying on the dry shale.

  “Rowf! Rowf, listen, you will kill me, won’t you? You could do it quite quickly. It wouldn’t be difficult. Rowf?”

  Rowf had woken in the instant that Snitter’s body ceased to touch his own.

  “What are you talking about, you crazy little duffer? What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” answered Snitter. “I meant if I ever change into wasps, you know—maggots—I mean, if I fall into the gutter—oh, never mind. Rowf, are you still broken?”

  Rowf got up, put his injured front paw gingerly to the ground, winced and lay down again.

  “I can’t run on it. Anyway, I’m bruised and stiff all over. I shall go on lying here until I feel better.”

  “Just imagine, Rowf, if all these stones suddenly turned into meat—”

  “If what?”

  “Biscuits dropping out of the roof—”

  “Lie down!”

  “And an animal came in, without teeth or claws, all made of horse liver—”

  “What do you mean? How could that happen?”

  “Oh, I saw it rain from the ground to the clouds—black milk, you know—”

  “You’ve made me feel hungry, damn you!”

  “Are we going out, like—you know, like last night?”

  “I can’t do it now, Snitter. Not until I feel better. Another battering like that—we’ll just have to wait a bit. Tomorrow—”

  “Let’s go back to where it’s lying,” said Snitter. “There’ll be a good deal left.”

  He pattered quickly over the shale towards the vaulted opening, Rowf limping behind him. It was afternoon and the red October sun, already sinking, was shining straight up the length of Dunnerdale beneath. Far below the tawny, glowing bracken and the glittering stealth of the tarn, Snitter could see cows in green fields, grey stone walls, red-leaved trees and whitewashed houses, all clear and still as though enclosed in golden glass. Yet the sun itself, which imparted this stillness, did not share it, seeming rather to swim in the blue liquidity of the sky, wavering before the eyes, a molten mass floating, rocking, drifting westward in a fluid that slowly cooled but could not quench its heat. Snitter stood blinking on the warm turf near the entrance, scenting the dry bracken and bog myrtle in the autumn air. The dressing fell across his eye and he tossed up his head.

  “Was there ever a dog that could fly?”

  “Yes,” replied Rowf promptly, “but the whitecoats cut off its wings to see what would happen.”

  “What did happen?”

  “It couldn’t fly.”

  “Then it’s no worse off than we are. I’ll go as slowly as you like.”

  Rowf stumbled stiffly forward and the pair set off towards the stream. In the windless warmth of the St. Martin’s summer afternoon, Snitter’s spirits began to rise and he pattered about the moss, splashing in and out of shallow pools and jumping in pursuit like a puppy whenever he put up a wheatear or whinchat in the bog.

  They had no need to search for the carcase they had left. Even before they winded it they could hear the raucous squabbling of two buzzards, and a few moments later saw them hopping and fluttering about their ripwork. As the dogs approached, the big birds turned and stared at them angrily, but thought better of it and flapped slowly away, sailing down on brown wings towards the tarn.

  “It’s little enough they’ve left,” said Rowf, thrusting his muzzle into the fly-buzzing, blood-glazed remains. Snitter hung back, looking about him.

  “It’s not only them. There’s been some other creature—”

  Rowf looked up sharply. “You’re right. I can smell it. But what? The smell—makes me angry, somehow—”

  He ran about the rocks. “I’ll catch it. The smell—like a horse-mouse. What d’you make of it?” He was slavering as he spoke.

  “Never mind,” answered Snitter, pressing down with one paw upon the haunch he was tearing. “It’s not here now.”

  “Yes, it is. Watching, I think. Lurking. Not far off.”

  “Let’s not leave anything here if we can help it,” said Snitter. “Eat all you can and we’ll carry the rest back to the rhododendrons—a good chunk each, anyway.”

  They returned to the cave in the late afternoon, Snitter with a fore-leg, Rowf half-dragging the rank-smelling remains of the haunch. For some time they lay in the sun on the flat turf outside, retreating to the shaft only when the light was half-gone and a chilly breeze came rippling up the tarn from the west. Snitter scrabbled out a shallow recess in the shale to fit his body, lay down in it with a comfortable feeling of hunger satisfied and fell quickly asleep.

  He woke suddenly, in pitch darkness, to realize that Rowf was creeping warily across the tunnel a few yards away. He was about to ask him what he was doing when something in Rowf’s movement and breathing made him hold himself motionless, tensed and waiting. A moment later he became aware of the same strange reek that they had scented near the sheep’s carcase. He lay still as a spider, letting the smell flow through him, seeking from it all that it could tell. It was not an angry smell, nor a dangerous smell: but none the less wild, yes and exciting, a sharp, killing smell, a furtive smell, trotting, preying, slinking through the darkness. And it was a quick-moving smell. Whatever the anima
l might be, it was on the move, it was alive here, now, in the cave with them. This, of course, was the reason for Rowf’s caution and crafty alertness, which Snitter had already sensed in the moment of his own waking.

  Why had the animal come? To kill them for food? No, this, he knew instinctively, it had not. Whatever it might be up to, it was trying to avoid them, although it smelt like an animal which could fight if it were forced to. Because this was its home? But its smell was very strong and distinctive, and there had been no trace of it here yesterday. Then it could have come only in order to try to steal their meat.

  At this moment there was a sudden, momentary clattering of loose stones in the dark and immediately Rowf said, “Stay where you are. If you try to get past me I’ll kill you.”

  There was no reply. Snitter, feeling himself trembling, got up and took a position a few feet away from Rowf, so that between them the way out was effectively blocked.

  “I’ll kill you, too,” he said, “and that’d be twice, so it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  The next instant he jumped back with a sharp yap of astonishment, for the voice answering him was speaking, unmistakably, a sort—a very odd sort—of dog language. Barely understandable and like nothing he had ever heard, the voice, nevertheless, was undoubtedly that of an animal in some way akin to themselves.

  “It’ll de ye smaall gud killin’ me, hinny. Ye’ll not see three morns yersel’.”

  There was a kind of wheedling defiance in the voice, as though the owner had not yet decided whether to fight, to run or to cajole, but was trying the latter and putting an edge to it for good value.

  “Who are you?” said Rowf. Snitter could sense his uncertainty, and wondered whether the animal could also do so. “Are you a dog?”

  “Why ay, Ah’m a derg. Watch ahint ye!” cried the voice in a sudden tone of urgent warning. Snitter leapt round. In the moment that he realized he had been tricked, Rowf blundered against him, dashing across the breadth of the tunnel to prevent the intruder’s escape. Both were biting now and snapping, but as Snitter, picking himself up, jumped to Rowf’s help, the scuffle broke off, the shale clicking once more as the animal ran back into the tunnel.

  “Stay where you are!” said Rowf again. “If you run any further I’ll follow you and break your back!”

  “Howway noo, kidda,” replied the animal, in the same strange dog-jargon. “Ne need fer ye an’ me te start battlin’. Laa-laa-let, ma bonny pet.”

  Listening, Snitter felt his blood tingle, not with fear but with a kind of thrilled repulsion and attraction. The voice of the smell was obsequious, cunning, that of a thief, a liar, masterless, callous and untrustworthy. It was also full of sardonic humour, of courage and resource, and pitiless, most of all for itself. Its lilting rogue’s jargon spoke to his own madness. Fascinated, he waited to hear it speak again.

  “By three morns, the pair on yez’ll bowth be deed. Forst ye bleed an’ then yer deed,” said the voice, in a kind of crooning spell. “Lie an’ bleed, ye’ll bowth be deed, crows hes been an’ picked yer een.”

  Snitter found himself answering spontaneously, without thought.

  “The sky opened, you know,” said Snitter. “There was a thunderstorm and this lightning shot down into my head. Before that, it was black and white; I mean, the road was black and white; and then the lorry came and the tobacco man set my head on fire. I can bark and I can jump and I can catch a sugar lump.” He threw back his head and barked.

  “Shut up,” said Rowf.

  “De ye say so?” said the voice to Snitter. “Whey, mebbies. Howway wi’ me, lad, tappy-lappy, aall tegither, an’ Ah’ll put yez on the reet road. Mind, thoo beats them aall fer a bonny mate, Ah warr’nd.”

  “Yes,” said Snitter, “you understand a lot, don’t you? I’ll go along with you; you show me where.” He began moving forward in the dark, towards the voice.

  “By, mind, ye’ve been fair bashed, hinny,” whispered the voice, close to him now. “Who gi’ ye that slit o’ th’ heed? Who dun yon? Yer sore hunt!”

  “It was the whitecoats,” answered Snitter.

  The reek was all round him now, the pain in his head was gone and he and the voice were floating elegantly, effortlessly, towards the dark-blue, star-twinkling oval of the cave-mouth.

  He did not realize that Rowf had knocked him down until he heard the strange animal once more run back down the tunnel. Then he smelt that Rowf was so angry that if he did not take care he was likely to be badly bitten. Lying quite still, he said, “Rowf, there’s no point in killing him, whatever sort of animal he is. He’d fight and it’d be too much trouble.”

  “You didn’t wake up soon enough,” answered Rowf. “If I hadn’t stopped him he’d have been off with that leg-bone you brought back.”

  “He says he’s a dog. If your shadow could sing—”

  “I don’t care what he says he is, he’s a thief. I’ll make him sorry.”

  “Noo give ower,” said the creature in the dark. “Go canny. Let’s aall be pals, ne need fer brawlin’. Stick wi’ me and we’ll aall be champion. Else ye’ll be deed soon, like Ah towld yez.”

  “Dead?” said Snitter.

  “Ay, deed, an’ ne argument a boot it, ne bother.”

  “Why should we be?”

  “Whey, hinny, ne chance at aall, gannin’ aboot th’ fell killin’ yows an’ hollerin’ yer heeds off,” said the creature. “Ye gan on that style and ye’ll have me kilt forbye. Ye should be neether seen nor hord, else yer deed dergs, Ah’m tellin’ ye.”

  “What are you telling us, then?” asked Snitter, “his fascination growing as he realized that, unlike Rowf, he could partly understand the creature’s talk.

  “Ye’ll hunt an’ ye’ll kill weel, wi’ me. Ye’ll gan oot an’ come back fed, wi’ me. Ye’ll run through th’ neet an’ foller me feet an’ Ah’ll keep ye reet. Ah’ll keep ye reet, ye’ll get yer meat.” The voice had taken on a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence, wheedling and sly, that made Snitter prick his ears and dilate his nostrils to the smell in the dark.

  “Listen, Rowf, listen!”

  “Whatever he is, he’s not to be trusted,” answered Rowf. “Anyway, I can’t understand a word he says.”

  “I can,” said Snitter. “I’ll smell and I’ll tell. I’ve listened to birds in the chimney and beetles under the door. My head feels better. It’s open like a flower.” He cut a caper on the shale.

  Rowf growled and Snitter collected himself.

  “He says we’re strangers here and we’re in danger because we don’t know the place or how to look after ourselves, and for some reason that puts him in danger too. He’s suggesting that we let him share what we kill and in return he’ll give us advice and tell us what to do.”

  Rowf considered. “He’ll only cheat us, and run away when it suits him. I tell you, he’s not to be trusted.”

  “We’ve nothing to lose. He’s a sharp one, Rowf—bright as the leaves on the trees.” Snitter now felt that he would give anything to see the owner of the voice, or merely to keep him with them a little longer. The dreary cavern seemed crackling with his shifty vitality.

  “Grab hold of your meat and lie on it,” said Rowf. “I’m going to do the same. If you’re still here when it’s light,” he said into the darkness, “we’ll see what you are and whether you’re worth feeding. What do you call yourself?”

  The answer, taunting, mordant and inscrutable, came in a whisper from some further recess of the tunnel.

  “Dry an’ warrm’s nivver harrm. Keep tight hold o’ yer meat an’ gud luck gan wi’ ye. Noo yer taalkin’ sense. Who am Ah? Ah’m tod, whey Ah’m tod, ye knaw. Canniest riever on moss and moor!”

  Monday the 18th October

  “—so after we’d got out,” said Rowf, “we didn’t know where to go. We came to some houses, but I bit a man who was going to put Snitter in a car—he saw him lying by the road and picked him up—so we ran away. Then, later, a man with a lorry threw a stone at Snitter—”

  �
�There was another man who was hunting sheep with his dogs,” put in Snitter. “We went to help them, but the dogs drove us away.”

  The tod, lying on the shale at several yards’ safe distance, head on sandy paws, listened intently as it continued gnawing on the remains of the fore-leg. Outside, the cloudy, grey light of morning showed a drizzling rain drifting across the mouth of the cavern.

  “Snitter thought we ought to go on trying to find some man or other who’d take us to his house and look after us,” said Rowf, “but I couldn’t see the sense of that. To begin with, the men have taken away all the houses and streets and things—Snitter admits it himself—but apart from that, it’s a silly thing to expect. Men are there to hurt animals, not to look after them.”

  “Noo yer reet, hinny. Guns an’ dergs, an’ trraps an’ aall. Ye’d be a fond fyeul an’ loose i’ th’ heed te seek oot th’ likes o’ them.” The tod cracked a small bone and spat it out. “Crrunshin’ bait’s th’ bonniest.”