by Ruskin Bond
Despite their miseries, they were perhaps luckier than the French. In the year 1230, a priest arrived in France from the East with a curious tale to tell. He had been, he said, one of the young priests who had accompanied Stephen to Marseilles and had embarked with them on the ships provided by the merchants. A few days out they had run into bad weather, and two of the ships were wrecked on the island of San Pietro, off the south-west corner of Sardinia, and all the passengers were drowned. The five ships that survived the storm found themselves soon afterwards surrounded by a Saracen squadron from Africa; and the passengers learned that they had been brought there by arrangement, to be sold into captivity. They were all taken to Bougie, on the Algerian coast. Many of them were bought on their arrival and spent the rest of their lives in captivity there. Others, the young priest among them, were shipped on to Egypt, where Frankish slaves fetched a better price. When they arrived at Alexandria the greater part of the consignment was bought by the governor, to work on his estates. According to the priest, there were still about seven hundred of them living. A small company was taken to the slave markets of Baghdad; and there eighteen of them were martyred for refusing to accept Islam. More fortunate were the young priest and the few others that were literate. The governor of Egypt, al-Adil's son al-Kamil, was interested in Western languages and letters. He bought them and kept them with him as interpreters, teachers and secretaries, and made no attempt to convert them to his faith. They stayed on in Cairo in a comfortable captivity; and eventually this one priest was released and allowed to return to France. He told the questioning parents of his comrades all that he knew, then disappeared into obscurity. A later story identified the two wicked merchants of Marseilles with two merchants who were hanged a few years afterwards for attempting to kidnap the Emperor Frederick on behalf of the Saracens, thus making them in the end pay the penalty for their crimes.
G. Trueheart, Man's Best Friend
James Mcnamee
TOM HAMILTON LIKED HIS AUNT PRUDENCE. SHE TAUGHT AT THE university. Tom's father said she was all brains. Her name was Doctor Prudence Hamilton. When she came to Tom's father's farm in the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island, which is part of the Province of British Columbia, she always brought presents. Tom liked her.
He didn't like her constant companion, Genevieve Trueheart, a dog. Tom Hamilton was fond of dogs. He had a dog, a bull terrier called Rusty, a fighter right from the word go. Rusty kept the pheasants out of the garden and the young grain. He worked for a living. Tom couldn't like Genevieve Trueheart. She was good for nothing. She never even looked like a dog. She was a great big soft wheezing lazy wagging monster, a great big useless lump.
Genevieve had been born a Golden Retriever of decent parents and Aunt Prudence had papers to prove it. But Genevieve had eaten so many chocolates and French pastries and frosted cakes that she was three times as wide as a Golden Retriever ought to be. She had the soft muscles of a jellyfish. She couldn't run. She couldn't walk. All she could do was waddle. She was a horrible example of what ten years of living with Aunt Prudence would do to any creature. She looked like a pigmy hippopotamus with hair. Genevieve Trueheart gave Tom a hard time. She followed him. She went wherever he went. She was starved for boys. She never had a chance to meet any in the city. Tom couldn't bend over to tie a boot but her big pink tongue would lick his face. She loved him.
At half-past eight when he finished breakfast and started for school, there on the porch would be Genevieve Trueheart waiting for him.
'She wants to go to school with you, Tommy,' Aunt Prudence always said. 'I think she'd better stay home,' Tom always said, 'It's a mile. That's too far for her.'
'Take poor Genevieve, Tommy,' Aunt Prudence and his mother always said. 'You know how she likes being with you.'
Tom could have said, 'Why should I take her. When I take her the kids at school laugh at me. They ask, "Why don't you send her back to the zoo and get a dog."' But he didn't say that. It would have hurt Aunt Prudence's feelings.
On this morning he thought of something else to say. He said, 'A friend of mine saw a bear on the road. She had two cubs. We'd better leave Genevieve at home. I'll take Rusty.'
'Rusty has to stay to chase pheasants,' his mother said.
'What if I meet a cougar?' Tom said. 'A fat dog like Genevieve would be a fine meal for a cougar.'
'Tommy, stop talking,' his mother said.
'A cougar can pick up a sheep and jump over a fence,' Tommy said.
'Tom Hamilton,' his mother said, 'get to school!'
So Tom Hamilton went down the woodland road with Genevieve Trueheart panting and puffing and snorting behind him. Twice he had to stop while Genevieve sat down and rested. He told her, Rusty doesn't think you're a dog. He thinks you're a great big fat balloon that got a tail and four legs. Tom said, 'Genevieve, I hope a car comes on the wrong side of the road and gets you, you big fat slob.' He never meant it. He said, 'I hope we meet those bears.' He was just talking. He said, 'Do you know what I'm going to do at lunchtime, Genevieve? I'm going to give the fried pork liver that I have for you to another dog, to any dog that looks like a dog and not like a stuffed mattress, and your chocolate, Genevieve, I'll eat it myself.' This was a lie. Tom Hamilton was honest.
Every kid who went to that school came with a dog. Yellow dogs. Brown dogs. Black dogs. White dogs. Black and white dogs. Black, white and yellow dogs. Black, white, yellow and brown dogs. They were a happy collection of dogs, and had long agreed among themselves who could beat whom, who could run faster than whom, who had the most fleas. From nine o'clock in the morning until noon they scratched. From noon until one they looked after their boys. From one until school was out at three they scratched.
These dogs did not welcome Genevieve. They were not jealous because she was a Golden Retriever and had papers to prove it, they didn't believe an animal with a shape like Genevieve was a dog. A Mexican hairless dog, one of those small dogs you can slip into your pocket, put his nose against Genevieve's nose, and what did she do, she rolled over on her back with her feet in the air. After that, there wasn't a dog who would have anything to do with Genevieve Trueheart.
The kids ask Tom, 'What's she good for?'
Tom knew the answer but he never told them. She was good for nothing.
'Boy! she's a ball of grease,' the kids said.
'She's a city dog,' Tom said.
'Why don't you leave her at home,' the kids said.
'Because my aunt gives me a dollar a week to walk her to school,' Tom said. A lie.
'Boy, oh, boy!' a kid said, 'I wouldn't be seen with her for two dollars a week.'
After school, Tom waited until all the others had left. He couldn't stand any more unkind words. He took his time going home. He had to. If he hurried Genevieve would sit down and yelp. They came to the woodland road. It was like a tunnel. The tall trees, the Douglas firs, the cedars and the hemlocks, all stretched branches over Tom's head. The air seemed cold even in summer. Owls liked the woodland road, and so did tree-frogs, and deer liked it when flies were after them, but Tom didn't like it much. He was always glad to get out of it and into the sunshine. Often when he walked along this road he had a feeling things were looking at him. He didn't mind Genevieve too much here. She was his company.
This day, Tom knew that something was looking at him. He had the feeling. And there it was!
There it was, all eight feet of it, crouched on a rock, above him, a great golden cat, a cougar, a Vancouver Island panther! Its tail was twitching. Its eyes burned green, burned yellow, burned bright. Its ears were flat against its head.
Tom's feet stopped. His blood and all his other juices tinkled into ice, and for a moment the whole world seemed to disappear behind a white wall. A heavy animal brushed against him, and at the shock of that, Tom could see again. It was Genevieve. She had sat down and, to rest herself, was leaning on his leg.
The cougar's ears were still flat, its eyes burning as if lighted candles were in them, it was still crouc
hed on the rock, still ready to spring.
Tom heard a thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, and he thought it was the sound of his heart, but it wasn't, it was Genevieve beating her tail against the gravel to show how happy she was to be sitting doing nothing. That made Tom mad. If she had been any kind of a dog she would have known about the cougar before Tom did. She should have smelt him. She should have been just out of reach of his claws and barking.
She should have been giving Tom a chance to run away. That's what Rusty would have done. But, no, not Genevieve, all she could do was thump her fat tail and look happy.
The cougar came closer. Inch by inch, still in a crouch, he had slid down the rock. Tom could see the movement in his legs. He was like a cat after a robin.
Tom felt sick, and cold, but his brain was working. I can't run, he thought, if I run he'll be on me. He'll rip Genevieve with one paw and me with the other. Tom thought too, that if he had a match he could rip pages from one of his school books and set them on fire, for he knew that cougars and tigers and leopards and lions were afraid of anything burning. He had no match because supposing his father ever caught him with matches in his pocket during the dry season, then wow and wow and wow! Maybe, he thought, 'if I had a big stone I could stun him'. He looked. There were sharp, flat pieces of granite at the side of the road where somebody had blasted.
The cougar jumped. It was in the air like a huge yellow bird. Tom had no trouble leaving. He ran to the side of the road and picked up a piece of granite.
Of course, when he moved, Genevieve Trueheart, who had been leaning against his leg, fell over. She hadn't seen anything. She lay there. She was happy. She looked like a sack of potatoes.
The cougar walked round Genevieve twice as if he didn't believe it. He couldn't recognise what she was. He paid no attention to Tom Hamilton. He had seen men before. He had never seen anything like Genevieve. He stretched his neck out and sniffed. She must have smelt pretty good because he sat down beside her and licked one of his paws. He was getting ready for dinner. He was thinking, Boy, oh, boy! This is a picnic.
Tom Hamilton could have run away, but he never. He picked up one of those sharp pieces of granite.
The cougar touched Genevieve with the paw he had been licking, friendly-like, just to know how soft the meat was. Genevieve stopped wagging her tail. She must have thought that the cougar's claws didn't feel much like Tom Hamilton's fingers. She lifted her head and looked behind her. There can be no doubt but that she was surprised.
Tom was ashamed of her. 'Get up and fight!' he yelled. Any other dog would fight. Rusty would have put his nips in before the cougar got finished with the job. But not Genevieve. She rolled over on her back and put her four fat feet in the air. She made noises that never had been heard. She didn't use any of her old noises.
The cougar was disgusted with the fuss Genevieve was making. He snarled. His ears went back. Candles shone in his green-yellow eyes. He slapped Genevieve between his paws like a ball.
Tom saw smears of blood on the road and pieces of Genevieve's hide in the cougar's claws. He still had a chance to run away. He never. He threw the piece of granite. He hit the cougar in its middle. The cougar turned, eyes green, eyes yellow.
How long the cougar looked at Tom, Tom will never know.
The sweet smell of Genevieve's chocolate-flavoured blood was too much for the cougar. He batted her about like a ball again. Tom picked up another piece of granite that weighed about ten pounds, and bang! He hit that cougar right in, the face.
The cougar fell on top of Genevieve. Then the cougar stood up and shook its head. Then it walked backwards like a drunken sailor.
And at that moment a bus full of lumberjacks who were going into town rounded the curve. The tyres screeched as the driver stopped it, and thirty big lumberjacks got out yelling like - well, you never heard such yelling, and the cougar quit walking backwards and jumped out of sight between two cedars.
What did Genevieve Trueheart do? That crazy dog waggled on her stomach down the road in the same direction the cougar had gone. She was so scared she didn't know what she was doing.
'Boy, oh, boy! that's some dog,' the lumberjacks said. 'She just won't quit. She's a fighter.'
'Yah!' Tom said.
'She's bleeding,' the lumberjacks said. 'She saved your life. We'd better get her to a doctor.'
They put Genevieve Trueheart and Tom Hamilton in the bus.
'Boy, oh, boy,' the lumberjacks said, 'a fighting dog like that is man's best friend.' 'Yah! Tom said.
The bus went right into Tommy's yard and the thirty lumberjacks told Tommy's mother and father and Aunt Prudence how Genevieve Trueheart, man's best friend, had saved Tommy.
'Yah!' Tommy said.
Then Aunt Prudence put an old blanket and old newspapers over the back seat of her car so that blood wouldn't drip into the fabric when she was taking Genevieve Trueheart to the horse, cow and dog doctor.
Aunt Prudence said, 'Now you know how much she loves you Tommy. She saved your life.'
'Yah!' Tommy said.
Over the Horizon (Galleanez, 1959)
The Girl who never knew Dad
A Head Teacher
AS A TEACHER I WAS OFTEN PUZZLED AS TO WHY ONE LITTLE girl in my class always looked so thoughtful and wistful.
When I told her class they could write an essay on any subject, she wrote under the title My Dad.
'I was not born, when my dad died. He was killed two days before Christmas. My mum was putting up the trimmings, when a policeman came to tell her. She took the trimmings down as soon as she had heard what had happened.
'My dad was killed down a pit. Some men were working with him. The roof fell in. The other men ran. My dad could not get away quick enough. He was digging some coal out of the ground, when it happened.
'My dad had promised my mother, brothers and sisters that, as soon as I was old enough, we were going to zambia.
My dad wanted to work in the mines there. He had planned everything.
'My mum never told me about all this until I was about eight years old. When she told me, I screamed and cried.
'I will always remember my dad. I have a photo of him and I put it under my pillow every night.'
As I read this, I realised how little we teachers in the big schools, coping with large classes, ever know about the children we teach, unless we find out by accident, as I did about this girl.
The Dam
Halliday Sutherland
IN MY TEENS, OUR SUMMER HOLIDAYS WERE SPENT IN THE northern Highlands, and at the age of thirteen I went with my sister, two years my junior, to stay with our granduncle, Robson Mackay, at Olrig Mains, Castleton, near Thurso. He was a retired merchant - a tall, white-bearded old man, and a strict Calvinist. His wife was slim and elderly, always dressed in plain black, with a black lace cap. Her expression was sad, and I cannot recall that she ever smiled.
We arrived in darkness, but the next morning I was out before breakfast to explore the possibilities of the place. By the side of a small bridge on the road a drive went up an incline to the old grey stone house, once a farmhouse. In a little valley on the left of the drive was a 'planting' - a cluster of small pines and bushes. This gave a certain distinction to the place; because on that level windswept soil, trees and hedges are seldom seen, and the fields, like those around Land's End, are hedged with flagstones set on edge.
There were no trees around the house, which stood among grass fields and overlooked a large hayfield in a shallow valley, about a hundred yards wide and a quarter of a mile long. At the foot of the hayfield, and shutting it off from the 'planting,' was a large structure which at first I mistook for a disused railway embankment crossing the valley. In front it was faced with large stones between which grass was growing, and in the centre of the valley it was about twenty feet high. The back of the embankment, three feet wide along the top, was overgrown by thick bushes. Altogether the prospect was not pleasing. There was no sign of a stream, a loch, or a pond
, one or other of which was essential to my happiness.
During the forenoon, I discovered at the corner of the hayfield, where the embankment joined the level ground next to the drive, the entrance to a tunnel. It was a square three-foot tunnel, the floor, walls and top being made of paving-stones. Into the tunnel I crept on hands and knees. For the first few yards there was dim light from the entrance, but soon the tunnel turned to the right, and I was in darkness. Somewhere in front of me a rat scuttled away. It was a pity I hadn't had a candle and matches, but no matter; I could creep backwards when I wished to return. I crept on until my head struck an obstacle. My hands discovered this to be a paving-stone, which had fallen from the roof, and was lying diagonally across the tunnel. I could not move the stone, but was able to wriggle over the top of it. Half-way over, hands and head on one side, feet and legs on the other side of the stone, I stopped. It would be difficult to crawl backwards over that obstacle, and I had no room to turn in the tunnel. Discretion was the better part of valour, and I decided to wriggle back. In a moment my jacket was hitched up under my armpits, and I was stuck.
I lay quite still, breathing heavily, and my heart was thumping. It was no use shouting, for no one would hear, and to struggle might make things worse. I must think, but all I could think was that I would die in the tunnel and never be found. No one would think of looking in the tunnel, although whenever a dog was lost the first place one looked for him was in a drain. After a time I saw what seemed to be a glimmer of fight some distance in front. At least I could go on, and the tunnel must come out somewhere. I wriggled forwards, got free of the fallen stone, crept on, turned to the left, and saw daylight. The tunnel emerged in a glade of the 'planting,' behind the embankment. An ideal pirate's lair, with its secret entrance through which I had come. In the middle of the glade was a little stream flowing from a circular brick tunnel at the foot of the embankment. To return to the house I could make my way through the brushwood on the banks of the glade, or through the tunnel. I hesitated. For a pirate there was only one way, and I returned as I had come. Soon the tunnel became quite familiar.