The Dog (8 page)

Something swirls up from the sludge -- he recognises it. It

settles -- he forgets but knows. He is just the hard mask over

vivid things remembered, elusive things forgotten.

He roams. A shape, grey fur and a black mask. White

patch on the neck. Eye slits. He roams through wisps of

memory, hovering over the soft brown sludge of oblivion.

The flutter of a wing, the flick of a sharp claw. He

crouches. Low to the ground, body taut, he sniffs from

behind the mask.

Lake water laps the stones, gently and rhythmically. The

yellow foam between water and stone contains the memory

of long, habitual licking, a rhythmic, murmuring memory

that will soon be effaced.

The pasture grass is dying back. Thick, rough stalks,

brown spotted leaves; coarse vegetation prevails. Faded blue

wolfsbane rustles in the wind near his ear. There's a sickly

sweet smell of decay from the dampness. The voles move

slowly in the wet, heavy grass. The dog listens for their

sounds.

His ears are alert and warm with blood. The cupped cartilage

with its fine fur quivers. His hearing shifts from short

to long distance, from what the wind carries to what is

drawn into it. Ragged fragments of sound attach to the

knowledge concealed deep within him.

Deep inside he has a core. It is his sun.

Throughout the spring and summer the cranesbill blossoms

in the pastures, the wolfsbane, the quaking grass and

the stitchwort flowers have all turned towards their sun. It

sent water through them, drew up salt and nutrients. Their

sun warmed them by day, putting them to sleep when it

set.

But he carries his sun inside. He moves with it. Even in

the dark of night it is there and it is what sends him out into

the marsh and what allows him to keep roaming on frosty

mornings, finding what he needs.

Late summer days arrived, bringing calm to the overgrown

pasture. Many voices were gone. Every night of frost

made the marsh a deeper yellow and the cloudberries more

faded. The berries no beaks had found dropped away, into

the mouldering humus.

Gusts blew in off the mountains, day after day, clearing

the air. He felt the bite of the wind as he lay in the sun at the

top of the rise behind the barn, squinting. The choppy

waves on the lake were like fangs.

The voles in the marsh had grown so sluggish it was difficult

for them to get away. He hunted up there most of the

time now, in spite of all the noise he made ploughing

through the meadowsweet. The wind whistled loudly in the

spruces. He didn't know much about what was happening

beyond the pasture. He was surrounded by noises that dulled

his memory. But he avoided the point and the lakeshore.

There were frostbitten, scent-laden mornings when he

could hear things far away. Sharp dog barks. Car doors slamming

and engines revving.

One morning a rifle shot whined in the distance. He

didn't understand it any more than he understood the sounds

of the cars. It shattered the crisp air with its whizz. Again.

And again. His ears buzzed for a long time.

By the time the wind had awakened the lake, making

long, dark waves on the surface, he had forgotten the shots.

But there were more uneasy days. The sounds from the

world on the other side of the rapids were sharper, more

sudden. The dogs over there knew something.

Beyond his own marsh, in the dense, old forest where the

wood grouse lived, and around the little bogs and the flat,

rocky areas, the peace was also disturbed. Moose crossed the

marshes on their way to higher ground. The pair of yearlings

went farther and farther afield. He heard loud blaring, the

trumpeting of the young bull moose. The female was being

pursued by a bigger moose the grey dog never saw. This bull

kicked up the ground and left his scent in the holes. The young

female evaded him, running in long loops with the trumpeting

young bull close behind, the big one never far away.

The dog listened in two directions. He didn't hunt much

now, day or night. The skin on his belly was so tight his tendons showed. Often he stood still, head cocked, trying to

make sense of the loud, unrecognisable noises. Hooves kicking

wet moss off stones. The dry sound of scraping antlers on

bark and wood. And in the far distance, from the other side

of the lake, the whizzing of rifle shots.

Early one morning in his old winter sleeping place

above the marsh, before either peeing or drinking water, he

was licking his paws and listening. Dawn was breaking over

the edge of the forest and the fog hovered over the treetops

like grey smoke. Although he wasn't about to get up, there

were sounds, still too far away to interpret, that disturbed

him.

He didn't dare go off among the little pines and crouch

down, though he needed to. If he licked his paws hard, the

noise of the licking blocked out the distant sounds altogether.

His ears had a respite, only to be assaulted anew, in

loud bursts, as soon as he paused. Eventually he did get up

and slink along the edge of the marsh towards the barn.

There he lay back down and took in the scents. But the light

breeze that was beginning to make the mist rise from the

marsh was coming from off the lake. The sounds were from

a different direction.

He didn't know what they were, but they seemed to be

growing louder and more frequent. There was something up

there along the ridges. It was in lots of places and he didn't

know what it Was, nor could he capture its scent.

Just then a fox skirted the marsh, running fast in a straight

line. Twice the ribbon of his red fur was visible. Then he was

gone. But the dog could tell he was fleeing. So he got up

and moved behind the barn. A raven screeched high in the

sky. It had seen something. Time after time it called out.

The dog heeded the warning and slipped down towards

the cleared area. He began to cross it at a brisk pace; the

wind was awakening, blowing off the lake. He didn't stop

until he reached the beaver tarn. There was silence, but it

wasn't a silence he trusted. He stood on the ridge above the

tarn, waiting for the fickle morning breeze to turn so he

could catch the scent of the danger coming from that direction,

from the edge of the forest where the birds were

making such a racket.

Then it came. A light, biting whiff to his sensitive nose.

The smell of smoke. He turned tail and fled.

All morning he ran, looking for a way out. Now he knew

the noise meant people. They had never before come from

up above. They usually kept their loud bursts of noise close

to the shore. They were being quiet, but little sounds that

were not part of his knowledge of the forest told him where they were. Loud rustling. Sharp banging. He was prickly

with fear when he worked out that there were many of them

and they were far apart in places he could not identify. As he

tried to get away, he kept encountering others who were

fleeing as well. Hares rushed past. Game birds rose noisily,

heading straight towards the lake, hurrying away from the

transformed forest.

A dog. Excited barking.

He went rigid, lowering his belly to the ground. Never

had he heard barking on this side. A thin yapping; it cohered

into a ribbon of noise in the air, rising and tailing. A dog

tracking its prey. Loud and shrill. Then it sank again, coming

closer.

He turned, bounding up the slope. Along with the

roaring in his ears he also heard a crackling sound. He never

saw the man, but from the band of trees beyond a little grassy

area, he caught a heavy scent. He changed direction again,

rushing back the same way he had come, the barking of the

dogs in his ears.

As he crossed the pasture he heard something large, running.

Loud panting. He lowered himself into the blanket of

leaves and grass so as not to be visible. The massive body

rushed closer. Very close to him, it abruptly changed course.

It was the bull moose. Mouth wide open, tongue stiff.

Inhaling and exhaling wheezily, gasping.

The moose was so close to him for an instant that the dog,

lying flat in the grass, felt as if he were being singed by the

smell and the bursts of air. As the moose rushed on towards

the point he no longer heard panting, only the cracking of

branches and brush. Just as the huge body plunged into the

water, a dog appeared.

He dashed silently through the pressed-down tracks in the

grass. When he reached the point he began to bark in a

high-pitched tone. This was the sound of a dog in pursuit,

almost a howl. The moment he reached the water the tone

changed. It grew deeper. He was telling someone what was

happening. He was wild with excitement. But he didn't

follow the bull moose as it swam off across the lake.

The grey dog was about to sneak back up the slope

towards the barn and beyond to make his escape, when a

shot resounded. It came from so close by it hurt his ears.

For a few moments his senses exploded. He remembered

nothing and was not aware of danger. When he could see

and hear again he found himself lying pressed up against the

trunk of a spruce.

He could feel the ground trembling from two directions.

Someone was there, on the other side of the spruce. Out in

the pasture a second moose was careering down the slope.

When the grey dog heard whoever was behind the spruce

make a rattling sound, he bolted. In a panic, he dashed

towards the point, following the moose, and crept under a

windfallen tree. From his hiding place he could see the

moose fall. He knew it must be the young female, though he

wasn't entirely familiar with her scent. Blood foamed around

her muzzle.

The black dog that had been pursuing the bull stopped

barking and ran quickly towards her. When she heard him

approaching she wobbled up and tried to reach the water.

Bright blood poured from her wounded lungs. When the

dog reached her she plunged forward and toppled heavily

into the lake.

The black dog barked, prancing along the shore.

Otherwise there was silence. The moose lay in the water like

a block of stone. Little waves sparkled and washed softly

around her body.

It remained quiet. The black dog whined softly, pacing. In

the trees, the birds that had gone silent now resumed their

activities. Soft peeping and chirping could be heard, as if a

new morning had dawned. The waves breaking on the shore

and the leaves crackling in the wind overpowered these

sounds. In the distance was the dull roar of the rapids, comforting

and lulling.

The grey dog didn't move. He was downwind from the

black one and took in his smell every time the other dog

moved. He also knew the whereabouts of the man who had

fired the shot. He was standing on the slope below the barn,

though he hadn't made any noise for a long time now.

When the dog had lain still so long his body ached, he

heard the man moving towards him. He was crossing the pasture,

making no effort to hide. When he arrived at the cabin

he stopped, putting down his rifle with a clatter. He continued

with a lighter, more cautious step. The black dog barked.

Out at the point, the man began walking slowly; the dog

could hear him breathing. He stopped right by the wind

fallen tree; the air was thick with his potent, compact smell.

Then he waded out into the water. The grey dog rose up

slightly on his stiff legs but did not dare flee. The black dog

was still close by.

The man began to speak. There was static and beeping

from his walkie-talkie. After a while he hung it on the branch

of a birch tree, leaning his rifle against the trunk. There was

rattling and rustling, followed by the smell of smoke.

The fire burned on the shore of the lake between two

rocks. The man just sat idle, but he kept making sounds.

After a while the water in the sooty aluminum coffee pot

began to hum.

The dog lying under the windfallen tree listened without

understanding. Many of the sounds were familiar from the

fishing spots. They had reached him on the wind on bright

nights and he had not forgotten them. They were frightening.

He wanted to get away.

The unfamiliar male dog sat completely still beside the

man's backpack. His short coat gleamed. His eyelids were

heavy in the warmth of the fire but his ears were pricked as

if he were listening to something at a great distance.

The grey dog heard the sounds too. Other people were

coming down. Soon voices could be heard from the pasture.

He crept as far in towards the tumble of upturned roots as he

could.

He couldn't attempt an escape without moving in the

direction of the approaching men. There were too many of

them and he didn't know exactly where each one was. Deep

voices could be heard from all directions, the clang of metal