Page 4 of Black Dog

A stream of gray light was filtering into the den and she could make out shapes, if not the features, of the wolves. Since it was still too dark to see Helm clearly, she used her hands for eyes and felt all over his body. Everything was there; ten fingers and toes. Last she gently ran her fingers over his face. When she touched the tiny, beautifully shaped point of his ear, a sob bubbled up from nowhere.

In a few more minutes it was light enough to see around her. The legs part of the pants she'd been sitting on had partially dried overnight in the winter air. She pulled the pants out from beneath her and arranged the dry parts next to her so she could lay Helm down.

The wolves were clearly curious and wanted to come close enough to investigate. At one point Flame got close enough to lick the placenta and Blackie almost took her face off. She yelped/whined as she scurried back and then licked her muzzle; a sign of submission.

Elora removed the puffy coat, her red knit sweater, and the knit cami she had worn underneath that. If she could crawl to the underground stream, she could wash him properly, but she had to have one arm to support her weight and one arm to hold the baby and her shoulder was beyond being able to do either one. So she used the soft cotton cami and the two wipes she had in her coat pocket to clean Helm up as best she could.

She didn't know what to do about the umbilical cord, but instinct told her she needed to do something. So she took a shoe lace out of one of her boots and tied off the cord a few inches from the baby's beautiful and brand-new-to-the-world, little body. Then she chewed the cord in two on the other side of the knot she had made.

She tossed the ruined cami away, wrapped him in the sweater and put her puffy back on. Leaning back against the rock that had been her birthing bed, she placed the baby on her chest, and pulled the puffy closed over both of them.

"Don't worry, Helm. Daddy's coming. I can feel it."

Exhausted in the truest sense of the word, she fell asleep again.

Elora jerked awake when she heard Blackie barking. She had her arms around something... She had her arms around her sweet baby!

Thank you for letting me live to hold him.

Was that voices? Someone calling Blackie? She put her free hand out and touched the dog's back.

"Shhhh. Let me listen."

Blackie instantly quieted.

Fourteen years later.

CHAPTER ONE

It was Yule Eve, but Blackie didn’t know that when he climbed the hill to his favorite spot. He didn’t trot or run, as he’d been known to do in his younger days. He ambled, telling himself that hecouldtrot or run if he was so inclined. He just didn’t feel like it that minute.

He was ancient for a big dog, but his mistress had pleaded with Monq to give the dog the same super-rich supplements that had been developed for knights. The supplements kept the knights at the peak of physical perfection and health – no need for flu shots, but there was a side effect that was one of the Order’s best kept secrets. It slowed the aging process. Not permanently, of course. Blackie was still well over middle-aged, but physically he was not yet ten.

The hill above the Laiken kennel and farm had the very best view of the surroundings. When he was there he could imagine himself to be protector of all he surveyed; his people, the land, the wolf dogs.

There’d been a light snow the day before, but the morning’s bright sun had melted a small clearing that formed a patch of bright green grass. Bright sun was unusual in northern Ireland at that time of year, but dogs don’t analyze changes in weather or atmospheric conditions. They simply accept what is and adapt as best they can. When the sun shines warm on old bones, they accept it.

After stopping at a patch of green, where the sun broke through clouds now and then, and turning in a circle three times, Blackie sunk down into a sphinx-like pose and indulged himself in a satisfied sigh.

Being the exceptional dog that he was, Blackie’s memory was better than most. The catalog of mental pictures that formed his history and experience was not chronological, but it was intact. He knew that he’d been mistreated at one time. He knew that he’d been rescued and redeemed by a mistress who didn’t smell like the other two-legged creatures. He knew that he’d been singularly devoted to her until the birth of a tiny male who smelled a lot like his mistress. At that point his devotion was expanded to include the elfling.

Helm.

It was a name Blackie could almost speak out loud. Certainly he’d tried often enough. Though his vocalizations didn’t sound exactly like ‘Helm’, the elfing always recognized his name in Blackie’s throat and responded with laughter. Sometimes laughter and a treat. And nothing in the world was better than Helm’s laughter and a treat.

He sat on the hill that looked down on the parcel of earth that he thought of as his farm. The casual observer would say he was overlooking the farm, but in Blackie’s mind he was overseeing his farm. His raison d'etre was protection, take care of the mistress and her elflings – at any cost. But there was lots of time to pass in between instances of demonstrating his prowess as guard extraordinaire. Sometimes years in fact.

During those times of passive duty, he enjoyed the peace and tranquility of a semi-retirement well earned.

Perhaps old dogs do what old people do. They divide their reveries between recollection and remorse. Because even the best of us could have done things better. If an exception to that existed, it might be Blackie. Because he had never failed to give his whole heart and effort to any given task in any given moment. Perhaps dogs as smart as Blackie are like humans, recalling this corner of a moment or that fragment of a song at odd and inexplicable times.

Blackie melted onto his side and curled up for a little nap. In seconds he was dozing. When a crow flew low and gave him a single scolding ‘caw’, he opened one eye. As he did he continued to see the images he’d been dreaming; a bitter cold day with icy rain in a forest. He was hurt. So was his mistress. He was limping as she crawled. He thought maybe he extended his neck enough to give her a tentative lick of encouragement on the cheek.

As he was dozing off he heard one of the wolf-dog pups aim nose to sky and howl. And he remembered the wolves in the dolmen den where Helm had been born, shadowy images of a time long ago.

At fourteen, Helm was almost six feet tall and bragging that soon he’d be able to look down at his da.

Elora would be quick to reply to that kind of talk by saying, “You will never be able to look down at your father if you grow to be ten feet tall.” One day Ram had stopped just outside the kitchen door to hear that exchange. His heart never ceased to swell with emotion when he heard his mate reaffirm that she was glad the Powers That Be had seen fit to make them a pair. And he thought the world would be a better place if everyone woke up next to someone who thought they were the prize.

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