DOGLANDS
Özel ilgim ve hassasiyetim olan bir konuda yazılmış harika bir kitap. Türünün ender örneklerinden. Köpeklerin çektiklerine yine köpeklerin gözünden dramatik bir bakış. Richard Adams'ın "Plague Dogs" kitabından beri bu meseleyle ilgili okuduğum en iyi roman.
NOTLAR
The Doglands are everywhere and nowhere Because dogs are
everywhere and nowhere They live in a world they do not rule But sometimes With
the winds A dog will run This is his tale …
Dedbone’s Hole
Furgul: Brave
Nessa, Eena, Brid
The Traps: Dog catchers
Skyver (çok komik bir köpek – atıp tutuyor sonra sıvışıyor gizlice)- Zinni – Brennus
The Dog Bunch
Sapphire Breeze: Keeva
Brid is lost and the other two sisters were dead
Cogg and Bazz (Schanuzers) ikilisi (memurlar)
Doglines
Tic and Tac: İşbirlikçi köpekler. Bulmastiffs and 5 puppies.
Dedbone and Gambler
Dervla –Tic, Brennus-Tac, Cogg and Bazz 5 puppies.
They just disappeared. And they never came back.
Keeva said, “You’ll be a big dog, but you won’t be the
biggest. You’ll be strong, but you won’t be the strongest. You’ll be fast, but
you won’t be the fastest. That’s why you’ll have to be the bravest.”
“Argal just appeared one day, like a legend, like a ghost,
like a vision. He saw me win a race at the track and he fell in love. He risked
his life to spend one night with me.” Keeva’s eyes grew misty. “He was the
fiercest, handsomest, fightingest dog I ever saw. He was crazy and fearless and
wild.”
Keeva shrugged. “Your father is like the wind. He goes
wherever he chooses and he does whatever he likes.”
“Argal doesn’t have a master,” said Keeva. “He’s free.”
Furgul frowned. “What does ‘free’ mean?” “I don’t know,” said Keeva. A troubled
look came over her face. “Argal tried to explain it to me—something to do with
what he called the Doglands.” “The Doglands?” Furgul felt the fur on his back
stand up on end. The word sang in his blood. “What did Argal say?” “I wasn’t
really listening. I was in love.” “Where are the Doglands?” asked Furgul. “I
don’t know that either,” said Keeva. Confusion and pain clouded her eyes. She
looked out between the bars of the cage in which all five of them had to lie
day and night in their own pee. She gazed out beyond the high wire fence, past
the rusting heaps of trash in the yard, to the mountain on the far blue
horizon. “Maybe the Doglands are somewhere out there.” Furgul looked at the
mountain. He felt as if his heart had just grown bigger. “I’m going to be
free,” he said. “Like Argal.”
 |
| Tim Willocks |
“Argal was a mixture of greyhound and wolfhound,” said
Keeva. “The masters call that a crossbreed—or a mongrel, or a mutt. The masters
don’t like mutts. I don’t know why. They only like pure breeds, with pure
bloodlines, which they call pedigrees.
“Argal said he was a lurcher, which means a thief.” Furgul
liked the sound of that much better. He cheered up. “A thief?” “The masters
won’t feed lurchers,” said Keeva, “so Argal became an outlaw. To survive he had
to steal his food or kill other animals, like rabbits. That’s what you’ll have
to do when you’re free. You see, you’re a lurcher too.”
Eena died imediately, Nessa was shot while escaping
“Furgul?” said Nessa. Her voice was hoarse and feeble. “I’m
sorry, I can’t go on anymore. Let me go to sleep here. You go on by yourself.
I’ll be all right.” He found her lying down in the dark. Even though his tongue
was dry, he licked her face. Poor Nessa. She was the runt of the litter, and
she was even more badly injured than he was. She had been so brave to come this
far. Furgul felt like crying, but he had no water left in his eyes for the
tears.
Then a strange wind came from the tunnel behind him. It
almost seemed to blow him along. It made Furgul feel as if he could run
forever. And from somewhere on that wind—as if a ghost had whispered to his
soul—Furgul heard the call of the Doglands. “You’re the dog who runs in
darkness,” said the wind.
“Are we in the Doglands?” asked Nessa. Furgul was so sad he
could hardly speak. “Yes,” he said. “We must be.” “I wish Mama and Eena and
Brid could be here too.” “They’ll be here soon,” he said, “you’ll see.” Nessa
said, “I’ve never been anywhere so beautiful.” “Neither have I.” Nessa laid her
head back on the shore of the lagoon. She looked at him. She said, “I love you,
Furgul.” Furgul said, “I love you too.” Nessa smiled and closed her eyes. Her
body went limp. Furgul nuzzled her throat to try to wake her again. But the
scent of life had vanished from her body. Furgul choked with emotion. Nessa had
never harmed anyone. She wouldn’t even fight for her food at the stinking
troughs. She was kind and gentle and sweet. And now she was dead. Furgul wanted
to cry, but he clenched his jaws and stopped his tears from falling. He
promised himself he would never cry again. Instead, a mighty anger rose inside
his chest. The masters had done all this. So many cruel things they had done.
To Keeva and Nessa and Eena and Brid. To all the poor greyhounds they shut away
in crates and bullied to race at the track. To all the greyhounds and lurchers
they had shot and dumped in the chasm. Furgul decided he wasn’t going to die.
He was so angry, he was going to live. And he made himself a solemn promise.
One day, when I grow up, I’ll set Keeva free. I’ll set all the greyhounds free.
I’ll return to Dedbone’s Hole, and I’ll set the wrong things right. Furgul
craned his neck back and let out a long and terrible howl. The howl was full of
mourning and full of anguish and full of rage. It echoed through the belly of
the mountain and through the cavern and through the tunnels and through the
solid, hard and timeless rock itself. And the mountain’s heart was so sad that
drops of water fell from the witch’s fingers, as if the mountain wanted to cry
instead of Furgul.
The crystal cavern was Nessa’s tomb. A beautiful tomb, but a
tomb just the same. A tomb felt like death; the river felt like life.
And Furgul realized that, despite himself, their fear had
seeped into his bones. The fear of losing the comfort and the safety that was
his reward for betraying his own true nature.
The worst of it was that Furgul knew that the masters
thought they were doing the right thing. They thought they were stopping a
fight. They couldn’t see beyond their own fear—their own fear of not being
perfect dog owners, with perfect dogs. They couldn’t see what was obvious—that
Furgul and Dervla were soul mates.
Somewhere deep inside he still wondered what it would be like
to be wild. And in the soul of every dog Furgul imagined there lingered the
forgotten legend—the lost dream, the long-abandoned memory—of the Doglands.
Skyver. “Well, I’ve been told I’m the scruffiest dog in the
world, but you don’t hear me bragging about it, do you? Everyone’s equal in the
Needles. Five days to live, or five days to die, whether you’re a purebred
pedigree, the son of the son of the son of a mongrel’s son—like me—or a
lurcher.” “What do you mean?” asked Zinni. “Once you’re in the Needles, you’ve
got only two ways out,” said Skyver. “Either you get lucky and some dog lover
rescues you because she thinks you’re cute—which in your case, Furgul, is a
long shot because most people think that greyhounds are vicious and insane
killing machines that will run down anything that moves.” “Or?” asked Furgul.
“Or what?” “What’s the second way out of the Needles?” “Oh,” said Skyver. “Or
you leave in the back of the truck for the incinerator.”
“There is a third way out,” said Tess. “Your owner can come
and claim you. That’s what mine will do. I’ve been in there four times. I’ll be
home tomorrow in time for lunch.” “You’ve got a name tag and collar, Tess,”
said Skyver. “Furgul here hasn’t.”
He had the rough red coat of an Irish wolfhound, but his
huge head was shaped more like a lurcher’s. Keeva had told Furgul something of
the history of the wolfhounds. They had roamed the wild Doglands for thousands
of years, in the old times long before masters—before fire, before the wheel,
before collars and leashes and muzzles. They had fought for the ancient Celts
as dogs of war. They had struck fear into the ancient Romans. They’d even
fought and killed lions in the arena. They had fought against the English and
dragged the knights in armor from their horses. They’d killed wolves and wild
boars. In those long-gone days the wolfhound had no equal on the earth. The
great hound outside the truck fought against three of the nooses on poles that
were looped around his neck. Each pole was held by two Traps, and the dog was so
strong he almost pulled all six of them off their feet. He rolled his huge
shoulders and strained the muscles in his neck. His jaws gaped open, panting
for air. Blood gleamed on his fangs. Behind him another man locked a chain
around his ankles. Then all seven of them tried to manhandle the mighty hound
into the truck. Even though he was choking, the hound dug his paws into the
ground and would not move. “It is him,” gasped Skyver,
Argal: “Strange winds,” said the hound. “Strange winds blow
us here tonight.”
“Yes. I’m your father. Wildness flows in your veins where
blood should run. And that will make your road in life tougher than you can
imagine. It already has, otherwise you wouldn’t be locked in that cage with
only five days left to live.” Argal’s face came closer to the bars. If pieces
of flint could have burned like coals, such would his eyes have looked like.
They were cold yet full of fire. “Think hard, son,” he said. “Are you ready for
such a life? For the hungry days and the lonely nights? For the killing, the
fighting, the scavenging? Living on the run, hiding in the dark, waiting for
the Traps to come? If you try to live without a collar, every man will turn his
hand against you. Are you sure that’s the way you want it to be?” Furgul
thought hard, though he already knew the answer. “If you’re smart,” said Argal,
“you’ll turn away from the wild and rambling road. You’ll take my advice. Learn
how to please the masters. Flatter their vanity. Learn how to live with their
whims and their rules. Love them if you can—and if you can’t, pretend to.
Quench the fire that burns inside and live a long, comfortable, well-fed life.
Be a pet.”
 |
| Tim Willocks |
“Hello, Brennus,” said Argal. “Hard times.” “I’ve known
better,” said Brennus. “And I’ve known worse too.” Argal looked at the dreadful
wounds on Brennus’s body. “So I see.” “My master locked me in a dark cellar,
for months. He never said why.” Argal’s face darkened with rage and
sorrow at seeing such a noble dog brought low. “Some of them
don’t need a ‘why,’ ” he said. “They just like being mean.” “Why did they
cut your ear off?” asked Furgul. “I had a tattoo in my ear—a number,” said
Brennus. “My master didn’t want the Traps to be able to trace me back to him,
or he’d be in trouble. I pretended to be nearly dead, which was easy enough. He
threw me on a garbage dump to die.” Furgul didn’t know what to say. Brennus
gave him a wink with his one good eye. “At least in here they feed me well and
let me see the sunshine in the exercise yard.” Brennus looked at Argal. “But
you look fighting fit, as always.” Argal nodded. “For what good it’ll do me.
This is my last shout.” “That’s hard to believe,” said Brennus. “Believe it,”
said Argal. “The wild and rambling road ends here.” “You ran with the winds for
longer than most,” said Brennus. There was something haunted in his huge green
eye. “And at least they never broke your spirit.” “Chin up, Brennus. There’s
nothing wrong with you that a few raw steaks won’t cure.” “Right. They serve me
T-bones three times a day,” said Brennus. “Speaking of red meat, how’s your
brother, Sloann?” “Haven’t seen Sloann in years,” said Argal. “Don’t even know
if he’s alive.” “Sloann?” Damaged though he was, Brennus almost laughed.
“Sloann’s not like the rest of us. He’s not even like you. Of course he’ll be
alive.” “Sloann was always one to bite first and ask questions later.” “Sloann
never asks questions,” said Argal.
Furgul felt a great anger and a great sorrow swelling
through his chest. How could such lordly dogs as Brennus and Argal be treated
with such disrespect and brutality? He found himself baring his teeth, but he
didn’t growl in case he disturbed the Saint Bernard. He found Argal looking at
him. Argal didn’t speak. “Why are humans so cruel to us?” asked Furgul. “What
have we done to hurt them?” “We’ve done nothing to hurt them,” growled Argal.
“All we’ve done is to be their most faithful companions for thousands of years.
We protected their children, their homes, their farms. We herded their cattle
and sheep. We showed them how to hunt. We fought in their wars. When they were
lost, we guided them home. We put food in their mouths when they were hungry,
and we saved their lives when they were dying. We even wiped out our
brothers—the wolves—for the benefit of men and to our shame because men asked
us to do it. Now we capture their criminals and sniff for their dangerous
explosives and poisonous drugs. The rich use us to make them look even richer,
and beggars use us to help them pay for their booze. In their darkest nights we
bring them comfort. In their brightest days we bring them joy. We’ve given the
human race more love than any other creature on this earth. They even have the
nerve to call us man’s best friend.” He looked about the death house. He looked
at Furgul. “And this is our reward.”
“What you must understand is that it’s not just us dogs.
Humans exploit all animals. We’ve all got something that they want. They
exploit all of nature’s bounty. They believe that the earth was created just
for them. They take and use the things they want, and when those things are
worn out—or when they just get bored—they throw them away. Of all living
things, humans are the most greedy, the most ruthless, the most selfish, the
most deceitful. That’s why they rule the world. And the most terrible truth of
all is that they treat each other with even more cruelty, dishonesty and
stupidity than they treat us dogs. They shackle us with muzzles and collars and
chains, yes. But the chains men hang upon each other—and upon themselves—are
stronger than the bars of this prison.” Furgul stared into Argal’s eyes, and in
them he saw all the suffering that Argal had endured. He saw the genius that
enabled him to understand so much. He saw the defiance that had kept him alive
for so long in a world that was out to break him. He saw why Argal was a king
among dogs—a king among all living things. A king who had never been crowned
but who had made himself a king through his life and his deeds and the courage
that burned in his heart. Then Furgul realized he was the son of a king and he
was scared. “Be brave,” said Argal.
Argal said, “But despite all I’ve told you, my advice hasn’t
changed. Be a pet.” “After everything you’ve told me? Why?” “There’s no
dishonor in being a pet,” said Argal. “Most of the happiest dogs alive are
pets. I’d even say that most masters, in their hearts, are decent and kind. If
they don’t know how to treat us right, it’s because they don’t understand us.
The shame of it is, they don’t try. But I don’t want you to end up like me. If
you take the wild and rambling road, then sooner or later it will bring you
right back here—to a filthy cell, in a prison, waiting to die.” “I want to run
with the winds,” said Furgul. “Do you know what the winds are?” asked Argal.
Furgul shook his head. Argal closed his eyes and raised his snout. A low,
rhythmic growl arose from his throat, an ancient chant. The fur on Furgul’s
back stood on end, and he sensed the other prisoners stirring in their cages,
roused by the dog song that none had ever heard but which all of them had known
all their lives. Argal sang: “When leaves die they turn into earth. When
mountains die they fall into the sea. When stars die they turn into darkness.
When dogs die they join the winds.” Furgul felt his throat go tight, and from
the sniffles he heard from the other cages he was not alone. The song pierced
his heart. Argal fell silent and looked at him. “Furgul, have you ever felt
that wind in your hair—that special wind—that makes you feel like you could
fly? That makes you feel as if you’ve been alive for ten thousand years? And
that you’ll live for ten thousand more?” Furgul remembered the eerie wind in
the tunnels of Dogsnout Mountain. “Yes!” said Furgul. “Yes!” “That wind is the
spirit of a free dog passing by. If you run with the winds when you’re alive,
then when you die, as the dog song tells us, you join the winds. You become the
winds. You are the winds.” “So a free dog doesn’t die forever?” “A free dog
never dies. He only moves on.”
“Dad?” asked Furgul. “Where are the Doglands?” Argal studied
him. “Who told you about the Doglands?” “Keeva did. She didn’t really tell me
about them. She just said that that was where you came from, and that no one
knew the Doglands as well as you did. I want to find them again—but I don’t
know where they are.” “The Doglands are everywhere—and nowhere.” “I don’t
understand,” said Furgul. “The Doglands are right here, in this prison.” Furgul
was stunned. He looked around at the squalid cages, the stained walls, the
filthy gutters. He heard the sighs and groans of the captive dogs. “In here? I thought
the Doglands were wild and free, with mountains and rivers and trees and
wide-open spaces.” “Those are the Doglands too,” said Argal. “But I’ve seen
them,” said Furgul. “I smelled them. I felt them.” “I know you did. Because the
Doglands are here”—Argal raised a massive paw and put it on Furgul’s chest—“in
your heart. Every dog whose heart is free knows the Doglands. Whether we’re
pets or strays or prisoners. We carry the Doglands inside us, wherever we go.”
Furgul started to understand. “Even in death?” “Especially in death,” said
Argal. “That’s why death will never hold me.” Furgul had a terrible thought. He
said, “When Keeva talked about the Doglands, she sounded as if she’d never been
there.” He looked at Argal. Argal looked grave. “No,” he said. “I don’t think
she ever has.” He saw the expression on Furgul’s face. “It’s hard for
greyhounds. From the moment they’re born, the masters work hard to crush their
spirits. You escaped before they could crush yours.”
Argal turned to Furgul. “We’ve said our long goodbyes, so
let’s make this one short. Keep your tail up.” “I’ll help you fight them,” said
Furgul, his blood rising. “Let’s do them all!” “No,” said Argal. “It’s time to
be strong inside.” He licked Furgul’s face. Furgul struggled to be strong inside,
for Argal. “And remember,” said Argal, “we two shall meet again. On the winds.”
Furgul’s throat was so tight he couldn’t speak. He licked Argal’s face. “Tell
Keeva that I always loved her.” Furgul rose on his hind legs and leaned on the
bars. His eyes met Argal’s. “I’ll tell her. I promise.” Argal turned and walked
away down the cellblock, tail held high. The Traps and the Vet trudged along in
dishonor behind him.
Argal looked about the cellblock, at the faces of the dogs
who would live and the faces of the dogs who would die. He wagged his tail in
salute. Then, down the length of the walkway, he looked at his son, Furgul, for
the last time. Their eyes met. Furgul felt Argal’s heart reach out across the
gray and grimy flagstones. He felt his courage and defiance. He felt his power
to understand. He felt the living essence of the wild and rambling road.
“Farewell to the king,” whispered Furgul. Brennus heard him, and took up the
cry. “FAREWELL TO THE KING!” The captive dogs howled in unison. “FAREWELL TO THE
KING!” Then Argal turned away. Furgul watched Argal walk into the Death House
with his killers. The black door clanged shut. Furgul couldn’t take his eyes
off it. And silence fell once again across the Needles.
“Can you feel it?” asked Furgul. “What?” asked Skyver. “The
wind.” The wind was getting stronger and stronger. “That’s Argal’s spirit
passing by,” said Furgul. “Yes,” said Skyver, his ears flapping in the wind. “I
feel it. It is him!”
(Jodi) (Vetliği dayanamayıp bırakmış) “She’s what we call a
Dog Talker,” said Brennus. “It’s only the second time I’ve ever met one. There
aren’t many around. She speaks dog tongue—a kind of dog tongue anyway. It’s
odd, but it works.
“Take your positions,” he ordered. “Brennus, you and I and
the big dogs charge in the front line. The Traps will shoot at us first. Zinni,
your gang will charge right behind us. While the Traps are reloading their
guns, go for their ankles. Skyver—Skyver?” Furgul looked about. Skyver suddenly
seemed six inches shorter. He was crawling on his belly toward the rear of the
gang of mutts. He stopped. “I’m going undercover!” said Skyver. “I’m planning a
sneak attack!”
Chuck Chumley – The Dog food tycoon – göstermelik hayvansever
“Which one is
Skyver?” “He’s the tattiest, mangiest, dirtiest, scruffiest, craftiest,
greediest dog you ever saw.”
Furgul loved the freedom of Appletree, but as time passed he
found it hard to settle down. His soul was restless. The wild and rambling
road, for all its dangers, was where he felt he belonged. And
Sometimes he went hungry. He became hard and lean and tough.
The other dogs thought he was crazy, and perhaps he was. Sometimes he missed
the comfort of living with the pack, but he knew it would weaken his resolve.
Furgul was always preparing for the day when he’d return to Dedbone’s Hole and
free Keeva. Brennus became a great mentor. The wise old Saint Bernard taught
him many things about the human world and schooled him in the lore of the
Doglands. He showed Furgul how to find his way at night by looking at the Dog
Star—the brightest in all the sky. He explained how the phases of the moon
might affect a dog’s moods, which meant that certain days were better than
others for getting certain things done—or for exploring certain thoughts and
feelings. He talked about the theory of the Doglines—“the paw prints of the
ancestors”—which form a web of invisible pathways that wander all over the
earth. These days most modern dogs had never even heard of the Doglines, but
Brennus told him all he knew. He also told him legendary tales about the life
and times of Argal. Argal had been a king, but Brennus was a shaman, and he
instructed Furgul in secrets that even Argal hadn’t known. When Furgul
struggled with the urge to search for Keeva, Brennus would say, “Be patient and
wait for your moment. For your moment will come. And remember that you have to
see it, for it’s easily missed.”
Argal: When you’re scared is the only time you really need
to be brave.
Argal: A muzzle takes away your teeth, but look around—there
are teeth everywhere.
(Dervla) The devil dog was a stunning German shepherd, but
instead of coming at Furgul, she went straight for Freak’s throat and sunk her
teeth in. With one savage twist of her head she left Freak panting his last in
the blood-slaked dirt. She whirled and sprang at Lunk, who was too shocked with
horror to move. A second later Lunk lay dying too. The shepherd turned on
Gremlin with the gore of both victims dripping from her fangs.
Dervla said, “I don’t believe in anything anymore. Except
killing.”
Dervla: “You don’t understand,” she said. “When they muzzle
you and tie you up and then beat you with that rod—day after day, night after
night—a time comes when you just can’t take it anymore. You’ll do anything not
to be beaten again. Anything at all.”
As the truck swerved around a bend and cleared the trees, a
black silhouette emerged against the skyline. It was tall evening sky as if it
wanted to touch the clouds. Furgul had seen that same silhouette as a pup, and
he’d never forgotten it. The spirits of Eena and Nessa dwelled inside that
stony tomb, along with those of countless hounds who had never known the
Doglands. He wondered how many more had since been added to the hill of dead.
Back then the shape of the towering rocks had made him think of a dog’s head
and snout. And it still did. But now, from this new angle, it didn’t look like
just any dog. With the jaws of its jagged double peak gaping open as if roaring
in defiance at the heavens, it looked like Argal. From now on, thought Furgul,
I’m going to call it Argal’s Mountain. And if Argal’s Mountain was just over
there, it meant that Dedbone’s Hole could not be too far away.
He stepped closer. Keeva tried to lick his face, but the
muzzle stopped her. Furgul licked her cheek instead. She crooned with emotion.
Tattoo gave the chain a brutal tug and cursed him. Furgul ignored it. Keeva
looked at the shotgun scars on Furgul’s body, and the scars on his face left by
Tic, the bullmastiff. She trembled, trying not to cry. “All this time,” she
said. “I thought you were dead.” “I escaped, just like you told me to,” said
Furgul. “Just like you said Argal would do. Brid escaped too, but I don’t know
where she is.” “And Eena? And Nessa?” Furgul swallowed. “Eena and Nessa have
gone.” For a moment Keeva turned away. “I’m sorry, Mam,” said Furgul. “I tried
my best.” “I’m not blaming you, Furgul. I’m just so happy to see you alive.”
Keeva glanced up at Tattoo. She tried to hide her horror that such an obviously
vile man was Furgul’s owner. “Don’t worry about Tattoo, Mam,” he said. “He
won’t hold me much longer. And when I get away from him, I’m going to come to
Dedbone’s Hole and set you free. I’ve wanted to do it for a long time—ever
since Nessa died in the crystal cavern.” Keeva looked even more horrified. “No,
no, Furgul. You must never come back to the Hole. There are even more Bulls—Tic
and Tac had a litter. The Gambler lives there all the time now. And Dedbone is more
vicious than ever.” “All the more reason to get you out. Then I can show you
the Doglands.” “Oh, Furgul,” said Keeva. “The Doglands are just a fairy tale to
make pups feel happy. They don’t really exist.” “Yes, they do,” said Furgul.
“I’m in the Doglands here, right now, because the Doglands are in my heart.” He
could see that Keeva almost pitied him for believing in such nonsense. “It’s
hard to understand,” said Furgul, “but Argal explained it to me.” Keeva stared
at him. “You’ve met Argal?” “Yes. He told me to tell you that he always loved
you.” Keeva struggled to contain the powerful feelings tearing through her. “We
only spent a few hours together, in the Needles,” said Furgul. “But he’s still
with me. He’ll always be with me. If I could show you the Doglands, he’d be
with you too. He’s still out there—on the winds.” “You’re talking as if he’s
dead,” whispered Keeva. “Only in this world, Mam. A free dog never dies. He
only moves on. He gave his life so that other dogs could be free. Dogs like me
and Brennus and Zinni.” “Argal spun those tales for me too,” said Keeva. “The
winds, the Doglands. No one could tell a story like Argal. That’s why I loved
him.” “They’re not just stories,” said Furgul. “If I could show you how to run
with the winds, you’d know that.” “I know about the winds,” said Keeva. “Racers
talk about them all the time. If they blow in your face, they slow you down. If
they blow from behind, you run faster. Just like a wet, muddy track makes you
run slower than a hard, dry track. Weather conditions, that’s all. The winds
are just strong air moving though the sky.” Furgul almost wanted to bark with
frustration. He’d never convince her here—in the paddock, at the track, in the
very bowels of the racing system. Her brain as well as her body was ruled by
this system. She’d been born and trained to be its slave. She’d never known
anything else. More than anything else she was Dedbone’s slave. Argal had been
right about Keeva. She wasn’t free inside. She didn’t carry the Doglands in her
heart.
“You came back,” said Dervla. “I couldn’t leave my best
friend chained up to a truck,” said Furgul. “You came back for me?” Furgul
grinned. But Dervla’s face remained haunted. “The Dog Who Never Smiles,” he
said. Furgul stepped closer. Dervla backed away. “Don’t get yourself in
trouble,” she said. “Tattoo and Spotty might see you.” “Spotty’s in his mobile
home. Tattoo’s having trouble with scorpions.”
Dervla craned back her powerful neck. Her jaws opened wide
toward the moon. The howl that was torn from her throat froze Furgul’s blood,
yet at the same time his eyes filled with tears. It started low, from deep
inside her, and rose into a cry from the wounds inflicted on her heart.
Dervla’s howl expressed her rage at being tortured for so long. But it was also
a lament of guilt and shame for allowing them to rob her of her dignity. The
melancholy howl soared skyward. And when her lungs were empty, it soared on
still, as if the cosmos would echo to its sound until the end of time. And her
howl summoned the pack as if from nowhere, as in days of old. Heavy footfalls
drummed across the carnival. Furgul’s instinct told him who they belonged to,
but he couldn’t believe it. He turned. Pounding across the fairground—his paws
leaving shallow craters in the dirt—came Brennus. From the blackness beneath
the roller coaster came a yap—and Zinni pelted toward them. From somewhere
above came a familiar voice. “It’s okay, Furgul!” said Skyver. “I’ll get you
out of here!” Furgul looked up as Skyver skipped down from the top of the truck.
As he landed in front of Dervla, he attempted a flashy pirouette and fell flat
on his face. “Ooohff!” gasped Skyver. “That usually works perfectly.” Brennus
and Zinni hauled up. “What are you doing here?” asked Furgul.
Skyver retreated to Furgul’s side and whispered, “I think
she likes me.” “This is a bad place,” said Brennus. He, too, sensed the twisted
essence of the fairground beneath his paws. “We should leave.”
here so fast?” said Brennus. “We should still be panting our
way toward the far side of this mountain.” Furgul shrugged. “We’re a tough,
fit, wild bunch of dogs.” “Not if you include me.” Brennus smiled. “At least,
not the fit part. We did it because you led us along a Dogline. And you didn’t
even know it. Did you?” Furgul shook his head. “It just felt like the best way
to go. But it felt nothing like that—thing—that just went through me. What was
that?” “I’m not sure. The knowledge of Ancient Dog Lore has almost vanished
from our species,” said Brennus. “As the human race became more and more remote
from its own wild origins—as humans sold the truth of their inmost hearts for
TVs and hair products and safety—then so we dogs lost touch with our origins
too. We stopped asking ourselves the most fundamental question of life: What is
the nature of wildness? We stopped asking our mothers and fathers—What is the
nature of wildness?—just as they had stopped asking theirs. Like the humans,
we, too, sold our truth. And for what? For a pat on the head from the masters
and a bowl of meat we no longer even know how to hunt and kill for ourselves.
We ate our food from tin cans, like they do. We lay down by their kitchen
hearthstones and forgot who we once had been. I did it myself, to my shame. And
so now, in all dogs left who have any grasp at all of our ancient knowledge.
The knowledge we had when dogs owned the earth and humans were helpless as
children.” “And you’re one of those wise dogs.” “No. Not me. But I met one
once, when I was young—and when she was old. She was named Murgen, which means
‘from the sea.’ But Murgen must be long gone now, at least from the world of
blood, bone and fur. No, Furgul, I’m not wise. I just remember some fragments
of lore that I was too foolish to value until it was too late. But you could be
such a dog.” “Me?” “Yes, Furgul. You. If you searched the Doglands for long
enough—if you sought the answer to the question: What is the nature of
wildness?—if you were willing to pay the price—you could rediscover the Dog
Lore.” “But I don’t know anything,” said Furgul. “You know how to find the
Doglines.” “I don’t really understand what the Doglines are.” “You understand
them better than me. I have the crumbs of a few old ideas. But you can feel
these things in your bones. That’s why you must seek out the Dog Lore.” “What
was that feeling I just felt—that force from the rocks that you felt too?” “The
Doglines are the pawprints of the ancestors, first laid down by wolves in the
time before long, long ago. But just as a wolf or a dog or any living creature
may be right or wrong, a Dogline may be right or wrong. A right Dogline can
take you somewhere good—like Appletree—but a wrong Dogline can take you
somewhere bad—like Dedbone’s Hole. The old ones believed that the Doglines can
get tangled—like knots in string—which concentrates their force and makes their
fluxions—the flow of power—much stronger. I can’t be sure, but I think there
are two knots inside this mountain—one right and one wrong. The force we felt
was the contrary fluxions—the two knots—pulling against each other.” Furgul had
a realization. “One is in the chasm beneath the hill of dead dogs. That’s a
wrong knot. A wrong place. The right knot is in the crystal cavern.” “How do
you know?” asked Brennus. “Because I’ve been to both places, wrong and right. I
left my sister Eena’s body at one knot, and my sister Nessa’s body at the
other.” “You see?” said Brennus. “Your search has already begun.” “But I wasn’t
searching. I was just a pup, running for my life.” “No, you were running the
Doglines.”
“Only one more thing, the last of my crumbs, but a dark one.
The Doglines are powerful—as you just felt better than I. And they give you a
choice. Each Dogline is made stronger every time you run it. Some dogs run the
right lines, and some dogs run the wrong. And just as you can change the
Doglines, the Doglines can change you.” “Did Argal run right Doglines?” “Yes,
on the whole, he did, though he only sensed them. Argal’s own natural wildness
was so strong, so defiant, that he had no patience for the Dog Lore. He was too
busy fighting for freedom. Argal’s brother, Sloann, is just as strong, but
cooler in temper and more brilliant. Sloann knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s
always chosen to run the wrong Doglines, to harness their strength against the
masters. If you ever get wind of Sloann, stay away from him.”
Furgul turned to Brennus. “Do we have any chance at all?”
Brennus said, “When leaves die they turn into earth.… ”
Dervla would never let a man make her frightened again.
“Furgul.” Brennus’s voice was but a husk of the warm, throaty growl that Furgul
had come to love. He stood over the buckshot-ravaged giant and licked his face.
“Brennus,” said Furgul. “Oh, Brennus.” Brennus heaved for breath. Red foam
spilled from his lips. “Make me an oath,” whispered Brennus. “Anything,” said
Furgul. “Seek the Dog Lore. Show us how to find our way home.” “I swear it,
Brennus,” said Furgul. “I swear it to you.” Brennus smiled, his own blood
staining his great, broken fangs. “You’ll find me on the winds,” he said.
Brennus coughed and shuddered. He fought for one last breath. “Now go get
Keeva.” Furgul looked at the dust trail that had whipped up in the wake of
Dedbone’s truck. It was far out of range. Not even a cheetah could catch
Dedbone now. “The Doglines,” whispered Brennus. “Run the Doglines.” The mighty
heart of Brennus stopped beating. “Brennus!” cried Furgul. “Brennus!” Furgul
felt as if the earth itself would no longer wish to turn. Grief welled up
inside him and paralyzed his limbs, blinded his eyes, fogged his mind.
“It’s over, Dedbone,” growled Furgul. “The dogs are free.”
Dedbone turned to look at Furgul. Their eyes met. Dedbone had enslaved and
exploited dogs all his life. They had no greater enemy. Yet in spite of
that—perhaps because of it—Dedbone must have known his greyhounds better than
any dog lover ever knows his pet. Somewhere in his twisted heart, Dedbone too
must have loved his dogs. He had steeped himself in their speed, their grace,
their resilience, their trust, their loyalty. Dogs had been his life. And
Dedbone had squandered that life by betraying every single dog he’d ever owned.
Dedbone said, “A free dog never dies. He only moves on.” Furgul’s mind reeled.
He understood every word. Dedbone had spoken in dog tongue. Perfect dog tongue.
No weapon that the slaver might have wielded could have stunned him so much.
“You’re a Dog Talker?” asked Furgul. “I don’t talk to dumb animals,” said
Dedbone. “I kick them. I breed them. I use them. I kill them. Then I dump them
in the garbage where they belong.” His smile was full of malice. “But if you’re
asking, do I understand your stupid, yelping, slavering, slobbering gibberish?
Of course I do. Because I’m better than you. Because I’m a human being. And
you’re just a dog.” Furgul felt sick.
All the evil that Dedbone had done seemed even more depraved
than before. He wasn’t just a greedy slaver. He was a snoop. He’d heard the
dogs speak—of their suffering, their fears, their hunger, their broken
dreams—of their love for their pups and their mates. And he’d used his stolen
knowledge of their private thoughts and feelings to make the chains of slavery
tighter still.
“Now it’s time for you to move on,” said Dedbone. “The chasm
is waiting.” “I’ve already been there,” Furgul snarled. Dedbone grinned. “Yeah?
How many free dogs did you find?” Furgul stared at him. The faces of Eena and
Nessa flashed in his mind. “Of all the dogs I threw in that pit, not a single
one was free,” said Dedbone. “There’s no moving on for them. They’ll never join
the winds. They’re in a cage that will last forever.” The thought that the dogs
would never be free filled Furgul with anger and sorrow. Worst of all, Dedbone
was right. They would never roam with the winds. Again he saw the faces of Eena
and Nessa. Every muscle in his body clenched with rage.
Dedbone tried to get up, but the hill underneath him began
to collapse with his weight. The big man’s fall had shattered its delicate
structure. Now Dedbone sank deeper and deeper into decay—as if the countless
greyhounds he had killed were sucking him down into the dust to die among them.
Dedbone raised a desperate hand toward Furgul. He was begging for his help.
Furgul wagged his tail and walked away.
FINALE
THE WIND
Once upon a time in the Doglands, a pup was born in
the slave camp that the dogs called Dedbone’s Hole. He’d been born in chains
and sentenced to die, yet neither chains nor death had held him. He’d broken
their rules. He’d escaped their prisons. He’d defied their guards and their
guns. He’d returned and set the wrong things right. Furgul emerged from the
cave and raised his face to the sun. It was good to be alive. He knew where he
had been, but he did not know where he was going. The wild and rambling road
called him still. A wind swept toward him from the jaws of Argal’s Mountain
high above. It bounded down from outcrop to outcrop, then whirled about Furgul
in a vortex so strong that it spun him around and around. Furgul grinned. The
wind was the spirit of Brennus saying hail and farewell. It was Brennus who had
rounded up the clouds to help Furgul beat Dedbone. Before Furgul could soak up the
Brennus wind into his bones, it was suddenly gone. Mysteriously gone, for he
saw no sign of its passing down the valley. No dust stirred, no blade of grass
bent, no leaf fluttered on the trees.
A truck drove up the trail. It was Jodi.
The first thing Furgul saw was Skyver. He was strapped to a stretcher. He had a
plastic contraption like a giant collar round his neck. The stretcher was fixed
to the roof rack. Skyver stared up into space, and he was peeved. “Is that you,
Furgul?” called Skyver. “Do me a favor, will you?” 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, and 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, 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.
