Chapter 4: Further meetings

Mong, (long story), (a shortened version being that the dog used to be called Syndrome until the day his owner shouted, "Down Syndrome." in front of the village idiot and collected a smack in the mouth. He renamed the dog forthwith.) was having a bad day. For the better part of his life, he had herded the same Swaledale ewes around, forcing them to pass through gates, jump over or through streams and enter his owners barns or shearing pens.

It had rained on an off all day, his coat was plastered to his skin and matted with mud and leaves. His ears had begun to stick to the sides of his head, burrs had wedged themselves in the long hair by his rump which would be the devils own job to remove and he was thoroughly miserable. It didn't help that Gavin, his master, was preoccupied with his impending liaison with some girl from a neighbouring farm. He was on a promise. Consequently, his commands were ambiguous and confusing. Nothing unusual in that. Mong didn't really need telling what to do. Very few trained sheep dogs do. They can understand, to a point, the human tongue, following the inflections and nuances and coming up with the right answer in most cases. In any case, who needs some two legged twat making shrill whistles with a reed on his tongue and screaming Cum-bye-ere every so often. Mong still hadn't got a clue what that meant, who does, and usually ignored half the instructions that came his way and getting on with his job. All that was required was a little talking to in the morning to tell him what the day would consist of like, we're going to bring the flock down from the high pasture and put them into the low meadow or it's sheep dog trials day. Mong had done the same things so many times that it had become almost automatic.

The sheep had got the wind up. Although they have a layered system of graded wool to keep them warm and basically dry underneath, wet weather can really give them the needle and make them collectively belligerent. Today was no exception and between them had decided to give Mong a hard time. Normally, ewes will cede to the whims of a dog. It's nothing to do with the speed it can move or it's teeth which could do some serious damage, no, rather, it is the fear of being shafted suddenly from behind, even a working dog has desires that sometimes are shared by the shepherd, which can be very disconcerting to any self respecting sheep. But, there are days when a quick shag holds no worries and is the least of a sheep's concerns. Today was one of those. Not only were they wet, hungry and pregnant, annual event, but this was dipping day followed by a rapid hair cut. Sheep dip stinks and, contrary to belief, tastes bloody horrible and then being shorn of all the protective hair that they had jealously grown over the last six months, was the ultimate indignity.

Gavin issued a set of whistled commands which, if Mong had followed precisely, would have driven the sheep straight over a river bank. He chose to ignore them and continued to try and chivvy them into moving from the protective overhanging branches of an oak tree. They weren't having it and turned a collective face towards Mong with the collective thought of bollocks, mate.

Mong had had enough and charged them, his master couldn't put two commands together to make any sense and the sheep were really pissing him off. The charge had little or no effect so he bit the lead ewe on the leg, making it jump and run like the clappers. There's always one whose in charge or just that little bit more of a pain in the arse and becomes the chief antagonist. Sheep follow the leader, blindly, which for Mong was fortunate, he got them going towards the holding pens in front of the shearing shed and in no time flat, had persuaded them that the pens might be preferable to standing under a reasonably dry tree.

He still wasn't happy however, Gavin was mooning aimlessly, lost in a world of his own. Breakfast had been skipped because his all knowing master had got up late and his stomach was letting him know of it's thoughts about it, his coat was still plastered to his heaving flanks and giving about as much warmth as an ice berg. Some of the burrs had got into the inside of his ear flaps, giving him no end of irritation and, added to the catalogue of annoyances, his resident parasites had been having a banquet of that in-accessible place just above his tail. And now to top it all off, Gavin had been scolded by his employer for his lacklustre performance and Mong knew without any doubt that Gavin would probably take it out on him with a well aimed kick and no dinner.

Bugger this, thought Mong. There must be an easier way to live. Just look at Gavin's girlfriend's poodle. Not his ideal thought of a spare rib, but what a life style, no work, little treats at odd moments, regular brush ups and trims, more than enough food and plenty of time just sitting in front of an open fire, toasting her nose, but, even more than this, affection, by the bucket load. At first Mong thought she was shooting him a line and exaggerating her idyllic day a bit, but, their visits to the girls home had confirmed her story. Mong had never been the victim of jealousy before and wouldn't have been able to identify the emotion. Gavin and his girlfriend believed that Mong and Trixie were having a ball running and tumbling around the yard, but in truth, Mong would really liked to have taken one of her ears off or even both of them. Besides, what self respecting dog would have pom-pom tufts on their ears and tail. He was envious to the point of dementia.

He looked along the lane that led from the farm and into the distance. A break in the solid steel coloured clouds lit up a grassy hill side. Mong sighed and looked up at Gavin who took no notice of him at all. Five years Dog and pup he had spent working with devoted love for his unfeeling master and what had he got for all his troubles. A set of genital equipment that had no function except with which to relieve his bladder. A black and white coat that at this moment he would have rather given away. Thousands of hours of running about after dumb sheep. Many missed meals, sharp words when things didn't work out as they should, and the occasional scratch behind the ears when Gavin was occupied in thought. And now, after all the devotion and love he had heaped on Gavin, to be replaced in his affections by some skinny girl with a lap dog for a companion. It was too much.

He looked in the distance again and then back to Gavin, who's mood was not likely to change, and made his first decision without his master's laughable guidance. I'm off. I've had enough. I'm going to find something, anything better than this. The worm of an idea lurched around in his canine brain. He looked long and hard at Gavin's face for what would be one of the last times, trying to evince some reaction out of him, some look or pat of appreciation. Nothing was forthcoming. Mong stopped trotting alongside Gavin and watched his retreating back. He's not even aware that I've stopped, he's not taken any notice of me since she started making those stupid eyes at him and her mongrel began to lick his hands and act like the silly bugger she is. He couldn't give a damn about me, me whose worked with him so long, whose never bitten him and kept his feet warm at night.

Mong turned in the opposite direction and took the first, tentative steps to a new and exciting life. He went a few yards and stopped, looked over his shoulder at the only thing he had ever really cared about, only to see it still walking away, still unaware of the split in the partnership. Mong returned to his new path and lopped off at a steady trot. His heart breaking at the lack of care and the ease of the parting. He cried.

After ten minutes, he had put a quarter of a mile between them. He paused to smell the air and take bearings. The stench of sheep was still very strong, the breeze carrying their pervading smell. He certainly wouldn't miss that. Hang on, what was that? He tilted his head to hear better. Was that a distant whistle? Did he hear a cum-bye-ere floating on the wind? Probably not, just wishful thinking. He ran, full tilt, as fast as he could. For the first time in his short life and memory, direction didn't matter, just so long as it led away from his former home. He ran as hard as his legs would allow and his stamina lasted. He could find no joy in the head-long flight. A mad dash usually filled him with glee. Not this time.

That evening found him many miles away, sheltering in a fallen hollow tree. Shattered, hungry and with sore pads. He licked his feet and wondered about finding food. He didn't have a bowl any more. He wouldn't ever have it filled with the lamb stew his former master's mother always had cooking in a black tureen hanging by the fire. Somehow, he was going to have to learn how to hunt and catch his dinner. Rabbits had long ago learned that dogs would eat them if they could and sodded of down tunnels at the merest whiff of canine scent. Birds took off just because of the movement and dustbins hadn't yet been invented. Not that these would have been too common in the middle of a forest.

Mong slept and dreamed of his master, the sheep he had left behind and running through endless meadows. Not all the time had been bad, in fact, most of the time he had been happy, reasonably well fed and as fit as a dog could be. Summer was one of the good times, sheep don't need too much pushing about and they, Gavin and himself could take it easy. Laying on grassy knolls staring at the clouds, chasing down squirrels, investigating holes and swimming in the river. Winter had it's hardships, the frost played havoc with the paws, it always seemed to be wet and getting dry for any length of time was impossible. The sheep took on a new, difficult persona and it seemed that as soon as you woke up, you were working until it was too dark to see. He was feeling a little home sick and more than a little hungry.

Morning found him shivering and even hungrier. He had missed yesterdays breakfast and hadn't eaten since the day before. He realised that food had to come first, otherwise his freedom dash would dwindle away to nothing. Mong searched in circles, following his nose and the scents that wafted on the slight breeze. Not much came to his senses so he increased the circle of search. After several hours of fruitless quartering and trailing game paths he came across a freshly dead chicken laying on the ground in the middle of a small clearing. It had a smell of fox about it. He overcame the natural revulsion of the distant cousin's smell. Dinner at last but it was only a snack, having been half chewed by the previous owner of the meal. It would suffice for now but it was obvious that food was going to be a primary concern if Mong was to continue his new solitary existence.

After he had finished eating, leaving only the head, feet and a few feathers, he slept briefly in his log kennel and woke with the feeling that he needed to put more distance between him and home. Mong lifted his nose and sampled the north easterly breeze. The smell of pine trees overcame anything else that might have been borne on the wind. He decided to follow the wind's direction and loped off, leaving the temporary sanctuary of the log and returning it back to the mice and beetle grubs that had been displaced.

The day sped by until late afternoon. A stream blocked his path and a search for a dry alternative to swimming had proved to be unproductive. He was readying for a plunge when a familiar scent invaded his nostrils. Human, faint, but none the less human with food smells just underneath. His ignored hunger returned to remind him that his last meal had only just registered in his stomach. Even better, the direction of the source of interest seemed to be in his path once the stream had been negotiated. A run up and one of his most spectacular efforts of gravity defiance found him up to his ears in freezing cold water about a third of the way across. He had misjudged the distance of the far bank and also the swiftness of current. In no time flat, he was almost a hundred yards down stream and still only half way across. Mong's energy was running out fast, it was going to be a close thing.

Several minutes later, the stream entered into a shallow stretch. Mong's feet touched bottom and not a moment too soon. He was now a long way down stream and completely spent. He waded to the bank and collapsed on the side his flanks heaving, tongue lolling around his incisors and dripping saliva and river water onto his lower jaw and then onto the soil.

He was still laying there when a ginger Tom cat approached him, carefully, circling to the left and right, never taking it's eyes of the dog. Nose twitching and tail flicking from side to side, indicating it's perplexity.

Good dog, nice dog. You ain't gonna eat me are you? The cat wasn't too worried about being eaten, he was immortal, but it played havoc with the fur and still hurt like hell.

Nah, I'm too knackered even if I'd the inclination. Mong had always treated cats with respect. Around the farm they had their job, he had his. They didn't compete for food and occasionally, provided a warm bed companion. Besides, their claws could do some fearsome damage to an unprotected nose and they were usually quick enough to avoid being bitten. Size and weight had little advantage over speed and agility.

Hungry?

A bit, but getting my breath back is a more pressing problem at the moment. The effort of mental conversation was also taking a toll on his depleted reserves. I could do with a kip by a warm fire right now. He shivered to emphasise the point.

Well when your ready, you can share my spot and dinner, if you've a mind. The old woman wont mind, besides, she's out collecting herbs or something. The kids gone with her so we've got the place to our selves.

Thanks, you're a life saver. Mong struggled to his feet and lurched after the retreating cat. The thought of food and warmth lending him the last of his stamina.

Agetha returned some hours later pulling the sleeping Matilda in a rigged up A frame sled, held by a leather strap hoisted over her shoulder.

The arrival of a new lodger didn't phase her at all and to a large extent, she ignored her familiar's new companion.

Mong slept, having a full stomach at last and being exhausted had caught up with him, not even hearing the woman. The kid was also sleeping which gave him a temporary respite, though he wouldn't have known this.

Agetha had been busy since the arrival of her offspring. The usual weight gain hadn't happened to the same degree, her usual slothfulness had been replaced by the demands of a daughter. The cottage was, for her, well kept, swept and dust free. Almost. The improvement was dramatic. Her clothing was clean, hair tied neatly back in a pony tail, face free of left over bits of food and errant whiskers. More importantly, her outlook on life in general had undergone a transformation. She no longer viewed passing strangers, local plants, animals and property as fair game. Her periodic trade of curses and guises had ceased. When petitioned by some plotter of downfall, she would, by use of mental assertion, persuade them that it really was not in their interests to cause the plottee damage and distress. They always saw the error of their thinking and returned to take up close relationships with the intended victim. This had it's drawbacks however, very few men really appreciate the affections of another man and view the whole thing as a little strange, giving rise to name calling in the least. The former petitioner, completely unaffected by the discomfort of the object of their desires, might find himself slightly dead when they had sufficiently become annoying.

For the most part, Agetha tried to spread peace, love and harmony. Consciously becoming a vegetarian so as not to cause distress to the local fauna or her neighbours cattle. On an unconscious level, Matilda had planted a command in her brain which over rode the desire and blocked the memory of killing, dressing and cooking a hapless victim or salting and hanging a carcass for the winter. Just so long as she thought the food source was of vegetable matter, it didn't really count.

Matilda had grown rapidly becoming a very powerful four year old in a four year old body with the thought processes of an entity thousands of years old. She had a doll, well sort of, it took on the persona of whoever had upset her and underwent the discomfort of being regularly stuck with knitting needles. Agetha took the aches and pains as natures way of telling her she had given birth and didn't link the events to their closeness of having scolded Matilda for some misdemeanour.

For the most part, her early, formative years had passed quite peacefully. She had quickly learned how to use the body she found herself wrapped up in to it's full potential, recently discovering the ability of short flight with a run up. This new trick had the un desired effect of eradicating some of the octogenarians that clung on to a life in the village and freely imparted their accumulated knowledge to anyone unwise or unlucky enough to be passing within earshot.

She delighted in popping up seemingly out of thin air and starting herds of cows into a full blown stampede or eavesdropping on conversations that no little girl had the right to be listening to. It probably might explain why she went through her adult life with a twisted and perverse view of the opposite sex where nuptials where concerned. Matilda had been born with all of her mother's skills, having gleaned all the required spell components from Agetha's leaking brain. A few chosen and ancient words could have disastrous or beneficial effects, depending on her mood. She also, in part, had taken over the mantle of being completely uncouth in the physical department from Agetha. Facial hair would sprout in a few years time along with a few warts for effect, but in the meantime, her clothing, hair and general appearance made even Agetha at her worst, look passable.

She was completely wild and loved nothing so much as exploring the surrounding forests and hillsides. From as early as two, she had learned to fend for herself, had taught herself woodcraft and tracked down her own food while on the run. She could scent game at three hundred paces upwind and considerably further downwind. Light fires with a look at dry wood and cook food with the same brief stare, although squirrels which were her favourite, usually went down whole and kicking. Nothing and nobody was safe from her ministrations.

Mong woke the next morning, first opening one eye, then when that gave up trying to make sense of what it beheld, the other. Matilda, upright was not a pretty sight by any stretch of imagination but, upside down with her skirt flapping around her throat and yesterdays twigs sprouting from an unruly mop of hair was pushing the limits of a dogs cerebral cortex.

Matilda stopped doing the handstand and righted herself in order to closely inspect the new lodger. Taking a few steps towards him and then crouching down a few inches from his nose. She just looked. Hard.

Mong wasn't aware of flinching back but, he did. The Ice blue nature of her eyes may have conveyed a hidden agenda or more likely the smell of rotted squirrel appealed to his instincts of preservation. What ever, he found himself pinned by the steady and unblinking stare just a few inches from his snout. Foolishly he had taken up a position in a corner of the room thus cutting his retreat off on both sides. He tried to become very small and whimpered a little.

She smiled, not that he would have known that, and relaxed a little. The eyes took on a softer temper and now just held him in regard rather than the thrall of a few seconds previously. A tentative hand reached out and scrunched his ears before scratching his head.

He decided that this wasn't too bad a wagged his tail a little, thumping both walls simultaneously. The smell of the deceased squirrel invaded his sinuses and was beginning to make him gag. He could also sense her feeling of apprehension, he wasn't to know that Matilda had never been this close to a dog before, he was also aware that she faced these small trials by confronting it head on giving a show of bravado and putting the subject of her scrutiny on the back foot.

Agetha appeared, taking no notice of the new arrival, took Matilda by the hand and when that didn't work, by the ear and hauled her of for a wash in the tub outside which was fed by a hand pump that delivered copious amounts of extremely cold water complete with the occasional ice bergs. A little of Matilda's own magic heated the water to a reasonable temperature just before she was tipped into the depths head first. Her wails didn't abate, even when she performed the trick. A tablet of soap mysteriously happened and set too on Matilda's still partially clothed body thus cleaning both the child and her dress at the same time. Magic crackled in the air as both mother and daughter fought for supremacy using both skill and vocal weapons. Agetha won over having the greater volume and experience. It was close though, and as time past, the mini battles would became a lot closer.

A holding spell was cast over the tub restricting Matilda in the water while Agetha went into the hovel for the rest of Matilda's clothes and whatever else needed washing. With Her daughters thrashing about, the clothes would soon be cleaned. The first washing machine principle had been invented, sort of.

The scramble was in aid of an invitation from the King. The message written by his scribe and attached to an errant pigeon had by some miracle, reached it's intended target. The carrier had been thrown out of the coop by a dominant cock bird who brooked no nonsense when it came to his harem. The bird had no idea how it had arrived at it's destination having flown non stop from the castles rafters in a direct route, straight to Agetha's hovel.

Agetha threw the clothes in with the still thrashing child and made preparations for the journey. Food was hastily packed into backpacks. A spare pair of moccasins each were tied to the packs and a few other essential items carefully packed down the side pockets. Agetha was ready for the two week haul. All that remained to do was drag her daughter and wet washing from the tub and they could leave.

The cooper rings and rivets gave under the barrage of magical insults. The planking having nothing to keep it together also gave, spilling out several gallons of water, clothes and a vehement spit fire little girl over the quickly muddied earth. She was now dirtier than when she had been thrown in, which was just the way she liked it. Agetha sighed and picked up the half drowned child along with the ruined washing. Not much could be done for it but to find a stream on the way. Matilda was thrown into another backpack with the wet muddied washing. With everything either being carried or dragged, they set off towards the east and source of the summons.