The Last of the Eggstone Collies

© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1997

CHAPTER 3

Francis sat with his head in his hands. All those long centuries of watching, waiting and planning were wasted. Now, when the Ancient Evil broke through once more, only one dog would be there to meet it, with no knowledge, no warning and no pack to protect it. One message was bitterly clear - the dog's ability to fight and overcome the abomination was not instinctive - it had to be learned. With all their wisdom, the two old men who had been appointed as guardians over the long ages had failed.

"What can we do?" sighed Francis. "Oh George, what can be done? It is written that the old ones shall teach the young ones - but the old ones are dead and gone! There is nothing we can do ..."

George squared his shoulders. A hint of a twinkle came into his old blue eyes. "Am I not an old one?" he asked quietly, "And was I not there during the last spot of bother?"

Francis looked at the seamed, withered face of his friend. What could one old man and one half-grown pup do against an evil that was both young and strong? George grinned, reading the thought clearly in the gentle face.

"Have faith, Francis! That's what you are always telling me. And after all, we are saints, you know, and that ought to count for something!"

So it was that three days later a laden craft set sail from the island, tacking briskly in the gusty winds of spring over the blue-grey billows of the empty sea. In three short days, the years had melted away from George. He was on a Quest. He was master of his own small boat heading for danger across unknown oceans. The wind tanned him. His eyes glittered with excitement. George was in his element. Howling out his favourite hymns, he tossed the sextant overboard, and called upon his God to guide him. With both hands he wrestled sheet and tiller, driving the boat like a bucking stallion and laughing as the salt spray lashed his face.

Francis watched him go as a mother might a favourite child - aware of the cruel dangers - aware of the foolhardy courage of he who invited them, and aware that the responsibility for making decisions that might affect life and death could no longer be his. With an aching heart, and a curious sense of weary relief, he turned from the shore, and plodded back to the house.

Night fell, bringing a misty calm to the sea. Tucked beneath the tarpaulin, George listened to the rhythmic slap of water against the boards. His thoughts drifted back to that first dragon long ago. The stealthy walk into that valley of dew and ferns at twilight. His horse, hesitant, casting about for the scent of unknown danger. With senses sharpened, he had seen every detail of the meandering pathway. The spiders' webs glinting in the moonlight. The splash of a stream in a rift in the valley floor. Grey moss on the rocks. Swaying silhouettes of silver birches, rustling. Then, into the sweet scent of leaves and lilies wound a rank, bitter odour. A harsh orange flare of flame spat at him from around a rock. For a moment, all his courage left him. Stark fear made his horse scream and rear. Then his own fire rose within him, and in a blaze of anger he rode forward to kill the abomination, and rescue the terrified virgin.

The virgin was a podgy child of seven, whose face was so distorted by fear and weeping that it was quite impossible to tell whether she had been or ever would be beautiful. She clung sobbing to George, on the journey home, while he in a paternal way, stroked her hair and said, "There, there, dear ..." his mind cast back to the writhing thing he had spitted on his spear, and forward to the perils of the stony track on which his horse was stumbling.

The second time had been worse - far worse. He shuddered to think how easily they might have lost the battle. There had been so many of them! Small, lethal, fire-tongued beasts with yellow eyes. A twist of fear contracted George's stomach, and the night air was clammy around him. Yes - he thought - if this time was anything like the last time, they would be up against it - just one old man and one young dog. But this time would be different. Time would be on his side. They could be caught when they were young and defenceless - not like the last time. This time he would be sensible and not go rushing in with a lot of fine words and no plan of attack.

Days passed. The wind blew, and steadily the little boat charted its course. The day came when George saw seagulls squabbling overhead, and felt the strong pull of the tide to the shore. Wheezing a little with the effort, he beached his craft, unpacked some dry socks, and set off cheerfully to find fresh water to brew his tea. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in the right place, and sure enough he soon spotted a signpost to an unpronounceable village. Frowning, he tried to work out the strange grouping of letters, then gave up with a sigh. Written Dog and spoken Dog he could manage, but the Welsh language was a breed apart. A mouth-watering smell arrested him. From an open kitchen window, he scented bacon and eggs. Bacon! After all those vegetarian years! Ah! How he could do with a cooked breakfast! He chuckled to himself. There was a little trick he knew. A trick that Francis called Un-Saintly, and thoroughly disapproved of. Still - it might stand him in good stead, and would certainly get him a free meal ...

The young man whistled softly as he turned the rashers in the pan, then stopped in surprise as he looked into the merry blue eyes of the old man at the window. Smiling innocently, George rearranged a few thoughts in the young man's mind. The young man looked puzzled.

George's smile widened, and he tried valiantly to stop his mouth watering. At last, the young man's face broke into an answering grin.

"Well! If it isn't Uncle George! Fancy! For a moment there I didn't recognise you. Still, it must be all of ... all of ..."

"Oh, at least fifteen years, my boy!" supplied George. He thought a little harder, and tried not to look directly at the sizzling pan.

"Well, come in! Have some breakfast with me!" The young man ushered George to a comfortable chair by the fire, and began to divide the bacon and eggs. His hands wavered.

"You must be hungry, Uncle George, coming all the way from Cardiff at this time in the morning. Here - you have this lot, and I'll make myself some toast."

George beamed brilliantly at him. "My favourite nephew!" he crooned. "You always were a generous lad."

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Modified:3/8/97

Created:25/7/97