The Last of the Eggstone Collies

© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1997

CHAPTER 4

At Eggstone Farm, time had wrought a few changes. Toby was three years old - a fine strong adult dog with a mane like a lion. Frank was more bent and gnarled than ever. The Lad had left to get married, and now farmed his own small-holding on the other side of the valley. Help was hard to come by, and Frank worked for long hours in the fields, sweating over the potato harvest, and regretting that he had never had a son to work beside him. Flossie was much the same - a little fatter and a little more forgetful, but still she stitched and sang, and doted on her husband and her dog. She and Toby spent much more time in the fields now. Frank had to admit that between the two of them, they made a fine mess of any task he set them, but he was glad of their company. Many times he found Flossie sitting in a furrow with a spilt bucket of potatoes, and tears of laughter streaming down her face.

"Oh Frank!" she would gasp, pointing helplessly at Toby. "You should just see the antics he gets up to!" Then Frank would laugh too. It was impossible not to, once Flossie got started. And somehow it didn't matter that he had to pick up all the potatoes and carry them down to the barn himself.

An odd thought occurred to Flossie one night, as the three of them sat by the fire.

"Frank ... when we're dead and gone ..."

"Lass! Don't talk like that!" cried Frank, alarmed.

"Now Frank," dimpled Flossie, "not even Boltons live for ever. But do you think the dogs will still come?"

That was a puzzler. Frank knew that Boltons went with Eggstone Collies, but he had never heard of an Eggstone Collie without a Bolton.

"Well ..." he reasoned, cautiously, "they have to be brought by someone, don't they? And if someone came and found the house all dark and the gate shut, they wouldn't leave a puppy in the yard, now would they?"

"No, of course not," sighed Flossie, much comforted. But ... if only it could go on for ever. In her mind's eye, she saw generations ahead. Children laughing. Puppies playing. Sunshine on the meadow... She shook herself for being old and foolish. It was too late for children now. Eventually the farm would go to some other family, and perhaps they would look after the Eggstone Collies. Flossie hoped so.

Toby, on the other hand, was quite certain that he was to be the last of the Eggstone Collies. "The best of them all," was what the old man had said as he carried him to the farm, and did not Frank often talk about "saving the best until last," when he kept back a big dollop of cream to go with the last mouthful of gooseberry crumble? Toby was not a stupid dog. He knew that the collies of Eggstone were special and had some sort of task to fulfil. He just wished desperately that he could find someone to tell him what that task was.

Even his best friend - an aged labrador from Hilltop Farm who knew all sorts of things, could tell him nothing. Ben the labrador remembered Tigger and sympathised deeply with Toby.

"Tigger was just the same, poor devil," he growled as he licked Toby's ears. "Always looking for an answer till the day he died."

Ben told Toby many stories about Tigger. It seemed that, like Toby, Tigger's favourite place was the orchard with its little graveyard, and the place he hated most was the arid field that contained the dreaded Eggstone. Ben took pity on Toby. He was a fine looking pup, and it was not his fault if there was some stupid legend that made everyone treat him like a minor god. He saw to it that Toby learned the things a dog needed to know - like how to track, how to stalk, how to fight, and how to read and write. A dog that could read and write was never alone. On every country walk, messages could be found. The occasional tree trunk bore the legend: "Good Rabbits Here, but WATCH OUT for FARMER". A lonely house on the thirsty upper slopes of the valley was labelled:

"WATER ON DEMAND!"

To his delight, Toby found many old messages inscribed on the trees in the orchard - little notes left from one Eggstone Collie to the next.

"They are good people," said one. "Be not afraid or lonely," said another. "Fear nothing but the Eggstone," warned a third.

The Eggstone.

Everything led back to that. He was an Eggstone Collie. This was Eggstone Farm. Why did that great smooth stone have the power to frighten him like nothing else in the world? It lurked on the edge of his happy life like a waiting nightmare, and he didn't know why.

Quite suddenly one day, as he roamed the farm scenting the delicious spring air, he came to a decision. He would face the Stone. By himself. Early in the morning when nobody else was there. Yes ... it would have to be in the morning when the sun was up, and there were no dark shadows ... and nothing could hurt him.

The morning came. It was a raw and bleak affair. Raw spring rain slashed across the sky that was streaked with lead and pearl, as the sun struggled to rise. Toby crept out into the yard, shivering. There was a knot in his stomach, and his hackles were up. Flattening himself along the hedgerows as if to avoid the gaze of the white stone high up on the ridge, he made his way cautiously on. There was a hole in the hedge through which he could creep into the Eggstone field. He knew it well. He preferred to take this path rather than enter boldly by the gate. Slipping through the hedge meant that he could work his way up and around the edges of the field, to take the stone by surprise, as it were, on its blind side.

Slowly he writhed and slithered his way up the ridge to a place where a patch of scrubby hawthorn bushes gave shelter and protection. There was no help for it now. The last ten feet had to be braved out in the open. He slid forward on his belly, so soaked with mud that nothing of collie remained but the bright brown eyes and the twitching ears. His heart pounded. Yes ... he was scared ... but he had got this far, and nothing had happened. He had stalked well. Ben would be proud of him. Now he had to finish the job. He had to go right up to the Stone and place one paw firmly upon it. Only then could he claim to have conquered his fear. Suddenly the mud disgusted him.

"Eggstone Collies do not grovel like worms," he told himself. The last few feet must be on equal terms. He must stand up on his own four legs and face the Stone with pride.

Slowly he rose. With dignity, he shook the mud from his fur, and held his tail erect. He could hear the voices clearly now, muttering and grumbling within the stone. They were much louder than on that day so long ago, when Frank carried him to this spot as a puppy. One pace. Two paces. Three paces. His front paw trembled as he reached forward to touch the glistening surface. The contact shocked him. It was warm!

And then, as if the Stone rebelled at his touch, with a deafening crack, it split.

It was like a gun-shot! Yammering with fear, Toby recoiled and rolled backwards, over and over down the steep sticky slope, until he found himself flattened in a hollow half-way down. Looking back, he saw a crack like a jagged streak of black lightning running up the perfect surface of the stone. A putrid, grey slime oozed out of it. As it touched the ground, the crack yawned six or seven inches wide, running up and up until it narrowed to a faint pencil stroke on the great bald dome. With his heart fluttering at his ribs and his ears laid flat, Toby inched his way back for a closer look. Beneath him, the ground seemed to tremble with movement that was not his own. There was a quiver - a feeling of something vast settling back into place - then all was still. The steady rain washed away the slime. Toby watched and waited. A bird flew down to the hawthorn scrub, sang a few sweet notes and pecked at a twig. Gradually, the rain stopped. Gentle sunshine gave promise of a better day to come. Still he watched and waited, unsure of what to do ... distrusting the jagged crack and the darkness beyond. The sun played prettily on the wet stone, turning white to diamonds of every colour. Almost against his will, Toby was enchanted by its beauty. A sudden movement sent his hackles up - but it was only a rabbit playing. Toby stood up and growled. The rabbit, recognising no enemy in the field but Dog, ran frantically to the stone and scrabbled at the crack to find shelter. Finding the gap too small, it flicked its white tail, and bounded away. Toby was shamed into action. Never let it be said, he thought severely to himself, that a mere rabbit went where an Eggstone Collie feared to go.

So - he patted the stone. He licked it. He rubbed himself against it. He thrust his muzzle into the crack and sniffed. Yes - there was a whiff of something unpleasant, but nothing to be afraid of. He felt relieved, but strangely let down, as though he had been denied an adventure that he wanted and feared at the same time. So it was just a stone in a field after all. No mystery, and nothing to be afraid of. He swaggered a little. "The Last of the Eggstone Collies Conquers the Stone!" he said to himself. But the victory felt flat and stale.

He left the field by the main gate and trotted home for his breakfast, and if, deep down in his soul, he sensed that things were not quite as they appeared to be, he kept the thought locked firmly away.

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Modified:3/8/97

Created:25/7/97