The Last of the Eggstone Collies

© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1997

CHAPTER 6

"Trust me," said George. "I have a long story to tell you." And, settling himself down, he began to relate the history of the Great Battle, and the founding of the long line of Eggstone Collies.

"It all happened a very long time ago. Many hundreds of years. Things were very different then - there were no roads, of course, and the woods were thick green secret places, teeming with every kind of wild animal. It was a land of forests and mists. High places and warm valleys. There were no towns, just little encampments here and there, that you could sniff out by the scent of the woodsmoke. I was an old man even then. The people were good to me on my travels, trading food and shelter for the stories I could tell."

"Where were you going?" asked Toby.

"Nowhere special," said George. "I was looking for a resting place. Like an old animal, my scavenging days were past. I wanted somewhere to settle - a warm fireside, and someone to look after me."

He sighed. For all the lyrical beauty of the countryside, it had been a forlorn and lonely journey. An elderly hero with a touch of arthritis in his knees cut a rather ridiculous figure and seemed to fit in nowhere.

"Anyway - eventually I ended up drifting along the seashore, and there I met up with another traveller who was to become my dearest friend."

A glint of humour stirred in his eyes as he remembered that first sight of Francis with his robes tucked up above his bony knees, foundering on the slippery rocks at low tide with an over-full creel of seaweed. Like a saintly old stork, he had bobbed this way and that until his feet skidded and sent him flying into the waves. There he sat, up to his shoulders in water, surrounded by worried shoals of little fish that picked gently at his clothing.

"There's no need to fuss," he had said, quietly. "I'm perfectly alright." And with a shimmer of silver fins, the fish had departed, leaving George to haul him out.

Toby stirred impatiently. So far, the story was not particularly exciting.

"Well, anyway," continued George, "We found a small island and started to build a home together. The first real home I had ever had. Yes, I know this must be boring you, Toby, but sit still and pay attention! Francis is a very learned man. He consulted the Ancient Lore and decided that we must dig the foundations on the western side of the island. It was there that we found the shield!"

Toby's ears pricked. A battle story!

"A shield of great beauty, made of beaten gold, smoothed and polished to the brilliance of glass. A little way beneath it was an intricately carved golden spear. Francis gave them to me, saying that he had never been a fighting man, and they should rightfully belong to a warrior."

Toby looked at the long, skinny fingers of the old man, and the parched hide which barely contained his bones. Could he ever have been a warrior? Then he caught a glance of cold steel from the old blue eyes, and was uncomfortably subdued.

"The years passed. We built our house, and settled down to a life of study and quiet contemplation. But the more Francis studied his Ancient Lore, the more worried he became. It seemed that our island was a floating island which, through some mysterious purpose of its own, was drawn to the trouble spots of the world. By that, I don't mean wars, and Man's petty foolishness. I mean real trouble. Evil of one form or another. I could explain it better, but I have a feeling that you have already smelt a whiff of real Evil, and know what I am talking about. Apparently, it was very strange for the island to stay in one place for such a long time. We were such a permanent fixture that we even appear on some of the earliest maps of this area. No, you won't find them in Frank's old trunk, or in the museum either. The earliest maps were drawn by eagles, not men. Dogs? Don't be silly. Dogs can't draw to save their lives. Well, can you? No! And neither could your ancestors."

"Since the island had taken firm root for so long, Francis reasoned that some desperate trouble was brewing. From dawn till dusk, day after day, he searched through ancient manuscripts for some clue, but his Lore was incomplete. There were references to the Great Works of a prophet we had never heard of. I won't bore you with the details. We've improved our library since then. Suffice to say, we were on our own, with only Francis' uneasiness to go on."

"Gradually, the atmosphere grew strained and tense, like the threat of a thunderstorm in the air. Then, one dreadful night, the storm broke. The waves crashed in, ten and twelve feet high. The rain was like a solid sheet of water, and gales gouged trails of destruction through the valleys."

"In the morning, the pressure was gone. The breeze was gentle again, and the sun shone. We hoped that the evil thing that bound us to the shore had been destroyed, but we were wrong. We were stuck fast, and the air was tainted with a smell of evil that was too strong to ignore. It came drifting down from the mountains. The mountains were full of tunnels and caves, but nothing normally lived up there. Now it seemed that something did, and far from destroying it, the storm had let it out."

"We could not speak many animal languages in those days - only Dog and a smattering of Rabbit, so we did not know how to help the frantic creatures that swam out to us. That they had fled from danger was obvious, but we had no way of knowing what it was. Soon the island resembled Noah's Ark! Francis was in his element, naturally. It was to him that the beasts had fled. I felt very useless, really. All I could do was help out at feeding time, and try not to complain about giving up my bed to a family of foxes, and a badger with hysteria."

"A week or so later, however, a small party of dogs swam out to the island. Their leader carried a small gold ornament in his mouth; the kind of brooch one might use to clasp a cloak in place. He laid it at my feet and said, 'Please help us. We seek the man here depicted. His name is Saint George, and he slays the fire-breathers.' On the brooch was an engraving of a warrior on horseback with a tall shield and a finely-carved spear. It was quite a flattering portrait."

"'At your service,' I said. 'What can I do for you?' Their response was not all that I could have wished for. The dogs stared at me. Their ears dropped. One growled to the leader: 'How long has your owner had that thing? He's ancient!' "I gave them food and water, and left them to rest while I pondered the mystery of seeing myself as a young man, depicted with the strange and beautiful golden shield that had only been mine for such a short time. I felt I was being tangled up in a chain of events that I could not control. The leader of the pack sought me out. He was a collie like you - a great strong dog with a mane like a young lion. He sat down beside me, his paw in my hand, and pleaded with me to lead his pack. Bluntly he told me that I may be old and bent, but I was all they had. Legend said that I had fought a Fire-Breather and won. Without the sight of me to give them hope, his pack would never succeed in fighting the evil creatures that lived in the mountain. He told me that the storm had hatched a brood of dragons. I was up against my old enemy again."

"So it was that I was enlisted as a kind of mascot. A Regimental Goat, complete with shield, spear and straggling beard!"

"The evil, as we already knew, came from the mountain. The dogs told me that nothing had lived up there for as long as anyone could remember. The mountain was not solid at all, but a mere crust covering a huge honeycomb of tunnels and caves. Puppies were deemed to be fully fledged adults after they passed a test of courage, by exploring the outer chambers. They longer they endured the strange feeling of terror that haunted them, the higher was their position in the pack. Whitemane, the pack leader, had spent an entire night in the mountain. His greatest friend and lieutenant, a grey-muzzled collie called Misty, had only managed four hours. That feat of courage was enough to place him second in command. On Whitemane's initiation night, he had stumbled into a wide, warm cavern with huge eggs half-buried in the sand. In every egg he had felt movement, and heard the grunts and hisses of creatures trapped within. He was sure that the dragons' breeding ground would also be their sleeping place - but not for much longer."

"He and Misty had seen them crawl out of the tunnels in the lower slopes during the night to hunt for food. They were cruel hunters. One belch of yellow fire scorched the pelt off a screaming rabbit. The next killed it. They usually hunted in packs of five or six at a time, and could easily bring down something the size of a stag. But, food was growing scarce. The animals had fled. Slowly but surely, the creatures were hunting a wider and wider circle. It could only be a matter of time before they left the mountain and colonised somewhere else, where the food was more plentiful, and the vegetation had not sickened and died under a pall of choking grey smoke. Whitemane was adamant. That must not happen. While they still lived in the mountain, they could be trapped. Once they moved away ... the battle was lost."

"Well, there was only one thing for it. We set out next morning to take a look at the mountain, and try and work out a plan."

"To step out on the mainland that beautiful day was to believe that all the strange tales of the night before were nothing but morbid dreams. The sun shone, birds sang and everything went sweetly about its business. But as we climbed the stony track that lead to the lower reaches of the mountain, the change became clear. The land grew scorched and bare. Nothing sang, or scuttled, or rustled in the blackened heather. The mountain loomed as black as death above us. The only sounds were the sighing of the wind, and the splash of a river that flowed from a secret spring deep inside the rocks, and emerged from between two great boulders at the mountain's foot. The smell was appalling. It settled on the land like a cloud, raising hackles on the dogs. Every so often, one of the pack would let loose a low, involuntary howl. Even Whitemane could barely suppress his whimpers of fear."

"I lit my lantern, and we entered a tunnel, through a deep cleft in a claw of the rock that spread its talons into a scree slope. The heat hit us. It was like walking towards a furnace. The path was strewn with bones. Without hesitation, Whitemane led us through a maze of tunnels towards the core of the evil. We were gasping with the heat and airlessness of the place, and the dogs shook violently with the effort of controlling their terror. Suddenly, Whitemane stopped, and pressed himself against the rock. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. His eyes gestured the way. We had arrived."

"There, in the cavern, enfolded tooth and claw together in a heap, lay the dragons. Hundreds and hundreds of them, snorting coils of smoke as they slept. Each one was sleek, well-fed and strong, and as deadly as a flame- thrower - and I did not have the least idea how we were going to fight them."

"Whitemane gave brief orders to his pack, and arranged them in a fighting formation - the strongest to the front and the weakest at the rear."

His legs were steady as he patrolled the cave, and if he felt fear, then he was brave enough not to show it."

"Still the dragons slept, unaware of our presence. I felt helpless, and bitterly afraid. The eyes of all the dogs were upon me. At last, Whitemane asked softly: 'Dragon-slayer, when does the fighting begin? When do you cast your spell?'"

"It had gone too far. 'You must be mad!' I said. 'We must retreat, and come back with an army!'"

"'Yes,' said Whitemane, steadily. 'But with all the time in the world to raise the greatest pack ever known, these would still be the only ones brave enough to come.'"

"I tried to reason with him. 'Look,' I said, 'We came up here to see their lair. To work out a plan. Now we've seen what we are up against. We must go back and - and think again.'"

"To his credit, Whitemane stopped short of calling me a coward. Instead, he gestured at his pitifully shaking troops, and reminded me of his pack's test of courage. Did I seriously think that any of them would set foot in the cave again if they retreated now? Again, he entreated me to cast spells. I told him that I had no spells to cast. We argued. We reached stalemate. Then the dragons themselves took a hand. One of them woke up."

"I believe I yelled a warning to the dogs and tried to run, but it was too late. Suddenly my back was against the cave wall, my shield was up, and there was fire all around me. The dogs, taken unawares, had become separated, and could be heard yelping with fright among the flames. With a deep rallying howl, Whitemane brought them to me. We clustered together as I parried the flames with my shield. I could smell scorching fur, and something else burning, too. It seemed that the dragons were not proof against their own fire, and in the panic of their waking, they had inflicted many wounds upon each other."

"There was a moment of withdrawal. We heard the click and flap of taloned feet as the dragons regrouped. They attacked. We were faced with a wedge of the enemy, steadily blasting fireballs at us. We were in retreat. The only sound was the measured march of dragon feet and a roaring 'BRRRRAAAAHHH!' as they spat out their fire."

"Whitemane gave an order. The dogs braced themselves in two flanks, waiting for the brief respite between fire attacks to rush out, darting right and left, to harry the beasts from behind. I could feel them pressed close to me, tense and quivering, waiting for the dark dash into the unknown. The pause came, for indrawn breath."

"'NOW!' he barked, and they sprang out, biting and attacking, ducking the fire-jets as best they could. The dragons still saw me as their deadliest enemy, and sought to re-form to direct their flames at my shield. In the unearthly light, I saw Whitemane for the last time. Hopelessly outnumbered, scorched and scarred, he still ripped and tore at the enemy, his eyes bright, and his tattered tail held high."

"Then came confusion. The earth itself seemed to heave and moan. A great crack split the floor of the cavern as the mountain tore itself apart. When the clamour ceased, there was nothing left but a jagged hole, and the deep, distant sound of rushing water."

The old man fell silent at last. Toby was suddenly aware again of the cool grass and the rustling trees. They sat for a long time, saying nothing, watching the twilight diminish to a pale greenish streak that washed the far horizon.

"What happened to them all?" asked Toby at last.

"I wish I knew," said George, hopelessly. "There was only one survivor - the smallest pup of all - a little runt called Creeper. I found him some days later wandering around the riverbank, howling at the moon. Either he could not, or would not tell me how the dragons died. The fighting and the fall had scrambled his wits, and all he would say was that they went white, all white. He would never leave the river to the end of his life, and fought anyone who tried to make him. He said the water was safe, and all he wanted, poor thing, was to be safe again. We waited, he and I, for many days, hoping to recover the bodies of our friends, but they vanished without trace when the mountain collapsed. Eventually I gave up, and raised a memorial for Whitemane. It is here still. The years have almost crumbled it to nothing, but it used to say: 'He Stood Before The Flames With Hope In His Heart, And Laughed'."

The old man smiled, remembering the fine animal and his courage.

"But I expect you are wondering where you come into all this," he said, resuming his tale. "You see, Toby, after the earthquake the landscape looked very different. The valley was formed as it is today, with one notable landmark."

"The Eggstone!" woofed Toby.

"Let us not call it by quaint names. It is, was, and always has been a dragon's egg. For many, many years, Francis and I have brought dogs to guard it. Now the time as come for action. The egg has hatched."

Toby thought of his beloved Frank and Flossie. He thought of the chickens in the yard. Of Ben, sleeping his old age away in the shadow of the porch at Hilltop Farm. All the safe and familiar things that went to make up the pattern of his life were threatened by the slimy menace that had spewed out of the egg into the warren of caves and tunnels beneath. The Last of the Eggstone Collies would not shame the first. His eyes glittered.

"You were there," he snarled. "You saw it all. How do we fight them?"

"First we find them," temporised George, "And then we rely on my very old friend to finish translating some very old prohecies."

Goto chapter

Modified:3/8/97

Created:25/7/97