"None of your stories are about dogs," the Storyteller's dog complained. "Princesses and lions and kings and ghosts and griffins, but no ordinary dogs."
"There are no ordinary dogs," the Storyteller chuckled. He was silent then, looking into the fire.
"You don't remember, do you?" he asked softly after a long moment.
"Remember what?" the dog asked.
"The blizzard, the terrible snowstorm. We were heading through the mountain pass to the next town when Winter caught up and passed us by, and left us to our knees in blinding white cold."
The dog blinked and tilted its head. Its grizzled forehead wrinkled as it tried to remember, but the Storyteller went on.
"You were much younger then, my friend, but then so was I. Young enough to get too tired to walk in the snow, and small enough that I could fit you under my arm inside my coat. I carried you that way for what must've been hours.
"We were lost, my friend, so very lost, and high enough in the cold stone hills that I was afraid of a misstep. The cliffs around our path were white with the bones of the poor men and creatures who had fallen to their deaths. White bones under the white snow, shrouded in the mist of white, winter wind. It was a blindness of white, and I knew that the path was narrow and fall far on each side. I was feeling my way along, groping with my poor numb toes, reaching out for stone or branch with my one hand-"
"Why only one hand?" the dog asked.
"I was holding you with the other. Under my coat, under my arm." the Storyteller smiled down at it, but then sobered. "How the wind howled that night. The snow blew into shapes. I thought I saw wolves once, and a beautiful lady on horseback, and little children dancing as if it was springtime, but then the wind would blow the images into more sheets of snow. The ghosts of Winter were playing tricks on me, calling to me to join them, but I had a warm spot near enough to my heart that I remembered not to follow them."
"Me?"
"Yes. Worn out as old leather, sleeping the sleep of those past all their strength, but curled like a hedgehog and just as warm. So I kept walking, step by careful step up the mountain, thinking, 'There must be shelter somewhere', praying that it would be soon. And then, my hands fell on something that wasn't cold stone or ice. It was soft and my fingers sank into long warm fur. I squinted through the driving snow and saw a shadow of darkness in the white world. A dog, my friend, as black as midnight against the snow, tall enough that I could lean on it. Now…" He held up a finger, eyes wild and serious.
"I am a Storyteller and I know the tales of the roadside beasts, of the Shuck and the Padfoot, the Skriker, the Guytrash, and the Dandy Hounds. But I had my free hand on this creature and it felt as warm and alive as you did. It began to walk and I clung to it, thinking surely this is some mountain shepherd's dog, some poor honest animal searching for lost lambs in the storm and instead finding you and me, and that it would lead us back to the fold."
"And then, I saw it. A glow of light through the storm. A little cottage, just barely big enough for one window to show the golden light of a warm fire. The black dog had lead us to safety. I fell through the door and had just enough strength to crawl to the fireplace before I collapsed and knew nothing until the shrill, silver sounds of birdsong pricked my ears the next morning.
"The fire was out, and the room was cold, but the storm was over. Sunlight poured in through the one window. The front door was still open, and there in the doorway stood the black dog. It looked me in the eye until I got to my feet and then it turned away, stopping to look over its shoulder at me again. It had eyes that begged and pleaded and commanded. It wanted me to follow.
"You were still asleep, so I left you curled by the hearth to keep as warm as you could, and went out. It was the least I could do after it had rescued us. The wind was gone and the air as still as a mirror's surface. The dog went like a black ghost over the snow, just slowly enough that I never lost sight of it. It lead me down a winding path through the rocks, and I, sliding more than walking, did my best to keep up.
"Finally, it stopped on the edge of a cliff and looked down. Panting and sweating, I was able to come up beside it and look down into the chasm. And what I saw froze me the way the storm hadn't. There, at the bottom, broken on the rocks and under a blanket of snow, lay a shepherd.
"I was in a panic and I slipped and slid and clambered like a madman down the side of those rocks, calling "I'm coming! I'm coming!" knowing full well in my heart of hearts that the poor man was dead. If the fall hadn't killed him, he could not've survived a night out in that storm. I knew it, but I couldn't stop. When I finally got to him, sure enough, he was long cold, fallen to his death, just as I had feared we would the night before.
"All I could think to do was to take him back to his home, make him a little grave, and carry the tale to whatever kin he might have in the next town. I brushed away the snow to move him and if I had had a weaker heart, my friend…" The Storyteller fell silent, shaking his head. The dog waited for a moment.
"Well?" it pressed. When the Storyteller raised his head again, his eyes shone with tears, but he smiled and reached to stroke the dog's head.
"Curled on top of the poor man, doing every thing it had been able to keep him warm, was that black dog, as dead and frozen as its master. I looked up, and of course, the dog I had followed was gone. When I made my way back up the cliff, there were its footprints in the snow, stopping at the top and not leading anywhere else, as if the poor, brave creature had simply disappeared into thin air.
"I carried the shepherd and his dog back to the house, and covered them both with stones. There were no flowers, but the sun sparkled on the snow like daisies made of diamonds. I said what words I could think of, and I thanked the dog for saving us as it couldn't save its own master and went in to find you, just waking up. I fed you out of the hero dog's bowl, and when I couldn't bear to stay in the cold silence of the empty cottage any longer, we bundled up and left again."
"Is that true?" the dog asked, too much wonder in its gruff voice for the Storyteller to take offense.
"Of course. I haven't been back that way, but I have a feeling that any lost as we were will meet a black guide and be led to a tiny cottage lit with firelight. And this time, perhaps the shepherd will be there to welcome his guests."
"That's creepy," the dog grunted, but it went and laid its head on the Storyteller's knee and they sat and soaked up the firelight awhile together.