So here comes the last chapter of this little story with a somewhat kitschy ending for all those of you who like a happy, cuddly ending, especially at Christmas. ;)
Chapter V
"These confounded …" Hopping around on one leg in the utility room, the queen of the Mark tried to pull on her boots, while the others were waiting more or less patiently. She had already furiously declined their help and so Éowyn just watched, her arms crossed in front of her chest.
"I told you, new boots always are a real bugger. You had better wear the old ones."
Lothíriel gave her a furious glare. "Just shut it, will you? If I want to break them in I have to wear them."
The first single drops of rain could be heard, clattering on the tin roof of the drying shed and the trees swooshed in a wind that announced stronger rain. Leaving the two young women to their squabble, the farmer followed the Princess of Dol Amroth into the barn to take the saddles off the stable partition, where the women had put them, when two things occurred almost at the same time: The shrill cry of a horse sounded from the barnyard, and then Éowyn bolted past them and out of the door. Dropping the saddle she had been handling, the farmer ran after her, grabbing her big torch as she went.
There was no sight of her sheep at first, but the three horses stood in front of the fold, moving uneasily, their eyes and nostrils wide, their ears pulled back nervously, facing the two dogs that crouched before them, ready to jump any moment. And then the light beam of the torch found the sheep, huddled in the far corner of the fold, streaks of blood showing on the coats of at least two lambs.
"Wulf! Andfeng, Windfola! Forth!" Éowyn's voice sounded like a whiplash, and with another deafening cry the great grey bore down on the dogs.
It was impossible to follow the whirl of bodies, the frantic flash of fangs and hooves in the torch light, all made the more unreal and monstrous by the sounds of wind and rain, the dogs' snarls and yelps and the stallion's neighing, but it took only seconds until the body of the foremost attacker crashed into the barn wall, catapulted there by Windfola's thrashing hooves, while the second made a run for it three-legged, plunging through the ditch that bordered the meadows as fast as it could.
"Eft!" Commanding her horse to stay, Éowyn jumped forward, reaching for the dagger on her belt .
"Don't!" Much faster than age and plumpness suggested, the farmer was at Éowyn's side.
Her dagger halfway drawn, Éowyn raised her head. "I just want to make sure the beast is dead."
The farmer nodded. "I know. But I would rather not have anybody find that the dog was stabbed." She prodded the body with her foot. "It won't be necessary anyway. This cur is as dead as a doornail." She squinted into the dusk, the gloom of which was amplified by the rain. "I doubt anybody has seen or heard anything, what with the rain and the next house being quite some distance away. Perhaps I had better make use of the rain and get rid of the carcass before anybody develops funny ideas."
"I don't understand..."
The farmer sighed. "Look, Éowyn, these dogs are pure-bred huskies, the very same beasts I told you about. So a killed dog will mean a heavy loss for the owner."
Éowyn snorted. "No matter how much it is worth, it attacked your sheep in a fenced off meadow on your premises. If the owner values his precious hounds that much, he should keep them kennelled."
The farmer gave a bitter laugh. "No doubt, but I know whose dog it is and I prefer not to be involved. It is not the first time the beast was after my sheep. I complained about it at the council, only to be told to put up better fencing." She wouldn't even try to explain anything like an electric fence to Éowyn. It probably would be as successful as trying to get her fowl used to it. Some things simply didn't work. With a grimace, she shrugged. "Rich people always know how to buy law. And anyway, I had better check my sheep now."
With a grunt, Éowyn spit on the bloodied mud of the yard, but before she could make any remark, Lothíriel and her mother appeared in the open door. The farmer left it to Éowyn to inform them on the incident and went into the fold, closing the gate behind her. A swift check revealed that the two lambs sported only shallow bites and scratches on head and necks, but one of the ewes had lost half an ear to the fangs of the dogs and was bleeding profusely. That certainly needed binding. With a grunt, she turned to the women, waiting for her in the open door of the barn. The rain was falling now in fat, steady drops.
"It's nothing that will not mend." She eyed her visitors with an awkward expression. "They must have sought shelter in the fold because of the upcoming rain and that was where those dogs had them like on a dinner tray. There cannot be any doubt that your horses forestalled anything worse, and also made sure that at least one dog won't come again, and I am grateful for that, but I would not like anybody to come and ask questions about who or what killed it."
Gelíris nodded. "I suppose we had better leave to spare you further discomfort." Without any other comment, the women went to get the saddles, while the farmer fetched some dressing material and soon was back in the fold, tending the ewe and disinfecting the lambs' scratches.
Having hefted her saddle, the saddle blanket slung loosely over her shoulder, Éowyn hesitated at the gate. "Are you sure you don't need any help?"
The farmer nodded. "As I said: It will mend."
"And what will you do about that piece of carrion?" The Shieldmaiden jerked her head towards the dead dog.
The farmer smiled lopsidedly. "I'll drag it along the hedge to where the track hits the road and place it on the bank of the ditch there. No doubt the other dog will head for home, and if anybody comes looking for the second one, they'll find it on the roadside and think it was run over by a car, fitting in with the injuries of the first."
"A cart?" Gelíris' face expressed her doubt and the farmer could not help her grin deepen.
"Something like that, but much faster and therefore much more deadly when it hits you. Don't you worry, it will work like a charm. But I had better do it as soon as possible, before anybody gets wind of it."
The Princess of Dol Amroth lowered her head in agreement, but a remaining unease showed clearly in her face."If you say so." She sighed. "We had better go now."
This time the farmer did not ignore the proffered hand, and Gelíris squeezed it heartily. "Take care of yourself, mistress Thanwen, and don't let any rich and inconsiderate newcomers daunt you."
The farmer shook her head. "I will and I won't. But I am sure with one of his dogs killed and the other one injured that idiot will think twice before he lets any dog stray again and risk it being run over." The malicious grin was back on her face. "You see, my sheep are not worth much, but if a stray dog causes an accident with a car things might get expensive even for a wealthy person."
In no time the horses were saddled, and having said good bye, the visitors plodded up the terp, while the farmer grabbed the hind legs of the dead dog and made to haul it to the roadside. There was no traffic on the road and no sound from the neighbouring houses the lamp-lit windows of which could be hardly perceived in the murk and when she was on her way back, the rain set in for good, pouring down as if someone had upturned a bath tub.
The terp was almost invisible, hidden behind wind-beaten curtains of rain, and for a moment she wondered at the strange pang she felt, realising that it would be empty. A look into the fold assured her that everything was as well as it could be, and hefting the hay fork, she started to feed the sheep. With the bucketing rain there would be no traces left by the next morning, and the only proof of her visitors would be a battery of empty glasses on her kitchen table
ooo
Feeling an odd mixture of satisfaction and melancholy, the farmer let her gaze wander over the harvested patch before her. The spring had been quite cool and a little too dry, but her spinach had thrived and what was more, she had been able to harvest all of it before a single plant had run to seed. Close by a blackbird started to warble in the hedges, causing a silent smile to flit over the woman's features. How could people not love these early mornings! Was there anything like the world just after dawn? She breathed deep, relishing the fresh air, still cool from the night. There was a promise of rain in the air, reminding her of that strange afternoon two months ago.
Not that it had actually changed anything in her life: She had continued to work her garden, which had kept her busy enough, some late-coming lambs had been born, raising the headcount of her little flock to twenty-one, and then there had been the story or rather the stories. First of all Gelíris was in for a surprise. She chuckled softly, imagining the princess' immaculate eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. Second to come was Lothíriel's story. She straightened her back. Seven chapters it had taken her to sort out what the queen of the Mark had called the Airik-affair and she was more than relived to have been able to finish the first draft before sheep shearing was due. All that was left now was polishing and typing. She would not start on the Erchirion story before she was through with that, though her notebook already held a number of scribbled down scenes and ideas, some just mere lists of keywords while others were almost ready to be typed. She certainly would keep her promise, but as certainly she would not let Gelíris' demand meddle with her other duties.
She could not help a wistful grin, thinking of her unexpected visitors. No doubt they had spent a really nice afternoon, but she was rather relieved that the three women had not chosen to visit again, especially as the gossip about the mysterious car that had run over the new neighbour's stray dogs had not died down for almost a month. Only when another neighbour had been able to sell one of his yearlings for a tremendous price at the annual foal auction everybody had switched to the new topic.
Lifting the bulky basket with the yield of the last furrow, she made for the kitchen terrace to sort and clean the plants before further processing, only to find that the big bucket was still full with last evening's sorted out plants that would normally go to the rabbits and the sheep. She frowned, thinking for a moment about just throwing it over the fence to be able to continue her work. But it was still too early for the usual morning feeding and her husband would be grumpy if she changed his morning routines, feeding the animals out of the regular feeding times as it taught them to bleat any time they heard or saw someone, in the hope for an extra treat, which could become rather nerve-racking.
Grumbling under her breath, she went in search for another bucket, but the simple opening of the shed door was enough to alert the old leading ewe, who immediately started to clamour, rousing the others of her flock. With a sigh, the farmer reached for the full bucket. Now it was all the same anyway, so she had better shut those dratted sheep up.
Seeing her approach, ewes and lambs jostled in front of the gate. With a snort, she pushed the gate open. Those stupid animals! They had a more than lush meadow all to themselves, but no, always the plants that were out of their reach were the ones they coveted! She squeezed in between the sheep, spreading out the spinach chaff in little heaps distanced from each other to also give the lambs a chance for a mouthful before their greedy dams could gobble down the whole ration.
Soon the bleating died down, and she was surrounded by white, grey and brown backs, heads bent as eager mouths made short work of the treat. As a matter of routine, she counted them, lest one was missing. The two wethers, greedy as always, the barren ewe, easily noticeable as she had run to fat, the small grey, wiry leading ewe, five other ewes, three white, two brown... That was all right. And then there should be twelve lambs, five dark ones and seven... She stopped short, blinked and counted again. No mistake: there was a surplus lamb.
Having finished the spinach, the ewes started to move away, calling their lambs to them with that typical low bleat, and then she spotted it: white, matching her lambs in size and fur, but sporting a broader back and a much longer tail. A pup! Slowly she knelt down, reaching out her hand and called the small animal with cooing sounds.
A broad, almost triangular head was tilted, small ears tipped, as dark, almond shaped eyes took her in reluctantly. The unexpected nudge of the leading ewe's head almost made her fall over and with a laugh she scratched the animal's neck while the ewe started to search her apron for another treat. As if it had needed an encouraging example, the little dog gave a short yelping sound and bounced up to her, almost climbing on top the ewe's lowered head in its attempt to lick the farmer's face. For a moment she held her breath. The ewe stayed totally unfazed. How could that be? A strange dog, no matter how small, would alert any sheep, let alone her old feisty Elli. But then the dog had been amongst the sheep without them taking any notice... Slowly she grabbed it and turned it on its back. A male pup, no doubt. Her fingers gently felt for the teeth. Tiny, needle-sharp milk teeth. The animal was probably not older than three months. Thoughtful she let her fingers slide over the pup's paws. They were simply huge. That dog would become at least as big as her old Newfoundlander. But when she had introduced the nine-weeks-old Ebba to the sheep they had reacted very differently, showing nervousness and even fear, despite the dog being little more than a four-legged ball of black fur. Slowly she raised the pup to her nose and found her suspicion confirmed: the dog smelled like a sheep.
Putting it down again, she swallowed. A livestock guardian dog! By the look of it some kind of Pyrenean mountain dog, born in a sheep pen, bred to live amongst the flock and protect it. Just what she had always wanted. Doubtfully her gaze wandered over to the top of the terp. Could it be? The demanding whine of the pup brought her out of her musings. With a smile she rose. "Well, Lütting, once you are here I had better feed you and make you welcome, hadn't I?"
She almost collided with her husband when she rounded the corner of the barn, the little dog in tow.
"What...?" He started at the animal, speechless with amazement. Grinning, she picked up the pup. "I found him amongst the sheep. Must be guardian stock. At least he smells like a sheep."
Wriggling in her arms, the pup started to lick her chin. Her husband laughed. "I dare say he already seems to feel at home. So watch it, he might take you for the leading ewe."
She stuck out her tongue at him, before her face turned serious again. "I don't know how he got into the meadow. I doubt that he could have got in there on his own. Someone must have put him there." With a sigh, she stroke the slightly curly fur. "I so wish I could keep him."
"Never you worry about that. I am sure he was put there for you to keep."
Her husband's expression was just a tad too confident, and she eyed him with a frown. "Did you ...?"
He shook his head. "No, I would not have known where to get one. But I think I know who put it there." Fishing in the fathomless pocket of his overalls, he held out something to her. "I found this on the gate of the fold."
Handing him the pup, she took the item. It was a huge dog collar, made of strong, reddish leather, studded with small bronze suns in regular distances. Slowly she turned it in her hands. There were two buckles to fix it and then she noticed the embossed signs between the single suns. Runes! And it was not Futhark. Her heart pounding like mad, she tried to work out the meaning: H... O... L... D... W... "Holdweard."
Her husband looked at her, uncomprehending.
"The dog's name is Holdweard. Loyal Guardian in Old English."
Her husband laughed, tickling the pup's belly. "I don't doubt the "loyal", but this half-pint will have to grow quite a lot to fit into his collar and his name."
She could have sworn the pup grinned as he playfully dug his needle-like teeth into her husband's thumb.
Annotations:
wulf: (Old English/Rohirric) wolf
andfang: (Old English/Rohirric) attack
eft: (Old English/Rohirric) back
Lütting: (Plattdeutsch/Low German) little one
Many thanks go to the ladies of "The Garden" for their helpful comments and especially to my most faithful beta-reader Lady Bluejay for her patient help.