Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? An eventful year for me and I am looking forward to a less eventful winter. Glad I am to be joining in the estimable Hades Lord of the Dead's annual Christmas Challenge. I hope my efforts will entertain and look forward to reading the other stories.
One more thing before I begin: Please, dear readers, leave comments on any chapters you read whether they be mine or another author's. Comments are the only rewards we fan authors get and the more we get, the more we feel like writing. Thank you.
Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Write a story involving a dog (but no dog deaths please!)
Who's a Good Boy?
There was no going back to the gasthaus. Watson would be there and very likely agents Holmes must avoid if he wished to remain alive. There was no going back to England, either. Watson could return, but Holmes could not. Not for some time. Perhaps not for years. This path would take him south away from the falls, but he needed ultimately to go north to Zurich. From Zurich, he would go to Berlin and from Berlin to Italy or the United States. They would expect him to go to France and thence to England, but Holmes would not. For the moment, he was prey, but he would soon become the hunter once more.
A movement on the path ahead stopped Holmes in his tracks. Dread clutched at his heart and froze the breath in his lungs. Had they found him already? Narrowing his eyes in the dimness under the trees, he caught sight of a form low to the ground. A black shape that seemed to absorb what light filtered from above. Chill sweat prickling along his spine, he shivered.
"Not large enough to be a man," Holmes murmured and licked dry lips. A glance over his shoulder confirmed no one followed. Carefully, on silent feet, he edged forward. Whatever was there ahead, dread though it might be, could not be an agent of Moriarty. There might be some wild beast in these rocky hills, but none he feared so much as Man.
Closing within ten feet of the thing, Holmes frowned in confusion. What could this be? It lay athwart the path and had it not been moving a moment ago, he might have taken it for a large stone or part of a fallen trunk. It moved again. Holmes jerked back, ready to sprint away. The thing rose to all fours and looked at him. Blowing out a nervous breath, he relaxed.
"No man has a tail that wags," he said and chuckled at his fear. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he stepped closer and held out a palm. "Here boy. Come here."
The dog, black as the bottom of a coalmine at midnight, wagged its tail, lowered its head and ambled towards him.
"How large you are!" Holmes remarked, noting the heavy, muscular frame beneath the thick, shaggy coat. He allowed the dog to snuffle his palm before attempting to pet it and was rewarded with the beast flopping at his feet before rolling to its back, presenting its belly for a good scratching. "There now. Who's a good boy? Yes. Very nice to meet you, but I must hurry on my way. Go home, boy. Home!"
The dog rose and regarded the man uncertainly.
"Go on home," said Holmes, making a shooing gesture. "You do not want to be in my company. Not safe. Go home."
The dog, some hundred pounds of muscle and fur, remained gazing up at him curiously. Holmes shook his head and stepped around the beast, continuing on down the trail. He needed to get to shelter before nightfall. With only his hiking clothes, it would be a very cold night and he must find a place out of the wind and wet. No fire this night, either. A cold, uncomfortable evening for certain. Likely, the first of many.
As he strode along, the dog followed. Holmes frowned down on it, but the dog seemed perfectly content to stride beside him. He thought to shoo it off but perhaps this would work to his advantage. After all, Moriarty's men were looking for Sherlock Holmes, a man on the run, not some gentleman out for a stroll with his dog. What harm would there be?
Eastward down the slope Holmes went in company with his new friend for nearly an hour in companionable silence. Their path seemed no more than an animal track, perhaps that of deer. Holmes did not know and his mind was otherwise occupied. He decided he must really try for Italy. He could speak Italian with a French accent and his artistic skills would allow him to blend in with the Bohemian crowd of tourists who frequented the remote ruins to sketch and paint. He would not stand out in the least. He would grow a beard and change his manner of dress, perhaps even effecting a pair of pince-nez. Certainly, he would grow out his hair and wear it in that messy style too many artists enjoyed. He would spend the warm months eating goat cheese and good bread, and drinking inexpensive wine. He had money, but not enough to live too high.
The dog suddenly darted ahead of him and Holmes thought for a moment it might have seen a squirrel. When it froze in place, glaring down the trail, its tail waving slowly, Holmes drew to a stop and listened. He cursed himself for being foolish. This was no time to relax!
Cautiously, he approached the dog and stared in the direction it stared. Birds sang. Leaves and boughs stirred in the breeze. Nothing seemed out of place. Holmes looked down at his silent companion, wondering if this were a false alarm.
"Come on, boy," he said softly and made to step around the beast again.
The dog scrambled ahead of him and spun, baring its teeth, forepaws spread as if ready to spring and tail a rigid mast. Holmes drew up, suddenly wishing for his revolver. The dog shot a glance over its shoulder and then stared into the eyes of Holmes, a pleading expression on its noble face. Holmes narrowed his eyes down the path, concentrating, trying to find some indication of an enemy. He had just decided the dog was overreacting when a twig snapped somewhere in the near distance. Instantly he stepped behind a thick tree and listened for a full minute. No other sound came. Was he being paranoid? A little paranoia was no bad thing in this situation, though.
"Someone is down there, eh?" he whispered to the dog. The dog sneezed softly in reply. "Well, where to then? Can't go back."
As if understanding, the dog trotted back up the way they had come and stopped, looking back clearly impatient for the human to follow. Holmes dithered. Did he trust this animal to lead him? The dog scratched the earth insistently and Holmes pushed off the rough bark to join his companion. The dog wagged his tail and pushed between a pair of shrubs with Holmes right behind him. A few paces through underbrush and Holmes found himself on another narrower and steeper path that led distinctly south. The dog never broke stride, making easy work of the terrain. Holmes followed as best he could but lost sight of his furry companion for several minutes. When abruptly he emerged into a small clearing at the bottom of the slope, though, the dog lay on his side in the midst of a sunbeam. Its tail thumped in the grass as Holmes approached.
"I hope we are safe here," Holmes murmured, bending to scratch the dog behind the ears.
Chuffing, it rolled to its feet and trotted out into the clearing where it turned to wait for Holmes. Shaking his head, Holmes reluctantly followed, worried that some sharp-eyed marksman might see him. Regardless, he followed the dog to the far side of the clearing and into the woods' verge. There, mostly concealed by the trees, stood a small, rustic house or cottage. As he examined it, the door opened and a man in a long brown robe stepped out, a broom in hand and smiled at Holmes.
"Hallo," said the man in the local dialect of German. "Out for a stroll?"
"In a roundabout fashion," Holmes replied in the same language, returning the man's smile. "I am traveling south. Your dog led me here. Do you know if there is a hostel nearby?"
"Dog?" said the man. Holmes now discerned a crucifix hanging about his neck and understood this man was a Franciscan monk. Perhaps a hermit.
"A dog. A large black one." Holmes cast about but there was no sign of his companion. "He was here only a moment ago."
"Was he?" The monk blinked and looked about, returning his gaze to Holmes with another smile. "Seems he has gone. I am afraid there is no hostel close enough for you to reach before nightfall, sir. Please, join me for the night. I have no luxuries, but I do have mutton, freshly baked bread and good beer. You are welcome to it. In the morning, I will set you on a safe path."
Holmes looked over his shoulder at the foreboding forest above the clearing and sighed in relief. A safe place for the night? Yes. Definitely.
"Thank you, sir. I gladly accept your hospitality."
"You said the dog was black?" the friar asked as Holmes entered the cottage.
"Blacker than any I have ever seen," confirmed Holmes. "And quite large. Perhaps he belongs to a shepherd."
"A shepherd? Yes. Perhaps." The monk smiled cryptically. "Perhaps. You are not the first to be led to my door by that dog. I suspect you will not be the last."
Holmes gave him an inquisitive look, but the monk ignored it.
"Come. Have a seat beside the fire. I will make tea and you will tell me of your travels. I do not get out much. What is happening in the wide world?"
Still curious about the dog, Holmes sat in the offered chair and accepted a mug of steaming tea, which he drank while the monk puttered about the kitchen and listened to what news Holmes could supply. Not until long after dinner, when there was only one candle burning and the monk was at his prayers did Holmes in the silence of the cottage recall an ancient legend from Somerset.
"The Gurt Dog?" he mused aloud. Smirking at himself, Holmes shook his head and let the mystery slip from his mind. There were enough pressing things to deal with without adding something so trivial. Even so, he wished the dog well and felt grateful to have crossed paths with it. "Who's a good boy? Yes, you are."