Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [110]
The second thing that strengthened his control was a fence post. A weathered piece of wood leaning at a drunken angle on the edge of the road above the farm. He came wandering out of the trees and the old fence post called to Jack. Literally.
‘Hey you! Dog!’ Jack heard the voice, but he didn’t hear it with his ears. The words began with a tingling at the tip of his long nose and blossomed deep in his head. ‘You, dog! All dogs! I am the red mongrel and I challenge you all. To fight any time, to roll belly up any time and acknowledge me as the stronger.’ The voice grew more defined as it went on, assuming subtlety and timbre.
Jack stood staring at the old fence post, wondering if it was haunted, wondering if he was losing his mind. Maybe he was possessed by some kind of evil spirit. After all, what was possession if not hearing alien voices in your head? Maybe such things happened to dogs. But the dog portion of Jack’s mind seemed quite unperturbed by the phenomenon.
The voice echoing in his head was bullying and boastful, but it gradually began to change. ‘I fear nothing. Nothing that walks or crawls or flies,’ it announced, a note of uncertainty creeping into it. ‘Except perhaps for the farm.’
There was a tremor in the voice now. ‘The dark farm,’ it said. ‘The farm where the humans wear white coats and carry knives and lock our brothers away and burn and cut and maim and poison. Beware the dark farm, my brothers. Beware, beware, beware.’
The voice faded. Jack turned to stare down towards the farm but all he could see was the chaotic mass of trees on the hillside. He swung back and looked at the old fence post, taking a deep breath. Instantly the voice was in his mind again. ‘Hey you! Dog!’ it boomed. ‘All dogs! I am the red mongrel and I challenge you.’ Exactly the same words again, in the same sequence. Like a recording.
A recording. That was when Jack began to understand what was happening. He approached the fence post, moving cautiously through the long grass. As he drew nearer his nose twitched and he realized he could make out other voices. The red dog’s boastful message dominated but there were other dogs talking, offering their own messages faintly in the background. The closer he got to the fence post the clearer the other voices became. By now Jack knew what was going on.
Passing dogs regularly marked the post, taking a leak against the old wood. Their urine contained chemical messengers that allowed them to communicate with other dogs. It was like graffiti, thought Jack, although some of the messages, like the red dog’s, were quite long and elaborate.
The red dog’s message dominated, but only because it was the most recent. The others had had time to fade. By jamming his muzzle close to the post and sniffing carefully Jack could detect messages that were weeks old.
He stayed there for the better part of an hour, fascinated by the phenomenon. Most of the messages had a similar content: a declaration, often boastful, about the dog who marked the post. Then a quick narrative account of recent events. Hints, tips, news.
Jack thought of the secret symbols English tramps were once said to have used. If a tramp found a house where the people were kind and gave him a meal he would carve a small coded sign on their gatepost, advertising the fact to other homeless wanderers. If the household was hostile, that fact would be recorded, too.
The scent messages on the old fence post reminded Jack of that. Or of a noticeboard at the university, he thought, grinning his toothy grin.
Most of the messages made some mention of the farm. None of the local dogs had any clear understanding of what went on there, but they all knew it was a place to avoid and they made that clear in their graffiti.
After he had inspected all of these, right back to the oldest, most weather‐eroded, Jack felt an irresistible urge to add his own contribution. He forced himself to refrain, making his bladder relax.