The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [151]
I felt as if some invisible burden had fallen from my shoulders when we emerged from the widening mouth of the wadi and saw the plain stretching out before us. Open air, sunlight, distance! They came as an indescribable relief after those days of confinement. The sun was high and the desert quivered with heat, but beyond it the cool green of the cultivation and the glitter of water refreshed the eyes.
Our path led along the north side of the low hills that enclosed the Eastern Village. No one suggested we stop to rest, though we had been walking for two hours; we were all anxious to press on. Emerson had forged ahead, as was his infuriating habit; the cat clung to his shoulder, and Abdullah was close on his heels. Bertha and the two young men had fallen behind. I am sure I need not say that Cyrus was beside me as he always was.
Only our voices broke the stillness. Gradually, however, I became aware of another sound, sharp-pitched and monotonous as the mechanical ringing of a bell. It rose in volume as we approached the end of the ridge. Ahead and to the left I saw the wall of the little house Cyrus had caused to be built. The sound might have been coming from it.
Emerson heard it too. He stopped, cocking his head. Lowering the cat to the ground he turned, heading for the house.
The sun beat down on my shoulders and head with the force of an open fire; but a sudden chill permeated every inch of my body. I had recognized the sound. It was the howling of a dog.
I shook Cyrus off and began to run. “Emerson!” I shrieked. “Don’t go there! Emerson, stop!”
He glanced at me and went on.
Though Emerson dislikes displaying any of the softer emotions, he is as fond of animals as I. His efforts on behalf of abused and threatened creatures do not attain the extravagance to which his son is unfortunately prone, but he had often interfered to rescue foxes from hounds and hunters. The cries of the dog suggested it was in pain or distress. They drew Emerson as strongly as they would have drawn me—had I not had cause to anticipate danger from such a source.
I saved my breath for running. I can, when it is necessary, attain quite a rapid pace, but on this occasion I believe I broke my own record. Emerson had reached the house before I caught him up. He paused, his hand on the latch, and looked at me curiously.
“The creature has got shut up inside somehow. What is—”
Being unable to articulate for want of breath, I threw myself at him. It proved to be an error, but one for which I may be excused, I think. I had not observed his fingers had already pressed the latch.
Hearing our voices, the dog had begun hurling itself at the door. It burst open. Emerson staggered back against the wall, and I fell rather heavily onto the ground.
The pariah dogs of the villages are scrawny, starved creatures of indeterminate breed. They are not pets, but feral beasts who have good cause to fear and hate human beings. Those who survive the hardships of early life do so because they are tougher and more vicious than their peers. And this one was mad.
It would have gone straight for Emerson’s throat if I had not shoved him aside. Now it attacked the first object it saw— my foot. Bloody foam flew in pink flecks from its jaws as it sank its teeth into my boot, shaking it, gnawing it. My parasol was still in my hand. I brought it down on the dog’s head. The blow would have stunned an animal less frenzied. It only drove this one to a more furious attack.
Emerson snatched the parasol from me. Raising it over his head, he struck with all his strength. I heard the crack of bone and a last, agonized howl that will haunt my memory forever. The beast rolled over, thrashing and kicking. Emerson struck again. The sound was less sharply defined this time but equally sickening.
Emerson seized me under the arms and dragged me away from the body of the dog. His face was as white as the bandage on his cheek—whiter, if I must be accurate, for the bandage had got very dirty, and he had refused my offer to change