Читать книгу Rascal: Swept Beneath The Waters - Chris Cooper - Страница 7

CHAPTER 1

Rascal came to the river in the grey light of early morning.

He’d been on the move since before sunrise and he had made good time. But what now? To continue his journey west, he had to cross to the other side. The river wasn’t too wide, but its level was high after several days of rain and its waters ran fast. A feeling of uneasiness clutched at the dog. Could he swim in such a strong current?

Rascal didn’t want to find out. A shiver of fear ran through him at the very thought. He looked up and down the river. One direction led off to nothing but wilderness. In the other, he could make out electricity pylons in the distance. That meant a town. Usually Rascal tried to avoid towns as much as possible – it was safer that way – but he knew there was a better chance of finding a bridge in that direction. He began to follow the river downstream.

The trees around him had started to lose their leaves. A memory stirred in Rascal’s mind of playing with Joel in the back garden. He had been no more than a puppy then. Joel had promised his parents that he would rake up the leaves that littered the lawn. And he had made good on that promise, until . . .

‘Check this out, Rascal!’ Joel had said with a grin. And then he had scooped up a handful of the leaves and tossed them into the air.

‘Its raining leaves!’ Joel had laughed, and Rascal had been happy to join in the fun, jumping up and barking excitedly.

‘What are you two up to out there?’ had come the cry from the kitchen window. But, as boy and dog rolled in the leaf pile, Joel had been laughing too hard even to answer his mum.

But Joel was far away now and the falling leaves filled the dog with anxiety. Autumn was here. He could feel it on the wind, like a promise of the winter to come. What if he hadn’t made it home before the really bad weather set in? He would never be able to continue his journey once the first snows had fallen.

And then what?

The river curved round, and beyond the bend a small road ran alongside it. Rascal was able to pick up speed now, running in the middle of the road but always keeping the river in sight. He didn’t even notice the sound of an engine behind him until the blare of a horn startled him. It was loud and it didn’t sound like car horns usually did. This one played a few notes of music.

Rascal leapt to the side of the road just in time before a battered red pickup truck roared by. The man in the driver’s seat shouted something through the open window. Rascal watched until the truck disappeared round the bend ahead.

He continued more carefully now. Soon he passed a few warehouses by the water’s edge. And then the land opened up in front of him. He had come to a small park that sloped up from the river. At the far end of the park lay a small town . . . and also a footbridge across the river.

He would be able to cross here.

As he set off in the direction of the bridge, Rascal became aware of the one vehicle parked at the top of the hill alongside the park. It was the red pickup truck, the same one that had passed him on the road earlier. But where was the driver now?

The answer came moments later when a burly man burst out from behind the park’s wooden shelter, down near the waterfront. He was in his mid-twenties, with hair cropped close to his head. His face was set in a grimace, as if he wanted to get out of this place as fast as possible.

Over the past few months, Rascal had learned to read humans. It was a matter of survival. With some you could sense their kindness – it almost shone from them like a light. But there were other people Rascal now knew he had to avoid. It had been a hard lesson to learn. Such people cared nothing about a stray dog like him. If he tried to beg a bite to eat from one of them, he was more likely to receive a snarled insult or even a kick for his troubles.

Rascal was sure of one thing: this man belonged to the second kind. And for the man to get back to his truck at the top of the hill, he would have to go right by Rascal. Fear stabbed at the dog.

Rascal did his best to disappear into himself, to not look up, to act as if he wasn’t there at all.

‘I can’t get away from stinkin’ dogs,’ snarled the man, when he neared the path Rascal was on. The stale smell of cigarettes was strong on him and . . . something else too, but Rascal couldn’t place the scent.

‘Beat it!’ yelled the man.

Rascal scurried quickly out of range of the boot that lashed his way.

The man ran right past him and up the hill. He pulled open the truck door and soon the engine roared into life. The man revved it a few times and then, with a squeal of wheels on concrete, the truck disappeared down the road.

The dog padded forwards carefully. The man was gone, but Rascal’s senses told him that he was not alone in this park. He sniffed the air, finally identifying the scent. He knew it! There was another dog close by, maybe more than one.

But where?

It was only chance that the wind died down at the right moment for Rascal to hear the whimper. It sounded small and frightened, and it came from a line of bushes at the back of the shelter the man had emerged from.

Rascal edged closer. He heard the whimper again, this time joined by another. He pushed his snout through the bushes and saw a canvas bag lying on the other side. An acrid trace of cigarette smell hung around the bag and Rascal knew instantly that the man in the red pickup truck must have left this here.

The top of the bag was open and a tiny snout was poking out.

It was a puppy, a little black-and-brown dog so young that its fur was still fluffy.

Carefully, Rascal nudged the puppy back and then pulled on the opening of the bag. There were two other puppies in there, these ones even tinier than the first. They were snuggling next to each other for warmth.

Rascal looked around but could see no other dog anywhere . . . no mother.

These puppies were all alone.