Читать книгу The Man Who Lives with Wolves - Shaun Ellis - Страница 7

It was early morning. I had crept out of my bed, as I often did as a child, and gone out into the barn where the farm dogs slept, to curl up with them—something to which my kindly grandparents turned a tolerant eye. I was a loner; the dogs were my closest friends and the nearest I had to siblings. I woke up to find the oldest of the dogs standing over me, his head facing the door. When I stirred, he turned to look at me and raised an eyebrow. I could tell immediately that something was wrong. His mouth was open and saliva was dripping from his tongue. The younger dogs were lying curled up by my side, which is where Bess, the oldest, should have been, too. I could hear a great commotion in the yard outside and my grandfather was calling my name. I can’t have been more than six or seven years old, but it’s a memory that has stayed with me, and although I had no notion of it at the time, it was the beginning of a very long journey for me.

Bess had bitten one of the farmhands, whose arm was crudely bandaged with a handkerchief and spots of blood were seeping through the flimsy material. He was complaining bitterly. He had come into the barn to collect a chain saw that was on a shelf above my head, and without warning the dog, who knew him well, had gone for him. Bess wasn’t a vicious dog; he had been on the farm all his life and had never been known to attack before. The man was highly indignant, but my grandfather, a wise and wonderful old man not given to hysteria, soon managed to calm the situation. He had lived in the country alongside animals all his life, as his father had before him, and he knew at once what had happened. My bond with the farm dogs had become so close that Bess, the oldest and most dominant dog, had come to regard me as one of the pack, and a young member at that. When the farmhand burst into the barn, waking Bess and probably the other dogs, too, Bess thought I was in danger and he was protecting me in the only way he knew how, the way that his wild relatives might have protected their young.

My grandfather decided that in the interests of safety it was time to ban my nighttime excursions to the barn, but he recognized that the dogs played such an important part in my well-being that I should be allowed to have one of my own, which could sleep with me in the house.

The dog of a neighboring farmer had had pups and not long after this incident, my grandfather took me to choose one from the litter. We had no car in those days; my grandparents were simple folk who lived from hand to mouth. A lot of what we ate came from the wild. We would shoot rabbits, hares, pigeons, and pheasants but I was always taught to hunt in moderation, to respect nature and never to take more than we needed or more than the population could sustain. Whenever I made a kill, I knew to cut the animal open lengthways to remove the innards and throw them into the hedgerow for other creatures to scavenge. I had no qualms about killing or skinning rabbits and hares to prepare them for the pot. Life and death were all part of the natural world and on the farm we were very much a part of it.

Although the farmer with the puppies was a neighbor, the definition of neighbor in our world was someone who lived within a day’s walk, and we set off right after an early breakfast, when it was barely light. It was a cold morning; I could see my breath in the frosty air, and I had on a warm coat and boots. Over my shoulder was a poacher’s bag that carried cold tea and thick cheese sandwiches that my grandmother had made for us. I was used to long walks—I often accompanied my grandfather when he went to pay his respects or do business with neighboring farmers—and I used to relish time spent alone with him. There were no other children around the farm for me to play with, no television, no video games or any of the other things that keep children amused these days. We were miles from anywhere; there was just me and my grandparents, the dogs and the farm animals. Occasionally—or so it seemed to me then—my mother would appear, but it was rare and my father was never mentioned.

But I was not unhappy. I adored my grandparents and never thought for a moment that I was missing out. My grandfather and I would take the dogs with us on our walks, and we would never get far before he’d be stopping to point out something of interest. It might be an abandoned nest in the hedgerow—he would tell me all about the birds that had inhabited it, and how many young they would have produced, how far their territory would have extended. He would dissect the nest so I could see the skill with which it had been constructed. He’d spot a broken bird’s egg lying on the ground, and would explain how it might have got there, stolen from the nest by a predator maybe; or he’d pick up an owl’s pellet deposited on a wooden gatepost, and pull it apart, exposing the tiny fragments of bone, all that remained of the rodents the great raptor had feasted on during the night.

He might make me close my eyes and tell him what I could hear; I’d thought it was quiet until my eyes were closed and then there would be such a deafening noise—birds singing and chattering, insects rubbing their legs, small mammals scurrying, even sheep bleating in the distance or a cow coughing three fields away—so many different sounds and songs. Or we’d investigate a rabbit burrow for signs of activity or identify the prints left by deer and other animals on the muddy tracks. He made every outing an adventure, made every discovery exciting. I loved listening to him talk, hearing him explain, in his rich Norfolk accent, which birds preferred which berries, or why foxes killed more than they could eat or carry away; and sometimes, if I asked, he would talk about himself and about his childhood and how different life had been when he was my age, when there were no modern conveniences like refrigerators, tractors, or electricity; when they’d harvested with scythes and milked the cows by hand.

When we’d reach our destination, he would never take me inside with him. He would leave me to wait with the dogs a little way off while he went to see whomever he had come to visit. Sometimes he would be gone for several hours while he and his friend shared a bottle or two of stout, but I had been taught to wait patiently. It would never have crossed my mind to complain; I adored this man and I never questioned his authority, enjoying nothing more than his approval. Besides, I knew that no matter how long he was gone, he would always come back. He would suddenly appear, saying, “Come on then, boy,” and I’d slip my hand into his great rough paw. We’d retrace our steps and find new things to look at and talk about on our way home.

One day we made just such a trip to choose my puppy. My grandfather and the farmer greeted each other warmly, like long-lost friends, and disappeared together into a barn, where mother and pups were kenneled, leaving me alone in the farmyard. “Wait there, boy,” he said. “I won’t be long.” And so without question, despite the excitement and my impatience to see the litter, I found myself a comfortable spot and sat down to wait.

Suddenly I heard the barn door creak as a gust of wind took it, and a large dog escaped through the open gap and came charging toward me, barking ferociously, ears flat against its head. I knew enough to know that this was not a friendly greeting. I sat still, kept my hands by my side, and waited; it didn’t occur to me to be frightened. Bess and the farm dogs had often charged at me and however aggressive they sounded in a pack, I always held my ground and once they had sniffed me, they were never anything but friendly. The dog’s hackles were raised, her tail was erect, and she was growling as she reached me, her teeth bared. I didn’t move. I let her sniff my legs, feet, hands, and head. Soon the growling stopped and I turned my hands over to expose the palms, which smelled of the cheese sandwich I’d eaten during our walk. She licked them and looked up at my face with soft eyes. I started to scratch the long fur under her chin, which she obviously enjoyed because she sat down and leaned her body into mine, allowing me to rub the rest of her silky body.

The barn door creaked again and as my grandfather and the farmer emerged, the dog by my side growled deeply, gave a sharp bark, and charged the two men. I guessed she was the mother of the pups, and from the panic that ensued, I gathered she did not welcome visitors. The farmer shouted angrily at her, “Get in that barn, now!” The dog lowered her body and slunk back toward me. “Keep still, boy,” warned the farmer. “Don’t move and she won’t hurt you.” But as he ran over toward me, yelling at the dog to get back to the barn, it was clear he didn’t trust the animal an inch. By the time he reached me, the dog had tucked her frightened, shaking body into mine and, ignoring his command to stay still, I had started scratching her again while speaking softly to her.

“Well, bless my soul. Come and have a look at this,” said the farmer, cap in his hand as he scratched his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No one has ever been able to get near that bitch. The only reason I keep her is because she’s so good with the sheep, but she’s always been a real liability with strangers.”

“Ma always said the boy has some sort of gift with dogs,” said my grandfather, still keeping a safe distance. “She’ll swear he knows what they say.”

Not trusting the dog to remain calm, the farmer shut her up while we went into the barn for me to choose one of the puppies. They were fenced in behind straw bales—five in all, four girls and a boy—curled up in one big bundle of black, brown, and white fur. They were lurchers, a greyhound cross breed, so would be good hunters. I knew I wanted a female; my grandfather had taught me that bitches were far better than dogs at providing for their families, and I wanted this dog to earn her keep.

Tied on the end of a length of bailing twine was a rabbit’s foot that the farmer dangled in front of the bundle while he squeaked as an alarmed rabbit might. Immediately the sleeping pups’ ears went up and they looked around. When they spotted the foot dangling within their reach, they sprang to life and, sure enough, it was the bitches that were there first, two of them ahead of the others. It was one of those two that I chose to take. I picked her up and held her in my arms, and as my grandfather handed over a couple of large bottles of light ale in payment, I could just hear, over the puppy’s frantic licking, the farmer say, “The boy’s right, you know. She’s the one I’d’ve picked.

“Away you go, boy,” said the farmer with a cheery smile. “Take care of her.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, the puppy warm and wriggly in my arms. “I’ll take care of her.”

I named her Whiskey and in the next thirteen years, she scarcely left my side.