People of the Weeping Eye(32)

“Have you seen a dog?” one of the men asked.

“In my travels, I have seen many. But I suppose you are asking about a particular dog?”

“We chased him into the river,” the second man said. “He dove underwater.”

“He’s a demon dog,” the first asserted. “Since he showed up three days ago, hanging around our village, we’ve had nothing but misfortune. His feet turn into hands at night. Nothing else could explain how he can open our corn granary. He was seen in the night, stalking through one of our houses. The following morning, Old Root was found dead, eyes wide open, and crossed.”

“Any dog that dives underwater can’t be normal,” the second man insisted.

“No, I’d say not,” Trader agreed.

“We thought to warn you, lest the demon dog leap out of the water and attack you. No one expects to have his throat ripped out by some water-borne mongrel.”

Trader considered the stories of tie snakes and Horned Serpents he’d first heard in his youth. Few people doubted the existence of water cougars, either. Deep water was the home of numerous monsters. “Personally, I’ve never been troubled by the things that live underwater. But I shall be careful.” He hesitated. “How shall I know this demon dog?”

“Black, with some brown, a white face and chest. Long hair, long pointy nose like a fox. You’ll see a glow in his eyes, like red embers in a fire.”

Trader nodded. “I shall be on my guard.”

“Where to, Trader?” the first asked.

“Far south. Perhaps all the way to the salt water.”

“You’ve several moons of travel ahead of you yet. And it’s not that far to solstice.”

“I know. Peace and health to you.”

“Beware the demon dog!” the second man warned. “He’ll steal your packs.”

Trader allowed himself to chuckle when he’d drifted out of the hunters’ sight. Demon dogs? What next?

He glanced at the somber waters around him. The current seemed to flex, sending his canoe headlong down the channel. After his years on the rivers, reading the current was almost second nature. Today, the water was dark green, like a fine translucent chert. It fooled the eye with the illusion that one could see through it, but stole detail when a person peered into its depths.

Surely there was no dog down there. He took another look into the dark green, half expecting the shadow figure of a dog to be stalking him down there in the depths.

“You’re being silly as a stone-struck loon.” He shook his head, returning his attention to the river ahead. He kept an easy rhythm, stroking along, dragging the paddle blade for a rudder. He always sought to move faster than the current, keeping steerage, making time as fast or faster than most men could run. But for the oxbows, bends, and twists, he could have made the gulf in less than a moon. As it was, the river wound back on itself in a serpentine path.

As he rounded one of the interminable bends, he spotted a twirling raft of driftwood in the current. While such hazards to navigation were thick during spring flood, they were rare this late in the season. He closed on it, figuring to pass well clear to the left.

That’s when he saw a streak of white at the edge of the thicket of floating branches. It flowed up from the dog’s chest, bordered in damp brown and wet black. A button point of a nose tipped the long muzzle. Pricked triangular ears were laid back. Soft brown eyes met his with an unmistakable supplication. Adding to the unhappy illusion, the dog shivered so hard droplets flew from his ears.

The demon dog?

“You look anything but demonic,” Trader called as he backed water, slowing to the floating driftwood’s speed.

Barely audible in the sodden air, a soft whine carried to him. Trader raised his paddle, figuring to bypass the whole affair, but when he did, the dog let out a yelp and pushed away from the driftwood float. He began swimming madly downstream, using the current to make as much distance as possible from the canoe.

Trader followed as closely as he dared, watching the long black hair on the dog’s back flow back and forth like midnight moss. The animal was panting, shivering, and clearly running out of strength.

“They said your paws turned into hands,” Trader remarked neutrally. “That true?”

The panicked dog paddled harder.

Trader frowned. This was scarcely the sort of beast that would leap out of the river and rip his throat out. Was that his imagination, or was the dog’s head lower in the water?

The animal went under, pulled down by a sucking whirlpool that spun off to the side. When the nose broke surface, the dog tried to sneeze and cough, only to flounder again. Then he thrashed in panic, choking and coughing as he was sucked down.