Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“You poor thing,” Emmie murmured. Well, she was sure that Tilda’s brat could wait to eat until she got him back to the refuge. Stealthily, her free hand crept toward the pouch at her belt—but the movement was injudicious. A swelling snarl burst from the animal’s throat, as it leapt to the attack—followed by an agonized yelp as Emmie’s stick whacked into its ribs with a hollow thud. Cowed and whining, the bitch slunk back toward her doorway, glancing back frequently over her shoulder as if trying to pluck up the courage to attack again.

“Oh turds!” Emmie muttered. She was shaking, and sick with an irrational guilt. Swiftly, she fumbled in her pouch, and drew out the package of food, ripping away the cloth that wrapped it. “Here, girl!” she called, and tossed her provisions to the starving animal. The dog pounced on them, drooling—and suddenly looked up with bright eyes at her benefactor. The ragged, white-plumed tail wagged once, as if in thanks—and then the dog snatched up the food and was gone. From within the building came a shrill chorus of high-pitched whines, as the mother returned to her litter.

Inwardly mocking her own softheartedness, Emmie went on her way, pausing to wipe her eyes, which had unaccountably filled with tears, on a fold of her cloak. “You idiot!” she told herself. “Haven’t you seen enough human suffering, that you have to get in a stew about a starving animal?” She could imagine what Jarvas would say, if he ever found out she’d given scarce and valuable supplies to a bloody dog! Nonetheless, her heart had been warmed by the dog’s seeming gratitude—and Emmie knew that if she could live the encounter over again, she’d do exactly the same thing.

“Grince? Grince—are you in there? Your mother sent me to fetch you!” Emmie rapped hard on the flimsy door, wincing inwardly as she called the poor child’s unfortunate name. (“I called him after his dad,” Tilda had said defensively. “At least—I’m almost sure that was his dad!”) Emmie shook her head resignedly, and knocked again.

She had been hammering for some minutes on the unyielding door, when there was a grating noise, as if some heavy object were being dragged back from the other side. The door opened a crack and a dark, suspicious eye peeped out.

“My ma said don’t open the bloody door for no body”

The young woman was just in time to get her into the door before it slammed shut again. Such a stream of curses came from the ten-year-old child within, even though she had thought herself inured to the language of the gutter, Emmie winced. For all his talk, she could sense that the child was very much afraid—and not without reason, when his mother had failed to come home.

“Don’t be daft’ she said crisply. “Tilda ran into a bit of trouble last night, and that’s why she didn’t come back. But don’t worry, she’s safe, among friends. My name is Emmie—she sent me to fetch you, so that you could be safe, too.”

With that, she forced the door open. “Go away!” the child howled. “I’m not going with you, I want my ma!” He was cowering in the farthest corner of the single room, in a nest of verminous rags that obviously passed for his bed, his dark eyes scowling up at her from behind a ragged fringe of black hair,

“Come on, Grince,” Emmie wheedled. “Look—we don’t have time to waste. Your mother is worried about you.” She looked down with pity at the small and skinny boy, and silently cursed Tilda. Why, the child looked as neglected, wild, and undernourished as that poor stray dog!.

She approached his bedside and knelt down—and froze in horror as she saw the wicked glint of a knife in the small boy’s hand.

“Bog off!” the boy shrilled. “Don’t come no closer, or I’ll gut you!”

He meant it—that was certain. Emmie shuddered. What sort of life could do this to a child? Her mind was racing. If she could only get him to trust her! Fleetingly, she regretted giving her food to the starving dog… The dog! Of course! Emmie gave the boy her brightest of smiles. “Oh, never mind old Tilda, then. She can wait! Would you like to see some puppies, instead?” she asked disarmingly.

Grince’s face lit up like a beacon. “Puppies? Really? Are they yours? Can I have one?” Then the scowl returned. “But my ma won’t let me,” he added sullenly. Emmie grinned, adopting the boy’s own language. “Stuff your ma,” she said briskly. “If you’ll put down that knife and come with me, you can have the whole bloody lot!”

At first, Emmie was afraid that the dog would be gone when she approached the building with the excited child in tow, she told Grince to wait outside, and crept into the hovel with great trepidation. She need not have worried. The white dog was delighted to see her—probably, Emmie thought, in the hopes that she might have more food.

“Good dog,” she said softly, and put out a hand to scratch the soft white ears. She was rewarded by a whine, and much tail-wagging, as the dog pressed close to her and licked her hand. A good-natured creature at heart, the young woman thought, delighted that her assessment of the animal had been right. Once, this dog had had a kindly owner—but what had happened to him or her? A quick search of the room gave her the answer, The owner had died within the hovel—of age or sickness, most likely—and the dog had been living on the corpse ever since.

“Well?” Emmie asked herself, “What was she supposed to do, with pups to feed?” Nonetheless, she found it hard to suppress her retching, as she took an old blanket and covered the well-gnawed heap of bones, before calling the child into the room.

Grince went into raptures over the pups—a motley lot, with one white beast like its mother, and the others splotched with black. When Emmie reached down to take the little creatures, the bitch, weak with hunger, reacted with a trust that touched her to the core. As they left the hovel, Grince danced around her, unable to contain his excitement. “Are they mine?” he asked her, wide-eyed. “Can I have them all?”

“ Of course you can,” Emmie told him recklessly, She laid her free hand on the broad white head of the bitch who paced at her side, and smiled, “But the dog is mine,” she added firmly. Suddenly, she felt lighter of heart and more at ease than she had done since Devral had died.

It was nearing noon when Emmie trudged wearily back to the refuge, encumbered by her burden of five squirming pups, their eyes not yet open, tied up loosely in a rough bag that she’d made from her petticoat. Grince who had been hugely impressed by her resourcefulness—and the fact that she had kept her promise—clung lightly to her free hand, and the big white dog followed trustingly at her heels. Dear Gods, Emmie thought, imagining the whore’s reaction on being presented with not one, but five puppies—Tilda is in for a shock! And what on earth is Jarvas going to say when he sees this menagerie?

“What the thundering blazes is that?” The horrified expression on Jarvas’s face at the sight of the white dog was not encouraging.

Grince shrank nervously behind Emmie’s skirts. She squeezed his hand and tilted her chin in defiance, but the boy could feel her trembling. “It’s only a dog, for goodness’ sake!” she protested.

“Dog? It’s more like a bloody horse!” Jarvas snorted. “Emmie, you should have more sense than to bring that creature here! Haven’t we enough to worry about, after my idiocy last night? Aren’t we in enough trouble? And how in the name of all the Gods do you expect to feed the wretched beast? We’ve little enough to go round as it is!”

But my puppies! thought Grince. He swallowed against a tightness in his throat. Never in his short life had he possessed anything that really belonged to him—and never had he wanted anything more than those tiny scraps of life. Above his head, the argument continued.