Robin McKinley - Fire - Tales of Elemental Spirits

Sonny hopped onto his shoulder as he rose, and let him carry him out. He hopped onto Dave’s offered wrist, gathered himself and leapt, wide winged. He swung out and up round the clearing, a blaze of brightness against the summer-weary foliage, and continued the rising spiral like a soaring hawk until the sunlight struck him and he vanished.

In one sense Dave missed Sonny dreadfully, more than he’d ever missed any of his dogs, even old Fitz. But at the same time he felt extremely fortunate to have been given such a season of wonder in his old age. Very few people, he was sure, could have had such luck. It hadn’t been anything he had been entitled to, let alone allowed to hang on to when the time came for him to lose it.

Furthermore, he had told Sonny the truth. The bird had done him a power of good. He felt in better heart than he had for years, and it needed no effort of will to do as he’d promised and find things to occupy his time. Two bits of good luck came his way. Tom Hempage, not normally one for chat, told him as if by way of gossip that the old bitch at the farm had whelped late, both in her life and in the year. As she was the best dog the farmer had ever had, he wasn’t willing to lose any of what was sure to be her last litter, but she hadn’t enough milk for all of them and they were looking for people to wean the pups and look after them until they were old enough to train. From the awkwardness of his manner Dave guessed he had been told to ask without seeming to, and this was the best he could do. Without thought, he said he’d be glad to take one on.

He got the last of the litter, a bitch, small even for a runt, proving his guess correct. The farmer would only have kept her for sentimental reasons. He wanted a home for her where she would be more of a house pet than anything that would one day make a working gundog.

ʺWe’ll show ’em, eh?ʺ Dave told the brindled scrap, and she looked up at the tone of his voice, the flop ears attempting to prick. A good sign, he thought. No reason she shouldn’t train. Though he didn’t expect to keep her beyond the spring if she turned out any good, he named her Vick, after a bitch he’d had seventy years back, when the Queen had still been just Princess Victoria. And she did what he’d wanted, keeping him busy enough, stopping him brooding about Sonny. For that reason, and against all his principles—his previous dogs had all been kennelled outside—he went along with the house-pet idea enough to have her indoors and let her curl up on his lap in the evenings. Only, last thing at night, after he’d shut Vick into her box and put the lamp out and lit his candle, he’d take Sonny’s feather from the pot where he kept it on the mantle shelf and run it gently through his fingers, and for those few moments the blazing presence would be vividly with him in the room.

And then, a few weeks later, George Hand, the head gamekeeper, dropped by for a bit more than the usual chat about old times. Apparently his lordship was planning some really big shooting parties that winter, and George would be needing to drive the woods as much as they would stand, so there weren’t going to be much by way of breeding birds left by season’s end, and he’d be needing to stock up all he could, come spring. Did Dave feel up to lending a hand?

ʺGlad to ’elp,ʺ said Dave. ʺJust ’ave to see ’ow I come through the winter, mind you, though I’m a mort better than I was this time last year. But I’ll start takin’ a look round, see what needs doin’. Do it myself if I can, ask you to send a lad up if I can’t.ʺ

So from then on, Dave quartered the wood more systematically than he’d been doing on his daily excursions, checking out the movements of jays and magpies and such. To help persuade them that a man carrying a gun meant no harm he took his with him. Vick, as soon as she was big enough, went eagerly along, learning to walk to heel, to sit until called, and so on. One bright January morning, extending this process, he told her ʺstill,ʺ and made her stand motionless while he took notional aim at a magpie. To his astonishment he found that if the gun had been loaded he could perfectly well have shot the bird.

Until that moment, though he had been vaguely aware that his eyes were getting no worse, he had no idea they had grown so much better. Testing them one at a time he found that the right eye was now almost unclouded, and the left, which a year ago had been seeing little more than a blur of light, was now making out definite shapes and distances through the mist. He was completely delighted, of course, though he didn’t take the apparent miracle for granted, merely hoping it would last. But for some reason he was wary of telling anyone about his good luck. There was something uncanny about it.

It turned out a harsh winter, with deep snow and hard frosts followed by a messy thaw, but he bore it better than he’d have believed possible. One still, clear March evening he was checking over the cages, ready for the first pheasant chicks, due next week, when he heard a soft and complex call from overhead. His heart leaped, and he looked up in time to see Sonny detach himself from the general blaze of sunset and settle onto a cage frame. He gazed around for a minute with his usual hauteur, then hopped down and stalked over to inspect Vick. She sat to greet him, as she would for a human visitor, her tail wagging vigorously.

ʺNice enough little dog,ʺ Dave told him teasingly. ʺNo substitute, mind you.ʺ

Sonny turned his head to stare at him, acting disdain, but obviously amused.

The pattern of the years was set. Sonny spent his summers with Dave in the wood, migrated with the swallows and returned before them. Each time he came he found Dave looking a little younger. Curiously it was Tom Hempage, not Dave himself, though he occasionally fantasised about the possibility, who first decided that this was no mere appearance, but was indeed the case. Being a quiet and private man, Tom would not have spoken of it to anyone—none of his business—but Mr. Askey had asked him to keep an eye on Dave, so he mentioned it to him. Mr. Askey waited for a couple more visits to decide for himself, and then, one rainy summer afternoon, brought it up directly.

ʺYou’re actually getting younger, aren’t you, Dave? It’s happening.ʺ

Dave sat for a long while, staring at him in silence. All round the clearing rain dripped from the sodden trees, a sound like the endlessly passing minutes that compile the centuries.

ʺI’ve wondered,ʺ he muttered at last. ʺBut it don’t make sense. Really it don’t. Do it, Mr. Askey?ʺ

ʺYou’re a hundred and five, Dave. I looked you up in the parish register. There’s no mistaking. I did that—five years ago it must have been—when you first told me you weren’t sure about it after all. I was puzzled at the time, but I reckoned you had your reasons, so I didn’t say anything. Do you mind telling me now?ʺ

ʺI . . . I don’t know. . . . I really don’t know. Maybe it was something . . . something Sonny—ʺ

He froze and looked away, desperate with agitation.

ʺSonny?ʺ said Mr. Askey gently.

There was a rustle from the chimney and Sonny slipped deftly down into view to stand on the stove. It was an entry quite as imposing as that of any Grand Duchess descending a great sweep of stairs to greet her noble guests.

ʺMy goodness me!ʺ whispered Mr. Askey, and rose, like Vick apparently recognising Sonny as belonging to an order of creation at least on equal terms with humankind. Sonny eyed him back, just as appraisingly, until he settled back on his chair.