Dying Fall

when they bite you they never let you go, if you run they chase you … She turns, shielding Kate with her body, trying not to think about that woman in France who had her face bitten off. Then she is aware that Cathbad is lying on the grass next to her. Oh God, the devil dog is savaging Cathbad. What should she do? She can’t put Kate down and, anyway, how can she fight off a trained killer, maddened by the smell of blood? Then she realises that Cathbad is, in fact, embracing the devil dog, pulling its ears, even kissing it between its wide-apart eyes.
    ‘Hello, Thing. How are you, boy? There’s a good dog.’
    ‘Dog,’ comes Kate’s muffled voice.
    ‘Yes,’ says Ruth, ‘dog.’
    The man with the gun is now running towards them though he has, mercifully, lowered his weapon.
    ‘Cathbad? Is that you?’
    Cathbad gets to his feet. ‘Call this a welcome, Pendragon, you miserable sod.’
    Pendragon puts the gun on the grass and, with almost a sob, rushes forward to embrace Cathbad. The two men stand, entwined, as the dog frolics around them. Cathbad is tall but Pendragon is even taller, a huge Father Christmas of a man, dressed in a dirty army pullover and jeans. His beard reaches to his waist and snow-white hair cascades down his back. The dog is also white, with a pinkish snout and merry, dark eyes. He comes over now to investigate Ruth.
    ‘Want dog,’ says Kate, but Ruth doesn’t put her down. She still can’t forget stories about these dogs savaging children and, besides, there is a lethal weapon a few feet away.
    Pendragon finally releases Cathbad and wipes his eyes on his jumper.
    ‘Pen,’ says Cathbad, ‘I’d like you to meet some friends of mine, Ruth and Kate.’
    To Ruth’s surprise, she too gets a hug, Pendragon wrapping his arms with ease around both her and Kate. He smells of wood smoke.
    ‘Welcome,’ he says. ‘Welcome to my hearth.’
    Cathbad makes an odd little bow in return. ‘What’s with the firearms?’ he asks.
    Pendragon strides over to the gun and picks it up. ‘Airgun,’ he says, ‘not loaded.’
    ‘Natives not friendly then?’
    ‘It’s a long story,’ says Pendragon. ‘Come inside. I’ll make some herbal tea.’
    *
    The cottage is low-ceilinged with bumpy, plaster walls. Pendragon has to stoop to cross the threshold, which makes him look like an adult in a child’s playhouse. The door opens onto the main room, which smells of herbs and smoke. There is a huge fireplace with little iron seats on either side, a wooden settle and what Ruth instantly recognises as a version of Cathbad’s wizard’s chair. When she makes her urgent trip to the loo, she notices shells hanging from the roof like one of Cathbad’s dream-catchers. Druid interior decorating.
    When she returns, Kate is playing happily with a pile of little wooden dolls. As Ruth enters the room, she hears Cathbad saying, ‘… not my child, not biologically anyhow.’ Clearly druids are not immune to nosiness. The white dog is sitting next to Kate, tail wagging noisily on the wooden floor. Pendragon sees Ruth’s glance.
    ‘Bull terriers are actually very good with children,’ he says. ‘They used to be known as nanny dogs.’
    That’s not what the headlines say, thinks Ruth, but the dog does seem amiable enough. He had a jolly, piratical look with a black patch over one eye. She pats him and he leans against her, panting.
    Pendragon makes herbal tea that tastes of wood shavings. He also offers home-made bread and butter. Despite having eaten a burger for lunch, Ruth tucks in. She thinks she could get to like it in Dame Alice’s Cottage. It’scertainly very cosy in the main room with the oil lamps lit and the rain outside. The fire is smouldering gently and the dog is now sleeping in front of it, paws twitching.
    ‘What’s his name?’ asks Ruth, indicating the dog. She heard Cathbad refer to it as Thing, which is typical. It’s rare for Cathbad to call any creature by their given name. He usually refers to Kate as Hecate and has been known to call Ruth ‘Ruthie’, an appellation which only Erik was allowed to use.
    But Pendragon’s answer surprises her. ‘He’s called Thing,’ he says with a grin. ‘Shall I tell you why?’
    Cathbad smiles as if he knows the answer and Pendragon assumes his storyteller’s pose, leaning back in the wizard’s chair, eyes half shut.
    ‘Four hundred years ago,’ he says, ‘this house was owned by a wise woman. Her name was Alice Barley, Dame Alice.