The people of
England have many legends to tell. Some
are about the Fair Folk, beautiful, untrustworthy, but occasionally
generous. Some are about the noble
knights of old, the fearsome monsters they defeated, and the good people they
defended. And some, told only on the
deepest, darkest nights, speak of Black Shuck.
Black Shuck is a
dog, but he is a dog like no other.
Black is his pelt, red are his eyes, and he stands as tall as a cow,
though no cow ever had such razor claws and wicked fangs. He appears in the dark of the night, seeking
the wicked at heart to hunt them down. Some say he was the hound of Odin, king
of the old gods. Others call him spawn
of Satan, the Devil himself. All agree,
though, that he is a beast to be treated with fear and respect. Should you come to face his stare, find the
courage to meet it. Never attack
him. Never turn your back and flee. Then, perhaps, will you live to see another
sunrise. Perhaps.
One autumn night
when the moon was full, three men on horseback came riding down the great
northern road. It was an ungodly hour,
and indeed, these were ungodly men.
Highwaymen, well armed and on the run from the law, carrying a bag full
of clinking loot with them. Their leader
was a man named Billy Jones. He was a
giant of a fellow, brazen, arrogant and cruel, and he prided himself on being
an expert shot. He and his accomplices,
wily Tom and viscious Jack, were some of the most wanted men in the county.
At Jones'
command, they reined in their horses by the side of the road, where a hunting
trail led into the woods. Here, they
would take a short rest, before disappearing into the forest. Further on in the woods, they knew, was an
old, abandoned hunter's hut, where they could hide from their pursuers.
The three dismounted,
preparing to set up their little camp.
While Tom and Jack set to building a little fire, Billy Jones remained
to one side, gazing in satisfaction at the fat bag of money he carried with
him. Jokes went back and forth, as did
speculations as to what their loot would buy them. They did not notice how nervous the horses
seemed, how they sniffed at the air and stamped their hooves.
Then, as one, all
three fell still. A peculiar shiver ran
up their spines, raising prickling gooseflesh on their arms. They knew that feeling. It was the feeling of being watched. They unslung their rifles, turning to face
the one who dared spy on them.
What they saw
turned their blood to ice.
The creature's
pelt was black, black as the Devil's heart.
It's eyes were a solid, blood-red, and they burned with the unholy glow
of hellfire. The very tips of knifelike,
gleaming fangs peeked out from its muzzle.
It was a dog, it had to be, but no dog or wolf was ever so huge and
strong.
“Black Shuck,”
Jack whimpered in fear.
The hound did not
react to hearing his name. It did not
react at all. It simply stood there,
fixing them with that burning gaze.
Waiting. Then, after what seemed
like the longest time, it bared its fangs and growled a horrid, rumbling growl.
The rifle fell
clattering from Jack's numb hands. Tom
dropped to his knees, praying aloud to all the saints that he be spared. But Billy Jones was made of sterner stuff,
and he leveled his gun at the beast.
BANG!
Black Shuck did
not drop. Black Shuck did not
flinch. No hole appeared in his fur,
nothing so much as a scratch. It was as
if he had not been hit at all.
Billy Jones was a
fierce and cruel man, but like many wrong-doers, he was a coward at heart. And seeing his shot have no effect, seeing
those horrid red eyes staring into his soul, proved to much for him. With one motion, he turned tail, scrambled
into his saddle, and sent his whinnying horse charging down the trail, leaving
his horrified comrades behind.
A blood-curdling
howl sounded out behind him. Jones glanced behind him, and immediately wished he
hadn't. Two burning red eyes were coming
in swift pursuit. They were gaining on
him. He spurred his terrified horse
onwards, then chanced to look again.
This time, he did
not even have time for regrets. Jones
smashed hard into a low-hanging branch, falling from the saddle to tumble
painfully onto the muddy ground. The
power of fear brought him back on his feet, and he was running, running as fast
as his legs could carry him.
The path was rough,
uneven. Billy Jones scrambled and
slipped, tripping over tree roots and skidding over stones. The money, his
hard-won loot, clinked and jingled with every step. And growing ever closer behind him was the
dreadful panting of Odin's hound.
Billy Jones was
greedy, but to him, his life and soul were worth more than any bag of
coin. He tossed the loot behind him, and
doubled his speed.
Gasping and
shivering, he arrived at the abandoned hut.
He leaped inside, slammed shut the door, barred it. Then, clutching his rifle like a life-line,
he peeked out the window.
In the light of
the full moon, the forest was clearly visible.
It was also quite empty. Black
Shuck was not there. He had lost him.
Exhausted, Billy
Jones collapsed onto a wooden stool. He
had escaped! He was safe!
And then, in the
absence of his fear, his arrogance returned.
“Is that all
you've got?” he called into the night, grinning madly. “Ha! I
spit on your legends, and I spit on you, lap-dog!” He pounded his chest with a fist. “Let it be known that I am Billy Jones, the
man who outran Odin's hound!”
It was then that
he felt a hot, panting breath, tickling the hairs of his neck.
Far away by the
roadside, Tom and Jack heard their comrade's scream, and they did not know
which was worse: the sheer terror in his voice, or the fact that it was
suddenly, brutally cut short.
When morning
came, the men of the law found the two robbers, still camped by the side of the
road. Shaken as they were, they allowed
themselves to be taken in without a struggle.
When they told their captors of what had happened that night, though,
their leader dismissed it.
“Far likelier,”
the lawman said, “he's a-hiding someplace safe and sound, with that sack of
coins beside him.”
But the robbers
swore by heaven and earth that their tale was true. And so, it came to be that captors and
captives set out together down the hunting trail, seeking Billy Jones.
In a small
clearing, they found Billy's horse, wide-eyed and skittish. A short time after that, they found the bag
of money, lying beneath an old oak. The
lawmen opened it, and saw that not a single coin was missing.
At last, they
came upon the abandoned hunter's hut, and there the trail ended. One set of boot-prints led into the hut, and
none led out. Inside, next to a fallen
chair, lay Billy Jones' gun, scratched and twisted, as if some vast beast had
chewed on it and spat it out again. But
of the man himself, they could find neither hide nor hair.
And though the
ground was wet and muddy, there was not a single paw-print to be seen.
By Marijn
