The tale of black Shuck

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