Black Dog

Steve stamped on the brake. The car slewed to a halt on the gravel driveway.
Beth swore. “What was that in aid of?”
“Sorry.” Steve peered into long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. “I thought something ran out in front of us.”
Something swift and dark, with pointed ears and a tail.
“Yes. Well.” Beth pursed her lips in a long suffering expression that engraved lines at the corners of her mouth. “I think I’ll do the driving on the way home.”
“Don’t fuss.” He didn’t like the way light shimmered through the leaves of the privet that lined the drive and created an uneasy sense of movement. “It’s these spooky bushes.”
“Spooky? I think they’re cute.”
Beth admired the impressionistic clumps of topiary that formed an avenue of leaping animals. Rabbits, foxes, deer, birds: all captured in living green by a few deft clips of the gardener’s shears.
Steve re-started the car and cautiously continued to follow the curved driveway. Shortly, the old manor house came into view. Mock mock-Tudor brickwork with faux Deco rounded corners, attached to concrete pre-fab extensions.
“It’s not like the brochure,” complained Beth.
Steve was relieved. The building had been a sanatorium during the War and he had feared that it would seem institutional. But there was something cosy and English about its saggy, unkempt exterior.

Their ‘hostess’ was Roz. A forty-something fake redhead with too much eye make-up and too many bangles. She gathered everyone together in the dining room – round a big oak table with an embroidered linen cloth, laden with a selection of finger foods – and made her introductions.
“What we do here is complementary rather than alternative therapy. We’re not looking to convert or indoctrinate anyone, or offer miracle cures. If you want to lounge round the pool, use the Jacuzzi, have a massage, or just generally chill out, then that’s fine. But we do hope you’ll keep an open mind and encourage you to try at least one of our special activities while you’re here…”
Steve zoned out for most of it. Especially when the other ‘guests’ were urged to say a few words about themselves. It was like all those tedious ‘team building’ meetings at work.
When it came to his turn, he glowered and grunted, “My name’s Steve. I do a crap job that I won’t bore you by describing. I’m here because my partner Beth thought it might do me some good.”
“I sense a sceptic in the room,” Roz said.
Beth quickly spoke to cover the sniggers. “I thought it would do both of us some good. We have stressful careers. I’m PA to the Director of a charity. I heard exciting things about the workshops being conducted here. I’m particularly interested in channelling my anima…”
“Thank you, Beth,” Roz interrupted. “This would be a good moment to surrender the floor to my partner, Ian, who will be conducting this evening’s guided meditation.”
Ian rose from his chair and immediately commanded the room with his presence. Steve re-named him Iggy. With his long hair and grizzled frame, he resembled a 70s rock singer going to seed.
His voice was deep and soporific. Steve started to zone out again during an explanation of how they would each select a totemic animal as a focus for their self development over the weekend.
Iggy/Ian produced a deck of themed tarot cards and urged everyone to select one each. There was a bear, a stag, a hare, a leopard, a raven… Each choice elicited a brief discussion of the animal’s symbolic characteristics and associations.
Beth picked an owl, which was depicted white and ghostly, in full taloned flight.
“Oh, yes,” she enthused. “Isn’t this the avatar of Athene, the goddess of wisdom?”
“Partly,” Iggy corrected. “But, in this guise, she partakes of all three aspects of the primal Goddess. She is also Diana, the maiden huntress and Atropos, the bringer of death.”
Steve was dealt a picture of a scrawny looking wolf.
“And you are Coyote, the joker of the pack,” Iggy explained.
“The only coyote I know is the one from the cartoons, who keeps going SPLAT!”
“Well, in the creation myths of the native Americans, it is Coyote who made the world. He stole the raw materials from the other gods and built his own imperfect version of heaven, which he considers to be his personal plaything. He is a trickster, who delights in tormenting others. His only weakness is Cactus Flower Woman, who exploits his lust for her by fooling him into transforming… Am I boring you?”
Steve glanced up. He had felt something brushing against his legs and had lifted the tablecloth to see what it was.
“Sorry. Do you keep a dog?”
Roz seemed mildly outraged. “We do not believe in owning animals”
“Someone playing footsie with you under the table?” brayed the horse faced man with the stallion card.
Iggy maintained his composure. “It seems your spirit guide is already making his presence felt.”

After dinner, everyone re-convened in the meditation room. A space trying too hard to be relaxing, with its log fire, scented candles, large scatter cushions and New Age background music.
Iggy prowled between the sprawled guests, using the mellifluous drone of his voice to lull them all into an almost hypnotic state. He instructed them to gaze at their animal cards, to allow their imaginations to bring the pictures to life, to place themselves within the scenes…
Despite his disdain, Steve found himself drifting. He experienced a ‘magic eye’ moment of revelation, as the image of Coyote suddenly assumed depth. He realised he could see the creature’s ribs moving as it panted in the dry desert air, its fur stirring in the breeze, its tongue lolling and glistening pink, wet. It narrowed its eyes against the sun and winked at him…
Beth nudged him awake.

Steve’s shadow loomed large across the lawn as he gazed out of their bedroom window. Apart from the whisper of leaves in the moonlit woods, the silence was uncanny.
A lithe, dark figure jinked towards the tree line. A fox? It paused and gazed back at him. Brief glitter of eyes. Then it was gone into the deeper darkness.
“Have you taken your pills?” Beth asked.
“Yeah.” He pulled the curtains and clambered into bed with her. Fumbled with her breasts for a while, until he sensed the way she tensed at every squeak of the old wooden frame. Besides, his pills were dragging him down into droopy depths. Plus, the largeness of the bed and the smell of unfamiliar laundry made him feel like a little boy again, staying over at his gran’s house.
She had been dead twenty years. But he kept dreaming that he was looking for her. Trudging between trees. Driving along country lanes. Sweating on the slopes of sand dunes. He remembered her pet dog. A little black mongrel that used to run up the stairs and jump on the bed to wake him up.
There was a weight on his legs, pinning him beneath the duvet. He could hear a loud panting in the room. It was the rasp of his own snores.

Staying in bed was only making him feel more exhausted, so he slipped from beneath the covers without disturbing Beth and got dressed. Dawn was attempting to seep through the window. He glanced through a gap between the curtains. An early morning ground mist concealed the world, like the layer of cotton wool clogging his head.
He crept down the staircase and followed clattering sounds into the kitchen. Roz was preparing breakfast. Her hair was pinned up but still bed tousled. He tried to avoid ogling the point and sway of her breasts beneath a man’s XL t-shirt.
“Hi, Mister Coyote,” she greeted him with an unforced cheeriness that grated at such an early hour. “Breakfast won’t be ready for about half an hour.”
“It’s OK.” His own voice sounded thick and not much more than a mumble. “Think I’ll go for a walk. Clear my head.”
He ventured out into the ghostly swirl of the grounds, keeping to the path at first. But then he noticed a pale wreath of sun upon the forest spires and headed towards the emerging shapes of trees. Maybe he could break his dream.
The grass was silver with frost and crunched beneath his feet. Otherwise, the silence continued to be eerie and was a palpable presence, rather than mere absence of noise.
He kept feeling that someone was keeping pace with him. He couldn’t separate their footsteps from his own, but nor could he escape the impression of something moving in the mist at the periphery of his vision. Something dark and low to the ground that failed to reveal itself when he stopped and glanced around.
As he reached the edge of the lawn, the sun finally cut through the branches ahead and dazzled him. A tall figure appeared, haloed against the light.
It was Iggy. His torso was bare, showing an impressive muscle definition for his age. The grey hairs on his chest, shoulders and arms glistened with moisture.
Steve swore. “You gave me a turn.”
Iggy struck a pose. “Just doing my salutations to the sun. And preparing for the sweat lodge ritual later. I understand you’ve signed up for it.”
“Well, yeah. It’s Beth’s idea. She’s doing the Feminine Mysteries workshop and thought I should have a go at something a bit blokey.”
“Blokey? I wouldn’t describe it like that. It can be pretty intense. But it will benefit you to get in touch with your animus. You appear to have it on a tight leash.”
“Talking of which, are you sure you don’t have a dog on the premises? I’m positive one was prowling after me a minute ago.”
“Very sure. Sound can travel a long way in the countryside. Maybe someone was walking their pet in the woods. See for yourself.”
Iggy pointed towards the manor house. In the time they had been talking, the mist had burnt off and the lawn gleamed as the frost melted into a heavy dew. The track of Steve’s footprints was clearly visible as a meandering path across the grass. No other marks marred its surface.
He was standing where the fox had stopped last night and could see his own bedroom window. Beth’s face a pale flower behind glass.

Following a relaxing morning and a light lunch, Steve joined a small group of men who trooped after Iggy on a short hike into the woods.
They came to a clearing, dominated by a tent which appeared to be made of crudely stitched animal hides painted with primitive patterns that resembled cave paintings.
Iggy pulled open a flap and ushered them inside. The floor was dominated by a deep fire pit, surrounded by logs and filled with white hot coals. The heat in the confined space was oppressive and they immediately started to perspire heavily.
They sat, cross legged and awkward, in a circle round the fire. There was no other source of light. Iggy threw some branches into the pit, which flared and produced an aromatic smoke, thickening the air even further. He passed round a bowl containing an herbal drink, from which they all cautiously sipped.
It was an acquired taste, like whiskey. Steve felt it burning in his chest. Then a tingle spread through his limbs into his fingers and toes.
“Think of your totem animal,” intoned Iggy. “Mine is the jackal, the guardian of the afterlife. Sense its presence in this lodge. Draw it to you.”
He seized two branches and drummed on the log before him. A simple, insistent rhythm. One by one, the other men picked up branches and joined in.
Steve was hesitant at first, but the beat soon caught hold and he banged on his own log with abandon. Joining the rhythm, then creating his own counterpoints and flourishes. The muscles in his arms and shoulders protested, then began to sing with exertion.
Spontaneously, they started to chant. Wordless, raucous, screaming, shouting, grunting. They gave voice to the animals within. All the while continuing to pass round the bowl and to gulp its bitter draft.
All sense of time lost, Steve did not know when he ceased to drum and chant. His throat was raw. The beat continued in his head and chest, in the thrumming of his veins.
The flicker of firelight cast distorted shadows that appeared to move independently of the men who shaped them. They towered dark and somehow more solid than flesh.
Steve saw a horse galloping, a hare leaping, a stag rearing, a bear flexing its claws… He dared not turn to look at his own shadow, for fear of what mischief Coyote might be perpetrating.
Iggy’s shadow loomed enormous, with its tall pointed ears and long snout. It carried scales in one hand and a feather in the other, against which it threatened to weigh the worth of his soul.
Steve felt a rising panic as the primal animal gods gathered, surrounding him, surrounding Coyote, as they sought revenge for his past cruelties.
He fled the tent. Night had already fallen. Cold air hit him like a punch to the gut. He struggled to catch his breath. Steam rose from his sweat soaked body.
There was the sound of raised voices, of pursuit. He forced himself to run. Each breath a knife blade in his lungs. His head whirled. His legs quivered and drove spikes into his hips.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet like shards of shattered bone. He had reached the driveway. But where were the bushes? He could not orientate himself.
Beth. He had to find Beth and get out of here.
He saw the lights of one of the outbuildings and staggered towards their golden glow. Multiple shadows wriggled behind him. Snakes snapping at his heels.
Head buzzing, he slammed into the French windows. There were people in the room. A circle of women. Roz and Beth stood naked together, looking wide-eyed at the creature outside.
With no thought of bait or trap, Coyote walked through the wood and glass and fell on all fours at Beth’s feet. And O! the fragrance of desert flowers in her hair. The needles that impaled him upon her embrace.

As she had promised, Beth drove them home.
He spent the journey curled up on the back seat, asleep under an old tartan blanket. His thigh muscles twitched as he still dreamed of running.
They returned to the clamour of London, which already sounded strange. Beth managed to find a parking space not too far from their house.
“C’mon.” She opened the car door for him.
He untangled himself from the blanket and stretched his back and legs as he stepped out onto the pavement, yawned, then followed her up the garden path.
Ears pointed. Tail erect. Claws clicking on concrete.