Come Along With Me!

Come with me! the old man crooned, his voice echoing through the mistfilled fields. My yard is empty of a dog right now. Youll make a fine guardno harm will come to you! He swung onto his battered pennyfarthing and pedaled toward the hamlet of Littleford. Along the winding lane, Old Tom Whitaker glanced over his shoulder more than once, though no one chased after him.

She was a lonely dog the same word the villagers used for a recluse. She bore that very quality.

Long ago, many years back, Tom had ventured into the ancient wood near the Downs in search of hazelnuts. There, among the roots, he found a trembling pupstill a teenager of its kind. Only the Almighty knows how that creature ended up in such a silent forest.

It drifted soundlessly among the trees, untethered, a tiny, rainslick bundle. Tom frowned, drew nearer.

Awkward, not particularly pretty yet something in those amber eyes caught his gaze. Not the eyes of a youngster, but the eyes of a sage beast. Toms mind turned over the moment.

Come with me! My yard has a vacancy. Youll be a good watchdogno offense, I promise.

He hopped onto his pennyfarthing and rolled toward the village. The road twisted like a ribbon, and Tom glanced back again and again, but no footsteps echoed behind him. The forest encounter slipped from his memory as quickly as the fog lifted.

He settled into his farma modest English holding: three boars, a sow with ten piglets, a cow named Daisy, a dozen hens, six ducks with their ducklings, and a cat called Whiskers.

Tom rolled a handrolled cigarette, the kind hed never liked from the corner shop. He opened the garden gate, intending to relax on the bench by the cottage. Suddenly, a chill brushed his skin.

Amber eyes stared at him, fixed and strange, and Tom felt rooted, unsure of what to do.

Shall we go to the yard? after a long pause the pup whined, stepped back, and melted into the dusk.

The strange ritual lasted not a day nor two Every evening those amber eyes watched him, as if weighing his soul, searching for something familiar.

One twilight, as Tom sat on the bench turning his cigarette, a soft rustle announced her arrival. She nosed him, then curled at his feet.

Tom was not a man given to tenderness; he treated livestock as consumables. Hed counted more pigs, cows, chickens, and other animals than the years hed lived. Dogs were kept for guarding, cats for chasing mice. The doghouse in his yard lay empty, a hollow reminder of lossespoisonings, disease, old age. No bark echoed through his grounds.

At summers start, a sudden storm struck, and the village vet murmured, Tickborne illness. Yet none of the villagers wept for the old mans stoic heart. His wife, Margaret, was tougher stillher temper a legend. The whole village remembered how she once knocked a calf flat with a single, swift punch for the sheer joy of watching it thump about.

Tom inhaled his smoke, glanced at the pup nestled at his feet. Amber eyes lingered.

Well then, beast, he sighed, youve decided to stay. Ill feed you twice a day, whatever providence sends, and I wont hurt you. Theres a warm doghouse. Ill let you loose at night for a few hoursguard my yard, keep strangers at bay. If you agree, come with me.

Thus began her new life. Tom christened her Stellaa name hed heard once, soft and melodic, a mystery to both of them. Stella now possessed a snug kennel, a sprawling farm, and a sturdy chain.

Time slipped by, and the clumsy teen grew into a massive, magnificent hound, feared by every villager. Rumours swirled that wolves ran in her bloodline.

She was astonishingly beautiful and odd. Her habits were not at all canineno wagging tails, no licking of hands. When Tom, Margaret, or any relative approached, Stella lay serenely, watching them with intelligent eyes.

Strangers, however, she would tear apart. She rarely barked; she snarled, a guttural growl that sent shivers down spinesonly by day. Because of that, the villagers moved her kennel from the yard to the garden border so no one would stumble into the gate in terror.

At night, Tom sometimes unlocked her chain, whispering:

Three hours, then Ill be back. Keep the yard; the milkmaids fear stepping past you in the morning milking. No one gets hurt!

She never bit anyone. Perhaps she had other interests. Yet Tom always found her in the kennel at sunrise, and that earned his reluctant respect. He never truly understood her nature.

Stella, true to her nature, gave birth regularly. Strangely, despite the villagers fear, her puppies multiplied like fresh scones from the oven. Folks from neighboring hamlets journeyed to Littleford for the pupsnot because they feared Stella, but because they respected her. They never stole them without cause.

One ordinary summer afternoon, after breakfast, Stella lounged in the sun by her kennel, one eye tracking little Eleanor as she played in the sandbox beneath the shade of a towering oak, the other eye watching Aunt Kate bustle in her garden.

Aunt Kate had tethered her threeyearold granddaughter to the oak, ensuring she wouldnt wander while Kate tended the rows. Suddenly, Eleanor sprinted, arms flailing, crying:

Stella! Stella!

Stellas heart swelled with joy for the tiny human. She kept watch over Eleanor and Aunt Kate, then drifted into a nap.

She awoke to sharp claws scraping at her nose. Whiskers the cat perched before her, hoarse with urgency:

Do something! Eleanors drowning!

Stella peered over the fence. Eleanor was nowhereno sandbox, no swing, no tree. Whiskers pointed:

Shes by the pond! Her dress is in the water! Shes trying to grab it! Help! No one hears me! Ah

Stella let out a howl, louder than any bark shed ever produced. She leapt, tore at the chain, sprinted toward the pond, lungs burning.

Aunt Kate straightened, glanced at the dog, and muttered:

Blimey, shes gone mad before returning to her cabbage patch.

Stellas howl turned into a terrifying wolflike wail that rippled over the village, the sound so fierce that hair stood on the backs of everyone who heard it.

The wail kept rising, a pain beyond words.

At that moment, Aunt Kate realized something terrible had happened and bolted to the ponds edge. Neighbours emerged from their homes, shouting prayers to God.

They pulled Eleanor from the shallow water just in time. The village erupted in panic; the ambulance arrived swiftly. Eleanors parents wept and laughed simultaneously.

When evening settled, calm returned. A delegation gathered before Stella: Eleanors father, William, his wife, and Old Tom Whitaker.

William knelt beside Stella, his hands trembling, and said:

Thank you for saving my little girl! Ill never forget this. Come with me, wont you? I have a house in the city, a huge enclosure, plenty of food, and long walks.

Stella stared at him with amber eyes, silent. Then she rested her head on his shoulder for a brief heartbeat before turning back to Tom.

She lay at Toms feet, and he stood, rooted like a statue, unsure how to receive such affection. A lone tear, stubborn and unmanly, slipped down his cheek.

The dream lingered, a tapestry of rustling hedges, distant church bells, and a hounds mournful howl echoing through the English countryside.