He chased Dulcie. She could feel the beast's heat on her backside, could hear it snapping at her hindquarters. She thought it had her, when she heard it yelp. She dodged to look, saw Joe riding its neck-he had doubled back. The dog bellowed with pain and rage, twisted to grab him, and she flew at its head, clawed its ears, clinging to its face, digging in. It ran blindly, bucking. They rode it uphill, twisting, and she could smell its blood.
Riding the beast, she began to laugh, heard Joe laughing, felt the dog tremble beneath them confused, terrified. It had never heard a cat laugh.
When it couldn't shake them and couldn't grab them, it bolted into a tangle of broom, trying to scrape them off. The rough branches tore at them, they were scraped and slapped by branches, hanging onto the beast, hunching low, ears down, eyes squeezed shut.
"Now!" Joe shouted.
They leaped clear, down through tangles of dark thorny limbs dense as basket weave. The dog thrashed after them, snapping branches, lunging, sniffing. They crouched below the dark tangles, creeping away, pulsing like the terrified rabbits they hunted. Listening.
He thrashed in circles, searching.
They fled away through the thorny forest, then again they went to ground, straining to hear, to feel his vibrations coursing beneath them through the earth. Maybe he would scent them and follow, maybe not. They dared not go into the open. Dulcie, hiding and frightened, knew he was the dog that had followed her down among the houses. He was the hunter now, and she the prey, and she didn't like the feeling.
He was quiet a long time, only a little hush of movement, as if he were trying to lick his wounds.
They heard him move again, hesitantly. They dared not rear up to look.
Then, poised to run, they heard him crashing away.
He was leaving. Joe reared up, watching, then laughed, dropped down, and strolled out of the bushes, lay down on the grass, grinned at her. "You raked him good."
"So did you." She stood up on her hind legs, to see the dog amble away downhill, making for the houses below, where, perhaps, he could find a friendlier world.
They lay down in the windy sun. "We should have stayed on his back," Joe said. "He would have carried us clear up to Janet's."
She spit out dog hair. "I smell like a dog, and I taste like a dog."
Far below, the dog had stopped in the yard of a scruffy gray house with a leaning picket fence. An added-on room jutted from the back, with a small, dirty window beneath the sloped roof.
The mutt lifted its leg against the picket fence, then began to twist in circles, trying to lick its wounded back while pawing at its face. But after a while it gave up, wandered to the curb, and leaped into the bed of an old black pickup.
That truck had been in the neighborhood for some time. Several weeks ago they had watched a thin, unkempt man moving into the back room, carrying in two scruffy suitcases and several paper bags. They had watched him, inside the lit room, moving around as if he was unpacking. They had not, then, seen the dog.
"Maybe it was in the cab of the truck,'' Joe said. "Or already in the room." He looked at her worriedly. "The mutt ought to be chained." He licked her ear. "That beast running loose really screws up the hunting."
"Maybe he'll lie low for a while, after the raking we gave him."
"Sure he will-about as long as it takes the blood to dry."
She smiled, rolled over in the warm sun. But a little ripple of fear touched her, thinking of the white cat somewhere among the hills, maybe hurt. If that dog found him…
She had dreamed about him again last night, but she hadn't told Joe-the dreams upset him. Joe Grey might be a big bruiser tomcat who could whip ten times his weight in bulldogs, but some things did scare him. The idea of prophetic dreams was a scenario he did not like to contemplate. When it came to spiritual matters, the tomcat grew defiant and short-tempered.
But her dreams were so real, every smell so intense, every sound so sharply defined. In the first dreams, when the white cat trotted away, wanting her to follow, he had vanished before she could follow. But in one dream, he stood on the surface of the sea. It was a painted sea, blue and green paint, and he had sunk into the painted waves, and the paint faded to white canvas so nothing remained but canvas.
And in her dream last night she had seen him wandering through twilight, walking with his head down as if burdened by a great sadness. He stepped delicately, lifting each paw hesitantly and with care, stepping among tangles of small white bones: the white cat walked among animal bones, little animal skulls.
But again when she tried to follow, he vanished.
He had been so real; he had even smelled stridently male. She longed to tell Joe the dream, but now, heading uphill again, running beside him, she still said nothing. Soon they had left the healthy wild grass and padded across burned grass, across the black waste, crossing the path of the fire, crossing its stink.
This was the shortest way to Janet's, but they trod with care through the gritty charcoal, watching for sharp fragments, for protruding nails and torn, ragged metal, for broken glass to cut an unwary paw. Skirting around fallen, burned walls, they crept beneath fire-gnawed timbers that stood like gigantic black ribs, angling over them.
A child's bedroom wall rose alone, like the remains of some dismantled stage set, its pink kangaroo wallpaper darkened from smoke. A baby crib stood broken, one rail crushed, its paint deeply scorched, blistered into a mass of brown bubbles. A sodden couch smelled of mildew, its springs and cotton stuffing spilling out. A burned license plate lay atop a heap of broken dishes and twisted silverware, a warped metal sink leaned against a bent and blackened car wheel. They trotted between melted cookpots lying whitened and twisted, between blobs of glass melted into bubbling new forms like artifacts from alien worlds.
The smell of wet ashes clung in their mouths and to their fur. They stopped frequently to clean their paws, to lick away the grit embedded in their tender skin and stuck between their claws. A cat's pads are delicate sensors in their own right, an important adjunct to his ears and eyes. His pads relay urgent messages of sharp or soft, of hot or cold. The feel of grit was as unwelcome as sand in one's eyes.
Higher up the hill, black trees stood naked, reaching to the sky in mute plea. And one lone, blackened chimney thrust up, an old solitary sentinel. The fire, after burning the top floor of Janet's house, had careened southward, leveling nearly all the dwellings within its half-mile swath.
But above Janet's burned house, on up the hill, the blaze had missed eight houses. They marched prim and untouched along the rising hill, along their narrow street. And, strangely, nearer to Janet's two houses had been spared, one up the hill behind her burned studio, one across the side street. And though Janet's studio was gone, flattened to ashes, the apartment beneath stood nearly untouched, held safe beneath the concrete slab which formed its roof, which had formed the studio floor. From the blackened slab rose three black girders, twisted against the clouds.
The garden below the house was largely undamaged, though its lush greens were dulled by ashes. The daylilies were blooming, their orange and yellow blossoms brilliant against the burn.
The front of Janet's apartment was all glass, the five huge windows dirtied by smoke, but unbroken. Behind the smoky glass, long white shutters had been closed across four of the windows, effectively blocking the view of the interior. The last wide window, down at the end, was uncovered-almost as if someone was there, as if someone had not been able to bear closing the house entirely. The sight of that window made Dulcie shiver-as if some presence within wanted sunshine, wanted to look out at the hills for a little while, look out at the village nestled below.
There was no police car parked below the apartment, and none above on the street behind, or in the drive which led to the studio slab. The little side street was empty, too, beyond the blackened vacant lot. There was no car at all parked along the side street before that untouched house. Strange that that ancient brown dwelling, among all the newer houses, would be left standing.