Professional Documents
Culture Documents
First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2017
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Freight Books
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A dog, small and brown, with a wet black nose and black
ears. It was furry and brown on the hard pebbles. The river
roared by.
Hey there, the dog said.
The dogs mouth moved as it spoke. It had a pale pink
tongue and tiny white teeth. Its tail began to wag, swish swish
swish on the smooth rocks. He looked up the river bank to high
and thick stands of trees. In the undergrowth vivid green,
healthy, tangled white flowers were shaking. He looked down
at himself. He saw a body, and it was naked. His skin was clear,
no marks on his flesh, no creases around his knees or stomach.
He was not cold or hot. He wiggled his toes. He put his hand
to his chest.
No, you are fine now immaculate, the dog said.
A talking dog.
I guess you might want some clothes, the dog said, and
trotted over, paws crunching on the shingle. The dog put a
paw on his knee. He felt the tiny indentation of the dognail, the
tickle of its hair.
Can I speak? he thought.
Of course you can speak. Hot dog breath on his face. Hair
moved in his nose. He felt the breath on his eyelids, his eyes.
There you go, the dog said. And he looked down, and he
was wearing clothes some pale trousers, a pale shirt. Some
slippers.
But wear what you like, the dog said. I prefer this marvelous
fur.
The boy opened his mouth and a noise came out. He felt a
little cold.
Try again, the dog said, softly.
Who, he said. He looked down. He was wearing a thick, grey
jumper now.
Well. You dont remember me, the dog said. It made a
snuffling, ruffing sound. A hint of a growl.
He looked up. The sky was blue but stars were shattered
across it. A smear of fractured glass. The arc of light was
his face and let his body shake, and his face and hands became
wet.
Where is this? he said at last.
Kim raised a paw, and peered at it.
A place, she said. I chose it for you, for a soft landing. If you
were still breathing, it has air, it has water. You dont need them
now, and neither do I. But I like to paddle and swim. On the
hills there, beyond this bend of the river, are fruit trees. You
can eat, but you never need to. And we can wait. This is not
time as you knew it.
The dog turned around and wagged her tail.
I come here quite a lot. There are rabbits here. We chase
each other. The river smells amazing. The trees, too. In the
mountains there are deer. We chase each other too, and in the
winter, the trees grow white blossom. Like snow. Under the sea
are fat fish. But mainly, I sleep and eat and run around. I am
a dog.
How can you talk though? Tarka said.
Kim snuffled.
I can do anything I want, Kim said, as her paws left the
rocky ground. She floated up in the air, and became level with
his face.
Look at me, Kim said, tail wagging, and then barked loudly
several times.
Tarka could now hear other things, as if the barks had tuned
his ears. There was a low wind through the branches and
leaves, the clicks and buzz of insects.
Tarka lay down. He had the shape of a memory, but it was
pale, uncoloured. He could not remember how he had got here.
Kim was close again. He could smell the dogs brown breath.
Dont worry, the dog said. It is a sudden thing. But it all
comes back, whether you want it to or not.
It all comes back, Tarka said.
We can move on, but only when you want to.
Tarka touched the dog with a pale hand.
There is a lot of time, she said. And can you do something
for me? I have waited a while. Rub me behind the ears. Like
you used to.
The human and the dog sat for some time, Tarkas fingers
in her hair.
Later, the sky darkened. Tarka looked at the stars for a time,
feeling their width and depth and height.
Where are we, Kim? he said.
It has no real name, Kim said. Her wet black nose glittered
under the starlight. The river roared on, from nameless hills to
a never-named sea.
Her thin, rubber-pink lips, Tarka saw. Her precise, tiny
white teeth. Every hair seemed distinct on her otter-brown
head. The blackness of her ears, the tawny felt of her close-
cropped head.
Border Terrier, Kim said, and looked Tarka in the eyes. Her
eyes round and brown and liquid.
I loved being a Border Terrier, she said.
Is this Heaven? he said.
No. Its a planet. Not in our galaxy.
Overhead the stars wheeled and curled.
The galaxies, Kim said, putting a paw on Tarkas knee, are
home for the dead. This is where we come when we die: all the
galaxies.
All Tarka said.
Plenty of time, Kim said softly, her thick tail moving like a
silk brush over the stones.
The dead are here? said Tarka.
My mother is here, Kim said, and laughed a whiskery,
tonguey laugh.
Your mother?
Yes, shes out there somewhere. Shes there with her mother,
and her mother too. Some cousins, some nieces. My brother.
Your mother? he said again.
Its time for you to fly with me, said Kim.
Fly?
I have been here for years. I know the ways.
Tarka put an arm on the dog and as he did, the dog rose into
the night air. He felt himself holding on to her as she suddenly
picked up speed, as if she were a rising balloon. He held her
as her legs straightened, and he wrapped his arms around her
warm hairy body as she rose into the sky. Below the river was
a ribbon of black, the hills rising, the mass and weight of the
forest heavy to the obscured horizon.
They rose and the sky bent, and there were distant blue
mountains with crags and peaks. A light gleaming at their
edges, their far-off precipices.
Lets go, Kim said.
No, no, no, Tarka said. He was panicking. He flailed his
new legs.
You cannot fall.
Tarka gripped harder. He could feel the dogs legs and ribs,
the small tightly bound mass of her. Kim barked. A noise lost in
the widening, deepening sky. They rose further. Tarka could
make out a shoreline, the lines of a continent. He felt what
was around him. Warm night air wind the salty spark of a
distant sea the dampness of clouds and the fuzzed warmth of
his dog, under him, carrying him, now.
They flew. He held her, and she led him through new skies.
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Read it once you have left this place, the man said. He put
his head down again on the bar top. His hands were covered
by gloves.
Fallon paid and left the warm darkness of the pub, stepping
out onto the clattering cobbles of Candleriggs.
He tried ringing Roland again. There was no answer.
He was almost back in the office when he remembered the
letter from the old man. He opened it as he walked into the
glassy, gassy space of the newspapers office atrium.
He read the single, typed line of words on the cream, clean
paper, which was decorated with a cross and a small, blue
sketch of a butterfly.
HE WILL RETURN IN SPLENDOUR.
Fallon screwed it up, threw it to the ground.
A tract from a bampot. The country was bleeding with
them.
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