around her bare legs, and then fastened her gaze to her feet. The sun and the breeze felt good on Culann’s skin. He stroked harder, more smoothly, and started to catch up to Alistair’s boat. Constance lifted her eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and he felt like he could row forever.
Of course, he then reminded himself, he didn’t have forever.
They overtook Alistair’s boat about two hundred yards offshore. It wasn’t
moving. An oar floated past. Julia lay huddled over Alistair, whose head rested in her lap.
He’d evidently died first. LaTonya’s feet were caught under one of the seats and the rest of her body leaned over the side of the boat. Her head was submerged, leaving her hair to float up to the surface like a bloom of brown seaweed.
“We are the only ones left,” Constance said.
She’d said we . Him and her. We . Culann felt a fluttering in his chest despite the cloud of death behind him. We may be about to die , he thought, but he was alive now. He leaned forward and kissed her.
“Eww, gross. What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Are you some kind of pervert?”
“You just looked so beautiful.”
“My dad just died. We’re probably going to die. What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry.”
“Put your shirt back on. It smells anyway.”
She flung the shirt at Culann. Humiliated, he started pulling it back over his head.
He then felt the rowboat rock and heard a splash. He pulled the shirt down from in front of his eyes. Constance lay face down in the water. A cascade of tiny bubbles churned the water around her. He was alone.
The mainland was still a good half-mile away. Culann didn’t know if he’d live long enough to make it there, and he didn’t know if it would do any good if he did. He sat there for a minute, feeling the gentle rocking of waves beneath him. He could hear the 68
faint echo of the dogs barking back on the dock. They were still alive and so too was he, at least for now, and he felt suddenly guilty for abandoning them.
As he pondered his options, he heard another sound from over his shoulder. He turned and faced the mainland. A motorboat was coming towards him with what looked like two people in the front seats. An overhead light flashed blue and red as the boat came closer. It was a police boat, and Culann’s little rowboat was clearly its destination. He pulled the oars in and waited.
69
Part IV
The Houndsman
70
The Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 11
I’m reading a book I found at Worner’s place called The Pagan Saints. It’s all about how the Christian practice of venerating saints is really just a way of syncretizing ancient beliefs into modern religions. There a lot of saints associated with dogs in here –
I’ve been reading these parts aloud to entertain my companions. There’s an illustration of St. Christopher represented in medieval iconography as having the face of a dog. I held this up for the dogs to see. Alphonse raised his head up and down like he was nodding. At that point, I put the pot away.
The most bizarre entry in the book was St. Guinefort, a greyhound who lived in France in the Thirteenth Century. According to legend, a hunter came home and found Guinefort sitting in the room of the hunter’s infant son. Blood covered the walls and dripped from Guinefort’s jaws. Overcome with grief at the loss of his son, the hunter shot an arrow through the dog’s heart. At that exact moment, the baby cried out from the cradle. The hunter saw that the child was unscathed. Under the cradle, the hunter found a dead viper. Guinefort had saved the child and been killed for it. This tale of canine martyrdom resonated with medieval Christians, who revered the dog for nearly a hundred years until the Church declared the practice heresy.
That’s an impressive dog – sainthood sounds appropriate to me. I wonder if any of my dogs would ever do anything so heroic. Hell, I’ve never done
Of course, he then reminded himself, he didn’t have forever.
They overtook Alistair’s boat about two hundred yards offshore. It wasn’t
moving. An oar floated past. Julia lay huddled over Alistair, whose head rested in her lap.
He’d evidently died first. LaTonya’s feet were caught under one of the seats and the rest of her body leaned over the side of the boat. Her head was submerged, leaving her hair to float up to the surface like a bloom of brown seaweed.
“We are the only ones left,” Constance said.
She’d said we . Him and her. We . Culann felt a fluttering in his chest despite the cloud of death behind him. We may be about to die , he thought, but he was alive now. He leaned forward and kissed her.
“Eww, gross. What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Are you some kind of pervert?”
“You just looked so beautiful.”
“My dad just died. We’re probably going to die. What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry.”
“Put your shirt back on. It smells anyway.”
She flung the shirt at Culann. Humiliated, he started pulling it back over his head.
He then felt the rowboat rock and heard a splash. He pulled the shirt down from in front of his eyes. Constance lay face down in the water. A cascade of tiny bubbles churned the water around her. He was alone.
The mainland was still a good half-mile away. Culann didn’t know if he’d live long enough to make it there, and he didn’t know if it would do any good if he did. He sat there for a minute, feeling the gentle rocking of waves beneath him. He could hear the 68
faint echo of the dogs barking back on the dock. They were still alive and so too was he, at least for now, and he felt suddenly guilty for abandoning them.
As he pondered his options, he heard another sound from over his shoulder. He turned and faced the mainland. A motorboat was coming towards him with what looked like two people in the front seats. An overhead light flashed blue and red as the boat came closer. It was a police boat, and Culann’s little rowboat was clearly its destination. He pulled the oars in and waited.
69
Part IV
The Houndsman
70
The Diary of Culann Riordan, Day 11
I’m reading a book I found at Worner’s place called The Pagan Saints. It’s all about how the Christian practice of venerating saints is really just a way of syncretizing ancient beliefs into modern religions. There a lot of saints associated with dogs in here –
I’ve been reading these parts aloud to entertain my companions. There’s an illustration of St. Christopher represented in medieval iconography as having the face of a dog. I held this up for the dogs to see. Alphonse raised his head up and down like he was nodding. At that point, I put the pot away.
The most bizarre entry in the book was St. Guinefort, a greyhound who lived in France in the Thirteenth Century. According to legend, a hunter came home and found Guinefort sitting in the room of the hunter’s infant son. Blood covered the walls and dripped from Guinefort’s jaws. Overcome with grief at the loss of his son, the hunter shot an arrow through the dog’s heart. At that exact moment, the baby cried out from the cradle. The hunter saw that the child was unscathed. Under the cradle, the hunter found a dead viper. Guinefort had saved the child and been killed for it. This tale of canine martyrdom resonated with medieval Christians, who revered the dog for nearly a hundred years until the Church declared the practice heresy.
That’s an impressive dog – sainthood sounds appropriate to me. I wonder if any of my dogs would ever do anything so heroic. Hell, I’ve never done
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