The Village Dogs of Pucklechuck: Book One

By Emily Garrett

Talking dogs, an age-old Prophecy and the rumblings of something much bigger… 

Mog is a young and clumsy half-Giant who, raised by the Wolves, longs to longs to fit in with the villagers in the mystical town of Pucklechuck. 
One day, he sees a villager kill an innocent dog right before his eyes and his world changes at once. Like it or not, he is swept up into a fur-raising adventure, as the village people turn against the dogs. An ancient dispute is reignited and a new order may come to be, but only with Mog’s help. Will he help them? 
Brimming with magic, mystery and heart, The Village Dogs of Pucklechuck: Book One is the beginning of an exciting fantasy duology for middle grade readers and asks the first question of many about man’s best friend. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Garrett
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648711926

Book preview

Copyright

1

THE BARK OF A DOG

It was the middle of the night in Pucklechuck. A dog barked.

The sound was clear and came suddenly, echoing briefly from a small dark lane before it was lost, disappearing into the cool night air.

It was likely that no villager heard the bark.

After all, the people of the ancient village were fast asleep. They had closed the shutters on their cottage windows, swept their front doorsteps, and retired for the night. In fact, the only sign that anyone lived in the village at all was the slow curls of smoke that wound up from the chimneys into the star-lit skies.

You see, Pucklechuck was a small village nestled between mountains. Bells rang high up in the Dom, and on market day villagers’ busy shouts were heard all the way from the Square to the Woods. Small stone cottages lined the streets in rows, and narrow hilly lanes dipped around them.

But on this night, someone did hear the bark.

Mog was not far from the dog when it barked. He had crept into the Square in the middle of the village, hurrying down secret alleys he knew, led by his stomach, his large frame silhouetted on the alley walls. Often the baker left old cakes and bread on the bakery step, knowing that the young boy would creep through the town, late at night, and save the old man the hassle of getting rid of it himself.

Mog scoured the village for scraps every day or two, and he was chewing on the end of a loaf of stale bread when he fell asleep, full and content, in a gutter near the Square.

A sharp bark woke him, and he sat upright. The night was pitch black and cold, and a light rain was falling. Mog watched it streak diagonally across the stones of the alley. He shook his head; wild, unwashed hair covered his face. Noticing a few crumbs on his lap, he popped them into his mouth, savouring the taste.

He wore dirty villager’s clothes: a large woollen jumper, and pants with heavy pockets which he rolled up; he had scrimmaged them one winter a few years ago.

A louder bark rang out into the night. Mog turned his face to the night sky, to listen.

The barking was suddenly quicker, the tone more urgent.

Mog breathed hard in the cool night air, as a yelp sounded, just around the corner.

That was it.

The boy leapt in the direction of the noise, jumping over the uneven patches of the road. A street torch flamed at the far end of the lane ahead of him, but the cobbles were pooled in darkness. He hurried along, passing a row of sleepy cottages.

He ran, listening for the barking.

Nothing stirred, just a few rats scurrying down the gutters of the streets, and the light rain which continued to fall.

A man shouted: ‘Not you again!’

Mog froze.

He turned to the cottage closest to him, from which the voice had come. It was built with pale stones, and had a neat flower box on the front wall, filled with tiny yellow and peach flowers, and one black window.

He stepped towards the cottage. Seeing an old gate on the right, he slipped through, and down a very narrow pathway.

It was dark. The cold stone of the cottage brushed his shoulder on his left, the wooden fence on his right. He barely had room to squeeze between them.

A single candle from inside the cottage scattered a weak light into the yard, allowing him to make out the shape of a small rear garden, basking in solitude. The boy saw a vegetable patch, and behind it, near the back fence, a shed, bathed in shadows.

There was a fresh mound of dirt in the garden – someone or something had been digging up the vegetables.

He caught sight of the tail of an animal as it dashed through the open door of the shed.

‘Not you again!’ The voice came from the cottage on Mog’s left. ‘I told y’ ‘ow many times!’

For a minute Mog thought whoever was shouting must have seen him, and he took a few steps back, holding his breath.

A tall figure stormed across the yard, jaw set with determination. He strode straight into the shed, swinging the door so hard behind him that it slammed shut.

And the two were gone.

Mog counted to three slowly, and then crouching, for fear of his large figure casting a noticeable shadow, crept through the garden and over to the window of the shed.

He peered into the dark space, fidgeting with his grubby hands as he watched. The candlelight did not spread this far, and the night was becoming deeper and darker around him.

Above him, a cluster of long clouds slid unusually quickly across the sky, covering the moon for a moment, blanketing the garden around him further into darkness.

A lamp came to life in the shed, and he could see.

There was the man and a dog. They stood very still, facing each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. The villager’s back was to the window and the animal crouched opposite him, trembling. It was only when the villager turned slightly, towards the lamp, that Mog realised that the man was Teades, the only villager in Pucklechuck with hair that brazenly red.

In one of the dim corners of the shed stood a large wooden wardrobe – a silent, ancient spectator.

‘Just y’ wait, y’ filthy…’ said the man.

And then it happened.

Without any warning, Teades took two quick steps towards the animal. The dog was not ready. The man grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and yelled: ‘I’ll teach y’ to go diggin’ up m’ vegebles!’

The dog tried to free itself but the villager’s grip was firm. The creature twisted itself out of the man’s grasp and scurried into a far corner, the villager just behind. Mog leaned forward to see where the two had gone but it was no use – the circle of light from the lamp did not reach this far. They were out of sight.

A moment later, there was a scuffle.

A high-pitched whimper followed.

Mog slammed his palm against the shed wall and yelled ‘Stop!’ feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

The dog’s ears pricked up, and he looked around. Teades also raised his head sharply and swore under his breath when he saw the half-Giant’s face at the window.

‘What are y’ doing!’ he said, with loathing trembling at his mouth. ‘Get outta here! Y’ trespassin’.’

He swiped a dusty curtain across the window. It did not close completely however, and Mog watched through the gap as Teades moved again towards the dog.

But now there was a bang from behind Mog, as though the wind had blown the gate shut. The boy spun around, breathing heavily into the cool garden air. No one was there.

A second later, he heard it again, this time accompanied by footsteps. One or two, then they retreated. A window creaked shut.

‘Who’s there?’ he said. ‘Help!’

A heavy silence hung in the air.

Teades didn’t look to the window. Instead, he raced after the dog, a maddened look on his face.

Not able to catch the animal, the man stopped, looking around desperately.

He put a hand in the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a short object that glinted in the light.

Mog saw the sharp edge of a knife.

‘What are you doing?’ Mog’s eyes widened and his stomach heaved. ‘No!’

Teades turned the blade over, holding it under the bulb of the lamp; his rough red hair fell around his face.

The boy felt rage rising quickly in his body.

‘Stop!’

He raced around to the door of the shed. It was closed. He shook it forcefully, but it didn’t budge. He grabbed the handle with both hands and shook it again. The door moved but still the lock did not give.

Now Mog took a few steps back, and ran straight for the door. Using all his body weight, he rammed his shoulder into it. The timber trembled, and with a sharp crack broke in two places, and then three. He smashed into the shed, wood flying everywhere.

At that exact moment, the creature gave its final yelp.

Mog’s heart was thumping wildly in his chest.

Teades’ face was pallid, the same crazed look still in his eye. He looked at the boy in disbelief, the knife dangled limply from his clammy hand.

The dog lay at his feet, unmoving.

The man stared at the splintered hole in the wall of his shed.

‘Y’ just… Y’ just…’

Mog, easily a hand taller than the villager, spat: ‘You’re a monster!’ He had a strong urge to jump on the man and wring his neck. Only a sudden and heavy sadness about the poor dog prevented him. Instead, he yelled: ‘Get lost!’

It must have been the wild look in Mog’s eyes – or the sheer size of him – whatever the reason, Teades backed away, eyes wide, and fled.

His heart pounding, Mog turned to the dog that lay still on the ground. For a split second the dog looked like a Wolf the boy had lived with, years ago. He saw the faces of animals he had known up close in his mind, one after the next, in quick succession, and felt a stab of longing, and at the same time a deep, tearing love.

He shook his head, the stench of blood, sweat and fur filling his nostrils. He crouched beside the beast, his head low.

Petting the dog, he saw with shock that one of the creature’s paws was missing, wet blood covered the area.

‘You poor thing,’ he murmured, his voice wobbling, as he stroked the creature’s side. ‘Look what he did to your paw!’

He could feel his heart racing in his chest and as he closed his eyes, he felt hot tears brimming beneath his eyelids. Using the back of his hand, he smudged a few tears from his face, and sat there for a moment, unwilling to move.

After a while, he looked at the dead dog once more, gave it another tender pat, left the shed and hurried back through the garden.

The candle had been extinguished in the cottage, and out on the streets the alleyways were bitingly cold.

Ahead of him, Mog caught sight of a thin figure walking away hastily, holding something under its arm.

‘Hey!’ he yelled.

The figure kept moving.

‘Hey!’ he shouted again, this time louder.

But the figure, showing no sign that it had heard Mog’s cries, quickened its pace, and with a few long strides, disappeared around a corner.

The boy stared.

Looking beyond the corner, where the figure had disappeared, he took in the vast night sky. He stared, noticing something strange. It was moving gradually, unlike anything he had seen before.

Mog hurried down the narrow cobbled road, and out into a small clearing where he had a better view. He was in an old part of the village. There were cold, lumpy cobbled stones underfoot, a row of stone cottages facing inwards and a murky stream which gurgled along nearby.

A low-lying cloud, long and narrow and pale, almost white against the black sky, slid easily across the horizon.

Mog watched, frowning. Something about the

way the cloud looked seemed strange to him, so that he couldn’t look away.

A thick, red liquid slowly filled one end of the cloud, pouring into it, almost in slow motion, and eventually meeting with the pale white-blue hue of the rest of the cloud. The colours moved around each other slowly within the cloud, never mixing, the red never diluting.

Mog felt goosebumps prick his arms sharply as he watched; now the red filled the cloud completely, covering the pale in mere seconds.

The boy was staring so hard at the blood-filled cloud, his eyes growing wider by the second, that he didn’t