Orville Stillwater considered himself a calm, rational man, a person of sound judgment and character. Thus when the well-fed yeoman farmer, his girth a better testament to his successful management of his farm than his clothing or silver buckles and cloak-clasp, set off down the moor-path, he did not carry with him the kind of atavistic terror of the wild that many countryfolk did. Oh, he knew that the moor held its dangers—rugged terrain, wild animals, the occasional human rogue—but that was why he kept to the path and carried with him a stout oaken cudgel that doubled as a walking-stick.
When a late-afternoon fog began to roll in, then, he did not feel what storytellers would describe as a lurking disquiet, nor growing unease in the pit of his stomach. Rather, he paused to admire the artistic effect as the reddish-gold of the sunset painted the fog in sepia tones, lending color to the greenish-gray of the moorland. There was a moment of hesitation, but that passed once he had done some swift mental calculations and determined that even given the fog he would still reach his destination before nightfall. This was a serious concern, for he had not brought a lantern and after dark the fog would make it almost impossible to stay on the track.
But, with that concern duly considered and rejected, he was able to put aside all further fears and issues and set off along his way, the tip of his walking-stick thudding off the packed dirt of the path each time he swung it.
Still, the fog and the moor could play strange tricks with sound, and more than once Stillwater thought that he could hear an odd echo from behind him. Twice, he stopped and glanced around, but saw nothing because the fog was close around him—presuming that there was anything to see in the first place. He shrugged and moved on—and then he heard the howl.
It was a mournful noise, the sorrowing of a lost soul that clawed at the heart, a creature lamenting its miserable lot, cursing its pain. He spun 'round again, and this time the fog parted, so that he could see, front paws on a great rock about thirty yards behind him, the shape of a gigantic Black Dog, larger than a pony, with wild, matted fur, eyes that glowed crimson, and a tongue that lolled licks of flame from its jaws.
Stillwater could not repress it; a shiver ran up and down his spine. It was a haunting sight, one that called to mind all manner of old legends about deathly omens of doom. Still, he was a man of good sense; he screwed his courage to the sticking place, turned his back on the apparition, and set off down the path again. If he happened to be walking a bit faster than before, well, he could hardly be blamed for that.
It was an eerie experience, walking through the swirling fog. As it so often did, the cloudy moor seemed to deaden the natural sounds that lay beyond it, while acting as an echo chamber for those close by. Now that he'd been made aware of it, Stillwater could not help but hear the footfalls behind him of heavy paws, and when he cast his gaze back over his shoulder, he could see burning eyes showing his pursuer, or a looming shadow like a dark stain bleeding through the surface of the fog. It was unnerving, despite himself, and by the time he saw the lantern-light that hung outside the village inn shining through the rapidly-falling darkness, the back of his neck was sticking to his shirt from nervous sweat. The ringing of the bell and the slam of the door behind him brought a sigh of relief to his lips.
"Evenin', Orville," called the innkeeper from behind the bar. The lobby and taproom were one and the same in the small establishment, and Stillwater could watch his host filling a clay tankard with ale while he walked over to warm his hands by the fire. A little girl of about ten was sitting on the hearth reading a book.
"Good evening," Stillwater told the innkeeper with a wave.
"Have a good walk? getting' a mite cold out there, most evenings."
"I can honestly say that I didn't really notice the cold." He turned to the girl. "Miss Blan-Virgine, while I am aware that that creature of yours is a pet despite its fearsome appearance, that does not make it any less unnerving when it follows a man across the moor!"
"Shuck wouldn't go stalking you like that!"
"I assure you that he did. I was followed right to the door of this inn. Even were he a normal dog, he shouldn't be let loose without supervision."
"He wasn't running loose. He's been right here the whole time," Cressidor Blan-Virgine declared indignantly.
"I'm afraid the lass is right, Orville," the innkeeper chimed in. "He spent most of the afternoon right there in front of the fire, sleeping."
"You can't be serious."
"He just went into the kitchens with the lass's mum to get his supper about five minutes ago. Before that...Orville, it's kinda hard to miss a six-hundred-pound dog. Especially one that snores."
Just then, the dog in question nosed open the kitchen door and came back into the taproom. Getting to see him up close, Stillwater could not deny the sinking feeling that accompanied the evidence of his own senses being added to that of the witnesses. For this dog, though just as huge and dark-hued as that Stillwater had seen, had a glossiness to his fur and even a slight plump curve to his sides that made it plain he was a well-treated (coddled, even) domestic sort of monster, entirely different from the feral, gaunt creature he had seen.
As if to mock him, Stillwater's realization was punctuated by another cold, deathly howl from outside.
Shuck barked several times in the direction of the window, as dogs will. Stillwater, for his part, felt his legs tremble and just managed to stagger into a chair or else he might have fainted.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It wasn't Shuck at all! It was the Black Dog of the moors, come for me!"
The innkeeper whistled.
"Heck, Orville, you'll be able to dine out on that tale for a while."
"But...but what does it mean? Am I cursed now? Marked for death? And why would it follow me? They say that the Black Dog can scent when a man has drawn the eye of the Grim Reaper..."
"Actually, um, Mr. Stillwater?" Cressidor suggested. "Given how Shuck is sniffing at you, I think the Black Dog can scent when a man is carrying pork jerky in his belt pouch."