One Eye Watches The Road

By

Jake Bible

The prows of the longboats held aloft intricately carved figureheads– dragons, wolves, bears.

The lead ship's prow was no different, carved into the head of a raven, its wooden beak open in an infinite caw. Behind that figurehead, with the sole of a leather boot up resting on the prow, was the one-eyed man. He stared out at the coastline as the boats approached, his single eye twinkling with the mischief and mayhem he brought with him wherever he went.

With a smile he turned and gave a short whistle. A shaggy hound –black and huge– padded over to him, eyes expectant and watching the one-eyed man's movements with keen interest.

"Come here, boy," the one-eyed man said. He turned back to the coastline and knelt down as the hound pushed up against him. "See that? That is new land, boy. A new world that we will make ours."

The hound gave a soft humpf of a bark in acknowledgement.

"Yes, yes, there are people that live in this land," the one-eyed man said. "Wild people. Painted with bright colors and fierce as any of our clans."

The hound humpfed a little louder.

"We will beat them," the one-eyed man said, nodding. "We will beat them and we will take the treasures and resources of this land as our spoils. But you must be careful, boy. They are fierce and wild, but not foolhardy. They know how to fight."

The one-eyed man stood and smiled.

"But we know how to fight so much better than they do."

The men in the raven-headed boat dropped the sail and scrambled to take up oars and row the last few yards into shore. They stared straight ahead at the coastline, their view only blocked by the figurehead and the huge, black hound.

The one-eyed man was nowhere to be seen.

***

The smell of blood filled the black hound's nostrils, egging him on to keep fighting, to keep attacking, to never stop until someone from his people called to him and told him to stop. But no one would. The battle was raging hard on the beach that was made up of mostly small pebbles, dark sand, and splashes of blood. No one was going to cll to the hound, not until the fighting was done. And it was far from done.

A roar of rage came from the black hound's right and the animal whipped around to meet the attacker head on. It was a man, face painted in streaks of blue, large axe raised high above his head. The black hound snarled and snapped his jaws, bloody saliva flying off in stringy rivulets.

The man with the axe paused, eyeing the hound. The hound took a step forward and let the stink of the man fill his nostrils. Then the black hound paused as well.

It was not a man, but a boy, barely in his teen years.

The two faced each other, leashed violence making their bodies tremble with anticipation. Yet the two remained frozen on that coastal battlefield, neither willing to attack the other.

A small axe flew through the air and embedded in the boy's skull. He fell, dead before hitting the ground, and the hound gave a small yelp. It padded over to the boy and sniffed, smelling the death spread through the boy's body quickly.

The black hound didn't know why, but it raised its head to let loose with a mournful howl. But before it could open its massive jaws, an arrow hit its mark, plunging into the black hound's left eye socket with a sickening thwack.

The black hound fell back on its haunches then onto its side, pain radiating through its skull. Then the darkness came and the beach and the blood and the battle faded away.

***

Sunlight warmed the fur on the black hound's muzzle, slowing drawing it back into the world.

The animal could hear voices, men calling back and forth from far away. It knew some of those voices. It knew some of the words being spoken.

With all of its strength, the black hound opened its eyes. Or eye. Only one would obey while the other screeched and screamed in protest. The animal staggered up onto its feet and padded down to the waterline, alarmed and anxious over what it was seeing through its one eye.

The longboats were leaving. The men were lifting the sails with their backs to the shore. None could see the back hound as it raced into the shallow waves to follow the boats that were already too far out. The black hound howled and barked, but none of the men turned to look; none acknowledged its presence at all.

The men rowed until the sails caught the wind. Then the oars were stowed and the longboats drifted out farther and farther, lost from the one-eyed black hound's sight for good.

"This is your home now," a voice said from the beach.

The black hound turned and growled then saw the owner of the voice and gave a sad bark.

The one-eyed man nodded and beckoned for the black hound to come to him. The animal obeyed and sat down expectantly at the man's feet.

"Hold still," the one-eyed man said and grabbed the shaft of the arrow that still stuck out from the black hound's eye socket. "This will hurt immensely."

It did and the black hound yelped then howled for several minutes before the pain began to subside. The one-eyed man pointed to his own empty eye socket and smiled.

"Now we are one," the one-eyed man said. "And you will be my representative here. Go to the trails where the people walk, help guide those that are lost, protect those that have been fallen upon by predators, steer them away from the dangers of the bogs and moors. Dispatch those that would dispatch the innocent. Be ruthless in your actions. Be my eye, boy. Be my eye."

The black hound looked past the man at the cliffs that bordered the coast. When the animal looked back, the one-eyed man was gone. But his words lingered in the black hound's ears.

He waited for three days for the one-eyed man to return. He waited another three days for the longboats to return. When the black hound knew he was forever on his own, he padded towards the cliffs, hoping to put the unfortunate coastline behind him for good.

***

"Dammit!" Delia Campbell cursed as she watched steam and hot water flood from under her 1931 Series 2 Aston-Martin roadster's hood, turning the already soft dirt of the road's shoulder into mud within seconds. "Double dammit!"

She kicked the front tire and a loud hiss issued from the rubber.

"You must be joking?" she said as she put the back of her left hand to her forehead then turned in a slow, futile circle, hoping some miracle would present itself.

None did. All she was presented with was the quickly dwindling daylight as the sun set over the far off hills. She'd be on her own in the dark soon if someone didn't come along to help her.

Not one to sit idly by and wait to be rescued, Delia fetched her bag from the car's boot. She thought about fighting the convertible top back into place, but didn't have it in her to attempt the struggle. Plus, she'd already exhausted her stores of curse words when the car broke down. Without a fresh batch of proper curses to spit a the top, the task just seemed pointless.

If it rained, then upholstery be damned.

Delia buttoned her overcoat, adjusted her hat on her head, gripped her bag tightly, and began to walk in the direction she hoped would lead her to a close by town.

She'd been on the way to the rugged Scottish coastline, planning to meet a friend of hers for a few days of needed rest and relaxation away from the bustle of city life. A cozy cottage, plenty of hot tea and biscuits, and a case of fine whisky were to be her reward for driving several hours on the treacherous Scottish backroads. Delia prayed that there was more than one case of whisky waiting because she was going to need plenty after the day she'd had.

An hour of walking later, and a slight drizzle from the ever present overcast sky, brought Delia to a crossroads. An arrow pointed one way with "8 Miles" painted on it. A second arrow pointed a completely different way with the words "11 Miles" painted upon its surface. Neither of the signs had been touched up in a very long time and if there hadn't been the last vestiges of sunset left, Delia wouldn't have been able to read either sign.

Not that reading them helped her in any way.

"Eight miles to where?" she exclaimed to the overcast sky. "Huh? Where do those eight miles lead to then?"

She smacked the post the signs were on.

"And eleven miles? Oh, isn't that helpful now. Eleven miles. Great to know!"

From far off across a meadow and deep into the bogs at the base of one of the grand hills that enclosed the small valley she was in, came a long, mournful howl.

Delia froze in place. She waited. The howl did not repeat.

"Great," she said, her voice much quieter than before. "Going to be eaten by Scottish wolves. Lovely."

She closed her eyes, turned around three times, then held up her hand until she could grip one of the signs. When she opened her eyes she saw she was going the eight miles way. Whereto, she had no idea, but wherever it was, she'd be there after walking for eight miles.

Delia did not dawdle. She stomped off in the direction the sign pointed as the sun finished its journey to the horizon then slipped fully behind the hills, plunging Delia into an unsettling twilight.

***