A Nameless Dog

The church square in Keisd was the finest place of all. After a brief chase after some ducks—more a matter of scattering them than hunting them, and really just an excuse to jump into the Saubach and cool off on a morning that was already quite warm—the dog, a rather elderly short-haired mongrel, hauled himself awkwardly out of the water, dripping heavily. He shook himself only as much as instinct demanded, then limped gently towards his favourite spot, where the shadows of the great tower of the fortified church and an equally impressive elm tree met. There was always a little straw here, for many carts heading south stopped once more to let the horses feed before beginning the climb into the mountains. In winter, when everything sank into mud, this was one of the few dry places, and now, in the heat of July, it was less dusty than elsewhere. He could stay here well into the afternoon before the movement of the sun—or hunger—forced him to stir.

A few children, filthy from head to foot and cheerfully making their way to the brook, came towards him and tried to tease him with a stick. With the ease of long practice, he stepped aside. A few yards farther on, he flinched as a loud crash struck painfully at his left ear. It came from the village tavern, where a wooden barrel had proved too heavy for the innkeeper and his assistant. The men swore in German. Though the dog understood not a word, he could tell their language from the others spoken in the village. The Germans even gave him a bone now and then, but not everyone who lived here was so kind to ownerless dogs.

A rider without a saddle crossed the main street on a very tired horse, driving a few chickens ahead of him. The birds were too stupid to escape sideways. Their clucking made another dog, close enough to smell but not to see, bark briefly. It was more a complaint at having its sleep disturbed than a warning, for the barking soon turned into a grumbling whine and died away.

From very far off, too far for human ears, the dog could hear the voices of women singing as they worked in a field.

But all in all, it was quiet.

He had reached his favourite place, turned round three times, scattered most of the straw about him so that he would end up lying on the bare ground after all, and finally dropped down with little grace, when a covered wagon appeared at the southern edge of the village. Two men sat on the driver’s seat. The older wore a grey-brown fur cap, a ragged shirt laced across the chest, breeches ending below the knee, and a knife in his belt that had not quite grown into a sword. He was barefoot. The younger man had tied a cloth round his head and, despite the heat, draped what looked like a blanket over his shoulders. On his feet were thick cowhide boots reaching almost to his knees.

As the wagon passed an old peasant woman at the entrance to the village, she pulled up her apron, turned away and buried her face in it. She was used to all sorts of smells, but when a breath of air from the wagon reached her, she could do nothing else. It was the smell of decay.

The men themselves did not smell pleasant; they might not have washed for a long time. But their own odour was nothing beside the stench of their load.

It was our nameless dog’s misfortune that the wind that day was faint and, unlike most days, did not blow from the west. Instead of running away, he had fallen asleep. When the sound of hooves and wooden wheels came closer to his resting place instead of continuing along the village street, only his ears registered that something was wrong. He did briefly open one eye, but the heat had made him terribly sluggish. By the time the sharp, sickly-sweet stench reached his nose and set off the alarm, he needed to spring to his feet as quickly as the sudden rush of adrenaline raced through his veins. He managed to rise on his front paws, but his hind legs were weak.

The two Gypsies, however, knew their trade. They had slipped almost soundlessly from the wagon and approached the dog from behind. This put them upwind of him, but by then they were already close. The older man handled a long wooden pole with great skill. With it he could keep his victim, now snapping furiously in every direction, at a distance if the noose missed its head. It did not miss. Instead, it settled neatly around the animal’s neck. The second catcher was there at once. What had looked like a blanket over his shoulders was a coarse jute sack. He threw it off and opened it in the same quick movement. Protected by his boots, he stood astride the struggling animal, held it between his knees and pulled the sack over its head. The older man immediately released the pole and seized the dog’s legs. In less than three seconds, the dog was trapped inside the sack. The men dragged the bundle towards the wagon by the pole that still stuck out of it. Their clubs lay ready to hand. They knew not only how to catch dogs, but also how to kill them without leaving ugly cuts or holes in their hides.

The dying dog’s dreadful whimpers reached the children at the brook and startled them. But by the time they arrived at the church square, all they saw was a covered wagon heading north along the Saubach. They did not know what to make of the patch of blood where the wagon had been standing. Nor did it occur to them that the dog who had lain beneath the elm in the church square almost every day would never lie there again. Still less could they imagine that the animal was now nothing but a bloody carcass, and that its skin would one day be made into a fine sheet of parchment at a tannery in Bistritz, fit for recording matters of the greatest importance at the princely court.

That court was in Gyulafehérvár, also known as Alba Iulia, and the year was 1661.

But the children knew nothing of that either.