Diana Wynne Jones - Dogsbody

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Dogsbody

Diana Wynne Jones

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GREENWILLOW BOOKS

A Division of William Morrow & Company, Inc. New

York

1975 by Diana Wynne Jones. Published in Great Britain

reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording or by any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission in writing from the

Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to Greenwillow

Books, 105 Madison Ave., New York, N. Y. 10016. Printed

in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Jones, Diana Wynne. Dogsbody.

Summary: Sirius the dog star, is reborn on earth as a

puppy with a mission to search for the lost Zoi, the

murder weapon of the stars.

[1. Fantasy] I. Title. PZ7.J684Do3 [Fic] 76-28715

ISBN 0-688-80074-2 ISBN 0-688-84074-4 lib. bdg.

For Caspian, who might really be Sirius

^ »

THE DOG STAR stood beneath the Judgment Seats and raged. The

green light of his fury fired the assembled faces viridian. It lit the

underside of the rooftrees and turned their moist blue fruit to

emerald.

“None of this is true!” he shouted. “Why can’t you believe me,

instead of listening to him?” He blazed on the chief witness, a blue

luminary from the Castor complex, firing him turquoise. The

witness backed hastily out of range.

“Sirius,” the First Judge rumbled quietly, “we’ve already found

you guilty. Unless you’ve anything reasonable to say, be quiet and

let the Court pass sentence.”

“No I will not be quiet!” Sirius shouted up at the huge ruddy

figure. He was not afraid of Antares. He had often sat beside him

as Judge on those same Judgment Seats— that was one of the

many miserable things about this trial. “You haven’t listened to a

word I’ve said, all through. I did not kill that luminary—I only hit

him. I was not negligent, and I’ve offered to look for the Zoi. The

most you can accuse me of is losing my temper—”

“Once too often, in the opinion of this Court,” remarked big

crimson Betelgeuse, the Second Judge, in his dry way.

“And I’ve admitted I lost my temper,” said Sirius.

“No one would have believed you if you hadn’t,” said Betelgeuse.

A long flicker of amusement ran around the assembled

luminaries. Sirius glared at them. The hall of blue trees was packed

with people from every sphere and all orders of effulgence. It was

not often one of the high effulgents was on trial for his life—and

there never had been one so notorious for losing his temper.

“That’s right—laugh!” Sirius roared. “You’re getting what you

came for, aren’t you? But you’re not watching justice done. I tell

you I’m not guilty! I don’t know who killed that young fool, but it

wasn’t me!”

“The Court is not proposing to go through all that again,” Antares

said. “We have your Companion’s evidence that you often get too

angry to know what you’re doing.”

Sirius saw his Companion look at him warningly. He pretended

not to see her. He knew she was trying to warn him not to prove

the case against him by raging any more. She had admitted only a

little more than anyone knew. She had not really let him down. But

he was afraid he would never see her again, and he knew it would

make him angrier than ever to look at her. She was so beautiful:

small, exquisite and pearly.

“If I were up there, I wouldn’t call that evidence,” he said.

“No, but it bears out the chief witness,” said Antares, “when he

says he surprised you with the body and you tried to kill him by

throwing the Zoi at him.”

“I didn’t,” said Sirius. He could say nothing more. He could only

stand fulminating because his case was so weak. He refused to tell

the Court that he had threatened to kill the blue Castor-fellow for

hanging around his Companion, or that he had struck out at the

young luminary for gossiping about it. None of that proved his

innocence anyway.

“Other witnesses saw the Zoi fall,” said Antares. “Not to speak of

the nova sphere—”

“Oh go to blazes!” said Sirius. “Nobody else saw anything.”

“Say that again,” Betelgeuse put in, “and we’ll add contempt of

court to the other charges. Your entire evidence amounts to

contempt anyway.”

“Have you anything more to say?” asked Antares. “Anything,

that is, which isn’t a repetition of the nonsense you’ve given us up

to now?”

Rather disconcerted, Sirius looked up at the three Judges, the

two red giants and the smaller white Polaris. He could see they all

thought he had not told the full story. Perhaps they were hoping for

it now. “No, I’ve nothing else to say,” he said. “Except that it was

not nonsense. I—”

“Then be quiet while our spokesman passes the sentence,” said

Antares.

Polaris rose, quiet, tall and steadfast. Being a Cepheid, he had a

slight stammer, which would have disqualified him as spokesman,

had not the other two Judges been of greater effulgence. “D-denizen

of S-sirius,” he began.

Sirius looked up and tried to compose himself. He had not had

much hope all through, and none since they declared him guilty. He

had thought he was quite prepared. But now the sentence was

actually about to come, he felt sick. This trial had been about

whether he, Sirius, lived or died. And it seemed only just to have

occurred to him that it was.

“This Court,” said Polaris, “has f-found you guilty on three

counts, namely: of m-murdering a young luminary s-stationed in

Orion; of grossly m-misusing a Zoi to com-m-mit that s-said

m-murder; and of culpable negligence, causing t-trepidation,

irregularity and d-damage in your entire s-sphere of inf-fluence and

l-leading t-to the l-loss of the Z-zoi.” For the moment, his stammer

fazed him, and he had to stop.

Sirius waited. He tried to imagine someone else as denizen of his

green sphere, and could not. He looked down, and tried not to think

of anything. But that was a mistake. Down there, through the

spinning star-motes of the floor, he looked into nothing. He was

horrified. It was all he could do not to scream at them not to make

him into nothing.

Polaris recovered himself. “In p-passing this s-sentence,” he said,

“the Court takes into cons-sideration your high eff-ffulgency and

the s-services you have f-formerly rendered the Court. In view of

these, and the f-fact that you are l-liable to rages in which you

cannot be s-said to be in your right m-mind, the Court has

d-decided to revive an ancient p-prerogative to p-pass a s-special

kind of s-susp-pended’s-sentence.”

What was this? Sirius did not know what to think. He looked at

his Companion, and then wished he had not, because of the doubt

and consternation he saw in her.

“D-denizen of S-sirius,” said Polaris, “you are hereby s-sentenced

to be s-stripped of all s-spheres, honors and eff-ffulgences and

banished f-from here to the body of a creature native to that

s-sphere where the m-missing Z-zoi, is thought to have f-fallen. If,

d-during the life s-span of that creature, you are able to f-find and

retrieve the Z-zoi, the Court will be p-pleased to reinstate you in all

your f-former s-spheres and d-dignities. F-failure to retrieve the

Z-zoi will carry no f-further p-punishment. In the Court’s

op-opinion, it is s-sufficient that you s-simply die in the m-manner

natural to creatures of that s-sphere.”

Slow as Polaris was in giving this extraordinary sentence, Sirius

had still barely grasped it when Polaris sat down. It was unheard

of. It was worse than nothing, because it condemned him not only

to exile but hope—hopeless, brutish hope, over a whole uncertain

life span. He flared up again as he realized it.

“But that’s the most preposterous sentence I ever heard!”

“Quiet,” said Antares. “The Court orders the prisoner taken away

and the sentence carried out.”

“Try saying preposterous, Polaris!” Sirius shouted as they led him

away.

The sentence was carried out at once. When he came to himself,

Sirius was no longer capable of protesting. He could not see clearly,

or speak. Nor did he think much, either. He was very weak and

very, very hungry. All his strength had to be spent fighting for food

among a warm bundle of creatures like himself. He had just found

himself a satisfactory slot and was feeding, when he felt himself

plucked off again by a large invincible hand and turned upside

down. He made noises in protest, and kicked a little.

A great gruff voice, probably a woman’s, said words he did not

understand. “That’s the sixth beastly dog in this litter. To one bitch.

Blast it!”

Sirius was plunked unceremoniously back, and fought his way to

his slot again. He did not think much about anything but feeding

for quite a while after that. Then he slept, wedged warmly among

the other creatures, against a great hairy cliff. It was some days

before he thought about anything but food and sleep.

But at length he was seized with an urge to explore. He set off,

crawling strenuously on four short legs which seemed far too weak

to carry his body. He tripped several times over the folds in the

rough cloth he was crawling on. The other creatures were crawling

vaguely about, too. More than once, Sirius was bowled over by one.

But he kept on, blinking, trying to see where the strong light was

coming from a little farther off. He came to cold floor, where

crawling was easier.

He was nearly in the strong, warm light, when footsteps clacked

toward him. The ground shook. He stopped uncertainly. Once

again, he was seized by something ineffably strong and turned

upward, kicking and undignified, toward a vaguely looming face.

“You’re a bold one,” remarked the great gruff woman’s voice. Then,

as Sirius blinked, trying to see what had caught him, the voice said,

“I don’t like the look of your eyes, fellow. Something tells me Bess

has been a naughty girl.”

Since he understood none of the sounds the gruff voice made,

Sirius felt nothing but exasperation when he was put back in the

dark on the rough cloth. Now he would have all that crawling to do

again. He waited for the heavy footsteps to clack away, and then

set off again.

It did no good. He was put back by someone—either the woman

or a being with a hoarse youth’s voice—every time he reached the

light. He cheeped with frustration. Something in him craved for

that light. Why would they not let him have it?

He was in the doorway the next day, when they came— the

woman, the hoarse youth and another person. They nearly trod on

him. Sirius knew it, and cowered down in terror. The woman, with

an exclamation of annoyance, plucked him up from the cold floor

into the light.

“Blast this one! It is a wanderer.” Sirius was quite used to being

picked up by this time. He lay quiet. “Well?” said the woman.

“What do you think, Mrs. Canning dear? Those markings aren’t

right, are they? And look at its eyes.”

Sirius felt the attention of the other person on him. It felt wrong,

somehow. He struggled, and was firmly squeezed for his pains.

“No,” said a new voice thoughtfully, and it troubled Sirius. It and

the smell that went with it set up a ripple that was nearly a

memory in his head. “Wrong eyes, wrong color ears. Your bitch

must have got out somehow, Mrs. Partridge dear. What are the

others like?”

“The same, with variations. Take a look.”

There were indignant cheepings that told Sirius that his

companions, less used to being handled than he, were being bundled

about too. Above the noise, the three voices held a long discussion.

And below the cheeping, there was a deeper, anxious whining.

“Shut up, Bess! You’ve been a bad girl!” said the voice called Mrs.

Partridge. “So you don’t think these’ll fetch any money at all?”

“You might get a pound or so from a pet shop,” said the voice

called Mrs. Canning. “Otherwise—”

“Much obliged!” Mrs. Partridge said. There was such an

unmistakable note of anger in her voice that Sirius cringed and his

companions stopped cheeping. They were silent when they were

plunked back on the ground, though one or two whimpered

plaintively when the big anxious mother licked them. The footsteps

went away, but two sets of them returned, briskly and angrily, not

long after. All the puppies cringed instinctively.

“Blast you, Bess!” said Mrs. Partridge. “Here I am with a parcel

of mongrels, when I might have got nearly a hundred quid for this

litter. Got that sack, Brian?”

“Uh-huh.” The hoarse youth never used many words. “Brick too.

Oughtn’t we to leave her one, Mrs. Partridge?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” the woman said impatiently. Sirius felt

himself seized and lifted. “Not that one!” Mrs. Partridge said

sharply. “I don’t like its eyes.”

“Don’t you?” The youth seemed surprised, but he dumped Sirius

down again and picked up the next nearest to set beside the

mother. The mother whined anxiously, but she did not try to stop

him as he seized the other puppies one by one and tossed them into

dusty, chaffy darkness. They tumbled in anyhow, cheeping and

feebly struggling. Sirius was carried, one of this writhing,

squeaking bundle, pressed and clawed by his fellows, jolted by the

movement of the sack, until he was nearly frantic. Then a new

smell broke through the dust. Even in this distress it interested

him. But, the next moment, their bundle swung horribly and

dropped, more horribly still, into cold, cold, cold. To his terror, there

was nothing to breathe but the cold stuff, and it choked him.

Once he realized it choked him, Sirius had the sense to stop

breathing. But there was not much sense to the way he struggled.

For as long as he had air and strength in his body, he lashed out

with all his short weak legs, tore with his small feeble claws, and

fought the darkness and the cold as if it were a live enemy. Some of

the other puppies fought too, and got in one another’s way. But, one

by one, they found the shock and the cold suffocation too much for

them. Soon only Sirius was scratching and tearing at the dark, and

he only kept on because he had a dim notion that anything was

better than cold nothingness.

The darkness opened. Sirius did not care much about anything by

then, but he thought he was probably dead. Being dead seemed to

mean floating out into a gray-green light. It was not a light he

could see by, and it was stronger above him. He had a feeling he

was soaring toward the stronger light. Round bubbles, shining

yellow, moved up past his eyes and put him in mind of another life

he could not quite remember. Then the light was like a silver lid,

thick and solid-looking overhead. It surprised him when he broke

through the silver without pain or noise into a huge brightness that

was blue and green and warm. It was too much for him. He took a

gasping breath, choked and became nothing more than a sodden

wisp of life floating down a brisk river.

Behind him, at the bottom of the river, the rotten sack he had

torn spread apart in the current and the other sodden wisps floated

out. Two were beyond hope and were simply rolled along the mud

and stones of the riverbed. But four other wisps rose to the surface

and were carried along behind the first. They went bobbing and

twisting, one behind the other, around a bend in the river and

between the sunny banks of a meadow. Here, the warmth beating

from above began to revive Sirius a little. He came to himself

enough to know that there was heat somewhere, and that he was

helpless in some kind of nightmare. The only good thing in the

nightmare was the heat. He came to depend on it.

The river passed hawthorn trees growing on its banks. The

current carried Sirius through the shadow of one. He found himself

suddenly in deep brown cold. The heat was gone. They had taken

his one comfort away now. He was so indignant about it that he

opened his eyes and tried to cheep a protest.

He could not manage a noise. But a second later, the river carried

him out into sunlight again. Sun struck him full in the eyes and

broke into a thousand dazzles on the ripples. Sirius snapped his

eyes shut again. The brightness was such a shock that he became a

limper wisp than ever and hardly knew that the warmth was back

again.

It grew warmer—a golden, searching warmth. “It is you,

Effulgency!” someone said. “I thought it was!”

This was quite a different order of voice from those Sirius had

heard so far. It puzzled him. It was not a voice he knew, though he

had a feeling he had heard its kind before. He was not sure he

trusted it. All the voices he had heard so far had done him nothing

but harm—and he had a notion he had known voices before that,

which had done him no good either.

“You aren’t dead, are you?” the voice asked. It seemed anxious. It

was a warm, golden voice, and, though it sounded anxious, there

was a hint of ferocity about it, as if the speaker could be far more

dangerous than Mrs. Partridge and her friends if he chose.

Sirius was not sure if he was dead or not. He felt too weak to

cope with this strong, fierce voice, so he floated on in silence.

“Can’t you answer?” The warmth playing on Sirius’s scrap of body

grew stronger and hotter, as if the speaker was losing patience.

Sirius was too far gone even to be frightened. He simply floated. “I

suppose you can’t,” said the voice. “I think this is just too bad of

them! Well, I’ll do what I can for you. Just let them try to stop me!”

The warmth stayed, lapping around Sirius, though he sensed that

the speaker had gone. He floated a little way farther, until he came

up against some things that were long, green and yielding. Here

the warmth caught and pinned him, gently rocking. It was almost

pleasant. Meanwhile, the other four half-drowned puppies floated

on in midstream, around bends, to where the river became wider

and dirtier, with houses on its banks.

A shrill voice spoke strange words near Sirius, “Oh, eughky!

There’s a dead puppy in the rushes!”

“Don’t touch it!” said a voice rather older and rougher. And a

third voice, gentle and lilting, said, “Let me see!”

“Don’t touch it, Kathleen!” said the second voice.

However, there were splashings and rustlings. A pair of hands, a

great deal smaller and much more shaky and nervous than Sirius

was used to, picked him out of the water and held him high in the

air. He did not feel safe. The shakiness of those hands and the cold

air frightened him. He wriggled and managed to utter a faint

squeak of fear. The hands all but dropped him.

“It isn’t dead! It’s alive! Poor thing, it’s frozen!”

“Someone tried to drown it,” said the shrillest voice.

“Throw it back in,” said the second voice. “It’s too small to lap.

It’ll die anyway.”

“No it won’t.” The hands holding Sirius became defiantly steady.

“It can have that old baby bottle. I’m not going to let it die.”

“Mum won’t let you keep it,” the rough voice said nastily.

“She won’t. And the cats’ll kill it,” said the youngest voice.

“Honest, Kathleen.”

The girl holding Sirius hugged him defensively to her chest and

began to walk—bump, jerk, bump—away from the river across the

meadow. “Poor little thing,” she said. The two boys followed,

arguing with her. Their clamor hurt Sirius’s ears, and the girl kept

jerking him by turning around to argue back. But he realized she

was defending him from the other two and was grateful. Her

convulsive hugging was making him feel safer and a great deal

warmer. “Oh!” Kathleen exclaimed, bending over him. “Its tail’s

wagging!”

Robin, the younger boy, demanded to see. “It’s a queer little tail,”

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DogsbodyDianaWynneJonesA3Sdigitalback-upedition1.0clickforscannotesandproofinghistoryContents|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|GREENWILLOWBOOKSADivisionofWilliamMorrow&Company,Inc.NewYorkPublishedintheUnitedStatesin1977.Copyright©1975byDianaWynneJones.PublishedinGreatBritainin1975.Allrightsres...

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