Angeline - Episode 1

The old dog, mange ridden and nearly creaking with long years, rubbed his back against the edge of the rocking chair. The itch was a deep one though, maybe too deep, maybe the very itch of his death swollen and reddened beneath patchy fur and drying skin. He rubbed like he might quench that thirsty specter if only the scratching were hard enough. He rubbed like a search for immortality or, at least, for the easy oblivion of forgotten ends. Harder he rubbed and the chair began to rock. The wood of it protested the disturbance loudly with cracking, scraping syllables, but the old dog did not relent.

A hand hung over the arm of the chair and from the thumb of that hand hung a jug, uncorked and sloshing at the very edge of empty. The arm was, at its furthest point from the jug, attached to what appeared to be a terribly ancient woman. Though, in truth, she looked to be built entirely of old leather, dust and moth leftovers. One could hardly imagine her, at that moment, moving on her own, much less containing the soul supposedly gifted to all living things. Gray hair wandered sparse and limp around her mottled scalp as it was stirred by the tepid breeze. A single fly investigated the corner of one closed eye and the thin sheen of drool shown on her slumped chin. As the chair rocked with the dog’s self-ministrations she stirred in that sleep which so recently had impersonated its darker, more permanent cousin. The fly, disturbed by her movements began long, lazy, circular patrols of the area, adding its buzz to the sandpaper dog skin, the creak of porch boards and the suddenly noticeable, labored breathing of the chairs occupant.

The dog was panting his exertions. This was more exercise than he was likely to get in a typical week, but now that he had started in on the turgid spot, he found himself unable to stop. The sun had moved down low enough that the long shadows of the trees across the field were touching the porch with ominous fingers. On some level the dog wanted to end this inane rubbing, which wasn’t helping anyway, and go lay down, cradled in the cool palms of those growing shades. He could not though. He was driven by some greater force, maybe, or chance itch and senility had coordinated their arrival.

The jug began to crawl toward the end of the thumb as the rocking of the chair continued. It climbed the arthritic, wrinkled knuckle. It slide smoothly over the cracked gloss of the fingernail, and it fell with a thunk and a short but unfortunate glug onto the planked floor. The dog, shocked from the mechanical rubbing that had opened up a raw, bleeding wound on his back, cowered instinctively against the porch rail. Red blood stained the faded whitewash where his back touched it, and he whined quietly to himself.

The old woman sat up wide eyed at the sound, and a slow rage began to take her. One could almost watch it climb her decrepit body as she turned and saw the jug leaking the little precious fluid it held into the porch boards and the dirt beneath. Her feet tensed as that twisting fury left the tortured earth and climbed into this new, more dangerous vessel. Her hands gripped the arm rests of the rocking chair with such intensity that her entire body began to shake. The deadly wrath filled her aged head with a cold shining draught that poured clear from her cataract fogged eyes as she turned her gaze on the quaking beast. She stood then, on legs firmed by the brief youth of hell’s gift and, taking two confident steps, swung the devil’s own kick at the bleeding, itchy pile of tormented mange that had dared disturb her sleep and spill her precious drink.

Something in the old dog snapped, and the itch gave way to an intense burning fire that quickly faded into a kind of quiet warmth. He whimpered one more time as he fell at the woman’s feet, but it was not a whimper of pain really. It was more a sob of relief, the last tear at the end of a long despair. He laid his old head on the cool porch and fell into a softer light. He found he was standing refreshed and younger in one of the great flowered fields of his youth. Around him bees sung their monotonous song and the rustling grasses spoke the language of long simple pleasure. A house stood in the distance painting the blue sky with a thin line of smoke. He almost barked with joy, but there was something in his mouth. Slowly, he looked down and saw, to his infinite delight, that he was biting his own, furry, tail.

The old woman grunted and kicked the dog’s corpse again lightly. The anger had left her, and now she felt unsteady. She looked at the dead thing at her feet and out at the field where she knew she should bury it. Then she looked down at her shaking legs and emaciated arms. No use, she thought, doesn’t matter none anyhow. She bent slowly and picked up the jug. Sitting back in the rocking chair she tipped the mouth of it to her cracked and broken lips. A tiny drop spilled forth to wet her desert tongue. She grunted again and tossed the empty jug to the ground where it rolled to rest against the cooling corpse of the old dog. Doesn’t matter none anyhow.