Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (16 page)

For the fourth time that summer, the village’s power was out. Earlier in the day, Priscilla had dropped off a tuna casserole and apple pie for Augusta and McKenna’s lunch. Out of Miss Gustie’s earshot, Priscilla compared this summer’s storms to that freak season some thirty years back, when Albert Smith, Augusta’s husband, smashed his lobster boat against the rocks near Slade’s Cove.

After she got Miss Gustie settled in for the night, McKenna planned to replenish her candle stock. Enchanted or not, her candles were selling well. McKenna had repaid Doc Tucker in full and still had almost eight hundred dollars in her pouch—more
than enough to get her to Toronto. A couple more days, and she’d be gone.

Earlier in the day, Big Bart had reminded McKenna that he’d be driving her to Mrs. Gaspé’s office first thing on Monday morning.

“When I turn on the engine, you better be packed and in the truck, McKenna,” he’d said. “Don’t mess this up. I don’t need any more trouble.”

Soon, McKenna knew, she wouldn’t be giving anyone on Prince Edward Island any more trouble.

With the wind at her back, McKenna burst through the barn red door on the water side of Miss Gustie’s house. Once inside, she tried to relight the lantern, but the wet wick wouldn’t burn.

From her bed in the parlor, where she was propped against a pillow, Miss Gustie beamed a flashlight in McKenna’s direction. “This storm is going to be a doozy!”

“It already is!”

Miss Gustie turned off her battery-operated radio. “Nothing but static.”

“Should I make you a cup of tea before I go out back?”

“Go out? This is no night for man or beast to be out. They’re expecting winds up to ninety miles per hour. We’ll be lucky if my little barn doesn’t fly off its foundation with you in it.”

“Speaking of beasts, where’s Pup?”

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” Miss Gustie’s eyes narrowed. “I think. Find him for me, will you?”

“I’ll need some light.”

Miss Gustie handed McKenna the flashlight, yellow and square, with a black plastic handle. “Here, take this.”

McKenna searched every nook and cranny of the house. She lifted the door to the cellar, even though she knew there was no way Pup could be down there.

“I can’t find him anywhere,” McKenna reported back.

“What do you mean, you can’t find him? He has to be around here somewhere! Did you check out back? Maybe his doggie door got stuck.”

“Yes.”

“How about the—”

“I’ve checked everywhere, Miss Gustie. Trust me. He’s not here.”

Even in the dim light, McKenna could see the color drain from Miss Gustie’s face. The creases in her forehead deepened. Her hands formed taut fists.

Miss Gustie pulled back the bedcovers and shifted her legs, as if a woman with a fractured hip and dislocated kneecap could get up and search for Pup herself.

“He can’t be far,” McKenna said quickly. “Have you got another flashlight?”

“No, take this one. I’ll light my candle. But you’d better put on my rain slicker. It’s hanging in the mudroom.”

McKenna’s sweatshirt and jeans were clammy and cold, but she had no time to change. She’d better get going, or Miss Gustie was going to have a heart attack. McKenna hoped that Pup was either sheltered in the barn, or down in the fox’s tunnel. McKenna thought she’d seen the two canines together earlier in the evening, but that was something she’d better not share with the already panicked woman.

She put on the black rain slicker and came back to Miss Gustie’s side. “If I find Pup out in the barn, we’ll stay there until the storm passes. Don’t worry—I’m sure that’s where he is. He’s probably too scared to come out.”

McKenna stepped back into the storm. The winds howled as if in pain. Trees screamed as branches were ripped from their limbs.

Inside the barn, raindrops hammered the roof. McKenna beamed the flashlight across the floor, in all the corners, inside the dory, and even on the rafters, where a pair of snowy white barn owls perched. McKenna called and called his name, but the little dog didn’t come running.

She rolled the barn doors shut. Head down, pushing through sheets of rain, McKenna made a mad dash to the back side of Enchanted Candles. She dropped down on her knees and called into the fox’s tunnel.

“Pup! Pup! Come out of there! Miss Gustie’s worried sick. Fox, you send him home now, you hear?”

Again, there was no response. Were Pup and the fox still together? If so, where?

The lighthouse? Maybe, but she’d seen Big Bart bar the door; McKenna couldn’t get in even if Pup were inside.

The wharf? No, she’d never seen the little dog hang out anywhere near the wharf. The only other place she could think of was the Pitiful Place, where those nasty wharf cats lived. That place gave her the creeps. She wouldn’t go inside—not alone—but the minute the storm let up, she’d take a quick look, just in case.

When she tried to stand up, McKenna slipped on the wet mud and fell down, facefirst, in the mire. Deafening thunder shook the earth beneath her feet.

KA-BOOM! A jagged bolt of lightning cut across the sky. McKenna screamed, pressing her hands over her ears.

KA-BOOM! The second bolt of lightning struck, closer, much closer. An imagined bolt of sizzling electricity traveled up her spine.

McKenna knew she had to seek shelter. She tried to prop herself up, but her elbows were shaking, and she couldn’t make them stop.

Suddenly, it was a rainy night in April, and she was running, running, running away from Mr. Z.—his hands, his anger—running, running across the island. No idea where she was going, knowing that she had to get away; she had to get away.

KA-BOOM! The thunderous crack of a third bolt of lightning snapped her body into action. McKenna wiped the wet mud off her chin and bolted to the doorway of her shed. She pressed her body within the door frame, under the eave, but even there, the slanting sheets of needling rain found her.

Drenched and shivering, she gripped the wet doorknob with trembling fingers. She dug her frozen fingers into her jeans pocket, feeling for the key.

Then, from behind her, came an eerie, drawn-out wail followed by a series of short, raspy barks. McKenna’s heart stopped. When she turned her head, the fox’s blazing amber eyes were fixed on her own.

Later, McKenna would swear that the fox had said something to her, something like, “Follow me.”

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.

In any case, at that moment, when, with a grand sweep of his rain-soaked tail, the fox turned and ran at top speed toward the Pitiful Place, McKenna knew exactly what she had to do.

Giant rolling waves battered the south side of the Pitiful Place. Tango and Beau climbed up the rickety ramp that led from the street to the door. Leftie led Tango and Beau across its threshold. The ancient stilts, which secured the structure onto its rocky foundation, creaked and quaked as if about to break.

Inside, strikes of lightning gave the interior intermittent moments of light. The Pitiful Place, Tango realized, was more than pitiful. A ghetto of glass and wire cages, many broken or bent, filled most of the living space. Stacks of newspapers looked like misshapen skyscrapers about to fall. Books were strewn about, pages torn, bindings broken.

A sickening stench rose from a pile of open cans, bones, trash, trash, and more trash. Tango gagged, pressing his paw across his nostrils to block the rancid odors.

Tango searched the ghoulish space for Nigel. He didn’t see the keeper of his charm, but what he did see astonished him.

Twenty, thirty, maybe forty animals were gathered in a loose semicircle on the fireplace side of the large room. Moles, voles, squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, skunk. A pair of weasels. A beaver.

“Don’t worry, my son,” Beau whispered to Tango. “They are on your side.”

“Why? They don’t even know me.”

“They know
of
you.”

“I’m not sure I want an audience.”

“Tonight, they’re witnesses to evil. But after, perhaps they’ll join together to fight it. Even if you...”

Tango shuddered. “Even if I what?”

“Even if you do not succeed, your courage will light the way for others.”

Near the brick fireplace, Axel and Tate, bold and fat from too much feasting, strutted about. Briar, Leftie, and Flint were pressing their bodies against the door of a beat-up refrigerator. Someone, or something, inside the refrigerator was pounding and scratching.

When he couldn’t locate Nigel, Tango had an appalling thought: What if Nigel was lying? What if there was no winner, no loser, and no silver prize? What if there was another reason why he and
Beau and all the others had been lured into this hellish pit?

Tate, the all-black cat, tapped on the refrigerator door. “You can come out now, Mal. Your victim is here.”

The three cats stepped aside and let the door drop open.

Collectively, the animals flinched at the sight of Malachi: a creature they’d heard about but few had actually seen. Framed in the refrigerator’s pale interior, the giant rat’s eyes glowed like red-hot coals. His lower body was puffy and misshapen, and from his shoulders to his ears, growths and tumors packed his fur.

“I’m done for,” Tango moaned.

Malachi clumsily stumbled out of his confinement, but quickly got his bearings. Then, stroking his whiskers and licking his chops, the albino rat pinned his beady eyes on Tango.

A loud, scratchy voice called for the animals’ attention. Nigel, posted atop the fireplace mantle—with no charm in sight—shouted, “Let the games begin!”

As shrieking winds circled the outer walls of the Pitiful Place, inside, Tango heard a thumping, soft drumming sound:
Tango, Tango, Tango.

Looking over his shoulder, Tango searched Beau’s face.

“Remember: you are fighting for all of us,” said Beau, with a touch of pride in his voice.

Beau was wrong
, Tango cried silently. He was fighting for himself: fighting for his silver charm and his chance to go home.

His heart pumped wildly. Tango took a few tentative steps forward. Malachi opened his jaws wide, like a trap, and displayed four long, yellow teeth.

Tango’s eyes darted around. Finally, he caught a glimpse of Nigel, the silver heart clamped in his brownish teeth. Angry and emboldened, Tango’s feral spirit sparked.

Louder and louder, in unison, Victoria’s creatures—eager for the fight to begin—chanted:
TANGO! TANGO! TANGO!

Tango took deep breaths, inhaling courage. Trying not to look at his hideous opponent, Tango silently chanted mantras.

You are strong, you are brave, and you are fearless.

You are Apollo, Zeus, Rex, Spike.

Your ancestors, the brave terriers of Yorkshire, line up in pride behind you.

You are THE TANGO!

Screeching and gnashing his teeth, Malachi tried to push his way out of the ring that the five cats had formed around him, but the cats tightened the circle, preventing the rat’s escape.

“You have youth and wit on your side,” Beau advised. “Use both, and you will prevail.”

Tate and Flint made an opening for Tango to pass through. Once Tango was inside the makeshift fighting ring, Malachi bowed slightly—a small moment of dignity that cast the rat in an entirely different light.

Malachi held up a front paw, signaling a desire for silence. When he opened his mouth to speak, every animal inside the Pitiful Place hushed.

“Little dog, whatever happens, I bear you no grudge. You and I are nothing but innocent pawns in the cats’ sinister game.”

The cats responded with spits and hisses. Pawn or no pawn, all Tango wanted was to get his charm and get out. He scraped his front paws across the wood floor, anxiously waiting for Malachi to make the first move.

The fear that had been choking Tango loosened. When Malachi didn’t attack, Tango shouted, “On guard!”

Tango sprang into the unprotected soft spot beneath Malachi’s chin.

In response, Malachi spun like a hurricane, hurling Tango down with his bare tail. When Tango tried to stand, Malachi’s long tail sliced like a blade beneath Tango’s feet. Tango stumbled. Whatever
strategy he’d dreamed up was worthless in the face of the monstrous rodent.

Beau, who stood just outside the cats’ circle, motioned for Tango to come close. “Tango, you must wear him down. Keep him spinning.”

Malachi’s tail lashed out a third time. Tango danced back and forth, inviting Malachi to knock him down, which is exactly what the leathery whip did a third, then a fourth, then a fifth time.

Finally, Tango caught the rhythm. Soon he was jumping over Malachi’s tail like a child skipping rope. The cat pack jeered; the small animals of the field and forest cheered Tango on.

The dreadful dance continued. Foam covered Malachi’s jaws, and wads of spit showered Tango’s body. Back and forth, back and forth, Tango leaped and retreated, leaped and retreated.

With each attack, Tango got closer to the spot he was going for. With one perfect move, Tango could hop on Malachi’s back and sink his teeth into the rat’s spine. If he failed, he’d go for Malachi’s neck.

Suddenly wild and out of control, all Tango wanted was to finish Malachi off.

On his next attack, Tango’s teeth drove deep enough into Malachi’s neck to draw blood. Beneath their feet, the floorboards groaned. With the bitter taste of blood now on his tongue, Tango saw the
image of the brown rat he’d killed in Augusta’s basement. In his mind, the dead rat asked:
Is the silver charm worth killing for?

The ancient house rocked and swayed. Tango felt dizzy and confused, seasick and sick at heart, as if he were once again riding the swells of the violent sea in Diego’s sailboat. Panicked, Tango looked around. Eyes wide with fright, all the animal spectators were scurrying away. Malachi stepped back, as if unwilling to attack.

And Beau? Where was Beau?

The Pitiful Place lurched. Malachi lost his balance, and the rat struggled to right himself as sea-water streamed under his feet.

Tango saw his chance. One final lunge, that’s all it would take. Tango prepared to spring.