Let Sleeping Sea-Monsters Lie (5 page)

So the dogs peered at Winsome’s neck and sure enough, buried deep in her silky, golden hair, was the sparkle of jewels.

By now the village dogs were quite overcome by the grandness of this newcomer. But Fred, the mongrel, plucked up his courage and said:

“Like to go for a walk with us, Win?”

Winsome Wilhelmina tossed her head. “I’d prefer you to use my full name if you don’t mind. But I don’t mind going for a walk as long as there’s no mud or dust to
get in my hair.”

So they took Winsome Wilhelmina for a walk.

Because they did not want her to get her beautiful coat muddy they did not take her for their usual walk along the river where there were water rats to be chased, and because they did not want
her to get dried leaves in her long silky hair they did not take her into the woods where there were pigeons to be terrified and holes to dig. Instead, they took her up the clean, straight, sandy
path that led towards the Rock of the Frid.

As they got closer to the rock, the village dogs got quieter and quieter but Winsome Wilhelmina didn’t.

“What on earth is that absolutely extraordinary rock?” she said in her high, upper-class-dog voice.

“It’s the Frid rock,” said the sheepdog.

“It’s best to be quiet when we go past it,” said the basset hound.

“Quiet?” yapped Winsome piercingly. “Why should I be quiet because of some perfectly ridiculous rock? I’ve never even heard of a Frid. I don’t believe there is such
a thing!”

“There is, Winsome,” said the sheepdog seriously. “There really is such a thing as a Frid and it’s inside that rock.”

“How do you know?” said Winsome, tossing her topknot.

“We know,” said the poodle, “because of what it does. Especially to dogs.”

“Pooh!” said Winsome. “Country dogs are always full of silly fancies.”

She trotted on her stiff little legs right up to the base of the rock and began to snuffle at the crumbs the villagers had left. Then out shot her little pink tongue and one by one she gobbled
them up!

The spaniel whimpered with terror.

“Come away,” barked the mongrel. “For heaven’s sake, Winsome, come away before it is too late!”

Winsome Wilhelmina took not the slightest notice. Snuffling her way further along the rock she found a saucer of fresh milk.

“No!” yelped the basset hound. “Not the Frid’s milk! No, no, no!”

Winsome didn’t even bother to turn round. Out came her greedy little tongue again and lap, lap, lap she went until every single drop of milk was gone.

And then – you will find this almost impossible to believe – she went and made a puddle beside the Rock of the Frid itself!

With a howl of terror, the other dogs fled. A frightful silence fell. The sky darkened; the earth trembled. And on the face of the Frid rock there appeared something so awful that no one could
give it a name. An eye – yet like no eye that has ever been seen. With a crack the rock split to form a mouth, a bottomless hole, a
something
that gaped and beckoned.

“
SCROOMPH!
” said the Frid. “
SQWILLOP!
”

And as it spoke these dreadful words, Winsome was lifted up bodily and sucked, slowly, into the hole.

The hole closed. The eye vanished, and Winsome Wilhemina had gone.

It was a long while before the whimpering dogs dared to crawl back again. But bravely they came and patiently they waited. They waited and they waited and then the awful eye appeared once again
and the hole gaped open.

“GERTCH!” said the Frid. “PFOO! BWERK!”

And out on to the ground it spat – a thing.

Only what could it be? It was the size of a very small rat. It was quite raw and pink and totally naked. And as it lay there, like something on a butcher’s slab, it seemed more dead than
alive.

The Frid had closed up again. Slowly the dogs crawled forward and the spaniel began to lick the pitiful thing with her loving tongue.

“Good heavens!” said the sheepdog, when he could trust himself to speak again. “Look – it’s her! It’s Winsome! She’s still wearing her
collar.”

It was true. On the scalped, raw little rat of an animal, the collar of diamonds still twinkled.

And in that moment, the wise old sheepdog recalled what his great-grandmother had told him years and years before.

“I remember now,” he said, “what a Frid is. A Frid is
a thing that turns dogs hairless
.”

And the other dogs nodded, for it was coming back to them, too, that if there is a something that turns dogs hairless then that something is a Frid.

So they dragged the poor, silly, hairless little creature down to the village, and since her rich mistress wanted nothing to do with her now she was so ugly, the dogs themselves licked and loved
her back to health. Winsome Wilhelmina became quite a nice dog but her hair never grew again, not so much as a single eyelash or a whisker. Nor could she ever speak about what had happened when she
was inside the Frid. “Let sleeping Frids lie, my dears,” was all she would say when visiting dogs came and asked her questions. That’s all we dogs can do: just let them
lie.”

And I am happy to say they did.