The village of Willowbrook, nestled beneath ancient oaks and ash trees, was slowly fading away. Once a thriving community, now only a handful of cottages remained, inhabited by forgotten elders left behind by time. In its heyday, Willowbrook had prospered—solid timber homes, their roofs darkened with age, stood as monuments to days when local craftsmen were famed for their harnesses and wagons. But machines replaced horses, and the village withered. The surrounding forest was rich with game, yet winters brought danger—hungry wolves prowled the outskirts, forcing villagers to keep packs of dogs whose barks pierced the night, a warning of looming peril.
In the fifties, the fur trade that had sustained Willowbrook for centuries collapsed. The village became part of a vast state farm. Former artisans became shepherds and milkmaids. Old George Whitaker had spent his life as a swineherd. From the age of ten, he’d tended piglets, and as a man, he cared for breeding stock known across the county. But in the nineties, the farm was looted, the livestock sold, and George, like the other elders, was pensioned off. The young fled to the cities, leaving the village hollow. His son sold the cattle and moved away, abandoning George and his ailing wife Margaret in their crumbling farmhouse, surrounded by empty barns. Life dwindled to the kitchen, an old telly, and endless silence.
Then, one spring, an old friend, Peter Sanderson, visited Willowbrook with a gift—a tiny bundle of russet fur. “For your seventieth, George! A purebred English Mastiff, champion bloodline. He’ll be loyal to the bone.” Peter showed a photo of a massive, medal-laden dog. “Raise him right, and he’ll win shows across the county!” George took the pup, who nuzzled into his chest. He made a bed in a box, but the pup whimpered, seeking warmth. Margaret grumbled, “Now we’ve got a pup to fuss over!” George found an old baby’s bottle, filled it with milk, and rocked the little one like a child. “Misses his mother,” he muttered, brushing off her complaints.
The pup grew fast. They named him Duke—for his regal bearing. He trusted only George, shunned strangers, and soon became a formidable guardian who obeyed his master’s every word. Within a year, the tiny ball of fur was a towering sentinel, warding off foxes by night and sneaking into George’s bed to warm his feet.
But trouble came to Willowbrook. Abandoned cottages on the outskirts began burning. The old women panicked, begging George and Duke to patrol the village. So the old man became the night watchman. With Duke at his side, the fires ceased. Then strangers arrived—wealthy Londoners, buying up empty homes and the meadow where cattle once grazed. By winter, a gated estate of luxury homes stood in its place. The new owners hired George to guard their property.
“Some flee villages for cities, others cities for villages,” George mused as he walked the estate with Duke. “But us old folk? We’re left behind.” Time passed, and Margaret’s health worsened. Doctors prescribed insulin, but George caught her sneaking sweets, as if hastening the end. In December, she died quietly. At the funeral, the old women lamented she’d gone without last rites—Willowbrook’s chapel had crumbled long ago.
At her grave, George vowed to rebuild it. He saved his wages, and six months later, traveled to a nearby hamlet where an old chapel to St. Alban still stood. Returning, he dug a foundation and began construction. By autumn, a wooden chapel stood, crowned with a cross. The old women brought icons, among them an ancient image of St. Nicholas, saved from darker times. The chapel was consecrated in his name, becoming a sanctuary for villagers and weekenders alike.
That winter, before Twelfth Night, unease gripped George. He began checking the chapel obsessively. On Christmas Eve, dozing by the fire, he jolted awake—a dread he couldn’t shake. Grabbing his shotgun, he and Duke raced out. The dog surged ahead—then gunshots shattered the night. George stumbled through the snow, finding Duke on the roadside, blood staining the frost. He collapsed, cradling the dog’s head, weeping like a child. “Duke, my faithful boy… why?” he choked, cursing fate.
Villagers rushed to the scene. “Mourns a dog more than his own wife,” one muttered. Then a shriek—”The icon’s gone! St. Nicholas is stolen!” They surged into the chapel, but George stayed, stroking Duke’s fur. “We’ve been through so much… remember when you saved that lad from the frozen pond? Or when I fell ill, and you stayed by me?” The dog weakly licked his hand. Realizing Duke still breathed, George tore his shirt to bind the wound and bellowed, “Fetch a cart!”
At home, he injected penicillin, pressed plantain to the wound, and kept vigil. “Rest, Duke. We’ve more runs ahead,” he whispered, stroking his friend. He smiled, recalling the time Duke proved he understood speech. Guarding the estate, George had wagered with lads that the dog was no fool. One joker drawled, “What if I slit the old man’s throat?” Duke pinned him instantly. “Lesson learned,” George had laughed.
A year later, during New Year’s revels, Duke saved him again. At a Londoner’s estate, the dog sensed danger, leapt the fence, and pinned a youth. George recognized him—the shooter, the thief. “You wretch,” he hissed. “Thought you could steal and kill without consequence?” Duke waited for the command, but George whispered, “He’ll return it. Let him go.” Reluctantly, the dog released him. Soon, St. Nicholas’s icon was back in the chapel, and George and Duke kept watch over Willowbrook, knowing their bond was stronger than any storm.
