Storm Dog

by L. M. Elliott

  I suppose the army guy knew a natural leader when he saw one. He’d called George over and preached on democracy and the American Way and our need to finish what we’d started in the Middle East. He challenged George to show him “what you’ve got.”

  George never stepped back from a dare, ever. He hit the ground immediately. Now his friends were chanting the count: 90, 91, 92 . . .

  “That’s right, boy; there’s strong and there’s Army Strong.”

  George’s face was the color of a Red Delicious apple, but he kept pushing up and down.

  The drill sergeant smiled. “That’s great, son.” He pulled George to his feet and clapped him on the back. “I can see a uniform suits you well.”

  Scene Five: “You’ve done what? Oh, George, for pity’s sake. Think about this carefully.” Daddy jumped out of his favorite wing chair as he spoke. George stood in front of the living room fireplace. He’d just told Daddy that he’d accepted a commission to West Point instead of going to a music conservatory. George had even visited our senator and asked for the required recommendation from a member of Congress—all without telling Daddy. That’s how committed he was. That army recruiter at the parade had achieved his mission.

  Crouching on the staircase, I was eavesdropping and watching their reflections in the big hall mirror.

  “I have thought about it,” George answered. “When I graduate, I’ll be an officer, ready to lead.”

  “But why?”

  “I want to serve my country. To keep our freedoms safe. To protect people who can’t stand up for themselves.”

  “But there are so many ways to do that without risking getting yourself killed,” Daddy argued. “Like what I do, for instance.”

  I swear it was the first time I ever heard George be rude. He snorted.

  And that was one of the few times I’d ever seen Daddy get mad, really mad.

  He started pacing as he talked, like he does in front of a jury. “Our government officials hyped the danger of Iraq’s weaponry to get us over there to fight and so often have used responsible, idealistic boys like you to control the Middle East’s oil supplies or as a political maneuver to distract from other things,” Daddy’s deep voice boomed.

  George stood, waiting him out as Daddy kept going: “Americans have always championed human rights. But lately our elected officials have made some pretty inhumane choices, first in interrogation methods we used in Abu Ghraib and then in all-inclusive travel bans, keeping Muslims from entering our country solely because they’re Muslim, even if they have family here. You’re a fool, son, if you think our continuing to fight over there is solely about preserving freedom.”

  “I’m a fool?” George finally exploded. “What about 9/11, Dad? One of my first childhood memories is watching the Twin Towers and the Pentagon burn. I want to prevent terrorist attacks like those from ever happening here again. But that’s going to take American soldiers being in those countries, protecting their citizens who want democracy. I want to help them push back against extremist fundamentalists who might—oh, I don’t know—shoot girls who just want to go to school and learn. Don’t you think that’s preserving freedom?”

  Daddy started to respond, but George kept rolling. “I want to fight for people to have equal chances no matter their skin color or gender or religion or where they come from or if they’re poor.” George paused, took a deep breath, and his voice softened. “It’s what you always told us you were doing, Dad.”

  It was those words that made Daddy fall into his wing chair and cry as George turned and left the room.

  Scene Six: Skip ahead a few years until last month. “What’s that?” I’d asked nervously. The image of George on my computer screen had shaken and a shower of dust had fallen on him. He and I got to Skype once in a while through the army MWR center when he was in base camp. (MWR, if you’re interested, stands for Morale, Welfare, and Recreation. No wonder they need an abbreviation, right?)

  “It’s nothing, honey, just the Taliban making itself heard. Don’t sweat it,” George reassured me, but he glanced over his shoulder into the dimness behind him just the same. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and then looked back into the computer. He smiled at me, but it was a weird, forced smile. “Gotta go, A. If you run into Em, tell her I really miss her, okay?” The image snapped black before I could answer.

  During his college years at West Point, I’d reassured myself that, surely by the time George graduated, the fighting in Afghanistan would be long over. It’s crazy that we’ve been sending our troops there for almost twenty years now. Our government says American soldiers are supposed to just be training and advising Afghan troops. But I worry George and his Special Forces buddies sometimes slip out into the night for actual combat missions.

  I reached out to touch the screen where my brother had been. Even though I loved to see his face, it scared me, too. It was always dark behind him, and so often I heard gunfire thundering in the distance, like a squall line of death gathering around him.

  Being way up on a mountain all alone, remembering these things about George, finally brought on tears. I couldn’t fight them anymore; I felt so lonely with my big brother gone. So, there on the hilltop, I buried my face in my arms and sobbed. No one was around to make fun of me for it, so I let fly. But when I started sucking in dirt from the ground as I heaved, I figured I’d better stop before I choked. I forced my breathing to slow to gagging coughs. Finally, I lifted my head to spit out soil.

  That’s when I saw the dog staring through the grasses at me.

  Four

  MY HEART RATE ABOUT HIT ONE hundred miles per hour. I knew I’d been blubbering, but that dog getting so close—without my hearing—was plain old creepy.

  I stayed frozen, chin to the ground just like it was. The wind was swishing the veil of grasses open and shut, so my view was like a bad Wi-Fi connection: clear then not, clear then not. But a couple of things I could see for sure. The dog had enormous ears—sticking straight up, quivering with listening. His face was long and golden, his eyes outlined with thick black. His snout ended in black, too, in big nostrils twitching like crazy to get my scent.

  Now, dogs are pretty much a way of life around here. The Master of the Hounds for our local hunt lives one farm over and breeds foxhounds. I’m about the only kid in the county whose mother says we can’t have a dog because they’re too messy. I mean, this is a place where muck boots lacquered with horse manure sit beside the back doors of most homes. So I used to spend a lot of time playing with my neighbor’s puppies. Those hounds love to chase things, jumping and knocking into one another in a pack of clumsy loudness. They bay and bark and yap. You can hear them coming a mile away.

  So I’d never seen a dog that quiet, that watchful, that still. I raised my head slowly to get a better look. The dog pressed himself even flatter to the ground. The poor thing was thin and covered in mud, like he had been on the run for quite a while.

  “Hey, fella,” I said quiet and easy.

  The dog started trembling.

  “Aaaaw, easy boy. I’m not going to hurt you.” I sat up, sticking my hands in my pockets to check for leftover cereal bar—like an idiot. The dog skidded backward as fast as a getaway car from a movie bank heist.

  “Oh no, fella! I didn’t mean to scare you.” I stood, holding out my hand. “Easy.”

  For a moment the dog hesitated. But then he turned, tucked his furry plume of a tail tight between his hind legs, and slunk toward the nearby woods. He whipped his head from side to side, scanning the landscape. He was a gorgeous German Shepherd, really kind of noble looking except for the dirt and burrs caking his fur. Every twenty feet or so, he’d stop and look over his shoulder at me. Like he was too scared to ask directly for help but hoping I could see the need, begging me to follow.

  So I did.

  Higher into the hillside woods we climbed. The itty-bitty path we took narrowed and grew brambly, clearly cut not by park rangers but by deer meandering through their territory. I wa
s constantly getting caught up in thorny wild rosebushes. The dog would slow down and sniff everything, checking the perimeter, while I pulled the coiling branches off my jacket and pants legs. Then he’d inch onward. It was like we were out on some kind of combat patrol.

  The woods grew thicker and darker, so I couldn’t really see the sky anymore, but I could feel the weight of air changing, getting thick and charged. My asthma kicked in and I wheezed. I knew what it all meant—a storm was brewing in the valley and heading my way fast. But I couldn’t stop following that dog.

  Ten more minutes. The forest’s shifting shadows darkened into eerie, and I got as jumpy as the dog. My hands were so torn up from thorns, I thought I might burst into tears again. At this point, I knew I’d never find my way back. Suddenly home seemed a wonderful place. I’d even be glad to see G-L-O-R-I-A.

  “Stop!” I cried. “Where are we going?”

  I know. It’s stupid to ask a dog a question. That’s how scared I’d gotten. Believe it or not, that dog stopped. He sat down and stared at me. Completely silent. No panting, no scratching, no whining, no nothing. The only sound was wind stroking the trees, their translucent leaves shimmering with the touch, like when a drummer brushes the swish cymbal of a drum set.

  Then I heard something that made absolutely no sense. The dog cocked his head to listen, too. There it was again: ping, a resonating bell, and then ping-ping-ka-ching-ching-ching in an answering chorus of musical notes.

  I don’t want to tell the word I said—it would prove all the church ladies’ opinions of me. At the sound of those little bells, I figured the angel Gabriel (or something from the other not-so-nice side of the biblical spectrum) was coming to get me.

  Then to make it all totally Harry-Potter-Forbidden-Forest-like, the woods lit up in a flash. BANG—lightning hit something. A long growling rumble rolled around and around the hills getting louder and faster, like a gigantic loose cannonball looking for something to slam against and explode to smithereens.

  The dog howled, an outcry that made my skin prickle and my heart pound. Then he bolted.

  “Wait!” I shrieked. “Wait for me!” I thrashed after him. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  Another flash of scalding light, then unearthly blackness. BANG. The ground shook.

  “WAIT!”

  Pushing through bushes, as desperate as if I was doing the breaststroke in floodwater, I belly flopped into a clearing. In front of me squatted a campground-style cabin, no lights, deserted, maybe. Wind chimes hanging from its porch roof swung wild in the accelerating winds. Ping-ping-ka-ching-ching-ching. Freaky as H-you-know-what.

  The storm was getting vicious—fast. Fallen pine needles that had carpeted the clearing levitated and swirled in little cyclones. Trees groaned in the wind. Diving into a thicket on the edge of the opening, the dog crouched there, shaking, looking toward the porch. Like he was saying, “Hey, stupid, I found you shelter; go for it.”

  Crack-crack-crack-crack-BANG. More mortar-like thunder. Horror-movie, zigzag strobe lights. I scrambled to my feet to run for the cabin as the lightning streak flared.

  But just as I neared the steps, the cabin door flew open. “Halt! Identify yourself!” A figure rushed out—gun first. I could see it glint silver in the storm-light.

  I slid to a stop and fell back on my butt, shaking as much as that dog had.

  Virginia is an open-carry state, meaning people can walk around with handguns on their hips, Wild West style. Half the pickup trucks driving around the mountains during deer-hunting season have an arsenal of rifles on their gun racks. So it’s not like I hadn’t seen guns before. And just like every other kid in the United States these days—since grown-ups can’t seem to figure out gun control laws strong enough to help prevent these attacks—I’ve had to endure countless active-shooter drills to practice what to do if some lunatic showed up at my school with a souped-up rifle and duffle bag crammed with ammo.

  Even so, coming face to face with a gun? Aimed specifically at me? That’s another thing entirely. I about peed my pants.

  Thunder moaned. The dog bayed like a wild wolf. Lightning flash-banged.

  Then pitch-black darkness.

  “Who’s there?” the figure shouted again. “Come out where I can see you.” Then it fired a shot.

  I didn’t wait to learn if that bullet went into the air simply as a warning. I flipped and started swimming along the pine needles, just as the storm-cloud dam broke, pelting me hard with gushes of rain.

  Crack-crack-crack-BANG. The world lit up.

  “Dios mío! It’s a kid. Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the voice called. “Stop!”

  Are you kidding? I was getting the H-E-double hockey sticks out of there.

  I heard feet running toward me. Barking. Dog teeth grabbed my pants and tugged backward. I flailed, sobbing. “Leave me alone!” A hand grabbed my arm. Suddenly I was jerked to my feet and dragged—kicking, shrieking, cursing—into the cabin.

  The screen door slammed shut, and I faced the occupant, sure that my time on this earth was up.

  The figure reached out and flipped the first switch it could reach—the outside porch light. Silhouetted in that beam was a small thin woman dressed in jeans and a camouflage jacket, her straight dark hair caught up in a long ponytail, hoop earrings catching the light. Backlit like that, I couldn’t see her face. But what I was mostly looking at, of course, was the pistol she held.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” I spluttered. “I was just following the dog and the rain started and I saw your cabin and . . . and . . . Please don’t shoot me.”

  The woman held up her hands in that universal sign of don’t-worry-I-won’t-hurt-you as she said, “I am so sorry. I was asleep and the storm woke me, and I thought . . . I thought . . .” She shook her head slightly. “I am so sorry to scare you. It’s okay now.” She started to lean over, and I backpedaled like a crab.

  “No, no, it’s okay. I promise.” The woman put the gun on the floor and stepped away from it. Keeping her hands up, she inched toward a table lamp. She switched it on. “I’m Sergeant Josephina Martínez.” She smiled. “Call me Josie. You’re safe here. Let me get you a towel. You’re soaked. And then we should see about getting your dog to come inside out of the storm.” She nodded toward the clearing.

  Having betrayed me by chomping down on my pants and helping this woman nab me, that dog was now sitting, all innocent and pitiful, in the downpour. I refused to feel sorry for him, though, because at that moment I wasn’t completely sure if I was going to be shot or not. “He’s not mine,” I snapped, keeping my eye on that pistol.

  Sergeant Josie looked at me quizzically but refrained from saying, “Then what the heck are you doing up here in a storm?”

  She went into the bathroom and came back with a towel. I was shivering pretty badly by then so I snatched it and wrapped myself. I eyeballed her as she studied me.

  This Sergeant Josie was nothing that I would have expected to find in a backwoods cabin. She was thirty-something, wiry, and looked like a total badass, Avenger-style action hero.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

  Sergeant Josie laughed. It was kind of a stupid question. I was the wacko out in a tornado-strong storm, after all. But she answered. “I needed some time in mountains . . . green mountains . . . peaceful mountains . . . to . . . to . . . I just needed some time.” She shrugged. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”

  Because she’d laughed—usually my insolent tone brought a pretty self-righteous reprimand from adults—I answered without thinking about the fact that telling her my name was violating all childhood rules of not speaking to strangers. “Ariel.”

  “Really?” Sergeant Josie poked out her lower lip and nodded. “Ariel—spirit of the air.” Thunder interrupted her, rolling and rattling the roof. The lights flickered. She paused, listening, before adding, “And of storms. Seems fitting.”

  I frowned. “Where do you get that from?”

  “I
’ve been doing a lot of reading up here.” Sergeant Josie pointed to a waist-high stack of books piled against the wall. “I got that PBS Great American Read list and the BBC’s Top One Hundred Books to Read Before You Die. Figured I’d homeschool myself a bit, since I skipped college to join the army. I just finished Shakespeare’s The Tempest. There’s a mysterious spirit in it that serves a sorcerer named Prospero, and she or he—it’s hard to tell which—can gather winds and stir up terrible storms at the sorcerer’s bidding and ride on ‘curl’d clouds.’ So if your parents named you for that play, that’d be tight.”

  I’d just read Romeo and Juliet in English class. I didn’t know The Tempest. Well, the title figured. But my naming didn’t have anything to do with poetry or magic or even me, really. “Mama named me Ariel because my big sister’s favorite movie was Little Mermaid,” I answered.

  “Really?” Sergeant Josie made a face. “You mean the girl who gives up her voice to get a guy?” She made an even bigger what-the-heck face. She thought a moment. “I’m going to think of you as Prospero’s Ariel instead. Pretty cool to have a name that’s for a spirit who can ride the winds, don’t you think?” She smiled reassuringly. “Now, we really should get that dog inside. I’m worried about lighting strikes. You know that lightning can hit ground and the current can travel right to where a person or dog is standing and kill them, right? That’s why you go inside.”

  She leaned over so I could see her face up close and judge the sincerity of her words. “That dog did help me drag you in out of the storm. He’s smart. And protective. You owe him, I think.” She held out her hand to help me up.

  I took it, ignoring all my misgivings. After all, with Sergeant Josie I wasn’t a cartoon character, a titillating bit of church-lady gossip, an embarrassment, or an ignored nothing. I was a wind spirit.