The Wind Harp

by BJ Hoff

  And then he heard it again. Louder this time. Finally he realized the sound wasn’t coming from the phonograph after all, but from outside. From the back of the house.

  He set the arm back in place and stood listening.

  Nothing but silence.

  After waiting another moment and hearing nothing, he started the music again and began to play.

  There it was again. An eerie, moaning sound…like howling.

  And it was closer this time.

  Jonathan stopped the music and put the flute down on the chair. In spite of the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon, an icy finger touched his spine. It wasn’t unheard of for a coyote or even a wolf to wander in from the hills looking for food, although they usually showed up only at night.

  He went to look out the side window of the living room, but seeing nothing, he started down the hall toward the kitchen. He had no more than stepped inside the room when something hit the door, followed by a blood-chilling howl.

  Jonathan stopped dead. He didn’t keep a gun and had no means of protection in the house. Whatever was out there sounded huge and vicious.

  The back door was solid. It had no glass in it so he couldn’t see out. And he couldn’t see the porch from the window at the sink.

  The next howl was more demanding—and again accompanied by a thump against the back door.

  He was safe, of course, so long as he stayed inside. No coyote or wolf was going to beat the door down and come crashing into the room. He would simply wait until whatever it was gave up and went away.

  Sooner than later, he hoped.

  He couldn’t stop himself from going over to the door and putting his ear against it. The exact instant he did, the creature, whatever it was, hit the door hard.

  And then it barked. And barked again. A loud bass, commanding bark that seemed intent on evoking some sort of response.

  So it wasn’t a coyote or a wolf. It was a dog.

  Jonathan might have been relieved had the bark not sounded like that of a very large dog.

  Unexpectedly the barking stopped, giving way to a series of whimpers and wails. Heartbreaking sounds. Sounds guaranteed to gain attention, perhaps even to open doors.

  Jonathan looked around. He spied a stew kettle he’d washed and dried the night before but hadn’t put away. He tested it for weight and sturdiness. Then, with weapon in hand, he went back to the door.

  He hesitated, but the creature was still whimpering pathetically and so after a long, steadying breath, Jonathan cracked the door open ever so slightly to peek out.

  The creature hit him full on, knocking him off balance and toppling him onto his backside as it shoved its way through the door. The next thing Jonathan knew he was eyeball-to-eyeball with a bedraggled beast lapping at his face with a tongue that had to be at least a foot long. A solid, pewter-gray boulder had settled itself on his chest and was holding him down with one enormous paw that looked to be the size of a dinner plate.

  The creature was a demon in a bristly coat, a slobbering one at that—and it smelled as if it had just spent the last six months hiding at the bottom of a privy.

  Jonathan squawked and shoved, trying to roll away. “Ugh! Get… off…me!”

  Again he shoved as hard as he could, and this time he managed to dislodge the ugly beast. He scrambled to his feet before it could flatten him again and bent to pick up the stew kettle he’d dropped upon collision. He had never hit an animal before and hoped he wouldn’t have to start now, but just in case…

  With the cooking pot firmly in hand, he stood, poised, taking the dog’s measure. It wasn’t quite the size of a calf, but it didn’t miss it by much. The gray, somewhat wavy coat was spotted in several places with dried mud and tangled with burrs. It had a fairly long muzzle and small ears—one ear pricked up, the other loppy, giving it a roguish appearance. Open-mouthed with that over-sized tongue in full display, it looked eager to renew its assault on Jonathan’s face.

  “I have news for you, you filthy beast. You’re the one who needs a bath. You are one dirty dog.”

  It cocked its head and grinned at him.

  There was no sign of a chain or collar, and upon closer inspection, Jonathan could see that in spite of its hefty frame, its ribs were visible.

  It tilted its head a little more, its expression unmistakably expectant.

  “Yes, I can see that you need a good meal. But the kitchen’s closed for the day. I’m afraid you’ll have to go catch yourself a pig or something. Much as I hate to tell you this, your visit is over.”

  Jonathan opened the door wide and waited. His unwelcome visitor merely sat and stared at him. This might not be easy, Jonathan decided. “Look—when I said I wanted a dog, I meant something…dog-sized. You’re not exactly what I had in mind.”

  It whimpered. It lowered its head with a woeful look and actually whimpered.

  “Now, listen to me! You can’t stay here, and that’s all there is to it.”

  The great head came up, and for the first time Jonathan saw that the beast had a look of intelligence about it. In fact, there was something…knowing in those dark eyes. Something that appeared ancient and almost wise.

  It was watching him carefully, closely.

  “No! Absolutely not.”

  It would almost certainly eat enough for two normal-sized dogs. Worse yet, he had been around dogs enough to suspect that this one wasn’t even fully grown as yet. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but something about the uneven consistency of the coat, the one loppy ear, and the overall frisky look to the creature shouted puppy.

  Slowly, the dog brought its front legs closer together, then crossed its feet, one over the other. The head lifted, and the tongue disappeared. And suddenly it looked noble. Proud. Mature.

  Trying to ignore the stench, Jonthan moved a little closer to study it better. The dog got to its feet. Jonathan ran a hand over its back, and the creature trembled. He dropped his hand to its side, and after the slightest hesitation, the dog leaned into him slightly, as if seeking closeness, and began to nuzzle his fingers.

  Jonathan dropped to his heels, continuing to stroke the animal—his head, his back. The dog met his gaze straight on, never wavering.

  Unusual, that. Most dogs would have glanced away after a few seconds.

  He straightened. “I can’t possibly keep you. You’re a horse masquerading as a dog. You’re just too…big.”

  The dog stared at Jonathan. Slowly, it started toward the open door. It looked back once, its expression sorrowful. Disappointed, even disillusioned. Then it headed toward the door again.

  Until Jonathan said “Wait.”

  The late afternoon found Jonathan on his knees in the kitchen. It was too chilly outdoors for giving a dog a bath. Or was the dog giving him a bath? By the time he finished, they both had a proper washing.

  “Don’t shake,” he warned the animal as he reached for both towels he’d set aside. “Just stand there. No! I said don’t—”

  The dog shook. Hard and happily. Vigorously, in fact. Jonathan looked down over himself, his soaked shirt and splattered trousers. In that split second, the dog yanked the towel out of his hands and went running across the kitchen with it. The large pup made a dash for the upstairs. Up he went, Jonathan right behind him.

  They made two full circles of the house, first and second floors, before Jonathan was able to grab a handful of snout and throw the towel over his eyes to slow him down.

  He finished drying him in the kitchen and removed the remaining burrs he’d missed on the first try. With the dog curiously looking on, he emptied the washtub off the side of the back porch and turned it over to dry out.

  When he came back inside, his damp visitor was resting his head on the counter beside the sink, greedily munching on the last apple in the fruit bowl.

  “Dogs don’t eat apples, you numbskull.”

  While the dog devoured the rest of the apple, including the core, Jonathan fried up three eggs and a handful of sausage, du
mping the mix into an old piece of stoneware. As he placed the bowl on the rag rug in front of the sink, the four-legged giant looked up at him with something akin to a swoon before setting about noisily devouring the entire serving in three or four gulps.

  Watching him, Jonathan decided that the bath and thorough brushing had worked a wonder. The beast was almost handsome. Almost.

  With his tail wagging furiously in a circle, the animal came to lie as close to Jonathan as he could manage. Jonathan knelt down to rub the dog’s head, and immediately the ornery creature kicked over on his back for a belly-rub.

  “Where did you come from, I wonder? Not from around here, I’m thinking.” The dog sighed. Jonathan kept on rubbing. “From the looks of you, you’ve been on the road for a while, haven’t you? Most likely for a long time.”

  The dog rolled to his side and began to nibble—lightly—at Jonathan’s fingers.

  Now Jonathan sighed. It seemed that instead of finding himself a dog, a dog had found him.

  “Well,” he said, rescuing his fingers, “looks like you’re home now.”

  Later, he dug an old quilt out of the storage trunk and fashioned it into a snug bed beside his own. Just before he fell asleep, Jonathan leaned over for another look at his new friend. The dog looked back at him with a grin, obviously pleased with himself and life in general.

  Figaro, Jonathan decided. “Your name is Figaro.”

  Beside him, the dog made a low sound of approval in his throat, turned over, and began to snore.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Figaro Goes to School

  No one appreciates the very special genius

  Of your conversation as the dog does.

  Christopher Morley

  Maggie nursed her hurt feelings alone all week. She couldn’t bring herself to tell even her sister about seeing Jonathan and Carolyn together. For the most part, she thought she did a credible job of acting normal.

  So as not to arouse Evie’s curiosity, she agreed to let her style her hair, putting it in a twist one day, a top knot another, and once a sleek chignon, which stayed put a whole hour before escaping and falling apart.

  She noticed Jonathan looking at her with a questioning expression more than once. But naturally he didn’t ask what was going on, and she didn’t offer an explanation.

  No doubt if Carolyn had changed her hairstyle more than once in the same week, he would have had something to say about it.

  He had taken her aside once or twice to tell her about his new dog. Maggie was genuinely glad for him; she couldn’t help but delight in his obvious excitement. He was like a schoolboy in his enthusiasm every time he mentioned Figaro. She wished she could share more in his happiness, but she kept her distance as much as possible now, talking to him only when a school-related matter required it.

  She actually thought she’d seen a hint of disappointment in his eyes once or twice when she’d avoided him, but that wasn’t likely. Probably just wishful thinking on her part.

  When Friday came around, though, she finally did get to meet the dog that was responsible for his high spirits. And five minutes with Figaro was all it took to win her over.

  Jonathan decided it was time for Figaro to go to school.

  He hated leaving him alone every day. The dog carried on like a spoiled toddler every time Jonathan left the house without him. For four straight days now he’d come home to find evidence of yet another bout of mischief: an overturned lamp in the living room; a plundered garbage receptacle in the kitchen; a pair of curtains yanked from the rod, their ruffles shredded; and—the dog’s favorite annoyance—newspapers strewn from one end of the house to the other.

  There was also the fact that he had to leave school every noon hour to rush home and let Figaro out to do his business. It had taken only a day or two for the dog to pick up on the routine; indeed, he mastered it so quickly that Jonathan suspected he’d had previous training.

  While he had yet to have an accident in the house, Figaro could hardly be expected to control himself for the entire day. The solution was simply to take the dog to school, and Jonathan didn’t really see a problem with doing just that. Figaro could be a terror when left alone; he was still as rambunctious as most pups, even when Jonathan was with him to curtail his mischief. But when he sensed that his master meant business, he toed the mark surprisingly well.

  Besides, there might just be a side benefit to having him on the school grounds: If someone should be up to no good, they were likely to think twice before going up against something the size of Figaro, who could look—and sound—dangerously fierce when it pleased his fancy.

  Jonathan wasn’t sure what the school board might say about a dog on the premises, but since Ben Wallace—his closest friend—was the board president, he thought he could talk himself out of trouble if it came to that.

  So on Friday morning, with Figaro perched proudly on the seat next to him, he drove away from the house. Having his dog at his side gave him the brightest morning he’d had all week.

  Maggie’s behavior continued to trouble him on a daily basis. She’d been polite, but definitely chilly all week. Jonathan sensed that she was deliberately avoiding him, keeping her distance except for the times when she found it necessary to bring something to his attention. Even then, she was patently obvious in her rush to get away.

  He felt he’d somehow offended her. He still hadn’t been able to forget the way she’d looked at him last Sunday when he and Carolyn had passed by in the buggy. If he thought for a moment that might be the cause of her strange behavior, he would try to explain the incident. But if he were wrong—well, then she’d really be offended by his presumption.

  “And what on earth is going on with her hair?”

  Figaro looked at him and gave a small chuff in reply.

  Jonathan had fallen into the habit of talking to the dog as if he expected an answer. He sighed. Another sign that he spent too much time alone.

  As for Maggie’s hair, he couldn’t imagine why she’d want to change it. He loved it just as it was: its fullness, its deep, fiery color. He found it fascinating in all its untamed glory.

  He pulled up in back of the schoolhouse as he always did, in hopes of not causing too much of a stir when the children got their first look at Figaro. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough to stop the mischievous dog from leaping from the buggy and plowing around the side of the building at top speed, dragging his leash behind him.

  The dog had seen the children on the way in—and they had seen him.

  By the time Jonathan made it around to the front, Figaro had also seen Maggie. Standing on his hind legs, he had her pinned against the front of the building, one big paw on each shoulder, flashing his widest grin as the children looked on, pointing and laughing.

  “Figaro! Down!”

  The dog turned to look at him, then back to Maggie, who was, Jonathan saw with relief, laughing.

  “I said down!” Jonathan ordered.

  Again the big hound looked his way—and again chose Maggie over obedience to his master.

  Master? What a joke!

  “I’m sorry, Maggie!” Jonathan hurried over to her and hauled Figaro down by his collar. “Figaro—sit!”

  He grabbed the leash and turned back to Maggie. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Goodness, no!” she said, still laughing. “What a big ox he is! But he’s so cute!”

  Jonathan looked at his dog. Cute? Figaro had finally dropped to his haunches and sat, tongue lolling, eyes bright, watching Maggie adoringly. “Cute” might pertain to a beagle or a kitten. Definitely not to an escapee from the Black Forest.

  Maggie was watching Figaro with a wide smile, and the dog did his best to escape Jonathan’s firm hold on the leash by scooting toward her, an inch at a time.

  “I see you, you big lummox. Now behave!” Jonathan demanded, giving the leash a tug.

  By this time they were surrounded by children, and, finding himself the center of attention, Figaro could no lon
ger bear to sit quietly, not even with Maggie as an incentive. With a pitiful whimper, he strained at the leash.

  Jonathan thought for a moment and decided to let him get acquainted with the children. Unsnapping the leash, he stood watching as every child in the schoolyard went charging after the great hound, squealing and shouting. Figaro ran in circles, leaped in the air, reversed himself, and led them all on a wild chase down to the gate.

  Both dog and followers seemed to have completely lost their wits as they ran and tumbled and hopped and screeched.

  “Jonathan—look,” Maggie said, her voice low.

  His gaze traveled the direction of hers…to Huey Lazlo standing off by himself near the gate. The boy had caught Figaro’s attention. The two now squared off, eyeing each other, one taking the other’s measure. They scarcely moved for a few seconds more until Figaro made a playful lunge at the boy, and then another. Huey chuckled. That was all the encouragement the dog needed. He charged him, butting him to the ground.

  Jonathan started to move, but Maggie put a restraining hand to his arm. “Wait,” she said.

  Figaro was giving the boy the same kind of eager face washing he’d inflicted on Jonathan the day of his arrival.

  And Huey was laughing! Giggling, actually. On his back, his feet pedaling in the air, while Figaro nuzzled and lapped his face.

  Until this moment, Jonathan didn’t think he had ever seen Huey smile. Now a great explosion of laughter was bubbling up from the boy, and it was one of the sweetest sounds he had heard in all his years of teaching.

  Dear Lord, that clown of a dog doesn’t look remotely like a divine messenger, but I’m beginning to believe he just might have been heaven-sent.

  When he turned to look at Maggie, there were tears in her eyes.

  “I love your dog, Jonathan,” she said, her eyes locking with his. The hitch in her voice sounded throatier than usual as she repeated herself. “I really do love that dog.”