Aurendel - Strays

The next morning Jack was up before the wolf. When it joined him for breakfast, he kindly refrained from further lecturing it about its foolhardy escapades of the last two nights. Jack considered himself the soul of magnanimity for not having pointed out to the wolf how close it'd come to getting shot by Elzey Lukens Thursday night. She had a reputation for killing dogs that had the temerity to mess with her poultry. When she pointed that Winchester, any sensible critter scrammed post-haste. Jack hoped that the wolf had enough of excitement, at least until it was safely back where it belonged. Then it wouldn't be any worry of Jack's, would it?

They spent a good deal of the day quietly going over the changes Jack had made to his manuscript following the wolf's suggestions. At last Jack printed out a final clean copy and boxed it up to take into town to the post office. He left the wolf at home with strict orders to stay out of trouble. The wolf's "me, trouble?" reaction did little to reassure Jack. However, he got the packaged manuscript safely in the mail, then stopped by Kate's animal clinic, only to discover that she'd left for the day, gone out to lunch with a girlfriend.

When Jack returned home, he called his editor, who was torn between relief and sarcasm when Jack informed him the book was in the mail. Next, Jack left a message on Kate's answering machine, asking her to come over for dinner. As he hung up the phone in his study, through the open door he saw the wolf emerge from the guest room, yawning. Seeing Jack at his desk, the wolf smiled crookedly and said, "I guess I'm still not used to keeping daylight hours." Then it asked, "Were you calling Kate?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, last night she said she'd probably stop by this evening to find out how the hunt went."

Jack hmmph'd. "Speaking of which," he said, giving the wolf his best severe look, "why the devil did you follow her home?"

"Well," it whined, "since I was going out anyway, to bait you and those others, I thought I might as well escort her home. That is the polite thing to do, isn't it?"

"Quit hedging. You scared her half to death."

"I didn't mean to. I didn't expect her to be so scared! I didn't do anything, really."

Jack glared at the wolf. "Just mind your own business. If Kate needs escorting, I'll do it."

Jack thought he heard the wolf growl softly, but wasn't sure, so he let it ride. As it headed toward the living room, it seemed to be singing under its breath, something disturbingly to the effect of: "Shepherdess makes quite a mess, but Kate Sheppard is lovely."

It was about sixish when Jack noticed the wolf staring intently out the front window. Jack had been in the kitchen, and had come into the living room to watch some news. Instead of turning on the tv, he went to the window to see what the wolf was watching with such interest.

Kate was walking toward the house, the sun behind her haloing her honey-colored hair. She was wearing a pair of fairly brief white shorts that set off her long tanned legs, with a vividly melon-colored sleeveless knit top, and carrying a guitar case. Jack looked at Kate's legs. Then he looked at the wolf. It was practically drooling. Thoroughly disgusted, Jack strode to the door to greet Kate first.

"‘Evenin' Kate. Come in."

"Hello, Jack. How did it go last night?"

"Sit down and I'll tell you. Something to drink?"

Kate requested a beer and a sat down on the ottoman, setting the instrument case on the floor beside her. Then she looked at the wolf and smiled. "How's the ankle, Harold?"

"What? Oh, fine, fine." The wolf seemed a bit dazzled. It sniffed deeply.

"Do I still smell like the beach?" Kate asked.

"If that's what that is," the wolf replied.

Jack handed Kate her beer and took a sip of his own. "Workin' on your tan this afternoon?"

"Yes, Crystal and I went after lunch. I had a good swim, too." Then she turned to the wolf. "Have you been to a beach anywhere?"

It shook its head.

"Well, then you'll have to go before you leave."

Jack didn't think that would be a good idea, but forbore comment. The mental picture of the wolf in swim trunks, with its tail hanging out, made him have to clear his throat to cover a chuckle. Instead, he asked, "What's with the guitar?"

"Oh," she said, "last night Harold asked about it." She seemed reluctant to comment further.

The wolf started to get up from the sofa, suggesting that she get her guitar out and play, but she put it off until after dinner, saying she wanted to hear about the hunt.

While dinner was cooking, Jack described the events of the previous evening, not including their sequel, of course. Just let Kate think, like everyone else, that the wolf was in the gator's belly. Even though she'd been frightened by it, she still expressed sympathy for its presumed fate.

Jack wasn't much of a cook, as the wolf didn't hesitate to point out frequently, but he could throw a pork roast and a few sweet potatoes into the oven about as well as anybody. And he did make a pretty good batch of corn bread, if he did say so himself. Certainly no one else was going to say so. Over dinner the wolf and Kate were much too busy talking about music and folklore and nonsense like that to bother complimenting the cook.

While they were at the table, a brief storm swept through, so after dinner they decided to go out on the back porch to enjoy the bit of cooler, fresher air the storm had left in its wake. Jack brought his pipe from the mantel in the living room. He usually only smoked it either in cool weather or on the deck of a boat, but this evening he felt the need for the pipe's calming influence. He turned on the ceiling fan to blow away the smoke so Kate wouldn't complain, then sat down on a chair, fussing with the business of filling and lighting his pipe. Preoccupied, he scarcely noticed Kate and the wolf until Kate began tuning her guitar. Then Jack sat up to watch narrowly, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe.

The wolf's nostrils flared at the smell of the tobacco smoke, but its attention was focused on Kate and her guitar. It nodded as she adjusted the tuning knobs to her satisfaction. She stared at her hands as she strummed a few random chords, then looked up at the wolf questioningly. It smiled encouragingly and said, "Go on. Play something."

Kate swallowed hard; then, her brow furrowed with concentration, she began "Stairway to Heaven," under tempo, with errors, and not singing. She'd got through two verses when Harold held up his hand and quietly said, "Stop."

She looked up, surprised and a little embarrassed. "It's been a long time since I've played," she said apologetically.

"Do you have this on tape here?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Go put it on, and leave the door open so we can hear it."

She got up and complied, wondering.

When she got back, Harold told her, "Now, play with the tape."

She did. This was easier for her, not having to remember, just to follow. He let her get through the whole thing, then went and stopped the tape. When he came back he was carrying the lyrics sheet from inside the cassette cover.

"Now, again. This time with the words," he demanded.

"But..." Kate began to protest.

This time as she played and sang, Harold stopped her frequently, instructing her to play this or that chord or phrase, repeat this, and so forth. He gave her an exhaustive music lesson, going into the phrasing and dynamics and technique. He was very patient with her ineptitude, and showed her alternate fingerings for places she had trouble with. She was increasingly impressed with his knowledge of music and his teaching ability. They spent a good hour on the silly tune, and Kate felt like she'd been put through a wringer by the time she got to the end of it. At last, with a relieved sigh, she thrust the guitar at him and announced, "Your turn."

He grinned mischievously as he took the guitar, and she wondered what he was up to now. Then he began to play the opening notes of "Stairway to Heaven" and she glared at him. Hadn't they had enough of the stupid thing? When he started singing, her breath caught in her throat. His singing voice was smooth and rich, with a heartwrenching catch in it. An Irish tenor, definitely. He played the first verse just like the recording, but in the second he began to add his own ornamentation and to vary the phrasing and dynamics. By the third verse he was altering the harmony, and by the fourth creating his own variations. For the final verse, he shifted into an eerily minor key, ending the phrase "To be a rock and not to roll" with a drawn-out howling "roooooooll" that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Then he finished with a return to the original. As he fell silent, he gave her one of those crooked grins that invariably gave her a bit of a flutter, while she gaped like an idiot, stunned by his display of virtuosity.

When she found her voice again, she stammered, "You said you'd play me one of your songs."

"So I did. Very well." He sat back and thought for a moment, then began retuning the guitar into a different key. "This is a very old song, not one I wrote. It's called The Gipsie's Warning.

Do not trust him gentle lady,
Tho' his voice be low and sweet,
Heed not him who kneels before you,
Gently Pleading at thy feet.
Now thy life is in its morning,
Cloud not this thy happy lot,
Listen to the gipsie's warning,
Gentle Lady trust him not.

Kate was bemused by his choice of songs. Was this confirmation of her guess at his background? Or was he warning her about himself? How odd.

Then he was retuning the guitar again, and saying, "You said this was your favorite?" And he launched into an intricate and soulful rendition of Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman? When he got to the lines:

You've got to breathe her, really taste her,
Till you can feel her in your blood.
And when you see your unborn children in her eyes...
You know you really love a woman.

He looked so intently into her eyes that she shivered and turned away. This was too much. She'd best be going home before it got too late.

Jack was thoroughly put out by the whole evening's contretemps. He might as well not have been present at all, so little notice the two had taken of him. He puffed his pipe sulkily through the music lesson. When the wolf played, Jack was forced to grudgingly admit to himself that it was a good musician. He took a certain amount of umbrage at the wolf's choice of songs, however. First the nonsensical song of some fool dreamer of a female buying a stairway to heaven, then a warning that obviously was an attempt to set Kate against Jack himself, and finally that ridiculous sentimental claptrap of a love song. It was all a lot of garbage, and Kate was far too sensible a girl to fall for it. Still, Jack felt enough was enough, and as the last chord died away he stood up, stretched, and announced that it was getting late.

Kate agreed. "I'd better be getting on home," she said, retrieving her instrument from the wolf and packing it up. "Must you?" it asked. She nodded, not making eye contact.

Jack abandoned his pipe and offered to walk Kate home. She accepted with absentminded thanks, and took his proffered arm, bidding the wolf good night quietly. It watched them leave.

The last hint of breeze had died down, and the night was still, the sky unclouded. The waning moon peeked through the canopy of treebranches at intervals, and Jack could glimpse stars now and then: Orion's belt, Sirius, the big and little dippers. From the distance came a whippoorwill's plaintive call. The two walked in silence to Kate's little house, arm in arm. As they stepped up onto her porch, Jack asked, "Shall I come in?" He gently caught her chin in his hand and searched her face as he waited for her answer. She nodded, and he followed her through the front door.