The song of the Wolf
It was a hot day in late July when I first met her standing alongside the mean streets of Cobden. She wasn’t one I’d expect to see out here, given that there hasn’t been a main road in or out of the tiny town in years. A few cars hiss by, maybe three or four in the last hour. Surrounded by deep woods, this tiny Eden, nestled snugly into the hills of Little Egypt. Crime was unheard of here, and the few humans that called it home were pleasant, hard working, and most importantly, open minded. Of course, they had to be, with the odd assortment of hippies, Wehrkind, and Therians wandering around. But there she was…two lanes of oil-chip road between me and her. Her long neck and graceful curves spoke of a long past beauty. I knew I’d never have another chance…
As I crossed the road toward her, everything around us stopped, it was just me and her. I slipped the cord from around my neck, sliding the fractured piece of black taurine into the pocket of my cloak. I tried to speak, but no sound would come out. My mind raced, how would she react to me? Would she accept being held to my furry body? Or would she recoil in fear, thinking I could only cause her pain….
Now I was close enough to see every tiny detail. She had once bore the name “Gretsch", but that had chipped away decades ago. She had been modified, her upper three strings doubled, making this old resonator guitar a 9 string, great for some dark delta-style blues. At one time, she had been beyond beautiful, a true goddess among others, now most of her once highly polished black lacquer chipped away, leaving little more than bare wood exposed. One string had snapped and was hanging limply from her bridge. “Oo and me both, dearest,” I said, my mind whirling to the halcyon days of my youth and sitting cross-legged on the floor, my eyes unable to look away from the fingers dancing along the frets of an old Yamaha acoustic guitar, entranced by the dulcet tones of country blues.
I sat on the bench and looked off into the treeline several blocks away, knowing full well that the owner of this guitar would show up at any moment, scowling and angry that I would dare even think of touching her. But I had to. This very moment had been created just for me and her.
As I was growing up, the old man who played for me had shown me a few chords and how to use the claws on my right paw as fingerpicks, how to press my left palm into the back of the neck and use the finger pads to press the strings. I guess it’s different playing guitar when you have dewclaws instead of thumbs… He had let me spend countless hours making noise on his guitar while he sipped from a bottle of whiskey and puffed away on Supre Sweet little cigars. He never learned to read music, but that never stopped him from enjoying himself. “’Ere, fuzzass. Lemme give that gitbox a whirl,” he had said, speech slurred and gruff from the cheap liquor. That moment my life changed as he plucked slowly along the strings, the glass bottle in his hand sliding along the strings. I had never heard such a haunting tone, the strings ringing and crying some story of sadness, of troubled moments, of a life that makes one weary and old before their time. “Well, think you can do that? If ya caint now, ya will. Ya know yer in a human and animal world, but ya ain’t zactlin animal, and ya sure as hell ain’t human.” The words slammed into my youngling body, and I realized my face was wet. Until this moment, I didn’t even know I could cry, but I found out I could. He handed the guitar and the whiskey bottle to me. I started to copy what he had done, and even though I was certainly no musician, I knew this was even worse somehow than my usual noise!
“Take ya a drink, fuzzass! Gotta have that crap in ya before it works. It’s a potion, bud. Pow’rful, ya ain’t need much ta make the dead walk, the mute talk, and take away yer sight and legs. Careful now!” He laughed as I spat the horrible stuff out. What do humans see in this? It tastes like an oak tree and the way a hospital smells! “Try’er again, yer month’s numb now. Ya’ll know it’s workin’ when ya feel a fire in yer belly. That’s it. No more, little guy, yer momma’ll have my ass on a platter!”
Suddenly, I felt very warm, feverish. My stomach churned, and I fought not to vomit. The old man gave me a few sips of his ever-present glass of iced tea, and I felt a bit better. For some reason, I felt like I couldn’t even lift my ears, or open my eyes all the way. My arms and legs felt rubbery, and everything smelled like the stuff people use to clean wounds. I slid the bottle along the guitar’s shiny strings and plucked at the strings. The old man leaned back in his chair and smirked as he lit another little cigar. “Well I’ll be damned, there’s music inside you, fuzzass!”
I had neither liquor, bottle, nor the old man here now, though. I slid the ancient Gretsch onto my leg, and plucked across the 8 intact strings. Close enough for my uncultured ears! I started to play, just random notes and chords and she responded with a warm mellow tone. A few common blues riffs here and there, nothing amazing, maybe not even anything good. It didn’t matter, this was my moment, my song, my blues. As I plucked, slapped, and strummed my way through nothing that has a name, both myself and the old guitar faded away just as the rest of the world did. There was only music.
I don’t know how long I sat there, picking out whatever felt like being played. A sudden popping noise snapped me back to reality, and I noticed for the first time the small crowd that had gathered. “Wull ell be dammed, thurs moosic inside ya, fuzzass,” I whispered as I settled into a delta bluesy version of Crawlin' Kingsnake. I scanned around the ten or so people listening, some were smiling, some had tears in their eyes, and one in particular looked as though he wasn’t even part of this world.
As I plucked out the last notes of the song, a thin middle aged man approached. Every feature of his face showed something like being amused. He sat on the other end of the bench and smiled at me. “Ah….sorry. I not mean to take….” I started, but got cut off.
“You play pretty well, especially for banging around on a beat up old guitar that we were throwing away! Been trying to sell it for months, no one even gives it a second look. We’re a junk shop, not a music store,” he said with a small laugh.
“I not could help. I never got to play a resonator before. Or a nine string." I replied, now looking at my feet.
“Well, if you didn’t just sell it for us, I think I can find a little area to keep it safe. Anytime you want to play, just stop on in. Heck, we might even chip in a few dollars and get it restrung!”
“She would like. She had a hard life, but still lots left, too! I not get to play much now. And crowd makes more hard…,” I trailed off.
“In that case…err..I didn’t catch your name, friend!”
“Tem. In that case?” I asked.
“In that case…? That’s a strange name! Oh! Hell, listen to me losing my mind… I guess it’s not every day a 6 foot tall wolf plays Mississippi blues in front of your business, huh? In that case, we can set you up a little place in our basement, just so you can sit and play. Of course, you know people are going to want to listen.”
“Maybe I can handle. The way I want, though,” I said thoughtfully.
A few days passed, and I had to see her again. I made my way into town, and went to the little second-hand store. The middle aged man I now knew as Keith, lead me to the basement. “Anything you can use down here, feel free. Anything you want out of the way, just let us know! Oh, and please try to play loud enough we can hear you upstairs!” he laughed. Soon enough I found an old wood folding chair, and a small tea table. I took these off to the only area along one wall that wasn’t stacked up with items that might not have been good enough for the store upstairs. I sat and played for a couple of hours, vaguely aware of people coming and going, could it be that my fingerpicking blues brought them down here? Was I on display? AM I A WAY FOR THIS PLACE TO GET MORE CUSTOMERS?! I sat her gently on my chair and went to find Keith.
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“Oh, lord no, Tem, I may be a businessman, but that’d be like inviting you in so we could take turns slapping you in the face! Come back around in a few weeks, we’ll make this better, promise!” I wasn’t sure, but somehow felt he was telling me the truth.
A few weeks passed, and I had to know how Keith was going to ‘make it better’, in his words. The first thing I noticed when entering the store, however, was a lack of Keith. The younger lady who often worked the counter told me he was out sick that day, but started to lead me toward the basement anyway. The first thing I noticed was a door had been installed, and it could be locked. Well, at least it’s something. The basement was completely different, it was cleaned out, a decent size riser had be built, and the lighting was very dim. The vintage Gretsch had been restrung, and now boasted an electric pickup. The was a dingy and tattered Marshall tube amp humming quietly to itself, and a thick black cord ran from the amp to the guitar. My wood chair was still there, but the tea table had been replaced with a nicer side table. An ashtray sat on the table, along with an empty whiskey bottle and an envelope. I cocked my head in curiosity, as I opened the envelope. The lady was grinning excitedly at me, and urged me to read the note.
“Uh…I not read so good… will try,” I sighed. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t read much past my name on the paper. If only these people would write like a Wolven!
“Here, let me,” she said after a few minutes.
“Tem,
I hope this makes it better for you! The amp is wired into the speakers upstairs, as well as the one on your new stage. We cleaned the whole place up, and added the empty bottle and ashtray for a little bluesy ambiance. The lights have been dimmed, and we added a switch next to the amp so you can turn off the lights nearest the stage. Even if someone does come down here now, you’ll be entirely in shadows, you’ll see them, though! Most importantly, when you lock the door we had installed, they won’t have any way to intrude. Maria will help you make sure everything is to your liking, if there’s any changes you want made, or anything at all, just ask her.
-Keith”
“Who is Maria?” I asked.
“Me.”
“Oh. Tem. Nice to meet you. Need one candle, box matches. And glass. For little drinks.” I said. Maria’s excited expression had relaxed to one of satisfied pleasure.
“The way you speak amuses me, Tem. I like it. Any particular color or type of candle? I’m thinking maybe one in a jar. Oh! And what scent? Soy wax, beeswax, paraffin?” Her eyes sparkled in the dim light.
“A candle. Wax. Wick. Maybe jar. No labels.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, one bright pink banana daiquiri scented jar candle it is! Or you can come to my booth and pick one out for yourself,” she giggled.
“Is okay. I not picky. Any will do, it just needs to light and stay lit. And I not think any scent will matter over the damp smell here,” thinking that I’d start calling Maria ‘The Crazy Candle Lady’..
“Do you want us to get better airflow down here? Or maybe we should call a contractor, try to have it stopped at the source…” she trailed off.
“No. It fits, good scent to make blues to. Everything is perfect, except there is no candle, no matches, and no glass for little drinks.”
“OK. Uh, what do you mean by ‘little drinks’? Highball? Shot? Anything smaller than a beer mug?” It almost seemed like she was being obtuse on purpose, but she did have a point. If she asked this many questions about the matches, I would scream!
“Please. Just.” I was weary of her, and wanted to be alone in my surroundings for a bit. Keith had done this out of love for music, a love that I could appreciate, that I shared. She must have sensed this, as she turned and walked up the steps without another word. This is nice. Maybe I could live with the occasional person or two coming to listen. I looked at the riser, the chair, every detail of it. The riser was built out of some old shipping pallets, and had plenty of room for a lone Wolven to get lost into his own world on. Eventually, I sat and started to play. The new strings were stiff and needed to relax a bit. The old strings, rusted and tired, had undoubtedly played hundreds, maybe thousands of songs. They had a certain soul of their own, and now I get to infuse my soul into the nine strings. With luck, they’ll eventually bemoan their own tale into someone’s music, and that someone will know these strings were played with love and peacefulness. Almost as though I had gone back in time, to that day of my first drink of whiskey, the first time I had wept, the first time I had made more than just noise, my paw gripped the empty whiskey bottle and slid it along the strings. The amp had a big, open, and warm tone, and crunched just enough to give the old resonator’s sound a raw edge. I slid my way through a bluesy sounding country riff, the first thing the old man had taught me and played from my heart after a few bars of it. Upstairs, everyone stood silently listening, and a few more people filtered in from outside.
I didn’t notice Maria slip back in with a candle in a jar, her light it, or even when she poured a shot of whiskey into a highball glass and set it on the table next to me. She must have left without a word. I stopped playing for a minute, surprised that things had changed. My stage was lit only by the candle, and a few people were staring toward me. The candlelight glinted off the resonator plate, new strings, and chrome tuning pegs. For a split second, I could smell the smoke from a Supre Sweet little cigar, and I knew this was home. I downed the shot of whiskey, and stood.
“Thank oo. I come back another day, oo too!”
