Seven

Seven shivered in the straw pile as she listened to the wind howling through the trees surrounding the barn. It was an eerie wailing like the sound of a soul being tortured. Or a wolf caught in a trap. 

A night hawk screeched, and another creature screamed briefly and shrilly. She curled up tighter in the dirty, flea-infested straw and wished she were allowed in the house.

The log house had lights in the windows glowing welcomingly and the smells of meat cooking in a pot with vegetables. She detected onions and turnips. The man had again forgotten to feed her. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten and just didn’t care. The longer she lived, the longer she felt that was the dismal truth.

Come morning, Seven mustered renewed courage to entertain the thought that this day would be better. The man would look into her eyes and see how good she was. How loving and obedient, if only given the chance.

The barn door opened and Seven put on her best face, that being one of big brown eyes and a wide grin, complete with a wagging tail, that she could not control.

***

Two months earlier, Seven had been just four months old. She had been in a cozy house, with a bed by the fire she’d shared with her six siblings. The house was of logs but had two stories. And the laughter of children. Though she was tiny and her eyes not fully seeing, she had felt the loving hands of the two children and heard their calming but excited voices…’Puppies! Oh father, can we keep them?’

Seven couldn’t recall what the man had said, only remembered that one by one her siblings were taken away and she was left with just her mom. The young boy child had named her Seven cuz she was the last of the litter. She didn’t ever know who her father was, though she had her suspicions. The younger girl child had played with her. Seven loved that human the best. Christine’s father had been the sheriff, a stern-faced young man with a fair heart, he was kind to all…much like dogs are.

***

Two weeks previously…

The small, white-washed church stood on a slight rise at the end of Main Street, that is, if one were amblin’ down the rutted, reddish, dusty road from the west.

The interior was pleasantly dark, though stiflingly hot. The air was scented with gardenia; two prodigious bouquets sat in clay pots by the open back and front doors so what little and welcome breezes wafted in would carry the sweet fragrance. The odor was cloyingly saccharine, though no one would pluck up the courage to say so.

Women fanned themselves with paper fans. Men used their hats. Murmurs spread through the congregation, as always, snippets threaded around:

“…don’t see why them windows be…”

“…it was better…open…”

“…They’re pretty though…”

The windows were indeed pretty. The holy trinity and Mary were depicted on them in jewel-toned shades of red, gold, green, and blue. The preacher had brought them with him all the way from Holyhead, England. The consensus amongst the devout Christians of Redtooth, Wyoming, was that windows should open. This opinion was kept on the down-low, for fear the preacher would turn that blood curdling wrath upon them. Children were of the belief the man could set your hair on fire; the spark shot from those frightenly intense eyes that smoldered with righteous wrath.

A monstrous shadow played along the wall behind the pulpit. All voices ceased; silence descended like a heavy woolen winter cloak. The shadow was tall and as angular as a praying mantis. As the priest stepped up to the pulpit, his features came into the reddish light thrown from the ruby robes of the Virgin Mary, as ominous as ever.

He stood 6 foot six. His face was a long horsey one, chock full of deep crevasses that had drawn the people to him just as a road map does. Here was a man of experience. A man from another world come to save them. A man such as Preacher Adrian emitted Godly power through his very eyeballs, the irises so pale a shade of forget-me-knot blue, they seemed to have been scorched by the light of God himself.

A few womenfolk sighed, the sounds so faint and fleeting, they may have been merely the fluttering of moth wings.

Preacher Adrian had their attention. He reveled in their adoration…and fear… for a minute as he scanned the congregation.

The pews were two thirds full. That was about seventy-five percent of the town he reckoned. His face took on a hard look, as if it had granite just underneath the craggy, sun-worn skin. I’ll have to do something about that.

The preacher’s cold eyes spotted newcomers he’d not ever seen before. What in God’s name are they doing in my church?

The folks who’d detected his abhorrent air turned in their pews, curious to what had caused his fatalistic demeanor. In the back row was a family of three new to the church, new to the town apparently.

The man was handsome and perhaps thirtyish, with sandy sideburns and a pleasant smile amidst his neatly trimmed beard.

Smiles in church were odd, no one dared to smile back. Next to him was a small boy with similar features but eyes as dark as onyx… he did dare to smile- a tentative one as if he sensed he shouldn’t but didn’t understand why… in this place of God with the beautiful windows and wonderful scents. The smile dropped slowly like a traveler’s eyelids after a long journey. Next to the boy was a native Indian woman. She wore a dress of pale yellow, summery, yet constraining in the English way. Around her neck was a woven necklace of turquoise and silver dangles that caught the light subtly. Her radiant face was tanned, the color of fresh bricks, her lips were full, and the corners turned upwards just as her son’s had. Her long dark hair was braided and twisted into a sleek updo held with silver barrettes.

Such an abomination. In my church. In my Christian town. The brief stirring in his loins made his hands curl into fists as if gripping the spiked leather flogger he would be employing this evening.

He whipped his eyes away from the newcomers. “Yes, yes people. Are the windows not beautiful? Such a humble offering for our lord. So, we sweat. He died. Say no more, Amen.”

“AMEN”

The fanning resumed as if they’d just been given permission to do so.

The preacher preached his ‘fire n brimstone’. The congregation adored him and his incitely wisdom. Since the death of their sheriff, they had sought a guiding light. The preacher was the light of a lighthouse on the edge of a country’s shore like a sentinel.

As the preacher’s voice rang out, his eyes were drawn to a blue bonnet in the third pew back. A single tear slid from his eye. The people were amazed by his tenderness and “aaaahed” and were as mesmerized as if he were a saint himself, worthy of a portrait in glass. In the preacher’s mind, he recalled the blue bonnet and golden hair of the deceased sheriff’s wife.

***

In the barn, Seven proudly sat, tail wagging, her butt wagging along with it. In her master’s absence she’d caught eight rats.

The preacher came in, looked at the rats and said, “Good. You’ve eaten. Now come.”

Seven followed the man who was her master. She couldn’t stop her tail from wagging. They were going somewhere. She’d been such a good dog. She deserved going somewhere.

The man mounted his horse, Seven bounced on her paws happily.

She smelled the long gun, freshly oiled and loaded and she worried. She was with him to protect him. It was her duty. What if he’s in trouble? The cold iron smell of a gun always made her nervous. It meant death and blood smells… and suffering and grief.

After forty minutes or so, Preacher Adrian whoa-ed his horse and Seven halted as well. They were outside the town but only for about 20 miles. The farmstead was sprawling and green and well-tended.

Seven looked at the log house and flashed back to her pup pile. The home was cozy and smelled of fresh baked cornbread and a meaty stew on the hearth. Everything she remembered from her bestest time with the young human, Christine.

She was jolted out of her reverie by the preacher man. “C’mere mutt. You do your job now, y’here. After we’re done, you’ll get some rabbit stew. Seven looked up at the preacher, brows raised, tail wagging. She grrrrrrd low in her throat.

“That’s it sweetheart,” he crooned. “Gonna make things right with God, Dontcha-know.”

Preacher Adrian rapped his boney knuckles on the door.

Silence.

He rapped again with growing impatience.

Silence.

Seven heard shuffling around inside and the soft thump of a cellar door and realized her human had not heard it. She smiled a wide doggy grin in the anticipation of food.

The door opened. It was the young, handsome bearded man. He said, “Oh! Hey Preacher. Good sermon today. This is a great town and will be greater by your faith I’m sure…” his voice trailed off as he studied the tall man’s eyes, confused but not surprised, by the loathing he saw there.

“Is your wife at home?”

The man slowly shook his head. “Hey. Look…”

“How bout yer lil half-breed? He lurkin around?”

Seven was confused. Why was her human shaking with fury? Why did the tone of his words pulsate like it did when he was about to beat her?

“Please leave us alone. We won’t come to your church no more. Okay?” He started closing the door. Adrian shoved it back, hard, violently.

“You dared come into my church. The town I am trying to bring back after the slaughter…”

The young man raised his palms up to show he was peace-loving and unarmed. Desperately, he said, “My wife is a devout Christian, just like me …like me. Charlie’s a good boy…he’s smart…a kind.” He was babbling.

“Bring her to me.”

“Wh-wh—no!”

The preacher dragged Seven forward by the scruff of her neck.

She didn’t want to hurt the bearded man, he radiated a kind aura. Adrian kicked her in the ribs, and Seven bared her long white fangs obediently at the man who was now backing up and still babbling.

The preacher swung his rifle up at the bearded man, didn’t hesitate, and blew a four-inch sized hole in his chest, his back would be a mess of sinews just trying to hold the upper body to the lower.

A woman screamed and came at the preacher, her eyes blazing with fury, her long hair a lustrous waving flag behind her. She had a carving knife in her hand, bits of whatever the meat in the stew was still clinging to it.

Seven leapt in front of the woman…. confused. She didn’t want her human to hurt her, but she was a loyal dog too.

The preacher clubbed Seven's left hip and she sprawled away, her claws scrabbling on the pine board floor. As she painfully got to her feet, the rifle went off a second time, hurting her ears, the sharp sweet stink of gunpowder assaulted her nose. She shook her head, her long ears spanking her face. She whined and the preacher turned on her with the rifle raised as a club again.

He stepped over the woman’s body, careful to avoid the spreading pool of deep red around her upper body and the spot where her head had been.

Adrian stopped in mid swing and lowered the rifle. “Good for nothing rotten mutt,” he muttered, looking around the living room. “Ah. Here now.” He went to the coatrack by the door and plucked a hand knitted cardigan from a hook. It was a child sized sweater. “Make yerself useful dog. Here. Smell this.”

Seven cautiously came forward and did as she was told. The sweater smelled like sweet little boy sweat, grass, dandelions; the little stain on the sleeve smelled of chicken broth.

“Find him.”

Seven began sniffing around the room. She headed towards the kitchen and Adrian called out, “Is he here? Eh? Where’s the lil shit?”

Seven sniffed the corners, the chairs, the two bedrooms. She came to Adrian and sat at his feet and whined softly, fearing another beating.

“Hmf. Probably out runnin around the woods hollering like a filthy savage. Come on dog. Won’t last long on his own. Heh heh.”

***

It was a deep ebony night. Outside the window, stars twinkled as if beckoning her with angel fingers. She was inside the home. It was promising at first… then not as he went into his trance.

The cabin was dark but for a single candle from the corner of the room where he knelt. Seven glanced at her empty bowl.  Her belly ached with hunger pains. She refrained from panting because her tongue was as dry as the desert. She dared not whine, she knew better than draw attention to herself…to disturb the man when he was in this odd and disturbing state would be very bad. Very bad.

He was self-flagellating again. He was murmuring under his breath, his gravelly words punctuated by “God” and “Satan” and “heathens.”

“Whap!” and “Whap!” and “Whap!” Seven’s sensitive ears caught the plops of his blood being flung from the steel barbs on the tips of the cat-o-nine-tails. He would be at it for hours. Seven looked out the open living room window. Her mouth watered when she recalled the smell of the pot in the hearth in the nice man’s house.

She also recalled the sweet, innocent smell of the little boy.

Dogs can’t lie. The closest Seven had ever come to lying was earlier that day. But the tables had turned. Her human was a bad bad man. He even smelled rotten. Like feces from a sick hog. Like white worms from a cat’s butt. Like …

“Whap!” She sat up on her haunches, her hip was terribly bruised but not broken as she had at first feared. She leapt through the open window!

Outside she stumbled. Her injuries burned like electricity under her fur. It was matted in places where he’d flayed the fur and skin right off her. She clamped her jaws shut and refused to make a sound. It was now or never. She got up and started trotting out of the yard. She loped and felt the wind in her fur. She ran and felt her pains no more.

A wolf howled. Perhaps a half mile away. Perhaps the other side of the woods. Father? She’d had her suspicions all her life but now she was certain.

In no time at all she’d reached the farmhouse. It was dark. The poor child was probably still hiding.

The door was still ajar, she nosed it open. The stench of cordite still permeated the still air. The coppery tang of blood, once pleasing to her, was oppressive here. Her heart hurt as she sniffed to find the boy’s scent.

Yes. He’s still here. Still hiding. He is most likely younger than I had thought.

Seven pawed at the braided rug on the floor and uncovered the trapdoor she’d heard shut. The scent of the boy was still strong. She barked her friendliest bark, “Woof!”

She repeated the call and added a little whine.

There was a scraping sound and the click of a metal latch. The trapdoor opened an inch.

Then three.

A pair of hazel eyes blinked in the dark swatch, desperation and fear shone like a beacon seeking any form of salvation.

Seven lowered her emaciated body to the floorboards and grinned her best doggy grin. The eyes turned up at the corners, the boy was smiling.

Seven rolled over onto her back and acted goofy. Christine used to love it when she did that.

The trapdoor opened about four feet and the boy crawled out. Fear was replaced by wonder as the boy contemplated the dog. Seven licked his face in greeting to show she was not going to eat him.

He giggled and Seven’s heart melted. She’d missed Christine more than she knew and felt happier hearing that happy windchimey sound than ever she’d been with that bad man. The child was hungry too, he looked towards the cold hearth and Seven gently pulled his sleeve towards it.

“Aw. You’re so skinny. You hungry? Uh…” The boy surreptitiously looked at Seven’s back underside and added, “Girl!”

Seven leapt and pranced and licked the boy.

He laughed. The laughter cut short when he saw the bodies of his parents.

Seven tugged at his sleeve and whined.

The boy looked into her eyes and understood. They had bonded. He filled his school bucket with stew and his mother’s basket with cornbread. He packed a change of clothes and a few mementos into a blanket that he then folded into a pack.

The boy and the half-wolf dog ventured off into the night, heading towards the woods where Seven’s father had been calling from. She knew she could protect the boy and she in return would feel love.