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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In The Man Who Would Play the North Wind, B.M. Bower crafts a poignant short story centered around Olafson, a violinist captivated by the haunting melodies of the prairie winds. Seeking to replicate the ethereal music, Olafson enlists the help of the Happy Family, leading to a tale that intertwines art, nature, and the profound connections forged in the vastness of the American frontier.
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Seitenzahl: 31
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The Man Who Would Play the North Wind
The Man Who Would Play the North Wind
LISTEN! The north wind is singing—the north wind and the wolf and the wide unpeopled prairie. Andy and Pink had heard the song a thousand times, but they had never thought there was much music in it—till Olafson joined the Happy Family, Olafson and his violin.
The door opened windily, and he came in, blinking at the sudden change from darkness to yellow lamplight. Big, black-browed, broodingly somber, with the poise of one who has many times faced—and swayed at will—the multitude, he bulked huge on the threshold, while the men in the hotel office stared at him curiously. In one hand he carried a large suit case thickly sprinkled with labels, in a strange language, many of them, which betrayed journeyings afar; under his left arm was a time-scarred violin case. He did not seem in the least embarrassed before the faces which stared; instead he stared back with a certain haughty appraisement of the place and the people before he closed the door against the whooping wind which the dusk had brought out of the west.
Pink, leisurely chalking a billiard cue in preparation of a nice shot which, if successful, should make for the complete discomfiture of his opponent—who was Andy Green—glanced at the stranger idly, smiled across at Andy, and looked again, more attentively. Andy Green's gray eyes, following Pink's glance, widened in recognition of the type, if not the man himself.
"By gracious, Pink, looks like we're due to listen at some grand opera," he murmured, sidling closer to the other. "Barring the open-front vest and swallowtail coat, and footlights, and flowers all over the place, you've got the whole show right there; billed six weeks ahead of himself; fifty cents, one dollar, two, and two-and-a-half, and all the boxes taken by sassiety's elected. I wish somebody'd tell me how he got to Dry Lake, though. He's just about as appropriate as a marble statue of Venus down in the blacksmith shop!"
The stranger walked over to the bar. Before he spoke a word, before he had moved, other than to close the door behind him, he dominated the place. When he had taken two steps forward, Mikey began feverishly wiping his hands on a corner of his bar-tender's apron, and to experience the internal fluttering of the housewife who sees unexpected company at her door on wash day.
"A room, if you please," said the stranger in a voice like the middle tones of a bass viol. "Weeth bath."
Mikey felt a chill along the spine. There was not, to his knowledge, a room with bath nearer than Great Falls; certainly none in Dry Lake. Mikey swallowed a nervous titter, rolled eyes at his fellows for moral support, and surprised himself by weakly apologising for the deficiencies of the hotel he represented.
