A fantastic start

Hello everyone and welcome to the second chapter of Wind in the Arroyo. I would like to say a massive thank you to everyone that read and voted on chapter 1. Because of you, Wind in the Arroyo hit the trending page. This is a huge boost for me and gives me the confidence to post the entire book. I'm really excited to bring this story to you!

I have a lot of typing to do so I'm going to get straight to it.

If you are new to the series, please go to the Prologue page followed by Chapter 1

Right, let's continue on to chapter 2!

---

Chapter 2

Early Morning

A darkly stained carved oak door opens. A well assembled female figure appears. Her hair is exact. Her face is made up. She wears an immaculately pressed Chanel jacket, with a cream silk blouse, black slacks, and a knotted gold chain loose around her neck. She closes the door behind her, double locking it, She steps measuredly down the terracotta tiled staircase, past tall arched leaded transom windows, which are closed, to a covered landing beneath a copper clad balcony with hand-turned balusters. The house is a yellowy ochre colour detailed with dark wood door surrounds and wrought iron window boxes and rails. Her balcony above creates a sheltered loggia along the interior side of the courtyard. She passes beautiful French doors with wavy mullions and rolled glass insets. The windows are covered with patterned tapestry curtains edged in fringe. She steps onto a spectacular terrazzo courtyard past a tiered fountain in the middle which is quiet at this hour. The birds sing in the trees as she passes beneath hand-painted tasseled umbrellas, through the rose garden beyond the swimming pool and heads for the garage at the rear of the house. A strong trail of shower fresh scent follows her to her car.

Another figure hides behind the heavy curtains as the Chanel-clad lady walks by. Peeking out through a gap in the panels he waits, listening. Her silver Jaguar ignites and heads down the driveway behind the cypress hedge. He can hear the distant whine of the hydraulic gate as it opens. It stops, letting her out from the compound at Villa La Mesa. The whine resumes, closing the gate behind her. She's gone!

Chirskimunski Squirrel tears open his bedroom curtains and throws open the French windows onto the courtyard. The morning is crisp and clear, and the air still carries the scent of perfume from the lady who has just passed by. In his woolen dressing gown and lambskin slippers he shuffles down the long hallway through the grande salon and up through the dining room into the kitchen. The dining room is slightly elevated, curved like a stage at the front and framed by a scored plaster proscenium arch. The chandelier is pulled to the side with a rope, making room overhead for a massive freestanding piece of furniture. Squirrel turns sideways, squeezing past the dining table, which is pushed against the wall, and his latest restoration project, the marvelous Hupfeldt Rhonolistic Reproducing Forest, which has sat incomplete for five years in this very spot.

Now in the chilly kitchen, he fills his copper kettle with water, sets it on the gas burner and selects a blackbird whistle for the spout from a rack on the wall. Herifles about in the kitchen whistling the bird's tune while waiting for the water to come to a boil. He knows a watched kettle never boils so he busily gathers the butter, a slice of grainy bread, some jam, a plate, a knife, a cup, a saucer, some thick cut marmalade and milk for his tea. The blackbird softly whistles, mimicking Squirrel's tune. He whistles more loudly. So does the kettle. Turning off the fire, Squirrel anticipates the loss of pressure in the kettle and the deflated tune of the bird that results. He plucks the bird from the spout, places it neatly back in its row on the rack, and makes his cup of morning tea.

As the Assam steeps, Quirrel putters through his home. On a high shelf next to a tall narrow cabinet sits a collection of caged birds. They are not real birds, snuffed and stuffed as he calls them, but mechanical birds built from springs, coils, and wires topping intricately disguised mechanical musical devices which can eerily reproduce the most plaintive bird song, or garishly plunk out some bawdy tune once sung by sailors in love. His collection has grown to be quite extensive, particularly with the addition of the Hupfeldt Phonolistic Reproducing Forest, brought sight unseen in 13 1/2 crates one Sunday morning at the Posy Bowl swap meet. It sits in the middle of the dining room, on the stage as it were, surrounded by tables covered in tools, neatly laid out. It is like a surgeon's operating theatre, the patient resting quietly, awaiting the life-giving touch of the master himself.

Squirrel is so excited. Who would have thought it possible? Hupfeldt built only two Phonolistic Reproducing Forests at the turn of the century. One rests in the lower level of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Salvaged from a burning church, and the other disappearing into oblivion, no shipping order surviving the Hupfeldt Company's collapse during the great depression. Squirrel recalls the cold rainy morning at the Posy Bowl swap meet when he stumbled across a half opened crate covered by makeshift tarpaulin. In that crate he spotted the heavy motor and brittle cloth-covered tubes used to power the vacuum system of the device itself. recognizing its use, he questioned the vendor more closely.

"I got it from me grand mum" said the vendor. "She lived in Paris after the war. "Me granddad died in the war, and me grand mum was never quite the same. She couldn't bear to listen to this old organ any more. It did'nt work by then. I guess it just froze up from all the years of sitting. When she died, my mum went and lived in her house. She's gone too now. All these crates came by sea. They arrived at the port yesterday. I can't even look at them. The rain just makes me sad."
"How many crates are there?" questioned Squirrel. "Thirteen... and a half" said the vendor. " Customs seized part of a crate because there were pieces with ivory on them. I couldn't prove they were old, and he insisted they were now. Can you imagine?"

Squirrel rummaged about the crates stacked in the back of the truck. They were a mess. He lifted out pieces wrapped in French newspaper and nested in straw. A broken mess. He lifted out pieces wrapped in french newspapers and nested in straw. A broken wing, a head fused with rust at the neck, a violin with no frets. to the unschooled eye it must look like junk. Squirrel know she was so much more. He quickly calculated the effects of the missing parts. Clearly that included knobs and small birds, maybe even some of the motorized mechanisms. Nothing that couldn't be recreated. The thing itself was so much more than its parts.

"A terrible loss" said Squirrel. "A disastrous denigration of fine musical mechanism!" The vendor sighed. "How much do you want for it?" questioned Squirrel. "I'd give it to the first person who swore to fix it" he laments. "All this rain, and the missing parts too, plus I have to get this truck back by 3pm today."
Squirrel said "Thank you. I'll think it over." He moseyed to the next stall calculating the situation. If he didn't buy it now, one of the better antique dealers would surely get it, later converting it to a cocktail bar or the headboard for a bed. it wouldn't be the first time. One of his favorite instruments had been bought as a salad bar, and then rebuilt from the inside out. (Salad oil stains and vegetables in every nook and cranny) It was recognizable, except for the small ''before'' picture he set behind the fallboard. He couldn't possibly take the Hupfeldt for free; although that is what the vendor offered, yet Squirrel knew that wasn't what he really meant. Squirrel made his mind up quickly, knowing not to pass on this opportunity.

"I'll give you ten thousand" he says decisively. "Ten thousand?" queried the vendor. "But..." "Make it twelve, cash, and I'll let you hear it when it's done." Squirrel knew what he was doing. He couldn't ''steal'' the instrument from a naive youth, particularly one who just lost his mother and was clearly in need, and he couldn't afford to pay anything near it's real worth. (If it could be accurately assessed!) An offer of twelve thousand was immense to Squirrel. Hopefully the vendor would feel the same.

It was the longest afternoon of Squirrel's life while waiting for the vendor to drive the truck up to his house. The vendor sat and had tea with Squirrel after rolling all the crates into Squirrel's garage on a hand truck.
"Who'd a guessed" he mused "that this would find such a beautiful home, and so close to the Posy Bowl swap meet. My mum always said the thing needed a bigger house."
Chirskimunksi Squirrel counted out the money in twelve tidy rows stop the dining room table. He now owned the famed missing Hupfeldt Phonolistic reproducing Forrest, less some knobs, wings, and other sundry bits and bobs. Life was too good.

Squirrel's house is a beautiful home. It appears far larger than it actually is, making for cramped rooms and narrow passages leading throughout Squirrel's vast collection. Built in the early 1920's on an elevated wedge of land at the outer edge of the first subdivision of the De Moule estate, Villa La Mesa was hand built in the Euro-Italianate style by an enterprising architect schooled via correspondence course. He began as a plasterer, then farmer, eventually earning a degree in architecture and design. His advantage was that he was his own boss, He knew the cost and quality of his work., and his time was his own. While other homes on the street also had to comply with regulated minimum construction costs, their endless budgets were devoured by the politics of their illustrious architects. Villa La Mesa looked as expensive, without actually costing anywhere near the same amount of money. If anything, the house was appointed more finely than any other of its size. It was a reality that Squirrel appreciated immensely, as the house was more than he could afford in the first place.

The trickery lay in the stacked masses and multiple rooflines coupled with the long vistas which the corner lot afforded. Vila La Mesa sat upon the end parcel adjacent to the original north entrance gate to the De Moule estate. it was built upon an elevated lot to capture the views of sprawling vineyards leading to the San gabriel Mountains. The vines are long gone, having been razed for later, far less inspired developments, further carving away the estate into as many parcels as allowed. Yet villa La Mesa still has an enchanted curbside presence, enhanced by a mysterious hedge, and it bears all its original architectural and artistic details, to stenciled ceilings to the fantastic tile. The domed bathrooms are covered in perfect period tile, depicting scenes of early California and the great ships that brought settlers here. guests always feel they have entered a mansion due to the soaring height of the barreled ceilings and juliet balcony overlooking the dining room. The other many rooms are actually quite tight. The second floor above the bedroom wing adds a vertical drama to the house, in Squirrel's mind somehow too much drama.

His tea now stepped, Squirrel brought his mind back to the matters at hand. Today was a rather special day. His dear friend Toad was coming over shortly with the very last piece of the incredibly expensive and time consuming Hupfeldt restoration. yesterday the refurbished pump had been delivered and today Toad was bringing the new diverter valve he machined himself. Toas was somewhat of a mad scientist. His extensive shop afforded him the title of a technician and tinkerer. He was also notoriously late

In anticipation of Toad's late arrival, Squirrel had engaged several of his fabulous mechanical singing birds. they all opened in a variety of different ways, and they all reproduced their music by a variety of different means. People who came to visit Squirrel's house were held captivated in wonder by all the beautiful mechanical singing birds. They were birds of copper, fired and red, sitting on slender branches in tiny cages you could hold in your hand. There were large, primitive looking brass birds that danced awkwardly as they squawked on stumps. there were porcelain birds and gold-leafed birds. Why, there was even one made of carved sea shells and mother of pearl that sounded like mermaids singing under water.
There was a little wren in a cage made of bone, covered in turquoise, and an ivory and coral phoenix from China. There was also a great black raven made all of iron and pewter that screamed like a banshee and made all the neighborhood dogs bark. he wouldn't play that one this particular morning, but he had made time for a private recital.

He gently touched a mushroom cap set within a silvery bower. A tiny sparrow flitted and turned, singing softly as the morning sun shone upon it. Just weeks ago this sparrow was in pieces, spread across the dinner table, unrecognizable as anything other than junk. Now look at it thought Squirrel. They were beautiful and magical to Chirskimunski Squirrel and he loved and adored them all. They were made to move and to sing by a variety of ingenious methods that had been concocted throughout the ages. Clockwork, cranks, electricity, candles, pneumatic systems, even gas!
Their songs produced by rolls of perforated paper, steel barrels with thousands of tiny bumps, tiny rods, air blown down flute-like tubes, the movement of a drum-like membrane. Some of them barely moved as they sang, perhaps simply nodding their heads and opening and closing their beaks. others danced and pranced like living things, swinging and spinning, their action part of the excitement.
Squirrel's collection came from many different nations and eras. Why, there was even an ultra moderne one from Sweden that stood within a Plexiglass Pyramid, powered by a lithium battery (whose sounds could only be programmed digitally using a computer) its body chromed, with eyes on onyx. Squirrel liked the Sci-Fi look of it and felt very hip when people admired it.

Squirrel set his empty teacup on the mantle, moving to an Italian Rococo nightingale. He pulled a long wire-nearly halfway to the front door, and slowly followed it back in as an operatic ballad ensued. Restoring these delicate objects could be a very long, expensive, and sometimes extraordinarily tedious endeavor often taking years to complete. But Squirrel loved the process and was happy to have a friend to share in his passion-particularly a friend with a shop!

Oh where was Toad?! Squirrel could hardly contain his excitement. Shortly, the Hupfeldt would spring to life. He had already installed the vacuum motor beneath the salon in an insulated box. He had once attached a shop-vac to the Hupfeldt, which managed to pull enough air through the cracked tubing to move some of the woodland elements, but any music that was produced was entirely drowned out by the monotonous wail of the vacuum motor. Not knowing how loud the new motor might be, Squirrel installed it in the basement with it's primary hose connecting through the heater vent opening. Toad's valve would set within the base of the Hupfeldt, subtly directing the air synchronized to the music. That Was the plan at least.

Squirrel was having difficulty restraining his excitement. where was Toad?? It's been five years he thought. He could at least show up early for a change.
Toad pulls the rope. Squirrel spins and makes for the front door. on the inside, he's operating at a fever pitch; outside he attempts to appear calm and composed. Toad cites the wretched traffic.
"There's new construction everywhere and it's simply unbearable"moans Toad guiltily.
Squirrel knows better, in spite of all the new construction, and decides today is not the day to berate his friend. He drags Toad in the door, though the salon and onto the stage.

They fuss around together, unfolding the tree trunk and latching it back on itself. It is massive, perhaps fifteen paces around and falling just short of the fifteen foot ceiling. When opened it can play to a seated audience, creating a half-round scene, or it can open fully, creating a massive tree trunk accessible on all side. They fold various birds into position and test pulleys and chains to be certain they are threaded on their sprockets. Toad pulls open a false drawer in the base. With much trouble for a portly toad, he finally manages to install the valve to the mass of unbound hoses. Toad double checks the hoses while Squirrel polishes and preens the masterpiece. Toad silently watches Squirrel, imaging him dressed in feathers, batting around in the old forrest himself. Squirrel climbs the trunk stepping on intended foot rests) to lubricate the albino albatros perched on the mast. Toad watches his hands tremble, his nerves clearly evident.

Toad rambles on about his life. It is seemingly boring and uneventful. Toad bemoans his bachelor status, but Squirrel has heard it all before.
"You could always ask Smiley Skunk out for dinner" says Squirrel, his face hidden behind some tail feathers.
"That old Pasadama! Pah" he exclaims, " I'd rather date my grandmother...and she's dead!"
Toad retreats to the kitchen and forages through the larder, looking for something to eat. Squirrel joins him. They take a break. it's now well into the afternoon. Finally the moment has come.
Squirrel rushed about, fussing, wanting the atmosphere to be just so. He closes some curtains, opens the doors to the courtyard, turns off the overhead lights and takes and takes the telephone off the hook. His overstuffed furniture and occasionally tables have been pushed to the other wall, allowing the Hupfeldt Phonolistic Forest to be totally accessible from all angles. He even lights some candles and ignites the gas fire logs. Squirrel and Toad glance at each other. It's now or never.

Together they throw the switch. It is incredible. All the little birds nestled in the branches sing in chorus. They rustle their tails and open their wings, their beaks moving in perfect unison with the airy birdsong emanating from the device. Unexpectedly, the albatros ("Diva" as Toad calls her) spreads her wings, nearly ten feet across. Her feet seemingly lift from the tree and a burst of mist shrouds her as the most mellifluous song Chirskimunski Squirrel and Toad have ever heard reverberates throughout the room. They are enraptured. It is pure bliss.

Below, a flurry of activity has ensued. miners and woodcutters dig and saw at the massive trunk, their attempts to fell the tree thwarted by cunning critters coordinated in a chorus of chaos. A fire stream jettisons from a fissure, and the ground opens in a rift which isolates the humans from the tree. At last the albatross takes flight, soaring lower around the tree, where at last it plucks the eyes from it's foes. They disappear, lifeless, into an inner cavity. The forest erupts with song. The albatros returns to the treetop and the flock settles in their nests.

When the scene has ended there is silence. Neither Squirrel nor Toad dare make a sound for fear of spoiling the moment. Squirrel starts to laugh, more and more loudly until Toad joins in. They grasp hands and dance around the Hupfeldt laughing and talking at the same time. It is one of the high points of Squirrel's life. They play the instrument several more times, changing the master rolls and eliciting different scenes. Eventually Toad must leave, and reluctantly they turn off the instrument, fold down the birds, and close the trunk in on itself. it suddenly looks like any armoire now, and they both move Squirrel's furniture back into place.

Toad takes his leave. Chirskimunksi Squirrel is too excited and happy to stay in the house. It is a beautiful afternoon. He grabs a book and decided to take the long walk round to Myna's for an early dinner. He is hungry!

---

Well, that was quite a detailed chapter! I hope you liked it :) Please feel free to leave comments about the story below. I'd love to hear from you.