Gossip, gossip!

Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay

I don’t know if it was a coincidence or not.

As the peasants who worked the fields, we were the least important and the most reviled. We were at the end of the grapevine, the last to hear the latest news gossiped about in the village.

Often we didn’t hear anything at all.

So it was possible that it took that many weeks from the start of these bizarre trysts before the sniff of scandal wafted to us in the fields.

That week after the Patron’s Daughter begged to be free of her maidenhead, the people began to talk. Everybody in the field couldn’t stop whispering about the bruises they had heard were under her clothes, and those marks in the most intimate places.

“She has definitely come to ruin,” mumbled one.

“She got the look of smut on her,” sniggered another.

“How long before Patron knows his untouchable daughter has fallen?” mused yet another.

And on and on it went.

The one thing that safeguarded a shred of her reputation was that nobody could figure out the identity of the man who brought down the Patron’s Daughter. That was impossible to discern for she had spurned all of her suitors except for the Noble Son.

But that didn’t stop the flow of imagination.

Since I was one of the people, I was privy to what they had to say and I was shocked at the brazenness of some of the gossip that I heard.

Somehow the wantonness of the Patron’s Daughter was starting to show. I can’t really explain it or why.

Perhaps it was the subtle changes in the way she moved her body. She was looser and freer, and her restlessness was always close to the surface, especially when the days neared the night when she would escape her parents’ noble house.

I heard some folks say they could smell it on her. They say a woman’s scent changes when she is no longer pure.

It was impossible that anybody could have any idea of the Patron’s Daughter’s trysts with the Brute because the Sorcerer put a powerful protection spell over the Ancient Grove.

I almost laughed out loud when I heard the workers muttering about the virile head of the stables at the house, or the ironworker that made the horseshoes for the Patron’s stables.

Those men were soft and weak compared to the Brute.

The stream of malice ran free, but had no pond to gather in.

Towards the end of the week, their attention turned to me.

“You’ve been keeping awfully quiet, Addie,” noticed one. “How come you’re all ears and no mouth?”

“That’s right,” another piped up. “It’s no secret you always hated her.”

“So what if I do?” I snapped. “I’m not talking because I don’t have anything to say about it.”

“But ours is the only team she leaves alone,” said yet another. “It’s because of you, isn’t it?”

“Who would seriously believe I’m in the confidence of the Patron’s Daughter?” I snorted.

That shut them up. They all stared at me, some looking rather abashed.

“Let’s get back to work before she decides we need her special notice,” I snapped. “We’ve been lucky this season. I prefer that to last.”

The bluff worked that time and the subject was dropped.

But one thing was clear.

The time had come for me to go.

If the Patron’s Daughter got caught sneaking out on her late night trysts, the opportunity would be lost whether I was caught with her or not.

I was so shaken I had to walk off my agitation in the trees, praying the Patron’s Daughter was unaware of the gossip about her.

If she knew, she might lose her nerve and not show on the usual night.

I shook my head.

There was no way she wouldn’t turn up. She was completely enthralled and hooked on the Brute. Eventually, she would get caught.

I reviewed everything I learned from the Sorcerer in my head as I made my way to the river. To reassure myself, I stomped on the ground of the tree where my treasure was buried, relieved at the arrangement of stones that told that nobody had found it.

I hoped the Patron’s Daughter would bring me enough to wear this week because it would be the only chance I had for some decent clothes.

I reviewed in my mind the district behind the theaters where I could ask about lodging, knowing nobody would ask too much if I paid for a few months rent up front.

I trembled as I thought about it all.

First Rule of Seduction

Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay

She stared into the long white palm of the Sorcerer, bony fingers reaching for her. The clutch inside her chest was excruciating. 

An impulse came over her urging her to run up the spiral before the Sorcerer could lock her in the Caverns, and she nearly gave in to the call of fear. 

Then the scent of lilies wafted in her nostrils, the melodious voice of her mother singing in her mind.

“I will be with you always.”

And the girl knew her heart was safe as she placed her hand in his. 

The Sorcerer reached inside the neck of his robes and pulled out his own stargaze. 

But the only colors were blue and white once the candles’ flame touched the crystal facets. The essence swirled around her, making the girl shiver. 

She tried to pull her hand back, but the Sorcerer kept his hold on her.

“Push out your breath,” he said.

She had no choice. 

The air was drawn out of her when the Sorcerer inhaled long and deep. He didn’t stop until she was drained.

Otherwise the girl felt nothing when she gave up her heart, just the emptiness inside her once it was gone, and a gnawing similar to the one that consumed her when she’d feasted with him two days before. 

She blinked and her hand dropped to her side. 

When she looked again, her heart rested in the hand of the Sorcerer, motionless and silent. 

For once, she found the lifelessness of her heart reassuring when he tied it up in a black velvet bag and placed it on the highest shelf carved in the Cavern walls.

Then the Sorcerer turned to her with a smile and nodded to a corridor leading away from the main hall to what must be his bedroom chambers.

The black walls glowed from fire torches which lit the way. 

He beckoned her to follow with a wave of his fingers, but the girl stared at his back sauntering to the hallway and didn’t move. 

The Sorcerer noticed and turned around.

“You already made your choice, Girl.  It’s too late to change your mind now.”   

“Didn’t you promise to teach me the arts of seduction?”

“Yes, and I will.  So?”

“So, you know I find you repugnant.  Don’t you?”

The Sorcerer raised his brows and shrugged.

“Make me desire you,” the girl taunted. “Isn’t that what seduction is?”

She didn’t expect to evade the Sorcerer and the decision she had made, but her stomach lurched when he smiled.

His long yellowed teeth gleamed.   

“As you wish.”

He pulled a large vial from his robes. 

The girl thought the liquid must be melted rubies for when the Sorcerer held the vial to a torch it lit up the jewel tones. 

He snapped his fingers, calling forth the shadowy servants from the black stone. 

They carried a large iron cauldron between them, which they set down before their master, smoke billowing from the center. 

The Sorcerer circled the pot, muttering in a language the girl had never heard. 

Then he spilled one drop from the vial and the brew inside the cauldron roiled, engulfing the Sorcerer in fog.

As thick as the cloud was, the girl could see the silhouette inside.

The form of the Sorcerer changed shape. 

The mist dissipated in puffs, revealing a man who bore no resemblance to the ancient Sorcerer. 

He was young and strong with powerful shoulders and muscular limbs, wearing the ragged clothes of a vagabond. 

The only thing missing was his rucksack.

“No,” she whispered.  “This isn’t possible.” 

She blinked, trying to dispel what had to be a mirage. 

But the guise the Sorcerer had taken on remained and the girl thought she might faint. 

His wheat colored hair was damp as it always was after a long ride, the smile of even, white teeth as brilliant as she remembered.

“Well look at you, little Miss,” he said.  “You’re all grown up.”

Even his voice had not changed. 

Its rumbling timbre, the playful drawling accent touched by dialects of the places of the world he’d seen.

The Horse Trainer who had come as a Vagabond.   

The girl shook her head, unable to speak. 

She tried to back away from the handsome young man, but he walked a wide berth around her. 

She turned, frantic to keep her back to this phantom of flesh and blood. 

The sight of him filled her with both alarm and sadness.

How could this be possible? 

Her throat closed up and the girl wanted to cry. 

But that urge was distant, calling to her from a place outside herself while the empty space inside her breast throbbed. 

She hugged her arms close while the Phantom of the Horse Trainer moved in a pace at a time. 

Once he came near, there was no relief when she looked into his eyes and saw they were the same. 

The colorless gaze of the Sorcerer had warmed into golden brown eyes which sparkled just as she remembered.

 “Get away from me!” she cried, hurling her fists against his chest.  “You’re not him! I know you’re not him!”

The Phantom grabbed her wrists with one hand and pulled her close.

“First rule of seduction,” he whispered in her ear. “Find the secret yearning of the one you desire and give her what she wants.”

This excerpt is out of my novel, “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” If you’d like to purchase an ebook, you can through my website HERE, or you can through Amazon HERE.

A Little Benevolent Coercion Never Hurts

Adrianna was everything charming and gracious when she heard I chose to stay.

She even offered her carriage to deliver the Wanderer to the patron who had been keeping my flock at the price of two sheep a day.

Pulled by a team of four horses, the trip would take two days, and by the time the Wanderer collected my flock, I would be down fourteen sheep.

Adrianna and I stood next to each other in the courtyard, where the lavish carriage stood.

The Wanderer held Celia in a long embrace.

Apparently, Adrianna’s protégée had stayed with the Wanderer in his rooms the two days I was trapped in the DreamTime purgatory. I must have been in a dead sleep if their noisy lovemaking didn’t wake me.

Finally, the Wanderer kissed Celia on the forehead, stroked the side of her face, and let her go gently.

When Celia turned, I was pleasantly surprised to see the hint of tears in her eyes.

She stopped and curtseyed to us before passing back into the Casa.

I wondered if Celia used rose water as a perfume.

I caught a hint of roses as she passed, but the scent lingered long after she had gone into the house. I frowned and looked around.

Adrianna noticed too. She leaned her head back and smiled, her nostrils flickering as she inhaled.

Before I could ask her about it, the Wanderer approached.

“I’m not particularly fond of good-byes,” he said. “So I guess I’ll see you in a month or so.”

“Oh, you’ll see me much sooner than that,” I said.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Adrianna quipped.

The Wanderer chortled.

“Either way, Adrianna, I’m flexible. Maybe send word out every week or so, and I’ll roam circles around the Capital City with his flock.”

He kissed her on both cheeks.

“Adieu. And thank you so much for the splendid hospitality, and the comfortable ride. I feel like a new man.”

“You are a new man, darling Wanderer. The pleasure was mine. Not as much pleasure as Celia got to enjoy, but I loved having you as a guest.”

The Wanderer chuckled again.

I clasped his hand and the Wanderer pulled me in an embrace. I was surprised at how comforting it felt to be held by my friend. Really, this man was more than a brother to me.

“Don’t worry about the Shepherd,” Adrianna said flippantly. “By the time I’m through with him, he may be too coddled to return to the natural life.”

“I highly doubt that, Adrianna.”

With a salute, the Wanderer stepped into the carriage.

Adrianna and I stood there and waved, the scent of roses growing stronger as the carriage disappeared from view. My heart was heavy once he had gone.

“You are truly blessed in friendship, Shepherd.”

“I know.”

“I’m very pleased you’re staying. I didn’t think you would.”

I nodded.

“I take it the Wanderer talked you into this.”

“That is one way to look at it.”

The elder Courtesan threw her head back and laughed.

And yet again, I was disconcerted by the mannerism that seemed especially peculiar on her.

“Did the Wanderer blackmail you?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

“But you are not here willingly?”

I hesitated, and then shrugged.

“No, I’m not.”

Instead of taking offense, Adrianna sniggered. Her beautiful golden eyes sparkled.

“Nothing quite like a little benevolent coercion, is there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I said, Shepherd, you are truly blessed in friendship.”

As annoyed as I was with the Wanderer, I laughed with her. I couldn’t remember any other time I had been so adroitly backed into a corner.

“While you are here, my Casa is your Casa.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I have appointments in town that will keep me away most of the day. I hope you can forgive me, for I never desert my guests. But I honestly didn’t expect you to stay.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Adrianna. I know how to entertain myself.”

The Courtesan paused, her head angled to one side as she peered at me with a strange half smile on her mouth.

“That makes a refreshing change.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Most men I know lack self-containment. They need excessive amounts of attention.”

Adrianna took my hand and squeezed it.

“The Butler loves to give tours of the house and grounds if you get bored, and there’s much you haven’t seen. But now, I must get ready. I’ll see you tonight for dinner on the back patio.”

“Again?”

“Of course. It’s my favorite place to dine.”

What a strange woman she was, this legendary Courtesan.

“Do you ever miss the bracing challenges of hardship?”

“Never,” Adrianna replied. “Dinner is at eight.”

This excerpt is out of my work-in-progress, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.”

If you’d like to see an earlier excerpt from this work, click HERE.

The Bitch is Dead

It was only a dream.

I kept reassuring myself as I fell into the kaleidoscope of images created from memories of the distant past and recent days coupled with the fears from a wounded psyche.

Terror intruded on déja vu, and scenes replayed with tinges of frightening possibility.

Random pieces from the past broke apart as shards of a shattered mirror, rearranged in freakish patterns of the darkest recesses of my heart and soul, and made an insidious nightmare in this journey through the DreamTime.

“Is she dead?”

Adrianna’s low, creamy voice rang out in my dream as her image came into focus.

She stood in a ring of fire that blazed pink flames. She was ferociously lovely with her sparkling amber eyes larger than life as she stared hungrily at me.

“I have hated her for years. So how did Ella Bandita die?”

Adrianna disappeared in the blink of an eye and I was back in that horrific tower of stolen hearts.

The racket of their dissonant pulses echoed insanity to the peak as hundreds of hearts spiraled up the walls. They beat to different rhythms in unpleasant pitches, and created the most ghastly sounds I’ve ever heard.

In the center of the tower stood my Woman, now known as Ella Bandita. She looked serene and relaxed, while the whirlwind of stolen hearts pumped their ear-splitting melody all around her.

Woman shook her head slowly, then threw her head back and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You’ve really gotten yourself in a mess now, Shepherd. Wasn’t I enough trouble for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your fancy Courtesan.”

“Adrianna? Do you know her?”

“I know the type. She won’t stop until she gets what she wants.”

“Woman, she wants you dead.”

She threw her head back and laughed again, her large teeth gleaming.

“I know she does. Adrianna the Beautiful has lusted for my blood for a long, long time.”

“But why?”

“It doesn’t matter why.”

Then I was in darkness and away from the tower.

But I still heard the hideous noise of the heartbeats until I came to the next scene.

The Wanderer and I stood before the Mayor, inside the parlor where he received the general public.

The chamber was stifling with massive, dark furniture throughout and somber tapestries lining the walls.

His astonishment at the sight of us made me ashamed.

I suddenly remembered that the Mayor’s son, Anthony, had been one of Ella Bandita’s victims.

Suddenly, a vision of Adrianna the Beautiful in the rosy glow of her back patio came to mind.

Her large feral eyes glittered and her mouth grimaced.

“Is Ella Bandita dead?” she snarled. “We all want her dead.”

Then I catapulted back to the past of more than twenty years ago.

I traveled with my flock of forty sheep to the Capital City, where I went every year to pay my tariffs for new lambs born, and profits from sheep sold.

As happened on an annual basis, I was cursed to come across young Anthony, the Mayor’s son, who took great delight in torturing young boys considerably younger, smaller, and weaker than himself.

As I always did, I pulled Anthony off the helpless child he was beating on. And as occurred yearly, the loutish youth threatened to send his father after me and have me thrown in prison.

Of course, that never happened.

Just like Anthony was never punished for bullying younger children.

Adrianna appeared again, lounging on one of the divans on her back patio, a blazing fire behind her. Her wildcat eyes glittered.

“What about young Anthony?” she taunted. “Doesn’t Anthony deserve vengeance?”

“Hell no!” I retorted. “That vicious little brute got exactly what he deserved!”

Then I returned to the day I had heard Anthony, the Mayor’s son, had fallen victim to the predatory Thief of Hearts as a young man.

I had come to the Capital City on my yearly stop to pay my tariffs, and everybody was talking about it.

Two merchants in line ahead of me gloated in low voices that would not be heard beyond the few people around them.

“I’m sorry for our kind Mayor,” one muttered. “But if anybody had such a miserable fate coming to him, it’s Anthony.”

“I know what you mean,” said the other. “He was awfully horrid to my son ten years ago.”

“Mine too,” said the first. “He won’t be pounding little boys or slapping young ladies around any time soon. Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” said the other, who couldn’t stop sniggering. “He’s an imbecile! A drooling mess of a fool!”

“That’s what I call just desserts!”

“Sometimes Ella Bandita truly is a conquering hero!”

Silently, I agreed.

Although I was shocked at the news, I hadn’t even a shred of pity for Anthony.

I savored the same grim satisfaction of the merchants ahead of me in City Hall that Anthony would never be able to harm another vulnerable being again.

Then I reappeared inside the heavy formality of the receiving parlor in the Mayor’s mansion.

Blissfully unaware of the Mayor’s loss, the Wanderer succinctly explained who he was and what he had been, the talking Wolf bewitched by Ella Bandita who had traveled with me for years.

That the Mayor was both surprised and disappointed was clear in his facial expression and his words.

“It’s a miracle that you’ve been liberated from her evil!” the Mayor exclaimed. “But is this the only news of Ella Bandita you came to share?”

“No,” I said, stepping forward.

I brought the crystal stargaze out from my pocket and allowed it to drop from my palm, where the odious charm swung wildly from its broken chain.

The whirlwind of color swirled around the parlor before I whipped the pendant back into my palm.

“The Thief of Hearts is no more,” I declared.

Living the Dream - On the Road #18

Hey y'all,

I am so glad I listened to the wisdom of my inner voice, the same inner voice that told me to go back to Seward for the Music and Arts Festival, even though my first tableside storytelling adventure was not immediately profitable.

In fact, my first day I told stories with my whole heart and soul into it because I wanted to sell my book, dammit! 

This was only my second stop on the trip. I had had a couple of things in Homer. I was in full-throttle eager novice mode and people could smell blood...I could sense them smacking their chops as I concluded my story without closing the sale. I sold nothing!

And that really sucked.

And frankly, so does Anchorage.

I did my last storytelling tonight at the Organic Oasis, and it is impossible to do what I'm doing and not do it often in Anchorage. But I just do not resonate with the vibe of this town, it reminds me of the Orlando of my teenage years.... AAIIGGHH!!! 

So let's get back to the good stuff, Seward.

 After that discouraging first day, however, it got better. I sold two books on my second day, and on my third and final, four. So, the word was getting out there. 

Also, on the third day is when deliverance in the form of Joe Alaniz came along and saved my demoralized ass by selling fourteen books by the next day.

Remember Joe? 

So that was my Seward experience in early August, but they had just put up all these flyers for this festival and since the booths were cheap, I marked my space.

I woke up to beautiful weather in Seward with the colors in full blast and knew it would be slow at the festival. 

And I was right, but I learned a few things since my last time in town. I set up my space with blankets, pillows, and although I left the candles in the Beast, I laid out my purple sari over the table with the book displays, and a sign under an orange patterned fake-silk poly scarf that read:

FREE!!!

Hear a story...

Buy a book...

Get Tarot reading...

FREE!!!

I figured if everybody was going to confuse me for a fortuneteller, I might as well give them what they wanted. And golly gee! It worked! 

To make it even better, people were into the storytelling and into buying the book. But about a quarter of my sales happened because somebody really wanted their cards read and the book was only ten bucks. 

I sold twenty-two books at full price. And the experience was effortless, at a festival held indoors at the Cruise Ship Terminal, which looked more like a hangar.

The turn out was low due to sunny weather. Got to get that hiking in! Because the darkness, rain, and snow are just around the corner. 

I also sold ten books to the lady who had an all-purpose gift shop coffeehouse in town, so now the book is being carried in Seward. I traded a book for a bracelet. 

So in one weekend I sold over thirty books. 

This, of course, feeds the soul...not to mention the validation that I'm on the right track.

But the best part of this week-end was not the sales - not that I minded those! It was really connecting with people when they sat down to hear a story.

The way I see it, I'm laying the foundation for my base of readers for the future, and it is such an intimate way of connecting with them. It worked well at Borders as well. 

One woman said that I was living the dream, and she was right. Right now, I feel like I am.  

The weekend was so great that I didn't mind coming back to the tepid atmosphere at the Organic Oasis. I sold a couple of books and it is happening...one book at a time. One person sold on my work at a time. 

I'm getting better at this, but the tarot cards were a nice touch.

I must admit being a fortune-teller was fun too.

Anyway, Keep in touch...

Peace, 

Montgomery

PS God I was naive!!! This was from the DIY booktour roadtrip I made in 2005-2006. Things have changed a lot since then.    

Who is the Critical Mass? On the Road #12

Hey y'all,

Although it was a stroke of luck to get any space at the Alaska State Fair since I didn't get on it until the very last minute - and I am grateful to Denise of Non Essentials (homemade natural skincare) for giving me that space - I am nonetheless exceedingly relieved that I wasn't at the State Fair every day, much less paid exorbitant rates for a booth there.

There was something about the fair that made me think of the Celestine Prophecy and the Critical Mass, those select individuals awake to the spiritual journey of their lives, and will thus raise the human race to a higher level of existence.   

Even if this is an act of love for all of humanity, one could still argue the concept of a Critical Mass as another form of elitism - sugar-coated and with the new age stamp of approval - but still a statement that some people matter and most people don't.

Although I found the message to be inspiring, hopeful, and way groovy, The Celestine Prophecy is also one of the most badly written books I've ever read, so I couldn't take it completely seriously. Yet, some of the most intelligent people I know have eaten it up, and I don't know what to make of that.   

For those heartfelt idealists who really want to believe in the potential of all humanity, but feel the pull to...get in touch with their tendencies towards elitism…I suggest you go hang out at the State Fair. Even better, try to pursue your dream at the State Fair, and you'll get in touch real fast with your inner snob. Anybody who has ever spent any time in any customer service job knows just how awful, stupid, and downright annoying people can be.  

And at the Alaska State Fair, as I was commiserating with Denise, the lovely woman who let me set up a table on her "porch" free of charge, about the oblivious rudeness of those who come into her booth, I was struck by all the people. Swarms of people streaming by me with their hair spray-painted in rainbow colors, outlandish designs that will take the better part of the night and next day to wash out, designs painted on their faces, in tight hip-slung jeans in varying stages of fat and thin, with quite a few Mabelline cosmetics covering teenage faces that don't need make-up, and the scruffy teenage boys in their shapeless clothes. Not to mention tourists with their sparkling white, comfortable, "walking shoes" and their name tags. This sea of humanity walking back and forth was striking in their ordinariness, and there were so many of them. It occurred to me how few of these people really seemed interesting or vivid. Denise agreed and remarked that she was shocked that so many young women looked tired to her, and even more haggard than she was in her early fifties. 

"When I was young, I was young," she said. "These girls I know are young, but they already seem old."

On a positive note, a beautiful mother/daughter duo got my attention as they approached Denise's booth. I noticed them immediately because they had the same eyes - large and almond shaped, slightly Asian, and bright green. The mother was in her mid forties with her hair short and her clothes practical; she wasn't trying to impress anybody. Her daughter had her long hair in a ponytail, no make-up. She was about fifteen and absolutely beautiful in an effortless, natural way and her manners matched her looks. They spent quite a bit of time in Denise's shop and made her day, not only because they spent some money, but because they looked over her products with appreciation.  They stopped at my table for a minute. They didn’t buy anything but I didn’t care. They were not only pleasant and respectful, they were very present.

If I had to pick shoo-ins to the Critical Mass of those who are truly alive, I’d definitely choose these two. 

These ladies were a vast improvement over the stout dowager clad in a pink sweat suit with a goofy cartoon character on the front. She announced that she didn't read fiction, only the Bible; and she certainly didn't read fairy tales since she was a Christian.

"But I have many friends who do and I don't hold it against them," she puffed up.  "And I don't hold it against you for writing them."

I'm sure she felt the greatness of her spirit as she told me that and reveled in the righteousness of the narrow world of those who do not think. Perhaps she's an eager participant in book burning parties. 

Shortly after that exchange, I found myself thinking of the Critical Mass and wondering if maybe there wasn't something to it.

I'm sure this lady was certain that she was part of the Critical Mass of those who had been saved by Jesus. She certainly believes she's right and maybe she is...Who am I to say otherwise? Maybe we all are supposed to be mindless dogma junkies who live by a checklist of good behavior and see the Devil in fairy tales. Perhaps they really are the saved. Who knows?

If they are though, I will gladly go to Hell. Who wants to hang out with people like that for all eternity? 

So, who are those who make up the Critical Mass?

Call me selfish, call me vain…but in my world, the Critical Mass are those people who say:  

"Oh!  I would love to buy your book because I believe in supporting local artists."

Peace,

Montgomery

This is from a journal I took of a DIY booktour/roadtrip I did in 2005/2006. You can find the previous entry here.