Enter the Benevolent Intruder
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Image by ImaArtist on Pixabay
The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody
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Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
The Patron always put off business for as long as he could.
He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found so tedious.
This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household.
He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former.
Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.
Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms.
The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned.
This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling.
His daughter’s footfall was a whisper, so soft to be almost silent. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach.
The Patron looked at his watch.
The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard walking above him couldn’t be his daughter.
Stunned that an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs.
Her skirts and petticoats swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots. Thus reminded of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, the Patron knew it was she who now had the firm tread of a stranger.
In his haste, the Patron almost collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs.
But the girl reeled away from her father, her face pale.
Yet she recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. The girl’s composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsy, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.
Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside.
His daughter descended to the landing.
To his surprise, she stopped before the portrait of his wife. The girl kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the lips in the portrait.
His daughter glanced to the top of the staircase, and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her.
Yet all the Patron noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting.
His daughter was now the same exact age as his wife when he had met her.
He looked at her again.
The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving, even as she curtsied to him once more.
The Patron didn’t return to his study.
He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables.
He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait, while the same question ran through his mind.
When had their daughter grown up?
There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie with a hint to get ready for dinner.
The Patron watched his daughter closely after that day.
He found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed.
All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined the girl’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women, and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed his daughter had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron.
How had this happened? For nothing had changed.
The girl was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance.
People stared at her or ignored her, just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear as crystal, even though she went through her day as alone as ever. Yet she now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, his daughter had become the rarest of human mysteries, somebody who didn’t need anybody.
The Night the Children Came
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Image by Enkhtamir Enkhdavaa from Pixabay
In the dusky lavender of twilight, the village young filed into the cabin built at the edge of the forest.
As the children were settling down, the Bard came home from the woods with his grandson.
His hands boasted the marks of time.
One of his hands made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness.
In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. The woods had been generous with its abundance of mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs.
The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his audience before they went home to bed.
Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.
A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when they came inside.
Tonight was the night for stories.
The Bard would talk late into the night, and the children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars.
But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind.
They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them.
The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze.
The Bard never began until there was an inferno burning.
His love of heat was legendary.
He had built this cabin as a young man.
The villagers who had been alive during that time said his home started with the fireplace.
They said the Bard needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.
He allowed himself this one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special.
The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks.
He explored for years, his black eyes searching for rocks with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth: deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink.
The stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin. The deep pit stretched wide and tall with iron mesh so it would contain the spits of flaming wood.
His hearth was a masterpiece.
During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant.
Until the log cabin was built, they were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees.
The young husband and father told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning behind him.
He drew the notice of villagers who were fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air.
The villagers would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.
One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.
And that was how it began.
After that first night, all the villagers came to hear the Bard.
Once the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.
As the years passed, only the children came.
They gathered every week no matter the weather or the event.
The children came the night after the Bard’s daughter married and left home.
They came after he was widowed.
The Bard assured the villagers that the the children were more than welcome.
Many in the village shook their heads at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to his neighbors.
The more difficult their project, the more he preferred it.
He especially loved to build, for hard work that required concentration gave him relief from his mourning.
A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish.
He was grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer through the murder of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.
Whenever the Bard thought of their last moments, he couldn’t escape the anguish coursing through his veins.
However, he kept his demons to himself.
The cutthroats had spared the life of his grandson, but his innocence was under assault from night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.
The child was only four when he came to live with his grandfather.
The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for this child who needed him desperately.
Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories.
The Bard was forever thankful to them because their presence brought innocence, normalcy, and harmony that was lacking.
His grandson sat amongst them, but his large black eyes were vacant, staring into nothing, his face unresponsive.
The Bard prayed every night that the little boy would find his way back from the abyss of frozen terror, and return to childhood.
And every week, the children came.
It was a year before the nightmares stopped.
Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.
As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same eyes as his grandfather.
It was time.
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.
The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
Before he spoke, the Bard always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence as the Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
The Bounty Hunter's Last Track
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The Charmer was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering just as those who fell before him.
“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”
A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came.
Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.
She had never suffered this indignity before.
She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure, and her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
It was the legendary Courtesan who gathered the women together.
Adrianna the Beautiful made her first visit with her lover’s near widow.
They had a long meeting, Adrianna staying for the better part of the day until she made a rival into a friend. The wife and the mistress sacrificed their most precious jewels to start a reward for the capture of the woman who had felled the Charmer.
Word spread fast.
The other wives and courtesans didn’t need much convincing to join them.
This sisterhood seemed incredible at first, but once the women set their grievances aside, it made sense.
Deprived of widowhood, the Charmer was committed to an asylum where he would be for the rest of his life, and his wife would never be free to marry again. Plenty of ladies shared her fate and courtesans lost some measure of comfort when their lovers were destroyed.
Ella Bandita was a genuine threat to them all, and she had to be stopped.
The women were confident they would find their hero amongst those hired to use outlaw ways to bring outlaws to justice.
Bounty hunters had the freedom to use methods forbidden to lawmen, and theirs was a lonesome calling. Since they gained in wages what they lost in respect, these men dreamed of earning enough to buy a modest estate and retire as a Patron.
The fortune of the women’s jewels was enough to realize this dream for the man who captured or killed the Thief of Hearts.
It wasn’t long before the price on Ella Bandita was the highest ever for a single fugitive.
But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth, even though all of them were tempted.
The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman.
Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful when she destroyed a Patron who had made their lives a misery.
Ella Bandita was universally feared, but she also had her admirers.
The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession.
This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, devoid of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked a dwarf with short limbs and a powerful torso, his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard.
The Bounty Hunter seemed absurd to the women when he promised them relief from their distress within weeks. He hardly looked their picture of a hero.
But he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him.
Not that the Bounty Hunter would have cared if the ladies had been rude. The fortune was all that mattered to him. The thought of it made his mouth water.
Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw once the bounty was accepted.
The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive. She was wanted in several countries and failure to cooperate would reap severe consequences.
The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the outset of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer, when the Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl. He was confident he’d find her within weeks.
But his prey proved more elusive.
The Bounty Hunter tracked her haunts as he heard about them. He scoured the country and depleted most of his modest fortune for a fresh track that would lead him to her.
Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly.
He probably would have quit if his search hadn’t cost him everything. He had never come across a quarry so elusive. So much so that he became obsessed.
And the lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew.
The fashion seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had.
The ladies were impatient, and almost as bitter as the Bounty Hunter.
Then he found his first real lead.
Ella Bandita had struck several days before in the last of a series of fashion towns. But the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else.
The interviews was tedious, and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark.
His frustration got the better of him one day and he ignored the appointments made for that afternoon to run his mare through the woods.
That’s when he found it.
During his ride, the Bounty Hunter came to a bald spot in the trees.
The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots.
He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed.
The Bounty Hunter could almost swear that smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted.
Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for, bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found larger pieces with ashes mixed in the dirt where her fire pit was buried.
When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, the Bounty Hunter knew he had found her shelter.
He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita had made her camp there.
The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside.
What a fool he had been.
Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond.
Yet he had never considered the woods.
And if he had, he would have found her months ago.
All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates.
His heart pounded. The Bounty Hunter imagined the fortune that would be his now that he finally knew where to hunt his prey.
He found Ella Bandita two weeks later.
The Bard's Favorite Villainess
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Illustration by BANE, Dennis McElroy
Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.
The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed.
The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth.
The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him.
The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other.
But tonight the young would bear with the heat.
They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.
The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.
The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes.
Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.
His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends.
The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn.
The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin.
The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed.
With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.
Reluctantly they walked away.
The Bard shook his head.
Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious[jwwz1] .
A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled.
His grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.
The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story.
The Bard stared into the sea of young faces and hoped tonight’s tale scared the devil out of his grandson.
“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began.
“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate. Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble, to be peasant is to be humble.”
“But there, the highborn are ranked according to their title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common. Such a society is cruel, often mercenary and always lacking in heart.
“Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”
*****
The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.
They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.
Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.
Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world. Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist?
To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.
The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.
I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.
Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, not worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, the one who set all the women against Ella Bandita.
He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience.
In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.
His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.
Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.
The Charmer hadn’t been married a year before he pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating.
He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession.
She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful.
Dark, fiery, and with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city.
She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective.
The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.
But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera.
The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince.
They sat across from the Charmer and his wife.
Adrianna the Beautiful even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
The Charmer smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. He made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.
He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat.
The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.
But his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted.
The Charmer forgot about that strange woman in the common seats below, once the performance was under way, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
Really, the Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell.
He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, and a life of elegance and leisure.
He was still enjoying himself, the gift of privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Yet perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent.
Maybe the Charmer sensed the boredom that would come.
The Fall of the Patron and the Rise of the Thief of Hearts
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Something was horribly wrong.
The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity.
Now everything was quiet.
A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables.
The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes. The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied. “I think it’s best to just show you.”
They entered the house.
The stillness inside was eerie.
Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.
The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor.
This grief was fresh, raw.
He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.
The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside.
The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath.
He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied. “One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.”
“Well, she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the lawman?”
“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”
“And where is…”
The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow.
The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair.
Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression.
His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag. He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise.
The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing.
He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer only preyed on young women.
“Patron, what happened to you?”
“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged. “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is this Ella Bandita?”
The Patron looked confused at the name. Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.
“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper. His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek.
“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”
The Patron stood up.
The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw.
His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo.
The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross, only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.
The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.
*****
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound. The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
He always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning before he spoke.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly, its subtle cadence rolling through the cabin as the Village Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
“In the south of this country, there’s a fashion town built into the upper walls of high cliffs where the sea crashes against the walls below. The buildings of this village change color through the day, depending on the place of the sun in the sky.”
“In evening time, the town is invisible. The buildings are the same muddy pink hue of stone bluffs at sundown.”
“Nobody knows how this town was built. The structures are ancient, and those skills were not passed to the masons of today. No one now has the knowing to carve deep into the rock, to find the support for buildings jutting out from the cliffs and hanging over the ocean.”
“During winter storms, the waves get high enough to flood the streets with salt water. Yet the village stands, half buried in stone, half suspended over the sea.”
The Bard paused a moment, his silhouette completely still. The sharp cracks of the blazing fire echoed through the cabin.
“But this fashion town has no protection from Ella Bandita.”
The End That Was Only the Beginning
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Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
As always, the Sorcerer was right.
A few days later, I saw the Patron’s Daughter as soon as I came into the trees.
She was clearly waiting for me, impatiently pacing back and forth. She had dark circles under her eyes, marring the perfection of her face.
“What took you so long?” she demanded.
“I didn’t know I was meeting you for a walk. Last time I saw you, you seemed angry-”
“Will I need to bring money or jewels?” she interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
I felt like an idiot for not considering payment.
I knew what the Sorcerer wanted from the Patron’s Daughter, but she certainly didn’t know what she was walking in to.
“To pay him!” she snapped. “What are his terms?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking fast. “But that’s not a bad idea.”
There are no words to describe the sweet relief and exquisite terror I felt in those days approaching that night.
On the eve of the holy day of rest, the Patron’s Daughter agreed to sneak out after dark to meet me at the edge of the Ancient Grove.
Even her tyrannical father didn’t dare dishonor holy days to make us work.
I remember there was absolutely no suspicion on her face as we made our plan.
The only risk at this point was getting caught.
If our absences were discovered, the Patron’s Daughter would be ruined.
But I would be doomed.
On that day before my liberation, I was worthless in the fields.
I couldn’t sleep the night before. As much as I had dreamed about my liberation from servitude, I had no plan for it and no idea what to do with it. I certainly couldn’t come back to my parents after selling my heart and the virtue of the Patron’s Daughter.
The night before my destiny was to change, I realized I wasn’t ready.
I was so panicked, I considered the coward’s way out, leaving the Patron’s Daughter to wander the Ancient Grove alone, looking for the cabin.
But I had come too far to lose faith now. As terrified as I was of an unknown future, I still met the Patron’s Daughter in the Ancient Grove.
She had to jostle my arm to get my attention because I didn’t see her at first. She wore a long, dark cloak that covered her face and form, blending her in amongst the dark trees.
She, too, must have had the fear of detection.
It was so dark that night.
I looked for the moon in the sky through the trees. Either it was a dark moon, or the trees of the Ancient Grove were so thick, it was impossible for any light to shine through.
But I was still able to guide her through the trees.
The Sorcerer must have had a fire burning in the hearth, for I caught the aroma of smoke before I saw the glow through the only window of the cabin. But that did nothing to warm the chill inside me.
My heart pounded on our approach.
For a moment, I hesitated.
The thought crossed my mind that this would be the last time I would feel that inner pulsing. Good thing I didn’t spend too much time reflecting on that in those weeks leading up to this night.
It’s a tremendous decision to sell off my essence, my life force, all so a being like the Sorcerer of the Caverns could be immortal. If I had pondered on the sheer magnitude of it all, I likely would not have been able to go through with it.
As it was, in that moment, I knew that everything I had always known would come to an end.
Although that was certainly true, this was only the beginning.
My first adventure in life would begin that night. And my first adventure would be by far the most bizarre.
My darling Shepherd, that is a mighty statement to make at this juncture in my life after more than forty years of decadence.
My hand shook when I knocked on the door.
A gruff voice from inside bid us to enter.
I opened the door, and in my nervousness, I forgot to step aside to usher the Patron’s Daughter in before me.
In this particular instance, however, the oversight of etiquette towards one’s betters was a miracle that saved me.
I almost fainted when I saw him.
Although I didn’t know what to expect when I walked inside, I was shocked at the sight of the Brute who stood before me.
Instead of the long black robes and a face desiccated from the passing centuries, the Sorcerer had transformed into a beast of a man.
He had the physique of a carnival strongman, coarse black hair, beady dark eyes, and the crudest features I had ever seen. His thick lips curled in a grimace of amusement when he saw the look on my face.
I felt the blood drain from my head at the sight of him.
The Brute was anything but seductive.
He was repugnant and my doom was certain.
The Realm of Possibility
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
She saw the magic dust on her night table the moment she came back to her room.
Her maid must have found the pouch in her skirts and taken it out for her.
The pouch was worn and the leather dull under the flame of her night lamp. The dust was an unwelcome reminder.
The girl had forgotten about the Sorcerer, as if the interlude of the past months had never been.
She buried the pouch again in the pocket of her gown and dropped to her bed. Then she pulled her necklace off, her palm guarding the crystal stargaze from the light.
This keepsake didn’t disturb her so much, the stargaze a talisman of the moment her destiny changed. The silver links of the chain were cool, trailing down her arm while she traced the crystal tiers with her fingertip.
Tonight, supper had been long.
She and her father talked well past dessert, just as they had the night before. She was still uncomfortable around him, and the Patron was hardly more at ease than she.
But he was persistent, skillful in preventing the awkward pauses which might have dammed the flow of conversation. The topic tonight had been safe, her father discussed the season, confiding that he was thinking about adding to his estate with one in the southeast.
“Properties like this rarely come to purchase,” he said. “However, his son is frivolous and prefers city life.”
“But it’s far from here. How can you watch over both?”
“It would be foolish of me to attempt it,” the Patron replied. “Frankly, I think this would be ideal for you.”
The girl said nothing, just set down her fork and stared at him.
“The estate’s small,” he continued, “but the soil is so rich you could grow just about anything. There’s also a nice stretch of woods, perfect for riding and hunting.”
“It’s a long distance, Papa.”
“Yes, but not so much I couldn’t guide you through any concerns until you were ready to run it on your own. That shouldn’t take long. You’re very capable.”
“You would need at least one full day’s travel if you run the horses hard. But more likely it’s a two-day journey.”
“And that would serve you well, don’t you think?” The Patron spoke softly, eyeing her with raised brows. “Are you really so attached here, Daughter?”
The girl chortled before she could stop herself, glancing to the attendants just as their eyes flicked to each other.
“No, Papa. Of course I’m not.”
They sipped their wine without speaking for a few minutes.
“Good society there from what I’ve heard,” the Patron mused. “The people are said to be quite eccentric, but charming.”
“You don’t think they’d wonder about an unmarried woman as their Patroness?”
“You would be properly introduced, so what is there to suspect?”
The girl scarcely tasted the last bites of dessert, her mind digesting her father’s plan.
As one of the most respected Patrons on the continent, an introduction from him would be invaluable. And although he hadn’t said so, she suspected the people there had heard nothing about her.
At least not yet they hadn’t.
“I must admit this sounds intriguing, Papa. But scandal can travel to great lengths.”
“How unfortunate it is that you’re right,” the Patron said, glaring at the servants until they began to fidget. “Really, the consequences for gossip can never be severe enough.”
His tone was mild, but the faces of their attendants paled.
The girl suppressed the urge to chuckle, the thought crossing her mind that such restraint might kill the Cook.
“Thank you, Papa. I’ll think about it.”
The girl still couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed.
When she opened her eyes just before the lunch hour, the smiling warmth of her maid was the first she saw before the servant wished her a good day.
The stable hands had been deferential when she came to the barn, her favorite steed ready for her.
She hadn’t gone to the village yet to see how she would fare with the merchants, but she was certain they would be courteous when she did.
Just like that, her formal ostracism was gone, now that had word spread that the Patron was speaking to her again.
Yet the girl knew she would always be marked.
Her father’s suggestion was really too wonderful, and she needn’t worry about the taint spreading any farther.
The girl sighed, turning her head to see the candle melt dripping from the night lamps to the floor. Startled, she looked out the window and saw the moon at its peak in the sky.
She must have fallen into a daze. The hour was much later than she thought.
But on this night, she was in her room, instead of the Caverns.
The blessed relief made her fall back on her bed.
The Dead Heart
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Image by Gloria Williams from Pixabay
His sleep was dreamless.
The Sorcerer woke up into her cold blue gaze.
The girl was dressed, watching him with a bland expression as she handed him his robes. She stayed quiet until he’d put them on.
“I believe you have something for me,” she said.
The Sorcerer looked at his former protegée and nodded.
He got up, shocked at the pain searing through him while searching amongst the shelves. He kept his back to the girl until he found the promised magic dust that would protect her in moments of danger.
The Sorcerer had never before had cause to notice the emptiness inside him after a seduction came to an end. Exhaustion he hadn’t known since he’d been mortal spread through his limbs when he found the leather pouch.
Then he glimpsed the black velvet bag, nestled in the corner of the highest shelf, and his spirit lifted. The Sorcerer had actually forgotten about the girl’s heart.
No wonder he was so tired.
He turned around and handed the young woman the pouch of magic dust that she could use to turn anybody into anything she wanted with a word.
She took it in hand, but eyed him closely, with a slight scowl.
So the girl noticed his shift in mood. Good. That was very good.
Her powers of observation were impeccable, one of the many reasons she was the most satisfying conquest he’d enjoyed in centuries.
“Use this with caution,” the Sorcerer advised her for the last time. “You only need a pinch. It’s very powerful.”
The nodded, ruffling her skirts to pocket the leather pouch.
“I don’t know if the world is ready for you,” the Sorcerer mused. “But you’re more than ready for the world. Good luck in your new life.”
The girl nodded absently, and said nothing.
She stared up the tunnel for a minute before taking her first step out of the Caverns. But once she started, her progress was steady as she made her way up the stairs.
The Sorcerer watched her go, a sharp stab in his breast catching him off guard so much that he almost doubled over.
This pain was confusing. He had no reason to suffer. The Sorcerer glanced at the black velvet bag, his dry mouth salivating. Soon, he would get what he really needed, and this ache inside his breast would soon be gone.
The girl stopped halfway up the spiral.
Her halt was so sudden the Sorcerer wondered if she could hear what he was thinking.
She looked down at him, her brows drawn close.
The Sorcerer knew what her question would be before she spoke, her contralto voice echoing down the tunnel.
“What are you going to do with my heart, Sorcerer?”
“I’m going to eat it.”
The Sorcerer was pleased that he didn’t hesitate in his answer. And thus, he dispelled the last vestiges of the illusion of love.
The girl’s face paled and the Sorcerer felt like himself again, reveling in the new surge of vitality in his blood.
“I always knew there would be a hidden cost,” she murmured.
The girl turned her face to the sky, deep lavender in the hour before sunrise, and finished her climb out of the Caverns and disappeared.
She would be all right, the Sorcerer thought, confident he’d done better by her than to any of his other conquests.
With everything she’d gained from him, her power was formidable.
The Sorcerer shook the torpor from his limbs and turned back to the shelf, his eyes reaching for the velvet bag before he got it in hand.
Pulling the gathers open, his innards clenched when he saw the heart. He had never waited so long to feed.
But first, he had to bring it back to life.
The heart was so quiet and still.
The Sorcerer waved his hand over the bag and whispered the spell of awakening.
Then he waited, but nothing happened.
Jostling the bag between his fingers, his voice rumbled with another command to make the organ pulse again.
But the heart rocked in silence.
The Sorcerer frowned.
This had never happened before.
Those were powerful spells.
But now he needed his strongest remedy.
The Sorcerer searched until he found a tonic he once used to bring a dead man back to life. He held his breath as he sprinkled a few drops and waited.
Nothing changed.
He doused the heart with the tonic, massaging the supple tissue, and muttered the most powerful incantation in his memory, a spell that had never failed him until now.
A crest of panic rose in his breast, but the Sorcerer pushed it down.
This couldn’t be happening.
The Sorcerer had no appetite for a stillborn heart.
The girl’s heart had to be alive.
The Seeds of Transformation
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Image by Meryl Katys from Pixabay
The Sorcerer jostled the remaining drops into a ruby swirl and shook his head.
Perhaps he’d get another week out of the Trainer, but no more.
He glanced at his collection of vials. He had nothing that could compare to this one.
Most of the essences were yellow because the weak of will were easy to catch. Melancholic blues were too ascetic for the drive of lust. His black essence was a rutting brute, nothing seductive about him.
Maybe one of the greens would be acceptable. They were the romantics, the poets, artists, and dreamers.
He hadn’t another red because that kind of man was the most rare.
The Sorcerer cursed himself.
He should’ve introduced the essence of another man to his protégée much sooner under the reasoning that the most skilled seductresses take on many lovers.
Yet when the time came to transform, the Sorcerer always gave in to the lure of the Trainer’s red.
In all these years, he’d never been so careless.
He knew how perilous it was to take on the essence of another man.
Whenever he transformed, that man’s identity would take over and he would absorb the memories and personality of one who left a piece of himself behind in a garment marked with his blood or sweat, and the Sorcerer would fall into the passive role of an observer.
But at last, he could feel again.
Sentiment, affection, and attachment could destroy him, but to have them again was always such a relief.
The Trainer was the most intoxicating essence he’d ever had.
The first change the Sorcerer noticed was the surge of passionate joy; he became delirious with a love for life.
When he stepped out of the mist from the cauldron engulfed with the Trainer’s essence for the first time, and saw the girl gaping at him in horrified disbelief, he almost laughed out loud.
But she still couldn’t resist him.
The Sorcerer hardly blamed her; he was every bit as seduced by the Trainer as she was.
The Sorcerer used to watch them when they came to his parts seven years before.
When he first heard the rumble of their horses, he had thought another posse had gathered to hunt him down.
This was a common occurrence after his conquests, and he had recently claimed the daughter of a neighboring patron.
The Sorcerer smiled as he recalled how beautiful she had been with her fair hair and luminous skin.
Yet she was utterly ridiculous, fancying herself in love with the essence he used to seduce her.
The Sorcerer had chosen a green, a playwright of lyrical romances, because she dreamed of performing on stage.
Although she was engaged to another man, the maiden couldn’t resist the temptation to realize her fantasy, acting out one of the young man’s more scandalous plays to its climax when the leading lady surrendered to the call of the flesh.
After the seduction had reached its consummation, the playwright’s essence collapsed.
When the maiden had woken up to the reality of what she’d done, that was the moment the Sorcerer claimed the payment of her heart.
That conquest had left him in an irritation of malcontent that would persist for weeks.
These girls were all alike.
The Sorcerer always seduced them through their vanity.
The highborn girls were more than willing to disgrace their families and sell their hearts just to gratify a fleeting illusion.
It was too easy, really. The terminable sameness of it all was tedious.
If the Sorcerer didn’t need them for his immortality, he wouldn’t bother with the little fools.
So on the day he heard the resounding gallop of horses halt at the river before the Ancient Grove, the Sorcerer shook his head in disgust. With the spell he used to safeguard his Caverns, the humiliated fiancé and dishonored father were absurd if they believed they could ever find him.
Nonetheless, the Sorcerer poured the liquid cloud to watch them become lost in the trees.
Then he cast his mind, the Sorcerer was surprised to see the Patron’s daughter instead, riding with young man who was clearly in service to her father.
The girl had changed much since he last saw her.
She wasn’t a woman yet, but she was no child either.
The Sorcerer had never seen her escort before.
The young man was handsome, but the patches holding his pants together showed he was not her equal.
Yet the young man lacked the downcast humility of servants. There was a devil-may-care gleam in his eyes, even when he shuddered and peered into the dark trees.
“I see your point, little Miss. This place doesn’t feel too good.”
“I told you,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“Let’s head north a bit first. If it gets no better, I promise you we’ll leave. Okay?”
The girl frowned, gazing in the direction he pointed where the trees stood half as tall as those before her.
With long skirts flowing down the flank of her horse, she looked like the proper young lady she was born to be.
It was incredible she was even here.
The Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove were forbidden and her father was known for being strict.
There was fear in the girl’s eyes, but she still nodded her agreement.
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe it.
Her escort had sharp instincts.
The northwest end of the Valley edged the woods of No Man’s Land. There the border separated them from the country to the west.
The Sorcerer had no power there beyond the ability to watch them through second sight.
The distance was enough to put the girl and the strange young man at ease. They stayed for the rest of the afternoon.
The Sorcerer was intrigued with what he saw.
The pair returned most days that summer, riding through his domain in haste to the northwest side of the Abandoned Valley where the light was softer, the trees shorter and the air filled with the music of birds.
The Sorcerer watched over them every time they came.
He learned the young man had been a wanderer who adventured in the most exotic reaches of the world, stowing away on a ship only to return to the country of his birth.
Like all vagabonds when they finally came home, he was met with suspicion wherever he went until he convinced the Patron to hire him to train the gray colt he always rode.
The girl had never interested him before with her homely face and sullen demeanor.
But over the following months, the unloved daughter of the Patron blossomed under the Trainer’s influence.
And the Sorcerer changed his mind.
Each day, the adventurer regaled her with jokes and outrageous stories.
With her solemn nature, the girl scowled at him often.
But one day, she finally grinned and soon afterwards, started to smile.
The girl burst into her first giggle towards the end of spring.
She looked startled at the sound, hiding her mouth with her hands.
By mid summer, she broke apart into peals of laughter, throwing her head back just like the Trainer did.
Her metamorphosis was absolutely compelling.
For the first time in far too long, the Sorcerer was intrigued.
Dangerous to Don the Essence of Another Man
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
Then the day came when the Trainer lost his shirt.
It was the hottest afternoon of the summer, the light wind making the heat worse.
As the pair raced their mounts, the scorching air made a second skin of their clothes.
Rough with nubs and irritating to the flesh, the Trainer scratched and pulled at the blouse glued to his trunk. He tore off the offensive garment and tucked it under the saddle flap, chuckling as the girl blushed and averted her eyes.
“I’ll race you again to the other side!” he shouted. “And this time I’ll win!”
The Trainer kicked the flanks of the colt before she could react and emerged the victor as promised.
But he didn’t notice the smock coming free from the saddle and floating along the breeze before sinking into the long grass.
An hour later he noticed its absence, but by then they were in a rush to get back to the manor. The Trainer donned a spare he kept in his rucksack and left behind a shirt drenched in his sweat.
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe his fortune.
He waited until nightfall before venturing beyond his domain to get the precious garment.
The Sorcerer had been tempted to boil it down many times over the years, but he resisted until he could finally claim the girl.
The result might have been a catastrophe.
He had never witnessed anything other than brotherly affection in the Trainer.
If that were the true measure of his sentiment, the Sorcerer would feel no desire when he took on that essence.
But his concerns were needless.
When he stepped out of the mist to meet the girl grown into a woman, he saw her through the Trainer’s eyes. Through the Trainer’s flesh he responded, yet also through his heart.
When the girl burst into tears, the Sorcerer marveled how natural it was to be tender with her.
So the Trainer did have such feelings for the girl, even when she was young.
His original intention had been to mold her into the perfect concubine, but the Sorcerer was surprised at the pleasure he took in mentoring her.
She had a most intense focus; she was intelligent with a gift for asking the right questions.
The Sorcerer could not resist such a pupil.
As the months passed, he gave her far more knowledge than he meant to, going beyond the ancient texts on carnal arts.
In the past few days, he struggled to find new lessons and realized he’d taught her everything he knew.
But he couldn’t regret that decision.
Once the years of civilized denial shed from her, unveiled was an animal magnetism unusual for women.
Her features were as savage as ever, but the ugliness now suited the girl and made her presence devastating. When she strode into his Caverns, it was with the strut of an outlaw.
The Sorcerer was overwhelmed with pride for his creation.
She was a masterpiece.
Then there was their coupling.
He had never experienced anything quite like her.
From the first night, she plunged into the realm of fantasy with breathtaking abandon.
And the pleasure that was already exquisite became indescribable when the girl showed initiative and nurtured her unique expression in the subtleties of physical love.
This was the only time a seduction borne from illusion became passion that pulsed with life of its own.
The Sorcerer cherished this chance to forget who and what he was, succumbing to the allure of being a man taking possession of his woman, only to want her more after his craving was satisfied.
No conquest ever had this effect on him.
It was dangerous to don the essence of another man.
The morning the Sorcerer saw how little was left of the ruby liquid, a melancholy stupor weighed on his limbs as he slid that vial back in the rack and chose a deep green.
He would never feel that way again once the Trainer was used up.
Yet the Sorcerer prepared his lesson with the object of introducing another lover, hoping he hadn’t waited too long.
Then his protégée was late.
By the time he heard the near silent footfall on the stairs, he was convinced she wasn’t coming.
There was no relief to his unease when he saw her.
The girl was different tonight.
She was almost beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her eyes glimmering.
And the Sorcerer sensed a current running through her so strong the air around the girl was palpating.
She was excited about something.
But the cause of her excitement had nothing to do with him or the Trainer’s essence.
Could Liberation Really Last Forever?
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Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
She wondered if she had grown taller.
When she walked, her limbs stretched longer with each stride. She was stronger and more agile, riding the stallions with more boldness than ever.
She breathed deeply, the smoky air tingling her nose and throat.
The trees seemed on fire when breezes swayed the branches and ruffled the leaves.
She relished the layers of herbs and spices in food that now seemed to have more taste.
When she listened to music, the notes vibrated through her, trilling along sinew and bone.
Everything around the girl pulsed with life and she couldn’t get enough.
She fell out of the habit of breakfast because of her long nights in the Caverns, sleeping until lunch.
The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.
Yet they always came together for dinner.
The table was covered with white linen, laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters, the parlor illuminated by triads of candles along the buffet.
Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table.
The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden by the trappings of formal dining.
They took their seats the same moment a troupe of musicians struck the first notes.
Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song.
One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch.
Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close.
She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table.
A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat.
But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed.
Did he suspect?
The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes.
His scrutiny made the girl uneasy.
She avoided glancing at him while they ate, only facing him after her plate and bowl were empty.
The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity.
Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table.
She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.
****
Something wasn’t right.
The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible.
His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until one day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house.
This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on those days she was inclined to paint, and he could understand why.
The panorama of the rolling fields and the forest to the east was lovely, especially with the foliage rich in the warm light of the sun falling west, the deep blue sky slowly giving way to evening.
The Patron grew calm as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees and breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. It was a pity his daughter wasn’t here to paint this scene.
Her easel stood ready for her with a fresh canvas, the palette and brushes resting on the shelf, her finished work stacked on a small table.
He glanced from the easel to the settee nestled between its legs.
The watercolors she’d done that summer were face-down, secured from the breezes with a stone.
The more the Patron thought about it, the more peculiar he found it that his daughter ever started painting again. Art had never been a pastime she cared for and she had complained about the subject more than once.
Her duenna had been adamant she learn, for highborn young ladies were expected to be accomplished in all the arts. But once her instructor left, the girl never practiced again.
What muse could have changed her mind?
The disturbance niggled away in the back of his mind, enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and the forest beyond.
The Patron reached for the rock and hesitated, hating himself for intruding on his daughter’s privacy.
But something was wrong and his daughter couldn’t object too much if she left her watercolors where anybody could see them.
After another moment’s pause, he set the rock aside and turned over the top canvas.
His hand started to shake when he saw the image painted there.
His daughter’s duenna had been the most respected matron in her profession, so much that he had had to wait several months before he could hire her.
He flipped through the pile of watercolors and saw her reputation had been well deserved.
His daughter had hated this subject, but her learning was so thorough she could pick up a brush several years later and do a fine job of bringing the Horse Trainer back to life.
Every painting was of him.
He looked through them all.
There was no mistaking the cause behind the smoldering eyes and the collapsed features.
The Patron knew the look of a lover when he saw one.
Taste of Power
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Image by Daina Krumins from Pixabay
Her days transformed along with her nights from the time their arrangement began.
A few weeks after she started going to the Caverns, the girl went for her late afternoon ride, but changed course.
Instead of going south through the village or west toward the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a younger forest. She didn’t know what compelled her to go to this place where she hadn’t been in years.
She used to come here with the Horse Trainer on those afternoons they weren’t inclined to go to the Abandoned Valley. She hadn’t been back since he had gone.
In these woods, the Trainer had introduced her to the ways of the wanderer.
The unlikely mentorship started because she didn’t believe his stories about stowing away in the lowest reaches of the ships, escaping from angry sheikhs, and traveling across deserts by camel.
She didn’t think such adventures were possible for a penniless vagabond. She remembered how ashamed she’d been when she saw the outrage in his eyes.
The Trainer noticed and smiled.
“I’m a lot of things,” he’d said. “But I’m no liar. I dare you to find out just how wrong you are, little Miss.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can show you how a man can live off nothing. You just have to be willing to learn.”
During the rest of that summer, she often regretted accepting that challenge.
Those were the only lessons she struggled with in her life.
The Trainer didn’t make it easy for her, and she hated him whenever he laughed at her.
But he taught her everything he knew.
He showed her how to make a pole and line to catch fish, how to shoot a rifle, even how to hunt with a knife if that was all she had. He insisted she skin her own kills and cook the meat in a skillet over a fire, which he also taught her to make. He instructed her in building a camp when she had something to work with and when she had nothing.
It took the entire summer for her to master these strange skills, but these lessons gave her the most gratification of anything she’d ever learned.
She hadn’t thought about that season for years, pushing those days to the furthest recesses of her mind. But as she cantered the reddish brown steed around the bend of the river, she kept her eye out for their favorite fishing spot.
Their poles were still there.
The long sticks leaned against the tree as if they had been waiting for the pair to return and cast their lines.
She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole.
She had struggled to carve it until it the Horse Trainer felt it was right.
She bent it slightly and chuckled when the wood split down the middle. She wasn’t at all surprised when she tried the Trainer’s pole and found it still strong and flexible.
The girl hesitated for just an instant before throwing off her skirts and jacket. Clad in peasant breeches and a blouse, she crouched and clawed through the mud for worms. Before long, she had her line cast in the river and after an hour, she pulled in her first catch.
Practicing these forgotten skills, the past intertwined with the present to bring her a peace she hadn’t known for too long.
The girl often looked around, for the Trainer’s presence was so strong she almost expected to find him.
But the memories were enough.
That day, the girl floated through a haze of reminiscence.
She even forgot her ostracism and brought her catch to the kitchen, just as she had that summer years ago. But sight of the corpulent spread of a back bent over the stoves thrust her into the present again.
The girl stopped in her tracks.
Pain exploded in her core, sending an upsurge of bile to the back of her tongue. Before she could move, the Cook turned around, her murky eyes flickering to the line of trout.
Her face mottled when she flushed. Averting her eyes, the Cook mumbled thanks as she took the fish from the girl’s hand.
Her contentment went sour and the girl cursed her absence of mind.
But the next night she thought better of it when she saw the main course was filet of trout on a mound of string beans.
The girl tasted the Cook’s shame in each bite and savored her dinner more than she had in a long time.
She came back to the kitchen the following afternoon and held a skinned rabbit above her head.
Again, the Cook flushed. Yet she reached for the offering. When the Cook’s fingers brushed against her knuckles, she looked up and the girl saw she was afraid.
Something shifted inside the girl in that moment.
In the face of the Cook’s fear, she felt invincible.
She came to the kitchen every day after that, relishing that sensation every time the Cook reached for her kills.
The girl had become somebody she didn’t understand.
By summer’s end, she welcomed the silence that had sent her to the river in despair. Her near exile now served her well, making it easy for her to come and go as she liked.
In being an outcast, the girl now found her freedom.
The Erotic Life With a Phantom Lover
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Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay
He nibbled along her throat while unlacing her gown.
Her bodice slipped free and the girl shuddered from the caress of his calloused palms over her breasts and down her belly.
The unfamiliar taunt of desire had already penetrated her before he reached under her rump and picked her up, pressing her against the Cavern walls, the black stone cold and hard against her back.
The girl knotted her legs around him, yearning to take him inside her.
As they had the first night, the girl and her Phantom Lover made love until exhaustion took its claim.
The girl fought off the urge to sleep, but she succumbed. In her dreams, she relived the pleasure of their coupling, only to wake up to the same loathing that made her want to crawl out of her skin when the Phantom was gone and she saw the Sorcerer of the Caverns watching her.
Thus their time always came to an end.
But hatred would be far from her mind the following night when she wound her way through the lilies to the runaway stallion.
Then she rushed through the woods and spiraled down to the Sorcerer waiting for her with his pointer and easel, the pages of drawings concealed.
The girl always closed her eyes when the Phantom came for her.
When she didn’t see the Cavern walls around her, she could forget the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive.
She could forget he would not be as she once knew him if he were.
With her eyes shut, she could fall into the fantasy and allow his Phantom to consume her.
When she didn’t see him, his touch went deeper and his smell transported her to the summer she learned what it was to feel joy.
The Phantom could have her any way he wanted, so long as her craving was satisfied and the throbbing of her empty space remained quiet.
It was the only time she felt whole.
In the early weeks, the girl detested the Sorcerer’s lessons.
The Sorcerer with his pointer and his easel was a reality she couldn’t deny.
Many weeks passed before she finished the first assignment and gave in to her own pleasure. It was a revelation when the inner fortress she lived in all her life crumbled.
The Sorcerer never had to teach her anything twice after that.
Most of his lectures had little to do with carnal skill. Her mentor was adamant seduction begin in the mind before the body surrendered or the heart claimed.
As she listened to him talk about the greatest lovers in history, the girl realized it was the Sorcerer who was seducing her, even if he needed the essence of the Trainer to do so.
She also understood that for all his knowledge, there was only one truth: she would never gain mastery over another until she was mistress over herself.
This lesson was the most difficult.
Every time the Phantom came for the girl, her self-command dissolved into the throbbing of her hollow.
The girl began keeping her eyes open when they made love.
She was frightened the first time she witnessed his surrender. She even had to fight the urge to close her eyes and fall back into fantasy.
Then she became fascinated with his pleasure, exploring ways she could bring the Phantom to higher peaks.
The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she had orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. A climax like nothing she dreamed possible, the tingling exploding until both body and mind were shattered.
Then she came back stronger.
Her appetite for lovemaking became insatiable.
The girl and her Phantom Lover made a game out of it, a competition to be the one to bring the other to the edge, only to send them into the abyss and fall in afterwards.
They laughed often, for pleasure was assured. But the girl couldn’t get enough of that feeling when it was she who had brought the Phantom to surrender.
The girl often had to fight to keep her hold on reality when fantasy threatened to intrude.
Sometimes she almost succumbed to the belief the Phantom was the Horse Trainer.
When he looked at her a certain way or kissed her with more tenderness than ardor, but especially when he laughed, the Phantom was so much like her friend joy burst inside, and she embraced the Phantom as her beloved.
But waking up to the Sorcerer always reminded her of what she was really doing.
Finally her loathing disappeared.
As summer drew to a close, she had a sentiment akin to gratitude when she saw the Sorcerer.
Vagabond Found
/
The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed.
He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color.
Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door.
The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died.
Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.
The Vagabond came in early spring, just after his daughter’s thirteenth birthday.
A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies.
Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.
“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”
“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”
His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places.
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.
The Vagabond faced him then and smiled.
His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.
“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”
“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”
“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”
“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”
“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.
“Yeah. Really.”
The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn.
He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses.
But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.
“What a beauty!”
“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”
His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions.
The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer.
But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.
“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.
“Sure.”
“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”
“I know I can.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him.
“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”
The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment. But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared.
Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive.
The Patron had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.
“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”
He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly.
The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own.
He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches.
The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal. But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay.
“Thief…”
“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”
“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”
The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.
“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”
The Patron knew it was madness to hire someone with nobody to recommend him for such a post.
He could still see that peculiar young man as he had been on that day.
A golden mist surrounded him, and the Patron tried to convince himself it was a trick of light from the sun shining through clouds and rain. But that Vagabond was the most radiant being he had ever seen.
When he shook his head to dispel the mirage, the other glowed even more, and when the Vagabond extended his hand, the Patron accepted the offer before he knew what he was doing.
The Patron struggled to finish his breakfast as he relived that fateful morning.
He could still feel the pull of destiny when he shook hands with his new Horse Trainer more than seven years ago.
The irony puzzled him ever since, for he never doubted that decision.
Yet the Patron also knew the Vagabond had been the gravest mistake of his life.
Pariah Metamorphosis
/
Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay
All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother.
The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. His daughter’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his beloved wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined his daughter’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women.
She possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed she had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas.
The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. He couldn’t understand how that happened, for nothing had changed.
She was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance. People stared at her or ignored her just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear while she went through her day as alone as ever. She now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, she had become someone who didn’t need anybody.
He wasn’t the only one to notice the changes in his daughter.
Her lady’s maid seemed more intimidated by her than she used to be.
She stopped using the back laces of her gowns as a corset, dressing her mistress in the manner she found most comfortable.
The stable boys often gazed after her when she left the stables, and even the Cook stared at her whenever she passed with troubled eyes.
His daughter had become fascinating, but she was a stranger to them all.
As the Patron observed her, he found himself wishing he knew what her thoughts were.
Yet every time he looked into her cold blue eyes, he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her. The horror the Patron had felt when he had found no heartbeat, followed with his accusations, and her protest of innocence.
“How could you do this? You are far too young!”
The Patron could still see the bewilderment in her eyes as the girl shook her head.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
But the Patron just turned his back and walked away, leaving his daughter to her fate.
Sometimes he had overheard people express admiration for his mercy in allowing his daughter to stay on at the house.
And every time the Patron felt sick inside.
He was haunted by the decision he’d made, and the doubts he buried in the back of his mind became a dull roar that made his head ache.
The conversation he had with the Cook one morning gave no relief to his growing unease.
The Patron almost groaned aloud when he came into the dining parlor and saw the expanse of the Cook’s wide back.
Her table-side manner left much to be desired.
He was surprised to see her so soon, for the Cook only left her stoves when the kitchen girls were too ill to serve. It was the peak of autumn, too early for the maladies to start going around the village.
For the sake of keeping his patience, he thought of the supper he enjoyed the previous night.
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your recipes this summer. But last night you outdid yourself.”
“Thank you, Patron!” the Cook said, her eyes lighting up.
“I especially liked the soup, but I didn’t recognize the meat. What was it?”
“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a pair of wild hares freshly killed. The soup was already done, but I thought they’d go well. So I diced the meat small to fry up quick and threw it in.”
“That explains it,” he said. “I haven’t had rabbit for a long time. How did you get it?”
The Patron was surprised when the Cook didn’t answer right away.
Her fleshy features puckered at the question, which was never a good sign.
He leaned back in his chair and waited.
“From your daughter, Patron.”
He set his coffee down.
The Cook flushed and her speech was rushed.
“Truth be told, Patron, I think your praise of my dinners has more to do with her hunting than my cooking. Near every day she comes to the kitchen with something.”
“Does she? And how long has she been doing this?”
“Since last spring. She brought in a string of fish out of nowhere one day.”
The Cook hesitated before going on, her tone dropping to a whisper.
“I must say, Patron, it’s been a long time since she’s done anything like that. Not since-”
“I remember quite well when she used to bring wild meat to the kitchen.”
Haze of Reminiscence
/
Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay
The girl always closed her eyes when the Phantom came for her.
When she didn’t see the Cavern walls around her, she could forget that the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive. She could forget that even if he were, the Horse Trainer would not be as she once knew him.
With her eyes shut, she could fall into the fantasy and allow his Phantom to consume her.
When she didn’t see him, his touch went deeper and his smell transported her to the summer she learned what it was to feel joy. The Phantom could have her any way he wanted, so long as her craving was satisfied and the throbbing of her empty space quiet.
It was the only time she felt whole.
In the early weeks, she detested the lessons.
The Sorcerer with his pointer and his easel was a reality she couldn’t deny.
Many weeks passed before she finished the first assignment and gave in to her own pleasure. It was a revelation when the inner fortress she lived in all her life crumbled once she did.
The Sorcerer never had to teach her anything twice after that.
Most of his lectures had little to do with carnal skill.
Her mentor was adamant that seduction must begin in the mind before the body would surrender or the heart would be claimed.
As she listened to him talk about the greatest lovers in history, the girl realized it was the Sorcerer who was seducing her, even if he needed the essence of the Trainer to do so.
She also understood that, for all his knowledge, there was only one truth.
She would never gain mastery over another until she was mistress over herself.
This lesson was the most difficult.
Every time the Phantom came for the girl, her self-command dissolved in the throbbing of her hollow.
She began keeping her eyes open when they made love.
She was frightened the first time she witnessed his surrender. She even had to fight the urge to close her eyes and fall back into fantasy.
Then she became fascinated with his pleasure, exploring ways she could bring him to higher peaks.
The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. That climax was like nothing she dreamed possible, the tingling exploding until both body and mind were shattered.
Then she came back stronger.
Her appetite for lovemaking became insatiable.
The girl and her Phantom Lover made a game out of it, a competition to be the one to bring the other to the edge, only to send them into the abyss and fall in afterwards.
They laughed often, for pleasure was assured.
But the girl couldn’t get enough of that feeling when it was she who brought the Phantom to surrender.
The girl often had to fight to keep her hold on reality when fantasy threatened to intrude.
Sometimes she almost succumbed to the belief the Phantom was the Horse Trainer. When he looked at her a certain way or kissed her with more tenderness than ardor, but especially when he laughed, he was so much like her friend that joy burst inside the girl, and she embraced the Phantom as her beloved.
But waking up to the Sorcerer always reminded her of what she was really doing.
Finally her loathing disappeared.
As summer drew to a close, she had a sentiment akin to gratitude when she saw the Sorcerer.
Her days transformed along with her nights from the time their arrangement began.
A few weeks after she started going to the Caverns, the girl went for her late afternoon ride, but changed course. Instead of going south through the village or west towards the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a young forest.
She didn’t know what compelled her to go to this place where she hadn’t been in years.
She used to come here with the Horse Trainer on those afternoons they weren’t inclined to go to the Abandoned Valley. She hadn’t been back since he was gone.
In these woods, the Trainer had introduced her to the ways of the wanderer.
The unlikely mentorship started because she didn’t believe his stories about stowing away in the lowest reaches of the ships, escaping from angry sheikhs, and traveling across deserts by camel.
She didn’t think such adventures were possible for a penniless vagabond. She remembered how ashamed she’d been when she saw the outrage in his eyes.
The Trainer had noticed and smiled.
“I’m a lot of things,” he’d said. “But I’m no liar. I dare you to find out just how wrong you are, little Miss.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can show you how a man can live off nothing. You just have to be willing to learn.”
During the rest of that summer, she often regretted accepting that challenge.
Those were the only lessons she struggled with in her life.
The Trainer didn’t make it easy for her, and she hated him whenever he laughed at her. But he taught her everything he knew.
He showed her how to make a pole and line to catch fish, how to shoot a rifle, even how to hunt with a knife if that was all she had.
He insisted she skin her own kills and cook the meat in a skillet over a fire, which he also taught her to make.
He instructed her in building a camp when she had something to work with, and even when she had nothing.
It took the entire summer for her to master these strange skills, but these lessons gave her the most gratification of everything she’d ever learned.
She hadn’t thought about that season for years, pushing those days to the furthest recesses of her mind.
But as she cantered the reddish brown steed around the bend of the river, she kept her eye out for their favorite fishing spot.
Their poles were still there.
The long sticks were leaned against the tree, as if they were waiting for them to return and cast their lines.
She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole she’d struggled to carve until it was right. She bent it slightly and chuckled when the wood split down the middle.
She wasn’t at all surprised when she tried the Trainer’s pole and found it still strong and flexible.
The girl hesitated for just an instant before throwing off her skirts and jacket. Clad in peasant breeches and a blouse, she crouched and clawed through the mud for worms.
Before long, she had her line cast in the river and after an hour, she pulled in her first catch.
Practicing these forgotten skills, the past intertwined with the present to bring her a peace she hadn’t known in too long.
The girl often looked around. The Trainer’s presence so strong she almost expected to find him.
But the memories were enough.
Almost Lovely, Defiant Bride
/
The Sorcerer held the vial up to the candle, satisfied with how much essence had been drawn from the crude peasant blouse.
He’d kept it for years before boiling it down.
Glimpsing at the cauldron, he was satisfied that not even a shred of the garment remained. He had extracted every last drop.
The Sorcerer swirled the liquid, admiring its hue. Even after several years, the essence of that young man still retained the dark red of virility.
He knew she would come.
Yet the sound of her first step gratified. Her gait whispered down the spiraling tunnel.
The Sorcerer didn’t move, relishing a mounting excitement he hadn’t known in a long time, waiting for the daughter of the village Patron to appear in his Caverns.
She was almost lovely, a bride presenting herself on her wedding night.
The gown she wore was simple. Pure white muslin with a plunging heart-shaped neckline, the bodice hugging her torso and hips, skirts swelling to her ankles, sleeves flaring from elbow to wrist.
Her golden hair was braided into a long rope falling to her waist.
Her only jewelry was the crystal stargaze hung from a silver chain resting above the modest swell of her breasts.
She stood before him with her shoulders back and head high. Her demeanor was proud, giving the Sorcerer pause before he greeted her.
“I see you didn’t take long to decide.”
“I will accept your offer,” she said. “But you must agree to one request.”
“Go on.”
“Before I lay with you, I want you to take my heart.”
The Sorcerer didn’t answer right away.
He stroked his beard peering at her hands; the traitor of nerves. He looked for clenched fists or twitching fingers, and saw her palms lying at her sides, naturally draped in the folds of her skirts.
“That’s not the way I do things,” he said. “I always take the heart after-”
“Then I will lay with you until I learn every secret you could possibly teach me,” she said, waiting two beats before concluding.
“And I am sure I will pleasure you greatly.”
This he hadn’t expected.
The promise made the blood rush in his veins with a quickening he hadn’t had in too long to remember.
But there was no mistaking her defiance.
The Sorcerer looked into her eyes, noticing for the first time how blue and clear they were. Their depths were pure ice as she gazed at him, waiting for his answer with a touch of disdain.
The girl no longer had the despair that sent her to the river, ready to toss her life away.
The Sorcerer hesitated, uneasy with the sudden change in her.
Then an image of the girl riding a stallion burst into his mind.
Legs gripping flanks, her figure formed with the soft curves of a woman and the hard muscles of a peasant.
She had a sinewy grace unique to a woman, especially when she rode, her body moving in harmony with the beast.
Years would pass before she learned everything he knew.
She would belong to him.
“I think we’ve come to an understanding,” he said, holding out his hand.
****
The girl 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, and he didn’t stop until she was drained.
Otherwise the girl felt nothing when she gave up her heart.
Only the emptiness remained inside her once it was gone, along with a gnawing similar to the one that consumed her when she’d feasted with the Sorcerer 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, the girl found the lifelessness of her heart reassuring.
You Can Have Whatever You Want
/
Image by jinsoo jang from Pixabay
“Your face is so ugly, it’s beautiful.”
She stiffened when she heard that voice.
The baritone rang even deeper and those words echoed around her.
Then she remembered the last moment before she fell into the river and opened her eyes.
The Sorcerer sat on a massive chair. A throne carved from gold and cushioned with blood red velvet. He was watching her, a smile in the wizened shadows of his face.
The girl shuddered and looked away, but all she saw was stone and fire.
The walls were black and gleaming from the light of torches.
Her flesh prickled and her stomach was in knots when she realized the Sorcerer had her. She must be in the Caverns.
She pulled herself up. She rested on a sofa that matched the Sorcerer’s throne, made of gold and velvet pillows the shade of blood.
The girl closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to quell the panic rising inside her.
There had to be a way out.
The Sorcerer couldn’t force her to stay. That she knew from the stories she heard.
She opened her eyes and searched among the walls for hidden corridors, darker spaces that would take her back to the world outside.
When her gaze brushed over the Sorcerer, one finger pointed over her head.
The girl followed his lead and gasped when she saw what rose above her.
She was at the bottom of a tunnel carved deep in the earth.
The descent of black stone glistened from the torches spiraling with the staircase falling into the Caverns.
But it was the colors that riveted her.
Thousands of crystals were embedded in the tunnel walls, and the light from the torches bounced off the facets and set their essence free.
The colors made the most of their captive freedom.
The essence of the crystals swirled in an orgy of coupling and rebirth, a vivid provocation dancing and whirling in the empty space.
Every shade of the spectrum came together and apart, transformed into other hues, their progeny bouncing off the walls before rising to the bright blue sky.
The girl stared into the cyclone of color. Her terror on waking lifted and was gone.
“Go on, Miss,” the Sorcerer said. “Go on up the stairs until you find one you like. You can take it as a gift.”
Without looking at him, she drifted from the sofa to climb the staircase.
She’d never felt so light in her life, her feet seemingly hovering above the steps. She caressed the wall, hand trailing behind her, scarcely touching the cool stone, her fingertips gliding over the mounds of crystals.
Then her fingers clung.
At first, she struggled to go on. She was halfway up the spiral, her gaze fixed on the circle of blue above her. She would be free if she could get to where the sky was infinite.
She pulled harder and the stone surrendered.
The girl stared into her hand at a crystal shaped like a star with eight tiers stretching around her palm.
Then she waved it before the nearest torch, and the crystal exploded a whirlwind of color. The vivid cyclone took her breath away and surrounded her with a disconnected rainbow.
“Excellent choice! Nobody has ever taken a stargaze before.”
The girl started when she heard the voice.
She couldn’t remember where she was.
Looking down, she saw a kindly old man smiling at her from the bottom of the steps.
“You must be hungry,” he called. “Why don’t you come down, get something to eat?”
The girl blinked slowly, tempted to let her eyes rest from the heaviness of her lids.
This must be a dream. She must be immersed in a beautiful vision. She heard a faint voice inside imploring her to beware and to keep going up the stairs.
But she had no desire to obey.
She rubbed her hand over her belly. She was more than hungry; she was empty.
And the old man seemed so gentle.
“I would love something to eat,” she answered. “Thank you.”
Her host snapped his fingers.
Of course this was a dream.
It was impossible that shadows could pour from the walls, carrying heavy golden platters and piling them on the round table.
The wood was dark and the girl suspected the table was carved from the trees in the Ancient Grove.
She floated down the spiral like a specter while a feast fit for a banquet of kings was readied just for her.
Her nostrils fluttered from the aromas rising to meet her, savory, pungent, bitter, sweet, spice, hints of the flavors to come.
The girl took her seat, her eyes wide looking up the mountain of platters towering over her.
Closest to her were the desserts, fragile cake layers held together with ribbons of silken frosting, steam rising from soufflés, while berries of blue, black and red bulged from the delicate confection of mousse, making a perfect marriage of sweet and tart.
This wasn’t a mere supper. This was a festival of the senses.
“Go on,” the old man murmured. “You can have whatever you want. As much as you want.”
Scaring the Devil of Conceit
/
Image by Sammy-Williams from Pixabay
Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.
The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed.
The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth.
The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him.
The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other.
But tonight the young would bear with the heat.
They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.
The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.
The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes. Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.
His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends.
The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn.
The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin.
The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed. With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.
Reluctantly they walked away.
The Bard shook his head.
Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious, arrogant even.
The Bard hoped tonight’s tale would scare the devil of conceit out of his grandson.
A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled.
If nothing else, his grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.
The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story.
The Bard stared into the sea of young faces.
“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began.
“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate.”
“Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble; to be peasant is to be humble. But there, the highborn are ranked by title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common.”
“Such a society is cruel, often mercenary, and always lacking in heart. Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”
The Bard paused for a moment before he began his tale.
“He was the most unscrupulous Rogue in the capital city. He liked to seduce in extremes, virgin daughters or wanton wives were his favorites…”
*****
The inferno had fallen to burning crumbles by the time the Bard brought his story to the end. The room was comfortably warm and the village young were quiet, transfixed by the black silhouette sitting in perfect stillness.
“Life is a funny business,” he said. “One man’s doom is another man’s redemption.
“The Marquis and his daughter didn’t leave the estate for days, terrified of the ruin facing them once they left the sanctuary of the house. But society came to them when his closest neighbor and another gentleman came to the house with the Rogue’s steed. They claimed they had found the horse running wild in the trees where they had been hunting.”
“Before the Marquis could say a word, his neighbor said the Rogue had been missing for days, and rumor had it that Ella Bandita had gotten to him. Since it was well known the Rogue was courting his daughter, he expressed concern and sympathy for their suffering. How the Marquis must have felt in that moment! He recovered enough to say they’d been very distressed he hadn’t come to call in the last few days, and that he was about make inquiries about him.
“The Marquis suggested the rumor may be false, yet it was proven true when the Rogue was found the next day with the same glazed eyes and slack jaw as her other conquests. But he claimed he spent three days and nights with the notorious seductress before she stole his heart.”
The Bard’s voice was smooth and clear, just as it had been at the beginning of his tale. He lit a candle and illuminated his face. His black eyes swept across his young audience before settling on his grandson. He was satisfied to see the boy’s face was slightly pale.
“This was a thrilling tale to be certain, but I hope all of you understand not only is it cruel, it is foolish to abuse the gift of love.”
The boy met his grandfather’s gaze and nodded. The Bard was pleased, relieved to see his grandson understood.
“Follow your heart,” he said. “Remember it’s the most precious part of you. Follow your heart and you will always do right in life.”