The Fall of the Patron and the Rise of the Thief of Hearts
/
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.”
It Always Smells Like Roses Here
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Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay
Adrianna and I stood next to each other in the courtyard, where the lavish carriage stood.
The Wanderer held Celia in a long embrace.
Apparently, Adrianna’s protégée had stayed with the Wanderer in his rooms the two days I was trapped in the DreamTime purgatory.
I must have been in a dead sleep if their noisy lovemaking didn’t wake me.
Finally, the Wanderer kissed Celia on the forehead and stroked the side of her face, and let her go gently.
When Celia turned, I was pleasantly surprised to see the hint of tears in her eyes.
She stopped and curtseyed to us before passing back into the Casa.
I wondered if Celia used rose water as a perfume.
I caught a hint of roses as she passed, but the scent lingered long after she had gone into the house. I frowned and looked around.
Adrianna noticed too. She leaned her head back and smiled, her nostrils flickering as she inhaled.
Before I could ask her about it, the Wanderer approached.
“I’m not particularly fond of good-byes,” he said. “So I guess I’ll see you in a month or so.”
“Oh, you’ll see me much sooner than that,” I said.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Adrianna quipped.
The Wanderer chortled.
“Either way, Adrianna, I’m flexible. Maybe send word out every week or so, and I’ll roam circles around the Capital City with his flock.”
He kissed her on both cheeks.
“Adieu. And thank you so much for the splendid hospitality, and the comfortable ride. I feel like a new man.”
“You are a new man, darling Wanderer. The pleasure was mine. Not as much pleasure as Celia got to enjoy, but I loved having you as a guest.”
The Wanderer chuckled again.
I clasped his hand and the Wanderer pulled me in an embrace. I was surprised at how comforting it felt to be held by my friend. Really, this man was more than a brother to me.
“Don’t worry about the Shepherd,” Adrianna said flippantly. “By the time I’m through with him, he may be too coddled to return to the natural life.”
“I highly doubt that, Adrianna.”
And then you left us, Wanderer. Your part as a character in this story ended and your role as listener began.
With a salute, you stepped into the carriage. Adrianna and I stood there and waved, the scent of roses growing stronger as the carriage disappeared from view.
My heart was heavy once you had gone.
“You are truly blessed in friendship, Shepherd.”
“I know.”
“I’m very pleased you’re staying. I didn’t think you would.”
I nodded.
“I take it the Wanderer talked you into this.”
“That is one way to look at it.”
The elder Courtesan threw her head back and laughed.
And yet again, I was disconcerted by the mannerism that seemed especially peculiar on her.
“Did he blackmail you?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“But you are not here willingly?”
I hesitated, and then shrugged.
“No, I’m not.”
Instead of taking offense, Adrianna sniggered. Her beautiful golden eyes sparkled.
“Nothing quite like a little benevolent coercion, is there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As I said, Shepherd, you are truly blessed in friendship.”
As annoyed as I was with the Wanderer, I laughed with her. I couldn’t remember any other time I had been so adroitly backed into a corner.
“While you are here, my Casa is your Casa.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. I have appointments in town that will keep me away most of the day. I hope you can forgive me, for I never desert my guests. But I honestly didn’t expect you to stay.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Adrianna. I know how to entertain myself.”
The Courtesan paused, her head angled to one side as she peered at me with a strange half smile on her mouth.
“That makes a refreshing change.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Most men I know lack self-containment. They need excessive amounts of attention.”
Adrianna took my hand and squeezed it.
“The Butler loves to give tours of the house and grounds if you get bored, and there’s much you haven’t seen. But now, I must get ready. I’ll see you tonight for dinner on the back patio.”
“Again?”
“Of course. It’s my favorite place to dine.”
What a strange woman she was, this legendary Courtesan.
“Adrianna, do you ever miss the bracing challenges of hardship?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “Dinner is at eight.”
*************
After an hour or two, I understood why Adrianna’s guests needed so much attention.
The relentless luxury of the Casa made me restless, a sensation akin to being trapped and craving escape.
Instead, I crossed paths with the Butler and remembered Adrianna’s suggestion that the Butler loved to give tours of her Casa.
This was the first time I got a good look at the head servant of her household.
I wondered how he came to work here. The Butler carried himself with such dignity and grace I would have expected him in the finest houses.
He was almost as tall as I, and at least ten years older, but his posture was as straight as a rod. His long face was impassive, his pale gray green eyes held a neutral gentility.
Everything in his demeanor bespoke the soul of discretion.
We started in the courtyard before the front door.
The spring snow from a few nights ago had already melted, gone as if it had never happened. On this afternoon, the air was crisp and fresh and the sky blue.
I inhaled.
The phantom scent of roses was still in the air, just as it had been this morning when the Wanderer left.
“It always smells like roses here,” the Butler explained, as if he read my mind. “Even on the coldest day of winter.”
The Artist Consumed
/
I needed to calm myself, to make sense of everything I had heard.
I pulled out my cache of sketches and singled out every one I had done of Woman in those pieces of memory of her that were so vivid, those images etched for eternity into my mind.
I looked through each one, especially of that first night when she was anguished and desperate.
I thought back to that moment when I saw her in the lair of Ella Bandita, the heart of the Wanderer in her hand, while the hearts of all the men she had conquered howled around us.
The raw hunger in her face revealed the kind of desperation that belonged to a predator.
As Woman had taught me that first night, I put my fingers to my throat where my pulse beat in a steady rhythm, and took a few minutes to listen to my heart.
Then I started to draw.
Using the colored pencils Adrianna had given me, I sketched everything that came to mind from Adrianna’s stories - Addie, the Patron’s Daughter, the Noble Son, the Brute, and even the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
All of them were drawn in the backdrop of the fields, the ostentatious Big House, the spartan cabin, the river, and the woods of the Ancient Grove.
I drew the vivid scenes that lingered long after the stories were finished, imagining what they had all been like in that moment.
I imagined the Sorcerer as the cunning manipulator he had to have been, as well as the benevolent mentor to a desperate, young peasant named Addie.
I drew the monstrous behemoth of the Brute with his crude features and cold-blooded gaze.
I drew the haughty and spoiled Patron’s Daughter riding around the fields, with the Noble Son at her side; her expression was smug with a gleam of cruelty in her small, blue eyes as she gloated over Addie with a smirk.
In that sketch, the focus was only on her.
Addie and the Noble Son reduced to blurred, faceless beings, for in this scene, they didn’t matter; the only player who did was the Patron’s Daughter.
I drew a scene at the moment when the Patron’s Daughter spurned a gentleman who had just asked her to marry him. The malicious glee in her face made her radiant while the rejected gentleman was stripped of his dignity, his shoulders fallen and his head bowed low.
Although I had no urge to depict the raunchy intimacies of the Patron’s Daughter with the Brute, I did a close up portrait of her expression in one of those moments.
With the mingling of pain and pleasure, the Patron’s Daughter looked like a patient in an asylum with her face contorted from agony, the glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, and spittle at the corners of her mouth.
Yet she still seemed hungry.
Then I imagined the scene at the river.
I made the figures shadowy as the naked Patron’s Daughter raged over the collapsed form of a sobbing Addie.
Then I drew the Patron’s Daughter and Addie sitting side by side at the river as she confided her reasons for craving the cruelty and humiliation the Brute offered.
There was bewilderment on Addie’s face, but serenity in the Patron’s Daughter.
Then I drew only Addie in various portraits.
I drew her while she toiled in the fields, imagining the tight clamp of her mouth and the bitterness in her eyes.
I drew her while she yearned for the Noble Son, her eyes wide and sparkling from desire, and the dreamy hope that often came with desire.
I sketched her while she grieved and despaired after the Noble Son had gone.
I drew the hatred and envy in Addie as the Patron’s Daughter rode past her, while she toiled in the fields.
I made many likenesses of her, doing the best I could with the homely face and powerful form she described. But I focused mostly on her eyes and the emotions reflected there, her rage, powerlessness, resentment, and that obsession for something better.
I didn’t know if I got her features right, so I concentrated on capturing the essence of an embittered, envious peasant who would have stopped at nothing to escape her miserable fate.
I worked from dawn to dusk, often getting up earlier and staying awake later.
I worked all over the Casa, in the Joy Parlor, in the back patio, the garden during warmer afternoons, and in the theater whenever Adrianna was not there.
Servants, the young courtesans, and a few of the artistic protégées passed me often while I worked. They peered over my shoulder, and made vague expressions of appreciation of the drawings.
I was too consumed with my work to hear or respond, but nobody took offense. Any time I was absorbed in a scene, I couldn’t rest until I was satisfied.
I didn’t stop drawing until I distinguished the story of Addie from the story of Woman.
There was no denying the two women were so much alike.
But their histories were separate, happened at different times, and one didn’t lead to the other.
Finally, I was done.
I made twenty drawings.
When I looked up I had no idea if the darkness was because it was late at night or early in the morning.
The Exile of the Lone Wolf
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Image by นัธทวัฒน์ วสันต์กนกพัชร from Pixabay
“She stole my heart!” the Wolf shouted. “And look at me!”
“Are you now going to insist it was your heart you followed into the tavern?”
The contempt in the Shepherd’s voice was more than the Wolf could bear.
He looked at him and saw deceit, suddenly hating the Shepherd as much as he hated Ella Bandita.
The Wolf stared at his throat and lunged, jaws snapping.
But the Shepherd was swift, throwing himself aside in time to evade him.
The Wolf hit the ground hard, shock numbing his limbs.
His fur stood on end, his snarl echoed in the air only to fall silent when he spun around.
The Shepherd was back on his feet, rifle in hand.
One finger was on the trigger and one eye stared down the foresight, piercing through the madness.
His rage deserted the Wolf.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no…” he moaned. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” the Shepherd said.
“I don’t know what came over me. I would never hurt you.”
“You already have and I want you to leave.”
The thought of being alone again raised a swell of panic inside the Wolf.
He cowered, but the Shepherd kept his rifle aimed on him.
For the first time since the Wolf met him, the Shepherd looked his age, timelessness falling off him like a moth-eaten cloak.
“I’m not joking,” he said. “Get away from me or I’ll kill you.”
The Wolf ran.
He fled across the fields, going deep into the woods so he wouldn’t be seen.
But he still watched the Shepherd from the trees.
His head rested on his bent knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking as only a man weeping could do.
His posture didn’t change for hours.
The Wolf whimpered through the vigil, but was strangely reassured when the Shepherd didn’t leave.
As night fell, the throbbing grew worse in his hollow.
The Wolf resisted the howl building inside him, for he dared not disturb the Shepherd.
Instead, he ran.
But there was no escape from his aloneness.
The night was interminable, the worst he endured in three years and the Wolf despaired the darkness would ever end.
When the horizon streaked with rose, he caught the aroma of smoke.
The Wolf knew the Shepherd must be up, preparing his meals for morning and afternoon, enough to sustain him for a long journey.
Without thinking, the Wolf followed the scent of frying venison, what was left of the deer they killed a couple of weeks ago.
The Shepherd turned when the snap of a branch gave him away.
Shame flooded through the Wolf at his appearance.
He’d never seen the Shepherd so haggard. The lines on his face had deepened overnight and his eyelids were swollen.
“What are you doing here?”
“Please let me come back,” the Wolf begged. “I swear it will never happen again.”
“I can’t. Not after an attack like that.”
“Ella Bandita has destroyed many lives. Does she have to ruin our friendship as well?”
The Wolf knew that was the worst thing he could have said when the Shepherd stared hard at him, his brows drawn together.
“All this was your doing,” he said. “If you refuse to admit that, you have nothing left to say to me.”
“I’m sorry! Surely you must know that.”
“Of course I do. And I’ve already forgiven you for yesterday.”
“Then let me come back,” the Wolf begged. “You know I can’t bear to be alone.”
The Shepherd sighed and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the Wolf saw no hostility in his regard, only sadness. Somehow, that made him feel worse.
“You need to make peace with that fear,” the Shepherd finally spoke. “How can you if you stay with me? You have so much to learn.”
“Like what?” the Wolf muttered.
“Ironically enough, the same lesson Ella Bandita taught me. For all your talk about following your heart, have you ever listened to it?”
His head jerked up and the Wolf was unable to stop himself from baring his teeth.
His fury was sudden, the growl stirring in his belly before he could stop it. He managed to restrain himself enough to grow quiet.
But the Shepherd stared at him and slowly raised his brows.
“Or,” he said. “You could just learn how to be a wolf. You certainly have that nature and you may be this animal for the rest of your life.”
“What do you expect?” the Wolf snapped. “What you just asked of me is impossible.”
“That’s not true,” the Shepherd replied. “Because your heart is always a part of you.”
The Wolf was reminded of the last dream he had about his grandfather and started to cry. He couldn’t feel the tears streaming down his face through the fur, which made him sob even harder.
The Shepherd stroked his back and scratched behind his ears, murmuring soft words of comfort. But the kindness only added to his sorrow.
“I don’t think I can do this,” the Wolf wept. “I’m terrified, Shepherd.”
“I know you are. Just listen to your heart and you’ll never be afraid again.”
Confrontation Between The Shepherd and the Lone Wolf
/
The Wolf had hoped to have his peace of mind restored from the Shepherd’s story.
But there was no relief from the throbbing in his hollow, or from his doubt. His belly ached when he looked at the Shepherd, this friend he cherished more than any he’d ever known.
“How could you not tell me about this?”
“As I said, that night was thirty years ago. Why would I?”
“Stop using time as an excuse,” the Wolf retorted. “I’m twenty six and I’ve heard stories about her since I was five years old. Eternal youth is part of her legend.”
“If I remember correctly,” the Shepherd said. “For a long time you believed Ella Bandita was nothing more than a legend. Did the thought occur to you I didn’t believe it either?”
“But for three years, you knew otherwise. Why did you keep this from me?”
The Shepherd sighed, and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a few minutes before looking back at the Wolf and nodding.
“I always have suspected that girl was Ella Bandita, ever since the stories about her began. But in my heart, I hoped that she wasn’t.”
The Wolf couldn’t say anything.
His range of vision narrowed on the Shepherd, who now seemed far away. The implication behind what was just said nagged at the back of his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away.
“I don’t understand. Do you have any idea how fortunate you are she didn’t harm you?”
The Shepherd smiled.
“And this is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d be upset about it.”
The Wolf couldn’t remember any time his hollow throbbed like this.
In the space where his heart should have been, pressure built from an invisible pulse. The tension invigorated his limbs, making it impossible to remain still.
He got up and paced.
“I know this must be a bitter irony for you,” the Shepherd said. “But that girl taught me to listen to my heart. And I haven’t been afraid ever since.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” the Wolf muttered. “But it still doesn’t fully explain why you never told me about her.”
“Because I can’t stand to dwell on it,” the Shepherd snapped.
The Wolf was startled enough he stopped and stared at him.
“Why?”
“Ella Bandita has destroyed too many lives. If she ever dies, she’s damned.”
“And that is as it should be! How can you have compassion for her?”
The Wolf’s limbs quivered.
Outrage and disbelief escalated the throbbing in his hollow to pure agony.
It didn’t help when he saw the Shepherd peering at him and shaking his head.
“Wolf,” he said slowly. “Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”
“What!”
“When are you going to accept some responsibility for what happened?”
The Wolf thought he might explode.
He itched, imagining the vile that coursed through him, thick with fury and pushing against his veins. He started pacing again, his paws tender thumping along the ground and his head dropping beneath his shoulders.
When he turned the Shepherd’s way again, he caught him looking sideways at his rifle.
“As I recall,” the Shepherd continued. “She tried many times to spare you. Yet you kept going where you knew you weren’t wanted.”
“If you remember everything so well, then you must realize that couldn’t have been true.”
“Oh I remember,” the Shepherd said, a hard edge in his voice. “And didn’t she leave you in the woods? Unharmed, except for your wounded pride.”
“She stole my heart!” the Wolf shouted. “And look at me!”
“Are you now going to insist it was your heart you followed into the tavern?”
The contempt in the Shepherd’s voice was more than the Wolf could bear.
He looked at him and saw deceit, suddenly hating the Shepherd as much as he hated Ella Bandita.
The Wolf stared at his throat and lunged, jaws snapping.
But the Shepherd was swift, throwing himself aside in time to evade him.
The Wolf hit the ground hard, shock numbing his limbs. His fur stood on end, his snarl echoed in the air only to fall silent when he spun around.
The Shepherd was back on his feet, rifle in hand.
One finger was on the trigger and one eye stared down the foresight, piercing through the madness.
His rage deserted the Wolf.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no…” he moaned. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry!”
“I’m sorry too,” the Shepherd said.
“I don’t know what came over me. I would never hurt you.”
“You already have and I want you to leave.”
The Shepherd and the Stranger Girl
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
The girl stood at the edge of his flock.
Up close, the Shepherd saw she was about his age, which caught him off guard. She still had blood caked around her mouth and chin, her skirts stained where she must have wiped her hands.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked, relieved he sounded calm. “May I help you?”
The girl tilted her head to one side.
“Perhaps you can, Shepherd,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice his trembling. “I just stopped to feed and water my flock. We have a long distance to travel tonight.”
She nodded slowly.
Then she bent down and picked up the youngest lamb, the tiny animal struggling against her. But her hold was firm and she gripped its throat with her fingers.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please, Miss. I just want to go with my sheep.”
The girl didn’t answer right away.
His heart roared in his ears when the Shepherd stared into her eyes, chips of ice in the light of the moon.
She finally let go of the throat and stroked the lamb along its back. But she never looked away from him.
“Shepherd, come to me.”
She almost sounded gentle, but her low voice sent tremors along his flesh.
The Shepherd wondered if he’d stepped outside himself.
Part of him detached to bear witness to something that didn’t seem real, even as he pushed through his flock to go to her.
The lamb in her arms was the only thing between them when he stopped.
The girl locked the Shepherd inside her gaze and dropped the animal to the ground.
Without warning, she grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him to her, pressing her ear against his chest.
The illusion of separation disappeared and the Shepherd was back in his skin, his limbs shaking.
He’d never been this close to a woman in his life.
The softness of the girl took his breath away.
“I can feel your heart,” she said. “It’s beating really fast.”
She leaned her head back and stared up at him.
The Shepherd could neither move nor speak, trapped between the warmth of her body and the chill of her eyes.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Shepherd You saw me kill the Sorcerer.”
The girl paused.
“Didn’t you?”
In his mind, the Shepherd saw a shroud held out for him by the Angel of Death.
For a moment, he felt like he’d turned to stone.
Then his knees buckled. The Shepherd collapsed to the ground and started to cry.
The girl ran her fingers through his hair.
He found the gesture terrifying and soothing at once, leaving him no words to plead for mercy and his heart pounding.
The girl came down and knelt before the Shepherd, holding his face and wiping his tears.
Then she lay back upon the ground and pulled him with her, resting his head against her breast.
She kept stroking his hair, his scalp tingling from the brush of her fingers, the vibration of her voice against his cheek.
“So, tell me Shepherd, what do you feel? What do you hear?”
His heart stopped beating for an instant when he realized that all he heard inside the girl was silence.
The Shepherd pulled his head up and stared at her.
“Nothing, Miss.”
“That’s right,” she murmured. “I’m a girl who can live without her heart.”
Then she pushed him to the ground and rolled him on his back.
Nestling along his side, she laid her head on his chest and sighed, her breath seeping into him.
The Shepherd didn’t resist when the girl took his hand and brought it to his neck, pressing his fingers into the groove where his heart echoed. His pulse beat into the tips of his fingers and reverberated through him.
When the girl spoke again, her whisper felt like a caress.
“Listen to your heart,” she said.
****
The Shepherd trailed off, his eyes glazed over looking back on that long ago night.
The Wolf rested on his belly, his forelegs stretched out, blinking when the story came to its close. He shifted his weight and found his limbs were stiff, but the Shepherd remained lost in reverie.
“So then what happened?” the Wolf asked.
The Shepherd started and glanced at him with an expression of mild surprise. Then he shook his head, pausing for another moment before he spoke.
“I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I remember I woke up and she was gone.”
The Wolf Finds The Shepherd
/
His sluggishness immediately gone, he sat up and listened.
He hadn’t the pleasure of music in far too long.
The tune was cheerful, the notes ringing through the trees behind him. The Wolf followed the song where the forest gave way to an open meadow.
He smelled prey before he saw a large flock of sheep roaming through the grass and drinking from the pond. His lips shimmied along his teeth and his nostrils quivered, the instinct to stalk compelling.
There were so many sheep. He could easily catch one.
But the trill of the fiddle was more tempting, guiding the Wolf to the player, who was clearly the Shepherd of this flock.
He was near the trees, at the crest of the hill.
He swung his bow across the strings, and danced a whirlwind jig in the rhythm of masculine grace.
He was very tall, taller than the Wanderer had been. His black hair had threads of silver and fell in waves past his shoulders. His beard was thick, with more silver strands than his mane.
In the brief moments the Shepherd spun in the Wolf’s direction, he saw deep lines etched across his brow and around his eyes. But his deeply tanned skin was taut against chiseled features.
Although far into his mature years, the Shepherd moved with the agility of a man half his age.
His head bent towards his fiddle and engrossed in his playing, he was blind to the Wolf until the distressed noises of his flock made him look up.
The Shepherd saw the Wolf immediately, dropping his fiddle and bow for a rifle the Wolf hadn’t noticed on his approach.
He collapsed to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Please don’t kill me!” the Wolf begged, his voice raspy after months of disuse. “On my soul, I swear I don’t want your sheep!”
He braced himself for the clap of gunshot, but nothing happened.
When he dared to look, the Wolf found the Shepherd with rifle in hand. The barrel pointed to the ground, and the Shepherd stared at the Wolf with the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen.
“Did you just speak to me?”
The Shepherd’s voice was soothing, a mellow tenor that put the Wolf at ease.
He recognized the kind of man he most loved to travel with.
The Wolf pushed himself off the ground.
But as his head and shoulders rose, the Shepherd’s face tightened and he brought his gun to waist level, his finger on the trigger.
The Wolf lowered his back haunches.
“I don’t mean you any harm,” he said. “I just wanted to listen to the music.”
The Shepherd didn’t answer right away.
His regard swept over the Wolf, the lines deepening between his brows.
“I’ve never seen a wolf with black eyes before,” he said.
“Neither have I.”
The Shepherd smiled, his expression endearing with one of his front teeth overlapping the other. Then he bent down and traded the rifle for his fiddle and bow.
“I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll keep playing while you tell me how you came to be a talking wolf.”
So the Wolf did.
The Shepherd made a satisfying listener.
Even while playing, his gaze stayed on the Wolf and he never interrupted the flow of the story.
Sometimes the Wolf grew uneasy when the Shepherd’s face clouded over or he frowned. But the Wolf knew the Shepherd heard him and his relief was such that he couldn’t hold back.
Once he finished the tale of losing his heart, he couldn’t stop. He told the Shepherd about his parents’ murder, his terror of being alone after his grandfather died, and the isolation of being a man inside a wolf. As he talked, the compassion in those clear green eyes made the throbbing in his hollow disappear.
By the time the Wolf finished, day had become night.
The Shepherd stopped playing the same moment the Wolf fell silent.
He was exhausted.
Although he knew it was time to bid farewell, his head weighed heavy and the Wolf drifted into a dreamtime harmony.
For the first time in months, he was refreshed when he woke up the next morning. He stretched his limbs and yawned, the smell of charring meat stirring up his hunger.
He was surprised and pleased when the Shepherd set a plate of overcooked squirrel before him.
“Sorry it’s burned. I probably should have left it raw because I’m not much of a cook.”
“Well, I can help you with that,” the Wolf replied. “Or at least I could have.”
“You can still talk me through it. That is, if you want to.”
That was all the invitation the Wolf needed.
He fell into the Shepherd’s routine as if he’d been part of his flock for years.
Yearning Lust
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The more they made love, the more he craved that softening.
The Wanderer tried to enfold her in tenderness, but the girl always pushed him away.
He had never known a lover like her.
She had the delicate flesh of a woman and the hard drive of a man, a lust equal to his. He saw it in the hunger blazing in her eyes every time she reached for him, and his heart beat violence inside his chest.
The Wanderer lost count of the days that passed, their carnality both bliss and torment.
He yearned for the girl to melt in his arms just once. But after each shudder that claimed her body, she grimaced like one in pain, moaning and turning her face away.
“Are you all right?” he would ask.
But the girl never answered.
Her gaze was primal before she fell upon him again, ensnaring the Wanderer in a delirium of coupling that left him exhausted and exhilarated. He fell into near unconsciousness while making love to her. His peak crested into his dreams and blurred his reality when he woke up joined to her again, their bodies churning in a rhythm that left them breathless.
Eventually, they had no choice but to stop.
The girl collapsed in his arms, too spent to resist and resting on top of him. The girl was soft in his arms, the closest to surrender he would ever get from her.
His pulse slowed and the Wanderer fell into a doze. The slumber was a relief until the bite of her teeth woke him up. He saw the girl gnawing on him, her thick teeth piercing his flesh where she sucked below his left nipple.
“Stop it!” he yelled, jerking away. “That hurts!”
The Wanderer was shocked at the blood dripping from the wound, his skin mottling around it. When he looked at the girl, his heart started pounding hard against his ribs.
The ferocious longing in her eyes stirred up tentacles of fear.
“What was that about?” he whispered.
She groaned, that muscle twitching in her jaw. The girl reached for her naked throat, her fingers groping for nothing. Then her gaze turned to ice and she started to laugh.
He heard the edge of hysteria in the sound, and wondered if this was the start of a fit. But the girl heaved for air until she stopped, and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.
“You are one lucky fool, Wanderer,” she said. “You’re the luckiest fool I’ve ever seen.”
She reached for him again and the madness of coupling continued.
Finally, the Wanderer fell off his last peak to soar into the realm of dreamlessness.
How long he stayed there, he didn’t know.
But he knew the girl was gone before he opened his eyes.
The soreness of his flesh permeated his bones and he ached.
Her absence was as acute as her presence had been.
He fought to stay in the limbo between sleep and waking, but the crack of burning wood and the smell of smoke pulled him awake. He almost collapsed when he sat up, his hunger making him dizzy. The scent of savory was a relief, a hint of food made ready.
The girl must have gotten up early to prepare the meal for them.
The Wanderer came outside his tent to an explosion of color.
He was shocked to find the autumn season reaching its peak. The trees had been mostly golden when last he remembered, but the clearing seemed on fire with the orange and red leaves glowing from the evening sun.
He was spellbound for a moment before he saw the girl had left.
Her space in the camp was desolate without her things to fill it up. The only trace of her was the iron mesh resting over the pit. On top was his skillet filled with the meat, herbs, and mushrooms she had cooked for him. The fire was nearly dead, the embers spitting their last flares.
Next to the pit, she’d staked a pole where the carcasses of two squirrels dangled. They were skinned from their necks to their hind feet, the meat of their bodies still fresh, their eyes filmy and unseeing.
Too weak to forage, the Wanderer couldn’t ignore the meal she prepared for him. But he tasted nothing as he ate, knowing the emptiness would consume him later.
The Law Came Calling
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Image by Ioannis Ioannidis from Pixabay
He saw their horses before he saw the Lawmen.
The Wanderer spent the morning foraging along the eastern hill approaching the hot springs. The woods were generous with his favorite mushrooms, white with undulating curves, and his sack was overflowing by afternoon. Eager to start the fire and make his hash, he came back to camp early.
But the sight of two horses with their braided manes and cropped tails made the blood drain from his face.
The Lawmen looked like phantoms. Dressed in black coats flaring to their knees, they prowled around the camp.
The Wanderer watched the shorter one come to the girl’s tent with pistol in hand, while the taller one crouched at the fire pit. The iron weave was cast aside and he sifted through the ashes with one hand, the other holding his baton with a firm grip.
But they were afraid.
The Wanderer could smell their fear, the sharp pungency assailing his nostrils. He also knew from the weapons trembling in their hands, their tight lips and pale faces.
Then he stepped on a twig and the loud crack shattered the stillness, catapulting the Lawmen into aggressive defense. The taller one stood, the baton high over his head while the shorter dropped to the ground and aimed his pistol for the Wanderer.
His sack slipped from his fingers, spilling mushrooms, berries, and herbs at his feet.
The Wanderer was transfixed on the man lying belly to the ground, gun shaking in his hand. He couldn’t stop staring at his face, thinking it strange that any Lawman should resemble an aging cherub. He even forgot the other one until he stepped into his line of vision. The taller Lawman peered at him with watery green eyes, relaxing once he realized the Wanderer couldn’t move.
“I assume this is your camp,” he said, after his partner stood up and joined him.
The Wanderer nodded.
“Where do you come from?” the shorter one asked.
“I’m from here,” he replied, pointing to his tent. “I have my papers in there.”
He retrieved his documents and the Lawmen flipped through the pages, perusing the stamps of all the countries he’d been in the past five years. The taller Lawman even whistled when he turned back to the first page and read the name of his family and village.
“You’ve certainly traveled far from home,” he said. “How long have you been back?”
“About three months.”
The Wanderer cursed his absence of mind when both Lawmen looked up.
“What are you doing in these woods?” the shorter one asked.
“Am I breaking the law?”
“No. But why are you living like this now that you’re home? Don’t you have people?”
The Wanderer flinched as if he’d been slapped. His throat closed up and he crossed his arms, leaving the Lawmen waiting for an answer.
When none came, they frowned.
“You were asked a question,” the taller persisted. “What are you doing in these woods?”
The Wanderer knew he was foolish to remain silent. They might arrest him if he didn’t cooperate, but he couldn’t respond.
He glanced at the shorter Lawman.
He seemed more bewildered than offended, his round eyes flicking to the page his partner held open. Then his brow furrowed and he bent his head, looking closely before staring into the Wanderer’s face. He thought it must be his imagination when he saw recognition in the Lawman’s eyes.
“I don’t believe it!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you since you were a bitty boy!”
Official formality disappeared from his manner and the Lawman broke open with a smile. His eyes sparkled when he laughed, clapping the Wanderer on the shoulder.
“I don’t expect you to remember me,” he continued. “But we come from the same village. You look a lot like the old Bard. Do you also tell stories like your grandfather?”
The Wanderer froze for an instant, uncertain he heard correctly. Then he expelled a bellow of air, his limbs shaking from relief.
“I don’t know if I’d make that claim,” he said. “But I do the best I can.”
The Lawman from his village chuckled. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but his partner interrupted.
“As happy a chance as this is, you still haven’t told us why you’re living in these woods.”
“He has a point,” the shorter one said. “I know you have people waiting for you.”
The Wanderer looked away from the Lawmen, swallowing a hard lump down his throat.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Except for one.”
The shorter Lawman’s face cleared and he nodded slowly, his eyes filling with sympathy.
“It was a sad day for us all when the Bard passed on,” he said. “I can only imagine what a terrible loss that must be for you.”
The Wanderer nodded, but said nothing else.
His former neighbor pulled his partner aside and they conferred in voices too low to be heard. But the Wanderer was relieved when the taller nodded and headed for the horses. As his partner mounted, the Lawman from his village approached with his hand outstretched. His hold was firm when he grasped the Wanderer’s hand with both his own.
“It’s good to meet you again,” he said. “You’ve grown up into a fine young man.”
“Thank you.”
“So do your grandfather proud,” he continued. “Stop living like a wretch and go home. Some folks worry about you. They need to know that you’re all right.”
“I…uhhh…” the Wanderer hesitated. “I never thought of that.”
The Lawman nodded, satisfied to make his point and went to his horse. While he climbed into the saddle, the taller one looked between the two tents.
“By the way,” he said. “Your campmate’s been gone for some time.”
“I guess so,” the Wanderer said and shrugged. “That’s not unusual.”
“Really? Where do you think she could be?”
From the edge of his vision, the Wanderer saw the Lawman from his village glare at his partner. But his gaze never wavered from those watery green eyes.
“She?”
“Yes,” the taller Lawman persisted. “She. You are camped with a young woman, aren’t you? So where is she?”
“No sir,” the Wanderer replied. “I’ve been traveling with a friend I met on the ship and I suppose he’s still out hunting.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“Of course, I can. He hunts every day.”
“Very well then,” he said and touched his hat. “Welcome home, Citizen.”
With a final nod, they took their leave.
The Wanderer couldn’t move, staring into the woods long after the Lawmen were gone.
Citizen.
In his mind, the word lilted before echoing through him, soothing a desperation he didn’t know he had, the first time he’d been addressed as such since he came home.
He became aware of her gradually, the thrill along his flesh compelling him to turn around. He wondered how long she’d been there, deep in the woods beyond her tent.
Her gaze locked with his when their eyes met and didn’t waver, not even when she cantered her stallion through the trees to stop before him.
The Wanderer glanced at the pheasant dangling from the saddle.
“So I was wondering,” he said. “Do you think we could share our supper tonight?”
A Hostile Welcome
/
He heard the humming growl from the abyss between sleep and consciousness.
The sound confused him until the collapse of heavy cloth brought him into morning, and he woke up with the burden of his tent upon him.
Flailing through the canvas, the Wanderer pushed his head and shoulders through the flap into a whirlwind of dazzling color.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
His heart pounded and he was suddenly dizzy, squeezing his eyes shut until it passed.
“How strange. I was about to ask you the same thing.”
The Wanderer recognized her voice and opened his eyes.
The girl he followed into No Man’s Land had finally come awake, standing over him with one hand wrapped around her necklace.
He swallowed hard.
She had the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her glare seared into him when she opened her palm and dropped a crystal in the folds of her shirt.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked.
The Wanderer felt foolish on his knees with his tent collapsed around him. The girl’s presence was unnerving. Even as angry as she was, his flesh came alive as soon as he saw her.
“Making myself at home,” he said, stepping out of the heap. “Same as you are.”
He noticed she dressed like him, in a loose shirt and pants.
But she also wore a holster, a small pouch slung around the belt at her left hip, and a pistol and dagger held in sheaths on her right.
The Wanderer glanced at her face and saw the corners of her mouth twitching.
She might be an adventurer, but not of his kind.
“I don’t have anything worth stealing,” he said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied. “Maybe you should get going.”
The Wanderer sighed. The thought of packing up exhausted him, and he didn’t relish being alone if he complied.
“I didn’t mean to scare you…” he said, trailing off when the girl raised her brows. “But I saw you going into the woods the other day and-”
“Yeah, I saw you too,” she interrupted. “Did I ask you to come with me?”
“No, but I thought we’d make good company.”
“Well you were wrong.”
The Wanderer hesitated.
He couldn’t think of anything to say confronted with somebody who disliked him.
Then he remembered she addressed him as a wanderer, not a vagabond.
And he noticed the girl faced him directly and met his eye with a steady gaze. The way she talked also belied animosity, the low pitch and desultory rhythm of her speech pleasing.
If anything, the girl acted somewhat bored.
But he sensed she struggled to maintain her detached poise. He saw tension in the arms crossing her chest and in the muscle twitching in her jaw.
“Can’t we just start over?”
“No,” she snapped. “You need to get out of here.”
The Wanderer shook his head, wondering if he was in another dream.
But he looked again to see the girl’s demeanor was unchanged, her eyes staring right through him.
“Why are you being like this?”
“Because I have no use for wanderers. Now move along.”
She turned as she spoke her last, and headed for her tent.
The Wanderer stared after her back, too stunned to move for a moment.
For weeks, ostracism chiseled at his spirit.
But she was an outsider the same as he, and her dismissal birthed a fury he never knew he had. Before the Wanderer knew what he was doing, he caught up with the girl and swiveled her around to face him.
“I’d like to ask you something,” the Wanderer said. “Do you own these woods?”
“Let go of me.”
The calm in her voice made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Then an image of a horse and rider came to mind, backlit by the sun and running across the ridge before turning towards No Man’s Land.
“You crossed the border through the woods, didn’t you?”
The girl said nothing, but her pupils narrowed.
“I saw someone disappear in the trees,” he continued. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Are you threatening me, Wanderer?”
She spoke softly, yet there was no mistaking the menace in her tone.
But the Wanderer didn’t care, driven as he was by a wrath of his own.
“I don’t want the Lawmen around any more than you do,” he said. “But you can’t tell me whether I can stay or go.”
He released the girl and made his way back to his tent.
“You’re a fool, Wanderer.”
He knew he had shaken her composure from the hissing of air when she spoke.
That lent him some satisfaction, but her venom gave him pause.
His spine heated where her eyes burned into him and he had to force himself to focus on the fallen heap. His ears prickled from the sound of her running, then the muffled squeal of leather, and the click of her tongue.
The ground quivered when a giant stallion was spurred to action, the pounding of its hooves resonating in the Wanderer’s feet for what seemed a long time after the girl had gone.
A Little Talk Over Breakfast
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Image by Bernadette Wurzinger from Pixabay
