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.”