The Sons of Pan and the Daughters of Nymph

Image by Pablo Elices from Pixabay

Pans were the sons of the God Pan, His Profane Holiness of the F*ck.

So long as Pan followed the rules of the gods, and kept his c*ck for the c*nt of nymphs, balance was maintained. Those demigoddesses had enough magic to copulate endlessly without Pan’s seed fattening their bellies with child.

Most nymphs chose eternal maidenhood, savoring the delicious pleasure found in their lithe, nubile forms and the nectar of their sweet juices.

Every once in a while, there would be an exception.

A nymph would grow bored of the endless revelry of giggles and romps. Then they allowed Pan’s seed to plant as they willingly passed into the phase of the Mother and brought to life more gods into the heavens.

Or so it went most of the time.

Every so often, things happened a little differently.

According to my grandmother, her grandmother - my great-great-grandmother Nonny - had been a water nymph until the day she met a hunter, and unexpectedly and inextricably fell in love with him.

Nonny was even more deviant than the other nymphs.

Instead of the God Pan, she chose a mortal man to wife her down and begat upon her womb the mortal children of humanity. With her husband, Nonny birthed many babies. My grandmother’s father was the tenth of Nonny’s eleven children.

I have memories of her.

Nonny was the one who gave me my name.

I was born in that evening hour after the sun drops below the horizon, when the fire of evening sky gives way to the deep lavender of twilight before night falls and darkness rises.

“Dusky,” Nonny declared, as soon as she saw me. “No other name will do.”

My mother had wanted to name me Rose.

But she didn’t dare argue with her great-grandmother. Nonny was a true matriarch, and her word was law.

Even though Nonny gave up immortality, she had enough left that she long outlived her husband. I never knew my great-great grandfather. Nobody ever knew Nonny’s true age, but she didn’t leave this world until she was well past a century.

She joyfully embodied the phase of the Crone. Her face wrinkled and wizened from decades of joy and suffering, triumphs and defeats, births and deaths.

Until the day she died, her faded eyes gleamed with mischief as if Nonny had enjoyed the grandest joke on us all.

Perhaps she had.

There was not a vestige left of the maiden nymph she had once been; yet there was not a sliver of regret in her.

But to get back to Pan and his nymphs. Even the most lascivious nymph needed a rest from time to time.

And that left enough empty spaces for Pan and his voracious lust to break the rules of the gods, and seduce mere mortal women like me.

Well, not exactly like me. But I’ll get to that soon enough.

As His Profane Holiness of the F*ck, how could he not break the rules, not want to spread his seed in many kinds of soil?

And human women, we’ve always been so easily caught off guard and so limited in our options to protect our wombs from inconvenient progeny.

So His Profane Holiness of the F*ck spread his seed far and wide, and thus, the mortal Pans were born.

They took after their father, lotharios of the f*ck and duck.

Although mostly human, the mortal Pans could still shapeshift to horny half goats with furry haunches, hooved feet, hirsute faces, and horns protruding from their skulls.

Their transformation was happenstance, however. Sometimes their forms shifted before the F*ck or during the F*ck, but never after.

I had heard stories about them all my life. My grandmother, Mamie, was obsessed with the Pans, and collected tales of their intrigues and seductions.

She had quite the collection too.

Mamie swears she gave her maidenhead to a Pan.

Mamie was never one to take unnecessary risks if the lost gamble would cost too much. She took pennyroyal to prevent pregnancy from the virile seed planted in her. In case the pennyroyal didn’t work, Mamie married my grandfather.

It was absurdly easy for Mamie to find a husband. As the descendants of a water nymph, the women in my family are very alluring, and thus have no trouble attracting suitors and ardent devotion.

I spent a lot of time with Mamie when I grew up, to the point that I pretty much lived with her. I felt more at ease with her than with my parents.

My parents had an easy-going, mild-mannered style of love that I would later come to realize was extremely rare. They allowed me to stay where I wished without a fuss. I appreciated that about them. In the long run, they made my life so much easier.

Mamie lived with her older sister, my Great-Aunt Dottie. For some mysterious reason that was never explained, Great-Aunt Dottie never married, and Mamie moved in with her after my grandfather died.

Mamie told me the story of her seduction many times as I grew up. The older I became, the more explicit her descriptions. By the time I was fourteen, I knew every detail of how she had been seduced.

Many people thought that somewhat odd and quite perverse, but we’ve always been very open about the F*ck in my family.

Great-Aunt Dottie always shook her head and rolled her eyes whenever she overheard Mamie’s stories about her night with the Pan.

“He wasn’t a Pan,” she drawled. “You didn’t get pregnant.”

“I took pennyroyal!” Mamie protested. “Pans can’t resist women descended from nymphs, you know that!”

“Pans can’t resist women, period. He was too slick and good-looking to be a Pan. He was just a rogue.”

This was a long-standing argument between them. Good natured bickering like this often occurred in our family. But there was never any judgment. We embraced the Power of the F*ck.

The Start of Sumptuous Delights

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

The scene that awaited us was like nothing I had ever seen.

I heard the music first.

Then Adrianna opened the double doors leading to the back patio, and the muffled trills and strums of the mandolin exploded into a sprawling echo as we stepped into the sudden chill of winter air.

The speckled pink of the foyer was replicated in the marble floor and pillars of the terrace that faced east.

On this night, how could one believe spring was near?

Snow came down in thick chunks that made a meadow stretching beyond the patio of the Casa, white drifts scattered along the patio edge.

The blanket of snow contained the sights, sounds, and scents within the terrace, so nothing was lost. No thrill of the senses would dissipate.

Any remaining sleepiness I might have had was gone.

The romantic ballad soared through the spacious back patio that stretched under the northern wing of the Casa.

We were spared the hard cold of marble with a trail of thick rugs the color of wine to cushion our feet all the way to where we would dine for the evening.

Adrianna’s household had created a sanctuary of warmth from the tenacious hold of winter at the heart of the patio.

There stood an enormous, open, square fireplace. Iron mesh curtains hung on all sides to contain the flaming spits of wood crackling off a mountain of logs.

Plump chimineas circled from one side of the hearth to the other, and the smaller blazes within made a ring of fire around a sumptuously relaxed haven.

There were plenty of lounging chairs and loveseats, small tables within easy reach, and plenty of pillows and thick fur blankets, anything we could possibly need for our comfort.

As if all this wasn’t enough, a dozen stewards dressed in gray uniforms surrounded the chimineas and the hearth. Half tended to the fires, while the other half slowly waved giant fans into our gathering place.

I finally saw the source of the exquisite music.

Three older girls were seated close together in front of the chimineas opposite the hearth.

Dressed in demure cream-colored gowns, their heads bowed low while their dainty fingers deftly tickled the strings and rode the necks of their mandolins, intent only on the trembling vibrations.

The players were unique in that they were female and quite young.

I had never seen women hired as public musicians, much less girls.

The Wanderer and I glanced at each other.

Could they possibly be under Adrianna’s tutelage?

The trio was extremely talented, yet also extremely awkward. The girls lacked the beauty and poise one would expect from an apprentice training in the pleasure arts.

Seated closer to the fireplace, and facing us, two comely young women stood up from their divans as we approached.

Dressed in diaphanous gowns that seemed to float about them, they were definitely courtesan protégées. Both smiled winsomely as we approached.

We followed Adrianna into the circle, and warmth enveloped me like a heavy blanket. Heat flowed to us in gentle waves from the steady back and forth of the giant fans of the stewards.

Adrianna’s protégées flanked her on each side.

“May I present Celia and Astrid to you? These are the most gifted protégées I’ve had in a long time.”

Following a wave of her mentor’s hand, Celia came forward.

A beauty with thick, coppery hair, she had a wide, generous mouth, long limbs, and a slender figure. The filmy red gold fabric of her gown drifted around her.

I was startled when she stepped close to the Wanderer and boldly kissed his cheek. Yet he returned the intimate greeting, while her lips lingered longer than was necessary.

I stiffened when she turned towards me.

Celia kept a polite distance and smiled, her tone as warm as the fires around us when she spoke.

“It is my privilege to make your acquaintance, Sir Shepherd.”

Then Adrianna beckoned Astrid.

Her allure was subtle in contrast to the blatant sensuality of Celia.

With her pale brown hair, powdery skin, and delicate hands, Astrid had a saintly air more than a harlot’s, even while dressed in sheer watery green that revealed hints of the petite figure underneath.

With a bravado that was surprising in one who appeared so fragile, Astrid came to me with an outstretched hand.

Her confidence was so absolute I gripped her palm without thinking.

“I’m honored to meet you, Sir Shepherd.”

She had a sweet voice, Astrid did. Everything about her was so angelic, her presence in this Casa was bizarre.

“Neither of you need address me as ‘sir.’ It’s strange.”

“Mi’Lady insists we address you with honor,” Celia replied.

“We appreciate the compliment,” the Wanderer added. “But I agree with Shepherd. It doesn’t feel right.”

Adrianna shrugged.

“As you gentlemen wish. We only want you to feel at ease.”

Beyond Her Wildest Dreams - Adrianna's First Apartment in the Capital City

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

The Sorcerer practically handed me to my future.

Although he was thorough as he explained to me the nature of the bohemian part of town I was to go, I didn’t understand the cause and effect of living amongst the libertines of the Capital City.

I’m sure the Sorcerer did.

We become the people we surround ourselves with. I’m sure you understand that, Shepherd.

Anyway, I did exactly as the Sorcerer told me to, and everything went precisely as he said it would.

He had prepared me well for getting set up in a place of my own.

My palms tingled when my landlady handed me those copper keys.

One for the street door and one for my apartment, none of it seemed real until I opened the door for the first time.

Moving in was easy, since all I had was what I had carried when I fled for the carriage that would take me to the Capital City.

I loved that apartment.

In some ways, I loved it even more than my glorious Casa.

By the time I moved in here I was at ease with riches, and the luxury wealth afforded.

But in the beginning of this Life, my apartment was beyond my wildest dreams.

How incredible that I had remained inscrutable the first time I walked through those rooms!

The spaciousness was too wonderful. The landlady brought me there in the late morning, and the light made me fall in love with the place.

I didn’t even pay attention as she boasted about the elegant rooms – the entry, drawing room, kitchen, servant’s quarters, boudoir, bedroom, and my toilette room.

As soon as I walked in, I knew I had to live there. My first minute in that apartment gave me my first taste of freedom, real freedom. 

The windows faced east, and stretched more than half the height between floor and ceiling. The sun beamed through those tall windows, and the radiance was so brilliant I almost believed I had just entered the gates of heaven.

The landlady was exactly as the Sorcerer had described, a stout matron with a tight mouth and beady eyes that darted from side to side. She clearly loved money, especially when it flowed to her easily.

On that first morning, when I showed her a generous pile of copper coins and asked for a week’s lodging in her boarding house, she didn’t even ask my name.

She simply took the money and brought me to my room.

If she had been more observant as she guided me on a tour of her best apartments, she could have cheated me with an exorbitant rent.

I wanted that heavenly apartment so much it hurt. However, I played it casual enough that she didn’t pick up on my insatiable desire for that place.

I managed to talk the rent down to nearly half of what the landlady declared as the proper value for it.

Of course, offering six months rent immediately with a gold coin put the negotiation in my favor.

The landlady stared at me as if I had just said I was born on the moon.

Then she gushed and promised to be at my service if there was anything more that I needed, anything at all.

After I got to know the Capital City, I found that there were many apartments of a similar style and spacious layout, even with brilliant morning light.

But to me, that apartment has always been the most beautiful place in the world.

The elegant building I moved into was divided into four identical apartments between two floors.

Mine was upstairs with a southeastern exposure. My neighbors across the hall and below me were courtesans, and a con man lived in the downstairs northwestern apartment.

I was more than a little shocked that the landlady told me that straightaway, but later I would learn that nobody in the bohemian neighborhood attempted pretense at respectability.

I didn’t take much notice of them right away. That was a mistake, which could have had terrible consequences.

But I had been in the Capital City for less than a week when I moved in, and I was so overwhelmed with this strange and wonderful new place I couldn’t attend to specific people just yet.

My apartment alone was an exotic adventure to explore.

Any one room there was bigger than the cabin I grew up in with my parents, except for the kitchen and toilette room.

The toilette room was a marvel to me, for I’d never seen one before.

It was at the very end of my apartment, as far from the social rooms as possible. It wasn’t elegant by any means.

Besides the chamber pot with basin and pitcher, the toilette room had a round iron tub that was just big enough for me to sit in and stretch my legs out.

The spout of the water barrel was right over the tub.

I was amazed that the toilette room had its own water barrel, as did the kitchen.

Fortunately, the bathroom barrel was half full when I moved in because I forgot about the water sellers every day for the first week.

That water sellers even existed was so peculiar to me because I had always gathered water from the river when my family needed it.

In the Capital City, I had to get my water from the sellers who roamed the streets every day, shouting “fresh water!”

This was convenient, because going to the fountain at the Avenue of the Theaters was not.

The cesspool for my waste was not close to my apartment. I found it both pleasant and unfortunate that the neighborhood dumping-pit was in an alley behind brothel row, several blocks away from me.

My first days in that apartment, I wandered from room to room, looking up the blank walls that stretched so high.

I had no furniture for weeks because I had no idea what to get or even how to get it.

I didn’t mind having nothing in my new home.

I saw endless possibility in the vast emptiness of the rooms.

Purging the Loss of Love

Image by ds_30 from Pixabay 

“What direction were you heading, Shepherd?”

“Southeast until I reached the middle of the country.”

“Perfect. We can stay hidden in the trees until we are outside the village.”

I kept my flock close with my calls as the girl cantered her giant stallion across the Abandoned Valley until it ended with a younger forest of trees.

The birds were already singing their morning melodies, which made a sharp contrast to the silence and absence of life in the Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove.

A tension I didn’t know I held dissolved as soon as we were there.

We got inside the trees just in time.

The sun beneath the horizon began to lighten the sky, and already the sounds of men and women starting their work in the fields echoed through the air.

After a few more minutes, we came upon the manor that stood on the highest hill.

Even from the trees, there was enough light that I could see a splendid garden growing around this big white house gleaming in the light of dawn.

Although we were at the back of the estate where there were no paths leading to it, I saw the house overlooked the fields and orchards that gave this village its bounty.

The stranger girl paused as the manor came into view. There was pure anguish in her face as she stared at it.

So I had been right. She was the daughter of a Patron.

“Do you live there?” I asked cautiously.

“Not anymore,” she muttered.

The stranger girl clicked her tongue and the stallion took off at a run that was too much for the sheep.

She didn’t slow the horse down, but was conscious enough to circle round to the back of the flock and run them forward a few times.

I gripped her waist and held on by squeezing the flanks of the powerful animal. As fast as we went, I didn’t have to exert too much effort for the ride was smooth.

I sensed a powerful bond between the stranger girl and this magnificent equine. The beast really did whatever the stranger girl wanted, and I wondered if they could read each other’s minds.

By the time the sun came fully up, we were beyond the village and the manor where she grew up.

The stranger girl relaxed and slowed the horse down to an easy canter.

We traveled for the better part of the day until we came to a river with a gentler flow in the afternoon.

So that was how I met Woman, Adrianna.

Did you like the stories as much as you appreciated the drawings behind them?

 

****

 

The ethereal tones from the flute lingered through the air as I finished.

Adrianna had chosen a gentle instrument for my first night sharing some of my story of Woman.

The memory of the first twenty-four hours I knew her came out of me with ease, the angelic trills carrying me as I relived that night and the next day.

I couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk about Woman.

Adrianna had a genuine gift for spotting talent.

As were all the musicians who had played on our nights on the back patio, the flautist was one of her creative charges who lived in the dormitories.

She too had come from the orphanage. In her late teens, she had been at the Casa for four years; she was petite with a helmet of glossy hair and an earnest expression.

Unlike most of the creatives, Adrianna had originally intended to mentor her as a courtesan before she realized the girl suffered from remarkable shyness.

At the same time, Adrianna found the girl had a natural talent for the flute, and relaxed inside her skin as soon as she started to play. The girl closed her eyes and swooned back and forth as she played, losing herself inside the music, possibly more than her audience.

We leaned back in our seats, enjoying the heavenly pitch soaring the heights of the back patio and resonating all around us.

“Thank you, Shepherd, for opening up so much about Ella Bandita. You were much more descriptive and eloquent than I’d expected. I like surprises like that.”

Adrianna sat up in her chaise. Her large eyes held a gentleness I hadn’t expected.

I sensed she understood exactly how I felt in that moment. I nodded, too overcome to speak.

My story hadn’t taken so long to tell.

The fire still blazed in the stately fireplace of the back patio, and the two chimineas at our backs gave a welcome heat.

The snow had melted and spring was coming. But it was early in the new season and the night had a chilly sting to it.

Yet the stewards tended to our comfort very well, while the maids were bright-eyed, and the plates had been taken away as soon as the courses were eaten.

The night was in the early hours, and I was restless, having grown accustomed to Adrianna’s tales that took most, if not all, of the night to tell.

“Are you all right, Shepherd?”

I nodded.

Indeed, I was better than okay.

You were right, Wanderer.

I had been holding on to Woman by refusing to talk about her. Opening up my memories of Woman had not been as painful as I had expected.

I was unsettled and even edgy because talking about that night took me back there. But the sensations were not unpleasant.

My chest expanded in a way that made me realize how contracted I had been for so long.

I couldn’t remember any time when I wasn’t holding on and holding in. I became much lighter after I released a burden I hadn’t known I’d been carrying for too long.

 “Adrianna, I haven’t thought about that night in so long, yet all that might have happened yesterday.”

“What a vivid memory, Shepherd. That night was more than thirty years ago.”

“It was.”

“How do you feel now that you’ve finally talked about Ella Bandita, Shepherd?”

“I’m surprised to say I feel very well.”

Adrianna smiled knowingly and gathered the half dozen sketches I had drawn of that night and used to tell her the story.

“Would you say you feel cleansed?”

“I feel lighter. Is that an effect of cleansing?”

“I believe so. Is that all?”

“To be honest, I feel restless.”

Stranger Girl in the Moonlight

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

She was at the river.

Her ruined gown and undergarments were crumpled in a heap next to her. She made these strange, muffled sounds, and it was a few minutes before I realized she wept.

Her shoulders shook hard and that betrayed her emotion.

The river water must have been freezing, but she bathed herself vigorously, her hands rubbing the water over her face and down her chest.

Eventually, her suppressed sobbing stopped and her shoulders grew still. She curled herself into a ball with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head tucked; then she rocked back and forth and her breathing grew labored.

When she unwrapped herself, she still held her face in her hands. Finally, she leaned back and the tension in her back released as she rested at the river’s edge.

I had no idea what to do.

The depth of her grief made my heart ache, and I could feel her pain. I wanted to comfort her, but this was a private moment and she had no clothes on.

I tried to will myself to look away, but I simply couldn’t do it.

She was so beautiful in the moonlight.

The lines of her back were exquisite. Her shoulders and arms were graceful, the subtle curve of her sides turning in at her waist and veering gently into hips, and the column in the middle holding it all together. I’ve always remembered the rolling bumps of her spine from her neck to the triangle resting at the base.

She seemed both fragile and resilient at once, and there was strength and suppleness in her form.

I could hardly breathe looking at her.

In that moment, I understood why so many artists savored the beauty of the female body, and the creation of music and poetry born from the feminine mystique.

The memories of that first night were so vivid I made several drawings of that time. I’ve always been the most proud of the picture I sketched of her lovely back as she sat at the river.

Here it is.

Take another look if you like, Adrianna, for these drawings stir my memories and help me tell you this story. The next drawing was right after she caught me staring at her.

Her posture shifted subtly.

She must have sensed me watching her when her back straightened and became more rigid.

Finally, she turned.

Tears stained her face, but she didn’t brush them off. Rather than turning back, she held my gaze. Her expression was impassive, which I found rather odd.

After what seemed many minutes, the stranger girl turned back to the river and splashed her head a few times. Then she folded her knees to the right, leaned on one hand, and came upright in an elegant swoop.

The maneuver was harmonious, and she was even lovelier when she stood up. Her long legs were lean and shaped from muscle, rather than flesh.

She brushed the earth off her rump with a few casual swipes before she turned around.

Then the stranger girl walked towards me, without a trace of shame or embarrassment.

I had never seen a naked woman before that night.

I had also never witnessed a murder.

But any lingering memory from that scene in the Ancient Grove couldn’t have been further from my mind as this stranger girl came to me.

Washed clean of the blood on her face and hands, I finally got a good look at her.

Years later, when I would hear Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist, I couldn’t fully believe that this legendary destroyer could have been my Woman.

On that night, the stranger girl was the loveliest being I had ever seen, and I couldn’t ever imagine anybody perceiving her as ugly.

She certainly wasn’t conventional with her blunt, primitive features. Nor was she fluffily voluptuous with her long waist, sinewy belly, and small breasts that stood high on her chest.

But I loved the muscular strength of her underneath the feminine silhouette, and she moved with a devastating, animal grace that I’d never seen in girls before.

With her head high and shoulders back, her long stride gait showed she was more at ease naked than I was with clothes on. I almost passed out before she stopped a few paces away.

“Do you have anything I can wear, Shepherd?”

“What? I don’t have any lady’s clothes.”

“I don’t care. Anything will do.”

“I have another pair of pants and two shirts, but they’ll be too big for you.”

“I’ll make it work,” she muttered, and held out a hand. “Please.”

Close Call

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

The Wanderer couldn’t believe his luck when he found the pool.

After exploring the woods for weeks, he thought it must be his imagination when he glimpsed steam floating into the rays of morning light.

The Wanderer sniffed the air.

The odor of spoiled eggs was faint but distinctive, drifting from the eastern woods where he seldom went. He found a stream running downhill to the south, and dipped his hand. 

The water was still warm, proving this came from a hot spring.

He rushed back to camp, savoring the thought of a bath while collecting his soiled clothes, and bottles of soap and oil. 

As he followed the creek uphill, the pungent aroma grew stronger and the drafts of steam left a film on his skin.

He hadn’t reached the top when he found it, recognizing the intervention of man in nature. In the center was the origin where the springs heated in thermal depths of the earth came through. 

The pool was dark in the middle, bubbles breaking along the surface to a small cave, from which clouds billowed. Only a violent disturbance of the earth could have opened such a fissure. 

But there was a lower shelf built round the center, the water so clear he could make out the fine mineral grains at the bottom. Just above the shelf, flat stones were arranged to form a ledge over the pool. 

Another stream poured in from the northwest where the water numbed his fingers in less than a minute. 

Any doubt he had that this was the work of fellow travelers was gone, when he followed that stream to the dry beds where it had once flowed before being rerouted.

The Wanderer undressed and lowered himself where the warm creek left the pool. 

There, the water was perfect, stopping below his hips. 

Then he dove into the black depths and the heat grew intense. The temperature was more than he could bear along the fissure and he didn’t dare go towards the cave. 

Instead, he swam against the incoming stream, reveling in the fluid caress of hot and cold. 

It wasn’t long before dreaminess overtook him, the sensation unique to mineral springs. 

Before he melted into perpetual laze, he dove under and swam through varying degrees of heat to the other side of the pool and back again. 

When he came up for air, the woods were spinning. 

Already, he’d been in the water too long. 

But the girl had come.

He knew she was there from the thrill along his flesh and the tension in his limbs before he even saw her.

She must have approached from the north. 

Her arms were folded casually and she leaned against a tree to the right of the incoming stream. Their eyes met for an instant before her gaze swept over him, her mouth parting in a near smile. 

The unabashed roguishness startled the Wanderer. 

He even had to resist the urge to dive back in the water, holding her look for a moment before he got out and stretched along the ledge. 

Reaching for his canteen, he sipped slowly until the flask was empty and he was steady again. 

Then he glanced to the tree. 

The girl still hadn’t moved, her eyes fixed on him.

“Don’t tell me you couldn’t do with a wash,” he said, dropping into the pool. “So are you getting in, or are you just going to watch?”

The girl smiled, then kicked off her boots and unbuckled her holster. 

Her oversized blouse fell just below her hips when her breeches dropped to the ground. 

The Wanderer admired the long muscles gripping her thighs, the meat of her calves tapering to shapely ankles. 

The girl hesitated, but he floated on his back and kept watching. 

She cocked one brow at him before taking hold of her shirt. 

His breath caught in his throat when she pulled her blouse over her head. 

Before the garment fluttered to the ground, the Wanderer ducked underwater, propelling himself against the icy current flowing into the pool. His heart pounded from the image etched in his mind. 

He usually preferred lush womanly curves, but he couldn’t deny the girl was lovely. 

Her body was a marriage of muscle and flesh, creating a harmony of softness and strength. Her modest breasts stood high, ropy sinews carved her waist and held her belly flat, then swelled into the subtle round hips that guarded her pubis. 

The Wanderer didn’t come up for air until his arousal tapered off. 

He was embarrassed when the girl smirked at him, but he didn’t look away. 

Her skin was golden in the beams of light filtering through the trees, that star-shaped pendant she always wore resting between her breasts.

She stepped to the pool and the sun hit the facets of the crystal.

Suddenly the Wanderer was dizzy, and blinded by a swirl of colors surrounding him. 

His pulse roared, his heart pounding in his ears, and sharpness burst inside his chest. It happened so fast and the unexpected pain sunk him underwater. 

The Wanderer choked and kicked hard to push his head above the surface, and lunged for the shelf. His knees scraped against the grains at the bottom and he leaned over the ledge, wracked with coughing until he expunged the water he swallowed.

As soon as he was calm, the Wanderer looked towards the girl

She was more agitated than he. 

Collapsed against the tree, she heaved for air through her nose, biting her lower lip. Her face was white and her eyes had gone black, while tears streamed down her cheeks.

One hand gnarled and trembled between her breasts, where she held the pendant tight in her fist. Then she pulled the necklace over her head, her fingers unfolding slowly and dropping the crystal into the heap of clothes.

The Wanderer had the sense he’d been released somehow. 

His breath came easier and he got out of the pool, lying prone on the ledge with his head resting on his arms. His heartbeat slowed gradually and the quivering in his limbs settled down. 

The girl also needed a few minutes to steady herself. She sat at the edge of the pool with her legs dangling in the water. 

Then she dropped in to her shoulders, her hair waving on the surface.   

The Shepherd's Lone Wolf

Image by Allauddin Yousafzai from Pixabay

She pulled the small pile she had collected.

The Shepherd wasn’t in the least surprised when she pulled the sketch that provoked the rift between him and the Wolf he traveled with for three years.

Her first drawing was the one of the night the Shepherd had met Ella Bandita, her face and clothes covered with blood, the youngest lamb of his flock in her arms, the cold glint of her eyes with one hand gripping the throat of the helpless animal.

Adrianna said nothing as she held it out to him, just raised her brows slightly, waiting. The Shepherd didn’t gratify her with a response, his throat going tight at the image, even after all these years.

To his surprise, she indicated the large paw print at the bottom corner, the mud from that fateful day encrusted in the sketch, the flaw becoming a permanent part of the image.

“What happened here? That doesn’t look like charcoal to me.”

“That was the day the Wolf saw it. He held it down while the breeze was blowing everything about. I nearly lost all my sketches that day.”

“By the Wolf, I assume you mean the Wanderer.”

“Yes.”

“Had he known anything about you and Ella Bandita?”

“No.”

“I take it this sketch enlightened him, then?”

“Yes. I had no choice but to tell him the story of that night.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story of that night?”

“In due time, I’ll have no choice. But this morning, I prefer not to.”

“How did the Wolf handle the story?”

“Badly. He saw me as a liar and a traitor. We had a terrible row and he attacked me. So I sent him away.”

“And…”

“It’s a long story. The next time I saw him, the Wolf had become the Wanderer again, having regained his human form.”

Adrianna paused, leaning back and scowling slightly.

“Does the Wanderer know the measure of your relationship to Ella Bandita?”

“He does now. But I have not talked to him about my time with her.”

The Shepherd’s throat grew so tight, it hurt to continue talking.

“I suppose that’s enough on this subject for now,” Adrianna murmured. “I have no desire to torment you.”

Adrianna went through her chosen pile, pulling the sketches of the Wolf.

Most were those of the Wolf acting as a sheepdog. The images were bizarre, the fluffy and gentle sheep following the path where the Wolf urged them, the lupine shape of a predator, playing the benign role of guide.

Then she pulled out the only posed drawing the Shepherd had made of the Wolf.

“This one is my favorite,” she said.

“Mine too.”

He was especially proud of that sketch where he had conveyed sorrow within the black eyes subtly distinguished from the black fur.

“This drawing alone makes me wish you would allow me to throw a salon in your honor. This is exquisite.”

“I’m honored,” the Shepherd replied. “But I don’t wish to do that.”

“I don’t understand why. There is real artistry in this, conveying human emotion in a wolf is no small accomplishment. You must have taken some care with this.”

“I did.”

“Is it perverse vanity that you refuse the invitation to show your work to others?”

The Shepherd chuckled.

“I suppose that is a convincing argument. But I don’t like crowds.”

“It would hardly be a crowd, dear Shepherd. I promise you a very select audience.”

“I would still have to make conversation and make myself agreeable. That’s tedious when I’m much happier keeping to myself.”

Adrianna breathed sharply through her nose and shook her head.

“Given your reclusive nature, how on earth did you and the Wolf meet?”

“That is also a long story.”

“Must I remind you, darling Shepherd, that we are here to trade our stories?”

Her guest shrugged and relented.

“I nearly shot the Wolf when I met him. He caught me off guard when I was playing fiddle. It was one of those peaceful mornings when it seemed foolish to rush. The field was at the edge of the woods, where the Wolf had been slumbering. Later he told me the music woke him up, and he couldn’t resist coming closer to hear more. Of course, I thought he was trying to sneak up on my flock. I had traded fiddle for rifle within seconds. He begged for his life in human language. I was so stunned I froze. I remember wondering if I was in the midst of a rather peculiar dream. His voice was scratchy from being silent for so long. But it was the anguish and loneliness I heard in him that tore my heart out. I can still hear it in my memory.”

Adrianna nodded slowly, her eyes riveted on the Shepherd. From her expression, he sensed what he said wasn’t enough.

“He spoke up just in time,” he continued. “My finger was already squeezing the trigger, a hair breadth more and he would have been dead. He swore he didn’t want my sheep, and that he only wanted to enjoy the music. It really was too incredible, this lone black Wolf that looked half-starved, but the hunger in his eyes made it hard to look at him. I didn’t have the heart to chase him off. So I invited him to breakfast and to tell me the story of how he came to be a talking Wolf.”

“Fascinating,” Adrianna observed. “The lone Wolf who needed the Shepherd so desperately, he traveled with your flock and acted as a sheepdog. The two of you became legends in your own right.”

“It was a fateful day to be sure,” the Shepherd mused. “I didn’t particularly care for that kind of attention. But the Wolf certainly did.”

“You must have been very close during those years.”

“We were.”

Adrianna hesitated for a moment.

“I hope you don’t take offense when I admit my understanding for the Wanderer’s sense of betrayal.”

“No offense taken. Sending the Wolf away was one of the most painful decisions I ever had to make.”

“Thank you for opening up a bit,” Adrianna sighed. “At least it’s a beginning.”

A Little Talk Over Breakfast

Image by Bernadette Wurzinger from Pixabay

Breakfast was light and for the next thirty minutes, the two of them ate in the peace of silence.

The Shepherd savored his simple breakfast of bread and cheese, thankful for the sweet meat of salted ham, a rare treat he rarely could afford. And the fresh juice was a luxury he had never enjoyed in his life.

Occasionally, his hostess would smile at him warmly as she buttered her bread with a generous spread of a thick red jam, eating her sliced persimmon slowly in between bites.

Other than that, they didn’t speak a word.

The Shepherd was surprised and pleased that Adrianna also appreciated to start her day without morning chatter, listening to the crackle of fire and the savory wood burning smell, the increasing glow of rising morning making a serene start to the day.

Once she was done eating, the young maid didn’t miss a beat, stepping forward and pouring a large mug half full of dense black coffee, then followed it with steamed cream, willows of smoke rising from the mug as she dropped one generous nugget of sugar cane in the cup and stirred.

Adrianna took a long sip, and sighing contentedly, she leaned back and nodded to the Butler.

The Butler dismissed the maids, remaining the only servant in the room, before stepping forward with the morning papers in his hand.

The Shepherd was stunned at what followed.

For more than an hour, the stately Butler meticulously read through every article in the paper, telling the news of government, political competition, business. He even read through gossip and advice columns.

He only stopped when Adrianna made a comment or asked for clarification, leaving room for conversational debate between them.

What struck the Shepherd most was the sharp focus in her beautiful golden eyes.

The dreamy relaxation of morning was over and the Courtesan was back to work.

It was clear that Adrianna the Beautiful committed everything to memory that the Butler read to her. The Shepherd knew from the subtle back and forth motion of her eyes as she listened.

When the morning ritual was over, the Butler dropped the newspaper on the side of the table closest to the Shepherd. Adrianna thanked him for sharing the news and dismissed him, asking the servants to wait until they were gone before tidying the parlor.

Then Adrianna glanced at the Shepherd.

“Well-informed and intelligent conversation is an excellent ability to bring to a salon, wouldn’t you say? Why do you think I’ve lasted as long as I have?”

The Shepherd said nothing.

Adrianna’s left brow cocked higher as she met the Shepherd’s gaze. She smiled slowly.

“Nobody knows I’m illiterate.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“I hope you honor my secrets.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I won’t say a word to anybody.”

“I figured you would. You have the most marvelous sense of privacy.”

“Do you do this every morning?”

She nodded.

“How much do you remember?”

“Not every word or detail, of course. But more than enough to hold my own in the lively debates and arguments that happen at parties amongst the powerful men of the country. That ability has made me some valuable friends.”

The Shepherd flushed.

If he’d had any doubt about the nature of those valuable friends, the sly mischief gleam in Adrianna’s eyes made sure he knew.

Adrianna smirked in the face of his embarrassment.

The Shepherd glanced away.

Noticing the newspaper next to him, he picked it up and skimmed through the articles the Butler had already read aloud. One section he hadn’t covered were the notices of recent deaths.

Startled at the name he recognized, the Shepherd spoke without thinking.

“Anthony is dead! He was found in his bed the next morning after our meeting in the town square.”

He looked up to see Adrianna staring at him. Her golden eyes were wide, and the Shepherd almost flinched at the pain and envy he saw there.

“Anthony,” he repeated. “The Mayor’s son.”

“I know of whom you speak. I heard about it yesterday.”

The two shared a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Were you close to him?”

The Shepherd couldn’t imagine how that could be. Adrianna chuckled.

“Of course not. Anthony’s been dead for all practical purposes for many years anyway. It’s merciful that he’s finally out of his misery.”

The Shepherd frowned, thinking of that raging tower of screaming hearts.

“I wonder if all of them have died.”

“Doubtful,” Adrianna replied. “I’m pretty sure we’ll hear about it if the broken spirits of Ella Bandita have all suddenly perished now that she’s dead.”

The Shepherd said nothing.

Adrianna paused and leaned back.

The Shepherd was careful to keep his demeanor neutral, but he must have betrayed something.

“She is dead, isn’t she?”

The Shepherd turned to her. Adrianna’s golden eyes gleamed as she stared him down. She reminded the Shepherd of a hungry wolf.

“Bloodlust is much to take on in the early part of the day.”

Adrianna smiled grimly and shrugged.

After a moment, her eyes flicked to the newspaper in his hand, and again the Shepherd saw the flash of pain in her eyes.

“How did you learn how to read, dear Shepherd? You may come from people who never suffered the indignities of indentured servitude. But it’s impossible you should come from those who could afford education.”

“The same way I learned how to draw and play fiddle,” the Shepherd replied, relieved at the change of subject.