The Shepherd and the Courtesan Get More Acquainted

Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito... from Pixabay

“How incredible,” she whispered. “You come from singular people, Shepherd. I’ve never heard of such a family. From what I see in this moment you captured so beautifully, your father must have known he was dying and would never see you again.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“You didn’t know how to draw when you were young. So how long was it before you drew this image?”

“More than fifteen years after his death,” the Shepherd said and paused. “I have never forgiven myself for that.”

Adrianna looked up sharply.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” the Shepherd snapped.

“Your father looks to me like the kind of man who knew his own mind. He made his choice.”

“I should have been there,” the Shepherd insisted.

“Were your uncles hard on you when you returned?”

“Not at all. They and my cousins couldn’t have been more kind. They reassured me every day that it gave my father so much peace to see me happy and excited when I left.”

“What was your nature like before you left?”

“I’m ashamed to say I was a very moody and unpleasant companion.”

Adrianna smiled ruefully.

“I can relate. Farming is a brutal labor that never ends.”

“It wasn’t the work I minded so much as the confinement. The stifling sameness day after day after day was unbearable.”

“You were a restless youth.”

“Child. Youth. Young man. Old man.”

“It sounds like your father understood you.”

The Shepherd paused, then nodded.

“My uncles swore he spoke of the morning I left every day with excitement and joy until the dawn they came to find him gone. He didn’t complain once about the pain, and worked every day. They said he had the blessing of dying in his sleep. They said he was radiant when they found him, his expression serene. ”

“If your father was so much at peace with his choice, why are you tormenting yourself?”

“It was wrong of me not to be there. I was all he had.”

“Apparently not. He had devoted brothers and nephews who worked with him every day.”

“I was his only child.”

“And his last vision of you was one of joy, anticipation, and hope. Isn’t that so much better than sullenness and frustration? Or grief and sorrow if he had even let you know he was dying? Your father left this world with the liberated spirit of a man who knew he had given his son the freedom he craved. Yet here you are, fighting the last wishes of a good man with your guilt.”

Adrianna tilted her head to the side and cocked her left brow.

“So as I asked before, ‘why?’ How does that honor your father?”

The Shepherd smiled slightly.

“You make a compelling argument, Adrianna. I never thought of it from that perspective.”

“Is it enough to set you free?”

“I don’t know about that. But right now, I do feel a little lighter.”

“That’s a rich compliment, Shepherd.”

Adrianna chuckled, the gleam in her golden eyes lightening the mood for a moment.

The Shepherd smiled, but he couldn’t help remembering the Wanderer’s story of his grandfather, the Bard, who sent his grandson away to travel, rather than staying to watch him die.

He remembered the bond he had felt when the lonely Wolf told him about that fateful evening on the wharf when he could finally mourn the loss of a man he deeply loved and respected.

Looking back, the Shepherd realized he had made his choice to invite the Wolf to come with him after he shared this.

“Shepherd,” Adrianna whispered. “It seems like you just went very far away.”

The Shepherd smiled.

“I did,” he admitted. “Coincidences are very odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shared experiences that make friends out of strangers. It’s a powerful bond that happens immediately.”

A sharp intake of breath, almost a hiss, made the Shepherd look up. Adrianna sat frozen in place, her eyes wide and staring.

“Are you all right?”

The Courtesan shook her head and came back to herself quickly. As if the moment had never happened, she smiled warmly.

“I’m quite well,” she replied. “I agree that it’s a shock to discover common ground with someone I don’t know, a shock which is not always pleasant and sometimes not unpleasant.”

Before the Shepherd could respond, she picked up the sketch of his father again.

“What a remarkable man your father was.”

“Yes.”

A random thought entered the Shepherd’s mind.

“Did you ever see your parents again once you left?”

“No.”

Adrianna’s tone was curt, and she flicked her eyes away when she answered.

“That was impossible, given the nature of how I departed. I think you will understand that after my next tale.”

Adrianna gathered the Shepherd’s sketches tenderly, rolled them and placed them back in his cache before handing them over with a smile. Her ability to recover quickly was unsettling to her guest.

“Again, thank you for sharing, darling Shepherd. I enjoyed your stories this morning.”

“You are very adept at drawing them out of me.”

“Years of practice,” Adrianna replied and grinned. “It is clear I’ve more of a fondness for spinning yarns than you do.”

“And you are a marvelous storyteller,” he said. “I regret that I can’t match your talent.”

Adrianna shrugged.

“I hope you warm up more as time passes. I have a hunch you have much to say and that there is richness to share from your life.”

“That’s not for me to judge.”

Adrianna looked at the Shepherd archly, and shook her head slowly.

“As it stands today, no stories for you. I have a formal engagement tonight and will be out rather late.”

The news caught the Shepherd off guard, and the sharp stab of disappointment more so.

After a few days, he had already grown accustomed to the daily intimacy of long visits and the trade of stories. He realized he enjoyed the company of the most celebrated Courtesan of the Capital City, and was shocked that she wouldn’t be there that evening.

Adrianna peered at him closely. The Shepherd flushed, knowing that his face betrayed his displeasure.

“You are always welcome to join me, darling Shepherd. There isn’t anybody in the Capital who wouldn’t die just a little for the opportunity to meet you.”

“I thank you and your friends for the extensive hospitality. But I’ll have to decline.”

Adrianna chuckled.

“Crowds?”

“Crowds.”

“Well, I definitely anticipated that answer.”

Adrianna stood and curtseyed, her bow low and exaggerated.

“I will finish my adventure with the Patron’s Daughter and the Sorcerer tomorrow night. The tale is rather grueling. A sensitive man like you might want to prepare yourself.”

The Wrath of the Courtesan

Image by Анастасия Гепп from Pixabay

The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.

They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society. 

Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.  Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world.

 Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist? To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.   

The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men. 

I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.

Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, hardly worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.

He was a charmer, this man who set all the women against Ella Bandita.

He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience. In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.

His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent. 

Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves. 

He hadn’t been married a year before the Charmer pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating. He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession. 

She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful. 

Dark and fiery with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. 

Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city. She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective. 

The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.

But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera. 

The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince. They sat across from the Charmer and his wife. 

Adrianna even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking. 

He smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. 

Then the Charmer made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.

He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat. The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey. 

Then his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted. He forgot about Ella Bandita once the performance was under, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.

The Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell. 

He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, a life of elegance and leisure. The Charmer was enjoying himself, his privilege too fresh to take for granted.

Who knows why we do the things we do?

Perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent. 

Maybe he sensed the boredom that would come.

All we know is when the Charmer caught sight of Ella Bandita during intermission, she had no trouble enticing him with a new game. 

She met his gaze and grinned. Then she wove her way through groups of ladies and gentlemen, provoking the Charmer with brief glances behind her, eyes glittering when she smiled at him.

And he followed her, this man who had everything.   

The Charmer returned to the balcony with his wife and finished the opera with her. Yet he left their bed and house late that night. 

The next morning, he was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering the same words as those who fell before him.

“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”

A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came.  Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment. 

She had never suffered this indignity before. She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure.

Her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came to call with the dreadful news about her favorite lover. 

Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.

The Sorcerer's Way Out

The elegance of mind and immaculate manners of the patron family from the southeast incensed our patron family in the northwest.

For the patron family from the southeast made it graciously clear that they had no wish to nurture this new connection into a friendship.

Thanks to the eavesdropping of the housemaids, we heard all about it in luscious detail.

The patron family read the letters out loud many times, and there was much crude cursing and bouts of raging lament once they realized they had been rejected.

Everybody relished that the marvelous Noble Son was not so blinded by the beauty of the Patron’s Daughter.

His parents were also not impressed with our patron family. They often expressed shock and disgust at the lack of kindness and courtesy with which our patron and patroness treated their household servants.

Although they had said nothing at the time, the housemaids swore they overhead a conversation between the Noble Son and his worried parents.

Concerned that their Noble Son was smitten, they implored him that a marriage to such a young lady as the Patron’s Daughter would only cause him heartache and grief.

The housemaids insisted that they overheard the Noble Son reassuring his parents that he had no significant interest in her at all. That as beautiful as the Patron’s Daughter was on the outside, he didn’t much like what he saw on the inside.

I rejoiced at this miraculous news.

We all did.

To know that our horrid patron family had repulsed truly splendid people cheered us up magnificently.

Many suppers were shared amongst us, and our conversation was lively and animated as summer progressed. We had never been able to enjoy a comeuppance before, and we savored our vicarious victory.

As much as I relished the Patron’s Daughter finally getting her due, I was despondent with the departure of the Noble Son and my romantic dreams about him.

As outrageous as my fantasies had been, my longing for the Noble Son made me feel alive in a way I had never known before.

So not only did my heart ache after he left, the dullness of life became suffocating.

Because it was summer, work was as excruciating as ever. But for once, I threw myself into it.

Driving myself to exhaustion in the merciless heat gave me something to do with my pain.

Yet no matter how hard I worked, I always took a long walk through the trees of the Ancient Grove before I went home.

That was the only place I could cry and lament, for I knew I would be alone.

I couldn’t stand for anybody to see me in such a pitiful state, nor could I bear the scolding tongues and wagging fingers of those who would call me a fool to dream of a man far out of my reach.

I already knew that, and the forbidden woods where the Sorcerer of the Caverns worked his evil magic, was the best place to avoid my people.

It was also the best place to wail over my unfulfilled desires, as well as the eternal bleakness ahead of the thankless labor and dreariness that would be my existence until I met the Reaper.

But I was strong and built to last. Decades of drudgery would pass before life finally killed me. And there was no way I could accept this miserable fate as a beast of burden any more.

I started to ponder suicide on those walks.

I knew I would disgrace my parents with such an act, not just to my patron family but to the other peasants as well.

Yet, our patron family was a disgrace amongst other patron families. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too hard on them. Disgraceful or not, my lineage would be free with my death and my parents could not be forced back to work.

On my walks through the thick woods of the Ancient Grove, I reflected on every method to kill myself.

No peasant possessed a pistol, and the thought of slitting my wrists seemed risky and even kind of weak.

Although I was ugly, I knew there would be no way I could cut my throat. That would have been agony and I would have made the most hideous mess.

I considered hanging myself in the trees, but the thought of struggling for air and flailing about if my neck didn’t make a clean break was terrifying.

Throwing myself in the river to drown was also frightening. My life had always been full of suffering.

I wanted to die easy.

An overdose of laudanum was the most appealing way to die I could think of. But how would I get any, much less enough?

Any medicine was a luxury for the peasants. I would have to steal something so precious, and not get caught.

I met the Sorcerer of the Caverns one evening, during one of these brooding ambles.

I stood at the bank of the river, staring at the rocks.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I threw myself head first into the rocks, the crush to my skull would probably kill me immediately. And if it didn’t, I would surely be knocked unconscious and would not experience the panic of drowning.

I remember congratulating myself on how brilliant that was, this perfect solution to my dilemma.

It was at that moment that the Sorcerer of the Caverns intruded on these bleakly cheerful thoughts.

“You aren’t the kind to take the coward’s way out.”

He had the deepest baritone I had ever heard, and that booming low voice almost made me jump out of my skin.

I lost my footing and nearly fell into the river for what would have been an ironic and accidental drowning.

But he caught me by the wrist and held on until I regained my balance.

I stared at him without a word for what seemed a really long time, and was probably only a moment.

I knew he was the Sorcerer of the Caverns before I saw him, at the moment he spoke.

He looked exactly as he was always described, dressed in flowing black robes with tangled, straggly hair and beard that was the color of dust.

I’ll never forget his eyes.

His pale, colorless eyes held the emptiest gaze I had ever seen.

Really, his presence made my flesh crawl.

Most people found the Sorcerer terrifying, probably because of that desolate stare of his. But not me.

I was never afraid of the Sorcerer of the Caverns. I wasn’t afraid of him in that moment or later, even after I witnessed what he was capable of.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I snapped. “And what do you see?”

“I see a girl who wants what she can’t have.”