The Shepherd's Lone Wolf

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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.”