They became famous in time.
They were a curiosity traveling through cities, towns, and villages, this flock with a talking wolf as a sheepdog.
The Shepherd gave a brief history of what happened between his friend and Ella Bandita, drawing attention to his eyes to prove the Wolf had once been a man.
The Wolf quickly learned to keep his distance during these exchanges.
After his first meeting with the Shepherd, he never spoke about Ella Bandita again.
Hearing her name stirred up the rage and hatred, which the Wolf couldn’t bear. His peace of mind was everything to him after so many months of anguish.
For nearly three years, the Wolf and the Shepherd got on well.
Then one day everything changed.
Winter was disappearing to make way for spring, the snowmelt leaving the earth soggy with the first greens sprouting through the fields.
The Wolf could never resist running through the mud, his paws sinking in the muck with each bound.
He glanced at the Shepherd and saw he was in no hurry to gather the flock.
His friend leaned against a tree, his clear green eyes looking from them to his parchment, his pencil moving swiftly.
The Wolf continued harassing the sheep, splattering mud on them while diving and weaving amongst the flock.
By early afternoon, he knew the Shepherd was ready to move on when his whistle pierced the air.
The Wolf changed paces, nipping at their heels to gather the sheep the moment a breeze picked up in the valley. He found the air ruffling through his fur pleasant, but the light wind distressed the Shepherd.
The Wolf heard him shout, then saw him running across the meadow, frantic to catch the sheets whipping through the air before mud and trampling hooves ruined those drawings.
The Wolf sprang towards the flock, his teeth bared.
Snarling, he ran in wide circles, chasing the sheep from the sketches floating to the ground, while the Shepherd hurried to retrieve them.
The Wolf held a steady pace, running back and forth and pushing the flock away.
One paper hovered close by, the Wolf keeping one eye on it and one eye on the flock.
Then it flipped on the tail end of the breeze, fluttering to the ground, and the image halted the Wolf in his tracks.
He closed his eyes and opened them again to make certain his imagination wasn’t taunting him.
The sheep were forgotten as the Wolf trailed after the drawing and pinned it to the ground with his paw. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat and fur rose between his shoulders.
His hollow space began a violent pounding.
“What troubles you, Wolf?” the Shepherd asked, coming up with sketches in hand.
He didn’t answer.
His gaze was riveted on the likeness of a young woman cradling a tiny lamb to her breast. Her eyes were wintry and the lower half of her face was stained dark as were her hands, most likely from blood.
The drawing was of Ella Bandita.
The Shepherd took hold of the parchment, but the Wolf refused to step off.
The Wolf marveled that those treacherous eyes could be so clear, his gaze seeming as pure as ever.
“I take it this must be your Ella Bandita,” the Shepherd said, after a moment’s pause.
“Are you going to pretend you didn’t know that?”
“I beg your pardon,” the Shepherd said, raising his brows. “But this night was thirty years ago, long before there were any stories about her.”
The Shepherd said nothing more.
For once, his calm provoked the Wolf.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because there was no reason to,” the Shepherd replied. “Why would I connect a girl I met when I was nineteen with a predatory seductress thirty years later?”
“I don’t know,” the Wolf grumbled. “But if that’s blood on her face and hands, I would think that would hint of the possibility.”
“I admit I’ve often wondered if this girl and your Ella Bandita were the same. But your suspicion is offensive.”
“You never told me about her,” the Wolf persisted.
“Perhaps I should have. But as I said, this was before the Ella Bandita stories began.”
“Sounds like quite a tale. I’d be honored to hear it.”
“If you can act in a courteous manner, then you will.”
The Shepherd spoke with the same dignity that had inspired the Wolf’s respect from the day he met him; his tone was that of a man with nothing to be ashamed of.
His fingers still clutched the drawing, pulling gently until the Wolf let go.
The Wolf told himself he was making more fuss than the situation called for, while his hollow made chaos inside him and the vile coursed in his veins again.
He tried to console himself that the Shepherd must have a reasonable explanation.
But watching his friend gather his sketches and gingerly roll them into his cache made the Wolf wonder how many drawings were of Ella Bandita.
“Are you ready?”
