The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed.
He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color.
Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door.
The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died.
Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.
The Vagabond came in early spring, just after the girl’s thirteenth birthday.
A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies. Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.
“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”
“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”
His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places.
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.
The Vagabond faced him then and smiled.
His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.
“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”
“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”
“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”
“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”
“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.
“Yeah. Really.”
The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses.
But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.
“What a beauty!”
“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”
His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions.
The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer.
But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.
“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.
“Sure.”
“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”
“I know I can.”
“I don’t think so.”
The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him.
“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”
The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment.
But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared.
Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive. He had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.
“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”
He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly.
The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own.
He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal.
But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay.
“Thief…”
“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”
“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”
The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.
“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”
