The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody
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Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay
Adrianna's Dance
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Image by soundsonic from Pixabay
The Shepherd gazed at the double doors on the east side of the foyer, the doors to the cavernous theater.
He had loved the vastness in there.
Feeling hesitant without understanding why, the Shepherd turned the knob of one of the doors and entered.
Adrianna was there, dressed in pristine white bloomers and camisole, her long thick hair hanging in a long braid to her waist.
As the Butler said, she was taking her evening exercise.
Caught off guard, the Shepherd was embarrassed.
Stripped of her usual glamor, her simple garments were more intimate even than the revealing gown she had donned for dinner the previous night.
In this moment, Adrianna seemed more human, more vulnerable, more easily seen.
Yet Adrianna was clearly at ease. She waved when she saw him, without missing a step in her ritual.
“I beg your pardon,” the Shepherd said, turning to go. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Your presence is hardly an intrusion, my darling Shepherd. You can even join me if you like. I prefer to finish before supper.”
With her arms outstretched, Adrianna swooped low as she spoke, bringing her right shoulder down, the length of her arm reaching for the floor before she completed her turn with a rounded kick of her left leg in the air above her head.
Then her arms floated to her sides, as she sidestepped across the floor with long strides and a casual undulation in her hips.
Suddenly, she lunged forward with her right leg crooked at the knee, her left leg long behind her, her back arched and head thrown back as she stretched her arms toward her back leg.
Breathing in deeply and sighing audibly, she held the pose for a moment.
Then she swung her left leg forward and up, knee bent to her chest before lunging to her left side, her arms swinging over her head as she reached for the air beyond her grasp.
The dance was both graceful and peculiar in the silence that echoed through the theater.
“I think I prefer to watch,” the Shepherd replied.
“As you wish, dear Shepherd.”
Adrianna laughed, without missing a beat.
Her voice breathier than usual as she transitioned to the next leg of her choreography, abruptly coming out of the side lunge to jump high, bringing her knees to her chest before her feet came down with a soft thump.
Her grace was astonishing.
The legendary Courtesan became a dervish, moving with the agility and nimbleness of a woman more than half her age.
Within moments, the Shepherd was forgotten.
He could tell Adrianna had retreated into a world where nothing existed beyond motion.
Her lovely face was blank as she twirled, lunged, leaped, and spun around the magnificent space of the theater.
The Shepherd now understood how the legendary Courtesan maintained the youthful contours of her face and figure.
Watching Adrianna move to her internal rhythms was captivating in the quietude of a nearly empty theater.
She seemed to grow younger as the dance went on, years coming off her face that glowed from the bliss of freedom of motion. 4
It took strength and concentration, yet also surrender, to dance as she did.
There was so much beauty in the serenity and ecstasy of her expression, in the incandescence of her sparkling golden eyes, the simplicity of the black and silver braid falling to her waist.
Adrianna the Beautiful was exquisite.
That image seared itself into his mind, and the Shepherd picked up his sketch pad and started drawing furiously.
But he only needed to be reminded of the curve of her cheek, the muscles in her calves, the line of her arms stretched out.
He continued drawing even when she moved with the speed of a wood sprite, nimble enough to avoid getting caught.
The Shepherd didn’t look at the parchment at what he drew, so riveted was he by the dance of silence.
Suddenly, she was finished.
Adrianna became still and closed her eyes, her lower belly billowed as she breathed deeply and slowly.
Then she opened her eyes and took a long drink from a pitcher of water that had been left for her. She offered some to the Shepherd, which he accepted absently with a vague nod, finishing his sketch with a few bold strokes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” she said, breathing deeply.
“Absolutely,” the Shepherd agreed. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”
“An indirect consequence of one of my favorite lovers of all time,” she said.
“One of the luckiest moments of my life was meeting him. We called him the Chinaman, even though he said he was Burmese. But it was the business of his life to travel all over the Orient and then the far parts of the world.”
Adrianna took another look drink from the pitcher before she continued.
“The Chinaman taught me some lovely forms of exercise he learned during his travels. Yoga and tai chi. Very exacting disciplines. Over the years, I found I enjoy them so much more if I use the postures as a dance.”
Could Liberation Really Last Forever?
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Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
She wondered if she had grown taller.
When she walked, her limbs stretched longer with each stride. She was stronger and more agile, riding the stallions with more boldness than ever.
She breathed deeply, the smoky air tingling her nose and throat.
The trees seemed on fire when breezes swayed the branches and ruffled the leaves.
She relished the layers of herbs and spices in food that now seemed to have more taste.
When she listened to music, the notes vibrated through her, trilling along sinew and bone.
Everything around the girl pulsed with life and she couldn’t get enough.
She fell out of the habit of breakfast because of her long nights in the Caverns, sleeping until lunch.
The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.
Yet they always came together for dinner.
The table was covered with white linen, laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters, the parlor illuminated by triads of candles along the buffet.
Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table.
The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden by the trappings of formal dining.
They took their seats the same moment a troupe of musicians struck the first notes.
Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song.
One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch.
Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close.
She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table.
A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat.
But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed.
Did he suspect?
The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes.
His scrutiny made the girl uneasy.
She avoided glancing at him while they ate, only facing him after her plate and bowl were empty.
The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity.
Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table.
She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.
****
Something wasn’t right.
The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible.
His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until one day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house.
This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on those days she was inclined to paint, and he could understand why.
The panorama of the rolling fields and the forest to the east was lovely, especially with the foliage rich in the warm light of the sun falling west, the deep blue sky slowly giving way to evening.
The Patron grew calm as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees and breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. It was a pity his daughter wasn’t here to paint this scene.
Her easel stood ready for her with a fresh canvas, the palette and brushes resting on the shelf, her finished work stacked on a small table.
He glanced from the easel to the settee nestled between its legs.
The watercolors she’d done that summer were face-down, secured from the breezes with a stone.
The more the Patron thought about it, the more peculiar he found it that his daughter ever started painting again. Art had never been a pastime she cared for and she had complained about the subject more than once.
Her duenna had been adamant she learn, for highborn young ladies were expected to be accomplished in all the arts. But once her instructor left, the girl never practiced again.
What muse could have changed her mind?
The disturbance niggled away in the back of his mind, enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and the forest beyond.
The Patron reached for the rock and hesitated, hating himself for intruding on his daughter’s privacy.
But something was wrong and his daughter couldn’t object too much if she left her watercolors where anybody could see them.
After another moment’s pause, he set the rock aside and turned over the top canvas.
His hand started to shake when he saw the image painted there.
His daughter’s duenna had been the most respected matron in her profession, so much that he had had to wait several months before he could hire her.
He flipped through the pile of watercolors and saw her reputation had been well deserved.
His daughter had hated this subject, but her learning was so thorough she could pick up a brush several years later and do a fine job of bringing the Horse Trainer back to life.
Every painting was of him.
He looked through them all.
There was no mistaking the cause behind the smoldering eyes and the collapsed features.
The Patron knew the look of a lover when he saw one.
The Shepherd's Moment of Truth
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Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
Where was that shaking coming from?
The Shepherd tried to pull away, but the hands gripping his shoulders were strong.
“Shepherd!”
There was the Wanderer! At last! Why couldn’t he see him in that riotous tower of stolen hearts?
“Wake up, Shepherd! You’re having a nightmare!”
The Wanderer shouted in his ear.
Finally, the Shepherd was able to force his eyes open.
The Wanderer leaned over him, quaking his shoulders until the Shepherd sat up and brushed his hands away.
He was trembling. That dream really had been a horror. He shook his head and rubbed his face.
“From what I heard you say, I take it you were back at the tower.”
The Wanderer’s voice was gentle.
Suddenly flooded with shame, the Shepherd looked away.
Even if the Wanderer had already figured out there was far more to the story the Shepherd had told him of the night he saw Woman kill the Sorcerer of the Caverns, his friend still must have been shocked from the revelations of the night before.
They had had no chance to talk it over. They had been so exhausted after the elaborate dinner and Adrianna’s tale, both retired to their quarters and their beds immediately.
“Yes, I was. What did I say? If I may be foolish enough to ask?”
“You were pleading with her to spare my heart. Where was I?”
“I don’t know. I wondered the same thing in the dream.”
“I take it you lost the fight.”
“I did,” the Shepherd replied. “Fortunately, you woke me up before your heart got eaten.”
The Wanderer smiled.
“I’m sorry,” the Shepherd said in a quiet voice. “I should have told you the truth years ago. All of it.”
The Wanderer took in the Shepherd’s apology for a moment, nodding slowly. Then he shrugged.
“Thank you, but it hardly matters now. I suspect everything went for the best – or as good an outcome as could be hoped for. We may not be here now if you had. I’d probably still be your talking Wolf.”
The Shepherd paused, then admitted his friend had a point.
The Wanderer nodded again, then hesitated with a subtle frown crossing his face.
“Are you ever going to tell me about her?” the Wanderer asked softly.
“I don’t know.”
The Wanderer smiled again and pointed to his breast.
“This heart wants to know. And this heart has a right to know.”
The Shepherd smiled.
“Such an obvious truth is impossible to argue with. But I wasn’t joking when I said I never talk about her.”
“Whether you like it or not, I don’t think you have much choice. Adrianna is relentless when it comes to getting what she wants.”
“So what if she is? I’m leaving today.”
“You would be a fool to do that, Shepherd.”
“I have to get back to my sheep.”
“I can take care of your sheep,” the Wanderer retorted. “How long were you with Ella Bandita?”
“She was not that wretched creature when I knew her!”
The Wanderer’s eyes widened at the hard edge that had come into the Shepherd’s voice.
He looked away from the Wanderer staring at him with raised brows.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“Was this was the love ‘that wasn’t meant’ as you once put it.”
“Why must you ask the nosiest questions?”
“Why won’t you answer them?” the Wanderer retorted. “So, was my Ella Bandita your woman?”
“Yes.”
“Am I also correct in the assumption that you haven’t known a woman since?”
“Now that is none of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ You’re staying. You need this.”
“The last thing I need is to keep company with a courtesan. I’m not a fool.”
“I insist you stay, Shepherd.”
“Last time I checked you were never the master of me.”
“In this particular instance? Like Hell I’m not. That very partial truth you told me was partial enough to be a lie. You owe me.”
“A lie for which I just apologized for. Since the greater good was served – and you said so yourself – I owe you nothing.”
“That’s a paltry way to pay a much larger debt. Not just to me, but to yourself. This part of your life has been chasing you since the day I found your drawing of Ella Bandita.”
The Shepherd was silent.
“It’s time for the story to come out,” the Wanderer persisted. “You might as well get lots of practice in with Adrianna before you tell it to me.”
“How many times do I have to say no?”
“This is not for you to refuse, Shepherd. I demand it of your integrity.”
The Shepherd swore under his breath.
Vagabond Found
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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 his daughter’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.
The Patron 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?”
The Patron knew it was madness to hire someone with nobody to recommend him for such a post.
He could still see that peculiar young man as he had been on that day.
A golden mist surrounded him, and the Patron tried to convince himself it was a trick of light from the sun shining through clouds and rain. But that Vagabond was the most radiant being he had ever seen.
When he shook his head to dispel the mirage, the other glowed even more, and when the Vagabond extended his hand, the Patron accepted the offer before he knew what he was doing.
The Patron struggled to finish his breakfast as he relived that fateful morning.
He could still feel the pull of destiny when he shook hands with his new Horse Trainer more than seven years ago.
The irony puzzled him ever since, for he never doubted that decision.
Yet the Patron also knew the Vagabond had been the gravest mistake of his life.
Addie Explores Her Avenues in the City
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I’d been in the Capital City for a month when restless boredom got the better of my intimidation.
Autumn was also at its peak, and the season seemed so strange in this city of majestic buildings where trees lined the streets, but there was relatively little greenery.
Therefore when the colors changed, I was rather confused.
In the country, the explosion of color meant we were in the hardest months of labor. But it also meant that winter was close, the season when everybody slowed down enough that we peasants weren’t worked to exhaustion.
For some odd reason, I got it in my head that I was losing my last chance to get to know the Capital City.
So I ventured out everyday and explored, ambling through my neighborhood of bohemians and the Avenue of the Theaters. Once I grew familiar with those streets and the hidden places there, I was comfortable enough to wander beyond those boundaries.
I had my daily ritual though.
I always started and ended my day at my favorite café where the waiters knew me. I’d have tea with muffins and fruit when I began, and tea with finger sandwiches when I finished.
I took my time as I observed the other people in the café, noticing the differences and similarities in the clientele there early in the day, and those who came in the evening.
Once I had my fill, I’d pick a direction from the Avenue of the Theaters and go.
The Avenue of the Theaters was in the northern half of the City.
The bohemian neighborhood where I lived was in the northeastern corner of the Capital, and east of the Avenue of the Theaters.
The northwestern corner was the most dangerous part of town, where the joyful decadence of successful harlots, gamblers, courtesans, and the creatives took a downturn into the wretchedness of addiction, seediness, poverty, and despair.
West of the Avenue was where the opium dens, the violent gambling houses, and the most wretched brothels were, along with the slums.
West was where the beggars and hustlers along the Avenue of the Theaters disappeared when they were done panhandling, picking pockets, or conning the gullible.
The Sorcerer had described this part of the city to me.
I only ventured two blocks in before I remembered what I’d been taught and turned around.
But I had already attracted attention I didn’t want when two men started to follow me. I quickened my pace and they drifted off when I was back in the crowd along the Avenue of the Theaters.
Then I ventured south of the Avenue of the Theaters, to the part of the Capital where business and government meet in the stately buildings circling the town square in a circumference three blocks wide.
South of the neighborhood of business was the wealthiest and most elegant neighborhood in the Capital, where the Mayor’s Mansion was flanked with stately homes of the diplomats, the Parliament officials, and the wealthiest businessmen all around.
East of that exclusive area were the more modest, but still comfortable homes of well-made merchants and middle officials.
And to the east of that neighborhood were the apartments and humble dwellings of the respectable serving class, everybody from teachers to waiters to the servants, stewards, and maids who didn’t reside with their employers.
Their neighborhood was safe, but their abodes quite small.
If I had chosen the safe yet undistinguished path for my new destiny, I could have easily lived in this neighborhood for the rest of my life without worry.
When I walked through those streets, I felt the most at home and that these people were the most similar to those I had grown up with.
This was also the part of the Capital where nobody looked twice at me, where the women and men dressed simply, not fashionably. So my country attire and braid that I wore daily did not attract any attention.
I finished each day’s exploration in the café around the corner from the Avenue of the Theaters.
Sometimes, I was tempted to go there late on those many nights I couldn’t sleep, but I was too shy to go alone.
And likely, it would have been dangerous anyway.
As the weeks passed, I started to recognize more faces of people who recognized me.
I often saw Carla there.
She was usually with other courtesans. Every time she saw me, Carla gave me that knowing half-smile of hers, followed with a wink.
But there was one gentleman who accompanied Carla to the cafe quite often. He must have been one of her lovers, but I also saw him with other women, including Filly.
He and Carla seemed very close, yet this gentleman also showed affection for every woman I saw him with. He leaned close and his gestures were intimate, his focus solely on his lady that evening.
He inspired my curiosity, for certain.
This gentleman was handsome in a unique way. He reminded me of a hawk with his lean face, stark features, and sharp-eyed gaze.
Like most gentlemen of fashion, which he was, he walked with a cane. But unlike those who carried canes for elegance, he needed his for support and he leaned on it discreetly.
He walked tall and proud with a long stride and no discernible limp, but that was only self-control. The tight grip of his hand on the knob betrayed his dependence on the cane.
I really liked the look of him.
He differed from the other fine gentlemen I saw daily throughout the Capital.
He wasn’t soft.
He looked like he knew what it was to suffer.
Whenever Carla winked at me, her hawkish gentleman usually turned around and peered at me, with a faint grin on his mouth.
He always nodded to me whenever our eyes met.
His regard penetrated, but never invaded. The sensation was not unpleasant.
The Patron's Daughter Flees With the Shepherd
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Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay
She sounded so weary I couldn’t argue with her.
I opened my rucksack and gave her a pair of pants and one of my shirts. Both were dull in color, and she was as dwarfed in the overlong pants and shirt as I had expected.
But she wrapped the drawstring twice around her waist, rolled up the legs and sleeves; and to my surprise, she seemed at home in these garments.
Then she went back to the river to put her boots on, and braided her hair in a long plait to her waist. Looking around, the stranger girl finally tore off an unsoiled piece of her dress to tie her braid before she threw the bloodstained gown in the river.
The current was strong that time of year.
For an instant, the shimmering fabric blew open and revealed the bloodstained bodice, and the beads on the dress glimmered in the light of the moon before the water sucked the gown under and dragged it downstream.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “If I’m lucky, somebody will find the gown, and everybody will assume I threw myself into the river. But it’s more likely the river will carry it far away before anybody even wakes up.”
“Why were you crying? I doubt you mourned for the Sorcerer.”
The stranger girl smirked and looked sideways at me. Her composure was restored, and the expression in her cold, blue eyes detached once again.
“Rough night,” she said curtly. “The sun will be up before I can tell you all about it.”
She gathered her petticoats and camisole, and wrapped them up in a bundle. Then she looked around the Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove where my sheep had scattered again.
But she wasn’t looking for my flock. She peered in the trees intently for a long time, and clicked her tongue a few times.
The stomping of a massive beast was heard long before the largest stallion I had ever seen appeared. I couldn’t see him until he was almost upon us because his coat was such a dark gray, night made him invisible.
I gasped when I saw the giant animal. Even as tall as I was, that horse towered over me, his back higher than I stood, and his long neck carried his head far above mine.
His stature alone was intimidating. But the wildness I sensed in this stallion made him terrifying, and the noble crest branded into his flanks was inconceivable.
This animal had never been meant to be in service to a patron. He was feral, born to run free wherever he chose.
But this mighty beast came to the stranger girl and knelt on his front legs before her, so she could leap on his back and grip his silvery mane.
I was stunned when the stranger girl sat astride the stallion like a man. I had never seen a girl ride any way other than with both legs along one flank.
“Get on,” she said. “We have about an hour before the sun comes up, two at the most.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to go with you.”
I shook my head.
“There’s no way I can let you come with me.”
“It would only be for a little while. I need time to figure something out, then I’ll go my own way. I promise.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. I scarcely have enough for myself. I often go days without eating anything other than leaves and berries.”
“Don’t you know how to hunt or fish?”
I shook my head.
“I can help with that, Shepherd. Because I can, as well as build a tent and start a fire.”
“But you’re highborn. How do you know how to do all that?”
“A vagabond taught me years ago.”
The expression on my face must have been incredulous, because she rolled her eyes.
“It’s a long story. But he worked for my father and I spent a lot of time with him.”
I hesitated.
“I don’t know about this.”
“Please, Shepherd. I swear I won’t be a burden.”
She stroked her stallion’s neck.
“He can help with gathering your sheep. He does whatever I want him to.”
Before I could say anything, she clicked her tongue again, and the giant horse set off at a canter around the valley and trees until this stranger girl ran the sheep together and gathered my flock.
She and her stallion managed to do in minutes what would have taken me at least half an hour to do on foot. When she stopped before me, the stranger girl peered down and waited.
I glanced between her, my flock, and the moon hitting the western horizon. The night was black, at the darkest moment before coming day.
But the sun would lighten the sky soon, and the farmers and peasants would be getting up. We had less time to get away than I had thought.
“I can show you the way out of here through the trees so nobody sees us,” she continued.
“But…” I stammered. “I don’t know you…and I don’t think it would be…proper.”
The girl pressed the lips of her wide mouth, and her shoulders started to shake.
At first I thought she was crying again, but the muffled snorts broke into the shrieking laughter of hysteria. The high-pitched giggles grated on my ears until the laughter stopped as suddenly as it started.
“Shepherd, propriety is the last concern on my mind right now.”
“But-”
“You saw what happened tonight. I can’t stay here.”
I looked away, embarrassed. The thought of roaming with my flock and this stranger girl who was also a murderess was more than I could take in.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ve never left this village in my life and I don’t know the country. I have nowhere to go.”
I nodded, only to have the sigh of her relief weigh on me.
The girl clicked her tongue and the massive stallion knelt again so I could mount. I drew back, for I did not want to ride that beast.
“Get on,” she urged. “You have nothing to fear.”
I did, and avoided looking down when the giant horse stood up.
“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.”
The Shepherd's Lone Wolf
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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
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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.
The Cost of Liberation
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Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
The Sorcerer had the urge to reach for her, but he restrained himself, knowing the girl would only recoil.
He summoned the shadow servants, but it was the girl who emptied the last drops from the vial into the cauldron.
The mist rose from the brew and the Sorcerer muttered the spell that would transform him into a man of feeling, his senses coming alive with each step he took.
He thought he would burst when the fog dissipated and he saw his lover waiting for him.
Once they joined together, they never came apart.
He clutched her with a desperation that frightened him, burying his face into the crevices of her flesh.
He breathed in her scent so that he could take a piece of her with him once he ceased to be, evaporated into nothing like the Phantom that he was.
Each time he felt the quiver of release, he held on. If he never let go, perhaps the night would go on for eternity.
But she was relentless.
Her lips curled into a snarl, cold blue eyes glittering. She urged his body to betray him and give her what she wanted.
His ecstasy would bring her freedom, and all he could think was that this was the last time…the last time she would be his.
He gazed up the tunnel and saw the gateway to the Caverns stood open. He had forgotten to close the boulder. If he’d remembered, she would never be able to leave him.
But she wouldn’t look at him with hunger as she did right now, the sadness of farewell in her eyes.
The Phantom could hold back no longer, so near to the edge of cataclysm.
He’d held back long enough that pleasure had become pain, delicious when he finally gave in, the howl quaking his being from inside out as his lover forced him to surrender.
Her ululating moans echoed though the chamber and consumed him. His last peak was the most violent he’d ever known, wrenching his grief.
Something inside him shattered.
Suddenly the girl gasped and fell on him in a faint.
The Sorcerer knew something was wrong when he felt the decrepitude in his bones. Somehow, he was no longer virile and young.
But when he saw the girl’s essence lift from her, he realized what she had done.
Her body collapsed, but her essence reached inside him to claim the Trainer’s.
There was nothing he could do to stop her. The Sorcerer was too weak.
He was falling and the precious essence was floating away, the Trainer rising with his lover who was setting him free.
The stars were disappearing from the sky.
The rising dawn meant night was coming to an end.
The Sorcerer fought to stay conscious.
Even if he couldn’t experience the bliss, he could at least witness their final embrace.
Unshackled by physical bodies, the essence of the girl and the Trainer became one.
The last the Sorcerer heard before he succumbed to darkness was the echoing sigh of two lovers floating up the tunnel of crystals, sharing the most exquisite rapture possible until the girl let her Phantom Lover go.
*****
His sleep was dreamless. The Sorcerer woke up into her cold blue gaze.
The girl was dressed, watching him while the Sorcerer lay naked.
Her expression was bland looking over his bony form and she handed him his robes, staying quiet until he’d put them on.
“I believe you have something for me,” she said.
He looked at her and nodded.
The Sorcerer got up, shocked at the pain searing through him while searching amongst the shelves.
He kept his back to the girl until he found the promised dust that would protect her in times of danger.
He had never before had cause to notice the emptiness after a seduction came to an end.
Exhaustion spread through his limbs when he found the leather pouch.
But he caught a glimpse of the black velvet bag, nestled in the corner of the highest shelf, and his spirit lifted.
He’d actually forgotten about her heart. No wonder he was so tired.
He turned around and handed her the pouch of dust.
She took it, but eyed him closely, scowling.
The Sorcerer was pleased she’d detected his shift in mood. The girl’s powers of observation were impeccable and the most satisfying quality of her conquest.
“Use this with caution,” he said. “You only need a pinch, it’s that powerful.”
She nodded, ruffling her skirts to pocket the leather pouch.
“I don’t know if the world is ready for you,” he continued. “But you’re more than ready for the world. Good luck in your new life.”
The girl said nothing, staring up the tunnel for a moment before taking her first step.
But once she started, her progress was steady as she made her way up the stairs.
The Sorcerer watched her go, a sharp stab in his breast catching him off guard so much that he almost doubled over.
The pain was confusing. There was no reason to suffer.
He glanced at the black velvet bag, knowing he would soon get what he really needed.
The girl stopped halfway up the spiral.
Her halt was so sudden he wondered if she could hear what he was thinking. She looked down at him, her brows drawn close.
He knew what her question would be before she spoke, her contralto voice echoing down the tunnel.
“What are you going to do with my heart?”
“I’m going to eat it.”
The Sorcerer didn’t hesitate in his answer, and thus dispelled the last vestiges of the illusion of love.
The girl’s face paled and the Sorcerer felt like himself again, reveling in the new surge of vitality in his blood.
“I always knew there would be a hidden cost,” she murmured.
This excerpt is out of my novel, “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” To purchase the ebook, click HERE.
Baiting the Patron's Daughter
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Image by engin akyurt from Pixabay