Enter the Benevolent Intruder
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Image by ImaArtist on Pixabay
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?”
The Night the Children Came
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Image by Enkhtamir Enkhdavaa from Pixabay
In the dusky lavender of twilight, the village young filed into the cabin built at the edge of the forest.
As the children were settling down, the Bard came home from the woods with his grandson.
His hands boasted the marks of time.
One of his hands made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness.
In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. The woods had been generous with its abundance of mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs.
The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his audience before they went home to bed.
Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.
A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when they came inside.
Tonight was the night for stories.
The Bard would talk late into the night, and the children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars.
But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind.
They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them.
The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze.
The Bard never began until there was an inferno burning.
His love of heat was legendary.
He had built this cabin as a young man.
The villagers who had been alive during that time said his home started with the fireplace.
They said the Bard needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.
He allowed himself this one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special.
The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks.
He explored for years, his black eyes searching for rocks with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth: deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink.
The stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin. The deep pit stretched wide and tall with iron mesh so it would contain the spits of flaming wood.
His hearth was a masterpiece.
During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant.
Until the log cabin was built, they were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees.
The young husband and father told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning behind him.
He drew the notice of villagers who were fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air.
The villagers would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.
One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.
And that was how it began.
After that first night, all the villagers came to hear the Bard.
Once the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.
As the years passed, only the children came.
They gathered every week no matter the weather or the event.
The children came the night after the Bard’s daughter married and left home.
They came after he was widowed.
The Bard assured the villagers that the the children were more than welcome.
Many in the village shook their heads at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to his neighbors.
The more difficult their project, the more he preferred it.
He especially loved to build, for hard work that required concentration gave him relief from his mourning.
A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish.
He was grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer through the murder of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.
Whenever the Bard thought of their last moments, he couldn’t escape the anguish coursing through his veins.
However, he kept his demons to himself.
The cutthroats had spared the life of his grandson, but his innocence was under assault from night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.
The child was only four when he came to live with his grandfather.
The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for this child who needed him desperately.
Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories.
The Bard was forever thankful to them because their presence brought innocence, normalcy, and harmony that was lacking.
His grandson sat amongst them, but his large black eyes were vacant, staring into nothing, his face unresponsive.
The Bard prayed every night that the little boy would find his way back from the abyss of frozen terror, and return to childhood.
And every week, the children came.
It was a year before the nightmares stopped.
Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.
As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same eyes as his grandfather.
It was time.
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.
The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
Before he spoke, the Bard always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence as the Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
The Beginning of a Long Walk Home
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Image by Lars_Nissen from Pixabay
For years, I have heard Ella Bandita described as the ugly seductress no man could resist.
I always thought that strange, and not simply because she had always been so lovely to me. Beyond the beauty held in my eyes, the vagabond seductress never had to be beautiful and her savage features made her a legend.
Woman was the most fascinating creature I had ever known. She was also the most dangerous, even in that time I knew her before she became the Thief of Hearts.
So to reduce her to a lack of prettiness always seemed to me the pettiness of an empty mind.
And then there is Adrianna.
Adrianna the Beautiful, the most legendary Courtesan of the Capital City, and they say she grows more beautiful with time.
Thank you for understanding and for your grace, Wanderer.
The time has long passed that I should tell you the story of my Woman who would become your Ella Bandita. But I can no longer do that without sharing the extraordinary stories of the Courtesan who wanted to destroy her.
So much has happened since we parted that this tale will take many days and nights to unfold.
I must start from the beginning, in which you played a crucial role.
I hope you forgive me if I talk about your part in this as if you hadn’t been there. I know it’s irritating, but I need that kind of distance to make sense of the stories I lived through and the stories I heard during these past few months.
So…Wanderer, may I walk with you on your long journey home?
****
The Courtesan’s beauty was staggering.
I had never seen so much flesh in my life as I did in the massive portraits on these walls.
Standing, reclining, full front on, in profile, her back to the artist, the Courtesan was naked in every pose, her silhouette that of an hourglass.
Her full breasts stood high on her chest, her torso curved to a slender waist above rounded hips, her legs were long and tapered. Her skin was creamy and luminous; and black hair cascaded to her waist. Her features were noble; hers was the classical beauty of the highborn class.
But her eyes made her unforgettable.
Beneath arched brows, her large eyes angled on a tilt and mingled the hues of gold and amber. Her steady gaze held the controlled ferocity of a wildcat.
Such fierce scrutiny replicated in portrait after portrait overpowered my senses for a moment.
I turned my back to gather my bearings, only to come back to the incessant pink of the foyer.
How in the devil did I come here?
That’s what I wondered as I encountered again the cavernous entry into the home of Adrianna the Beautiful.
The atrium had soaring ceilings with pale pink satin lining the walls, while mottled pink marble stretched along the floor and up the steps of the sweeping staircase in the middle.
Maybe even the ceiling was pink.
It was impossible to tell because the massive chandelier hanging in the space between the ceiling and the floor reflected pink everywhere.
Hundreds of candles and thousands of crystal droplets married fire and ice when the tiny flames coupled with the glimmering teardrops, then flickered along the marble floor, the stairs, and the walls.
Such a pairing had cast rosy radiance throughout the foyer to render everybody inside timeless and ageless.
Instead of gaining my balance, the glowing majesty of the entryway stirred the memory from that afternoon, which made me light-headed.
I turned back to the paintings.
This time, I found it easier to focus on the portraits lined along the wall north of the wide elegant staircase that cut a dramatic swathe in the center of the foyer.
The woman peered intently at the artist who had painted her.
The loving attention to detail made me wonder if the artist had caressed his lover with each stroke of the brush. Carnality and lawlessness emanated from the Courtesan’s portraits. I could easily imagine a handsome, tormented soul painting with fevered intensity, a creator hopelessly in love with his libertine muse who would only cherish him in the moment.
Perhaps they had made love in between sittings?
Before me were nine paintings displaying the glory of a legendary Courtesan in all the phases of her life.
About five years must have passed in between each portrait.
Her features matured and grew more defined with each painting, as she left the plump bloom of youth behind. Her body ripened to her prime, then past it; silver streaked her glossy black hair more and more in each portrait.
Yet in all the paintings, her expression was much the same.
Those golden eyes sparkled with defiance and unrepentant joy.
Her generous mouth curved in a knowing smirk.
Had she anticipated her future audience when she posed for her portraits? Did she see past the artist, looking to those who would later gaze upon her?
Her stare was relentless.
She dared me to judge her, the scarlet woman who should have been an outcast.
The Bounty Hunter's Last Track
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The Charmer was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering just 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, and her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
It was the legendary Courtesan who gathered the women together.
Adrianna the Beautiful made her first visit with her lover’s near widow.
They had a long meeting, Adrianna staying for the better part of the day until she made a rival into a friend. The wife and the mistress sacrificed their most precious jewels to start a reward for the capture of the woman who had felled the Charmer.
Word spread fast.
The other wives and courtesans didn’t need much convincing to join them.
This sisterhood seemed incredible at first, but once the women set their grievances aside, it made sense.
Deprived of widowhood, the Charmer was committed to an asylum where he would be for the rest of his life, and his wife would never be free to marry again. Plenty of ladies shared her fate and courtesans lost some measure of comfort when their lovers were destroyed.
Ella Bandita was a genuine threat to them all, and she had to be stopped.
The women were confident they would find their hero amongst those hired to use outlaw ways to bring outlaws to justice.
Bounty hunters had the freedom to use methods forbidden to lawmen, and theirs was a lonesome calling. Since they gained in wages what they lost in respect, these men dreamed of earning enough to buy a modest estate and retire as a Patron.
The fortune of the women’s jewels was enough to realize this dream for the man who captured or killed the Thief of Hearts.
It wasn’t long before the price on Ella Bandita was the highest ever for a single fugitive.
But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth, even though all of them were tempted.
The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman.
Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful when she destroyed a Patron who had made their lives a misery.
Ella Bandita was universally feared, but she also had her admirers.
The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession.
This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, devoid of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked a dwarf with short limbs and a powerful torso, his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard.
The Bounty Hunter seemed absurd to the women when he promised them relief from their distress within weeks. He hardly looked their picture of a hero.
But he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him.
Not that the Bounty Hunter would have cared if the ladies had been rude. The fortune was all that mattered to him. The thought of it made his mouth water.
Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw once the bounty was accepted.
The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive. She was wanted in several countries and failure to cooperate would reap severe consequences.
The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the outset of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer, when the Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl. He was confident he’d find her within weeks.
But his prey proved more elusive.
The Bounty Hunter tracked her haunts as he heard about them. He scoured the country and depleted most of his modest fortune for a fresh track that would lead him to her.
Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly.
He probably would have quit if his search hadn’t cost him everything. He had never come across a quarry so elusive. So much so that he became obsessed.
And the lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew.
The fashion seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had.
The ladies were impatient, and almost as bitter as the Bounty Hunter.
Then he found his first real lead.
Ella Bandita had struck several days before in the last of a series of fashion towns. But the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else.
The interviews was tedious, and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark.
His frustration got the better of him one day and he ignored the appointments made for that afternoon to run his mare through the woods.
That’s when he found it.
During his ride, the Bounty Hunter came to a bald spot in the trees.
The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots.
He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed.
The Bounty Hunter could almost swear that smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted.
Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for, bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found larger pieces with ashes mixed in the dirt where her fire pit was buried.
When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, the Bounty Hunter knew he had found her shelter.
He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita had made her camp there.
The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside.
What a fool he had been.
Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond.
Yet he had never considered the woods.
And if he had, he would have found her months ago.
All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates.
His heart pounded. The Bounty Hunter imagined the fortune that would be his now that he finally knew where to hunt his prey.
He found Ella Bandita two weeks later.
The Bard's Favorite Villainess
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Illustration by BANE, Dennis McElroy
Three days of snow covered the village, draping the roofs and windows with blazing white. Flaky chunks fell from the sky on the night for stories, but the children still came.
The older boys helped the Bard’s grandson plow a path to the cabin. He had grown much since the previous summer. He was thin and lanky, with limbs now longer than he was accustomed.
The doors and windows of the cabin glowed from the fire built up in the hearth.
The Bard was in his place, his silhouette black against the crackling tongues of flame shooting up behind him.
The heat soothed the young until the room grew crowded with them sitting, lying, and leaning against each other for comfort and the cabin became hotter than summer, their sweat gluing them to each other.
But tonight the young would bear with the heat.
They were more excited than usual for this night’s tale.
The week before, his own grandson challenged the Bard that Ella Bandita was not truly a seductress, but a vicious trickster.
The Bard sighed and was silent for a few minutes.
Then he promised to prove the seductive prowess of the Thief of Hearts the following week.
His grandson was laughing when he entered the cabin with his friends.
The boys remembered to stop in the cold storage shed and brought with them bags of nuts, frozen berries, ground spices, dried herbs, and jars of mushrooms preserved from summer and autumn.
The Bard watched the boy pull two large skillets down from the hearth and three village girls approaching him before he got to work. The Bard didn’t hear their talk, but he frowned when he saw his grandson’s eyes glint and his mouth curve in a smirking grin.
The boy glanced at his grandfather and flushed.
With more warmth in his smile, he told the girls he had to get supper ready.
Reluctantly they walked away.
The Bard shook his head.
Girls liked that boy more than was good for him and he was becoming precocious[jwwz1] .
A few minutes later, he caught the scent of garlic and cayenne and smiled.
His grandson had a nice touch when it came to cooking. The hash would be spicy tonight, perfect for winter and warming the blood.
The children rumbled, impatient to hear tonight’s story.
The Bard stared into the sea of young faces and hoped tonight’s tale scared the devil out of his grandson.
“Things change when one crosses the line between countries,” he began.
“Our neighbors are different on the other side of No Man’s Land, the woods that separate us from the nation to the west. Their language is not ours, their customs aren’t the same, and their society is more intricate. Here, one is either Patron or peasant. To be Patron is to be noble, to be peasant is to be humble.”
“But there, the highborn are ranked according to their title, and to come from humble origins is to be less than common. Such a society is cruel, often mercenary and always lacking in heart.
“Such a society is a rich hunting ground for Ella Bandita.”
*****
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, not worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, the one 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.
The Charmer hadn’t been married a year before he 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, fiery, and 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 the Beautiful even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
The Charmer smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. He 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.
But his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted.
The Charmer forgot about that strange woman in the common seats below, once the performance was under way, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
Really, 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, and a life of elegance and leisure.
He was still enjoying himself, the gift of privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Yet 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 the Charmer sensed the boredom that would come.
A Clever Piece of Blackmail
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Image by press 👍 and ⭐ from Pixabay
“If you speak a word about tonight,” the Patron’s Daughter hissed, “I will destroy you!”
“If I talk, your ruin will come before you could get at me. There’s sure to be some deep and dark bruises on your bottom. That’ll prove the truth I’d be telling.”
I couldn’t resist mocking her a little.
“You filthy little grubber! I hate you!”
Underneath her viciousness, I heard the tremor of fear in the Patron’s Daughter voice. She would never be able to bring me to shame or rage again.
That was when I understood how much power I now had over the nemesis who had cast my life in shadow.
That moment has always been the most exquisite intoxication I would ever know. I’ve enjoyed much power since that night. But nothing has compared to how I felt in that moment because it was my first taste of power.
“Likewise.”
With one word I was free from the bondage of hypocrisy, and the relief sent another luscious shiver through me.
“Don’t you dare tell anybody about tonight!”
“What are you going to do to shut me up?”
“What!”
“Don’t play dumb. How many times has your father paid for silence? If you want mine, you also have to pay.”
She stared at me, her mouth agape.
Honestly, I was as shocked as she was because those words were out before I knew what I was saying. Fortunately for me, years of stoicism enduring brutality and overwork made it easy for me to hide my feelings.
“What did you bring for the Brute?”
Her eyes widened as understanding set in.
“You set me up!”
“There was no way I could have set that up,” I retorted. “If I had known you had a yummy for taking a beating, I would have taken it upon myself long ago.”
“You ugly, repugnant, little tripe!”
“If you think I’m ugly, do you see the Brute as handsome? You sure cleaved your pin pretty good rutting up against him.”
She slapped me hard across my face.
It was everything I could do to not slap her in return. If I had, I would have left my mark on her for certain.
Instead, I pushed her down hard.
“Either give me what you meant to give the Brute, or there will be lots of exciting conversation to be had after morning worship.”
She practically snarled at me.
“No! You rot with the devil!”
“I think you’re likely to meet him before I do,” I said, and turned my back. “It’s your ruin.”
I took five steps before she relented.
“Wait!”
I stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I brought three gold coins and two jeweled rings I never wear.”
I came back and held out my hand.
“I am not giving you all that!” she protested. “That’s what I brought to marry the Noble Son! What you saw is not worth that much.”
“The gold coins will keep me quiet. On my honor.”
“You have no honor, you greedy little snipe.”
“Takes one to know one,” I repeated the Brute’s retort.
I had no choice but to admit she was right.
My connection with her was dishonorable from the very beginning.
But I didn’t care.
As soon as the cold gold touched my palm, a shiver went down my spine. In my hand was more money than my family had ever possessed in our miserable lives.
I almost fainted from the thrill of it. The sacrifice of integrity was worth it.
“Next week, I suggest you be fully prepared to guarantee my silence.”
“I won’t be coming next week.”
“If you insist,” I replied. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”
Her response to my audacity was spit to the face when we came out of the woods.
But I knew the Brute was right.
I also knew the Patron’s Daughter would never be able to strip me of my dignity again.
At last, I looked into my palm.
The coins were larger than I expected and I had no idea what they were worth.
I was buoyant, skipping through the woods to go back to the cabin as the Sorcerer and I had previously agreed upon.
I expected the Brute to be there when I walked inside. Instead, the Sorcerer waited.
His ancient face looked almost pleasant when he saw me.
“That was a clever piece of blackmail,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“You practically handed it to me. Thank you, by the way.”
“Perhaps I made it easy, but you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Most people don’t. You have a sharp instinct.”
He peered into my palm and whistled.
“I think you will do supremely well in the next phase of your life, Addie.”
“I don’t even know what these are worth,” I admitted.
“With the money you have in your hand right now, you could live in very elegant apartments with a servant or two in the Capital City for three months.”
The End That Was Only the Beginning
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Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay
As always, the Sorcerer was right.
A few days later, I saw the Patron’s Daughter as soon as I came into the trees.
She was clearly waiting for me, impatiently pacing back and forth. She had dark circles under her eyes, marring the perfection of her face.
“What took you so long?” she demanded.
“I didn’t know I was meeting you for a walk. Last time I saw you, you seemed angry-”
“Will I need to bring money or jewels?” she interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
I felt like an idiot for not considering payment.
I knew what the Sorcerer wanted from the Patron’s Daughter, but she certainly didn’t know what she was walking in to.
“To pay him!” she snapped. “What are his terms?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking fast. “But that’s not a bad idea.”
There are no words to describe the sweet relief and exquisite terror I felt in those days approaching that night.
On the eve of the holy day of rest, the Patron’s Daughter agreed to sneak out after dark to meet me at the edge of the Ancient Grove.
Even her tyrannical father didn’t dare dishonor holy days to make us work.
I remember there was absolutely no suspicion on her face as we made our plan.
The only risk at this point was getting caught.
If our absences were discovered, the Patron’s Daughter would be ruined.
But I would be doomed.
On that day before my liberation, I was worthless in the fields.
I couldn’t sleep the night before. As much as I had dreamed about my liberation from servitude, I had no plan for it and no idea what to do with it. I certainly couldn’t come back to my parents after selling my heart and the virtue of the Patron’s Daughter.
The night before my destiny was to change, I realized I wasn’t ready.
I was so panicked, I considered the coward’s way out, leaving the Patron’s Daughter to wander the Ancient Grove alone, looking for the cabin.
But I had come too far to lose faith now. As terrified as I was of an unknown future, I still met the Patron’s Daughter in the Ancient Grove.
She had to jostle my arm to get my attention because I didn’t see her at first. She wore a long, dark cloak that covered her face and form, blending her in amongst the dark trees.
She, too, must have had the fear of detection.
It was so dark that night.
I looked for the moon in the sky through the trees. Either it was a dark moon, or the trees of the Ancient Grove were so thick, it was impossible for any light to shine through.
But I was still able to guide her through the trees.
The Sorcerer must have had a fire burning in the hearth, for I caught the aroma of smoke before I saw the glow through the only window of the cabin. But that did nothing to warm the chill inside me.
My heart pounded on our approach.
For a moment, I hesitated.
The thought crossed my mind that this would be the last time I would feel that inner pulsing. Good thing I didn’t spend too much time reflecting on that in those weeks leading up to this night.
It’s a tremendous decision to sell off my essence, my life force, all so a being like the Sorcerer of the Caverns could be immortal. If I had pondered on the sheer magnitude of it all, I likely would not have been able to go through with it.
As it was, in that moment, I knew that everything I had always known would come to an end.
Although that was certainly true, this was only the beginning.
My first adventure in life would begin that night. And my first adventure would be by far the most bizarre.
My darling Shepherd, that is a mighty statement to make at this juncture in my life after more than forty years of decadence.
My hand shook when I knocked on the door.
A gruff voice from inside bid us to enter.
I opened the door, and in my nervousness, I forgot to step aside to usher the Patron’s Daughter in before me.
In this particular instance, however, the oversight of etiquette towards one’s betters was a miracle that saved me.
I almost fainted when I saw him.
Although I didn’t know what to expect when I walked inside, I was shocked at the sight of the Brute who stood before me.
Instead of the long black robes and a face desiccated from the passing centuries, the Sorcerer had transformed into a beast of a man.
He had the physique of a carnival strongman, coarse black hair, beady dark eyes, and the crudest features I had ever seen. His thick lips curled in a grimace of amusement when he saw the look on my face.
I felt the blood drain from my head at the sight of him.
The Brute was anything but seductive.
He was repugnant and my doom was certain.
The Realm of Possibility
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
She saw the magic dust on her night table the moment she came back to her room.
Her maid must have found the pouch in her skirts and taken it out for her.
The pouch was worn and the leather dull under the flame of her night lamp. The dust was an unwelcome reminder.
The girl had forgotten about the Sorcerer, as if the interlude of the past months had never been.
She buried the pouch again in the pocket of her gown and dropped to her bed. Then she pulled her necklace off, her palm guarding the crystal stargaze from the light.
This keepsake didn’t disturb her so much, the stargaze a talisman of the moment her destiny changed. The silver links of the chain were cool, trailing down her arm while she traced the crystal tiers with her fingertip.
Tonight, supper had been long.
She and her father talked well past dessert, just as they had the night before. She was still uncomfortable around him, and the Patron was hardly more at ease than she.
But he was persistent, skillful in preventing the awkward pauses which might have dammed the flow of conversation. The topic tonight had been safe, her father discussed the season, confiding that he was thinking about adding to his estate with one in the southeast.
“Properties like this rarely come to purchase,” he said. “However, his son is frivolous and prefers city life.”
“But it’s far from here. How can you watch over both?”
“It would be foolish of me to attempt it,” the Patron replied. “Frankly, I think this would be ideal for you.”
The girl said nothing, just set down her fork and stared at him.
“The estate’s small,” he continued, “but the soil is so rich you could grow just about anything. There’s also a nice stretch of woods, perfect for riding and hunting.”
“It’s a long distance, Papa.”
“Yes, but not so much I couldn’t guide you through any concerns until you were ready to run it on your own. That shouldn’t take long. You’re very capable.”
“You would need at least one full day’s travel if you run the horses hard. But more likely it’s a two-day journey.”
“And that would serve you well, don’t you think?” The Patron spoke softly, eyeing her with raised brows. “Are you really so attached here, Daughter?”
The girl chortled before she could stop herself, glancing to the attendants just as their eyes flicked to each other.
“No, Papa. Of course I’m not.”
They sipped their wine without speaking for a few minutes.
“Good society there from what I’ve heard,” the Patron mused. “The people are said to be quite eccentric, but charming.”
“You don’t think they’d wonder about an unmarried woman as their Patroness?”
“You would be properly introduced, so what is there to suspect?”
The girl scarcely tasted the last bites of dessert, her mind digesting her father’s plan.
As one of the most respected Patrons on the continent, an introduction from him would be invaluable. And although he hadn’t said so, she suspected the people there had heard nothing about her.
At least not yet they hadn’t.
“I must admit this sounds intriguing, Papa. But scandal can travel to great lengths.”
“How unfortunate it is that you’re right,” the Patron said, glaring at the servants until they began to fidget. “Really, the consequences for gossip can never be severe enough.”
His tone was mild, but the faces of their attendants paled.
The girl suppressed the urge to chuckle, the thought crossing her mind that such restraint might kill the Cook.
“Thank you, Papa. I’ll think about it.”
The girl still couldn’t believe how quickly everything had changed.
When she opened her eyes just before the lunch hour, the smiling warmth of her maid was the first she saw before the servant wished her a good day.
The stable hands had been deferential when she came to the barn, her favorite steed ready for her.
She hadn’t gone to the village yet to see how she would fare with the merchants, but she was certain they would be courteous when she did.
Just like that, her formal ostracism was gone, now that had word spread that the Patron was speaking to her again.
Yet the girl knew she would always be marked.
Her father’s suggestion was really too wonderful, and she needn’t worry about the taint spreading any farther.
The girl sighed, turning her head to see the candle melt dripping from the night lamps to the floor. Startled, she looked out the window and saw the moon at its peak in the sky.
She must have fallen into a daze. The hour was much later than she thought.
But on this night, she was in her room, instead of the Caverns.
The blessed relief made her fall back on her bed.
The Perfect Moment of Weakness
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Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay
Ironically, the perfect moment came from my suppressed irritation.
I was already in a dreadful mood when I met up with the Patron’s Daughter.
It was the peak of harvest season and that day had been viciously hot.
Working the fields had been pure misery. Even the most stoic of workers cursed as we pulled vegetables from the ground, drenching the earth with our sweat.
I almost passed out, and several others did.
So there was no holding my tongue when I met with the Patron’s Daughter, who was especially petulant that day.
“Aren’t you getting bored with this?” I declared. “Do you ever think about what you want, or do you simply like to complain?”
I can still remember the pitch of irritation in my voice.
I was both aghast and exhilarated by what I said.
I have no idea where those words came from, but what I said was perfect. I knew from her first reaction.
Her blue eyes grew wide for a moment. Then she glared at me.
It was clear I had offended her. Yet what she didn’t do was storm off in indignation.
“How dare you!”
“If you want to marry the Noble Son that much, I know somebody who might be able to help you.”
“That is absurd. How could you, Addie, possibly know anybody who could help me marry the Noble Son?”
The Patron’s Daughter had recovered enough to regain hauteur. She puffed herself up and looked down on me.
“The same way I came to know you and all your secret sorrows.”
What I said next made me writhe with self-loathing for days, but it sealed my change in destiny.
“People confide in me because I don’t matter. Just like you do.”
The ruthless honest stopped the Patron’s Daughter in her tracks. Her expression could best be described as frozen.
“Everybody needs to confess,” I continued before she could recover. “And I’m no danger to anybody. So I know things and I know people.”
“All right,” the Patron’s Daughter said hesitantly. “Tell me more.”
I had her.
This was her moment of weakness that I had been waiting for.
This moment was also the first time I felt the delicious thrill of power.
It made me giddy for days.
“There’s a cabin deeper in the woods-”
“Nobody goes into the Ancient Grove,” she interrupted. “Everybody knows that.”
“We’re in the Ancient Grove right now.”
“We’re at the edge. That’s not the same thing.”
“We’re deep enough that nobody can see us here,” I countered. “So what difference does it make if we go a little further in?”
The Patron’s Daughter paused. Before she could argue further, I pressed my point.
“As I said, there’s a cabin in the woods and the man who lives there swears he can see inside a person’s soul and know their true desires.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, but he swears he can bring people what they truly desire.”
She frowned.
“That is ridiculous!”
I swore inwardly.
I had known the Sorcerer’s bait was weak when he told me what to say. I protested that it wouldn’t work.
But the Sorcerer had insisted that’s what I would tell her.
The Patron’s Daughter was stupid, but even she wasn’t so easily fooled.
Yet the Sorcerer had insisted on a certain script and that I follow it word for word, even in the face of her resistance.
So I did.
I shrugged as the Sorcerer told me to, and kept my tone light and casual.
“Well, that’s what I heard. I also heard he only takes visitors on the eve before the holy day of rest.”
“And what does he want in exchange?”
“I don’t know.”
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head, and gave a rather unladylike snort.
“I’m only trying to help. I know where the cabin is. I can take you there in a few days if you want.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” I said and shrugged again. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I cursed the Sorcerer and his paltry script when the Patron’s Daughter flipped her long raven hair and walked off.
The savory taste of invincibility and power disappeared, leaving bitterness in my mouth and my being filled with despair.
I had actually had the Patron’s Daughter where I had wanted her. Yet because of the Sorcerer, I had blown it.
I still went to the cabin as I was supposed to.
When I walked in, it struck me how barren this cabin was, only one room with meager furnishings. Perhaps a monk might have been comfortable there, but it was incredible the Sorcerer believed this could be the setting for the seduction and downfall of the Patron’s Daughter.
To my surprise, the Sorcerer was almost beaming when I walked in.
“Excellent work!” he said. “Addie, that could not have gone any better!”
“Are you mad? She said no.”
“Of course, she said no today. Everybody resists at first. She’ll say yes, probably by the end of the week.”
“I really doubt that.”
“You underestimate yourself. How many times have I been right when you’ve disagreed with me?”
I said nothing.
“Trust me,” the Sorcerer cajoled, his tone almost soothing. “You hooked her. She won’t stop thinking about what you said. She’ll even start obsessing about it. Chances are she’ll look exhausted by the time she comes to you. Keep up your melancholy walks in the woods.”
The Dead Heart
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Image by Gloria Williams from Pixabay
His sleep was dreamless.
The Sorcerer woke up into her cold blue gaze.
The girl was dressed, watching him with a bland expression as she handed him his robes. She stayed quiet until he’d put them on.
“I believe you have something for me,” she said.
The Sorcerer looked at his former protegée and nodded.
He 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 magic dust that would protect her in moments of danger.
The Sorcerer had never before had cause to notice the emptiness inside him after a seduction came to an end. Exhaustion he hadn’t known since he’d been mortal spread through his limbs when he found the leather pouch.
Then he glimpsed the black velvet bag, nestled in the corner of the highest shelf, and his spirit lifted. The Sorcerer had actually forgotten about the girl’s heart.
No wonder he was so tired.
He turned around and handed the young woman the pouch of magic dust that she could use to turn anybody into anything she wanted with a word.
She took it in hand, but eyed him closely, with a slight scowl.
So the girl noticed his shift in mood. Good. That was very good.
Her powers of observation were impeccable, one of the many reasons she was the most satisfying conquest he’d enjoyed in centuries.
“Use this with caution,” the Sorcerer advised her for the last time. “You only need a pinch. It’s very powerful.”
The nodded, ruffling her skirts to pocket the leather pouch.
“I don’t know if the world is ready for you,” the Sorcerer mused. “But you’re more than ready for the world. Good luck in your new life.”
The girl nodded absently, and said nothing.
She stared up the tunnel for a minute before taking her first step out of the Caverns. 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.
This pain was confusing. He had no reason to suffer. The Sorcerer glanced at the black velvet bag, his dry mouth salivating. Soon, he would get what he really needed, and this ache inside his breast would soon be gone.
The girl stopped halfway up the spiral.
Her halt was so sudden the Sorcerer wondered if she could hear what he was thinking.
She looked down at him, her brows drawn close.
The Sorcerer 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, Sorcerer?”
“I’m going to eat it.”
The Sorcerer was pleased that he didn’t hesitate in his answer. And thus, he 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.
The girl turned her face to the sky, deep lavender in the hour before sunrise, and finished her climb out of the Caverns and disappeared.
She would be all right, the Sorcerer thought, confident he’d done better by her than to any of his other conquests.
With everything she’d gained from him, her power was formidable.
The Sorcerer shook the torpor from his limbs and turned back to the shelf, his eyes reaching for the velvet bag before he got it in hand.
Pulling the gathers open, his innards clenched when he saw the heart. He had never waited so long to feed.
But first, he had to bring it back to life.
The heart was so quiet and still.
The Sorcerer waved his hand over the bag and whispered the spell of awakening.
Then he waited, but nothing happened.
Jostling the bag between his fingers, his voice rumbled with another command to make the organ pulse again.
But the heart rocked in silence.
The Sorcerer frowned.
This had never happened before.
Those were powerful spells.
But now he needed his strongest remedy.
The Sorcerer searched until he found a tonic he once used to bring a dead man back to life. He held his breath as he sprinkled a few drops and waited.
Nothing changed.
He doused the heart with the tonic, massaging the supple tissue, and muttered the most powerful incantation in his memory, a spell that had never failed him until now.
A crest of panic rose in his breast, but the Sorcerer pushed it down.
This couldn’t be happening.
The Sorcerer had no appetite for a stillborn heart.
The girl’s heart had to be alive.
False Friendship
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Image by anncapictures from Pixabay
As summer progressed, the polite chats between the Patron’s Daughter and I grew more personal.
Within a few weeks, I became her confidante.
The intimacy did not increase my sympathy or respect for the Patron’s Daughter. If anything, she became even more contemptible to me the more I got to know her.
She spoke of the Noble Son’s desertion almost every day.
She never referred to his going home as a rejection. All she thought of was the embarrassment and the loss of pride.
In the eyes of others, the Patron’s Daughter had always been unattainable. That was a state that she craved to the point of ravenous. So for a girl like her to be on the receiving end of a young man who was unattainable to her was unspeakably humiliating.
She did not handle the switch with much grace.
When the Patron’s Daughter spoke of the Noble Son, she never expressed longing or heartache.
She never asked about the reason why the Noble Son would leave without a proposal or an invitation to come visit the Southeast, as was the customary etiquette amongst highborn families.
It was clear that the Noble Son and his parents had no desire to pursue a connection with them.
I would be lying if I denied to you the pleasure I took hearing all this.
Getting to know the Patron’s Daughter had a bizarre effect.
Although I certainly didn’t like her any more, I was finally able to stop hating her. Not only was she as spoiled as she had always seemed, her conceit rendered her pitiful.
It was very freeing, really.
Although the deceit of this friendship made me feel foul, there were many gifts I received from it. Besides the peace of mind that comes when hatred dies, I learned much about the danger of vanity.
Over the years, especially in the Life, this wisdom was absolutely priceless. I’ve received much in the way of lavish praise as a Courtesan, especially in the early years when I was new to the Life.
Of course, I enjoyed the extravagant compliments. Who wouldn’t? But I saw them more as an amusement. I never digested them into who I thought I was.
This is a pitfall many courtesans fall into. I watched many a beautiful and luscious woman render herself absurd from taking flattery far too seriously.
Many a promising career ended prematurely this way.
On a practical note, the vanity of the Patron’s Daughter also made it easy for me to betray her. Her arrogance was awfully tedious.
I was often provoked.
More than once, I nearly bit my tongue off restraining the urge to suggest the Noble Son might prefer a happy marriage to an advantageous one as she whined about his desertion time after time.
But I didn’t dare.
One moment of honesty and the Patron’s Daughter would be lost, and I would be doomed.
Every few days, the Sorcerer would appear out of nowhere.
He never asked questions about how things were progressing with the Patron’s Daughter. Instead, he suggested ways to increase her trust.
One time, after a particularly vexing walk and talk, I confided to him that I had been right to despise the Patron’s Daughter all my life. I complained that my tongue was wounded from my self-restraint over the little snit.
By then, her tears were dried up.
The anger of wounded pride had set in.
For the first few weeks, the Patron’s Daughter held out hope for an invitation once the Noble Son and his family were settled at home. Within that time, our patrons received eloquent letters of thanks for the gracious hospitality extended to them.
But, as was the custom when a friendship is desired between two families of influence, the Noble family from the Southeast made no invitation to visit in return.
Courteous and elegant in the execution of the potential connection, it was clear that a friendship was not wished for on their end as they wished our patrons and their beautiful daughter health and happiness in the future.
The reason I heard these details was because the Patron’s Daughter brought the letter with her and read it aloud to me, sprays of spittle coming between her enraged lips.
I didn’t hear one word in ten of the venom she spewed afterwards about the Noble Son who had not wanted to marry her.
How could I? My heart was soaring.
That afternoon, I was quite distracted.
But I digress.
Back to the Sorcerer and his scheming.
“I don’t care of your tongue becomes thick with callouses,” the Sorcerer snapped. “You will continue to bite it for the sake of being all that is agreeable and comforting. You are to express nothing but gratitude to be in her presence and in her confidence.”
Bile rose to my throat and I opened my mouth to protest.
But the Sorcerer held up his hand.
“That is what she expects from you, Addie. In her mind, you have no right to treat her with disdain. You do that that even once and you will never get another chance.”
The Seeds of Transformation
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Image by Meryl Katys from Pixabay
The Sorcerer jostled the remaining drops into a ruby swirl and shook his head.
Perhaps he’d get another week out of the Trainer, but no more.
He glanced at his collection of vials. He had nothing that could compare to this one.
Most of the essences were yellow because the weak of will were easy to catch. Melancholic blues were too ascetic for the drive of lust. His black essence was a rutting brute, nothing seductive about him.
Maybe one of the greens would be acceptable. They were the romantics, the poets, artists, and dreamers.
He hadn’t another red because that kind of man was the most rare.
The Sorcerer cursed himself.
He should’ve introduced the essence of another man to his protégée much sooner under the reasoning that the most skilled seductresses take on many lovers.
Yet when the time came to transform, the Sorcerer always gave in to the lure of the Trainer’s red.
In all these years, he’d never been so careless.
He knew how perilous it was to take on the essence of another man.
Whenever he transformed, that man’s identity would take over and he would absorb the memories and personality of one who left a piece of himself behind in a garment marked with his blood or sweat, and the Sorcerer would fall into the passive role of an observer.
But at last, he could feel again.
Sentiment, affection, and attachment could destroy him, but to have them again was always such a relief.
The Trainer was the most intoxicating essence he’d ever had.
The first change the Sorcerer noticed was the surge of passionate joy; he became delirious with a love for life.
When he stepped out of the mist from the cauldron engulfed with the Trainer’s essence for the first time, and saw the girl gaping at him in horrified disbelief, he almost laughed out loud.
But she still couldn’t resist him.
The Sorcerer hardly blamed her; he was every bit as seduced by the Trainer as she was.
The Sorcerer used to watch them when they came to his parts seven years before.
When he first heard the rumble of their horses, he had thought another posse had gathered to hunt him down.
This was a common occurrence after his conquests, and he had recently claimed the daughter of a neighboring patron.
The Sorcerer smiled as he recalled how beautiful she had been with her fair hair and luminous skin.
Yet she was utterly ridiculous, fancying herself in love with the essence he used to seduce her.
The Sorcerer had chosen a green, a playwright of lyrical romances, because she dreamed of performing on stage.
Although she was engaged to another man, the maiden couldn’t resist the temptation to realize her fantasy, acting out one of the young man’s more scandalous plays to its climax when the leading lady surrendered to the call of the flesh.
After the seduction had reached its consummation, the playwright’s essence collapsed.
When the maiden had woken up to the reality of what she’d done, that was the moment the Sorcerer claimed the payment of her heart.
That conquest had left him in an irritation of malcontent that would persist for weeks.
These girls were all alike.
The Sorcerer always seduced them through their vanity.
The highborn girls were more than willing to disgrace their families and sell their hearts just to gratify a fleeting illusion.
It was too easy, really. The terminable sameness of it all was tedious.
If the Sorcerer didn’t need them for his immortality, he wouldn’t bother with the little fools.
So on the day he heard the resounding gallop of horses halt at the river before the Ancient Grove, the Sorcerer shook his head in disgust. With the spell he used to safeguard his Caverns, the humiliated fiancé and dishonored father were absurd if they believed they could ever find him.
Nonetheless, the Sorcerer poured the liquid cloud to watch them become lost in the trees.
Then he cast his mind, the Sorcerer was surprised to see the Patron’s daughter instead, riding with young man who was clearly in service to her father.
The girl had changed much since he last saw her.
She wasn’t a woman yet, but she was no child either.
The Sorcerer had never seen her escort before.
The young man was handsome, but the patches holding his pants together showed he was not her equal.
Yet the young man lacked the downcast humility of servants. There was a devil-may-care gleam in his eyes, even when he shuddered and peered into the dark trees.
“I see your point, little Miss. This place doesn’t feel too good.”
“I told you,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“Let’s head north a bit first. If it gets no better, I promise you we’ll leave. Okay?”
The girl frowned, gazing in the direction he pointed where the trees stood half as tall as those before her.
With long skirts flowing down the flank of her horse, she looked like the proper young lady she was born to be.
It was incredible she was even here.
The Abandoned Valley and Ancient Grove were forbidden and her father was known for being strict.
There was fear in the girl’s eyes, but she still nodded her agreement.
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe it.
Her escort had sharp instincts.
The northwest end of the Valley edged the woods of No Man’s Land. There the border separated them from the country to the west.
The Sorcerer had no power there beyond the ability to watch them through second sight.
The distance was enough to put the girl and the strange young man at ease. They stayed for the rest of the afternoon.
The Sorcerer was intrigued with what he saw.
The pair returned most days that summer, riding through his domain in haste to the northwest side of the Abandoned Valley where the light was softer, the trees shorter and the air filled with the music of birds.
The Sorcerer watched over them every time they came.
He learned the young man had been a wanderer who adventured in the most exotic reaches of the world, stowing away on a ship only to return to the country of his birth.
Like all vagabonds when they finally came home, he was met with suspicion wherever he went until he convinced the Patron to hire him to train the gray colt he always rode.
The girl had never interested him before with her homely face and sullen demeanor.
But over the following months, the unloved daughter of the Patron blossomed under the Trainer’s influence.
And the Sorcerer changed his mind.
Each day, the adventurer regaled her with jokes and outrageous stories.
With her solemn nature, the girl scowled at him often.
But one day, she finally grinned and soon afterwards, started to smile.
The girl burst into her first giggle towards the end of spring.
She looked startled at the sound, hiding her mouth with her hands.
By mid summer, she broke apart into peals of laughter, throwing her head back just like the Trainer did.
Her metamorphosis was absolutely compelling.
For the first time in far too long, the Sorcerer was intrigued.
Desperate For a Way Out
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My initial resistance must have caught him off guard.
To convince me to sacrifice my heart, the Sorcerer promised to cast a spell that would endure the test of time. I would grow more beautiful as the years passed.
At the time, I thought that a frivolous temptation. Youth never considers the brutal reality of old age, and vanity is not an indulgence available to the ugly.
I only gave in because the Sorcerer wouldn’t.
Now, I am grateful and relieved I took all he offered.
The winter, and sometimes the autumn, of life has often been described a woman’s hell.
That is usually the outcome for the women of my sisterhood, especially those who don’t leave the life to marry well.
Perhaps that humiliation may be mine when I am close to death, but thankfully, I have not suffered any loss of status or income, even though I am in my sixtieth year.
Again, I get ahead of myself.
To go back to that moment when I was offered the chance to change the dreariness of my fate, it may surprise you to know, my dear Shepherd, that I took a few days to think about it. To be made over into the image of beauty and grace was a dream I never had the audacity to imagine for myself.
Yet I couldn’t fathom how this could actually come to be.
First, how could I possibly lure the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer of the Caverns? We absolutely loathed each other.
Second, how could the odious Sorcerer possibly seduce such a vain and arrogant creature as the Patron’s Daughter, given how ugly and ancient that he was?
“You need not concern yourself with that,” the Sorcerer actually laughed when I asked him. “I, too, have my methods of transformation.”
Since we are here now, we both know I accepted.
Really, how could I simply resist the reward?
I would never be ugly again.
I need not have worried about finding the possibility to influence her.
I started running into the Patron’s Daughter on my solitary walks through the Ancient Grove not long after meeting the Sorcerer.
The first time I ran into her, she was in tears.
She glared at me, of course.
But I was too stunned by the spectacle of her showing any sign of pain to take offense.
Apparently, the rejection of the Noble Son made her had gotten to her, and that made her vulnerable. That had never happened to her.
At first, I wondered if she now understood how her suitors felt in how she treated them.
But I would later find out that she didn’t give that any thought.
The abandonment left her dejected, but it also made her petulant.
Again, I get ahead of myself.
After that first unpleasant meeting, I ignored her and kept going on my way.
The next day, the Patron’s Daughter rode past us working in the fields, her demeanor as haughty as ever. But on this afternoon, she looked me in the eye and gave a slight nod as she passed.
That she had never done before.
The forbidden Ancient Grove must have been a favorite place for tearful girls suffering romantic disappointment.
Every time I went for a walk amongst the massive trees, the Patron’s Daughter was also there.
I wondered if the Sorcerer cast some kind of spell to make these frequent meetings happen.
It hardly mattered if he did.
After a couple of weeks of running into each other every time I went for my evening walk, the Patron’s Daughter finally spoke to me.
It was the first time I had ever heard her sound somewhere near pleasant.
“Do you come here every day?” she asked. “I imagine you would be too exhausted.”
“I do and I am exhausted,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
To my surprise, she almost apologized.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean any offense.”
I accepted her self-correction with a nod and a thank you.
After that, we started to chat lightly whenever we ran into each other.
That was rather awful for me.
From what I’ve already told you about my former life as Addie, darling Shepherd, would it surprise you to know I was not particularly liked?
Anger, resentment, and envy were the strongest traits of my personality.
Who loves the bitter?
I was consumed with bitterness long before I turned eighteen.
Looking back, I don’t like who I was at that time.
Now, it shames me to admit I was every bit as petulant as the Patron’s Daughter, and that was without being spoiled. I thought myself above my company, the other peasants who worked as hard as I did under miserable conditions.
Yet I was the one who complained incessantly.
It was impossible to be held in esteem or respect with such a ridiculous attitude. Even my parents thought me a fool. For an indentured peasant born to a life of servitude to want more than I could ever have, instead of making do with the life that was offered me, seemed to everybody a state of lunacy.
And looking back, they were right. It really was.
But one thing I had never been was a hypocrite.
The reason the people around me knew of my envy, bitterness, and angry desire for more was because I let it show.
So to act in such a way to encourage the trust of the one girl I had hated and envied my entire life to get what I wanted made me feel vile.
To make my point, the only baths I knew during those years were the ones I could muster at the edge of the river, scrubbing myself with the scraps of meager soap that were left after doing the wash.
Most of the time, my personal stench made me nauseous.
Yet my pretense of friendship with a girl I couldn’t stand made me feel so much dirtier in a way that a lifelong deprivation of baths never could.
But I had a choice. Between the promise of beauty and the freedom of an unknown future, and a meager integrity that would keep me in a life of misery, what would you have chosen? Really?
I chose beauty and freedom.
I was truly desperate.
Please remember that, Shepherd, in case you feel tempted to judge me as my story unfolds.
Taste of Power
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Image by Daina Krumins from Pixabay
Her days transformed along with her nights from the time their arrangement began.
A few weeks after she started going to the Caverns, the girl went for her late afternoon ride, but changed course.
Instead of going south through the village or west toward the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a younger forest. She didn’t know what compelled her to go to this place where she hadn’t been in years.
She used to come here with the Horse Trainer on those afternoons they weren’t inclined to go to the Abandoned Valley. She hadn’t been back since he had gone.
In these woods, the Trainer had introduced her to the ways of the wanderer.
The unlikely mentorship started because she didn’t believe his stories about stowing away in the lowest reaches of the ships, escaping from angry sheikhs, and traveling across deserts by camel.
She didn’t think such adventures were possible for a penniless vagabond. She remembered how ashamed she’d been when she saw the outrage in his eyes.
The Trainer noticed and smiled.
“I’m a lot of things,” he’d said. “But I’m no liar. I dare you to find out just how wrong you are, little Miss.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can show you how a man can live off nothing. You just have to be willing to learn.”
During the rest of that summer, she often regretted accepting that challenge.
Those were the only lessons she struggled with in her life.
The Trainer didn’t make it easy for her, and she hated him whenever he laughed at her.
But he taught her everything he knew.
He showed her how to make a pole and line to catch fish, how to shoot a rifle, even how to hunt with a knife if that was all she had. He insisted she skin her own kills and cook the meat in a skillet over a fire, which he also taught her to make. He instructed her in building a camp when she had something to work with and when she had nothing.
It took the entire summer for her to master these strange skills, but these lessons gave her the most gratification of anything she’d ever learned.
She hadn’t thought about that season for years, pushing those days to the furthest recesses of her mind. But as she cantered the reddish brown steed around the bend of the river, she kept her eye out for their favorite fishing spot.
Their poles were still there.
The long sticks leaned against the tree as if they had been waiting for the pair to return and cast their lines.
She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole.
She had struggled to carve it until it the Horse Trainer felt it was right.
She bent it slightly and chuckled when the wood split down the middle. She wasn’t at all surprised when she tried the Trainer’s pole and found it still strong and flexible.
The girl hesitated for just an instant before throwing off her skirts and jacket. Clad in peasant breeches and a blouse, she crouched and clawed through the mud for worms. Before long, she had her line cast in the river and after an hour, she pulled in her first catch.
Practicing these forgotten skills, the past intertwined with the present to bring her a peace she hadn’t known for too long.
The girl often looked around, for the Trainer’s presence was so strong she almost expected to find him.
But the memories were enough.
That day, the girl floated through a haze of reminiscence.
She even forgot her ostracism and brought her catch to the kitchen, just as she had that summer years ago. But sight of the corpulent spread of a back bent over the stoves thrust her into the present again.
The girl stopped in her tracks.
Pain exploded in her core, sending an upsurge of bile to the back of her tongue. Before she could move, the Cook turned around, her murky eyes flickering to the line of trout.
Her face mottled when she flushed. Averting her eyes, the Cook mumbled thanks as she took the fish from the girl’s hand.
Her contentment went sour and the girl cursed her absence of mind.
But the next night she thought better of it when she saw the main course was filet of trout on a mound of string beans.
The girl tasted the Cook’s shame in each bite and savored her dinner more than she had in a long time.
She came back to the kitchen the following afternoon and held a skinned rabbit above her head.
Again, the Cook flushed. Yet she reached for the offering. When the Cook’s fingers brushed against her knuckles, she looked up and the girl saw she was afraid.
Something shifted inside the girl in that moment.
In the face of the Cook’s fear, she felt invincible.
She came to the kitchen every day after that, relishing that sensation every time the Cook reached for her kills.
The girl had become somebody she didn’t understand.
By summer’s end, she welcomed the silence that had sent her to the river in despair. Her near exile now served her well, making it easy for her to come and go as she liked.
In being an outcast, the girl now found her freedom.
It Always Smells Like Roses Here
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Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay
Adrianna and I stood next to each other in the courtyard, where the lavish carriage stood.
The Wanderer held Celia in a long embrace.
Apparently, Adrianna’s protégée had stayed with the Wanderer in his rooms the two days I was trapped in the DreamTime purgatory.
I must have been in a dead sleep if their noisy lovemaking didn’t wake me.
Finally, the Wanderer kissed Celia on the forehead and stroked the side of her face, and let her go gently.
When Celia turned, I was pleasantly surprised to see the hint of tears in her eyes.
She stopped and curtseyed to us before passing back into the Casa.
I wondered if Celia used rose water as a perfume.
I caught a hint of roses as she passed, but the scent lingered long after she had gone into the house. I frowned and looked around.
Adrianna noticed too. She leaned her head back and smiled, her nostrils flickering as she inhaled.
Before I could ask her about it, the Wanderer approached.
“I’m not particularly fond of good-byes,” he said. “So I guess I’ll see you in a month or so.”
“Oh, you’ll see me much sooner than that,” I said.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Adrianna quipped.
The Wanderer chortled.
“Either way, Adrianna, I’m flexible. Maybe send word out every week or so, and I’ll roam circles around the Capital City with his flock.”
He kissed her on both cheeks.
“Adieu. And thank you so much for the splendid hospitality, and the comfortable ride. I feel like a new man.”
“You are a new man, darling Wanderer. The pleasure was mine. Not as much pleasure as Celia got to enjoy, but I loved having you as a guest.”
The Wanderer chuckled again.
I clasped his hand and the Wanderer pulled me in an embrace. I was surprised at how comforting it felt to be held by my friend. Really, this man was more than a brother to me.
“Don’t worry about the Shepherd,” Adrianna said flippantly. “By the time I’m through with him, he may be too coddled to return to the natural life.”
“I highly doubt that, Adrianna.”
And then you left us, Wanderer. Your part as a character in this story ended and your role as listener began.
With a salute, you stepped into the carriage. Adrianna and I stood there and waved, the scent of roses growing stronger as the carriage disappeared from view.
My heart was heavy once you had gone.
“You are truly blessed in friendship, Shepherd.”
“I know.”
“I’m very pleased you’re staying. I didn’t think you would.”
I nodded.
“I take it the Wanderer talked you into this.”
“That is one way to look at it.”
The elder Courtesan threw her head back and laughed.
And yet again, I was disconcerted by the mannerism that seemed especially peculiar on her.
“Did he blackmail you?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
“But you are not here willingly?”
I hesitated, and then shrugged.
“No, I’m not.”
Instead of taking offense, Adrianna sniggered. Her beautiful golden eyes sparkled.
“Nothing quite like a little benevolent coercion, is there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As I said, Shepherd, you are truly blessed in friendship.”
As annoyed as I was with the Wanderer, I laughed with her. I couldn’t remember any other time I had been so adroitly backed into a corner.
“While you are here, my Casa is your Casa.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. I have appointments in town that will keep me away most of the day. I hope you can forgive me, for I never desert my guests. But I honestly didn’t expect you to stay.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Adrianna. I know how to entertain myself.”
The Courtesan paused, her head angled to one side as she peered at me with a strange half smile on her mouth.
“That makes a refreshing change.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Most men I know lack self-containment. They need excessive amounts of attention.”
Adrianna took my hand and squeezed it.
“The Butler loves to give tours of the house and grounds if you get bored, and there’s much you haven’t seen. But now, I must get ready. I’ll see you tonight for dinner on the back patio.”
“Again?”
“Of course. It’s my favorite place to dine.”
What a strange woman she was, this legendary Courtesan.
“Adrianna, do you ever miss the bracing challenges of hardship?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “Dinner is at eight.”
*************
After an hour or two, I understood why Adrianna’s guests needed so much attention.
The relentless luxury of the Casa made me restless, a sensation akin to being trapped and craving escape.
Instead, I crossed paths with the Butler and remembered Adrianna’s suggestion that the Butler loved to give tours of her Casa.
This was the first time I got a good look at the head servant of her household.
I wondered how he came to work here. The Butler carried himself with such dignity and grace I would have expected him in the finest houses.
He was almost as tall as I, and at least ten years older, but his posture was as straight as a rod. His long face was impassive, his pale gray green eyes held a neutral gentility.
Everything in his demeanor bespoke the soul of discretion.
We started in the courtyard before the front door.
The spring snow from a few nights ago had already melted, gone as if it had never happened. On this afternoon, the air was crisp and fresh and the sky blue.
I inhaled.
The phantom scent of roses was still in the air, just as it had been this morning when the Wanderer left.
“It always smells like roses here,” the Butler explained, as if he read my mind. “Even on the coldest day of winter.”
The Erotic Life With a Phantom Lover
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Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay
He nibbled along her throat while unlacing her gown.
Her bodice slipped free and the girl shuddered from the caress of his calloused palms over her breasts and down her belly.
The unfamiliar taunt of desire had already penetrated her before he reached under her rump and picked her up, pressing her against the Cavern walls, the black stone cold and hard against her back.
The girl knotted her legs around him, yearning to take him inside her.
As they had the first night, the girl and her Phantom Lover made love until exhaustion took its claim.
The girl fought off the urge to sleep, but she succumbed. In her dreams, she relived the pleasure of their coupling, only to wake up to the same loathing that made her want to crawl out of her skin when the Phantom was gone and she saw the Sorcerer of the Caverns watching her.
Thus their time always came to an end.
But hatred would be far from her mind the following night when she wound her way through the lilies to the runaway stallion.
Then she rushed through the woods and spiraled down to the Sorcerer waiting for her with his pointer and easel, the pages of drawings concealed.
The girl always closed her eyes when the Phantom came for her.
When she didn’t see the Cavern walls around her, she could forget the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive.
She could forget he would not be as she once knew him if he were.
With her eyes shut, she could fall into the fantasy and allow his Phantom to consume her.
When she didn’t see him, his touch went deeper and his smell transported her to the summer she learned what it was to feel joy.
The Phantom could have her any way he wanted, so long as her craving was satisfied and the throbbing of her empty space remained quiet.
It was the only time she felt whole.
In the early weeks, the girl detested the Sorcerer’s lessons.
The Sorcerer with his pointer and his easel was a reality she couldn’t deny.
Many weeks passed before she finished the first assignment and gave in to her own pleasure. It was a revelation when the inner fortress she lived in all her life crumbled.
The Sorcerer never had to teach her anything twice after that.
Most of his lectures had little to do with carnal skill. Her mentor was adamant seduction begin in the mind before the body surrendered or the heart claimed.
As she listened to him talk about the greatest lovers in history, the girl realized it was the Sorcerer who was seducing her, even if he needed the essence of the Trainer to do so.
She also understood that for all his knowledge, there was only one truth: she would never gain mastery over another until she was mistress over herself.
This lesson was the most difficult.
Every time the Phantom came for the girl, her self-command dissolved into the throbbing of her hollow.
The girl began keeping her eyes open when they made love.
She was frightened the first time she witnessed his surrender. She even had to fight the urge to close her eyes and fall back into fantasy.
Then she became fascinated with his pleasure, exploring ways she could bring the Phantom to higher peaks.
The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she had orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. A climax like nothing she dreamed possible, the tingling exploding until both body and mind were shattered.
Then she came back stronger.
Her appetite for lovemaking became insatiable.
The girl and her Phantom Lover made a game out of it, a competition to be the one to bring the other to the edge, only to send them into the abyss and fall in afterwards.
They laughed often, for pleasure was assured. But the girl couldn’t get enough of that feeling when it was she who had brought the Phantom to surrender.
The girl often had to fight to keep her hold on reality when fantasy threatened to intrude.
Sometimes she almost succumbed to the belief the Phantom was the Horse Trainer.
When he looked at her a certain way or kissed her with more tenderness than ardor, but especially when he laughed, the Phantom was so much like her friend joy burst inside, and she embraced the Phantom as her beloved.
But waking up to the Sorcerer always reminded her of what she was really doing.
Finally her loathing disappeared.
As summer drew to a close, she had a sentiment akin to gratitude when she saw the Sorcerer.
Pariah Metamorphosis
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Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay
All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother.
The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. His daughter’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his beloved wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined his daughter’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women.
She possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed she had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas.
The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. He couldn’t understand how that happened, for nothing had changed.
She was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance. People stared at her or ignored her just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear while she went through her day as alone as ever. She now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, she had become someone who didn’t need anybody.
He wasn’t the only one to notice the changes in his daughter.
Her lady’s maid seemed more intimidated by her than she used to be.
She stopped using the back laces of her gowns as a corset, dressing her mistress in the manner she found most comfortable.
The stable boys often gazed after her when she left the stables, and even the Cook stared at her whenever she passed with troubled eyes.
His daughter had become fascinating, but she was a stranger to them all.
As the Patron observed her, he found himself wishing he knew what her thoughts were.
Yet every time he looked into her cold blue eyes, he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her. The horror the Patron had felt when he had found no heartbeat, followed with his accusations, and her protest of innocence.
“How could you do this? You are far too young!”
The Patron could still see the bewilderment in her eyes as the girl shook her head.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
But the Patron just turned his back and walked away, leaving his daughter to her fate.
Sometimes he had overheard people express admiration for his mercy in allowing his daughter to stay on at the house.
And every time the Patron felt sick inside.
He was haunted by the decision he’d made, and the doubts he buried in the back of his mind became a dull roar that made his head ache.
The conversation he had with the Cook one morning gave no relief to his growing unease.
The Patron almost groaned aloud when he came into the dining parlor and saw the expanse of the Cook’s wide back.
Her table-side manner left much to be desired.
He was surprised to see her so soon, for the Cook only left her stoves when the kitchen girls were too ill to serve. It was the peak of autumn, too early for the maladies to start going around the village.
For the sake of keeping his patience, he thought of the supper he enjoyed the previous night.
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your recipes this summer. But last night you outdid yourself.”
“Thank you, Patron!” the Cook said, her eyes lighting up.
“I especially liked the soup, but I didn’t recognize the meat. What was it?”
“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a pair of wild hares freshly killed. The soup was already done, but I thought they’d go well. So I diced the meat small to fry up quick and threw it in.”
“That explains it,” he said. “I haven’t had rabbit for a long time. How did you get it?”
The Patron was surprised when the Cook didn’t answer right away.
Her fleshy features puckered at the question, which was never a good sign.
He leaned back in his chair and waited.
“From your daughter, Patron.”
He set his coffee down.
The Cook flushed and her speech was rushed.
“Truth be told, Patron, I think your praise of my dinners has more to do with her hunting than my cooking. Near every day she comes to the kitchen with something.”
“Does she? And how long has she been doing this?”
“Since last spring. She brought in a string of fish out of nowhere one day.”
The Cook hesitated before going on, her tone dropping to a whisper.
“I must say, Patron, it’s been a long time since she’s done anything like that. Not since-”
“I remember quite well when she used to bring wild meat to the kitchen.”
Haze of Reminiscence
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Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay
