Birthing Ella Bandita

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  “But you need to understand such proper ways no longer serve you,” he said. “Assuming such ladylike virtues ever did.”

  He held the wine out to her until she took it.

  “Take some time to refresh yourself.”

  The girl grew more at ease as soon as the Sorcerer disappeared into the maze of corridors. The weight of the goblet felt good in her hand, the silver cool against her fingers. Taking a sip, she savored the lush warmth in her mouth and closed her eyes. She thought of this assignment and flushed again. What the Sorcerer wanted her to do was unthinkable. She took another sip and leaned back into the cushions. Opening her eyes, she studied the sketch. Then she glanced at the mirror and back to the sketch, wondering if the likeness of her was true.

  “You always were a curious little minx.”

  She heard that drawling voice and froze. The air teased against the lobe of her ear and trilled down her spine, yawning her body open. No more words were needed. The girl was already reaching for the Phantom as she turned to him and he pulled her into his arms, bringing her flesh to life with his touch. 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, they made love until exhaustion made 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 loathing that made her want to crawl out of her skin when she saw the Sorcerer of the Caverns watching her. Thus their time always came to an end.

  But hatred was far from her mind the following night when she wound her way through the lilies to the runaway stallion. 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 that the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive. She could forget that even if he were, the Horse Trainer would not be as she once knew him. 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 quiet. It was the only time she felt whole.

  In the early weeks, she detested the lessons. But 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 once she did. 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 that seduction must begin in the mind before the body would surrender or the heart would be 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 in the throbbing of her hollow.

  She 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 him to higher peaks. The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. That climax was 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 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, he was so much like her friend that joy burst inside the girl, 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. 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 towards the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a young 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 was 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 even 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 everything 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 were waiting for them to return and cast their lines. She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole she’d struggled to carve until 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 in too long. The girl often looked around. The Trainer’s presence so strong she almost exp
ected to find him. But the memories were enough.

  That day, the girl floated in a haze of reminiscence. She even forgot her ostracism and brought her catch to the kitchen, just as she had that summer. Then the sight of the Cook stopped the girl in her tracks. The corpulent spread of the woman’s back bent over the stoves thrust her back into the present. Pain exploded in the girl’s core that sent 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. The Cook averted her eyes and 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 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, 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 served her well, making it simple for her to come and go as she liked. In being an outcast, she found her freedom.

  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 deeper, 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 had 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, due to her long nights at the Caverns, she would sleep 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, and it was laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters; triads of candles along the buffet illuminated the parlor. 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 with the trappings of formal dining. They took their seats the same moment the 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 his way while they ate, 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 the 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, and with the sky deep blue before afternoon gave way to evening. The Patron grew calmer as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees, and he breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. Such 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 facedown, secured from the breezes with a stone. The more the Patron thought about it, he found it peculiar 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 insisted the girl learn to paint, for highborn young ladies had 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 that niggled in the back of his mind was enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and forest. 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 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.

  He couldn’t think, rolling up the pages and tying them into a sling that he looped over his shoulder. He refused to feel, for he knew the wrath would take over if he did. He would not let that get the better of him; he would not lose control and do something he would later regret. The Patron was on his horse before he knew where he was going, running his mount hard and not stopping until he came to the stretch of river in the Ancient Grove and the Abandoned Valley.

  He didn’t know what compelled him to come to where the rushing water made the only noise. The Patron hated this place. The stillness pierced through his fury and made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The feral gray colt that ran away from his stables was the only life that had come to this place in centuries, ever since the Sorcerer came and made his labyrinth of Caverns deep in the trees. He stared into the woods, trying to sense his daughter’s presence. He sighed in relief when he felt nothing. She wasn’t here. That was something to be grateful for.

  She must be hunting or fishing. The Patron steered his mount to the east, breathing easier once he left the Sorcerer’s domain, following the river to the younger woods where the song of birds and noise of unseen animals was reassuring.

  The Patron found her past the wide bend in the river in the same spot where she and the Trainer used to fish. Crouched on her haunches, she wore crude trousers tied at her waist, the fine stitches of her blouse grimy, her hair in a long braid to her waist, strands tousled around her face. Although she’d grown taller and now had the curves of womanhood, she looked just as she had that season seven years ago. Scanning the trees, he almost expected to find the
Trainer, but his daughter was alone.

  One thing had changed. She’d never worn a holster back then, but now had one belted below her waist. He raised his brows when he saw one of his pistols at her hip. He hadn’t heard the shot when she caught the squirrel, but she was skinning the carcass with one of his daggers. So intent was she on her task she didn’t hear him approach. Her eyes grew wide when she looked up and her hand slipped, the blade slicing into her wrist.

  The Patron leaped off his horse and reached her in two strides. Gripping her arm, he sunk her hand in the water. The girl resisted, but he held on tight and squeezed her wound to stop the blood flowing into the river. He brought her hand out of the icy water and pressed his scarf against the side of her wrist, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He heard her labored breathing and felt the taut muscles of her arm while tying the bandage around her wrist. The Patron glanced over, ashamed when he saw the girl pulling as far from him as possible, her eyes narrowed to slits. It had been years since he last touched her.

  “Daughter.”

  His voice was hoarse as he ended the silence of seven years. The girl froze when he addressed her, but the Patron felt her arm give and continued.

  “You must know I sent him away because I was trying to protect you.”

  Her face clouded over before she scowled and looked away.

  “The Horse Trainer.”

  “I know who you’re speaking of.”

  Her voice startled him. She’d had the higher pitch of a child the last time the Patron heard her speak. Now her tone was rich and deep, the voice of a woman. The realization that the silence he gave her was a silence she returned pierced through him, bringing pain to his heart for the first time in over twenty years.

  “I suppose he meant well,” he continued, “but he wasn’t a good influence on you.”

  “I beg to differ with you on that.”

  “He took you to the Abandoned Valley!”