He leaned his head back and inhaled. The scent of changing leaves was
reminiscent of smoke and the steady flow of water soothed him in spite of his disquiet.
He remembered the farmers he passed that morning in the fields to the southeast, curious that no crops were planted near the river. Perhaps there were too many moles, yet he hadn’t found any burrows.
The Shepherd froze, realizing the only animals he’d seen that day were his own sheep. How had he not seen any deer, nor heard the rustling of squirrels, the song of birds? How could a valley this fertile be empty of life?
“Abandoned Valley,” he whispered.
He turned suddenly and stared into the woods. The trees stretched towards the sky as only those of an old forest could do.
“Ancient Grove.”
He finally remembered the stories. His father used to tell him about a village that was both blessed and cursed. There the land was fertile, the Patron was generous, and the peasants thrived. But the village was also tainted with the Sorcerer of the Caverns, who had made his domain under the woods and valley for centuries. Nobody could purge his evil from their midst, and generations of Patrons had been powerless to stop him.
The Shepherd was certain this must be the same place. He went to the river’s edge and considered whistling his flock together. But it was too late to leave. He didn’t know these parts well enough to search for another field to settle down for the night. Sighing, he looked in the still water of the shallows and caught his re flection. Although the passing days grew shorter and colder, his skin was still smooth nut brown. His hair was tied back with a leather string, hints of red glinting in the dark waves.
Then he laughed out loud. Unless the Sorcerer mistook him for a woman, it was unlikely he need worry. The Shepherd certainly wasn’t there to avenge a maiden who succumbed to the Sorcerer’s temptation. Nor had he the urge to explore the woods, where legend told he would lose his mind along with his direction.
But his limbs still shook and his stomach was in knots while he set up camp inside the trees. He reminded himself that he had no reason to fear and he could spend one night without incident. Although his appetite was lacking, he ate the rest of his berries while the sky grew dark. He donned his old coat to ward off the chill, finding comfort that his flock stayed near. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he would start moving before dawn.
The Shepherd woke up to her wailing. He had no doubt what he heard was the voice of a girl in ruins, the guttural despair weighing on his heart. The full moon was at its peak in the sky, casting its glow over the valley and glimmering in the facets of the river. He could hear the flow of water that would have been comforting were it not for the keening from deep in the woods. He counted his sheep and saw that none had wandered too far.
Then he peered into the darkness. His skin prickled and made the downy hairs rise, tempting him to gather his flock and leave. He knew he could get lost in the trees even without the curse, for it was night and he didn’t know this forest. But he couldn’t ignore the pain in that voice. He made his way through the growth, his tread soft and the moon blacked out the deeper he went. The Shepherd only had the wailing to guide him until he came to the light filtering through trees. Within minutes, he found her.
He didn’t see her right away, but he assumed she must be behind the granite boulder in the middle of a clearing. For a moment, the Shepherd went deaf to her wailing as he took in his surroundings. The perfect round was a barren wasteland, which made no sense in the core of an ancient forest. He crouched and picked up a handful of soil, sifting the dead earth through his fingers. This had to be the work of sorcery, for nothing could possibly grow here. Then she came around the boulder. Raging against the rock with her fists and blood pouring down her arms, she was the most savage looking girl he’d ever seen.
“You worthless coward! Come out and face me!”
Her voice had become hoarse. But the girl had to be highborn. Her gown was formal, the pale blue fabric ghostly in the moonlight. Yet the dark stain down her bodice couldn’t have come from her pounding fists. When she turned his way, the Shepherd saw the lower half of her face was covered in blood. He stayed beneath the canopy of trees, but the girl must have sensed his presence. She stopped yelling and laid her hands flat against the granite.
“Damn you to Hell, Sorcerer!” she cried, collapsing against the rock.
“That depends on who gets there first.”
The voice called from the woods on the other side of the clearing, and was the most resonant baritone the Shepherd had ever heard.
“Perhaps I will have the pleasure of damning you.”
The Sorcerer of the Caverns stepped from the trees as he spoke the last. The smoothness of his voice made his appearance more grotesque. His features were desiccated from living beyond the limits of nature; hatred for the girl at the boulder etched in his face. His black robes fell in a cascade to the ground and he seemed to float across the clearing to her.
He stopped and raised his hand; the bones pushed against the papery skin. But the girl was fast, grabbing and squeezing until a loud crack pierced the air. Groaning, the Sorcerer twisted from her grasp and slapped her hard across the face. But their argument continued in raging murmurs the Shepherd couldn’t hear until the girl became riled and spat in the Sorcerer’s face.
“Why did you bring my father into this?”
“Because I can’t bring it back to life!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your heart,” he said. “Don’t you remember the request you made about your heart?”
The girl went still. Her fury shifted into confusion, then to understanding, and finally dismay. The Sorcerer watched her changing expression and laughed.
“Frankly,” he said. “You surprise me. I never imagined you could be so cunning.”
“If you can bring my heart back to life,” she said, clutching his sleeve, “then you must, Sorcerer. Please. I’m begging you.”
But he shook his head. His upper lip curled in a sneer, he brushed her hand from his arm, stepping past the girl and waving across the boulder.
The granite began to slide and the Shepherd saw firelight flickering underground.
The girl stood at the Sorcerer’s back, one hand gripped around her necklace and the other dangling at her side. Her features twisted and her breath came in shallow puffs. The hand at her side balled into a fist and punched her thigh. Then she stopped, frowning as she looked down, her fingers picking at the fabric. Her face cleared, and she pushed her hand into her pocket and drew a small leather pouch. After taking a pinch of dust from the bag, the girl smiled at her enemy, the dried blood cracking around her mouth.
“Sorcerer,” she said. “You forgot about something.”
He must not have heard the taunt in her voice. The gateway to the Caverns was open and he had his foot on the top step. But the Sorcerer still turned back. The contempt on his face curdled when she blew between her fingers. A cloud hovered around the Sorcerer as the girl spoke his doom.
“Slug!”
Then he was gone. Even his robes disappeared. The Sorcerer of the Caverns dissolved into a garden slug, his tentacles waving for the gateway. He didn’t get far. The girl brought her foot crashing down until all that remained was pulp.
The Shepherd turned and ran through the woods, his heart pounding in his throat.
He stumbled through the blackness, praying he’d find the river and almost crying in relief when he came out of the trees. But his flock had scattered. He refused to let himself think.
He packed up his camp and started running along the river and calling for his sheep.
Once he had his flock around him, the Shepherd traced the sky for the North Star.
But he could feel her stare. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. Yet he scarcely breathed as he listened to her coming for him, her gait a leisurely saunter.
Then she stopped and the Shepherd opened his eyes.
The girl stood at the edge of his flock. Up close, he saw she was about his age, which caught him off guard. She still had blood caked around her mouth and chin, her skirts stained where she must have wiped her hands.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked, relieved he sounded calm. “May I help you?”
The girl tilted her head to one side.
“Perhaps you can, Shepherd,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the trembling in his legs. “I just stopped to feed and water my flock. We have a long distance to travel tonight.”
She nodded slowly. Then she bent down and picked up the youngest lamb, the tiny animal struggling against her. But her hold was firm and she gripped its throat with her fingers.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please, Miss. I just want to go with my sheep.”
The girl didn’t answer right away. His heart roared in his ears when the Shepherd stared into her eyes, chips of ice in the light of the moon. She finally let go of the throat and stroked the lamb along its back. But she never looked away from him.
“Shepherd, come to me.”
She almost sounded gentle, but her low voice sent tremors along his flesh. The Shepherd wondered if he’d stepped outside himself. Part of him detached to bear witness to something that didn’t seem real, even as he pushed through his flock to go to her. The lamb in her arms was the only thing between them. The girl locked the Shepherd inside her gaze and dropped the animal to the ground. Without warning, she grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him to her, pressing her ear against his chest. The illusion of separation disappeared and the Shepherd was back in his skin, his limbs shaking. He’d never been this close to a woman in his life. The softness of the girl took his breath away.
“I can feel your heart,” she said. “It’s beating really fast.”
She leaned her head back and stared up at him. The Shepherd could neither move nor speak, trapped between the warmth of her body and the chill of her eyes.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she murmured. “Why is that, Shepherd? You saw me kill the Sorcerer. Didn’t you?”
Her words cut to his soul. In his mind, he saw a shroud held out for him by the Angel of Death. For a moment, he felt like he’d turned to stone. Then his knees buckled.
The Shepherd collapsed to the ground and started to cry.
The girl ran her fingers through his hair. He found the gesture terrifying and soothing at once. He had no words to plead for mercy and his heart pounded. The girl came down and knelt before the Shepherd, holding his face and wiping his tears. Then she lay back upon the ground and pulled him with her, resting his head against her breast.
She kept stroking his hair, his scalp tingling from the brush of her fingers, the vibration of her voice against his cheek.
“So, tell me Shepherd. What do you feel? What do you hear?”
His heart stopped beating for an instant when he realized that all he heard inside the girl was silence. The Shepherd pulled his head up and stared at her.
“Nothing, Miss.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m a girl who can live without her heart.”
Then she pushed him to the ground and rolled him on his back. Nestling along his side, she laid her head on his chest and sighed, her breath seeping into him. The Shepherd didn’t resist when the girl took his hand and brought it to his neck, pressing his fingers into the groove where his heart echoed. His pulse beat into the tips of his fingers and reverberated through him. And when the girl spoke again, her whisper felt like a caress.
“Listen to your heart,” she said.
****
The Shepherd trailed off, his eyes glazed over as he remembered that long ago night. The Wolf rested on his belly, his forelegs stretched out, blinking when the story came to its close. He shifted his weight and found his limbs were stiff, but the Shepherd remained lost in reverie.
“So then what happened?” the Wolf asked.
The Shepherd started and glanced at him with an expression of mild surprise.
Then he shook his head, pausing for another moment before he spoke.
“I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I remember I woke up and she was gone.”
The Wolf had hoped to have his peace of mind restored from the Shepherd’s story; but there was no relief from the throbbing in his hollow or from his doubt. His belly ached when he looked at the Shepherd, this friend he cherished more than any he’d ever known.
“How could you not tell me about this?”
“As I said, that night was thirty years ago. Why would I?”
“Stop using time as an excuse,” the Wolf retorted. “I’m twenty six and I’ve heard stories about her since I was five years old. Eternal youth is part of her legend.”
“If I remember correctly,” the Shepherd said. “For a long time you believed Ella Bandita was nothing more than a legend. Did the thought occur to you I didn’t believe it either?”
“But for three years, you knew otherwise. Why did you keep this from me?”
The Shepherd sighed, and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a few minutes before looking back at the Wolf and nodding.
“I always have suspected that girl was Ella Bandita, ever since the stories about her began. But in my heart, I hoped that she wasn’t.”
The Wolf couldn’t say anything. His range of vision narrowed on the Shepherd, who now seemed far away. The implication behind what was just said nagged at the back of his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away.
“I don’t understand. Do you have any idea how fortunate you are she didn’t harm you?”
The Shepherd smiled.
“And this is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d be upset about it.”
The Wolf couldn’t remember any time his hollow throbbed like this. In the space where his heart should have been, pressure built from an invisible pulse. The tension invigorated his limbs, making it impossible to remain still. He got up and paced.
“I know this must be a bitter irony for you,” the Shepherd said, “but that girl taught me to listen to my heart. And I haven’t been afraid ever since.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” the Wolf muttered. “But it still doesn’t fully explain why you never told me about her.”
“Because I can’t stand to dwell on it,” the Shepherd snapped.
The Wolf was startled enough that he stopped and stared at him.
“Why?”
“Ella Bandita has destroyed too many lives. If she ever dies, she’s damned.”
“And that is as it should be! How can you have compassion for her?”
The Wolf’s limbs quivered. Outrage and disbelief escalated the throbbing in his hollow to pure agony. It didn’t help when he saw the Shepherd peering at him and shaking his head.
“Wolf,” he said slowly, “do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”
“What!”
“When are you going to accept some responsibility for what happened?”
The Wolf thought he might explode. He itched. He started pacing again, his paws tender and thumping along the ground and his head dropping beneath his shoulders.
When he turned the Shepherd’s way again, he caught him looking sideways at his ri fle.
“As I recall,” the Shepherd continued. “She tried many times to spare you. Yet you kept going where you knew you weren’t wanted.”
“If you remember everything so well, then you must realize that couldn’t have been true.”
“Oh I remember,” the Shepherd said, a hard edge in his voice. “And didn’t she leave you in the woods? Unharmed, except for your wounded pride.”
“She stole my heart!” the Wolf shouted. “And look at me!”
“Are you now going to insist it was your heart you followed into the tavern?”
The contempt in the Shepherd’s voice was more than he could bear. The Wolf looked at him and saw deceit, suddenly hatin
g the Shepherd as much as he hated Ella Bandita. He stared at the Shepherd’s throat and lunged, jaws snapping. But the Shepherd was swift, throwing himself aside in time to evade him. The Wolf hit the ground hard, shock numbing his limbs. His fur stood on end, his snarl echoed in the air only to fall silent when he spun around. The Shepherd was back on his feet, ri fle in hand. One finger rested on the trigger and one eye stared down the foresight, piercing through the madness.
Rage deserted the Wolf.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no…” he moaned. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” the Shepherd said.
“I don’t know what came over me. I would never hurt you.”
“You already have and I want you to leave.”
The thought of being alone again raised a swell of panic inside the Wolf. He cowered, but the Shepherd kept his ri fle aimed on him. For the first time since the Wolf met him, the Shepherd looked his age, timelessness falling off him like a moth-eaten cloak.
“I’m not joking,” he said. “Get away from me or I’ll kill you.”
The Wolf ran. He fled across the fields, going deep into the woods so he wouldn’t be seen. But he still watched the Shepherd from the trees. His head rested on his bent knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking as only a man weeping could do. His posture didn’t change for hours. The Wolf whimpered through the vigil, but was strangely reassured when the Shepherd didn’t leave.
As night fell, the throbbing grew worse in his hollow. The Wolf resisted the howl building inside him, for he dared not disturb the Shepherd. Instead, he ran. But there was no escape from his aloneness. The night was interminable, the worst he endured in three years and the Wolf despaired the darkness would never end. When the horizon streaked with rose, he caught the aroma of smoke. The Wolf knew the Shepherd must be up, preparing his meals for morning and afternoon, enough to sustain him for a long journey.
Without thinking, the Wolf followed the scent of frying venison, what was left of the deer they killed a couple of weeks ago. The Shepherd turned when the snap of a branch gave him away. Shame flooded through the Wolf at his appearance. He’d never seen the Shepherd so haggard. The lines on his face had deepened overnight and his eyelids were swollen.
The Heart of the Lone Wolf Page 2