The Bard Speaks

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  He committed his wife to a convent because she didn’t give him any heirs. He couldn’t divorce her, but that didn’t stop him from interfering in the courtship between two people in love. The girl got his attention with the deep flush to her cheeks and her rounded hips. She was the seventh born of ten and she looked just like her mother. When the Patron declared she was to be the mother of his children, her horrified distress and the anguish of her sweetheart didn’t move him in the least. He announced the date for the ceremony marking the occasion, so their pairing started with the proper respect.

  Fortunately for the bride, the outlaw Ella Bandita liberated the girl from such a miserable fate, luring the groom to his downfall on the eve of their nuptials. He was found the next morning on the sands, waves crashing at his feet. The hard lines of his face were slack, his eyes vacant. The Patron had been cruel and despotic, but the villagers were shaken by what happened, incapable of their usual reserve. The Bounty Hunter arrived the day after the Patron met his doom and couldn’t believe his luck at the news. Ella Bandita might still be in the woods outside the village. And if she wasn’t, there would be a fresh trail.

  He went straight to the forest and searched all day. He didn’t find her until early evening, and he was convinced she eluded him again until he smelled smoke. The Bounty Hunter tracked the scent, walking his horse deeper in the trees, the leaves getting their first golden spots. He saw the sun hovering above the horizon and hoped the smoke would lead him to his quarry. He had about an hour of light left.

  Then he saw her. His eye caught tongues of flame a hundred steps away, and when he saw a woman pass in front of the fire, his heart began to pound. He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, feeling that rush of pleasure the moment he found his prey. He walked over ferns to smother his footfalls, his senses coming alive and the Bounty Hunter made his way to Ella Bandita.

  She looked just like the descriptions he gathered. A blonde woman with savage features and bedraggled dress, she wore breeches as he heard she often did. He was startled to see she also wore a holster with a pistol and dagger on her right, a small leather pouch on her left.

  “Take her from the right,” he muttered.

  The Bounty Hunter hid behind a tree, needing all his self-command to wait for the right time to move. She was the longest hunt of his career, and cost him nearly everything. Droplets of sweat sprouted on his brow at the thought of the wealth that would be his, feverish with his vision of life as a Patron. He pushed that fantasy to the back of his mind and forced himself to track her rhythm. Once he knew the pattern of motion unique to Ella Bandita, he could easily fall in step with her and catch her off guard. She was taller than he was and her stride was long. She secured her bags on the largest horse he’d ever seen, his limbs folded so she could reach its back, showing no tension of one who knows she’s being watched.

  When she passed by the fire again, he fell in at her back, stretching his short legs to step into her gait. After three strides, he swung his right arm around to pin both of hers, unbuckled her holster and tossed it aside. Before he could bring his hand to her mouth, he yelled in surprise. Leading with the sharp heel of her boot, the woman kicked his shin and weakened his hold enough to jab her elbow in his stomach. He recovered and pulled her right arm behind her back, but the notorious Thief of Hearts did not surrender easily. She fought him in silence, kicking his other shin. He dropped to the ground and scissored her legs between his. Then she grabbed a roll of soft belly and twisted the flesh between her fingers. He pressed her chest and face into the earth with the heft of his trunk and pulled both hands above her head, heaving for air as he lay on her back.

  The Bounty Hunter finally had her.

  He knew his weight was a burden, but his prisoner managed to turn her head aside, glaring at him with one eye.

  “So, you’re Ella Bandita,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for months.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just got what I wanted, you.”

  “Why?”

  “You have quite a price on your head.”

  “Really?” She sounded amused. “There’s a bounty on me?”

  “Only the largest ever for one criminal. Congratulations, that’s quite an honor.”

  “Who put up the reward?”

  “You’ve made some enemies amongst the wives and the courtesans. Each week, another scorned woman dumps her gold into the pot.”

  Ella Bandita laughed, her body shaking, but she never looked away from him. Her gaze was penetrating, even as she glared at him with one eye. Her tone of voice was almost pleasant when she spoke, but he could hear the menace underneath.

  “Let me go, Bounty Hunter.”

  “Forget it. It cost me everything to find you.”

  “Not yet it hasn’t,” she chuckled. “It’s better to enjoy the life you know than chase one you’ll never have.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I promise you that pot of gold is nothing more than a pipe dream.”

  He had to hand it to her. She was a fighter. He always liked the ones with spirit, but never enough to let them go. And his other prisoners were men.

  When he accepted this bounty, he never considered the legendary allure of his quarry a threat. He was a man driven by greed more than lust. Then his search endured for months, and his focus became obsession. All he thought about was the reward and becoming a Patron. He ignored the urges of his flesh for so long, the heat emanating from her body caught him off guard and stirring up his arousal that was intense in its need. It had been too long since he had a woman.

  She cursed when he pressed against her, gripping her wrists with one hand and pulled his pants down. Her body was rigid before he reached for her breeches and pulled them to her knees. He tried to push between her legs, but she held fast against him.

  “We both know I’ll take what I want,” he said. “This is nothing you’ve never done before, so why make it hard on yourself?”

  He pushed his knee against her again, but her limbs were unrelenting. He sighed and pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her face.

  “Well, aren’t you mighty?” she snorted. “At least be man enough to rape me to my face, Bounty Hunter.”

  She glared at him, her one eye glittering.

  “Fine,” he shrugged. “If that’s what you want. Any way suits me.”

  He kept his hold on her wrists and rolled off her, surprised he felt her limbs relax. She wasn’t the type to surrender. Ella Bandita smiled at him once she was on her back and the Bounty Hunter knew he just made the worst mistake of his life.

  He didn’t see the crystal at the base of her throat until it was too late. Half the sun had fallen below the horizon, but the deep orange glow poured through the trees and lit up its facets. Colors whirled around him and the ground disappeared, the world falling away. He breathed into the hiss of a predator and his will dissolved. Ella Bandita held his heart up to his face, but all he could see was her eyes, the coldest he’d ever seen.

  “You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance, Bounty Hunter.”

  It was a week before he was found. He may have died in those woods a forgotten man had it not been for the hunger of his horse. Once the old mare ate everything around her, she couldn’t reach the greens beyond the tree where she was bound. The nag made a ruckus of noise until a couple of watchmen came into the woods. The empty saddle on her back filled them with dread. They searched until they saw the Bounty Bunter in the deserted camp, his glazed eyes and witless expression telling on his fate before he said a word.

  “Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart,” he said. “…and ate it.”

  ****

  The Bard’s voice was the last to weaken. He was just barely heard over the muffle of wheels rolling along the well-traveled road. The driver took care to keep the horses at a gentle pace to make the journey as comfortable as possible; and inside the carriage, the Bard's grandson, their Patron and Patroness listened with al
l their being. They were patient when the Bard stopped talking to catch his breath, their eyes misty. They were certain they would be the last people to have the honor of hearing him speak.

  Nothing was left of the vigor he had most of his life. Flesh over bone all that remained of his powerful build. But his eyes hadn’t changed, his dark gaze as piercing as ever. The end of his life was near, but the Bard still made the trip to see his grandson off. He had grown into a fine looking youth, tall and lean, with long limbs and the same black eyes as his grandfather, his face framed with unkempt dark curls.

  Their Patron and Patroness insisted on making the journey with them. They claimed their most comfortable carriage was ideal for the peak of autumn when the air was too bracing to ride in the open air. They said they would be honored to take the grandson to port and bring the Bard home. As thanks, the old man passed the time with one of his tales.

  “The wretched fate of the Bounty Hunter spread faster than an inferno. Expensive ladies despaired she would ever be stopped. Men of the world were horrified they should ever cross paths with her. Yet the danger fascinated. Each man wanted to be the one strong enough to resist Ella Bandita, and her conquests were more than ever.”

  His audience laughed, their applause starting two beats after the finish.

  “You tell the most remarkable stories,” said their Patron, a twinkle in his eyes. “But I certainly hope I never attract the notice of your villainess.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said the Bard. “She leaves the good men alone.”

  The Patroness grinned at him and winked.

  “Bard, I’m getting the impression you admire your Ella Bandita.”

  “She’s as wicked a woman as ever lived. But truth be told, I kind of do.”

  “Peppo,” his grandson said, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Are you ever going to admit she lives only in your imagination?”

  “I promise you if I ever dreamed her up, I’d force myself awake.”

  “You’ve been telling stories about Ella Bandita since I was five,” the youth continued and smirked. “She must be getting too old to be so seductive by now.”

  “She has eternal youth.”

  The handsome couple smiled at the banter, relieved no tension lingered from the boy’s birthday. Everybody from the village was at the cabin to wish the grandson well and witness his surprise when the Bard gave him his birthday present. The ticket on a steamer bound for the Orient was his last gift to the youth who yearned to travel the world since he was a child. He was overjoyed until he heard how soon the ship would depart, and then he refused to leave during his grandfather’s illness. The ensuing quarrel between the Bard and his grandson ruined the celebration.

  The carriage turned off the main road to a winding path. All the passengers were surprised, thinking it was too soon to arrive in port. Yet one glance out the window, and the boy saw the ship he would be on in the harbor. The Bard’s grandson glowed at the sight until he turned to his grandfather, his brows drawn close.

  “None of that, Kid,” the Bard grumbled. “This is the most glorious day of your life.”

  “I can go later-”

  “You go today or you don’t go at all. And you’re going today.”

  The Patron looked at his wife, who nodded.

  “If I may interrupt,” he said. “I could make inquiries and see if the boy’s ticket can be changed to a later date.”

  “You’re very kind, Patron,” the Bard said. “Thank you, but no.”

  “I don’t think it’s right to leave you now,” his grandson argued. “I can go-”

  “How many times do we have to argue about this? I won’t have you watch me die.”

  “I’m seventeen. I’m old enough to handle it.”

  The Bard peered at the youth for a few minutes. When he spoke again, his manner was gentle, his voice gruff.

  “You have already been mercilessly close to death.”

  The color drained from the boy’s face at the reminder of his parents’ murder, but he was swift to recover.

  “I don’t remember anything about that.”

  “I do,” the Bard said, “and I remember the terrors you had every night for a year.”

  “This is not the same thing,” his grandson said. “You’ve had a long life.”

  “Death is death, and you don’t need to witness mine.”

  His grandson turned his head to the window. Swarms of people were in the streets, and he recognized the travelers from the anticipation sparkling in their eyes. All was festive beyond the carriage, the conversation animated and the laughter boisterous, yet some had tears in their eyes. Loved ones embraced the passengers waiting for the horn to call them aboard.

  The Patron pulled the latch and opened them up to the world outside, his wife joining him. They were adamant on the need to check in early at the hotel where they would stay the night and make certain of the rooms.

  “We want the Bard to be comfortable,” the Patroness said, touching the youth’s cheek with one gloved hand. “I give you my word your grandfather will be given every care and we’ll be back in time to see you off.”

  The driver closed the door behind the noble couple. The old man chuckled watching their backs disappear down a narrow avenue and turned to his grandson.

  “I know you don’t understand why I want you to go now,” the Bard said. “Any more than I understand your desire to be a wanderer. That scares me to no end, but isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So, if I can honor your wishes, why can’t you honor mine?”

  The youth squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

  “It’s rare that one man can give another his dream,” the Bard said, taking his hand. “Will you please let me enjoy this?”

  His grandson traced the bones in the old man’s fingers. He still couldn’t believe the Bard was so fragile, waiting for the knot in his throat to dissolve before he spoke.

  “Thank you, Peppo. This means everything to me.”

  “Then allow yourself some happiness, so I can be a part of it.”

  The youth nodded, but all he could think about was that this would be the last time he saw his grandfather. He wanted to savor this time and pushed his tears away, talking to the Bard with a false cheeriness that didn’t fool the old man. They were relieved by the return of the Patron and Patroness, their smiling faces easing the tension in the carriage.

  “We have a gift for you,” the Patron said.

  His wife pulled a necklace from its wrapping, a man with ardent devotion in his features carved into the silver charm.

  “This is the saint who looks out for travelers,” she said, draping the chain around his neck. “He’ll keep you safe.”

  The youth started at the sound of the horn calling the passengers on board. The whistle rang in his ears and his heart pounded and ached. He wondered how it was possible to feel excited for adventure and overcome with sorrow in the same moment. The Bard swallowed hard, but smiled to his grandson.

  “Well, this is your send off,” he said. “Remember to always follow your heart. At least, I don’t need to worry about you crossing paths with Ella Bandita.”

  His grandson laughed, relieved he might leave in high spirits like the old man wanted.

  “Now that I’m about to leave,” he said. “Will you now admit you made her up?”

  “But if I did,” the Bard retorted. “My last words to you would be lies.”

  All four of them laughed, clinging to the suddenly buoyant mood.

  “But Peppo,” his grandson said. “There’s one thing I never understood. It’s not possible Ella Bandita could eat all those hearts she stole.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So if she’s real as you say,” he pressed, “then where does she keep them?”

  “That’s a good question, and one I don’t know the answer to.”

  The Bard pulled his grandson close and held him with
the last of his strength, one tear sliding down his cheek.

  “Enough about her,” he said, kissing his cheek. “Dreams don’t wait forever, Kid. It’s time for you to go.”

  ****

  She found it by accident years ago.

  She was camped deep inside a forest a few miles inland from the north shore, far from the hunting grounds of villages, cities, and towns. She spent winters in this grove because of the hot spring she had found deep in the woods, which made the perfect hiding place where survival wasn’t difficult. She had found the tower after a storm. She was riding her stallion that day, carving paths before the snow hardened between the springs, her camp, and beyond. The air was crisp, stinging her cheeks, the sky deep blue against the white stretching as far as she could see. She traveled farther than usual, for she’d never seen the trees end at a peak arising from nowhere.

  The mound was covered with snow, but the shape was strange, more like a cone than a mountain and standing alone. She stopped her mount and frowned. Its presence in an otherwise flat landscape was bizarre. Her eyes climbed up the face where she saw even rows of dents in the snow up to the pinnacle. This couldn’t be the work of nature. She walked her horse around the base, scraping snow and pushing her hand through the dents, making hollows to open space. She’d come full circle when a broad swathe of snow fell to the ground, revealing a passage leading inside. The corridor was too low for the stallion, but not for her. She peered through the passage and saw beams of sun lighting up an inner chamber.

  She dismounted and walked the passage. She stroked the walls and streaks of soil marked her palms, the earth dense yet pliable, giving way where her fingers dug. She entered the cave, her eyes following shelves curving around the walls to the apex, interrupted only by the windows to the outside and intersected with eight columns of vertical stairs climbing far enough to reach the highest shelf. The room was round and in perfect symmetry. The route of shelves, the placement of windows and stairs were balanced. She had no doubt this tower was built by man and thinly camouflaged by nature, and that it had been long abandoned.