The Heart of the Lone Wolf

by Montgomery Mahaffey

  Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

  He relived the animal lust he had for Ella Bandita, her hostility and silent ostracism when he refused to leave. He saw again the blank tension in her face, and those moments when her composure crumbled from pain. He remembered the look in her eyes that day at the pool, and her fingers letting go, dropping the crystal stargaze in the pile of clothes. Then came the days they spent making love, her long moans tinged with agony and the hungry ferocity of her glare.

  “You are one lucky fool, Wanderer. You’re the luckiest fool I’ve ever seen.”

  Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

  Then he realized the craving he endured for a few minutes was the same that she suffered in his presence all the time. He went back to the day he woke up to find her gone. But she left behind two dangling squirrels, skinned and ready to fry with his hash, and a fire that still burned when he came outside. The Wanderer remembered, and could hardly pull himself off the floor he was so ashamed. He sat down on the sofa and looked again at the heart resting on velvet. He was no longer hungry.

  “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.”

  Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

  He recalled how his heart pulsed in her hand after Ella Bandita stole it, and frowned at the one lying still and quiet before him. He tried to think of a time the Bard told a story about how Ella Bandita came to be. But there was none. The Wanderer stared at the heart. If he could listen to his, maybe he could also listen to hers.

  “Why don’t you tell me your story?” he murmured.

  The Wanderer cradled the heart against his breast and settled back into the sofa.

  He caressed it in a steady rhythm, reassuring the heart to take all the time she needed.

  When she was ready to talk, he promised to listen. He thought something pushed against his fingers, but couldn’t be certain she moved. So he continued to give comfort. A wondrous sense of peace came over him, much like the way he had felt that night on the wharf when he surrendered to his grief and let go. Yet this was different, the Wanderer grew softer, his hollow swelling with something he couldn’t name. The sentiment was warm and gentle, and he kept stroking until he knew the vibration was consistent and the heart in his arms beat again.

  Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

  “I can still feel her screaming.”

  The Wanderer sat up. It was the voice of a young girl he heard in his mind. He couldn’t believe her heart had actually spoken to him.

  “Tell me more,” he said. “How did you come to be here?”

  Chapter three

  Sometimes the mind forgets, but the heart will always remember.

  I remember her screaming. Her cries squeezed me tight as she pushed me out, the screaming that went on without end. Then my mother brought me into the world and froze. I knew she’d slipped into the land of death from her silence. I wouldn’t cry when the midwife spanked me because I didn’t want to disturb her passing with my fear.

  And I was afraid.

  Then I remember his howling, his anguish shaking the walls of the house. I went to sleep and woke up to the sound of my father’s despair for a week. When I was old enough, the Cook told me the entire village was stricken from his grief.

  A week and a day passed before I met him. The midwife thought it best to wait a day after he stopped his bellowing before she presented me to him. I don’t remember my father’s face from that morning, but I remember his smell. It hurt to breathe him in, for he held the odor of old sweat, musty clothes, and sorrow. He didn’t touch me, but I’ll never forget his first words.

  “Look at those monkey features,” he said. “I’ll be stuck with her forever, she’s so ugly.”

  I didn’t understand his meaning, but those words cut through me and I almost cried. The midwife pulled me close with her protective good intentions and calmed me enough that I did nothing more than whimper. She had a kind soul, the midwife. She stayed longer to care for me in those first weeks and probably kept me alive. Even if it was pity that moved her, she gave me the comfort I needed. I can still feel her warmth.

  Then the Cook woke up to the miracle of a baby in the house without a mother, and the midwife was dismissed. The Cook had been married to one of the tenant farmers, but he cast her out when she did not bear him a child. That’s when she came to work for my father. People say she had been a pretty woman when she was young, but grieving the loss of her husband and the ghosts of children who would never be, she grew larger every year. By the time I came along, she was huge. I remember how her flesh smothered whenever she played with me on top of her belly, rolling me amongst the mounds. I never liked her and I don’t believe she liked me any better. But I gave her something she always wanted and she took good care of me.

  My father made certain I was cared for. Besides the Cook, I had my own personal maid from the time I could walk, and there wasn’t a servant in the house who wouldn’t attend to any need I expressed. He hired both a Tutor and a Duenna, thus giving me the finest education for boys as well as girls.

  My Duenna taught me to read and write, the classical arts, and all the languages of the continent. After my twelfth birthday, she changed her instruction to the dress, manners, carriage, and etiquette expected of highborn young ladies. She had the straightest back I’d ever seen, her graying hair always in a tight knot at the apex of her skull. She was a demanding taskmaster and I resisted these lessons the most. I preferred studying with my Tutor. He was young, but womanish. He spoke in a soft voice, his eyes limpid behind his spectacles. But he had a passion for knowledge. His lessons were far more interesting – history, astronomy, philosophy, and math. He never criticized how I held my head. He was only concerned with my understanding.

  The Duenna disapproved of the Tutor, but that was tri fling compared to how she felt about my riding. But I had already started before she came. Papa had hired a gentle, patient man to lead a pony for me when I was only three years old. But I wanted to ride that pony, and it wasn’t long before I was cantering the animal without any help. The stable hand claimed I had that rare gift with horses and that his service was no longer needed, but Papa decided he would be well suited to lead the unruly boys who worked in the barn. So the stable hand gained a new post and I was left to ride horses as I pleased.

  By the time I was ten years old I only rode the stallions. I sat in a lady’s sidesaddle as I’d been taught, but that didn’t stop me from running them as fast as they could go.

  The Duenna absolutely loathed that and she wasn’t alone. As much respect as my father commanded, he was openly criticized for allowing me to ride the way I did.

  “She rides better than you,” he would say with a shrug. “She rides better than us all. So how can you claim she shouldn’t?”

  Of all that Papa gave me, I cherished that freedom the most. From the first time I sat in a saddle, I had a kinship with horses that can’t be described with words. These powerful animals would do whatever I wished. The thing I remember most was the sense of disappearing, dissolving into nothing when my horse was running. To forget myself in rhythm and motion was pure feeling, and to live without it was unthinkable.

  My Duenna gave me formal lessons in storytelling through literature, but she couldn’t compare to the Cook. That woman loved to talk and her gift for storytelling almost made me adore her. I grew up hearing all about the mystical and fantastic every night, the Cook sending me into the land of dreams with tales about dragons, devils and witches, fallen heroes and distressed maidens. But the tales she told about the Sorcerer of the Caverns and his taste for virgin girls gave me nightmares every time she spoke of him. The Sorcerer was our very own villain. The oldest woods and longest valley in this region had been forbidden for centuries because of him. Nobody knew where he came from, but the Ancient Grove and the Abandoned Valley became his domain once he was here.

  I knew one of the girls he brought to ruin. She was the elder daughter of the merchant who owned a
clothing shop, bringing fashions to the village from the city. Her younger sister was my age and in my Sunday school, which was the only time I had to spend with other children. Both daughters thought they were above everybody, and the younger sister put on airs in class.

  The younger sister didn’t like me nor did her friends, but at least they left me in peace. The butcher’s son wasn’t so fortunate. He was shy and spoke in such a weak voice he was scarcely heard, and the others tormented him mercilessly. I had no friends amongst them, but that didn’t bother me because I didn’t like them at all. I thought they were stupid and cruel, their high spirits and giddy laughter when they ran around proved that they were fools.

  Papa knew I didn’t do so well with my Sunday school group, and sometimes he allowed me to ride to church on my own. I always picked the fastest stallion and arrived running the beast at a full gallop. Whenever I had the chance, I’d rein to a stop right before a group of kids I’d be in class with later. Their cheeks drained of color every time I did that, and I savored the fear in their eyes. They didn’t dare treat me the way they treated the butcher’s son. I was the Patron’s daughter. Of course, Papa always punished me. I’d lose the privilege of riding to church for scaring the other children, but only for a short while.

  Even though I didn’t know her well, it made me sad when the Sorcerer got to the elder daughter of the fashion merchant. She was barely sixteen when she fell to ruin, and she was a beauty with her black hair and blue eyes, ivory skin and roses in her cheeks.

  She was a fanciful type with too much pride. That’s probably how the Sorcerer lured her in. She disappeared at the peak of spring when I was ten years old and she was gone for several days. Her sister looked sullen at church that Sunday and barely spoke a word in school. That was the last time I saw her and I never saw her older sister again. She was finally found with the mark of the Sorcerer— the look of knowing in her eyes and a pulse gone silent— or so the Cook said when she told me all about it. Her family left the village soon after.

  But my favorite stories from the Cook were about my mother. I knew my mother was a beautiful lady from her portrait, but it was through stories that I learned of her sensuous nature, her fluid grace, her taste for re fined pleasures, and her ethereal charm.

  The Cook’s details were so vivid she brought my mother back to life in a sense.

  Sometimes I thought I saw her roaming around the house, dancing in the western parlor with her skirts sweeping the air, or strolling through the garden with her head thrown back when she inhaled the scent of her favorite flowers. I devoured these tales about her.

  But I had to take care and prevent the Cook’s talk from turning to love. It was important to distract her attention before she recalled the passion between my parents. If I didn’t, her eyes would mist over just before she reminisced about her lost love, the sweetheart who became a husband of indifference. Sentiment made the Cook tedious and her stories about love always put me in a foul humor.

  But romance was not the only weakness the Cook couldn’t resist. Her love of talk also included an appetite for gossip. I can still see her mottled face light up and her eyes sparkle each time she divulged the secret shame of our neighbors. And she would talk to everybody willing to listen. My father disapproved, for the Cook ruined reputations with her loose tongue. He always reprimanded her severely whenever he caught her and she was devastated every time, for the Cook revered her Patron. But her repentance only lasted as long as it took for her to uncover a bit of nastiness, and history would repeat itself. As much as he loathed gossip, Papa never dismissed her. He needed the Cook because of me.

  Papa gave me everything. I had new clothes for every season, delicate creations of silk, muslin, or velvet adorned with intricate beading. For every birthday and Christmas, I received a doll from far away, always carved by the best craftsmen in those parts. Papa always gave me dolls from a country in the world I was studying at the time so I could see what people looked like in the wild lands and in the Orient and in the exotic Indies.

  Whenever the fancy struck me, I could go to town and get whatever I liked. The merchants waited on me themselves.

  The one thing my father taught me himself was the art of dining. Morning and midday meals were simple, but dinner was lavish. Papa did this solely out of honor and respect for my mother. Left to his own tastes, he once admitted he would have preferred supper to be as simple as breakfast and lunch. But Mama had cherished dining with ease and elegance, and he knew she would want that passed on to me.

  Every evening, my maid laced me in a gown of silk, lace, or velvet and dressed my hair. Then I would meet Papa in the dining parlor. He looked especially handsome in a jacket and breeches tailored to fit him just right. With his hair tied back and in the light of the candles, his rugged features softened and he looked just like the Patron that he was.

  With seven courses served, dinner never passed in less than two hours. The table was always set as if we had honored guests, but we rarely ate with anyone other than the Duenna and the Tutor. I didn’t realize this was unusual until I overheard my great-uncle, a cheery man who lived in the northern countries, chastising Papa about it.

  “They aren’t exactly servants,” Papa retorted. “This is part of her education.”

  “How does this enhance her education?”

  “Their presence adds company to the table. The girl learns how conversation flows and will develop the social graces that she will de finitely need.”

  “I see,” Uncle pressed. “So they are paid to dine with you?”

  “They are paid a handsome wage,” Papa replied. “They have yet to complain about this duty, so why are you?”

  “Because she should be learning these skills only from you.”

  “And you well know I’m incapable of teaching her that.”

  His tone became cold and Uncle dropped the subject. Papa’s argument was

  reasonable for he had no fondness for society. But I knew better. In the first courses, Papa was thorough as he inquired about my day, how I was progressing in my studies, which lessons were my favorites and which were not. He often asked me about my riding and where I went that day. But once he was finished, the Duenna and Tutor would carry the conversation. Papa would remain silent unless the subject veered to state affairs. Then he would engage in a gentlemanly debate with the Tutor. But he had nothing left to say to me.

  Papa never said an unkind word to me again after that first day, but I never felt at ease around him. I always stiffened whenever he was near. Sometimes I could scarcely breathe from the turmoil inside of me. I didn’t know what I wanted from him. He had such mild brown eyes. But when I looked into them, his gaze was always empty. And the way he spoke, with well-modulated pleasantry, tore me apart. By the time I was seven, I knew how to empty myself of feeling before I looked at him.

  My father was revered. He was the most respected Patron all over the continent.

  He was known for his hard work, and he was the only Patron to toil alongside his peasants. Those who envied him criticized his methods as dangerous, but they were as lazy as they were proud. Their fortunes often dwindled while his lands and in fluence increased. The wellbeing of his farmers improved, and most came out of debt under his rule. All stayed on as his tenants, working even harder for their Patron as they continued to prosper. Somehow that made the loneliness of living with him even worse, yet I’d grown accustomed to it.

  I didn’t know what was wrong between us until I was twelve.

  As I said, the Cook’s stories about love put me in a foul humor. My back tensed every time she spoke about the adoration my father had for my mother. Sometimes it was all I could do to excuse myself politely; I always had to resist the urge to say something unkind. But one night, the Cook chose to send me to sleep with stories about matters of the heart. Her manner was more irritating than usual and I couldn’t stand to listen anymore, so I interrupted her.

  “What is love?”

  It was the firs
t time I’d ever seen the Cook at a loss for words. Her face was always red from working over the stoves and she actually paled.

  “Love’s hard to describe,” she muttered, looking away. “You just know when it’s there.”

  “But you always talk about it,” I pressed. “Can’t you tell me what it is?”

  Her cheeks flushed, but she started when she glanced at the small throw blanket in the middle of my bed. It had been my baby blanket from the day I was born and it was the only thing I had from my mother. She made it for me in the early days of her pregnancy before she fell sick. I slept with it every night, often waking up with my face buried in the soft green wool.

  “Love is what your mama felt when she knit this blanket,” the Cook said.

  I frowned. The blanket was comforting, but that wasn’t enough to make me

  understand. That’s when I started keeping a vigil at my mother’s portrait on the nights my father wasn’t there. When Papa went to her, he’d gaze on her with tears in his eyes.

  Often, he would weep, and he’d done this for as long as I can remember. A part of me always wanted to go to him and give comfort. But I never did. Something always held me back.

  I liked to sit at Mama’s portrait, but the Cook’s talk about love had me there almost every night. She was pregnant with me when she was painted. After staring at her for weeks, I finally understood. One night, I truly saw the expression in her dreamy eyes.

  Something in the way she kept her hands over her belly told me she was trying to hold me. Suddenly, I could smell lilies, the scent so strong I might have fainted had I not grown up with them. The air seemed thicker. I almost thought I could see it moving.

  Then I heard a soft voice with the clarity of a silver bell singing and warmth enveloped me, an invisible blanket I couldn’t touch. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to feel embraced.