I looked at his saddle. His legs were spread across the back, gripping the flanks of the colt. I blushed hard when I thought of sitting like that, and then I was dizzy from the blood draining from my face.
“Women ride like this all over the world,” he said, reading my mind.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If Papa won’t permit it, then you can’t.”
“Well, I can’t be true to my conscience and not teach you.”
“But he said no.”
“Little miss,” he murmured, “you ride hard and that scares the devil out of me.
It’ll be the death of you someday if you don’t learn to ride in this saddle.”
He slapped the leather as he finished. Then he turned and opened the saddlebag strapped behind his leg, and pulled out a rolled up pair of breeches. The fabric was thick, just like the pants the stable boys wore.
“You can wear these under your skirts,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
He held the breeches out to me. I stared at the tightly rolled bundle in his hand, unable to move. Everything the Trainer suggested was unheard of, and just thinking about it terri fied me. But my skin tingled and the shiver climbing my spine was an unfamiliar pleasure. An image came to my mind of what would happen if we were caught, making my breath come in tiny puffs. Then I remembered what it was to soar and to fall, the ground rushing to me before I closed my eyes. I remembered hoping the pain wouldn’t be too much before my life was over.
I took the pants. It was the first time in my life I disobeyed my father, and thus began the most blessed season of my life.
I never knew how lonely I was until I made a friend. Whenever I remember the Trainer, he’s always riding the wild gray colt. I can still see his eyes sparkling when he laughed, his teeth brilliant against his tanned skin. I’ll never forget the guarded affection in his eyes when he looked at me, his fingers tickling my scalp when he ruf fled my hair. I can still feel myself soaring when he spun me through the air, holding me only by the arms. The Trainer gave me the only joy I ever knew in my life, and each day spent with him was pure euphoria. Sometimes I thought I would burst from the unbearable sweetness.
I will never let go of the rumble of laughter from that time. It echoes inside me, hoping for another chance to savor that lightness of spirit again.
As for learning to ride in a man’s saddle, I mastered it within a few days. Once I knew how much stronger I could be, it was torture to ride sidesaddle. As soon as we came to the Abandoned Valley, the Trainer would put his saddle on my mount and rode bareback, the lady’s saddle forgotten on the ground until it was time to go home.
But the Trainer showed me much more. He taught me about freedom, all because I didn’t believe his stories. Every day he talked about his adventures, but I couldn’t fathom how he did such things because he had nothing. In response, he insisted I learn through experience how to live like a vagabond. Those lessons were the hardest I ever had. While I struggled to build a camp, to start a fire, and to hunt and fish, the Trainer did nothing but talk about traveling in the far parts of the world. He refused to help me until I apologized for doubting his word. A longing awakened in me that made my formal education with both the Duenna and Tutor intolerable.
Appalled by the change in my demeanor towards them, my teachers united for the first time. They pleaded with my father to end this arrangement with the Trainer, claiming he was a terrible in fluence on me. They said I was becoming incorrigible, my manners almost wild. I scarcely paid attention and showed de fiance more than once, they stated.
Papa gave them a hearing, and scolded me to respect my teachers at dinner that night.
Then he allowed me to do as I pleased. Ironically, it was the Trainer who straightened me out.
“Don’t think what they teach you is useless,” he said. “You’re very lucky to get so much learning. Do you think I know how to read and write?”
His revelation made me ashamed. So although my day didn’t truly begin until I went to the stables, I became a conscientious pupil again and my teachers stopped complaining.
But they weren’t the only ones who disapproved. Uncle came down from the
northern countries just to confer with Papa about it. I was so nervous that I eavesdropped on their meeting and overheard Uncle insist that Papa was going too far this time.
“A friendship like this,” Uncle said, “implies equality.”
“He saved her life,” Papa retorted. “In a sense that makes him her equal.”
“That is the talk of a lunatic and you know it.”
“She adores him.”
“She certainly does,” Uncle agreed. “And that’s dangerous.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Papa said, “but the Trainer has never shown himself to be anything other than honorable. He doesn’t deserve your suspicion. She’s a child.”
“You need to take a closer look at your daughter. She’s not a child anymore.”
“In the Trainer’s eyes, she is. Of that, I have no doubt.”
“This cannot lead to any good,” Uncle said quietly. “You must know that.”
“He makes her happy,” Papa replied. “How can that be anything but good?”
I’ll never forget the sorrow in Papa’s voice when he said the last. I rushed away from the door before I was caught and hurried to my room. The next day, I was tense every time I heard a man’s tread, fearing Papa was coming to say I couldn’t ride with the Trainer. But he never did.
I think Papa was grateful to him. He was more relaxed around me than I’d ever known him to be. There was warmth in his eyes when he asked about my day. And instead of sitting back when his questions were answered, he lingered in conversation with me. I think he was fascinated by our friendship. Papa came across us often when we were in the eastern woods. He raised his brows each time at my appearance. My skirts and petticoats were too cumbersome to hunt and fish in, so I took them off and wore only the peasant breeches. My blouses always got soiled within an hour. I hardly looked like a Patron’s daughter, but Papa never objected. If anything, he looked amused, and he always noticed when dinner was something I’d killed that day. Papa and I got on well that summer.
One thing I never grew accustomed to was riding in the Abandoned Valley. We always headed for the northwest fields where the song of birds and rustle of animals proved the Sorcerer’s Caverns didn’t extend that far. But I always felt like we were being watched. And I was frightened for the Trainer if we ever got caught.
One afternoon, I was so agitated about it we left the Valley early to go fishing.
That day was almost the peak of autumn. The leaves were changing quickly, and I remember how bright the trees looked against the blue sky.
The Trainer was quiet until we had our poles in the water. Then he turned to me with the same focused expression that he always wore when he had something to say. He began by insisting I needn’t be afraid for him. He promised me that he would fare well even if we were caught. He claimed the wages he’d already earned was the most he ever had in his life, enough to take him back into the world. Something about his tone made me uneasy.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been wanting to bring this up with you for a while,” he said. “Little miss, the unluckiest chance of my life was sneaking onto the ship that brought me home.”
“Why are you saying that?” I asked. “Don’t you like it here?”
The Trainer smiled and tousled my hair.
“I certainly liked meeting you,” he said. “But wanderlust gets in your blood. Once you have it, you always yearn to keep moving. It’s hard for me to live like this.”
“But you’re not a vagabond anymore!”
The Trainer laughed, but he sounded bitter.
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why my feet are starting to itch. I want to go back to where I can be a wanderer again.”
“Vagabond. Wanderer. It’s the same thing.”
“No,
it’s not. In the far parts of the world, the wanderer is revered for the man he truly is. Over here, such a man is a wretch. It’s impossible to describe how miserable that feels.”
I hurt so badly in that moment my belly became heavy. There was a tug on my line, but I didn’t reel in soon enough and the fish got away.
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s a ship sailing east in about six weeks,” the Trainer said gently. “It’s the last boat leaving before winter and I’ll be on it. I’m leaving, little miss.”
A picture of what life would be without the Trainer suddenly came to mind, the image so upsetting I dropped my pole. I was too stunned to cry. The Trainer pulled me close and stroked my back just like he had after my accident. He had the same smoky aroma as the turning leaves, his pulse beating against the side of my face, almost soothing but not quite.
“Can I go with you?”
“Little miss,” he murmured, “you know that’s impossible.”
I started weeping then. The Trainer pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me. I clutched at him, not certain whether the shaking came from him or from me.
“It hurts to say good-bye,” he whispered. “No matter how many times I’ve said it, it never gets easier.”
“Then you should stay. Please.”
“It’s not that simple. Let me show you what I mean.”
He took hold of my chin and turned me to face the river. A school of trout was swimming past, gleaming silver in the water before they went round the bend.
“If you caught one,” he said, “and left it out of the water, what would happen?”
“The fish would die.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Do you understand that asking me to stay is like asking a fish to live outside of water?”
“But when you go, I’m never going to see you again.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “You can see me whenever you want. Look inside your heart because I’ll always be there. Just like you’ll always be in mine.”
I couldn’t stop staring at his face. His tanned skin was a smooth sheath over his bones, fine lines etched around his eyes when he squinted in the sun. His voice was melodious while he brushed the tears from my cheeks. The kindness was there as always.
Then something shifted in his gaze. His eyes darkened and his body grew taut, while mine became a stranger to me. It was as if I was blushing inside, then overcome with a wanting that was frightening. The Trainer closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, stroking my hair and pressing his lips on my forehead. My knees buckled when he did that and I melted, wrapping my arms around him. I remember wishing that embrace would last for eternity.
But Papa had come. I didn’t hear him approach, but I felt the Trainer go tense. He must have seen him because he gently pushed me away before he bowed. I turned and saw Papa on his reddish brown steed.
“I beg your pardon, Patron,” the Trainer said. “But this is not what it seems.”
Papa didn’t say anything at first, his eyes narrowed as his regard shifted between us. My cheeks grew hot and I couldn’t stop fidgeting when his gaze rested on me. I avoided looking at him.
“If this is not what it appears to be,” he said, “then what is it?”
“I told your daughter I was leaving and she became upset. I was trying to comfort her.”
“I see,” Papa said, but his tone was reserved. The way he stared down the Trainer made me cringe.
“I hope I didn’t make a mistake in trusting you.”
“No, Patron,” the Trainer replied in a steady voice. “On my soul, you did not.”
Papa nodded, seeming to accept his explanation. The tension eased a little when he looked at me. His expression was soft and his voice the gentlest I’d ever heard from him.
“Dinner starts an hour earlier tonight,” he said. “I came to remind you not to be late.”
Then he left, but the spell was broken. The Trainer and I didn’t say much, just picked up our poles and sat by the river for another hour. I remember neither of us caught anything.
The next day, I almost expected Papa to forbid me to ride with the Trainer, and was both relieved and nervous when he didn’t. By unspoken agreement, we avoided the Abandoned Valley. Riding sidesaddle was irritating, and I had the sense that the freedom I enjoyed all summer had come to an end.
The Trainer never brought up what happened while I was in turmoil over it. I longed for him to ruf fle my hair, swing me through the air, or stroke my back, anything so that he would touch me. I was excited and confused by these feelings I didn’t understand. I wanted to talk to him, but the Trainer had become distant. The change in his manner tore me apart and I could never get the words out. A couple of weeks passed in this way. I spent every afternoon with him, but the tension between us left nothing to do but hunt and fish. I brought so many kills to the kitchen that the Cook had to salt the meat and fish so they wouldn’t spoil.
Sadness hurt more around the Trainer. I felt as if I’d already lost him. I yearned for the joy I had all summer, and it made me restless. One day, we both ignored our instincts and went back to the Abandoned Valley. I knew we shouldn’t, but I needed a good ride. Whatever had been awakened in me that day by the river was at a fevered pitch and I couldn’t stand it. I regret that it was my idea, but the Trainer readily agreed.
The afternoon was irresistible, a vivid blue Indian summer day when the air was both warm and crisp and the colors were exploding from the trees. We ran the horses hard for several rounds. I had almost reached that blissful state of disappearing when I saw my father.
He must have been watching us for some time, but his presence was so
inconceivable that he was upon us before we even knew he was there. Then everything happened so fast. I can only recall pieces of those moments, broken shards of memory that shred me to bits. The images are jumbled: the desperation in the Trainer’s voice as he pleaded for understanding, Papa shouting for him to be gone in an hour or he would send for the law, and the snap of hysteria when I heard my father say that. I hurtled on my father and pummeled him with my fists, screaming that I hated him.
I knew the Trainer pulled me off from the warmth of his hands. I turned around and caught one last glimpse of his face. He was pale and the sparkle was gone from his golden brown eyes. His lips trembled when he opened his mouth, but there was nothing he could say that would comfort me. I writhed away from his protective grasp and ran. I heard both of them shouting after me, but I didn’t turn back. I had no thought as to where I was going, tripping through the long grasses of the Abandoned Valley, the yellowed blades whipping across my face. I couldn’t see from crying, and I was pounding harder and faster than I ever had in my life.
Then I broke. The girl had come to the river, falling to her knees and gasping for breath. She put her hand to her throat and found that I’d stopped beating. Her tears dried up and she froze, staring into the darkness of the Ancient Grove and wondering how this could have happened to her. She kept searching for her heartbeat, desperate to find that rhythm. She knew she now had the mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns whom she’d never seen. Her confusion and terror made me hurt even as I was fading away. I would have given anything to come back to life for her, but I just couldn’t. I had nothing left in me.
Chapter four
Her story continued in silence. The pictures that passed through his mind were mute. But the Wanderer understood what happened, as well as the reason his grandfather had propelled him into those haunting dreams.
The Patron found his daughter at the river. Her cheeks were pale and her fingers trembled, pressed deeply into her throat. But his mouth was clamped and his eyes were slits; the Patron was blind to anything outside his wrath. The Trainer was gone by the time they returned. Over the following days, it was as if he’d never been there. The Patron and his servants acted as if nothing were amiss; even her teachers ignored the terror in her eyes.
Every morning, the girl felt for her pulse
and found nothing. A week later, the gray colt broke away from the men who had branded him and fled for the Abandoned Valley. The girl watched the scene from her bedroom window, the escape of the wild young stallion pulling her out of her stupor.
That night she went to the Cook, who leaned her head against the girl’s breast and listened for her heartbeat. But she heard nothing. The Cook pulled away, her mouth forming incessant questions and accusation shining in her beady eyes. The girl was agitated, but that only provoked the servant to badger her more. The next day, the Cook had an audience amongst a tight weave of servants. They stopped talking when the girl appeared, their eyes tracking her as she passed. Within days, villagers crossed the road when their Patron’s daughter came down the path. Yet suspicious stares followed her into the cafés and shops. Even in church, people stared with condemnation in their faces.
The rumors finally reached the Patron. He accosted his daughter in the stables, his face white as he felt for a pulse. When he found nothing, he started to shake. Although the Wanderer couldn’t know what the Patron said, the expression in his eyes made him hug his knees to his chest. He released his daughter with a violent push and walked away.
The girl screamed for her father, but he didn’t turn back once.
Ostracism was assured after that day. The isolation of silence she endured for the next seven years was something the Wanderer never imagined possible. By the time the girl went to the river, he had gone numb until he saw the Sorcerer of the Caverns. He couldn’t blame the girl for the choice she made; his hollow ached when she gave up her heart. Then the Wanderer saw nothing until the Sorcerer tried to bring it back to life and failed, his breath knocked out of him when the Sorcerer hurled the heart against the wall.
Then all was black until the bag opened again and the Wanderer saw his face peering inside.
The last image faded slowly. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he couldn’t move, the last vestiges of his hatred dissolving. The Wanderer listened to the heart beating on the table, his hollow aching with tenderness for Ella Bandita and the girl she had once been.
The Heart of the Lone Wolf Page 7
