So Much For Love...
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
The Shepherd as Artist, the Courtesan as Muse
/
Image by Fabio Marciano from Pixabay
The images from Adrianna’s story made for vivid dreams, but not enough to deprive the Shepherd of sleep.
How she must have been as Addie, the angry, envious young peasant, along with images of the Sorcerer of the Caverns, the Brute, and the foolish vanity of the Patron’s Daughter that made it so easy for her to be maneuvered ran through the Shepherd’s mind.
But he still opened his eyes at his usual hour, during the darkest moments before the sun rose above the horizon. He was surprised to wake up well rested and alert.
His mind replayed the story in his mind while he dressed in the pants and shirt Adrianna’s servants laid out for him when he woke up.
The fabric was very soft.
The Shepherd appreciated the comfort of the garments, but was grateful they lacked the opulence and luxury of the dressing clothes from his first night.
Adrianna’s attention to detail was truly astonishing.
Besides the clothes, a servant left a washbasin filled with warm water and a cake of soap for the Shepherd to refresh himself. None of these ministrations had disturbed his rest.
He woke up to find everything readied for him. After quick refreshment, the Shepherd made his way to the theater.
Adrianna was already there.
She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with her eyes closed and her hands resting on her knees, breathing deeply and her expression serene.
The Shepherd didn’t hesitate to open his pad and let his pencil move freely and steadily.
He worked first on the basic lines of her form before memorizing the serenity and softness of her face.
The curtains were drawn back, darkness slowly giving way to the light of a sun starting its climb to the horizon.
The Shepherd paused to take it in.
Although he couldn’t capture the light with charcoal pencils, Adrianna looked incandescent, otherworldly even. She was timeless and ageless, the deep rose of coming day glowing in the silvery threads weaving through her braid.
In that moment, the Shepherd wished he had color to draw with.
Adrianna remained as still as a statue, giving him enough time to fill in more details before he glanced over and saw her staring at him. Her full mouth curved in a smile when their eyes met.
“Perhaps tomorrow you can join me in time for meditation,” she said in a soft voice.
“I find I’m much more present in my body through the day. The timing is wonderful just before sunrise.”
She leaned over to one side, and stretched her legs out to the side, making a wide scissor with her limbs as her torso curved and hugged the floor.
Pressing her hands into the floor, she pulled her hips up until her body made an inverted V.
The Shepherd hadn’t noticed the twins were also in the theater until they strung the first notes on their cellos.
Their song was very slow with a lingering quality as Adrianna started her dance, stretching to the rhythm of the music.
“This is one of the yoga poses I told you about yesterday,” she called out, breathing deeply and settling more into the pose.
“It’s a marvelous stretch for the entire backside of my body,” she continued after a moment.
“I swear I never suffer a moment’s back pain because I do this every day.”
Walking her hands a few steps further from her feet, she brought her hips to the floor, her legs stretched behind her, her back was straight for a moment.
Then breathing in deeply, she bent her knees and arched her back until her head touched her feet behind her.
This pose was more arduous, and the twins slowed the tempo of their tune even more.
She held that one for as long as she held the first posture.
Then she brought her legs and face to the ground, and bending her knees, brought her torso to rest on her thighs in a fetal position, with her arms stretched in front of her.
The Shepherd sketched brief lines to remember the poses, fascinated with what he saw.
After a couple of minutes, she came up and stretching her legs on either side of her, she stretched over each leg, her head resting on her shins.
No wonder Adrianna had kept the youthful contours of her figure.
She had more flexibility and nimbleness than women more than half her age.
Once she had limbered up enough, she crooked her knees and brought them up, sending her form into a tailspin.
The twins picked up the tempo one beat behind their mistress. Thus the warm up and stretching gave way to her dance.
Having music made a powerful difference in her dance.
The evening before it was fascinating to watch this woman move from her own internal rhythms, or perhaps to the beat of a music heard only inside her mind or her memory of beloved melodies.
But with a sound to dance to and with, her body became more open, deeper and more passionate.
She extended her limbs further, and the quality of her dance had more inflection and more expression.
She was not only dancing to the music, she was dancing with the musicians as her partners.
And the result was devastating.
The Shepherd knew he was inspired from how freely his pencil sketched across pages and pages, making crude shapes and notes for him to draw more intently on later.
His memory stored the most powerful moments for him.
There was no fatigue, no tightness in his hands or fingers that moved from a will of their own.
He lost himself in the preliminary sketches, already picturing in his mind the detailed sketches that would follow.
With the growing light in the room, the Shepherd realized he wanted to start working with some color to fully capture the beauty of this glorious woman.
Spoiling the Rogue's Afterglow
/
He was the most unscrupulous Rogue in the Capital City.
She tormented him for months, toying with him the way a cat does a mouse.
Of course it was the only way the Thief of Hearts could seduce such a man. Ella Bandita flaunted her hypocrisy for the Rogue, throwing in his face the contempt she had for him.
The brutal manner in which she treated him was nothing more than the disdain he felt for his mistresses, the only difference between them being that her cruelty was more honest than his.
As a roué, he was gifted and liked to seduce in extremes.
Virgin daughters and treacherous wives were the ones he set his sights on.
All his mistresses were noble through birth or marriage, preferably both.
All of them were sought out in society, lovely to look at, charming to converse with.
The Rogue enjoyed the sensuous life and reveled in the softness of woman.
But it was knowing he had taken the honor of a highborn lady that gave him the most pleasure, for all his conquests were women who should have been beyond his reach.
He was of common birth, the son of a man who had no more schooling than any of us in this room.
But his father had made a fortune through a genius that can’t be taught and the sweat of his labor.
In his own way, the Rogue worked as hard as his father to cultivate the carefree elegance that gained him acceptance in society.
Like most men of his nature, he was more charming than handsome. His stature was average, his hair was thinning and his features were ordinary.
Yet his eyes twinkled like those of naughty children who got away with their mischief. He was impudent and bold, a favorite with the ladies.
As his reputation became notorious, he was eagerly received in the highest social circles.
The night he met Ella Bandita, the Rogue had just brought a seduction to a satisfying consummation.
She was the daughter of a Marquis who had made her debut at the start of the season. The courtship was long by his standards, for the girl fancied herself virtuous.
As fresh as she was in society, the Debutante had already heard of his notorious reputation and rebuffed him when he approached.
But the Rogue watched and waited.
The young lady hadn’t gone many paces when she turned back to see if he followed her with his eyes.
In that moment, the Rogue knew the Debutante had read romantic novels with far more attention than her holy books.
In her eyes, he saw she believed herself the heroine of her own grand love story; the lady with a pure heart who inspired the devil to repent his wicked ways and yearn for a life of goodness.
Her piety was vanity, a mask to cover up her longing for excitement.
The Rogue looked away abashed, his head fallen a touch lower. If he could have forced himself to flush, he would have.
It was all he could do to suppress his smile. This would be too easy, for she was a very silly girl.
She was also the daughter of a Marquis, and her father was known to be a fool. But he had extensive property and a seat in government, and that made the Debutante an immediate favorite.
The Rogue still had to court her for several weeks before she succumbed.
It was well past night and just before dawn when he left the Debutante’s rooms at her father’s country estate.
He’d enjoyed his night of love with her.
She surrendered easily to the ways of the flesh.
He whispered tender goodbyes on his way down the trellis to the ground while the Debutante leaned out the window, blowing kisses and bidding him adieu.
He finished dressing as he ran across the lawn to the woods where his horse was hidden.
His heart pounded when he sat on the ground to don his boots.
This was the part of seduction he cherished most, the sweet shiver before he truly made his escape. It always hinged on this final moment.
So long as he was never caught, his dishonor would be suspected but never proven and the delicate balance needed for him to seduce again would be preserved.
So the sound of galloping was alarming.
The Rogue jumped up and fled for his horse which took off at a run when he leaped on its back.
His stallion was fast and he was certain he would get away without being seen.
But the Rogue couldn’t believe he heard the gait of another horse behind him and pushed his mount hard.
He wasn’t used to running this fast and had difficulty staying balanced in the saddle, yet his pursuer kept up.
Fear made his heart pound in his chest.
He couldn’t understand how he’d been discovered.
The vague oblivion of the Marquis was legendary.
Then he realized if an outraged father were on his heels, he would hear some proof, irate shouting or shots fired at his back.
Whoever chased him couldn’t be the Marquis.
He heard her before he saw her.
Her chuckle was masculine in its lustiness, a laugh between brothers, but the tone was feminine.
Then he heard the click of a tongue, and his vision blurred when she passed. She stopped a few lengths ahead of him.
The Rogue reined in his horse, stunned when he saw his pursuer was not only a woman, but also a vagabond.
She wore patchwork breeches and an oversized peasant shirt, hair in tangled disarray.
She was young, riding in a saddle just like his on the most magnificent stallion he had ever seen. Her horse stood a several hands higher than his, and the girl looked down on the Rogue from her mount.
She smiled, her eyes glittering, and inspected him from head to foot.
His light brown hair, usually pulled taut to accentuate the contours of his round head, had fallen from the tie at the nape of his neck. His naked chest peeked from the shirt and his jacket was opened to his waist. His feet bruised and bloodied from running through the trees without his boots.
She brought her gaze back to meet his eyes and curled her lip in a sneer. Slowly the girl shook her head and kicked the flanks of her horse.
Then she was gone.
Instead of going down the road leading from the country to town, she disappeared back into the woods bordering the lands of the Marquis.
The Rogue stared at the empty space his pursuer left behind, feeling like she’d just made a fool of him.
It ruined the afterglow he usually savored on his ride home.
The Rock Lady of Santa Cruz - On the Road #23
/
Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay
Your friends will know you better
in the first minute you meet
than
your acquaintances will in
a thousand years...
"Illusions, The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"
by Richard Bach
Hey y'all
Well, I've just had an experience like the one described above.
At the moment, I'm in Ketchikan for a few hours before the ferry carries me to Bellingham.
The ferry is always an experience, especially the three to four day milk run between Juneau and Bellingham.
And of course, I'm sleeping on a lawn chair in the solarium with a toaster oven heater hanging six feet above me to stay warm.
I met Lili Rose due to a reluctance she had to break a promise to her husband. We had several hours in Sitka, and we became hitchhiking buddies on that stop because he didn’t want her hitching by herself, and the town of Sitka is several miles from the ferry.
She was based in Ketchikan for a month. Visiting from Santa Cruz, CA while her cousin was on a diving trip. While he was gone, Lili Rose took a four-day roundtrip on the ferry from Ketchikan to Skagway and back to Ketchikan. We crossed paths as she was going back.
"I have a gift for healing," she said, as we strolled around the church in Sitka. "I'm known as the Rock Lady because I do so well with stones."
Like many people from California, she was very open in sharing her story, and at first I wrote her off as a New Ager, but she was good company. We got a bottle of wine and two brandy snifters at good will to drink wine in the solarium later. Because of course, she was perched up there too.
I had to admit she even looked the part of a mystic. Petite, with long reddish brown hair, and large crystal green eyes, Lili Rose has a vivid presence.
And then she told me she was only 74 pounds a few months ago, and that she had died and been brought back three times in the last year.
Having four disks in her neck fused together, complications with her medication affecting her health, she had run the gamut of a modern-day medical nightmare. She had a food tube forcing nutrients directly to her heart at one point before she figured out that it was the pain killers she was taking for her neck were affecting her system, and got a medical license for marijuana to stop so she could take in enough calories to not starve to death. She gets high, so she feels okay enough to eat, and if she's not in too much pain, the food stays down. Since she had stopped taking the painkillers, she had gained forty pounds and was healthy enough to take this trip to see her cousin and twin soul.
"I choose to be happy," she said. "It is all a choice, so why choose suffering?"
A healer in pain all the time, a giver who can't receive, Lili Rose gave me a stone she had carried for almost twenty years. A clear piece of quartz with copper filaments threading through it like angel hairs, she described it as "rutile quartz." She had it with her when she was holding people's hands as they passed from this life, or brought new life into the world. She swore by it.
"This stone is very powerful," she said. "It'll send your messages
directly to God."
Since the stone was important to her, the agreement at first was that I could carry it until I came to see her in Santa Cruz, and then we would trade out for a stone with gold filaments. But by the next morning, she said that it was my birthday gift.
"My dear, what is the point of giving a gift if one does not also treasure it oneself?"
This classic quote by Colette - the French writer, not our beloved slinger of hash and singer of songs - was the last sentence in a short story by Truman Capote. I was so impressed by it I recorded it in my journal years ago and thus, have never forgotten it. So the significance of this gesture by a woman I had known for three hours was not lost on me.
But the best gift from Lili Rose to me was the missing piece in the puzzle of forgiveness. Without going into the details of the conversation that led to this - anybody who's done any living at all has been stumped on this issue at least once in their lives - we were treating ourselves to a less-than-mediocre dinner served in the swanky ferry dining room when Lili Rose dropped this pearl of wisdom on my plate.
"When you truly forgive, you give up your right to retribution."
Now that's some profound shit, but she went on.
"When you wait for an apology, an acknowledgement, or a punishment to forgive, you are still giving up your energy to a situation, which is what somebody wants who does things that hurt us. When you give up that right to retribution, no matter how justified, you take back your power."
Wow.
Something tells me this leg of the trip is going to turn into some mystical avenues.
If I ever lose that rock she gave me, shoot me.
Montgomery
Original Writing Prompts for Fantasy and Writing Inspiration for Journaling...or even Memoir!
/
Hey y'all,
Cole has busted out some pretty fabulous memes in the form of writing prompts and inspiration! Their style is different from mine, but that makes for broader perspective and more choices for all the writers out there to find those pearls of inspiration to get those creative ideas flowing and the pen moving across the page or fingers dancing over a keyboard. Things tend to flow from there. So enjoy!
On another note, this weekend, I'm heading for my first festival as a vendor for the first time in a coon's age. Imagine Orcas Island, with sacred music, late night dance parties, aerialists, fire dancers, nature, beauty, and lots of rain - that's where I'll be with Cole and my partner, Morgen, trying to tell some stories and sell some books. I have an updated and revised version of The Golden Pedestal for the kiddos with some gorgeous new illustrations, as well as Ella Bandita and the Wanderer for the adults. I'll also have some older copies of my original collection of stories, Ella Bandita and the Wanderer, which will go for a $4. A lot has changed in the self-publishing world since the DIY booktour odyssey I did in 2005/2006. One positive change on my end is that I'm not doing this alone. That is a huge relief!
I hope it's a good weekend, and if anybody reading this happens to be on Orcas Island for Imagine this weekend, come find us. In the meantime, enjoy Cole's writing prompts and inspiration!
Peace,
Montgomery
The Lucky Traveler
/
Buddhist Temple
Hey y'all,
So I'm in Thailand.
After 2 days of exhausting travel, this trip is already off to an incredible start. Except for the Tantra workshop that starts today, I came here with no plans and no itinerary, just freewheeling it as I go along.
It's one thing to do that on home ground where I speak the language with my own vehicle to get around. It's another to do that on the other side of the world when I've never been to SE Asia before.
For a change, Facebook actually served its original purpose of connecting people to each other. I know Kip from my time in Alaska, and I haven't seen him in over 10 years.
Anyway, he saw my posts about traveling to Chiang Mai - and since he is conveniently in Chiang Mai - he reached out via FB I spent my first night in Thailand wandering around the night market with Kip and 2 new Alaskan friends - Angela and Nate, who are both taking 2 week Thai massage courses.
We ate a yummy vegan (you would have loved this, Sabby!) Thai dinner on wood plates (they even had wood straws) in a hole-in-the-wall gem of a place.
What do we eat?
I may even take a cooking class there when I'm done with my Taoist and Tantra Sex, Energy, and Ecstatic Love workshop.
Anyway, Kip and Angela are going to Laos on a Mekong River trip after she's done, and I've already been invited to join them. They mentioned interest in hearing all about this workshop, especially after I read to them the course descriptions.
Of course, I'll join them because the timing is perfect and because I can, and I'm here to have spontaneous adventures.
These are the advantages of traveling solo with no itinerary.
And I'd be an idiot not to.
Kip is one of those people that you hear about before you meet him. He's a legend among his friends. He works out of Anchorage now, but was part of a gorgeously wonderful group out of Skagway when I met him.
The people who called Skagway home were unbelievably warm and friendly, not to mention incredible fun. The year round population there is maybe 300 people in the winter, but it goes way up to more than 1500 when the summer people come back. Many of the summer people travel like lunatics in the winter before coming to Skagway to work for the summer - and they come back every year and some eventually settle down there.
My first impression of that town was pretty vivid. A group of us from Juneau went to Skagway for a weekend of partying someplace that wasn't Juneau. The main drag of Skagway looks like a movie set of the mining days and the wild West or Wild Alaskan days.
But Mo's was the local bar that was too plain to draw in the tourists. This is where the locals went when they were done entertaining the tourist fantasy of the last Frontier.
So we hung out at Mo's and watched the locals as they let their hair down and came out of character to be themselves, drinking and smoking, etc.
Then "Get Together" by the Youngbloods comes on over the sound system and magic happened. The locals all stopped their conversations, started bopping their heads back and forth to the music, and with happy, smiling faces, sung the refrain:
"Come on, people now,
Smile on your brother,
Everybody get together,
And try to love one another
Right now."
And they did that with every refrain. It was surreal.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRbTvoxRNxM
Alaskans are amazing people, and some of the strongest souls I've ever known I know from my time there. However, they are not warm and fuzzy. Skagway is the outlier.
I don't know if Kip was at Mo’s that night, but he and his posse would have fit right in with bopping heads, smiling faces, and singing voices.
I didn't meet him until a few years later when one of his friends, Paul, was in my Tlingit Culture and History class and became one of my friends. His Skagway friends came to see him often in Juneau, so his friends became my friends, and that was how I got to know just how awesome Skagway folks were - and I'm sure still are.
Paul and friends had done some pretty impressive travels, but they all claimed to revere Kip as The Man when it came to high adventure. And they were only half joking.
He was not what I expected when I met him. I was expecting somebody more studly and less odd, but Kip was as awesome and joyful and free and larger-than-life as his friends described him.
He still is.
If you can imagine a Generation X Dean Moriarty of On the Road - much healthier, less drug-addled, but with the same high energy who has been everywhere, that gives a pretty accurate image of Kip. He really is a restless soul with a gypsy heart, who never met a stranger and is in constant motion.
This man has been EVERYWHERE
"Haven't you traveled all over the world?" I asked.
"Well, I've never been to the Philippines," Kip answered.
Jetlagged me struggled to keep up my first night. But he kept me up and running, so I didn't sleep during the day. Thus I became acclimated (sort of) to Thailand time.
I think it's an auspicious sign that my journey started with Kip.
Peace,
Mana
Sadist or Masochist?
/
Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
I expected the Brute to be there when I walked inside.
Instead, the Sorcerer waited.
His ancient face looked almost pleasant when he saw me.
“That was a clever piece of blackmail,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“You practically handed it to me. Thank you, by the way.”
“Perhaps I made it easy, but you were intelligent enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Most people don’t. You have a sharp instinct.”
He peered into my palm and whistled.
“I think you will do supremely well in the next phase of your life, Addie.”
“I don’t even know what these are worth,” I admitted.
“With the money you have in your hand right now, you could live in very elegant apartments with a servant or two in the Capital City for three months.”
I’m fairly certain my mouth dropped open as I stared at him, unable to speak.
The Sorcerer laughed.
“If you’re up for the post, you would make a marvelous assistant for me once this little arrangement comes to an end.”
“I don’t think so,” I muttered. “But I would be grateful if you taught me about money and apartments and the Capital City. I don’t know anything about life without servitude.”
He nodded.
“Of course, I will. It’s the least I can do after the unexpected pleasure you brought me.”
“What are you talking about?”
The Sorcerer raised his hairless brows and his smile widened, showing all of his long, yellowed teeth, making crevasses at the edges of his colorless eyes.
“I didn’t expect you to be a born voyeur,” he murmured.
“What’s a voyeur?”
“Somebody who likes to watch.”
I blushed so hard I thought my head would explode. I was horrified the Brute had seen me like that. The Sorcerer roared with laughter.
“Nothing escapes my notice, dear Addie. I thought you knew that about me by now.”
He chuckled some more while I forced myself to gain composure.
“Most only grow aroused watching others,” he mused. “You actually climaxed, and very intensely. But that is often how it goes with mating pain and pleasure.”
“It wasn’t like that!” I protested. “What you were doing to her sickened me.”
The Sorcerer raised his brows even higher, and shrugged.
“From what I observed, you must have liked it some. Perhaps you’re sadistic, and the excitement of watching the Patron’s Daughter take some hard licks was more than you could stand.”
“No, no, no! I don’t even know what that is! Beatings are horrible and I don’t understand how she could like that.”
The Sorcerer said nothing.
I was so unnerved by those colorless eyes looking through me I couldn’t stop myself from going on.
“I was feeling…what she was feeling, but only what felt good. When you were striking her, I felt all tied up inside. If I had tried to eat something I
doubt I would have even been able to swallow. If I had, it would have come back up. But then, something shifted. Something started to feel good, and it was so confusing! Feeling this build up of pleasure and pressure, until…until it couldn’t get any higher and then I felt shattered inside like I was dissolving into light. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”
The Sorcerer peered closely at me.
“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Ironic, really, that you would psychically link to the Patron’s Daughter as if she were your twin. As much as you loathe her, that is truly remarkable.”
Another thought occurred to me.
“How did you know she would like that? How could you know?”
The Sorcerer smiled.
“It was a risk, yes, because I couldn’t know for certain. Yet I’ve always found that the more vicious the sadist, the more frustrated the masochist who hides behind the mask of cruelty. A true sadist works from a cool head, which the Patron’s Daughter lacks. The Noble Son’s rejection was the closest to severity she had ever known. Why else would she lament him so often? Because she savored the pain.”
Of course, at that time, I had no idea what a sadist or masochist was, but I suspected it had something to do with cruelty. I was also too overwhelmed to ask the Sorcerer to enlighten me, but either he read my mind or used his common sense.
“A sadist is one who enjoys inflicting pain, both physical and psychological. A masochist is one who enjoys taking the pain.”
“Are you accusing the Noble Son of being a…a sadist?”
“Of course not. He was a romantic and an idealist, with no interest in the mating dance of pleasure and pain. Confronted with a beautiful young lady who craved it, he was repulsed.”
I had never heard this kind of talk before, but I breathed in relief when he denied the Noble Son being cruel.
The Sorcerer chuckled at my obvious ignorance.
I had never heard this kind of talk before, but I breathed in relief when he denied the Noble Son being cruel. The Sorcerer chuckled at my obvious ignorance.
I nodded.
“You ought to make a fortune by the time we’re through.”
As usual, the Sorcerer was right.
I did.
Ella Bandita, Thief of Hearts
/
They came for the Doctor the next day. He was sipping his morning tea when he saw two boys through the window.
They stopped their horses at his door and leapt from the saddles.
The Doctor was irritated at first.
Everybody knew he detested being called on without an appointment, and the hour was far too early.
Then he saw the expression on their faces and lost his appetite.
The boys rushed into the cottage without knocking, pleading with the Doctor to come with them.
He recognized them as stable hands in service to the Patron, and their white faces and hollowed eyes implied something terrible.
He didn’t ask questions, for inquiry might send them into hysteria. The Doctor was swift, grabbing his coat and bag, and telling his wife there was a crisis and to attend to the patients until his return.
The two boys climbed atop one horse, leaving him the other.
They weren’t timid about running their mount fast, but the Doctor stayed with them.
During his ride, he detected the scent of peaches lingering weeks after they were plucked from the avenue trees. Then the aroma became sickly at the garden of withered lilies.
Something was horribly wrong.
The manor had not been a joyous place since the death of their Patroness, but there had always been the motion and noise of activity.
Now everything was quiet.
A few servants waited before the front door, the personal maid to the Patron’s daughter, the Cook, and the man in charge of the stables.
The rounded features of the lady’s maid were swollen, tears streaking her cheeks. The Cook’s face, which she often boasted turned red from the stove fires, was the color of ashes.
The head of the stables was composed, but the anguish in his eyes seared through the elderly Doctor when they shook hands.
“What happened?” he asked.
“We don’t know, Doctor,” the other replied. “I think it’s best to just show you.”
They entered the house.
The stillness inside was eerie. Instead of the bustle of servants and tenant farmers and visiting patrons from neighboring counties, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of weeping.
The walls seemed to close in on the Doctor. This grief was fresh, raw. He could feel the sorrow throughout the house as he followed the stable hand upstairs to what he recognized as the daughter’s room.
The Doctor gasped at what he saw inside.
The creamy white quilts on the bed were soaked with blood, cascading down one side to make a small pool beneath. He had to fight the urge to retch, unable to speak until he steadied himself.
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone,” the stable hand replied.
“One of the boys had a tale about her running off in the middle of the night on a giant stallion, the wild gray colt that ran away from here several years ago. He swears he saw her blow something that dazzled around the beast and say ‘immortal like me.’ And he claims there was blood all over her face and gown.”
“Well she can’t have gone far. Shouldn’t we send for the Lawman?”
“I suppose we could. But if what the boy says is true, that won’t do any good. I saw that stallion last year at the river. He’s a monster of a horse.”
“And where is…”
The stable hand squeezed his eyes shut, but a stream of tears escaped. Breathing deeply until he regained his composure, he opened his eyes and beckoned the Doctor to follow.
The Doctor was relieved at first when he came into the study and saw the Patron sitting in his chair.
Then he looked into the glazed eyes staring right through him, noted the slack jaw and witless expression.
His heart ached at the sight of him, and the Doctor had to fight back his own tears while searching through his bag.
He took his time preparing his instruments, not starting his examination until he recovered his poise.
The Patron was quite robust, showing the health of a man half his age until the Doctor felt for a pulse and found nothing. He froze, his mind reeling over the telltale mark of the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
But that was impossible, for the Sorcerer preyed on young women.
“Patron, what happened to you?”
“Eh…” he said, his voice ravaged. “Eh…la bandita stole my heart…”
The Doctor frowned and shook his head.
“I don’t understand. Who is this Ella Bandita?”
The Patron looked confused at the name. Then his face cleared for a moment, a spark of intelligence flashing in his eyes only to become nothing.
“Ella Bandita…” the Patron said, nodding and his voice dropped to a whisper. His left eye welled with single tear which fell down his cheek.
“Ella Bandita,” he repeated. “She’s my daughter.”
The Patron stood up.
The Doctor watched him leave, scarcely able to believe it was the Patron he saw.
His gait was almost silent, too soft to leave an echo.
The Doctor closed his eyes and bowed his head, his hand shaking while making the sign of the cross; only a thought kept intruding on his prayer.
The Patron had finally given his daughter a name.
The Price for Addie's Silence
/
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
I wasn’t sure if the Patron’s Daughter fully understood what had just happened.
She panted heavily, her eyes glazed and her cheeks flushed. Many strands had fallen free from her shining black braid.
Dazed, she wiped her arm across her face, and then looked startled at the milky smears on her sleeve.
The Brute pulled up his pants and turned to me.
Fortunately, I had recovered enough to stand up, composed and waiting in the shadows as if I had been nothing more than a watcher, as if nothing unusual had come my way.
I hoped nobody had noticed.
If the Brute had, he made no hint of that. He pointed to a bowl of water on the shelf behind him.
“Addie, get her cleaned up enough that she’s fit to go home.”
As soon as he spoke, the Patron’s Daughter finally came out of her stupor.
She turned her head, shocked to see me standing there. She had obviously forgotten I was there.
Her face paled and she turned again to take in the Brute. Realization and horrified disbelief crossed her face.
“I will see you next week,” the Brute said. “Same time, and with Addie as your escort.”
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head rapidly.
“No,” she muttered. “Absolutely not.”
The Brute smiled and raised his brows.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she protested with a tremble in her voice.
“If you insist,” the Brute replied. “Just remember that you come with Addie if you want me to receive you.
“I swear I will never come here or see you again!”
The Brute simply shrugged.
“Get yourself cleaned up.”
Within minutes, the astonishing escapade of the night was over, and the Patron’s Daughter and I were making our way through the Ancient Grove in the black of night.
She was still in shock when we left the cabin.
But the daze wore off fast as we made our way through the dark trees. She had to have been humiliated by what had happened, especially because I had seen everything.
She had no idea that I had ridden her ecstasy along with her. I was so relieved I didn’t think to gloat at her expense.
But that didn’t stop the Patron’s Daughter from falling into a blind panic.
We hadn’t gone twenty paces away from the cabin before she took off at a run.
I couldn’t see her because she wore the black cloak that made her invisible at night, but I could hear her crashing through the woods.
“You’re going the wrong way,” I called out. “Unless you want to get lost here, you have to come with me.”
Those were the first words I said to her since we had entered the cabin.
I heard her cry of frustration, and eventually her steps coming closer as she made her way back to me. She had no choice but to follow, but she pinched my arm hard as soon as I was within her reach.
“If you speak a word about tonight,” she hissed. “I will destroy you!”
“Not possible,” I retorted. “If I talk, your ruin would come before you could get back at me.”
“Who would believe a wretched drudge like you?”
“Anybody with eyes. Nasty bruises on your backside that you’re sure to have in a day or two. That will prove the truth I’d be telling.”
“You filthy little grubber, I hate you!”
Her insults didn’t fool me.
There was no mistaking the tremor of fear in the Patron’s Daughter’s voice.
Perhaps a kinder person would have had some pity for her in that moment.
But a lifetime of assaults on my dignity with her daily rides through the fields, her sneering, smirking, taunting, and gloating, as well as the beatings I had taken on her whim, all that made sympathy and concern impossible.
All I knew was that the Patron’s Daughter would never be able to cause me shame or rage ever again. That was the moment I understood the power I now had over my former nemesis.
“Likewise,” I replied calmly.
With one word, I freed myself from hypocrisy and pretense, and relief flooded through me.
“Addie, don’t you dare tell anybody about tonight!”
“What are you going to do to shut me up?”
“What!”
“Don’t pretend to be so stupid. How many times has your father paid for silence? If you want mine, you also have to pay.”
We had just come out of the trees when I said this.
In the dim light, I saw the Patron’s Daughter staring at me, her mouth agape.
I was as shocked as she was, the words out before I knew what I was saying.
Really, the Brute had done me an extraordinary favor when he insisted that the Patron’s Daughter could only come to the cabin with me.
“What did you bring for the Brute?”
“You sneaky, underhanded little trollop. You set me up.”
“That’s impossible,” I retorted. “If I had known you had a yummy for a beating, I would have taken it upon myself years ago.”
“You ugly, repugnant tripe!”
There was no way I was going to tolerate her insults anymore.
“How can you think I’m ugly? Clearly you found the Brute so handsome you rutted on him like a bitch in heat!”
Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
She slapped me hard across my face.
Fortunately, I wasn’t even tempted to slap her in return. If I had, I would have left my mark on her for certain. Instead, I pushed her down hard.
“Either give me what you meant to give the Brute, or there will be lots of exciting conversation to be had after morning worship.”
She practically snarled at me.
“No! You rot with the devil!”
“I think you’ll meet him before I do,” I said, and turned my back.
I took five steps before she relented.
“Wait!”
I stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I brought three gold coins and two jeweled rings that I never wear.”
I came back and held out my hand.
“I am not giving you all that!” she protested. “That’s what I brought to marry the Noble Son! What you saw is not worth that much.”
“Oh yes, it is. I saw you sucking on his manmeat.”
“I’m still a virgin!” she squealed. “I can make up a story about the bruises. My family will believe me before they’ll believe you!”
“All right. The gold coins will keep me quiet. On my honor.”
“You have no honor, you greedy little snipe.”
“Takes one to know one,” I repeated the Brute’s retort as she put the gold in my palm.
The Patron’s Daughter was right, though.
I had sacrificed my integrity in this scheme.
But as soon as those cold coins crossed my palm, I didn’t care.
In my hand was more money than my family had ever possessed in our miserable lives, and I swooned from the delight of it.
“Next week, you be prepared to guarantee my silence.”
“I’m not coming next week.”
I knew the Patron’s Daughter was lying before she did.
I remembered the explosion of ecstasy that had been so exquisite I didn’t care how I had gotten there. If I had been affected that way, there was no way she’d be able to resist.
“If you insist,” I said gaily. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”
She spat in my face.
Engaging Characters or Juicy Plot?
/
“Fiction writers are strong in either plot or character - never both and each envies the other their talent.”
So said Margaret Grossman, my favorite writing teacher of all time.
Her natural inclination was to write awesome, well-developed characters, the kind of people you’d want to sit down to coffee with and have long, intriguing conversations.
But she struggled with finding things for these lovely characters to do.
My natural inclination is plot.
I have absolutely no problem making stories up, with lots of plot points, twists, and turns.
But it’s connection to the characters that keeps readers engaged with the plot, and I’m sad to say that my characters are often misunderstood and their development criticized.
I struggle to flesh out fully actualized people in a fictional world - especially at that time when I worked with Margaret.
I also think it’s peculiar, because I am always trying to figure out the psychology of people in the real world, and what makes us all tick.
Perhaps all that amateur psychoanalysis has helped. Maybe I’ve improved since then, but criticism around character development is the most consistent when it comes to my writing.
Perhaps that’s why I use archetypal types for my characters?
Either way, I do the best I can, and sometimes that falls short. In my current novel, both the protagonists are telling their stories from 1st person “I.”
I hope that will make a stronger connection between the readers and my characters.
Truth be told, I believe this weakness around character development is a pretty common problem with most indie authors.
I haven’t made a formal study of it, but most indie authors whose work I’ve read have 1 dimensional characters as well.
I wish I could give some sage advice and how-to’s on how to write plot if you naturally write characters, but I’m one of those who doesn’t know how to teach something that comes very easily to me.
When it comes to writing character, I say practice.
But another tool that may come in handy is to write up a character sheet describing each of your characters, and then add some of those details in your plot pages.
Name:
Age:
Hair/Eye Color:
Height:
Unusual feature:
Beautiful/Homely:
Biggest Fear:
Greatest Hope:
Primary Motivation:
Likable Quality:
Fatal Flaw:
Quirks:
Best Friend:
Primary Partner/Spouse/Lover:
Secondary Partner/Lover:
What does this character want?
What role does this character play?
Is this character sympathetic and trustworthy?
What is the primary struggle for this character in this story?
Feel free to add any more details that may help flesh out your characters into a person you’d want to hang out with or the kind of person you’d avoid at a party.
It actually helps to list details of each and every character, no matter how minor they are. I don’t always do this exercise, but when I do, I find this tool helps bring characters to life.
And yes, as Margaret claimed, I do envy natural character writers their talent.
But at least I have an exciting, juicy plot line to carry the day, and I’m sure some writer somewhere envies my ability to do that.
The Consequences of Cunning
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
“What are you going to do with my heart?”
“I’m going to eat it.”
The Sorcerer didn’t hesitate in his answer, and thus dispelled the last vestiges of the illusion of love.
The girl’s face paled and the Sorcerer felt like himself again, reveling in the new surge of vitality in his blood.
“I always knew there would be a hidden cost,” she murmured.
The girl turned her face to the sky, deep lavender in the hour before sunrise, and finished her climb out of the Caverns and disappeared.
The girl would be all right, the Sorcerer thought, confident he’d done better by her than to any of his other conquests. With everything she’d gained from him, her power was formidable.
The Sorcerer shook the torpor from his limbs and turned back to the shelf, his eyes reaching for the velvet bag before he got it in hand.
Pulling the gathers open, his innards clenched when he saw the heart. He had never waited this long to feed. But first, he had to bring it back to life.
The heart was so quiet and still.
He waved his hand over the bag and whispered the spell of awakening.
The Sorcerer waited, but nothing happened.
Jostling the bag between his fingers, his voice rumbled with another command to make it pulse again.
But the heart rocked in silence.
The Sorcerer frowned.
This had never happened before.
Those were powerful spells, but now he needed his strongest remedy.
He searched until he found the potion he once used to bring a dead man back to life, holding his breath as he sprinkled a few drops and waited.
Nothing changed.
He doused the heart with the tonic, massaging the supple tissue, and muttered the most powerful incantation in his memory, a spell that had never failed him until now.
A crest of panic rose in his breast, but the Sorcerer pushed it down.
This couldn’t be happening. He had no appetite for a stillborn heart. The heart had to be alive.
For hours, the Sorcerer scoured through volumes he hadn’t read in centuries, trying anything that promised a solution.
But no spell could make that heart beat again.
The sight of it was enough to drive him out of his senses.
The heart was plump and fresh, and had the light aroma that only came with untouched innocence. It was the most appealing he’d ever seen, the heart of a young girl and robust with the first stirrings of desire.
He could only imagine how sweet it would taste. He knew this heart couldn’t be truly dead, or else it wouldn’t be so enticing.
His starving had gone beyond pain. The Sorcerer had to feed.
He dug inside the bag, but his fingers couldn’t clutch what was inside, no matter how persistent his reach.
He felt a push against his hand and realized the heart must have a guardian.
But how could that be? The girl had given it up to him.
He remembered that day clearly, the defiance glinting in her eyes when she accepted his offer, but only if he granted her one request.
“Before I lay with you,” she had said. “I want you to take my heart.”
And that was how she did it.
Because her heart remained pure of the choice that she’d made, the Sorcerer had no claim on it.
Yowling, he hurled the velvet bag against the wall with all his might.
He never knew hunger could be such misery, and the humiliation that a conquest had outwitted him sent him into a fury.
The Sorcerer stormed around the chamber, throwing treasures to the ground and ripping texts apart.
What little calm he had left whispered that he was only rendering himself weaker by destroying an irreplaceable knowledge, but the Sorcerer didn’t care.
All he could think was that she must have known.
Every night when she came to the Caverns and absorbed his lessons, every time she surrendered, even while staring at him from the spiral with her white cheeks, the girl knew she had the better of him and he couldn’t bear it.
The words were crumpled in his hand, one of the few pages left of the texts he’d burned to ashes.
The Sorcerer muttered them insensibly until their meaning sunk in and he finally stopped his rampage.
He reread the page and grew weak in the knees.
This spell was written so long ago, the language had been forgotten, but he was grateful for this gift from whatever god of retribution had took mercy on him.
The spell was perfect.
He wouldn’t get the vitality he desperately needed.
After his pride was restored, then he would feed.
There was always a jealous peasant girl with dreams of nobility and riches. He would have no trouble finding those who could be easily duped.
But first, he would have his revenge.
As the Sorcerer gathered all he needed, he imagined how the events might play out.
He wished his influence went so far that he could choreograph his vengeance to his liking.
But once the spell was cast, he knew the girl would suffer. That would have to be enough.
The Sorcerer of the Caverns glanced in the mirror he would use.
At least he’d be able to watch.
The Rush of the Crush
/
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
I hadn’t felt like that in so long.
Do you know the magic? I hope you do.
The thrill of elation lit up every part of me, as the warm radiance flushed from the depths, rising to the surface to emerge and be seen. The luscious softness refused the resistance of armor. There was no place for my feelings to hide.
Then our eyes met.
The agony of vulnerability grew sweet. I saw the luminosity of the smitten reflected back to me from the woman who had just inspired my delirium. Her face glowed and her smile opened.
That kind of radiance can never be faked — the gorgeous, pure rawness of “I like you, Like You, LIKE YOU! OH HELL YEAH!”
So my crush liked me too.
It has been forever since the last time those floodgates had opened.
I couldn’t believe it.
I had ended my engagement only 4 months before. The last thing I expected was an experience of that kind of butterfly twitterpation. It caught me off guard.
Not that I’m complaining because, you know…how can anybody complain about something so delicious?
“I can’t believe you feel that way over somebody else already!” One friend declared.
“Didn’t you ever feel that way about your ex?” Another asked.
Well yes and no.
In the beginning, there was chemistry. Of course there was because new relationship energy has always been euphoric.
But my ex-partner never swooned me through the virtue of being herself. Her touch was felt where it landed. But a stroke of my arm didn’t make me giddy and trill anywhere else, much less everywhere.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons we didn’t work out?
But the rush of this recent crush took my breath away on that unexpected day. It juiced me up. I was riding high - turned on and on fire. The sensation was exquisite.
Yet they call these things “crushes” for a reason.
Mainly because the stars are not aligned for something to actually happen with that scrumptious flood of feelings and possibilities.
Things are “complicated,” as they say. New romance and passion are not likely at this time, because there are obstacles in the way.
It already kind of hurts.
I’m painfully aware that although I don’t miss my ex-partner, I do miss relationship. I miss contact. I miss closeness. I miss waking up next to somebody.
I miss touch. I miss it a lot. Physical touch is my dominant love language, after all.
So the temptation of an old, destructive habit is ever present. It’d be so easy to fall into a fantasy of what-might-have-been-if-only, or the-hot-pursuit-of-trying-to-make-something-happen.
I hear the siren call of yearning. I can feel it in my gut, in my sinews, and even in my bones.
I’m so tempted to obsess, to want, and to long for this would-be beloved who is beyond my reach. The urge is almost irresistible. I want to stretch and bridge the chasm between us with my passion.
But I know where that path goes.
I know because I’ve done this before. I have chased the unavailable, only to fall into the abyss of misery, unbearable loneliness, abandoned dignity, and the regret of lost time.
Not to mention the regret of wasting something beautiful for what it actually was.
The rush of the crush intoxicated and invigorated me. With my blood flooded with heat, I came back to life.
I’m grateful this happened.
What a gorgeous reminder of all that is possible in the Realm of Love. That excitement and vibrant life force are exactly how I want to feel at the start of my next relationship.
Then the thought occurred to me that perhaps I’ve been a little touch-starved.
I had been sleeping and waking up alone for a few months, after all. I probably needed some tender, loving self-care.
So I went for a massage.
When the LMT asked me what areas to work on, I shook my head.
“I don’t need you to work on my tight spots. I’m here because I need to be touched.”
He nodded in understanding.
His touch was solid and dependable. Although did not give me a rush of twitterpation butterflies, it soothed and relaxed me.
After a half hour or so, the art of massage worked its magic. I melted into the sensation of parasympathetic ease, of oxytocin and other yummy endorphins.
The marvelous I left with was not the same as a hot new lover.
But the massage helped. It helped a lot.
A Moment of Truth
/
Image by Arthur Halucha from Pixabay
“Drink.”
It was a command, but I hesitated.
“I’ve never had liquor before.”
“Congratulations, Addie. You’re a big girl now.”
The Brute stared me down until I picked up the small glass with the sharp smells and drops of our blood. I didn’t dare ask him what the blood exchange was about or defy him.
Holding my breath, I threw my head back as I swallowed. Tears came to my eyes. Even in haste, there was no escaping the foul taste of that liquor.
I suppressed the urge to retch when the cursed spirits hit my stomach.
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head vehemently.
“What’s wrong, fancy girl?” the Brute taunted. “Have you a weaker backbone than Addie here?”
“I’ve had liquor before, but I’m not drinking anything with blood in it. That’s disgusting!”
“You’re making a sacred covenant. You want your true desire? Then drink.”
“I didn’t come here to make a sacred anything.”
The Patron’s Daughter started to cross her arms, but the Brute gripped her wrist.
His menacing voice was low as he continued.
“Be good, fancy girl, and I promise you as much bloodless liquor as you like.”
I expected the Patron’s Daughter to throw the spirits soiled with my blood in the Brute’s face. I couldn’t believe it when she actually obeyed.
Her face grew pale.
But she still took the glass and threw the liquor down her throat. Her eyes watered when she swallowed, and she shuddered. Then she sighed and pushed her glass forward for more.
I shook my head when he glanced at me. The Brute raised his brows slightly, and I knew it was time to retreat to a corner in the shadows.
The Brute filled both their glasses.
“Try sipping it this time,” he suggested. “You’ll savor the taste more.”
Without warning, the Brute came around the table, unbuttoned the cloak, swept it off the Patron’s Daughter, and tossed the garment to me.
I didn’t even have time to get angry at being thrust in the role of servant once again.
I caught the cloak without a word, but the sudden confusion made the Patron’s Daughter step away, her face blushing.
“You’re already here, fancy girl. You might as well get comfortable.”
The gown she wore was deep blue and simple, the kind she could put on without the help of a maid. With laces in the front that stopped at her ribcage, her full breasts were accentuated.
The Brute looked her over, and there was no misunderstanding what he was thinking.
Her eyes grew wide, and the Patron’s Daughter crossed her arms.
“Addie told me you could help me marry the Noble Son.”
The Brute laughed.
If I hadn’t been so stunned, I probably would have as well. Her insistence on the Noble Son was farcical at this point.
There was a part of me that anticipated the Patron’s Daughter storming out of that cabin, shrieking insults and possibly vengeance to me.
But the Patron’s Daughter had never faced a predator before, had never been under another’s power in her life.
Once she was, like many prey before her, she froze.
Or perhaps the Sorcerer had figured out her hidden hunger for a Brute.
Perhaps this was the titillation she had been looking for. Either way, the Brute knew he had her.
He smiled, and the Patron’s Daughter flinched at the sight of his short teeth.
“I thought we had already determined that the Noble Son is not the deepest desire of your soul.”
“I couldn’t care less about the desires of my soul,” she snipped. “I came here to marry the Noble Son. If you can’t help me, I want to go.”
The blood drained from my head and made me so dizzy I almost fainted.
If she left, I would be destroyed.
Yet the Sorcerer of the Caverns had not been the villain of cautionary tales for generations without just cause.
Until this moment, he had belied his rough appearance with intelligence and pleasantry. Suddenly, his demeanor changed and the Brute sounded as violent as he looked.
His tone became guttural as he snarled at her.
“You pathetic little fool! Do you even have the integrity to admire his self-respect? Not even the Devil himself could have tempted the Noble Son to desire you. Even if that were possible, I don’t waste my time restoring the wounded vanity of spoiled little shrews like yourself.”
I was so shocked I couldn’t even rejoice.
Nobody had ever spoken like that to the Patron’s Daughter in her life. Her face went white, and she even gasped.
Then fury set in. Her features contorted, she balled her delicate hands into fists and raised her right arm.
But the Brute moved fast. He blocked the Patron’s Daughter before she could strike him by gripping her right wrist.
Then he grabbed her other hand, raised both above her head, and pulled her to him. They made a peculiar pair.
The Patron’s Daughter with her creamy softness and understated gown could not have been a more unlikely match to the uncouth Brute with his ugly features.
She was so close to him, she could probably feel his breath on her face.
“I wouldn’t act on that urge,” the Brute murmured, “unless you’re willing to pay the consequences, fancy girl.”
The Cost of Liberation
/
Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
The Sorcerer had the urge to reach for her, but he restrained himself, knowing the girl would only recoil.
He summoned the shadow servants, but it was the girl who emptied the last drops from the vial into the cauldron.
The mist rose from the brew and the Sorcerer muttered the spell that would transform him into a man of feeling, his senses coming alive with each step he took.
He thought he would burst when the fog dissipated and he saw his lover waiting for him.
Once they joined together, they never came apart.
He clutched her with a desperation that frightened him, burying his face into the crevices of her flesh.
He breathed in her scent so that he could take a piece of her with him once he ceased to be, evaporated into nothing like the Phantom that he was.
Each time he felt the quiver of release, he held on. If he never let go, perhaps the night would go on for eternity.
But she was relentless.
Her lips curled into a snarl, cold blue eyes glittering. She urged his body to betray him and give her what she wanted.
His ecstasy would bring her freedom, and all he could think was that this was the last time…the last time she would be his.
He gazed up the tunnel and saw the gateway to the Caverns stood open. He had forgotten to close the boulder. If he’d remembered, she would never be able to leave him.
But she wouldn’t look at him with hunger as she did right now, the sadness of farewell in her eyes.
The Phantom could hold back no longer, so near to the edge of cataclysm.
He’d held back long enough that pleasure had become pain, delicious when he finally gave in, the howl quaking his being from inside out as his lover forced him to surrender.
Her ululating moans echoed though the chamber and consumed him. His last peak was the most violent he’d ever known, wrenching his grief.
Something inside him shattered.
Suddenly the girl gasped and fell on him in a faint.
The Sorcerer knew something was wrong when he felt the decrepitude in his bones. Somehow, he was no longer virile and young.
But when he saw the girl’s essence lift from her, he realized what she had done.
Her body collapsed, but her essence reached inside him to claim the Trainer’s.
There was nothing he could do to stop her. The Sorcerer was too weak.
He was falling and the precious essence was floating away, the Trainer rising with his lover who was setting him free.
The stars were disappearing from the sky.
The rising dawn meant night was coming to an end.
The Sorcerer fought to stay conscious.
Even if he couldn’t experience the bliss, he could at least witness their final embrace.
Unshackled by physical bodies, the essence of the girl and the Trainer became one.
The last the Sorcerer heard before he succumbed to darkness was the echoing sigh of two lovers floating up the tunnel of crystals, sharing the most exquisite rapture possible until the girl let her Phantom Lover go.
*****
His sleep was dreamless. The Sorcerer woke up into her cold blue gaze.
The girl was dressed, watching him while the Sorcerer lay naked.
Her expression was bland looking over his bony form and she handed him his robes, staying quiet until he’d put them on.
“I believe you have something for me,” she said.
He looked at her and nodded.
The Sorcerer got up, shocked at the pain searing through him while searching amongst the shelves.
He kept his back to the girl until he found the promised dust that would protect her in times of danger.
He had never before had cause to notice the emptiness after a seduction came to an end.
Exhaustion spread through his limbs when he found the leather pouch.
But he caught a glimpse of the black velvet bag, nestled in the corner of the highest shelf, and his spirit lifted.
He’d actually forgotten about her heart. No wonder he was so tired.
He turned around and handed her the pouch of dust.
She took it, but eyed him closely, scowling.
The Sorcerer was pleased she’d detected his shift in mood. The girl’s powers of observation were impeccable and the most satisfying quality of her conquest.
“Use this with caution,” he said. “You only need a pinch, it’s that powerful.”
She nodded, ruffling her skirts to pocket the leather pouch.
“I don’t know if the world is ready for you,” he continued. “But you’re more than ready for the world. Good luck in your new life.”
The girl said nothing, staring up the tunnel for a moment before taking her first step.
But once she started, her progress was steady as she made her way up the stairs.
The Sorcerer watched her go, a sharp stab in his breast catching him off guard so much that he almost doubled over.
The pain was confusing. There was no reason to suffer.
He glanced at the black velvet bag, knowing he would soon get what he really needed.
The girl stopped halfway up the spiral.
Her halt was so sudden he wondered if she could hear what he was thinking. She looked down at him, her brows drawn close.
He knew what her question would be before she spoke, her contralto voice echoing down the tunnel.
“What are you going to do with my heart?”
“I’m going to eat it.”
The Sorcerer didn’t hesitate in his answer, and thus dispelled the last vestiges of the illusion of love.
The girl’s face paled and the Sorcerer felt like himself again, reveling in the new surge of vitality in his blood.
“I always knew there would be a hidden cost,” she murmured.
This excerpt is out of my novel, “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” To purchase the ebook, click HERE.
What are Your True Desires?
/
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
Although I couldn’t imagine how the centuries-old Sorcerer would be able to execute a seduction of a young and beautiful girl like the Patron’s Daughter, it never crossed my mind that the Sorcerer wouldn’t look like himself.
The Sorcerer had transformed into a Brute.
He had the physique of a carnival strongman, with course black hair, beady dark eyes, and the crudest features I had ever seen. His thick lips curled in a grotesque smile when he saw the shock on my face.
He was anything but seductive.
The Brute was repugnant and my doom was certain.
I stood there, at a complete loss for words. The only introduction I could make of the Patron’s Daughter was a faltering wave of my hand.
Of course, she was livid.
“What is this!” she shrieked. “Addie, is this your idea of a joke? You nasty little vermin!”
For once, I couldn’t blame her.
There was raw hatred in her eyes when she glared at me, but I also understood that she was frightened. The whiny tone of her voice had soared to an unbearable pitch.
“Not at all,” the Brute replied. “I am exactly who Addie says I am.”
Even his voice was different.
Instead of the Sorcerer’s resonant baritone, the Brute had a scratchy voice.
The Patron’s Daughter’s face was white and her eyes narrowed into slits as she looked the Brute over.
“I beg your pardon. You hardly seem the type of acquaintance a noble family would seek out.”
The Brute laughed.
“Of course I’m not. Where did you get an idea like that?”
“Addie told me you could give me what I want! She said you could see the desires of my soul! She’s a filthy liar!”
“She is not,” the Brute replied. “Because what Addie said is true.”
What an incredible feat of will it was that I managed to remain standing.
The closest I could ever come to describing those moments was an absence of sensation that surpassed numbness.
Yet I still recognized the significance that the Patron’s Daughter remained in the cabin instead of running away.
Suddenly I realized that my active role in the creation of this intrigue had pretty much ended.
I hoped the Sorcerer was as cunning and wily as legend had always described him, for my destiny was now in his hands.
“How will you bring me my true desires?” the Patron’s Daughter screeched. “That should make an outrageous story how you will bring me and the Noble Son together!”
She started to laugh, a humorless noise that grated on my ears. The sound was piercing, keening towards the abyss of hysteria as tears streamed down her cheeks.
The Brute said nothing at first.
I finally recognized the expression of the Sorcerer when the Brute raised his right brow, along with his penetrating and subtly mocking gaze. His step was almost imperceptible as he came closer to the Patron’s Daughter.
“Is that what you expected, fancy girl? To come here and find the Noble Son on a golden platter with a lavish ring as a token of his undying passion for you?”
The Patron’s Daughter said nothing. She scowled and looked away.
“Your disappointment should hardly surprise you then,” the Brute continued, taking another invisible step towards her. “Wouldn’t you agree? The gifts I offer are your true desires.”
“I’m here because I believed you could help me marry him!”
“That may be why you came, but is that what you truly want?”
“Of course it is!”
The Patron’s Daughter glared, her cheeks red.
But the Brute took no notice of her frustration and rage. His dark eyes bored into her.
“Really?” he said softly. “Do you long for him? Does the Noble Son haunt your dreams? Do you ache for him when you lie alone at night?”
I could scarcely breathe.
Although the Brute focused only on the beautiful prey in his sights, he spoke of my experience. That was exactly what I had endured these past weeks since the Noble Son had left.
For the Brute to speak of that with such intimacy and certainty pierced my heart, and the burn of tears begged to fall from my eyes.
I blinked them away and swallowed hard, my hands balled into tight fists. I refused to allow that release. I could not afford any weakness in such a moment.
But the Patron’s Daughter only laughed. I hated her even more than I thought possible when she did that.
She covered her mouth, caught off guard by the abrupt response of involuntary humor.
But it was revolting.
I could hear the malice of ridicule in the giggles pushed past her lips. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and several minutes passed before she could stop.
“Why is that funny?” the Brute asked.
“Because he was so boring,” the Patron’s Daughter said, in between sniggers.
“Of course, the Noble Son would be boring. Kind, considerate people are such dullards, aren’t they, fancy girl?”
This excerpt is out of my WIP, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.” If you’d like to read a previous excerpt, click HERE.
The Last Time
/
His original intention had been to mold her into the perfect concubine.b
But the Sorcerer was surprised at the pleasure he took in mentoring her. She had a most intense focus, intelligent with a gift for asking the right questions.
The Sorcerer could not resist such a pupil.
As the months passed, he gave her far more knowledge than he meant to, going beyond the ancient texts on carnal arts.
In the past few days, he struggled to find new lessons and realized he’d taught her everything he knew.
But he couldn’t regret that decision.
Once the years of civilized denial shed from her, unveiled was an animal magnetism unusual for women.
Her features were as savage as ever, but the ugliness now suited the girl and made her presence devastating.
When she strode into his Caverns, it was with the strut of an outlaw. The Sorcerer was overwhelmed with pride for his creation. She was a masterpiece.
Then there was their coupling.
He had never experienced anything quite like her. From the first night, she plunged into the realm of fantasy with breathtaking abandon.
And the pleasure that was already exquisite became indescribable when the girl showed initiative and nurtured her unique expression in the subtleties of physical love.
This was the only time a seduction borne from illusion became passion that pulsed with life of its own.
The Sorcerer cherished this chance to forget who and what he was, succumbing to the allure of being a man taking possession of his woman, only to want her more after his craving was satisfied. No conquest ever had this effect on him.
It was dangerous to don the essence of another man.
The morning the Sorcerer saw how little was left of the ruby liquid, a melancholic stupor weighed on his limbs as he slid that vial back in the rack and chose a deep green.
He would never feel that way again once the Trainer was used up.
Yet the Sorcerer prepared his lesson with the object of introducing another lover, hoping he hadn’t waited too long.
Then his protégée was late.
By the time he heard the near silent footfall on the stairs, he was convinced she wasn’t coming.
There was no relief to his unease when he saw her.
The girl was different tonight.
She was almost beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her eyes glimmering. And the Sorcerer sensed a current running through her so strong the air around the girl was palpating.
She was excited about something. But the cause of her excitement had nothing to do with him or the Trainer’s essence.
She settled into the sofa as always, and the Sorcerer pulled the tapestry.
The subject was one he’d already taught about positions for the body that would pleasure the woman no matter the skill of her lover. He planned to segue in the middle and introduce the need for a seductress to know many men, but the girl noticed immediately.
She folded her arms and frowned, tapping her foot until he was distracted from talking.
“You spoke about this several months ago,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do, but this lesson has another conclusion.”
She cocked one brow and smirked.
“I’m familiar with these positions as you know, so why don’t you conclude now?”
Startled, the Sorcerer couldn’t think of anything to say.
He felt awkward pulling the vial from his pocket, but disguised his uncertainty with flair, sweeping the essence to the torch where the vial glowed emerald in the light of fire. The richness of the color lent him a moment of optimism. Perhaps this would be another form of ardor.
“This came from a man celebrated for his poetry when he was alive,” he said.
The girl raised her brows, yet remained quiet.
“He was tormented as I recall, but very passionate. He was also handsome and revered the feminine mystique. I think you’ll be pleased with him.”
“Why should I be?”
“I admit I should have mentioned this some time ago. But a seductress is wise to have many lovers.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is part of our agreement,” he countered. “You are more than ready to-”
“You have nothing left to teach me, do you?”
Her question caught him unawares. But she was right.
So exhilarated he’d been with his gifted student, he’d lost sight of his plan, teaching her in six months what he meant to pass on over many years.
The girl leaned back in the blood red velvet of the golden sofa, her wide mouth curved in a closed smile and the Sorcerer cursed himself a fool. She was perfectly still, but he could sense a restlessness which hadn’t been in her the previous night.
“Sorcerer,” she said. “Have I pleasured you more than any woman ever has?”
“You have pleased me greatly as you promised,” he said. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“Again, I don’t believe you,” she said, without a hint of arrogance in her voice.
The Sorcerer was impressed.
This was the mark of true self-possession. A swell of pride rose up. His protégée had mastered the soul of seduction, but he was loath to admit that.
“Your disbelief isn’t enough,” he said. “You must prove that beyond any doubt and…”
He extended the poet’s essence. In response, she waved the vial away.
“Have you exhausted the Trainer?”
“Not yet.”
The Sorcerer went to his collection, lifting the vial with a few drops left. He turned and saw the girl standing behind him.
She took the essence from him and held it to the nearest torch. Her sinewy neck curved as she looked up, tears glistening in her eyes at the scant ruby liquid, swirling all she had left of the Trainer.
“This is the last night I come to you,” she whispered, her voice husky.
This excerpt is out of my novel “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” If you’d like to purchase the ebook, click here.
Baiting the Patron's Daughter
/
Image by engin akyurt from Pixabay
“People confide in me because I don’t matter. Just like you do.”
The ruthless honesty stopped the Patron’s Daughter in her tracks. She turned back to face me, and her expression was best described as frozen.
“Everybody needs to confess,” I continued. “Since I’m no danger to anybody, I know things and I know people.”
I had her.
This was that moment of weakness I had been waiting for. What I hadn’t expected was the delicious friction of power that hit me like a bolt of lightning.
“All right,” the Patron’s Daughter said. “Tell me more.”
From here on, I was to use the script the Sorcerer had me memorize and recite line for line. I had my doubts about it, but the Sorcerer was adamant on what I had to say.
“There’s a cabin deeper in the woods-”
“Nobody goes into the Ancient Grove,” she interrupted. “Everybody knows that.”
“We’re in the Ancient Grove right now.”
“We’re at the edge. That’s not the same thing.”
“We’re deep enough that nobody can see us here,” I countered. “So what difference does it make if we go a little further in?”
She paused.
Before she could argue further, I pressed my point and returned to the Sorcerer’s script.
“As I said, there’s a cabin in the woods and the man who lives there swears he can see inside a person’s soul and know their true desires.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, but he swears he can bring people what they truly want.”
She frowned.
“That is ridiculous!”
I swore inwardly.
I had known the Sorcerer’s bait was weak when he had told me what to say. I protested that it wouldn’t work.
The Patron’s Daughter was dense, but I would have been surprised if she were to be that easily duped.
But the Sorcerer insisted I follow this script, even if the prey resisted. So I shrugged as the Sorcerer told me to, and kept my tone casual.
“Well, that’s what I heard. I also heard he only takes visitors on the eve before the holy day of rest.”
“And what does he want in exchange?”
“I don’t know.”
The Patron’s Daughter shook her head and huffed her disdain.
“I’m only trying to help,” I said lightly. “I know where the cabin is. I can take you there in a few days if you want.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, and shrugged again. “Let me know if you change you mind.”
The savory taste of invincibility disappeared, leaving bitterness in my mouth and my body filled with anguish when the Patron’s Daughter flipped her long, raven hair and walked off.
I cursed the Sorcerer and his paltry script. I actually had the Patron’s Daughter where I had wanted her, and because of the Sorcerer, I had blown it.
As planned, I still went to the cabin to meet him.
When I walked in, I was struck with how barren this cabin was, one room with sparse furnishings. Perhaps a monk would have been at ease here, but this could hardly be the perfect setting to seduce the Patron’s Daughter.
I scowled at the Sorcerer, who beamed at me.
“Excellent work!” he said. “You could not have done that any better.”
“Are you crazy? She said no.”
“Of course, she did. Everybody resists at first. But she’ll say yes, probably by the end of the week.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Addie, how many times have I been right when you doubted me?”
I said nothing, but the Sorcerer had called it every time.
“Trust me,” the Sorcerer cajoled, his tone almost soothing. “You hooked her. She won’t stop thinking about what you said. She’ll even start obsessing over it. Keep up your melancholy walks in the woods.”
As always, the Sorcerer was right.
A couple of days later, I saw the Patron’s Daughter as soon as I came into the trees. She paced back and forth, clearly waiting for me. The dark circles under her eyes marred the perfection of her face.
“What took you so long?” she demanded.
“I didn’t know I was meeting you for a walk. Last time I saw you, you seemed angry-”
“Will I need to bring coins or jewels?” she interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
I felt like an idiot. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t considered payment.
Of course, I knew what the Sorcerer wanted.
But the Patron’s Daughter didn’t, and it would make sense that some reward would be expected to realize one’s true desires.
“To pay him!” she snapped. “What does he expect?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking fast. “But that’s not a bad idea. Maybe you should bring both.”
We agreed to meet at the edge of the Ancient Grove when the moon would be high in the sky, and even the servants would be in a dead sleep.
I always remembered the expression on her face as we made our plan. There was absolutely no suspicion in her.
Our only risk was getting caught. If our absences were discovered, the Patron’s Daughter would definitely face disgrace, and probably ruin.
But if anything went wrong, I would be doomed.
This excerpt is from my WIP, The Shepherd and the Courtesan. If you’d like to read the previous excerpt on the backstory of the Courtesan, click HERE.
How Loneliness Became Blessed Solitude
/
Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay
In my former home of Juneau, Alaska, more than one person has said that there’s no lonely like Juneau lonely.
And it’s true.
It was there that I developed a problem with being alone for the first time in my life. And it was in Juneau that I learned to contribute to community and to fill up my inner space.
But if you don’t have everything you need there, the loneliness is excruciating and only gets worse with time.
So much that I left Juneau and moved to Portland, Oregon.
But I brought that writhing anguish of loneliness with me, and it continued to consume me for several more years.
Of course, there were a few short-lived dating disasters during this time. But the long gaps of dateless years continued.
I prayed, meditated, begged, bargained, and even threatened God, Goddess, and the Universe to fall in love and have the relationship of my dreams. There wasn’t anything that I wouldn’t have done to meet somebody special.
During this time, I didn’t just sit around and mope in my self-pity.
I filled up my life with all kinds of wonderful things. Fortunately, Portland, Oregon is a creative city that makes it very easy to be single.
There are so many things to do while flying solo here where one can find connection, and sometimes even touch — like Ecstatic Dance, Silent Disco, Contact Improv, Dinner Salons, and Cuddle Parties to name a few.
Image by Michael Pajewski from Pixabay
That’s not to mention all the meetup groups and 1–3 day workshops around anything and everything you could want in creativity, meditation, breathwork, energy work, sexuality, Tantra, kundalini, and expanding consciousness.
And hot springs. Lots and lots of hot springs.
The possibilities were endless.
Yes, my tastes run to the hippie/New Agey end of the spectrum. But fuck it, those things work.
It was incredibly healing to bring my lonesome self to natural highs. Those moments of self-created bliss and ecstasy gave me relief, and the afterglow was pretty gosh-darned lovely as well.
Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay
Those moments gave me relief from that incessant gnawing ache of reluctant solitude.
In spite of all this loneliness and personal strife, by some miracle, I have at my core a reserve of self-respect and self-esteem. I’ve never been one to settle for less than what I want.
Ironically enough, those desolate years built up my self-worth. I knew from the depths of my being that I was not so wretched to deserve the isolation I endured.
I also built up an eclectic network of beautiful humans as friends.
That did not come easy either.
Even though loneliness has become an American epidemic - to the point that it’s considered even more deadly than smoking or obesity - there’s little support for the isolated.
To admit that you’re lonely is to beg for ostracism.
Loneliness is a repellent.
Isolation makes you vulnerable, and thus makes it challenging to attract healthy people who have integrity and would make quality friends.
Friendships that are false or weak, riddled with judgment, and bereft of understanding will make one feel lonelier than ever.
I suffered numerous fall-outs, and many times I walked away from various individuals and groups who didn’t support me or treat me well.
In the short term that made the loneliness worse, but in the long run I built up a marvelous community, which I am so grateful for.
With each authentic friendship I forged, a chunk of loneliness fell off me.
Image by Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay
I had a ridiculous amount of freedom. And I would later regret not appreciating that freedom while I had it.
An energy worker told me she could feel the anguish of my loneliness in my third chakra. She also paused and said:
“Mana, you really need to get comfortable with being alone before you can have the relationship you want. If you don’t, the kind of person you call in will be a reflection of your loneliness. And it will not go well.”
I knew she was right, and I wanted to be able to heed what she said. But I had been so lonely for so long, that pain was unbearable. I simply couldn’t.
Falling in love was all I could think about. And I didn’t know how much longer I could stand being alone.
The energy worker was right.
I finally met somebody about 6 months after that session. I was on a dating marathon through OkCupid, and she was date #8.
Our hungers drew us together. Both of us were desperate for different reasons.
The first three months were incredible. To be gratified in love after being long-denied was one of the purest ecstasies I’ve ever known.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
We only got to enjoy that for a few months. Then the stress of her excessive load of baggage burst our bubble, and in I fell into the pressure cooker of her mistakes.
But I was already hooked. I took on her baggage as my own, and did everything I could to make that relationship work.
We lasted for nearly 4 years.
In that time, we got engaged and lived together for the last year we were together. The miseries of our relationship got worse every year.
I made serious attempts to end it before the first year was up, and at the 2nd year, and several attempts while we lived together. But each time, I caved under pressure to stay.
My friends asked me why. One friend even came straight out and suggested I stayed because I was afraid of being alone. She was stunned when I went back after the 2nd breakup attempt. I was with her and she witnessed the relief on my face.
I really wanted this relationship to work. But as time passed, fear of loneliness kept me there far more than love.
Yet I found myself missing the freedom I once had with the loneliness. I didn’t do the things I loved that brought me to euphoria as much any more. My ex-fiancee did not enjoy those things.
So when I did them, I went alone.
I didn’t reach those bliss peaks as often. The insidious realization that I was in the worst kind of lonely — the loneliness of being in an unhappy relationship that drained me — made that difficult.
As time passed, I realized that I had everything I never wanted in a relationship and nothing that I did.
Living together had been a catastrophe from the start.
On the suggestion of another friend, I came up with an exit plan. That was necessary because when the last straw was loaded, my tolerance broke and I left.
My exit plan was immaculate and left no room for persuasion. The relief was immediate and rather intoxicating.
I left my own home for 5 weeks to give my ex-fiancée and my ex-stepdaughter time to move out.
It’s very strange to be transient without traveling, especially because I had 4 cats with me.
Although I was alone, I had so much support. My friends supported me, as well as the beautiful people I met along that peculiar journey. The cats helped too.
I definitely went through periods of despondency and loneliness. But the even greater sensation is relief. Because even when I’m lonesome and depressed, I’m still happier and much lighter than I was in a relationship that made me miserable.
I left my fiancée three months ago, and solitude has a different flavor now.
I’m alone, but I’m not lonely. I savor every minute of freedom, every time I can change my mind and my plans at the last minute and not have somebody to answer to.
Spontaneity is almost orgasmic it feels so good.
A couple of days ago, I even savored the pleasure of excitement.
It had been so long since I was excited about something.
Busted
/
Image by Efes Kitap from Pixabay
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 a 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 had 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!”
“No, Papa. I went with him to the Abandoned Valley.”
“Yes. You certainly did.”
The girl looked sharply at him, her expression guarded.
The Patron found no satisfaction in the change, his lips tight as always when he felt his temper rising.
He remembered the reason he came searching for her and reached for the watercolors slung over his shoulder, unrolling them before handing the stack to her.
Her cheeks paled as she flipped through the paintings, but otherwise she was impenetrable. When she met his gaze again, her eyes were empty.
“Why were you going through my things?”
He glanced at the image on top and his hand clenched into a fist.
The Trainer’s features were contorted and heat flared in the Patron’s temples.
“I don’t think that really matters,” he said.
The girl didn’t answer right away, peering at him with one brow cocked.
“I haven’t seen him in years, Papa. Are you now accusing him of seducing a child?”
“That’s not seduction. That’s rape.”
“You’ve lost your mind if you believe that.”
“Then what do you have to say about these?”
His daughter looked to the paintings in her grasp, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“I would say these are fantasy,” she said. “The stuff of dreams.”
She was mocking him.
The Patron heard the scorn in her voice and saw it in her eyes, glaring at him with the look of secrets.
He breathed slowly, determined to keep his calm.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he snapped. “What is your explanation?”
“You must beg my pardon, Papa,” she said, “because I don’t have one.”
Something exploded inside the Patron. Grief and resentment locked in his heart for years catapulted through every fiber of his being. His will was no longer his own.
Watercolors scattered across the ground when the Patron grabbed his daughter and shook her with all his might.
A howl surged through him, desperate to give voice to an agony that was endless. But he wouldn’t let it out, couldn’t let it out. He could only shake this girl who had caused him nothing but anguish.
Somehow, her plaintive cries pierced through his madness until he regained his senses enough to stop.
But the Patron wouldn’t release the girl trembling in his grip and heaving for air. He looked into her eyes and saw the same torment that tore him apart and the same rage.
“Tell me, Papa,” she said, her voice raw. “How many times can a girl fall to her ruin?”
Luring Her In
/
Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
Oddly enough, the Patron’s Daughter never admitted to rejection.
She spoke of the Noble Son every day, her tone peevish as she complained of his desertion. That was how she thought of his going home without asking her to marry him.
She mourned the loss of pride and the embarrassment her family endured.
She never expressed any longing for the Noble Son, or heartbreak that he hadn’t returned her affection. She was furious that a man she would have willingly married hadn’t wanted to marry her.
As the Patron’s Daughter complained to me daily, I learned that the lamented loss she suffered was her reputation of perfect unattainability.
As the man who didn’t care to succeed where so many men had failed, the Patron’s Daughter was obsessed with marrying the Noble Son simply to regain her cherished sense of self.
I was disgusted.
And of course, I had moments of malice. I relished that poison coursing through me as I listened to the frets and grievances of the Patron’s Daughter.
Yet, getting to know her had a bizarre effect on me.
Of course, I didn’t like her any better. The Patron’s Daughter was everything I’d always thought her to be.
Being in her confidence, I discovered how vapid she was. She lacked intelligence as well as common sense.
Not only did I understand why the Noble Son “abandoned” her, as she put it, I marveled that she had actually spurned so many suitors before him.
As beautiful as she was to look at, the Patron’s Daughter was an irritating, tedious bore. Once I knew that, it was impossible to envy her.
Listening to her, I also learned about the perils of vanity. The wisdom of that awareness would be invaluable to my future.
In the Life, I never fell into the pitfalls of lavish praise most women are vulnerable to. I enjoyed and received the ridiculous compliments that came my way, but I never took flattery seriously. As the years passed, I would witness the fall of several beautiful and even talented courtesans simply because vanity had been their weakness.
To return to the Patron’s Daughter, she made it easy for me to betray her since she was always rather horrid to me during our walks and talks.
As the Sorcerer had said, I didn’t matter enough for hatred. And I was too unimportant for courtesy as well.
Once the shock of rejection had worn off, her self-pity became anger, and I was the sack of meal she chose to pound on.
She never laid a hand on me physically, but the Patron’s Daughter was snide and insulting, and it galled me to tolerate these personal assaults.
So many times, I drew blood from my tongue restraining the urge to say what I really thought.
Instead, I clucked like a chicken full of sympathetic noises like a groveling handmaiden, and despised myself for it.
Every few days, the Sorcerer would appear out of nowhere.
He never asked questions, and he always suggested ways to increase her trust.
After one particularly vexing walk, I was in no mood for fresh ideas to get closer to the Patron’s Daughter.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay