The Heart of the Lone Wolf (2 page)

“So how do you like it?”

The Wolf stared at the likeness and wondered how that could be him. The animal in the drawing seemed so powerful, lying upright with forelegs stretched out. The details were exquisite, the mass of black on black vivid. Even the eyes could be distinguished from the fur.

“Do I really look like this?” he whispered.

“Of course you do.”

“You are such a good man,” the Wolf blurted. “Why didn’t you ever marry?”

The Shepherd grew still, peering at him for a moment before he spoke.

“What a strange question you ask. This is no life for a woman and children.”

“That’s absurd. I met families of herders, three or four generations that traveled all year.”

“I have over a hundred sheep,” the Shepherd replied. “That’s all the family I need.”

“That’s not the same as a wife and little ones. Have you never fallen in love?”

Again the Shepherd didn’t answer right away, frowning and looking intently at the Wolf for a few minutes.

“I have loved once. However, nothing that was destined to last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Shepherd would say nothing more; he just held up his hand and turned away.

They became famous in time. They were a curiosity traveling through cities, towns, and villages, this flock with a talking wolf as a sheepdog. The Shepherd gave a brief history of what happened between his friend and Ella Bandita, drawing attention to his eyes to prove the Wolf had once been a man. The Wolf quickly learned to keep his distance during these exchanges. After his first meeting with the Shepherd, he never spoke about Ella Bandita again. Hearing her name stirred up a rage and hatred that the Wolf couldn’t bear. After so many months of anguish, his peace of mind was everything to him.

For nearly three years, he and the Shepherd got on well. Then one day everything changed. Winter was disappearing to make way for spring, the snowmelt leaving the earth soggy with the first greens sprouting through the fields. The Wolf could never resist running through the mud, his paws sinking deeper in the muck with each bound. He glanced at the Shepherd and saw he was in no hurry to gather the flock. His friend leaned against a tree, his clear green eyes looking from them to his parchment, his pencil moving swiftly.

The Wolf continued harassing the sheep, splattering mud on them while diving and weaving amongst the flock. By early afternoon, he knew the Shepherd was ready to move on when his whistle pierced the air. The Wolf changed paces, nipping at their heels to gather the sheep. Air ruf fled through his fur and the sudden breeze was a pleasant surprise. But the light wind distressed the Shepherd. The Wolf heard him shout, then saw him running across the meadow, frantic to catch the sheets whipping through the air before mud and trampling hooves ruined his drawings.

The Wolf sprang towards the flock, his teeth bared. Snarling, he ran in wide circles, chasing the sheep away from the sketches floating to the ground, while the Shepherd hurried to retrieve them. The Wolf held a steady pace, running back and forth and pushing the flock away. One paper hovered close by, and the Wolf kept one eye on it and one eye on the flock. Then it flipped on the tail end of the breeze, fluttering to the ground, and the image halted the Wolf in his tracks.

He closed his eyes and opened them again to make certain his imagination wasn’t taunting him. The sheep were forgotten as the Wolf trailed after the drawing and pinned it to the ground with his paw. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat and fur rose between his shoulders. His hollow space began a violent pounding.

“What troubles you, Wolf?” the Shepherd asked, coming up with sketches in hand.

He didn’t answer. His gaze was riveted on the picture of a young woman cradling a tiny lamb to her breast. Her eyes were wintry and the lower half of her face was stained dark as were her hands, most likely from blood. The drawing was of Ella Bandita.

The Shepherd took hold of the parchment, but the Wolf refused to step off. He marveled that those treacherous eyes could be so clear, his gaze seeming as pure as ever.

“I take it this must be your Ella Bandita,” the Shepherd said, after a moment’s pause.

“Are you going to pretend you didn’t know that?”

“I beg your pardon,” the Shepherd said, raising his brows. “But this night was thirty years ago, long before there were any stories about her.”

The Shepherd said nothing more. For once, his calm provoked the Wolf.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because there was no reason to,” the Shepherd replied. “Why would I connect a girl I met when I was nineteen with a predatory seductress thirty years later?”

“I don’t know,” the Wolf grumbled. “But if that’s blood on her face and hands, I would think that would hint of the possibility.”

“I admit I’ve often wondered if this girl and your Ella Bandita were the same. But your suspicion is offensive.”

“You never told me about her,” the Wolf persisted.

“Perhaps I should have. But as I said, this was before the Ella Bandita stories began.”

“Sounds like quite a tale. I’d be honored to hear it.”

“If you can act in a courteous manner, then you will.”

The Shepherd spoke with the same dignity that inspired the Wolf’s respect from the day he met him, his tone that of a man with nothing to be ashamed of. His fingers still clutched the drawing, pulling gently until the Wolf let go.

The Wolf told himself he was making more fuss than the situation called for, while his hollow made chaos inside him and ire coursed in his veins again. He tried to console himself that the Shepherd must have a reasonable explanation. But watching his friend gather his sketches and gingerly roll them into his cache made the Wolf wonder how many drawings were of Ella Bandita.

“Are you ready?”

The Wolf nodded and the Shepherd’s story began.

****

The Shepherd held his hand to the sky. Night would come sooner than he liked, the sun only four fingers above the horizon. He squinted against the glare and scanned the valley, lush even in the peak of autumn, many bushes still laden with overripe berries. He counted his flock of ten. He was reassured the sheep remained close instead of roaming the valley on the other side of the river, tracking the newest lamb through moving grass.

It would be foolish to keep going. There was plenty for himself and his flock. But he couldn’t shake the unease plaguing him more as the day wore on. How could he have spent the better part of the day in a village he’d never passed through? He never did that, nor did he ignore his instincts when something didn’t feel right.

He leaned his head back and inhaled. The scent of changing leaves was

reminiscent of smoke and the steady flow of water soothed him in spite of his disquiet.

He remembered the farmers he passed that morning in the fields to the southeast, curious that no crops were planted near the river. Perhaps there were too many moles, yet he hadn’t found any burrows.

The Shepherd froze, realizing the only animals he’d seen that day were his own sheep. How had he not seen any deer, nor heard the rustling of squirrels, the song of birds? How could a valley this fertile be empty of life?

“Abandoned Valley,” he whispered.

He turned suddenly and stared into the woods. The trees stretched towards the sky as only those of an old forest could do.

“Ancient Grove.”

He finally remembered the stories. His father used to tell him about a village that was both blessed and cursed. There the land was fertile, the Patron was generous, and the peasants thrived. But the village was also tainted with the Sorcerer of the Caverns, who had made his domain under the woods and valley for centuries. Nobody could purge his evil from their midst, and generations of Patrons had been powerless to stop him.

The Shepherd was certain this must be the same place. He went to the river’s edge and considered whistling his flock together. But it was too late to leave. He didn’t know these parts well enough to search for another field to settle down for the night. Sighing, he looked in the still water of the shallows and caught his re flection. Although the passing days grew shorter and colder, his skin was still smooth nut brown. His hair was tied back with a leather string, hints of red glinting in the dark waves.

Then he laughed out loud. Unless the Sorcerer mistook him for a woman, it was unlikely he need worry. The Shepherd certainly wasn’t there to avenge a maiden who succumbed to the Sorcerer’s temptation. Nor had he the urge to explore the woods, where legend told he would lose his mind along with his direction.

But his limbs still shook and his stomach was in knots while he set up camp inside the trees. He reminded himself that he had no reason to fear and he could spend one night without incident. Although his appetite was lacking, he ate the rest of his berries while the sky grew dark. He donned his old coat to ward off the chill, finding comfort that his flock stayed near. His last thought before he fell asleep was that he would start moving before dawn.

The Shepherd woke up to her wailing. He had no doubt what he heard was the voice of a girl in ruins, the guttural despair weighing on his heart. The full moon was at its peak in the sky, casting its glow over the valley and glimmering in the facets of the river. He could hear the flow of water that would have been comforting were it not for the keening from deep in the woods. He counted his sheep and saw that none had wandered too far.

Then he peered into the darkness. His skin prickled and made the downy hairs rise, tempting him to gather his flock and leave. He knew he could get lost in the trees even without the curse, for it was night and he didn’t know this forest. But he couldn’t ignore the pain in that voice. He made his way through the growth, his tread soft and the moon blacked out the deeper he went. The Shepherd only had the wailing to guide him until he came to the light filtering through trees. Within minutes, he found her.

He didn’t see her right away, but he assumed she must be behind the granite boulder in the middle of a clearing. For a moment, the Shepherd went deaf to her wailing as he took in his surroundings. The perfect round was a barren wasteland, which made no sense in the core of an ancient forest. He crouched and picked up a handful of soil, sifting the dead earth through his fingers. This had to be the work of sorcery, for nothing could possibly grow here. Then she came around the boulder. Raging against the rock with her fists and blood pouring down her arms, she was the most savage looking girl he’d ever seen.

“You worthless coward! Come out and face me!”

Her voice had become hoarse. But the girl had to be highborn. Her gown was formal, the pale blue fabric ghostly in the moonlight. Yet the dark stain down her bodice couldn’t have come from her pounding fists. When she turned his way, the Shepherd saw the lower half of her face was covered in blood. He stayed beneath the canopy of trees, but the girl must have sensed his presence. She stopped yelling and laid her hands flat against the granite.

“Damn you to Hell, Sorcerer!” she cried, collapsing against the rock.

“That depends on who gets there first.”

The voice called from the woods on the other side of the clearing, and was the most resonant baritone the Shepherd had ever heard.

“Perhaps I will have the pleasure of damning you.”

The Sorcerer of the Caverns stepped from the trees as he spoke the last. The smoothness of his voice made his appearance more grotesque. His features were desiccated from living beyond the limits of nature; hatred for the girl at the boulder etched in his face. His black robes fell in a cascade to the ground and he seemed to float across the clearing to her.

He stopped and raised his hand; the bones pushed against the papery skin. But the girl was fast, grabbing and squeezing until a loud crack pierced the air. Groaning, the Sorcerer twisted from her grasp and slapped her hard across the face. But their argument continued in raging murmurs the Shepherd couldn’t hear until the girl became riled and spat in the Sorcerer’s face.

“Why did you bring my father into this?”

“Because I can’t bring it back to life!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your heart,” he said. “Don’t you remember the request you made about your heart?”

The girl went still. Her fury shifted into confusion, then to understanding, and finally dismay. The Sorcerer watched her changing expression and laughed.

“Frankly,” he said. “You surprise me. I never imagined you could be so cunning.”

“If you can bring my heart back to life,” she said, clutching his sleeve, “then you must, Sorcerer. Please. I’m begging you.”

But he shook his head. His upper lip curled in a sneer, he brushed her hand from his arm, stepping past the girl and waving across the boulder.

The granite began to slide and the Shepherd saw firelight flickering underground.

The girl stood at the Sorcerer’s back, one hand gripped around her necklace and the other dangling at her side. Her features twisted and her breath came in shallow puffs. The hand at her side balled into a fist and punched her thigh. Then she stopped, frowning as she looked down, her fingers picking at the fabric. Her face cleared, and she pushed her hand into her pocket and drew a small leather pouch. After taking a pinch of dust from the bag, the girl smiled at her enemy, the dried blood cracking around her mouth.

“Sorcerer,” she said. “You forgot about something.”

He must not have heard the taunt in her voice. The gateway to the Caverns was open and he had his foot on the top step. But the Sorcerer still turned back. The contempt on his face curdled when she blew between her fingers. A cloud hovered around the Sorcerer as the girl spoke his doom.

“Slug!”

Then he was gone. Even his robes disappeared. The Sorcerer of the Caverns dissolved into a garden slug, his tentacles waving for the gateway. He didn’t get far. The girl brought her foot crashing down until all that remained was pulp.

The Shepherd turned and ran through the woods, his heart pounding in his throat.

He stumbled through the blackness, praying he’d find the river and almost crying in relief when he came out of the trees. But his flock had scattered. He refused to let himself think.