The Heart of the Lone Wolf (3 page)

He packed up his camp and started running along the river and calling for his sheep.

Once he had his flock around him, the Shepherd traced the sky for the North Star.

But he could feel her stare. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. Yet he scarcely breathed as he listened to her coming for him, her gait a leisurely saunter.

Then she stopped and the Shepherd opened his eyes. The girl stood at the edge of his flock. Up close, he saw she was about his age, which caught him off guard. She still had blood caked around her mouth and chin, her skirts stained where she must have wiped her hands.

“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked, relieved he sounded calm. “May I help you?”

The girl tilted her head to one side.

“Perhaps you can, Shepherd,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the trembling in his legs. “I just stopped to feed and water my flock. We have a long distance to travel tonight.”

She nodded slowly. Then she bent down and picked up the youngest lamb, the tiny animal struggling against her. But her hold was firm and she gripped its throat with her fingers.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Please, Miss. I just want to go with my sheep.”

The girl didn’t answer right away. His heart roared in his ears when the Shepherd stared into her eyes, chips of ice in the light of the moon. She finally let go of the throat and stroked the lamb along its back. But she never looked away from him.

“Shepherd, come to me.”

She almost sounded gentle, but her low voice sent tremors along his flesh. The Shepherd wondered if he’d stepped outside himself. Part of him detached to bear witness to something that didn’t seem real, even as he pushed through his flock to go to her. The lamb in her arms was the only thing between them. The girl locked the Shepherd inside her gaze and dropped the animal to the ground. Without warning, she grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him to her, pressing her ear against his chest. The illusion of separation disappeared and the Shepherd was back in his skin, his limbs shaking. He’d never been this close to a woman in his life. The softness of the girl took his breath away.

“I can feel your heart,” she said. “It’s beating really fast.”

She leaned her head back and stared up at him. The Shepherd could neither move nor speak, trapped between the warmth of her body and the chill of her eyes.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she murmured. “Why is that, Shepherd? You saw me kill the Sorcerer. Didn’t you?”

Her words cut to his soul. In his mind, he saw a shroud held out for him by the Angel of Death. For a moment, he felt like he’d turned to stone. Then his knees buckled.

The Shepherd collapsed to the ground and started to cry.

The girl ran her fingers through his hair. He found the gesture terrifying and soothing at once. He had no words to plead for mercy and his heart pounded. The girl came down and knelt before the Shepherd, holding his face and wiping his tears. Then she lay back upon the ground and pulled him with her, resting his head against her breast.

She kept stroking his hair, his scalp tingling from the brush of her fingers, the vibration of her voice against his cheek.

“So, tell me Shepherd. What do you feel? What do you hear?”

His heart stopped beating for an instant when he realized that all he heard inside the girl was silence. The Shepherd pulled his head up and stared at her.

“Nothing, Miss.”

“That’s right,” she said. “I’m a girl who can live without her heart.”

Then she pushed him to the ground and rolled him on his back. Nestling along his side, she laid her head on his chest and sighed, her breath seeping into him. The Shepherd didn’t resist when the girl took his hand and brought it to his neck, pressing his fingers into the groove where his heart echoed. His pulse beat into the tips of his fingers and reverberated through him. And when the girl spoke again, her whisper felt like a caress.

“Listen to your heart,” she said.

****

“So then what happened?” the Wolf asked.

The Shepherd started and glanced at him with an expression of mild surprise.

Then he shook his head, pausing for another moment before he spoke.

“I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I remember I woke up and she was gone.”

The Wolf had hoped to have his peace of mind restored from the Shepherd’s story; but there was no relief from the throbbing in his hollow or from his doubt. His belly ached when he looked at the Shepherd, this friend he cherished more than any he’d ever known.

“How could you not tell me about this?”

“As I said, that night was thirty years ago. Why would I?”

“Stop using time as an excuse,” the Wolf retorted. “I’m twenty six and I’ve heard stories about her since I was five years old. Eternal youth is part of her legend.”

“If I remember correctly,” the Shepherd said. “For a long time you believed Ella Bandita was nothing more than a legend. Did the thought occur to you I didn’t believe it either?”

“But for three years, you knew otherwise. Why did you keep this from me?”

The Shepherd sighed, and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a few minutes before looking back at the Wolf and nodding.

“I always have suspected that girl was Ella Bandita, ever since the stories about her began. But in my heart, I hoped that she wasn’t.”

The Wolf couldn’t say anything. His range of vision narrowed on the Shepherd, who now seemed far away. The implication behind what was just said nagged at the back of his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away.

“I don’t understand. Do you have any idea how fortunate you are she didn’t harm you?”

The Shepherd smiled.

“And this is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d be upset about it.”

The Wolf couldn’t remember any time his hollow throbbed like this. In the space where his heart should have been, pressure built from an invisible pulse. The tension invigorated his limbs, making it impossible to remain still. He got up and paced.

“I know this must be a bitter irony for you,” the Shepherd said, “but that girl taught me to listen to my heart. And I haven’t been afraid ever since.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” the Wolf muttered. “But it still doesn’t fully explain why you never told me about her.”

“Because I can’t stand to dwell on it,” the Shepherd snapped.

The Wolf was startled enough that he stopped and stared at him.

“Why?”

“Ella Bandita has destroyed too many lives. If she ever dies, she’s damned.”

“And that is as it should be! How can you have compassion for her?”

The Wolf’s limbs quivered. Outrage and disbelief escalated the throbbing in his hollow to pure agony. It didn’t help when he saw the Shepherd peering at him and shaking his head.

“Wolf,” he said slowly, “do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”

“What!”

“When are you going to accept some responsibility for what happened?”

The Wolf thought he might explode. He itched. He started pacing again, his paws tender and thumping along the ground and his head dropping beneath his shoulders.

When he turned the Shepherd’s way again, he caught him looking sideways at his ri fle.

“As I recall,” the Shepherd continued. “She tried many times to spare you. Yet you kept going where you knew you weren’t wanted.”

“If you remember everything so well, then you must realize that couldn’t have been true.”

“Oh I remember,” the Shepherd said, a hard edge in his voice. “And didn’t she leave you in the woods? Unharmed, except for your wounded pride.”

“She stole my heart!” the Wolf shouted. “And look at me!”

“Are you now going to insist it was your heart you followed into the tavern?”

The contempt in the Shepherd’s voice was more than he could bear. The Wolf looked at him and saw deceit, suddenly hating the Shepherd as much as he hated Ella Bandita. He stared at the Shepherd’s throat and lunged, jaws snapping. But the Shepherd was swift, throwing himself aside in time to evade him. The Wolf hit the ground hard, shock numbing his limbs. His fur stood on end, his snarl echoed in the air only to fall silent when he spun around. The Shepherd was back on his feet, ri fle in hand. One finger rested on the trigger and one eye stared down the foresight, piercing through the madness.

Rage deserted the Wolf.

“Oh no…oh no…oh no…” he moaned. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” the Shepherd said.

“I don’t know what came over me. I would never hurt you.”

“You already have and I want you to leave.”

The thought of being alone again raised a swell of panic inside the Wolf. He cowered, but the Shepherd kept his ri fle aimed on him. For the first time since the Wolf met him, the Shepherd looked his age, timelessness falling off him like a moth-eaten cloak.

“I’m not joking,” he said. “Get away from me or I’ll kill you.”

The Wolf ran. He fled across the fields, going deep into the woods so he wouldn’t be seen. But he still watched the Shepherd from the trees. His head rested on his bent knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He rocked back and forth, his shoulders shaking as only a man weeping could do. His posture didn’t change for hours. The Wolf whimpered through the vigil, but was strangely reassured when the Shepherd didn’t leave.

As night fell, the throbbing grew worse in his hollow. The Wolf resisted the howl building inside him, for he dared not disturb the Shepherd. Instead, he ran. But there was no escape from his aloneness. The night was interminable, the worst he endured in three years and the Wolf despaired the darkness would never end. When the horizon streaked with rose, he caught the aroma of smoke. The Wolf knew the Shepherd must be up, preparing his meals for morning and afternoon, enough to sustain him for a long journey.

Without thinking, the Wolf followed the scent of frying venison, what was left of the deer they killed a couple of weeks ago. The Shepherd turned when the snap of a branch gave him away. Shame flooded through the Wolf at his appearance. He’d never seen the Shepherd so haggard. The lines on his face had deepened overnight and his eyelids were swollen.

“What are you doing here?”

“Please let me come back. I swear it will never happen again.”

“I can’t. Not after an attack like that.”

“Ella Bandita has destroyed so many lives. Does she have to ruin our friendship as well?”

That was the worst thing he could have said. The Shepherd stared hard at the Wolf, his brows drawn together.

“Ella Bandita had nothing to do with what happened yesterday,” he said. “That was all you. If you refuse to admit it, you have nothing left to say to me.”

“I’m sorry! Surely you must know that.”

“Of course I do. And I’ve already forgiven you for yesterday.”

“Then let me come back,” the Wolf begged. “You know I can’t stand to be

alone!”

The Shepherd sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the Wolf saw no hostility in his regard, only sadness. Somehow, that made him feel worse.

“You need to make peace with that fear,” the Shepherd finally spoke. “How can you if you stay with me? You have so much to learn.”

“Like what?” the Wolf muttered.

“Ironically enough, the same lesson Ella Bandita taught me. For all your talk about following your heart, have you ever listened to it?”

His head jerked up and the Wolf was unable to stop himself from baring his teeth.

His fury was sudden, the growl stirring in his belly before he could stop it. He managed to restrain himself enough to grow quiet. But the Shepherd stared at him and slowly raised his brows.

“Or,” he said. “You could just learn how to be a wolf. You certainly have that nature and you may be this animal for the rest of your life.”

“What do you expect?” the Wolf snapped. “What you just asked of me is

impossible.”

“That’s not true,” the Shepherd replied. “Because your heart is always a part of you.”

The Wolf was reminded of the last dream he had about his grandfather and started to cry. He couldn’t feel the tears streaming down his face through the fur, which made him sob even harder. The Shepherd stroked his back and scratched behind his ears, murmuring soft words of comfort. But the kindness only added to his sorrow.

“I don’t think I can do this,” the Wolf wept. “I’m terri fied, Shepherd.”

“I know you are. Just listen to your heart and you’ll never be afraid again.”

A year and nine months later…

The Youngest had to look twice to make certain his eyes didn’t deceive him. But the pack of wolves was still there, tearing into the belly of a stag, too intent to hear his approach.

He hated this time of year. Hunting season always started with the first snow. The frost crunching under the hooves of his mare irritated him further into a foul humor. The trees were naked of leaves, but his eye caught the berries still hanging from the bushes.

He resisted the urge to dismount and gather them, for he could only imagine the scorn of his father if he came back with frozen blueberries.

His brothers were just like the old man. They were all big men who loved to hunt.

Their father taught them everything he knew about the sport, and the son who returned with the largest buck or the most kills was the one he treated with respect. His three older brothers were ruthless as they competed for his approval. Every winter, they slaughtered enough meat to feed their wives, children, parents, and him for a year.

The Youngest never stood a chance keeping pace with them. He loathed hunting and always had. He didn’t have the predatory instincts of his brothers and his wiry frame couldn’t withstand the sharp cold. Hunting season was especially bitter because the old man never acknowledged what he did from spring until autumn. The Youngest had a way with the soil of the high hills, always yielding more crops than other farmers in this harsh climate. In the growing season, he was appreciated until the leaves dropped and the first snow fell. Then his father’s pride would end. In the winter, the Youngest was berated every day for coming back with nothing. But the old man insisted he hunt.