Birthing Ella Bandita (5 page)

“He’s almost more horse than I can handle,” he’d said. “So forget it, little Miss. This is one who will choose his master, if he ever does at all.”

She stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe, knowing the wild equine would flee if she made a move. The stallion regarded her for a moment. But instead of running for distant fields as she expected, he crossed the river, snuffling where the current was strongest. When he came out the other side, the girl’s head reached the lower half of his trunk. Then the giant steed folded his front limbs and kneeled before her, low enough for the girl to climb on his back. Her legs didn’t stretch down half his flanks. But the girl knew she would ride him perfectly well, clutching strands of his silvery mane and clicking her tongue.

Her breath caught in her throat when he lurched into a run. She had ridden the fastest stallions in her father’s stable since she was a child, but she had never encountered power like this. As the wild gray stallion ran her through the fields and orchards, the girl was cleansed of the loathing inside her, its poison purged into breath and motion. It was the most exquisite ride of her life, and it ended too soon when the shadowy equine came to a stop at the edge of the garden, where newborn lilies were almost fully open.

The girl dismounted reluctantly. As soon as her feet touched the ground, her mount turned away. Before stealing back inside her father’s house, the girl watched the wild gray stallion run for the Abandoned Valley. His massive shape emerged from the shadows when the first rays of gold and rose broke over the horizon.

Several months later...

The Patron put off business for as long as he could. He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found tedious. This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household. He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former. Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.

Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms. The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned. This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling, whereas his daughter was known for her near silent footfall. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach. The Patron looked at his watch. The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard above him couldn’t be her.

Stunned an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs. He saw her skirts and petticoats as he came up the second flight. They swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots, reminding him of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, while the tread of a stranger echoed down the corridor. In his haste, he almost collided with her at the top of the stairs. But the girl reeled away from him, her face pale. She recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. Her composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsey, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.

Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside. The girl descended to the landing, and to his surprise, stopped before the portrait and kissed her fingers before pressing them on the lips of her mother. She glanced to the top of the staircase and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her. Yet all he noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting, and he realized his daughter was the same age as his wife when he had met her. He looked at her again. The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving even as she curtseyed to him once more before continuing on her way.

The Patron didn’t return to his study. He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables. He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait of his wife, while the same question ran through his mind. When had their daughter grown up? There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie, reminding him to get ready for dinner.

He watched his daughter closely after that day, and found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed. All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. He agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could remind him of his wife. But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to. Time had not refined her features and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother. Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.

The Patron also noticed she had grown more animated. He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles. She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. He often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east. The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.

His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. He couldn’t understand how that happened, for nothing had changed. She was still despised everywhere she went. Rooms fell silent on her entrance. People stared at her or ignored her just as they had for years. But the girl was no longer stricken by it. Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear while she went through her day as alone as ever. She now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even. After years of ostracism, she had become someone who didn’t need anybody.

He wasn’t the only one to notice the changes in his daughter. Her lady’s maid seemed more intimidated by her than she used to be. She stopped using the back laces of her gowns as a corset, dressing her mistress in the manner she found most comfortable. The stable boys often gazed after her when she left the stables, and even the Cook stared at her with troubled eyes whenever she passed. His daughter had become fascinating, but she was a stranger to them all. As the Patron observed her, he found himself wishing he knew what her thoughts were. Yet every time he looked into her cold blue eyes, he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her, his horror when he found no heartbeat, his accusations, and her protest of innocence.

“How could you do this? You are far too young!”

The Patron could still see the bewilderment in her eyes as the girl shook her head.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

But he just turned his back and walked away, leaving his daughter to her fate. Sometimes he overheard people express admiration for his mercy in allowing his daughter to stay on at the house, and every time the Patron felt sick inside. He was haunted by the decision he’d made and the doubts he buried in the back of his mind became a dull roar that made his head ache. And the conversation he had with the Cook one morning gave no relief to his growing unease.

The Patron almost groaned aloud when he came into the dining parlor and saw the expanse of her wide back. Her table side manner left much to be desired. He was surprised to see her so soon, for the Cook only left her stoves when the kitchen girls were too ill to serve. It was the peak of autumn, too early for the maladies to start going around the village. For the sake of keeping his patience, he thought of the supper he enjoyed the previous night.

“By the way,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your recipes this summer. But last night you outdid yourself.”

“Thank you, Patron!” she said, her eyes lighting up.

“I especially liked the soup, but I didn’t recognize the meat. What was it?”

“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a pair of wild hares freshly killed. The soup was already done, but I thought they’d go well. So I diced the meat small to fry up quick and threw it in.”

“That explains it,” he said. “I haven’t had rabbit for a long time. How did you get it?”

The Patron was surprised when she didn’t answer right away. Her fleshy features puckered at the question, which was never a good sign. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

“From your daughter, Patron.”

He set his coffee down. The Cook flushed and her speech was rushed.

“Truth be told, Patron, I think your praise of my dinners has more to do with her hunting than my cooking. Near every day she comes to the kitchen with something.”

“Does she? And how long has she been doing this?”

“Since last spring. She brought in a string of fish out of nowhere one day.”

The Cook hesitated before going on, her tone dropping to a whisper.

“I must say, Patron, it’s been a long time since she’s done anything like that. Not since__”

“I remember quite well when she used to bring wild meat to the kitchen.”

The Cook winced and turned away, serving breakfast without a word, while his mind was assailed with a day the Patron wished he could forget. The day he hired a vagabond to break the most feral colt he ever had in his stables.

****

The Patron had found him in the garden he had planted for his beloved before they wed. He’d created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color. Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico before the front door. The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died. The stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.

The Vagabond came in early spring, just past his daughter’s thirteenth birthday. A light rain fell that morning, the sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw a young man among the lilies. Dressed in patchwork clothes, the heavy rucksack of the wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.

“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”

“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”

His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places.

“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron retorted.

The Vagabond faced him then and smiled. His teeth were brilliant against his tanned skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.

“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”

“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”

“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”

“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”

“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.

“Yeah. Really.”

The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses. But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.

“What a beauty!”

“That he is,” said the Patron. “He’s still a colt too, and absolutely uncontrollable.”

His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions. The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer. But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.

“Think you can have a way with him?” the Patron asked.

“Sure.”

“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”

“I know I can.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him.

“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”

The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness when his handsome features tightened for a moment. The Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared. Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness that was almost offensive. The Patron had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.

“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”

He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly. The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own. He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal. But out of prudence, he never let them stay.