Birthing Ella Bandita by Montgomery Mahaffey Page B

mumbled thanks as she took the fish from the girl’s hand.
    Her contentment went sour and the girl cursed her absence of mind. But the next night she thought better of it when she saw the main course was filet of trout on a mound of string beans. The girl tasted the Cook’s shame in each bite, and savored her dinner more than she had in a long time. She came back to the kitchen the following afternoon, and held a skinned rabbit above her head. Again the Cook flushed, yet reached for the offering. When the Cook’s fingers brushed against her knuckles, she looked up and the girl saw she was afraid. Something shifted inside the girl in that moment. In the face of the Cook’s fear, she felt invincible. She came to the kitchen every day, relishing that sensation every time the Cook reached for her kills.
    The girl had become somebody she didn’t understand. By summer’s end, she welcomed the silence that had sent her to the river in despair. Her near exile served her well, making it simple for her to come and go as she liked. In being an outcast, she found her freedom.
    She wondered if she had grown taller. When she walked, her limbs stretched longer with each stride. She was stronger and more agile, riding the stallions with more boldness than ever. She breathed deeper, the smoky air tingling her nose and throat. The trees seemed on fire when breezes swayed the branches and ruffled the leaves. She relished the layers of herbs and spices in food that had more taste. When she listened to music, the notes vibrated through her, trilling along sinew and bone. Everything around the girl pulsed with life and she couldn’t get enough.
    She fell out of the habit of breakfast because, due to her long nights at the Caverns, she would sleep until lunch. The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.
    Yet they always came together for dinner. The table was covered with white linen, and it was laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters; triads of candles along the buffet illuminated the parlor. Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table. The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden with the trappings of formal dining. They took their seats the same moment the troupe of musicians struck the first notes. Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song.
    One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch. Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close. She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table. A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat. But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed. Did he suspect? The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes. His scrutiny made the girl uneasy. She avoided glancing his way while they ate, facing him after her plate and bowl were empty. The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity. Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table. She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.
    ****
    Something wasn’t right. The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible. His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until the day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house.
    This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on