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and
breezes ruffling the leaves, releasing scents spicy and sweet.
Immersing himself made him forget everything and, every day, he
found something new. Nuts, berries, leaves, and edible flowers
added taste to his hash, while fresh varieties of mushrooms
sprouted after each rain. Although he foraged enough for breakfast
and supper, his appetite was barely sated and he was losing weight.
He had to admit that his craving for meat and fat had grown past
the point of pain.
    He found himself avoiding the girl, often
waiting until she was gone before he left his tent in the morning.
Yet they cooked next to each other every night. His stomach rumbled
every time he watched the precious drops of fat go to waste in the
fire. He knew they’d both eat better if they only shared, but he
never offered his food to her again.
    He suspected the girl found his cooking more
appealing, especially on the day he returned with a stalk of
rosemary and sprigs of thyme. He thought he saw her nostrils
quivering while he cut the herbs to bits, the aroma irresistible
from the heat of the fire. It was almost enough to distract him
from the roasting partridges, but he still wanted to reach his
skillet under her spit. He was glad he resisted the urge when he
saw her glance away.
    “ I caught you looking this
time,” he said.
    She scowled and turned from him.
    As time passed, his animosity for the girl
grew as hers did for him. His ill will made him uneasy, for the
Wanderer never disliked anybody in his life. What made it even more
upsetting was that his body had become a traitor to him. His lust
for a woman he had come to hate had transformed into a physical
yearning that terrified him, for his desire increased with his
antipathy. No woman had ever affected him like this. His limbs
would go rigid as the Wanderer fought the animal urges pushing him
beyond his reason. To make matters worse, the girl knew the effect
she had on him. The glint in her eyes and her vicious smile were a
daily humiliation, and the tingling along his flesh made the
Wanderer loathe himself.
    Summer finally gave in to autumn; the leaves
started turning to gold, and the Wanderer realized that staying
where he knew he wasn’t wanted made the worst kind of loneliness.
After a month, his obstinacy seemed foolish. Every night, he was
determined to pack up and leave the next morning, a surrender that
brought him much relief.
    Then he fell asleep and floated into the
dreamtime. He always came to the cabin first. When he saw the
silhouette before the fire, the Wanderer longed to remain with his
grandfather, so he could tell him about his adventures and truly
thank him for his last gift. But their reunion never satisfied.
Before he could begin, the Bard pushed him through the fire to send
him to the lovers from the Solstice Ball.
    The Wanderer was there when the Patron
brought his beloved home - their wedding carriage rolling uphill
through an avenue of peach trees to a white manor. The Patron never
looked more handsome than he did on his wedding day, his face
radiant with sweet disbelief. His bride was ravishing in layers of
creamy lace, her expression glowing behind her veil.
    The carriage stopped at a path leading to
the front door where a procession of servants stood waiting to
welcome their new Patroness. She saw nothing but the garden of
lilies encircling the house. Even in his dream, the Wanderer
smelled the earth of freshly turned soil. Yet lilies of every size
and color were in full bloom. The bride tore the veil from her head
and threw her arms around her husband’s neck, raining kisses over
his face. Before they entered the house, the Patron and his wife
strolled through the maze, weaving amongst her favorite flowers in
every shape and color. She leaned her head back, her nostrils
almost closing when she savored the fragrance at leisure. Then they
faded from the Wanderer’s vision.
    Oftentimes, he came to them during supper.
These were formal affairs, the table covered with