The rider appeared through the sandstorm and stopped at the edge of the small patch of land in the middle of the desert. The shadows fell on a cluster of trees that included palms, figs, and olives. It was rather fertile in spite of its diminutive size.
“Who rides there?”
The figure of a man materialized through the trees. He carried a staff in his left hand.
The rider, wrapped in garments from head to toe, dismounted and put hands together as if in prayer, then bowed to the man in the oasis.
“May good fortune be with you, brother.”
Upon hearing the sound of the voice, the man took a step back.
“A woman!”
She reached back and unwrapped the long scarf that covered her face. The man shifted from one foot to the other. She did not completely remove her veil, just enough to show a pair of almond-shaped eyes the color of amber.
“I was caught in the storm on my way to the White City," she said. "Now I have become thoroughly disoriented and have lost my way there.”
The man murmured to himself, then raising his staff, he pointed in one direction.
“If you follow that path you should have no trouble finding your way,” he said gruffly, voice hoarse with disuse.
“If it would not trouble you, my lord, I would like to wait out the storm in your verdant shelter. My journey has been long and exhausting. My mount is frightened. We couldn’t bear another league, but I assure you, we shall ride out early in the morning and trouble you no more than necessary.”
The man fidgeted with his staff, upon which he had tied the skeleton of some rodent, and grumbling, he finally assented.
“There's water for your beast in the pond over there. Clean up after him if he makes a mess.”
With those words, he thumped the ground with his staff and retreated into his hut.
In the evening, when the sands had settled and only their rustle could be heard, when the stars began to glitter above the desert, the man lit up a fire and began to cook a meal. He did not look at the woman, nor did he speak a single word. His focus was solely on his ingredients, and the painstakingly meticulous process of mixing them, as if it were a ritualistic act.
“My name is Melina,” said the woman trying to coaxed him out of his silence. He would have none of it. He prepared the dish without speaking, offering it to her with a cup full of fresh water and a small saucer full of honey. Then he disappeared inside his hut.
She ate alone under the stars. Her eyes fixed on the hut.
Later that night, when the fire had turned to embers, she reached into her saddle bags and retrieved a round ornate bottle. She then lit a candle with the embers and walked towards the man’s hut.
She stood in the doorway; the flame flickered in her eyes.
He lay in bed with his back turned to her.
“What is it?” the man grumbled.
“Brother,” she said taking a few steps forward, “I just wanted to thank you for your aid and shelter. I am safe thanks to you.”
He half-turned but did not look at her.
“I’m trying to sleep,” he said.
She bent over him and locks of her hair fell loose from her veil and spilled into the nape of his neck.
He stirred.
“I come from the Vineyards in the south,” she said leaning closer and pressing her breast against him. “I’m a wine merchant, you see. I was on my way to the White City to run some errands.”
He could smell the scent of her. Oak and grapes. He was practically trembling under the covers.
“I don’t have much with me, but I have this,” she said holding up the bottle. “I want you to have it, my lord.”
His eyes widened when he saw the bottle.
“Is that Blood of the Stag?” he said, snatching the bottle from her hand.
“It is!” She said, bouncing a little on the bed.
She then took her veil and lowered it. The candle light revealed a delicately chiseled face of magnificent beauty.
“Melina,” the man said taking a lock of her hair. He took a deep breath and inhaled its aroma.
She smiled, then taking the bottle, she opened it. Giggling, she leaned closer to him and holding the bottle above his mouth, she tipped it and a few drops of the liquid fell onto his lips.
He closed his eyes and sighed as if he had just received a kiss from heaven. Visions of voluptuous angels and maidens flashed through his mind. He could hear their laughter ringing like little bells in spring. He could feel their touch, their soft kisses upon every inch of him. Their desire hot in the desert night. He experienced everything there was to experience in the sensuous atmosphere.
When he opened his eyes, he was bound and tied to his bed with a rope around his neck.
“Where are the verses, Issal?” the woman said.
“What- how do you know my name?”
“Don’t play coy with me, old man,” Melina said unsheathing a jeweled dagger from her belt. “I know that you’re Issal ven Dupal famed bard and poet of the Mystic House of Za. You retreated into self-exile five years ago in order to complete the last volume of your epic- the Golden Verses. Now I’ve come to pick them up. Where are they?”
She dug the tip of the dagger into his thigh.
He screamed.
“I don’t have any verses," he protested.
She put the blade on his throat.
"Alright, alright," he said. "Take the key from my neck and unlock that box over there. It has all my work for the past five years."
Melina snapped the key off his neck and walked over to the large chest in the corner. When she opened it, her eyes lit up upon seeing the volume of papyrus scrolls within it.
Reaching inside, she took one of the scrolls and unrolled it.
Her eyes widened then narrowed. Her mouth moved silently. She took another scroll and unrolled it. This time, she actually gasped and proceeded to frantically unroll the rest of them.
“What is the meaning of this?” she said shaking the scroll in her hand. “These are all images of cats!”
“So they are,” said Issal.
“You mean to tell me that for five years all you’ve been been doing is drawing cats?”
“I like cats. They are noble creatures.”
She squealed in frustration and swore up and down calling him an imbecile worse than a dog!
“You men think you’re so clever,” she said. “Well then, let’s see how clever you are getting out of this bind.”
She turned and walked away.
“Wait! Untie me, you demon woman!” he hollered.
The last he heard of her was the sound of hoofs receding in the distance.
Issal lay back and sighed.
“You can come out now,” he called out. “She’s gone.”
A lean black cat appeared in the doorway. It trotted across the floor and pounced on top of the bound man.
“I thought she’d never leave,” said the cat, her eyes glowing yellow. “I was beginning to get jealous.”
“You can untie me now, dear,” he said.
“Not yet,” said the cat. “First, I want to hear all about those Golden Verses…”
Thank you for reading. This is not an official entry to the latest inkwell challenge because I started the story before the challenge went live. I do think the story has some elements of magical realism and "wonder," so in that regard it fits with the idea. I hope you enjoyed it!