Fly Up into the Night Air (5 page)

* * *

The small farm house had three rooms in the lower level: the kitchen, Father's bedroom, and a small parlor. The back wall of the house was shared with the barn. A large stone fireplace opened on one side to the kitchen, and on the other, to the parlor. The chimney went up through the center of the upstairs loft to provide some warmth in the cold months. A dormer window with shutters allowed in some air. The loft had room for three small cots. With five brothers, that meant that only Andrei, the oldest, got to sleep by himself. Stilian slept with his brother Arnost, who was one year older.

Stilian didn't mind curling up with Arnost against the bitter cold that swept down from the Ragged Hills in the dark months of the freeze. But sometimes the loft was just too small. Andrei snored. Bogdan had problems with his gut and farted a lot. But it was the shame from which Stilian had fled. From the time Andrei grew his first pubic hair, there always seemed to be someone jerking off. It was understood among the boys that you might do it, but like visiting the privy, you did not discuss it, at least not in front of Father. A beating was the likely result of that folly.

The proper response to someone jerking off after the lantern was dimmed was to pretend you didn't hear it. If you were horny and you got a boner, you took care of it as quietly and efficiently as possible. This careful obliviousness lasted until the year after Stilian began to grow a dark thatch of his own. The problem was that Stilian's canniness came in with his pubic hair. Before long, when his brothers were feeling randy, so was he. It didn't matter if he touched himself; as soon as he felt the familiar earthly heat from one of his brothers, his cock went up like the tail on a startled deer. As his brothers beat to their private rhythms, so did he. When they came, so did he, whether he would or no.

It didn't take long for his brothers to notice Stilian's problem. At first, they teased him. The randy runt would grow hair on his palms. Maybe he should keep a bucket by the bed. Then there were sidelong glances, muttered comments, and finally open name calling. The runt was sick. He was a pervert. He was degenerate. Stilian's worst fear was that they were right, and he began to hate the tyrannical new body that had him in constant fear of embarrassment and humiliation.

Matters got worse during harvest, when the family was working late into the evening to bring in the crops. One day, Arnost stayed home with a fever. The sick boy was upstairs in the loft, where he was supposed to be sleeping. The boys gathered around the table for a late, cold, supper. But Arnost must have woken up from his nap feeling better. Finding himself alone, he took advantage of the rare privacy and began to stroke himself. Unfortunately for Stilian, Arnost neared his finish just as Father began to thank God for the bountiful harvest. Stilian, slouching in his seat to hide his erection from the sharp eyes of his brothers, froze, and tried desperately to think about something else. It was no use, and soon Stilian was breathing hard in time with his horny brother and trembling with the effort of staying silent. As Arnost came, Stilian shuddered and spurted into his britches. An unmistakable musky smell rose into the evening air. Stilian returned to himself to find his father staring at him with a thunderous rage working his face.

"What is this blasphemy! Would you mock the Lord's grace?"

"I meant no blasphemy! It was Arnost. I felt him. He--"

"Arnost is upstairs. You blame your brother, who is sick with a fever, for your sacrilege? What has he to do with your, your--I do not have words for it. Come with me." He lifted Stilian bodily from his chair and dragged him through the door into the barn. "Strip." He took a whip from the wall, where he kept it for occasions when he felt the boys' behavior warranted it. "Bend over." He laid a stripe on Stilian's butt and continued to whip him long after Stilian could no longer hold back his cries. That night, Stilian's brothers told him that he could no longer sleep in the loft. Andrei said, "If you would rut in public like a beast, then with the beasts you will live."

Harte

Harte stood inside the waterfall, watching water run down the thick panes of hand-made glass that formed the skylight and outer wall of the solar. A strong breeze ripped and tore gaps in the grey clouds, periodically lighting up the windows and putting a spotlight on one of the paintings mounted on the walls of the room. The room was a gallery for his mother's work. As a child, he had spent many hours watching her paint here. She had a strict rule. He was not allowed to touch the brush or the paints; they were her magic tools. But he was welcome so long as he was quiet and did not disturb her.

Blinking, he wrenched his mind back to the present. "Here's my plan, Mother. After we get settled in the parlor with tea, you'll keep Megan and her mother busy, while I excuse myself to use the water closet. I'll look in the mud room to see if I can find Brin's cloak. If anyone catches me, I'll explain that I left my cigar case in my coat pocket and came to get it." Harte began to pace back and forth in front of his mother's easel, while Amalia fidgeted.

"You don't smoke, dear."

"I've just started. That's why I keep leaving my cigar case behind."

"You'd better borrow one from your father. You're not concerned about tipping off Brin that you're interested in his cloak?"

"He'll not likely be home. We'll go Saturday afternoon. He'll be betting on the horses, I'll wager." Harte smirked at his own wit.

Amalia was too tense to be amused. "Just what am I to say to Mrs. Greer, while you wonder about the place looking lost? You know I'm not good at small talk. We must at least pretend that we have some reason for a social call."

"I thought it would be enough for me to express a desire to see Megan again."

Amalia stopped moving. "Oh no, Son. That would be cruel. There's only one reason a boy like you calls on a girl like Megan. Even if Megan knows better, you'll have Mrs. Greer hearing wedding bells. She'll make her daughter's life a misery."

"What about an invitation? Yes! To a winter solstice party. We haven't had one of those since for years."

Amalia picked up a brush and began to swirl it around in a flask of turpentine. "That's because your father doesn't care for big parties."

"But he'll agree to it, because it will be a chance to socialize with the other members of the council. And if we invite Brin, he might even be dumb enough to wear that cloak."

"Don't underestimate Brin." Amalia wiped her brush with a rag. "He'll know, soon enough, that you're investigating Raf's beating. If he did it, he'll be more careful than that."

"Maybe. But he might just be arrogant enough to assume that no one would dream of going after him for a simple beating."

Amalia threw down her rag and sat down, looking grim. "Nobody else
would
."

* * *

Plans for the social call and the party were well under way, when Harte received a note from Griff saying that it was urgent they meet at the hospital. Raf was sick and wanted to talk to Harte. Harte wondered why Griff would be delivering such a message. How was he known to the sisters at the hospital?

When he got there, Griff was pacing at the entrance. "Come on, he doesn't sound good. Sister Grace thinks he might meet God today."

"Meet God?"

"Her phrase. She
is
a sister."

Raf's breathing was labored, when Harte knelt by the cot. He looked scared as he struggled for air. "I'm here, Raf. What is it? What do you want to tell me?"

"Peli," the boy whispered between gasps. "Came. Somebody threatened him. Scared they will hurt--" He paused to breathe. "He's green. Don't know who to trust." He blinked. "If I can't protect him anymore." He opened his eyes wide. "Will you?"

Harte nodded and brushed back Raf's hair. "Griff and I will look after him." If Griff was startled to be recruited for the job, he didn't show it. At that moment, a sister in a spotless habit entered the room and trotted towards Raf's cot. Harte withdrew his hand hastily.

"You must be Mr. Harte Walford. I'm Sister Grace. Please don't tire Raf. He must rest. Come this way; I want to speak with you."

Harte touched Raf's shoulder lightly, then got up. "I'm pleased to meet you, Sister. I would be honored. I take it you know my friend, Patrol Leader Tarren, of the watch?"

Sister Grace smiled as she turned and trotted towards the door. "Yes, Griff is known to us."

Harte motioned, "After you" to Griff, and raised his eyebrows. Griff shrugged, and set off after Sister Grace. They followed her out of the ward, down the corridor, and into a combination office, school room, and chapel. The cramped room held a desk, a small bookshelf, and an incongruous, finely made table surrounded by crude wooden chairs.

Sister Grace motioned for them to sit down. "May I offer you tea?" As she turned away to pick up a tea service from her desk, Griff violently shook his head.

Harte frowned at him, not wanting to be rude. "Certainly. Thank you very much."

Sister Grace turned back and set a cup before each man. "Thank you for coming to see Raf. I'm sorry I have not been available to greet you on your previous visits. Sister Magda tells me that you have seen the boy twice. I'm grateful for your interest."

Harte took a sip of tea and nearly spat it out again. Griff grinned.

"Oh dear. I'm afraid I may have made the tea a little strong again. It's an old habit you see. Strong tea for long nights in the wards. It's good for keeping an old nurse awake, but not a very social drink."

"Oh no. It's quite all right. I like mine strong," Harte managed. "It's a bit unexpected is all. If you don't mind, what was it that made you think to send that note to me? I'm not the best known of Walford's Crossing's presenter advocates--being new at it."

"I knew your mother, you see, before I became a sister. She'd not remember me, but we attended dancing lessons together, a very long time ago. Your mother was quite passionate about things that other girls of her class were not passionate about: art, history, what to do about the Canny. We got along."

"Dancing lessons. I shall have to ask Mother about that."

"There was another reason. You made an argument, in front of the town council last year, which was reported to me. You argued against the practice of allowing parties to a case to hire the magistrate or judge veritor. I heard you were quite compelling. But I'm not surprised you were not successful; the council will have to pay if the parties don't."

"I'm surprised that you follow such issues," Harte admitted. "I have found it hard to interest my colleagues. Short of announcing that there's a canny spy in chambers, it's difficult to wake them from their complacence."

"They are not complacent, they attend to their self-interest," said Griff.

"We who serve the poor must attend to politics as well--if we are to be effective," said Sister Grace.

"It seems that you have had help staying informed." Harte eyed Griff speculatively. Griff looked back, wide-eyed.

"God provides," said Sister Grace, watching Griff.

"Hmm." Harte blew gently on his tea. "How can I help you, today?"

Sister Grace would not be hurried. She sipped her tea before continuing. "I understand that you have made inquiries into the incident during which Raf was beaten."

"Yes. I, we--Griff and I have made inquiries. I'm afraid we have not discovered the culprits, yet."

"I wonder if it has occurred to you ..." Sister Grace put down her tea and made a minute adjustment to her wimple. "I fear that Raf will be called to God soon. If he is, the issue of his beating could take on rather more weight, don't you think? One could argue that his death was the responsibility of the man who beat him. I am not a legal scholar as you are, so I cannot speak to the law, but I can speak to the moral issue."

"Yes, and capital cases
require
a judge veritor. But it would be a difficult argument to win. There is little precedent to support such a position, and cases are won and lost on the sympathy of the council of court. The advocate would be certain to paint Raf as immoral, as a mere--" His face grew hot. "You are aware how Raf made his living?"

Sister Grace pursed her lips. "One cannot serve the poor for very long without coming to
some
understanding of the ways they are led into temptation and depravity."

"Yes, I suppose." Harte let his eyes wonder around the room where they came to rest on the cloth covered altar at the back of the room. "They would use that against him, you see, as they would anything else they thought would gain them traction with the council of court."

"Raf is not a bad sort," interjected Griff. "He's been trying to help Peli."

"Who is Peli?" asked Sister Grace.

"He's a boy that Raf has been ... mentoring ... down on Dock Street. Peli saw the beating, and Raf says he's been threatened now, as well."

"You must bring him here, immediately," pronounced Sister Grace, leaning forward to rap her knuckles on the table.

"This is hardly the sort of place--"

Harte was pretty certain that Sister Grace actually stamped, but it was hard to tell because the floor was stone. She interrupted him. "This is exactly the sort of place he should be. You will find him and bring him here. We shall protect him." Sister Grace was a bull in a field of heifers.

Harte said the only thing he could, in the face of her determination. "Yes, Sister Grace."