Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (45 page)

If it a sculpture, he wanted me to sketch it with my hands. I taxed not only my voice but my mental faculties attempting to adequately relate the sublime. Thus the time passed quickly and amusingly.

Occasionally the monotony was relieved in other ways. North of a small set of islands known as the Caymans, we encountered another vessel flying the Jolie Rouge, the Griffon. I knew I had seen the name before; and then I recalled she was the ship we had seen preparing to sail from the Hole on the day of my arrival on the King’s Hope. Both ships anchored off the long western beach of the biggest of the islands, and most of the crews went ashore. The Griffon had several kegs of beer, and we traded them boucan for two. A party was held, to the delight of all.

Before disembarking, Striker went about and solicited volunteers to serve as sober watchmen aboard the ship in the event of any sort of trouble or emergency. Gaston agreed to this duty, as did I; though my matelot assured me I did not need to on his account. I had little interest in going ashore without him, as I had been hearing tales for several weeks of the astounding levels of debauchery sometimes occurring at buccaneer revels. I was in favor of being an observer at this juncture and not a participant, especially if my matelot would not be joining me.

Eight of us stayed aboard, all pairs of matelots. Liam and Otter were with us, and the Scotsman approached us after the last boat went ashore.

“We be calling the cabin first,” he said with a hopeful smile.

“The hold,” one of the other men said, and he and his matelot disappeared down the hatch. Shrugging, the other pair retreated to the bow.

Liam regarded Gaston and me, where we sat side by side on the quarterdeck steps.

“First watch will be right with ya?” Liam inquired solicitously.

“Aye.” I nodded and Gaston shrugged. And then we were alone. We had not been alone since careening. In the intervening time, we had touched on occasion and overall possessed a greater comfort with one another; but there had been an increase in tension as well. Now, as I sat staring at the bonfires on shore, and listened to the music gusting toward us and the creak of the ship in the shallow waves, an awkward silence descended between us. All warmth and life seemed very far away. I knew I must make light of it or it would lie heavy upon us all night.

“I did not realize the implications of taking the watch,” I said.

“Nor I,” he murmured. “Not having had a matelot before.”

“So this is not some ploy on your part to get me alone and ravish me?”

He started a little, and even in the moonlight I could tell he blushed.

“I jest, I jest,” I said quickly, and poked his arm.

He captured my hand and held it in both of his. I let him and leaned close to kiss the corner of his jaw. He held his breath, and his grip on my hand tightened. I sat back and waited. I did not watch him.

The tide, such as it was in these regions, was going out, and our anchored bow was pointed toward the revelry on shore. I could hear a lively jig and see dancers in the firelight. Below us, a new set of sounds was emanating from the cabin. In the bow, the couple that had retreated there could be seen engaging in their own dance of courtship. They were silhouetted against the fires on shore; and the effect was rather interesting: much like watching a play with the actors behind a screen.

I glanced to Gaston to see if he was watching them too, and found his eyes on me.

“What would you have of me?” I asked gently.

He looked away, towards the bow, frowned and looked at the stars above. I had decided he would not speak and began to plan my next utterance when he said, “I know you do not wish to have anyone behind you….” He did not finish.

I frowned curiously. “Yet?”

“Could you sit here?” He pointed at the step between his knees.

“As I believe I said. I will be fine with such things if I know it is you and I have warning.” I sat where he indicated. As it was what I wanted, I leaned back into him. I was relieved when his arms wrapped around my shoulders, and even more pleased when his head pressed next to mine.

I embraced his legs on either side of me as if they were the arms of a chair, and we sat thus for a time.

I watched the men in the bow. They had gone beyond courtship and were beginning to engage in the culminating act itself. Bathed in moonlight and silhouetted as they were, their performance was quite beautiful.

“I wish I possessed some talent at painting,” I whispered.

Gaston stiffened. “You would paint that?” There was a touch of reproach in his voice.

I frowned and pulled away from him enough so that I could turn and regard his face. “You do not find them beautiful, as they are, with the play of light and the red of the fires on shore beyond them?”

He was frowning, first at me and then at the couple in the bow.

He sighed. “I see… There is… Primarily because it does not look as it normally does, at this distance and…”

I was curious and alarmed. “What do you see when you see two men thus engaged? Say it is Striker and Pete, who we have ample occasion to watch.” I knew he did not watch them: he always averted his gaze. I had assumed it was out of politeness.

“They are like beasts,” he said with a tired sigh.

“Oui, two beasts. I think they are quite beautiful. In my eye, men appear at their most powerful when they strain to reach that momentary perfection. Every muscle and sinew is taut, and for them there is nothing else except their bodies and the sensations. Fighting in concert, side by side, it is as if they storm the gates of Heaven demanding entry.”

He was quiet. I watched him. He watched the men in the bow.

“Do you think it grotesque?” I asked. Then I remembered our conversation regarding sin. “Or do you think it unnatural? A sin against nature?”

“Non,” he breathed. “It is not a thing I wished to do, so I did not seek to view it in a positive nature. I do not think it unnatural, as some might say. I have seen a man and a woman, and I find it just as discomfiting.

I do not wish to behave in that fashion. Yet…” He held me tighter. “Will, what would you have of me, if I were a willing subject for your desires?”

At first his question took me by surprise. I had obviously given the matter great thought, even in my dreams; but I had not sought to compose it into words to convey to him. I had also thought in terms of acts. This was not the time to speak of that. I did not feel he was ready to discuss things with names. So beyond that, what did I want? What had I ever wanted from a lover, and never truly received?

“I would want that we were like Pete and Striker. To be equals, both partaking in the joys of giving and receiving as we wish. And I would want quiet times of great intimacy to enjoy each other’s caress, whether it gives rise to passion or not. But primarily, I would want the freedom to enjoy you in all ways, whether they lead to your pleasure or mine or both or none. And truly, I do not lay all of that out as a river you must cross alone to reach me. I have never had a relationship such as I wish for now. And I am not ready to meet my half of the arrangement. I feel it will take effort on both our parts.”

He held me and I waited, concerned I had said more than I should.

“I will fight it with you as best I am able,” he whispered. “But Will, I foresee a very long war.”

So did I, and I was not pleased with this grim vision of the future. At least I was not alone. This heartened me greatly, enough to allow me to push the other thoughts aside. I settled into him and watched the stars and the horizon. He seemed content to hold me, and I was content to be held.

It was truly new ground for me and I strode on it gratefully, despite the small frustrations of my manhood. In all of my prior relations with men or women, someone’s manhood, usually mine, had taken precedence over all other aspects of intimacy. I had never been with a lover with whom I could engage in intimacy, without it culminating very quickly in the act of copulation of one form or another. And then it would be gone. Alonso and I had never sat about and simply held one another. I wondered at that. I had known I wanted to. Since Shane, I had known I wanted to be held and have the freedom to touch without censure. Yet I had never attained it. Nor had I strived for it. Now I felt the need to hold it like a painted egg.

Sometime while we sat thus, a fight broke out on shore. We did not hear of it until morning, when several men, the Bard included, returned to the ship to recover from their excess of drink. Relieved of duty, we went ashore to watch the pending duel. Otter and Liam went with us, with the Scotsman thanking us profusely for letting them use the cabin all night. I assured them that we were not put out, and then immediately regretted it as they regarded us curiously.

I realized I did not want anyone to know we did not engage in buggery. Thinking further on it, I came to see that this was related to my thoughts and wishes of the night before. If I was involved with a man, I wanted to crow the fact to the world, without threat of his displeasure or anyone else’s. And at the same time, if I was involved with a man and it was plain for all to see, I wanted others to think that we at least enjoyed one another, lest they think there was something amiss with one or both of us. Of course, as this was truly the case, I wanted them to know even less.

We found our friends and waited while the duel was started. The men had decided on swords, or rather cutlasses and knives. The first round would not be with pistols, as the pair evinced no interest in killing one another in the sober light of morning. The proceedings would continue until first blood was drawn. I asked what it was about. Pete did not know. Striker was involved in organizing and coordinating with the Griffon’s quartermaster, due to the duelists being from different ships.

Our cook, Michaels, turned out to be a font of information, as he slept near one of the men involved.

Apparently the fight was somewhat over a third man. Michaels related that it was a bit more complex than both of them being in love with the third. There had been a prior relationship between two of the men. And the men dueling had actually been interested in one another as well. I lost track of Michael’s explanation as the duel began. I was not even sure which of them had come from the North Wind.

The duel commenced, and all watched them swing wildly at one another with cutlasses. The crowd cheered and caught their breath when the tide appeared to turn one way or another. I, on the other hand, was appalled at how slow and clumsy they were. I could have run either man through before he ever swung. If the buccaneers thought this was swordplay, they were sorely mistaken.

In addition to the charging around and hacking about in the sand, both men were hurling a great number of snarled insults. Additionally, many things were said when they clenched that the rest of us did not hear. Their tempers rose. When all was truly said and done, one of the men struck first blood by hacking the other’s chest so thoroughly that he damn near cleaved the man in two. Striker and the other quartermaster allowed it, and no one complained overly much. I made note that first blood had a very broad interpretation amongst the Brethren.

Shortly after, a shot rang out from the Griffon; and several minutes later, we learned that the third man had taken his own life in response to the outcome. All eyes turned to the winner of the duel, who was apparently our man from the North Wind. His name was Harris. He made a great show of bravado, and acted as if it all meant little to him.

This was not well received by the men of his acquaintance. He went to sit on a dune by himself.

I had once been in attendance at a large ball at which a wife had grown tired of her husband’s open philandering and thrown a glass of Madeira in his face, before slapping his mistress and retreating with a degree of dignity many monarchs would have envied. That night I had been very amused to watch the other onlookers. In the duel’s aftermath, this rabble upon the beach was much the same as those elegant lords and ladies. Some faces carried a smug assurance that such social indignity would never befall them. Other countenances showed a fear that it would. Others yet suggested it already had at some time. And there were still others that seemed bewildered that such a thing had occurred at all.

Davey was one of that number. He seemed at a loss that anyone would kill another or themselves over such a thing as love. He said as much. I pitied him anew. Michaels, meanwhile, appeared older than he usually looked and saddened by both the events and Davey’s words.

Striker gave Pete a look that made me wonder why he worried so. Otter stood munching an apple, with his arm over Liam’s shoulder. Liam said he hoped Harris would choose to leave on the Griffon and not return to the North Wind, as we had no need for troublemakers of his ilk.

Gaston’s hand slipped into mine. Unfamiliar with such a thing occurring in public, my eyes swept about to see who might have witnessed it. I immediately experienced guilt at this, as I remembered Alonso doing it, much to my chagrin. Cudro was watching us, as were Bradley and Siegfried. I kept the frown from my face and turned my gaze to my matelot. His eyes were lit with mischief.

“Are you sober?” he asked.

I nodded with amusement, as he most certainly knew I was.

“Are you well?”

I nodded again.

“Would you like to spar?”

I laughed.

“I was beginning to despair that you would ever ask,” I said as he led me down the beach. “I am sadly out of practice and I hope I will not embarrass you, as unless we go far away we will surely attract an audience.” I had not seen him practice with a blade since we met, either.

I did not think he would embarrass me. He also did not seek to remove us completely from the others, though he surely could have simply by walking over a few more dunes.

He snorted derisively. “Do not be making excuses for my defeating you.” His eyes held a mixture of amusement and challenge. He released my hand, and we shed all weapons save rapiers and dirks.

Then we were in motion. He was indeed as good as I had hoped; but to my surprise, I was better. As expected, he had me in strength and endurance, and we were evenly matched in speed. However, spending the last ten years without a worthy opponent had made him rusty, and my spending the last ten years living off my blade had taught me things he never had a chance to learn. His style had been tainted by the cutlass, yet he was incredibly opportunistic in using the ground we fought upon to his advantage. I remembered what he had said of his days fighting in school. In a true battle between us, the victor would owe his win to luck and surrounding conditions. In sparring, I had the advantage as long as I kept control of the match and did not allow him to corner or run me excessively. There was a very sweet moment when he realized I was his better, not because it fed any preening pride on my part, but because there was admiration in his eyes and I knew he was pleased that I was good.