Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (10 page)

He was gazing at me pensively. He was still not himself; but truly, I could not say who we were at this moment. I had not seen him so lost since his visits to me when he ran wild beyond Negril. Had that really been two years ago? Two and a half years, I supposed.

He touched my empty earlobes sadly, and I sighed. He extricated himself from beneath me, and turned about to lean down and kiss my left ear sweetly. He stayed there, and sniffed. I thought I must not be pleasant, and thenI remembered Thorp’s wine-steeped breath billowing over the same skin. I cringed with shame. Gaston pulled back and gazed down at me again. This time I could see the Child battlingwithhis Horse behind his eyes. I started to speak, knowing not what I would say, but his fingers

were quicklyonmylips.

 

were quicklyonmylips.

He leaned down to kiss me lightly again, and then left me to rummage through our bags and his medicine chest. He cast about for a moment, and considered the contents of the water bottle, before motioning for me to stay as he slipped out of our den. His actions were reminiscent of his Child, but I did not see that earnest innocence inhis eyes.

My concerns about his sanity could not hold mine in check. The small space seemed vastly empty and cold without him, and I had to fight the fear-driven compulsion not to push to myknees and crawlout after him.

He soon returned, this time with a pail of water. I allowed myself to melt to the floor again. He wet a rag, and slowly and carefully began to bathe me, starting with my face. Each swipe of the cloth was both loving caress and absolution. As he finished eachpatchofskin, he placed a gentle kiss uponit. When he came to the weals on my back and chest, he bathed them, kissed them, and thentreated themwithunguents.

When he worked on my wrists, I touched his: they were nearly as torn and bruised as mine. I pushed myself to sitting despite his silent protest, and tended them. Then, with little tugs upon his tunic, I bade him remove his clothes. I ran my fingers over his flesh to insure myself he had not been beaten. There were old bruises, but they appeared to be the rewards of his struggles and not the result of cruelty. I kissed each yellowing bruise I found in the dimlight, and then took the rag, and bathed himas he had done me; until I had cleaned himin all the places I was now clean.

He took the rag back, and cleaned my feet and legs. I

He took the rag back, and cleaned my feet and legs. I did the same to him, and then we dressed one another’s wounded ankles. There was only one area we had not touched, and I wondered at his reticence, though I was greatly relieved he had not examined me to find the wounds that must surely be there. And then, belatedly, I understood that that was his reason.

I snatched the cloth up and bathed his privates and buttocks with care. He rose in response to my ministrations, but his eyes were filled with guilt. I was afraid he would dismiss his arousal, as he had always proven able to do. I grasped his manhood firmly and met his gaze with pleading eyes. He regarded me with wonder and then slow capitulation, before movingcloser to nuzzle myneck.

His hand closed over the cloth, and I knew I must surrender it. He carefully washed and examined my privates. I did not rise for him: I felt no need. This was not the emotionaddled loss of desire I felt from time to time, but a profound emptiness. I had trulybrokenmyself.

He fondled me and met my gaze. Tears welled in my heart and spilled out my eyes, and he nodded with patient understanding. I kissed himand buried myface inhis neck.

Then the rag was upon my buttocks. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I held myself rigid as he began to rub toward my nether hole. He stopped, and put a hand aside my neck to push me back enough for our eyes to meet. I pressed my forehead to his, but held his gaze. The question I did not wish to answer was in his eyes. I nodded. He hissed with pain and his Horse eclipsed all else with a rage that made my Horse wish to flee. He crushed me to himbefore I could.
flee. He crushed me to himbefore I could.

I could not speak. I did not know what I would say if I could. I was drawn and pinioned in purgatory. I wanted his forgiveness, but I knew there was nothing for him to forgive. Except… I had banished my cock. Except that my Horse had been traitorous—as had my cock—and thus made me do such a thing. I was an animal. I lacked the conviction of a man. Yet I had acted withthe convictionofa man.

Shame held me under, and my Horse began to plunge about, tryingto breathe. I did not realize I was moving, struggling with Gaston, fighting to escape, until he pinned my weak and battered bodyto the deck.

He held me stilland covered myface withkisses. I could taste his tears and hear his sobs as wellas myown.
“I love you,” he began to repeat over and over again, until at last it drowned out all else and the words took on meaning.
I stopped trying to struggle and surrendered, to lie boneless and gasping beneath him. His mouth covered mine, and I opened for him and accepted the truth of his tongue: he loved me, no matter what had been done to me, no matter what I had

done. With a hoarse cry, I wrapped my limbs around him, and

kissed himwith abandon. Nipping and licking his jaw and neck. He responded ardently at first, only to stop and push up and away. I sprang up after him, and we crouched facing one another. His eyes were full of his Horse, and I knew mine were much the same. Though his beast was hungry and regretful, and mine was hungryand pleading.
mine was hungryand pleading.

I needed him. I wanted him. I… Words finally came. “Make it allgo away,”I croaked, and held out myhand.
He sucked in a great breath and wonder lit his eyes, and thenunderstanding. He took myproffered hand.
My belly was least wounded, so I threw my weight upon it. He was a welcome presence on my back; the smell of oil the blessing of angels. I closed my eyes, knowing I would never mistake him for another. I would have known him at my birth; I would know himat mydeath.
He entered me, and my new festering wound of shame was lanced open to bleed into nothingness as he filled me with his love. With limbs entwined, we stormed heaven; and as I had done before when I had no pleasure of my own to reach, I saw the gates throughhis souland felt his release as ifit were mine.
In the aftermath, I lay absolved. He placed the knives in reach, covered us with our blanket, and curled about me protectively. I no longer felt the need to cry. I told the Gods things They already knew, and thanked Them for things They had alreadygranted.

Eighty-Seven Wherein We Escape

I woke, my body aching fromhead to toe, lying on hard boards, hearing the clump and clatter of wood on wood of barrels being moved and opened, and aware of the omnipresent but almost silent sound of water rushing beneath the hull. I panicked: it had all been a dream: I was still imprisoned. There was a body above me, and it pressed me down at my first incoherent squawk and hissed my name—the correct name— witha beloved voice.

I was safe.
I lay flat and collected my breathing, waiting for my heart to slow. There were men beyond our alcove in the hold, going about some daily business involving victuals. Gaston crouched above me, knife in hand, eyes intent upon the entrance to our den. As I stilled, he moved the hand onmyback to myface, and caressed mycheek reassuringly. I closed myeyes and sighed.
When we no longer heard the men with us in the hold, Gaston leaned down to kiss my temple, and then he flowed over me and out the entrance to crouch in the passageway and peer

about.We were cats, or more likely rats: rats on our own ship.

We should… do many things. But I did not feel like facing We should… do many things. But I did not feel like facing curious or pityingfaces anymore thanI was sure mymatelot did. I wished to hide, yet it did not sit well with me that we should

have to.“We are not well,” I told Gaston when he returned with

 

a pineapple.

His smile was wry, and very much his own and not springing fromhis Horse or Child; but his hand shook as he tried to slice the half-rotten pineapple. He set the knife aside and regarded his tremblinglimb witha heavysigh.

“I have not seen you so gripped by it for so long,” I whispered. “And evenwhenI feellucid, as I do at this moment, I feel… Non, I know, it willnot last, and… it should not last. I am deeplywounded.”

He closed his eyes as if my words pained him, and I took his hand and clasped it tightly. The sight of tears leaking frombeneathhis lids brought myown.

I sniffed with amusement. “We are drowning in a surplus of emotion. We need to get our heads above it. We need…” I envisioned us standing side by side, two centaurs on a snowy road with a blizzard roaring all about us. I told him of it, ending with, “I feelthe cart is fine, no matter what we might do.”

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “We need to lie down. Somewhere where the road is safe and level.”
“Somewhere where the road is downhill,”I said.
“Non, that will make it that much harder to climb back up again,”he said sadly.
It was a strange thought. “That is assuming our course lies ever upward.”I supposed we did make that assumption:that lies ever upward.”I supposed we did make that assumption:that our destiny lay in traversing ever more difficult terrain: Cayonne, France, his inheritance, dealingwithmyfather.
“Does it not?” he asked as if his thoughts mirrored my

own. “Oui, but not now,” I said quickly. “For now, we need

someplace warm, withmeadows to frolic in.”
“Oui.”
“Gods, I wish we could go to Negril,” I sighed; but

Negril was lost to us, and I did not dare mourn it: contemplating sorrow would suck me under.

“Non, we are bound for Île de la Tortue,” he said bitterly. “To find the babies. To catch up with the others. To retreat to France.” He snarled this last, and slammed his hands uponthe floor as his Horse raged inhis eyes.

I thought of our last visit to Cayonne on Tortuga: of Doucette and the priests. Then I thought of what awaited us there now: the matter ofAgnes and Christine: the worries about Gaston’s competence and French law: and the aftermath of all our friends had suffered… because of us. My Horse trembled and rolled His eyes.

And I was stillangrywithmybeast, and…

How in the name of the Gods were we to climb those hills inour condition?
There was no answer for that. We would manage as best we could one step at a time. I moved until I could caress Gaston’s face. His beard still bothered me: it was not unattractive, but it represented his madness.
“Let us shave,”I offered.
He took a calming breath and chuckled ruefully. “Oui. I do not like your beard.”
I pushed up painfully to my knees and found him watchingme withnew tears and concern.
“Youare inmisery,”he said hoarsely.
“Everywhere but my heart,” I said to reassure him, and then knew I should not lie. “Non: oui and non. That is more poetry than truth.” I laid my hand alongside his face and held his gaze on mine. “I only know one thing. I love you. That is all I have. Allelse is inruinor embattled.”
He kissed my palm and met my gaze earnestly. “It is mutual. I amso afraid, Will.”
“Ofwhat, mylove?”
“Oflosingyou.”
“That is also mutual,” I said, and fought more tears as I thought of what I had done to… remain with him, perhaps. I could not fathom my thinking during my imprisonment. It was a place I dared not go. Like the light at the cave mouth I had hidden from, after Gaston and I fought in Porto Bello. Except this was a dark and cold place deep inside myheart. I gasped as the chill of it swirled about me. I ran back out into the light; and felt myworld was inside out.
“They took you,” Gaston breathed. “Non, they took me, and… I could not save you. I could not save you. And they fought me: they argued: they called me mad: they made me mad: they…”
His fists were balled tightly and his eyes glittered, but I could see himfightingit.
“It is like a fountain,” he said. “A spring of hate and anger has opened in my soul. And I do not know if there is a rock large enoughto block it. I do not know ifI should.”
He met my gaze again. “Oui, the only truth I have is you. All else, all the pretty little places I built to hide things, and hold them, and… The houses I have built against the storm. They are all gone. I feel I have no friends, or family, or… nothing, except you.”
We could not climb this hill:we could not.
“Oui. I do not think we should go to Cayonne… or France,”I said. “Not now.”
“Not ever,”he breathed, his gaze onthe wall.
“I do not know that,” I said, even as a glimmer of hope ignited in my heart at merely wondering if never having to climb those mountains was evena possibility.
His finger was on my lips, his eyes intent upon mine. His face stilled withsome new thought.
“The Haiti. We will go to the Haiti,” he whispered. “Those idiots will have to sail by it to reach Île de la Tortue. We will be safe there. We can hide away.” He frowned and turned to glare out into the hold. “We willneed our weapons.”
Reliefflooded myheart and nearlytook mybreathaway. I grinned.
“Oui, oui.” I imagined us slipping away into the dense forests of that wilderness he had often described. We did not need to be chained to a cart on a road: we were the cart; and could not the world be our road? There would be no wives, no babies, no fathers, no titles, and no pitying friends. There would only be us, and our memories, and thoughts, and… That might be hillenoughfor us to climb, but was that not what we needed?
Now that we knew what we wished, we began to go about preparing for it. We attended our morning needs, dressed, shaved, and assessed our supplies with the happy industry of men recovered from a long illness. There was irony in that we were preparingfor our convalescence.
We poked about the hold and discovered there was little left to take. The
Queen
had not unloaded her Spanish plunder or provisioned. Silks and candelabras would do us little good.
I was pleased when I discovered a writing desk replete with parchment, ink and quills, though. I pulled up a small barrel and sat for a time consideringa blank sheet.
“Who will you write?” Gaston asked when he found me there.
“I wishto write myfather… perhaps,”I sighed. “I would tell him I hope he is billed at great expense for that frigate; and that he should tell Thorp he does not possess enough money to hide fromme; and that I would see themall in Hell. But I do not feel I am in the proper strategic state of mind to calculate the effect of such a letter—or to write it without sounding like a maudlinand angryboy.”
Gaston rubbed my head sympathetically before taking a deep breathand saying, “I should write mine.”
I nodded and made great show of moving aside to offer himmyseat. I was surprised when he quickly sat and rubbed the dirt fromhis hands before taking up the quill. I had not expected himto show suchenthusiasm.
“I wonder what the date is,”he said.
“I do not know. It was the end of May when we arrived inPort Royal, and youallsayit has beenthree weeks since then, so mid-June, perhaps.”
Gaston frowned; as did I when I realized the import of mywords.
“My birthday has likely come and gone,” I said. “I must be twenty-nine-years-old now.”
I was horrified that perhaps Thorp’s attentions occurred on my birthday, but I supposed it was as likely Gaston’s rescue had. The Gods seemed to find humor in delivering me from fate in celebration of my birth: or perhaps in giving me renewed life, as ifI were reborneachtime.
“I know you will count the rescue as your gift,” Gaston was saying, “but I am not pleased with that alone.” He was frowningand serious.
“Non,”I shook my head and smiled. “That was not from you. Youstillowe me a gift.”
He grinned. “What would youlike?”
“You have already named it. We shall seek peace and a chance to be reborn. You shall care for me while I frolic like a