Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (33 page)

principle.“I willsend Gaston,”I said.

“Youmaycome withhim,”she chided lightly. “Thank you.”
“And where is this plot ofland?”
I produced my crude map and pointed up the hill. She

traced the awkward lines ofher propertyonmyparchment and I smudged it in with charcoal as best I could. Her land ran far up the mountain, coming down to form a wedge with a field where the house was, and then running south in a strip to the channel where it widened a bit to encompass a cove—the one in which our ship anchored when not off trading with English colonists. It looked to be the unwanted land remaining between two plantations. Doucette had not been interested in being a planter, so it made sense he had owned it.

“Not muchofthis plantationis arable, is it?”I asked.

 

She shrugged. “That is not why we bought it; but nay, it

She shrugged. “That is not why we bought it; but nay, it is not. There is enough field for us to grow food to eat, but not enoughreasonable land for cane.”

“So sellingsome ofit willnot trouble you,”I teased.

She snorted and thenmet mygaze earnestly. “Take what use you will from it. I have what I need here. I do not need a side ofthat mountain; and we do not need your money. Consider it a gift.”

“Thank you. I in turn will be giving it to Gaston for his birthdaynext week. Please do not…”
“I willsaynothing,”she said witha sure smile.
But I wondered what she thought behind her apparent kindness and calm. I was gripped by the notion she might be going mad in her own way: mad with worry; mad with frustration.
I left her and returned to town with a heavy heart despite myhavingaccomplished mygoal.
At my description of her, my matelot became quite keen on going to see her immediately; and so we were soon riding double onPomme’s wide back, returningthe wayI had come.
“Do youfeelguilt?”Gastonasked me as we rode.
“Sometimes, oui, but then I push it away and give my Horse his head and find myselffrolickingonce again.”
“Good,”he said and kissed myshoulder.
His lack of censure for my lack of concern actually troubled me, though. It somehow managed to cast our happy existence these last two months into bas relief against the rough and troubled expanse ofour lives. Perhaps I was supposed to be

doing more. Or, perhaps, I was supposed to learn to worry less

doing more. Or, perhaps, I was supposed to learn to worry less and let the Gods dealwith matters I could not. I supposed one’s assessment of whether one was doing too little or enough was measured by what one thought it was possible for mere mortals to accomplish. I continued to comfort myself in that my father seemed far beyond mypurview.

Sarah was understandably surprised at my quick return, as were Pete and Striker, who were finally up and about. I went to sit and chat withthemwhile Gastonexamined mysister.

“Is something wrong?” Striker demanded once the door to the house was closed.
I sighed heavily. “She does not appear well. She looks… tired.” I decided her word was better than the ones I might choose.
“SheBeWithChild,” Pete grumbled and, leaving the remains of their repast, went to sprawl in a hammock strung between the porch end posts. From there, he glared at me behind his matelot’s back.
I sighed heavily yet again:I was already chastising myself for Striker’s tense posture and deeply-graved frown. “Tell me, do you worry every waking moment that my father’s men will arrive?”
Striker snorted and spoke smugly. “Nay, not when I’m

drunk.”I attempted to contain my exasperation. I watched

 

Pomme sniffa goat kid that had dashed itselfagainst his great leg whilst boundingabout inplay.

 

Striker was studying me. “I should think you would have

 

reasonto do the same.”

 

reasonto do the same.”

I shook my head. “My aim is to prevent my father from ruiningmylife. IfI spent everymoment worryingabout himdoing so, he would have accomplished said ruination without ever sendinganother manto these West Indies.”

He shook his head withobvious exasperation. “How can yousaythat?”
“I am endeavoring to learn the wisdom of choosing my battles wisely. For example, I cannot win this one with you, and it willonlyserve to make us both angry. We know one another’s position:there is no need to argue.”
Striker left the porch to pace about the yard and kick at chickens—who deftly avoided him while complaining loudly. I thought it likely they would not lay well on the morrow: just as my sister would not lay well in her own fashion after living with her husband’s perpetualteeth-gnashing.
She was apparently as capable of becoming overwrought as a hen. Thoughmymemorywas clouded, and my visit with her during those dark days brief, I did not recall her appearing to ail from worry while we were held captive by Thorp. Nor had she seemed so very worn when we returned from Maracaibo; even after months of waiting and troubles on their part. I would need to question Theodore on that last, but it was entirely possible my sister would be far better off without Striker underfoot until this matter was resolved. All concerned save Striker alreadyknew it would be better for him.
Perhaps armed with this new weapon I could enlist Pete in abducting him and throwing him aboard our own vessel the next time it sailed offto trade.
next time it sailed offto trade.
The Golden One was languidly watching his matelot’s antics witha mixture ofconcernand disdain. He felt mygaze and turned to regard me witha resigned mien.
“He needs to sail,”I mouthed.
Pete sighed.
“It would be best for Sarah,”I whispered.
He nodded resolutely and whispered back, “NextShipThatSails.”
I was not sure if he jested or not; thus I was only partiallyrelieved.
Gaston was pensive when at last he emerged from the house.
“How is she?”Striker demanded.
“She is… tired,” my matelot said with a bemused expression. “The baby is healthy. Your wife should rest more without… distractions.” His expression firmed into one of surety and his next words were frombehind his physician’s mask. “She should not have to worry that you are in town drinking every night. She should not have to worry that you drink too much. She should not have to worry that you will not be prepared to defend her iftrouble arrives because youare drunk or intown.”
Striker’s mouthfellagape.
I stifled laughter. There was a choked sound from Pete behind me.
“We always leave someone here to watch her,” Striker protested.
“She wants you,” Gaston said firmly. “If you are not willingto remainwithher, youmight as wellbe at sea.” willingto remainwithher, youmight as wellbe at sea.”
“You bastard!” Striker said with more amazement than

anger. I thought of how sad it would have been if Pomme had

been butchered, and thus managed to keep my face properly somber. Gaston was taking a completely different tack than the one I had favored, but it could better serve to solve the problem quickly.

“She said that?” Striker asked as Gaston began to walk byhim.
My matelot sighed. “Nay, she is your wife and she loves you and she would never say that. I am her physician, and it is mydutyto saythe obvious.”
Striker glanced at me, decided not to tarry, and went on to gaze upon his matelot. I fought the urge to turn and see the Golden One as he did. Instead, I watched Striker and saw his face age fromboyish defiance to manly resolve in but a moment. He nodded and strode past me and into the house. I finally looked to Pete and found him calm, with the eyes of an ancient being.
He looked to Gaston. “ThankYou.”
My matelot nodded sadly. “She needs to rest and worry less.”
Pete nodded. “We’llSeeToIt.”
With that, Gaston and I mounted Pomme and headed home.
“What
did
she say?” I asked when we were safely

away. He sighed into my shoulder. “She is torn between her

 

Horse and… Woman. Obviously, she did not sayso, but I could hear it.”

“As did I earlier this day,” I noted, as I realized that was indeed what I had witnessed.
I felt him shake his head. “One of them blames you; the other merely wishes a resolution. I do not know her such that I cantellwhichis which.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted sadly. “Did she say precisely what she blames me for? I mean, I know whyshe might be angry with me, but it is the blaming that confuses me. Will she truly be satisfied withnothingless thanour father’s head ona pike?”
“She does not feelsafe,”he said.
“She blames me for her lack ofsecurity?”
“Will, I feel she might blame all men for her lack of security,”he sighed.
“Oh,”I said stupidly. “Wellthen, I cannot solve that.”
I felt him shrug, and then he embraced me to nuzzle my neck. “She is not inour cart,”he whispered.
I supposed she was not. She was married to another man; and even beyond the matter of men, she had chosen her course. I had not asked her here—to the West Indies. I had not asked her to fallinlove withStriker.
I saw my Horse looking at me in the weary-eyed way Pomme did when I asked him to traverse heavy brush. I sighed to myselfand resolved to hack my own way to the truth:I would not have protected her, either. We did little enough for the women in
our
cart. I was a piss-poor brother and husband; and saying it was because I truly loved none of them as I loved my manwas not a good excuse—or rather it was merelyanexcuse.
Civilization and society were structured such that women could not care for themselves like a man could. If a man took womeninto his life, he had best be up to the added responsibility and not do as I did and simply expect themto behave like men. Theyliterallyand figurativelycould not.
“We have always said we must take better care of them,”I sighed, “but truly, we must…”
“Take better care of them,” Gaston finished with me and

chuckled.“I keep forgetting they are not men,”I said. “Even ifthey

possess education and money, there are still hurdles of law they cannot leap.”
“True,”he sighed. “I think it sad.”
“It is. And a bloody bother. I am Sarah’s only trustworthy relation. If her husband—and his matelot—cannot care for her, she is myresponsibility—or rather, I amresponsible for her—
or to her
. And I do not wishit. Just as it angers me that Yvette is now in our care. They should be able—non, they should be
allowed
—to care for themselves.”
“We are responsible for Christine, too,”he mused.
I gave an incoherent groan of frustration, and Pomme glanced back at me withconcern.
I sighed. “When I feel my responsibility for you—to you —it makes me walk taller. WhenI think ofthem—and the babes —I just feelpressed down.”
“So do I,” Gaston whispered reassuringly, “but perhaps it is a burden we will grow stronger under; just as we have grownstronger ever pullinguphill.”
“I suppose it is. I suppose I hope it is.”
“I think it is much the same as being a lord,” he added witha thoughtfulfrownI could hear.
I frowned, and was glad he could not see it. He was a lord now, and froma long line ofthemwho purportedly took the welfare oftheir people quite seriously:as opposed to very nearly all the other nobles I had encountered. I tried to recall my own thoughts on lordship—from when it had briefly loomed as a possibility in my life. The plantation had been a failure of my good intentions. Nay, I had simply failed themby not giving them myundivided attention. I had met Gastonand allothers had been tossed from… Well, I had not even considered myself to have a cart then.
“It is good I am not a lord,” I said. “I am slow in accepting responsibility—very slow. It is as if my journey to manhood was detoured when I fled England as a youth. Only since returningthere have I begun to traverse it again. It could be said I have the cares and attentions of a man barely in his third

decade.”He embraced me tighter and sighed. “The same can be

 

said of me. In all that truly matters, it is as if the years I lived before youdid not exist.”

When I viewed it in that manner, we were doing very well indeed. “We should be kind to ourselves,” I said with amusement. “We are barely past being earnest boys filled with idle dreams.”

He snorted. “Will, we are still earnest boys filled with idle dreams.”
“Oui, and it is sad for those who must depend onus.” “Non,” he said and kissed my neck. “We are very

earnest.”I smiled and felt a little of the weight lift from my heart.

We were trying, and we did mean well. Though it chafed, we were takingresponsibilityfor those who depended uponus. That had started withlittle Jamaica last year.

Still, I fancied I would end up as swaybacked as Pomme fromthe weight of it all. I was heartened that he still managed to bear us withlittle trouble. It bode wellfor myfuture.

We did not see Pete and Striker that eve. Initially, I saw this change as an end to their days of frolicking; but then I realized that since Striker’s drinking was brought about by his worrying—essentiallyhis inability to frolic—perhaps the potential end of his drinking would allow himto choose a new path—one that involved frolicking. Or perhaps, he would go mad without rumto drown in, and take off for England to do things I did not wish to think about. In the end, I prayed the Gods wished for men to frolic and lead good lives of love and caring; and that They did not value war and valor as much as the poets of old seemed to think They did. After all, did the Gods not spend Their days frolicking?

Ninety-Five Wherein We Pray for the Unborn

By March fourth—the day before Gaston’s birthday—I could barely contain my anticipation. I had informed the priests who assisted at the hospital that Gaston would not be available on the fifth unless there was a dire emergency. I had arranged with Henrietta to have a yearling pig roasted and a brandied cheesecake prepared. I had even obtained Sarah’s permissions for Pete and Striker to attend the fete.

I had wanted Sarah to attend, but with both her and Rachel as big in the belly as whales, it was impossible for either to ride or walk the distance between the two houses. Sarah chose to forego the fete in exchange for our coming to visit the next day. She claimed that the unfamiliar mayhem of such a gatheringwould probablybe a bit muchfor her anyway.

Thus, I was prepared, and now the day could not arrive quickly enough. I sometimes laughed at my enthusiasm. It seemed I had very little to occupy my days; but in truth, even if my days had been full, the chance to finally honor my matelot properlywould have eclipsed allelse.

My matelot appeared oblivious. As always, he said not one word about his impending change of age. By the time we one word about his impending change of age. By the time we finally retired to our room the night before, I had achieved that silly stage of anticipation that makes one want to sleep faster in order to bring the desired event closer. I was not even interested in trysting. I thought I would have enough of that on the morrow, once I got him up to the land and we had some privacy. I was even hoping there would be so much Horseplay we might forget to return for the fete—well, almost: that would trouble a number ofpeople.