Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (59 page)

stand.”I nearly blanched at the thought of him eying me so, but

then I laughed anew. “Then if this will aid you, my friend.” I dropped my breeches and wiggled my arse in his surprised direction before waddling offto another tree accompanied by his

laughter.He slipped away for a time. I tried not to think of him

handling himself while fantasizing about my body beneath him. The image made me shudder: somewhat due to memories of Shane and Thorp, but more in that he was simply not the type of manI sought.

I distracted myself by contemplating why we were all so tense on this voyage. We had surely sailed for much longer in even tighter quarters. Yet on those journeys, there had been far more men about; and like strong spice in a stew, the rankling taste of little privacy and intimate concerns had been softened and leavened more evenlyamongst manypieces ofmeat.

When he returned—gruff and sheepish—we decided we had done enough gathering and returned to the boat. I left Cudro to stow our bountyand went to joinmymatelot.

He was casting as I approached, and I watched him whirl the weight, hook, and bobber over his head until it whined like a bee, and then release it so that it flew in a graceful arc out above the waves to plop into the darker trough of water between two sandbars. Then he squatted next to the fish he had already caught and regarded me with welcome and curiosity as I came to stand beside him.

“Were yousuccessful?”he asked.

“Well, as we did not have to lure and hook our quarry, oui, we proved to be quite capable at the task.”
He chuckled. “I only asked because you appear pensive.”
“Ah,” I said and regarded the annoying mountains to the east. Fromwhere I stood, blue-green waters rolled away to the north, and green, black land rolled away to the east and south, and the mountain rose like a wall in our path. “Cudro is worried.”
I told him of my conversation with the Dutchman, and even of my butt wiggling and contemplations of our being too small a stew to properly distribute the more pungent spices of

life. “Do not wiggle your arse in front of Pete,” my matelot

 

said quite seriouslywhenI finished.

I chuckled, only to sober as I recalled Pete’s hunger from the other night and quickly perceived how that scenario could go fromcomicalto tragic.

“Is that what men getting on well together requires: a steadydiet offornication?”I asked.
“Or them being resigned to none at all,” he said and shrugged. “But buccaneers are not monks.”
“Were the monks so truly happy?” I asked. “I have ever seenpriests squabblingamongst one another.”
Gaston grimaced. “Well, there was the problem of the sheep… and the donkey.”
I grimaced and laughed. “Oui, oui, it is unnatural for men to go without.”
“Well, it becomes unnaturaliftheydo,”he said.
“Like here, where men who do not favor men cleave to one another fromnecessity,” I sighed. “But the more of that, the fewer troubled farmanimals.”
He turned to frown at me. “So you perceive it as natural

if men favor one another, but unnatural if they do not?” There

if men favor one another, but unnatural if they do not?” There was teasing in his tone, but it was well embedded in sincere curiosity.

I grinned. “Oui. It is not unnatural for a man to love another; but even I feel it can be unnatural for a man who does not love mento love one merelyfromnecessity.”

“So you are saying I have long viewed you as a donkey?”Now he was trulyteasing.
I sighed, wondering at my thoughts. His words were scratching at old wounds, but they had long since scarred over and I felt no pain or blood. “I suppose that follows. I once felt that, did I not? And that any who loved me when it was not natural for them, loved me all the more because they were doing anunnaturalthingfor mybenefit.”
“You are not a donkey, my love,” he said with a smile. “You are the
natural
recipient of my
natural
needs and affections.”
I laughed and embraced him. He kissed me until he abruptly stopped to manage the fishing line that was jerking in his hand. He hauled the catch in and I waded into the surf to grab a sleek silver fish as long as my forearm. I clubbed it soundly and tossed it atop the other three he had caught.
“We should pair Ash with Chris if they will agree to it,” Gastonsaid thoughtfullywhenI sat beside himonce again.
I sighed. “Oui, that would be the
natural
pairing, but it stillangers me.”
He smiled. “We are unnatural creatures, Will. Natural creatures do not think so very much, and hold grudges and

opinions and do all manner of unnatural things. They are as they

 

opinions and do all manner of unnatural things. They are as they are:as the Gods intended.”

“Are we not as the Gods intended?” I asked with a mix ofamusement and curiosity at the turns ofmy thoughts. Was that not the question of humanity: the question of Christianity even? Were we as God or the Gods intended, or was the whole battle for goodness not waged for or against us behaving in the manner God intended? “I suppose that has ever been my disagreement with Christianity: the whole business of why did God make us as we are if He does not wish us to behave as we are so prone by our natures to do—specifically with the matter of sexual congress.”

Gaston chuckled. “I was pondering that very thing. Finding pleasure in coupling is natural: why do men seem determined to think that God views it as evil?”

“It is the hubris of man,” I said. “Their God, our Gods, nothingdivine has anythingto do withit at all.”
“Oui,” he said. “So praying will not make our voyage anysmoother.”
I laughed. “Non, non, we can pray we are soon graced with a larger stew pot and many more pieces of meat so that those ofus withunmet needs cando what comes naturally.”
He sighed. “It will still not solve Ash’s problem. And, truly, Chris is not faced withunnaturalness—
he
favors men.”
I chuckled as he baited his line with a fat beetle and cast it into the surf again. Then my humor ebbed away as I watched himstand above me withthe annoyingmountains behind him. My man was beautiful as always, but he was thinner—truly noticeably thinner. Months of living a leisurely life in Cayonne, noticeably thinner. Months of living a leisurely life in Cayonne, and then weeks of illness and cramped quarters had robbed him of the dense rippling muscles that had graced his bones since I first knew him. He was still strong and handsome, with nary a pocket or bulge offat beneathhis scarred skin, but he lacked the physique he had once shown.
As I reflected on it, I realized Pete was much the same. He had not begun to grow a paunch such as Striker had been tending toward, but he was not as he had appeared when first I

met him.I studied my arms. I was much as I had ever been as a

man, but I was also not at the peak of formI had attained a few years ago when I had routinely joined Gaston in his exercise—or engaged in other labor, or even—dare I say—practice with a blade.

“We should engage in calisthenics,” I said, and immediately winced as I recalled how weak he was. “Not you…”

Gaston nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, everyone else should, rigorous exercise dulls anger and other natural urges.” Then a guilty frown tightened his face. “I think I will merely fuck you.” This brought a weak smile as he turned to me. “As in doing that, I have no need for a substitute ofthe other.”

“My love, I am content—non, I am elated with that amount of exertion on your part—until you heal. Then we will work hard to keep you from becoming soft and thick as Striker is doing,”I teased. “Beinga physicianis not laborious.”

He chuckled. “Non, we will have to work hard to keep frombecoming fat once we return to a simple life.” He regarded frombecoming fat once we return to a simple life.” He regarded me seriously with the guilty mien once again. “You should spar withPete:youare correct, youbothneed it.”

I nodded and sidled closer to him to kiss his cheek. “I will quit lazing about and…” I sighed, now unsure of my initial choice of words. I changed my tack. “I will take care of you as you have always done for me whilst I healed from my misadventures.”

He sighed and kissed me. “I amsorry.”
“For what: getting shot: breathing water while almost drowning? I should smack you for your impudence in the face of fate.”
He snorted. “Smack away, I cannot put up much of a

fight.” Then I could see the fear in his eyes in the harsh

afternoonlight.
“We are one,”I whispered. “I willpullfor now.” “Will, you may need to pullfor a very long time,” he said

withfear and shame.
“Gaston,” I chided. “I would rather carry you as an
invalid for the rest of my days than lose you. Damn it, we have
always spoken of carrying one another in our madness, but the
same is true ofour bodies. I do not care ifyou can no longer run
five leagues and fight armies: you will always be ten times any
other man in my gaze—non, a hundred times. And you do not
need to be Achilles to do what you do best: loving me and
healingothers.”
He sighed and smiled and met my gaze. “I truly have no
doubt you willalways be here for me; it is just that I have always doubt you willalways be here for me; it is just that I have always
had to fight—always… And this weakness scares me, Will.” I thought of allthe times I had been wounded and weak;
until Gaston, they had always been periods of fear: primarily
because I could not always trust those around me and the worst
things in my life had come from those I sought to trust. I had
been forced to learn to trust my well-being and safety to my man
very early in our life together. He had not yet had to learn the
same ofme.
I kissed himand stood. “Trust me.” I shed my tunic and
placed myweapons beside himsave a pair ofknives. “Youdo not appear weak,”he said witha smile. “Thank you, but I amnot at mybest, either.” I pointed to another clump of rocks projecting onto the
beach a good league away. He nodded. I kissed him atop his
head and dropped downto the sand.
Running was awkward at first as my stiff muscles
became accustomed to the process, and then it felt good to run
for the pleasure of it. I missed Gaston being at my side, but
knowing he was keeping an eye on me made my heart glad as I
breezed alongside the dark and tangled forest. I purposely
ignored the knowledge that there would be little he could do if a
Spaniard stepped fromthe trees.
Sadly, I discovered how verysoft I had become before I
reached my destination. I pressed on anyway, determined to at
least achieve the rocks before walking for a time. I did it, and
panted in the surf before turning and walking back for a good
half mile. Then I had my breath again and I was able to run the
rest ofthe distance back.
Gaston was laughing with me when I returned, panting,
to his side. “Perhaps we should go ashore everyday.” “Apparently,”I gasped.
Once I had my breath again I embarked on a series of
calisthenics, with him chiding me for my poor form when I
became lax.
Cudro came to join us as Gaston was holding my feet
and countingout sit-ups.
“Are youtwo at that again?”he asked.
“Youshould joinme,”I gasped.
He patted his belly and grimaced. “I should, but…” he
sighed. “I should. But not today.” He pointed at the lowering
sun. “They’ve been gone most of the day. There’s daylight left,

but…”I looked to the sinking sun and felt anxious. They had

beengone quite a while.
“Oui,”Gastonand I replied ingrimagreement. “I saw where they entered the forest, there should be a

trail,”Gastonsaid.
“I know they could come out anywhere,” Cudro
rumbled and scratched his head sheepishly, “But I’d like to
follow that traila ways…”
“Will can go with you,” Gaston said. “I will prepare the
boat to sail.”
“They’re probably on their way, and we’re just being
foolish,”Cudro said.
“No harminlooking,”I said.
Cudro and I donned our weapons and headed where Gaston indicated. I could not see a trail per se, but I could see the path of easiest passage through the underbrush. Cudro felt this was the path they would take, and so we followed it untilwe reached a clearing. Then Cudro squatted in the lengthening golden rays and examined the ground until he decided our
companions had departed the clearingthroughanother path. We had gone not a hundred yards further when Cudro
called a halt and held his hand up for silence. I soon perceived
the eerie lack of bird calls ahead of us that ever seemed to
presage the noisy passage of men. Then, I too heard what the
birds had: a muted cacophony of sound ahead and to our right.
Soon the sounds sorted themselves into bleating, quiet cursing,
and the thrash and crack of a person battling the undergrowth
witha cutlass. It was not comingfromahead ofus onthe path. It was very likely one of our friends, but it could also be
someone else entirely. I had realized when we left the clearing
that we were indeed on a path created by either man or beast.
We had seen no smoke over the trees this day, but there had
beena strongbreeze fromthe east.
Cudro and I exchanged a look and I shrugged. He stuck
his fingers in his mouth gave a loud whistle. The thrashing
stopped, as did the cursing: the bleating continued. Then there
was a flurry of violent activity and the bleating stopped with a
few pained animal grunts. Oddly, this was followed by a
wretched humansob—a woman’s.
“Chris?”I hissed sharply.
“OhLord, ohLord,”I heard himcry. “Who? Will?” “Oui, we are coming,”I assured him.
We pushed our way through the undergrowth until we
found himonwhat could barely be considered a path in the thick
brush. He was surrounded by three dead goats, the bloody
cutlass still clutched tightly in his hand. His face was tear- and
blood-streaked.
“Where are the others?”I asked urgently.
He gestured helplessly behind him. “They’re following.
They’re supposed to be following. I don’t remember the trail
being this poor. There were Spaniards. There’s a whole
plantation over the hill. We found a herd of goats. And, and…”
His features tightened with remembered horror. He forged on
past some impasse in his memories. “Pete said to take goats and
run back to the boat. I could not remember which path. The
goats fought me and theywould not be silent.”
I grasped his slimshoulders and shook himlightlyuntilhe
met my gaze. “Ash and Pete were well when last you saw
them?”
A nod.
“Theyare bringingup the rear?”
A nod.
“Was there analarmsounded at the plantation?” He shook his head and a shadow passed through his
eyes.
“Were youseen?”I pressed further.
“Theyare dead,”he said weaklyand looked away. Cudro held up his hand for silence. We listened and
heard more unruly goats—fromthe direction of the path we had
left. Cudro and I gathered the rudely slaughtered carcasses at Chris’feet and led himback to the other path in time to find Ash hurrying down it dragging a brace of goats behind him. He almost shot us. Then to my surprise—and even more to Cudro’s
—he embraced his former matelot.
“Pete?”I asked.
Ash nodded tightly. “Guarding the rear. They heard the
shot, but we don’t think they’ve found the bodies yet.” Though, of course, incredibly curious, I held my tongue
and took the lead in forging down the path back to the clearing
and then the beach. We could sort through events once we were
at sea.
Gaston did indeed have the boat ready to sail when we
at last emerged from the trees. He regarded our approach with
apparent glee and then mounting worry as he saw more and
more ofour state. He asked the obvious as we deposited bloody
goat bodies inthe bow. “What happened?”
“We are well. I am well,” Ash assured us. “We came
upona plantation.”He turned back to scanthe trees. I did too, in time to see Pete emerge fromthe tree line at
a run.
“Go!”the GoldenOne roared.
We did not argue the matter:we threw the two live goats
aboard and then ourselves and pushed our craft out into the
cove. Pete dove in and splashed and then swam toward us as
Gaston and I began to row and Cudro raised the sail. Amotley
assortment of seven Spaniards roiled out of the brush and onto
the beach. Upon seeing our craft, two of them aimed muskets
while the rest tried to get within pistol range. Gaston and I were