by Sawyer Caine
“Frederick,” I whispered as I ended the ardent kiss.
“Yes, my love?” he asked innocently.
“You own my soul,” I confessed.
“Love, don’t say such things, its blasphemous,” he exclaimed..
I drew him across the floor, and we fell together onto the big bed. The evening breezes stirred the red curtains and the sound of the capoeira band receded into the streets below us as we lay together. Rays of sunlight swept over the floor and the bed, falling warm against our exposed skin as we stripped each other. Hands clasped and unclasped, our breaths mingled for heartfelt kisses as our bodies responded, longing to join together. I’d taken Frederick in the hotel in France, so it was now my turn to surrender to him. I didn’t mind doing so from time to time, but I much preferred to play the dominant role. He left the bed for a moment and when he returned to me, he had in his hand the bottle of oil from my overnight bag.
“Are you sure, my love?” he asked sweetly, his face wearing an enquiring expression.
“I am most certain, Frederick,” I replied as I rolled onto my stomach and relaxed against the bed.
He moved up between my legs, pushing them apart gently. I craned my neck, turning my head to one side so I could watch him prepare himself for me. He knelt, stroking his manhood firmly, his head down, his mouth slightly open, and his pink lips moist and tempting. I relished as much of his porcelain skin as I could take in from my limited position. He was beautiful to me. It stirred my longing to the point of near misery.
“Won’t you kneel up for me, lover?” he pleaded. How could I refuse him? I rose up on my hands and knees and felt him moving behind me. His fingers slipped easily into me and searched for that spot within that made me nearly unman myself when he discovered it. I pushed at his hand like a greedy child and he laughed, stilling my hips with his other hand.
“Slow down, my sweet! Do you want this to end so soon?” he asked.
“Just do it, Frederick! Impale me with it, I don’t care!” I cried lustily.
He laughed softly, then replaced his questing fingers with his much more substantial length. As he invaded my tightly-strung body, I gasped and lowered my head to the pillow to hide the pain on my face. It never mattered how many times we engaged in this illegal debauchery, it always caused me pain. It seemed I could not find a way to relax and give myself to it as Frederick could. He surrendered without thought, yet I fought to the end. I would never be able to submit as completely as he could. I didn’t know if it was the English noble, the young Lord Heathwood in me, or if it was my masculine stubbornness that refused to acknowledge I was a man who loved other men. Such an abomination would never be accepted in my upper class world, though I knew I wasn’t the only man who engaged in such behavior. What one does behind closed doors is one’s own affair, or so I believed.
Frederick moved so slowly and carefully within me that his pace almost drove me mad. I tried in vain to behave and hold still for him, but it was futile and I moved of my own volition, pushing back on to him and increasing the speed of the act in order to reach the finish. That was how it always was with me. If I could have had my way, it would always be rough, nearly violent and quick, a capture and defeat between the sheets and a rapturous explosion of pleasure. I loved Frederick, but the act was purely for enjoyment and I knew it. So did he, and he never held it against me.
“My love, will you spill before me?” he cried, the amusement obvious in his voice.
“Never!” I hissed between my clenched teeth as I fought to hold off my pleasure.
He sweated and gasped with shaking breaths, my precious and beautiful lover. I knelt up and pushed my back against his chest, supporting myself with the high headboard of the exquisitely carved bed. This position proved too intense for my love and he let loose his release, falling against me with his chin resting on my shoulder. I was able to stave it off for only a moment more, stroking myself with one hand and holding his weight up with my strong back as I felt the waves of intensity take me, sweeping me away with it, with the fading music and dancers, away over the tiled roofs and into the mysterious jungle awaiting us. The jungle that we would enter the very next day on a journey that would surely be an adventure more exciting and eventful than anything Frederick or I had ever known.
Chapter Four
August 16, 1934
To say that I was looking forward to that day would have been an immense understatement. I was bubbling over with excitement, yet on the surface I somehow managed to maintain a calm, gentlemanly façade. Frederick was oblivious to my discomposure. We sat together on the palatial front porch of our hotel, sipping steamy cups of rich black coffee and waiting for Thomas. The young father had promised to come for us at dawn. He’d be taking us to the monastery to meet Father Dawes.
Frederick cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his wicker chair, shaking out the newspaper in his hands. “Alfred, I wish I’d learned just a bit of Spanish in school. I can’t understand a thing on this page,” he mused.
“Never mind it, love. Thomas is coming.”
We stood up, and I extended my hand to him. “Good morning, Father Moreland. Will Father Dawes be introducing us to our young, native guides this morning?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe he wishes to talk with you first. Shall we board the tram car?” he asked, gesturing to the horse-drawn tram that stood waiting at the steps of the porch.
Frederick and I followed the monk into the tram, and I paused to remove my tweed jacket before sitting down on the cracked red leather seat. The heat was nearly unbearable. Neither Frederick nor I was used to it. The moisture that hung in the air made me nearly gasp for breath. Frederick unfastened the top three buttons on his cotton shirt, revealing his milky white chest. I noticed Thomas’s eyes move over him as Frederick eased back against the seat. I gave it no thought, however. Frederick was a pretty boy. How could I fault Thomas for taking a passing glance.
“May I inquire as to your ages, gentlemen? I don’t mean to pry or seem obtrusive, but neither of you look a day over eighteen,” Thomas stated.
“I’m twenty-four, Frederick replied. “Alfred is twenty-eight.”
“I see,” Thomas replied. “Have either of you ever been in Venezuela before?”
“No, sir, my grandfather was the explorer. I’m just here to clear up a difficult matter, but rest assured I’ve done thorough research into the dangers of this place. I plan on being extra careful,” I replied. “All that being said, Frederick and I will truly be at the mercy of our guide and his sister, the interpreter. Tell me, Father, are you acquainted with either of the young natives?”
“I have met Nekana. She is quite a beauty but very headstrong and stubborn. She’s brilliant, though. She picked up on English and Spanish very quickly. She’ll be attending The Central University of Venezuela at the capital city of Caracas this fall on full scholarship. She’s planning to study medicine and hopes to return to Tucupita to open a hospital for the natives. The Capuchins have given her their full support in that venture. As for her brother, Nekai, I can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ve heard plenty about him.”
“What have you heard about him?” I inquired as I lit a cigarette and handed it to Frederick before retrieving one for myself. I offered the pack to Thomas, but he respectfully declined.
“I’ve heard Nekana talk about his skill as a hunter and a warrior. He’s only seventeen, but she tells of a hunt during which he fought bare-handed with a wild boar and subdued it. I believe the young lad is quite strapping. She describes him as being rather tall and of substantial build. Most of the native Warao men look much like that. They have to be sturdy to survive in their harsh environment. We see it as inhospitable, but it’s paradise to them. Given the choice, nearly all of them will return to the jungle and live near the river rather than stay at Tucupita.”
“You’ve described Nekana as being stubborn and headstrong. Will she be difficult to manage on this trip?” Frederick wi
sely asked.
“No, she understands her position is that of an interpreter and despite the fact that she is older, she must obey her brother when she is with him because he is the oldest son of her family. The Warao people are a patriarchal society, and the women know their place. Here, Nekana is treated like every other woman but among her own people, she must behave submissively to the dominant male in her family clan. Since their father will not be with them, she will have to defer to Nekai,” he replied.
“And what of him?” I asked. “Did she allude to his temperament in her descriptions of him?”
“You have nothing to fear from him, Mr. Heathwood. He is just a boy. He knows his way through the jungle and will be invaluable in a fight. He will hunt for all of you, and he will lead you. He understands his position as well. That being said, I would warn you both not to do anything that he might find offensive. The Warao people are not warlike, and they are most hospitable when it comes to foreigners, but they do have their wild customs. You don’t want to find yourself on the defensive against him all alone and far from help,” he warned.
Frederick swallowed hard and glanced at me. I took a thoughtful drag from my cigarette and blew the smoke out through the open side of the tram car. The streets were coming alive around us as the sun rose above the tiled roofs. Women were visible among the adobe and stucco houses, hanging clothes on makeshift lines strung between the buildings. Soon enough, the mission came into view as it stood at the far end of the main street and rose several stories above all the other buildings near it with the exception of the grand old Catholic church across the street.
The mission was a narrow, light brown stucco building with tall, slender windows of stained glass. The tram stopped directly in front of it, and Frederick and I climbed out followed by Father Thomas. He led the way through a pair of wide, acacia wood doors carved with scenes from the Bible. The inside was dark and cool. The walls were painted with murals of the baptism of Jesus in the Jordon River. The artist was very skilled. As Frederick stood inspecting the paintings, I wandered about looking at the finely carved wooden furniture and breathing in the scent of the sandalwood incense.
Thomas took his leave of us and went to find Father Dawes. I stepped out the open side door to take a look at a charming little garden secreted away in the square courtyard formed by the mission and three outbuildings. That was when I saw him for the first time. I found I was without speech or breath. My body coursed with adrenaline, and my palms moistened. My first impression of him was that he might be an angel come to rest in this house of God.
He was tall and muscular; his long, black hair came down nearly to his waist and was tied loosely in a leather thong at the base of his neck. He was dressed only in a rust colored loincloth made of some leather-like material. He wore no shoes. He stood sideways of me, and I could see only his profile. He seemed to be enthralled with something I couldn’t fathom at first, then it occurred to me. He was listening to the music, the chanted hymns of the monks. His expression was curious, and he was concentrating hard on the sound, leaning slightly forward as if to hear it better.
I stepped out into the little garden, walking on the stone path toward him. I was drawn, unable to resist moving closer. I longed to see his face clearly and hoped he would turn toward me. As if in answer to my silent prayer, he did so. When he beheld me, a white man, he gave pause to his fascination with the music and studied me instead. Though I tried not to gape in fascination, it was nearly impossible.
He tilted his head to one side as if confused and regarded me in a most inquisitive manner. I smiled and nodded to him, and he nodded back. I wished he would smile in return, but he did not. I wanted to step closer still. His eyes were captivating me; they were so dark and deep set with very long, thick lashes. He had an angular face with high cheekbones and the fullest, most sensual mouth I’d ever seen on a man. Yet his exotic features and that rich, dark skin made him seem most mysterious to me. Could this be our young guide? Again, fate would answer that very question for me.
“Nekai!” I turned toward the voice, feminine yet deep and smoky. The woman who had spoken to the boy was also a native. She stepped into my line of vision and gestured for the young man to come to her. He gave me one last glance, then dropped his head and moved quickly and gracefully toward the woman. I followed his retreat, drinking in the view of him as he moved among the flowers and ferns. He seemed very nearly a man and yet his face was still that of a boy.
As they disappeared into the doorway, I heard Frederick calling from within. I took a breath to steady my shaken nerves and tried to assess my jumbled feelings as I headed toward the sound of my love’s voice. I ducked my head and slipped back inside to find Frederick standing with Thomas next to an older, grey-haired man who I presumed was the aforementioned Father Dawes. My deduction would prove to be correct. I would come to like him immensely. He was a great hulk of a man, and I could see that he’d been a massive fellow in his youth. He had told me in our correspondence that he was seventy, but I would never have believed it. Though his hair was grey, his face and his body seemed much more suited to a man in his early fifties. He was quite handsome with dark skin and eyes. Though a priest, he wore his hair slightly long and tied it back in much the same way as our young guide. His smile was infectious and everyone around him couldn’t help but be moved to smile as well. He clamped his big, strong hand on my shoulder and greeted me with a thick Scottish accent, making me feel as if I hadn’t left home at all.
“Well, Lord Heathwood, I see the man I knew as your grandfather in the young man before me. You look very much like him or rather as he did when I first came to know him years ago. He was just as cultured and sanguine as you. This lad with you, Frederick, he’s rather entertaining. He’s been informing me of the reason for your little journey. I must say, I’m surprised to learn that an educated English noble would succumb to silly superstition about a little native statue.”
We were all quite startled when a strong gust of wind blew through the open garden door and put out the candles, sending the heavy, wrought iron chandelier swinging in a wide arc above us. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had fallen and crushed the life out of our little group. It would have been fitting.
“My, the weather certainly does change quickly around here, doesn’t it?” Frederick asked, clearing his throat nervously.
“Come, now! Surely you don’t think that was caused by my flippant remark? Gentleman, I’m sure you are both chafing to be on your way, but I would like just a moment of your time before I acquaint you both with your Warao guide and his sister.”
“I’ve met him already,” I said.
“Met who?” Frederick asked.
“Nekai,” I replied.
“Good heavens! Where on earth did you meet him?” Frederick asked.
“In the garden,” I replied. “He was listening to the monks singing Matins.
“It’s too late for Matins!” Frederick objected. “They are singing Prime!”
“Quite right, my good man,” Father Dawes remarked. “Nevertheless, Nekai is not as he would seem. He may appear rather quaint and harmless, but he isn’t. He’s very strong, and he is a cunning fighter and capable around the river and in the jungle. He won’t steer you off course. You will need Nekana to communicate with him as he doesn’t speak a word of English. He can understand a few words, but he makes no effort to learn it. He isn’t stupid, he’s just practical. He knows he will never leave the jungle or his people. I’m surprised he agreed to come here with the rafts men. It was my understanding that Nekana was to accompany you to the Warao settlement and pick up Nekai there. I suppose curiosity got the best of him.”
“He looks older than seventeen, Father. Is he really that young?” I asked.
“Yes, he is. I’m surprised that he hasn’t gone through their coming of age ceremony yet. Nekana was telling me just this morning that he hasn’t been through it. I suppose it’s because his father doesn’t think he’s ready. Maybe t
his trip will prove his mettle. Did I tell you that their father is the shaman or leader of their tribe? Nekai will one day have that position to fill if he survives to adulthood.”
“What do you mean if he survives?” Frederick asked.
“Their life is very hard and fraught with peril. He could be killed by enemy tribesmen or die of simple infection. He might be injured during a hunt. At any rate, I’ve had the raft men load your supplies from the hotel onto their barge, and they’re waiting for us on the docks. Nekana and Nekai have already gone down to them. Shall we make our way there?” he asked.
Frederick stood up and followed the priest. I took a lingering look around this place, the last vestige of civilization that I would see for I knew not how long, and then I headed out after them. As we neared the docks, I got another look at our native companions. The woman I’d seen earlier, Nekana, was standing near the raft, her hand resting on one of the steamer trunks. She was dressed in a pair of men’s safari pants, boots, and a green button-up blouse. Her hair was cut to her shoulders, and she brushed it impatiently back out of her eyes. When she turned to me, I saw how similar and yet different she looked from her younger brother. I turned toward Father Dawes.
“How old is the woman?” I asked.
“She’s twenty-two, but mind you don’t get any ideas my young Lord!” he admonished. “Nekai would hack you to pieces if he even suspected you desired her. At any rate, she’s betrothed to a fellow from Caracas.”
I glanced at Frederick, and he was looking back at me with a devilish grin on his handsome face. He was thinking, as I was, that Nekai had nothing to fear, for his sister, from either of us.