by Bruce Blake
“What...” Ailyssa began, but forgot the question she meant to ask, searched for something else. “What is your name?”
She chastised herself silently as soon as the words were spoken. Men kept for breeding didn’t have names; slaves alone did, and then only so they’d recognize when their mistress required assistance.
“Judging by the lines on your face, I’d not have taken you for an attendant,” he said. A warm rush of blood filled Ailyssa’s cheeks. The man patted the coupling bed beside him. “Nor would I expect you to be nervous. Fear not, you are not my first older Ra.”
Ailyssa said nothing. He tilted his head.
“You are Ra, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said and took two steps toward the coupling bed. The shift she wore—the same one she’d worn so many times before—seemed very thin today, very transparent. She’d never worried about its ability to hide her body before. “I’m just not used to a man speaking so many words.”
“Many say they enjoy my voice. I can speak less if you like.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“Good. Come sit with me, then.” He patted the mattress.
Ailyssa inhaled deeply through her nose, smelled the scented oils the attendants had rubbed on her skin and the aroma of the ones used to anoint him. The fragrances blended in perfect harmony, forming a concoction worthy of the Goddess, as they were meant to. The perfume calmed her and she took the last few steps across the room to sit beside him, though not close enough that their thighs touched. He laid his hand on her leg and the calmness brought by the scents fled from her.
“You are tense,” the man said. “Perhaps the attendants did not complete their job. Shall I rub you with more oils?”
“Yes.”
Ailyssa didn’t want more oil slopped upon her skin and dreaded the thought of more than the thin shift touching her raw flesh, but if she could delay the coupling, she intended to do so. The man leaned in, kissed her on the cheek, then rose and strode across the room to a shelf mounted on the wall. Six ornate bottles sat upon it. He perused them, lifted one and held it to the light, then put it back. He took another down, removed the stopper and inhaled its scent.
“Rose oil?”
Ailyssa didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her gaze stuck on his right shoulder blade, where a wine-colored birthmark stood out against his olive skin.
“Have you—” She stopped and swallowed hard; he regarded her over his shoulder. “Have you always had that mark?”
He craned his neck, attempting to see his own back past his long hair. “On my shoulder?”
“Yes.”
“As long as I can remember.” He returned the bottle of rose oil to the shelf and chose another, wrinkled his nose at the odor. “I’ve never liked hibiscus.”
Ailyssa scarcely heard what he said. Her head spun, making her dizzy and her stomach churn with nausea. She stood from the edge of the bed, knees wobbling.
“Where...where were you born?”
“Ha!” The man replaced the bottle on the shelf and faced her. He gestured toward his swollen manhood. “Do you not see this? I am a man. I was not born; I have no mother.”
Ailyssa swallowed hard and put her hand on the wall to steady herself and keep from falling. The saliva in her mouth dried up, but she licked her lips despite the lack of wetness on her tongue, desperate to get out the words she needed to say.
“Yes, you do,” she croaked and used her other hand to wipe away a sheen of sweat from her freshly-shaven head. “I am your mother.”
IV Washin' Ashore
A sandy scent filled his nose and he coughed salty water outta his mouth, the result of a breath he weren’t never expectin’ to breathe.
Horace Seaman lay with cheek pressed against the beach, waves lappin’ 'round him and washin’ the sand out from underneath him. The briny stink, the sun’s sticky heat, and the watery sound rushin’ near his ears all suggested he may yet be livin’, but he hardly believed it, so he didn’t bother openin’ his eyes. If he did, he feared findin’ out bein’ inside the God o’ the Deep’s belly smelled and felt precisely like a beach and he might, at any moment, get shit out into a hell beyond a man such as himself’s imaginin’. He didn’t relish the thought o’ hell, and he didn’t much appreciate the idea o’ bein’ shit, neither.
Somewhere above, a gull squawked. Somewhere distant, another answered.
Ain’t no birds flyin' 'round in the God’s belly.
He parted his lips and blew out his air in a stream; it burbled in water sittin’ by his face.
Is there?
After a moment, he thunk up how to know for true, and it involved openin’ his eyes and havin’ a peep. He inhaled another careful, unexpected breath past the water near his mouth, takin’ yet more time to convince himself this were necess’ry, that he couldn’t just lay here forever waitin’ to see what’d happen. Be it worse knowin’ you was gonna be shit out into hell, or waitin’ for the bowel movement to surprise you? Horace ground his teeth together hard and convinced his eyelids they should part company.
At first, he saw nothin’ but light and remembered a story that one hell were full o’ fire, with people burnin’ and burnin’, awaitin’ the end of time to put a stop to their misery. Here’s one thing Horace knew: no matter where you found it burnin’, fire didn’t stink of ocean and beach, nor sparkle like the sun upon the sea. After so much time with a ship’s deck beneath his feet, the stench o’ the sea and the day’s shine upon the ocean’d be two things Horace reckoned he recognized without no trouble.
He blinked to clear the stingin’ salt water outta his peepers and made to raise his head for a better peek, not sure if the thing’d do what he asked of it. It did, providin’ him a wee, uncomfortable twinge to his neck and an ache in his forehead along the way. Didn’t seem nothin’ like what he thought bein’ dead’d be.
With his head held up, he laid eyes upon a beach stretchin’ away into the distance. A line o’ green and brown seaweed cut across the sand, a border keepin’ the ocean from crawlin’ into the tumble of rocks in turn holdin’ the forest back from meetin’ the sea. He rolled with a grunt and looked the other way, spyin’ nothin’ but the same thing, only layin’ in the other direction.
“Fuck me dead,” Horace Seaman said aloud, surprised to hear his own voice again, though it came out no better’n if a frog spoke the words. “I be livin’.”
He moved his arms and found them workin’ without much protestation, then propped himself up on his elbows. Straight ahead were more o’ the same: sand, seaweed, rocks, forest. Limbs o’ unfamiliar trees swayed with a gust of wind, long needles quiverin’ against one another and whisperin’ a tune what brung a chill to ol’ Horace’s warm, wet flesh. Bumps crawled along his forearms, beggin’ for him to get himself outta the water.
His feet churned and splashed in the hated ocean. His toes dug into sand, slipped, dug in deeper. He lurched forward, pushin’ himself farther onto the beach, toward the border of seaweed, the rocks, the trees. Somewhere beyond lay a world without no boats and tides, without no gales makin’ waves what’d toss a man 'round in the manner of a child’s plaything, and without no god lurkin’ down below what wanted to make a meal outta you and shit you out in hell. Horace didn’t know where he’d landed or what world it might be, but he intended to find out rather’n layin' 'bout awaitin’ the tide to come in, bringin’ the ocean ashore to finish what it started.
Horace Seaman got his knees up under him and crawled away from the sea. His hands splashed in wet sand, water swirlin’ 'round his fingers, and he kept goin’ until one palm rested in dry powder. He stopped and looked at the grit pressin’ up between his digits, lifted his hand and gazed at the fine grains stickin’ to his wet palm, and Horace Seaman laughed.
He shuffled forward more quicker until he reached the seaweed border. Its pungent odor invaded his nostrils, each strand smellin’ as though it contained the whole ocean inside it, the stench threatenin’ to roll
his stomach upside down, though weren’t nothin’ in there for him to puke up. Crunchy brown ends o’ dry seaweed crinkled under his hands, and wet, green strands squished and squelched beneath his knees. He dragged himself across the verge and energy filled him, like a bird finally free o’ the cage he’d been locked in for nigh on to thirty-five turns o’ the seasons.
Horace rested his hands on the closest rock, its surface warmed by a day spent lyin’ in the sun like he’d done, and pushed himself upright. Water dripped outta his wet hair and stubble, his soggy shirt sleeves, his sopping shirt front. He shook himself hard, sent a watery spray flyin’ onto the rocks, and climbed to his feet, wobblin’ all the way. His knees quaked, habit makin’ them adjust to a heavin’ deck no longer beneath his feet, and he bent down and put a hand upon the rock again.
He stayed that way for a time, wonderin’ what anyone watchin’ might think 'bout a man what looked akin to a baby takin’ his first steps in the world. But weren’t no one spyin’ on him, Horace knew. And if so...fuck’em, anyways. He were alive and them seein’ him teeterin’ like he ain’t never stood before weren’t gonna change the fact, only proved it.
After a while, his knees ceased shakin’ and Horace laughed. He laughed louder and longer’n he ever remembered laughin’ before. He laughed for his feet standin’ on dry land, he laughed for bein’ free of the cursed ship and the cursed sea what bore it, he laughed for bein’ alive and, most of all, he laughed for not bein’ shit out into hell.
Horace straightened again and found his legs happy to hold him upright this time. In fact, he felt pretty good on the whole for a man what been drowned like a bilge rat and ate by an angry god. Pretty damned good, indeed.
He took a step and pain shot through his foot. Horace glanced down to see one o’ his boots gone, lost somewhere between fallin’ in the water and washin’ up on the beach. Maybe that’s ev’ry bit o’ him the God o’ the Deep ate—just one boot. Could be he’d swallowed him after all and spit him out, likin’ only the flavor of his left boot and the rest of him turnin’ his godly stomach. Horace moved his barefoot offa the rock diggin’ into his sole and laughed again. No matter why he were without a boot, no matter why the god did or didn’t burp him up, he were alive enough to cut his sole on a rock, and doin’ so made him want to laugh and smile in spite o’ the pain.
Horace moved forward again, pickin’ his way amongst the smaller stones, limpin’ on his hurt foot and glad to be doin’ so. As he hobbled across the rocky patch leadin’ toward the trees, his mind finally turned to wonderin’ how long ago the simpleton sent him tumblin’ o’erboard, and where he’d set ashore. Without knowin’ the length o’ time the sea’d been carryin’ him, or what tides’d picked him up, it weren’t possible to figure where he’d landed.
With the last stretch of rocks and the length of ten tall men separatin’ him from the first line o’ trees, Horace Seaman stopped dead in his tracks.
Did I float right the way to the Green?
After all them turns hatin’ the sea, maybe it turned out the sea hated him, too, and floated him into more danger’n he ever imagined. Could be the ocean wanted him dead but didn’t have the sand in its sack to do it, so sent him somewhere for a mess o’ Small Gods to eat him after the big one didn’t like the taste o’ nothin’ but his left boot.
Horace ain’t never been on land anywhere near the Green before, only ever spyin’ it while standin’ on a ship’s deck with his staff shrivelin’ and his ball sack cowerin’, but distance enough between him and it to keep his man-parts safe ev’ry time he had to sail the turn. He knew the stories 'bout the Small Gods as surely as he did the ones 'bout the God o’ the Deep. Weren’t no tellin’ which to be more afraid of. With his feet closer to what might be the Green, his eyes starin’ into the curtain o’ danglin’ tree limbs and tangled brambles, he weren’t sure he wouldn’t rather be back on a boat.
The sun frowned down on Horace, dryin’ his clothes and heatin’ his skin, but he shivered nonetheless. The Devil’d been a hundred leagues or more from the turn—no way a feller coulda floated so far without drownin’. Weren’t possible for a man without his wits to stay alive so long.
Were it?
He squinted into the messy tangle o’ thorns and needles, branches and limbs, each one resemblin’ a twisted arm, a taloned hand. A windy gust shivered through the trees, whisperin’ and tauntin’, invitin’ him into their shade to see what lay beyond.
Horace peeked back o’er his shoulder at the sea what spit him out on the beach, the wind what set the branches quiverin’ throwin’ waves across the water. Where were that wind when the Devil lay like a corpse upon the sea?
The waves rolled up the sand, reachin’ for him, graspin’ at the air to find him and drag him away, but ol’ Horace Seaman weren’t gonna have none o’ that. The sea’d had its chance to end him when Dunal slapped him o’er the wale, and near on thirty-five turns o’ the seasons opportunity before that. If it hadn’t managed by now, weren’t no way Horace’d give it another go. Weren’t no sayin’ if he’d drifted all the way to the Green or not but, if he did, maybe the Small Gods wouldn’t enjoy his flavor no better’n the God o’ the Deep. Maybe he tasted like shit to ev’ry god there were.
A deep breath reekin’ more of fresh sap and decayin’ foliage than hot sand and briny ocean filled Horace’s chest. Weren’t enough to fill his heart with courage, the way a deep breath tended to do for the heroes of the tales told at ev’ry tavern along the coast, but Horace Seaman weren’t no hero—never thought, expected, nor wanted to be one. Horace Seaman were a man afraid o’ what lay ahead o’ him barely a cunt hair less’n what lay behind. But a cunt hair is a cunt hair, and that be a damn wide distance when a man’s life be at stake.
Before proceedin’, Horace reached 'round to his back pocket and found the rag what weren’t there for no purpose but wipin’ sweat from his brow, surprised to find it still hangin’ 'round when his left boot didn’t come along for the full journey. He wrung the sea water outta it as best he could and bent forward to wrap the cloth 'round his foot, tyin’ it off at the ankle, finally givin’ the fabric square another reason to be. When it were done, he took a step, placin’ his rag-wrapped foot careful on the ground and pleased it protected him from stones. In his haste to protect his bleedin’ sole, he didn’t hear the quiet plop of a possum tail he kept in his pocket for the purpose o’ bringin’ him luck fallin’ amongst the rocks.
Another breath what still didn’t make him into no hero entered Horace’s lungs and he set out into the trees, hopin’ too much time hadn’t passed, hopin’ he hadn’t floated too far. Meetin’ one huge god were enough for any man’s lifetime; he didn’t want to go introducin’ himself to no gaggle of little ones.
Horace picked his way into the forest, on the one hand hopin’ not to’ve floated all the way to the Green where lived the Small Gods they told stories 'bout at some o’ the taverns along the coast nearer the turn, and on the other hand hopin’ to find one o’ them taverns, ‘cause he could sure use himself a pint o’ ale.
That’d stop his hands from shakin’.
V Lessons
The distinct sound of a sword clashing against plate assaulted Danya’s ears, but she didn’t turn away from her own opponent. As sparring partners went, Droinfeld’s skills had deteriorated with age, but he possessed enough to keep the princess on her toes. Still, she wanted to see if her brother was finally getting the better of Trenan after seasons of practice.
She parried, swung, and danced away, spinning the old knight around to give herself a glimpse of Teryk and Trenan over his shoulder. Whatever had happened, she’d missed it, because the two of them were stalking each other in a tight circle, Trenan presenting his sword at just the right angle to attack or defend. The left sleeve of his shirt hung limp at his side, the end tucked into his sword belt. Even with one arm, Trenan could better any swordsman in the kingdom.
Teryk, in comparison, held his weapon at a precarious angle that required unnece
ssary extra energy to wield, and his shield sagged by his knees, improperly taunting his opponent and inviting attack. Danya wished for the master swordsman to grasp the opportunity and teach her brother a lesson this time.
Trenan swung his sword in a slow, looping arc that Teryk deflected with his shield. Seeing the ease with which her brother defended himself, she understood today wouldn’t be the day for the prince’s real life lesson.
Danya returned her attention to Droinfeld, a man of more than sixty-five turns of the seasons. His white mustache drooped at the ends and sweat streamed from beneath his helm, causing him to blink incessantly. The princess realized that the drooping, the blinking, and the pink glow in his cheeks meant she was wearing him out, as she always did when she allowed their sparring to last long enough to give her some exercise instead of vanquishing him in short order.
To his credit, Droinfeld kept coming at her—as he should, given his job was to teach her the art of the sword. Despite the heaving gasps struggling their way into his lungs, and the pronounced effort his arm required to swing a good blow, he remained on the attack.
Sometimes, Danya wasn’t sure who was teaching whom the art of the sword.
Their swords came together with a clang that shuddered up her forearm, the corked tip of Droinfeld’s weapon waving a hand’s-breadth from her face, but she had full control of his blade. The tip ended its path exactly where she mean it to, the shudder in her arm efficiently absorbed. The edge of her blade scraped along his as she flung it aside and lunged at him. To say the old knight danced out of the way might have been a flowery exaggeration, but he awkwardly managed to dodge her attack. They each stepped back, opening space between them, and Danya smiled.
“Well done, sir,” she said and bowed her head without removing her eyes from his.
Droinfeld’s mouth opened as though he might reply, but only a great huff of breath leaving his lungs passed his lips. Instead of speaking, which seemed as though it might have been beyond him right then, he nodded.