Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1)

by Stevie Prescott

  He charged out of the water, fighting it rather than letting it carry him as I had. With no word, no preamble, he grabbed me, yanking me toward him. I stumbled in the sand, but he still pulled me against him, his hands everywhere.

  "Let me kiss you, Létice! Please, let me."

  I began to wonder if he knew any other imperative verbs. How strange it was, even then, when I had no understanding of the sort of man I wanted. For I'd already offered myself to him in the most brazen way possible, after two years of his relentless pleading and teasing. I'd already made it clear the prize was his. And yet he found it necessary to go on cajoling and whining, in a way that began to cause me distaste.

  Still, I let him lead me to the cove, where in the dusk that was falling, within one of the maze-like passages, we would be seen by no one.

  Eagerly he stripped off his breeches, and propelled me to the ground in a fashion that was just short of being pushed. I did glimpse his erection, hardly impressive compared to my father's, but then again, I thought, perhaps all for the best, this being my first time. Before I could say anything he was on top of me. He began to kiss me, grinding his mouth against mine, while I waited for him to calm himself a little, praying it would be better then.

  My wrap was still between us, covered in sand and water, and he dragged it away, until I felt only his body over mine. It was the first time anyone's nakedness had ever met my own, and I couldn't help but be excited by it, as he went on kissing me, which was not so pleasant. It surprised me that, being a Frenchman, his kiss was so awkward, and though he tried to put his tongue in my mouth, in truth what he managed far better was to slobber all over me. His lips were terribly chapped, and this, too, made the sensation less than agreeable.

  In the end it didn't matter, for he grew bored with my mouth fairly quickly, falling instead on my breasts, as I'd fully expected, licking and sucking and squeezing. This, too, excited me a little, but only a little, and I felt the slickness rising from inside me, far thicker than the beads of water between my legs. I'd seen the expert way my father had lowered himself over his witch, touching her with driving passion, but with a certain expert skill. Compared to it, Eugène seemed like a greedy child, trying to stuff as much flesh in his hands and mouth as he could.

  Soon, far too soon, he was foraging between my legs, even though I wasn't ready for it. Still, each time he brushed over the crown I drew in an excited breath that he didn't seem to hear. I actually lifted my hips, trying to call his hand back to the place that gave me such pleasure. Instead he was rooting, like a pig in truffles, everywhere but the place I was begging without words for him to touch.

  Breathless, he croaked, "Let me now, Létice," as he continued his quest. There was a rage growing inside me then, an ugly aversion. Remembering what Solange had said to my father, I suppose I thought I might touch some chord of manhood within him by demanding, "Then do it, Eugène! Fuck me!"

  My incendiary words startled him. I heard his indrawn, feverish breath, and he did, indeed, race to obey, increasing his speed, but not his skill. Instead, my words so overheated him that he seemed to grow even clumsier, and more determined, his eager fingers groping me in spasms. But when I opened my legs farther, it must have stretched the passage wide enough for him to find it at last. With a little cry of victory he shoved himself inside me, and to my shock I nearly screamed, the sound only muted by the fact that I choked, as well. I'd known it would hurt. But after all Nana had said about the natural inevitability of it, I hadn't expected that much pain, especially considering the size of the cod doing the ravishing.

  He must have heard me scream, it couldn't have been otherwise, but he behaved as if he hadn't, pumping away madly once he'd found what he sought, until I thought his eyes might roll back in his head. Unlike my father and his whore, he said no word to me, nor did he look at me, as if too overwhelmed by his own sensations to realize someone was lying beneath him, someone still suffering with every thrust, a thing I made clear as my cries continued in time with his hips, all to no avail.

  After a lesser number of strokes than my father had laid on me with the switch, his eyes glazed over, his body stiffening, and I felt the cock inside me begin to throb, until soon a heat spread out in me, one I barely felt through the burning pain. He ground on, slower now but deeper, each stroke accompanied by a contortion that gripped him. At last they eased, and he shuddered, groaning, his eyes closed tight.

  With no warning he collapsed on top of me, and I realized it was over.

  For a few minutes, as he fought for breath, I wondered if the pleasuring would begin now. I wondered if it had only been such an empty, fumbling anguish the first time. But I realized the truth of the thing when he raised himself on his palms on either side, looking down at me with a broad, satisfied smile, his brown eyes sparkling.

  "God, that was incredible. You're wonderful, Létice."

  Wonderful. I was wonderful. I'd lain down beneath him on the ground and spread my legs apart. A cow could have done the same. And he called me wonderful, his eyes bright, as if we'd traveled up to paradise together.

  With that, I wriggled my way out from beneath him, bent only on escape, snatching up my madras as I ran for the clean, clear water. I heard his voice behind me shouting, "Wait! Aren't we going to do it again?"

  Thoughtlessly, and I suppose cruelly, I called back over my shoulder, "Not if I can help it!" before I plunged into the water, diving beneath, going as deep as possible as quickly as I could. Shame was beginning to settle over me, of a sort I'd never felt before, my first taste of a very adult regret. Swirling underwater, spinning my body like a crocodile, I rubbed with my wrap between my legs, trying to wash away any remnant of him in the depths of the crystalline water.

  Time has softened the memory, and yet, one of the most vivid images in my mind came that night, after I'd hidden myself in my room. I washed out my wrap, as I always did, and saw a thin strand of blood on it. It took me an addled moment to realize it was my blood, my virgin blood. A thing I could now never offer a husband. I'd given it away in a childish rage to a pretty and pathetic boy. Rather than hanging it on the line, I hid the madras until it was half-dried, and the next night I burned it. I had two days left at Presque Isle. With any luck, I would never set eyes on Eugène Ducasse again.

  I shall leave off telling of the pain of my farewells, the tears I tried and failed to hide that racked me throughout that last day. My father remained stoic, a thing that sharpened my grief further, though he embraced me at the docks and wished me godspeed, promising me a great ball on my homecoming. A thing that was never to be.

  As the ship pulled from its berth, sails unfurling to take the swelling tide, carrying me from the two things I loved best, my father and my home, I resolved to dry my tears, for I could do no other in any case. It was that ruthless pragmatism taking hold. I lost a dear childhood friend at a tender age, to smallpox, for the miraculous science of inoculation, being purposely infected with a strain of the dread disease, had not yet reached our island. Thinking of her in that moment, I resolved to forgive myself Eugène Ducasse, and to turn from no experience out of fear of remorse, for surely the most agonizing regret is of what we haven't done, the cup turned from our lips for fear of the delights within it, leaving only parched regret. I tried to look forward, not back, to the potential for adventure that lay ahead, despite convent walls being so high.

  Instinctively, I knew there was much more to the joining of a man and woman than the brief, pathetic tryst that had brought me no pleasure, brought nothing but pain and disgust. I knew I'd fallen victim to my own impatience and spite, choosing badly, nay disastrously, the first young man to present himself with an erect prick in his hand.

  But I had no understanding that I was like a lamp in a darkened corner, filled to the brim at its core, the wick dark and dry, waiting only for the single strike of the flint to set it aflame, for this was its incendiary nature. I would have to pass through the fire, enduring an experience of horror and outrage,
one from which many women might never recover, in order to face this truth. The fire in that darkened lamp was lit, and could never be extinguished.

  Chapter Five

  It was an important shipment for my father, being his first of the precious coffee beans, and this was why he'd chosen my uncle to transport it. He was to carry them across the Atlantic to sell in Cairo or Amsterdam or Cadiz, free to discover en route where the best price was being offered. Then we would sail up the coast of France to Saint Nazaire, from whence I could easily travel to Paris, while my uncle would fill his holds for the return voyage.

  He was an American named Josiah Carpenter, and his ship, the Sophie, was named for his wife, my mother's sister. Americans were common in our harbors, but he was the only one I really knew, and I wondered if they were all so blunt and open but so kindly a race. He was a seaman body and soul, with a dry wit and a rigid code of honor, out of a nest of seamen with the unpronounceable Indian name of Massachusetts.

  The Sophie was a brig rather than a full three-master, but an American brig, quick to the helm, with clean lines and an experienced crew. My uncle cheered me greatly on our voyage, and gave me an opportunity of practicing my English. Americans had a taste for sugar, and the fact that they'd outlawed the infamous Triangle Trade had not ended their truck with the Indies. He was a fiery abolitionist, and though he abhorred the violence of the French Revolution, a devout republican.

  Often he carried a few passengers, but on this passage there was only myself, his crew of around forty, and the precious coffee. He gave over to me the best of his cabins, which was small but clean, every inch of space utilized to some purpose, my narrow berth crammed between cabinets above and below. There was one roughhewn table nearly as long as I was tall, perhaps where all the passengers gathered for their meals. It only made the room less navigable. But the cramped ship, the inedible food and brackish water, all of it faded in my excitement over the journey.

  To my uncle's surprise I suffered little seasickness, and I troubled to learn the workings of the brig, in which he happily indulged me. This vessel was no skiff but a gigantic machine, and each piece of canvas had its purpose in the manipulation of the wind. I was fascinated by the sea cannon as well, not unlike the cannon in the bulwarks that tried to defend my island from the British.

  Being a merchant vessel, we were not armed to the teeth, but depended upon convoys to protect us, tagging in the friendly shadow of the Dutch or the Spanish, since the Americans had no vast navy to sail escort, as did the British. We were the enemy of England twice-over, as the Sophie was my aunt's dower, and consequently registered as a French ship. The French tricolor proudly flew at his mast alongside the American banner, pronouncing this brotherhood of republican nations both fighting England's king.

  My uncle was a well-traveled man, and as we neared the African coast he began to tell me something of the Maghreb, the exotic lands of Morocco and Barbary. These were busy trade waters, plagued by pirates since Pompey the Great assured the Roman Senate he had cleared the seas of them, in the first century before Christ.

  The Barbary pirates of North Africa were the stuff of legend, their lethal vessels, called xebecs, terrorizing these waters for centuries. The fierce Barbary States were the possession of the Ottoman Empire, and for many years the great nations of Europe had paid a tribute to them, to keep their shipping safe, though at the moment all was undergoing a time of restless change, leaving us in more danger than we knew.

  When we saw the Straits of Gibraltar in the distance, the narrow passageway into the Mediterranean the ancients called the Pillars of Hercules, my heart beat faster. Yet I felt a deep melancholy as the sun set, while I wondered if I would ever see my home again. My uncle was beside me at the rail along the waist, and we watched together, while I said out loud the words that had insinuated themselves into my head.

  Adieu, adieu! my native shore

  Fades o'er the waters blue;

  The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,

  And shrieks the wild seamew.

  Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

  We follow in his flight;

  Farewell awhile to him and thee,

  My native land—Good Night.

  Though I wore a smile, he saw the sadness in my eyes, and took a jocular tone, to lift my spirits.

  "And did you write that yourself, Missy?"

  "Of course not. The poet is a young lion named Lord Byron. I memorized poetry to help with my English."

  "I don't know poetry, but fighting with your Aunt Sophie's done my French no end of good." I laughed as he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Byron. Isn't he the one who got himself tossed out of England for bellying with his sister?"

  I was surprised over his knowledge of such a thing.

  "Not precisely tossed. And I believe it was his half-sister."

  "Well, little Miss, he won't be going halfway to Hell for it."

  "Their father was from your world, Uncle, a sea captain. 'Mad Jack' Byron, they called him."

  Nodding, he conceded with undeniable pride, "I admit, we're a lusty lot. Which don't mean it's all right to do as you please."

  "And the British say Martinique is a hotbed of illicit passion."

  "It ain't the place. Greenland will do, for that sort of libertine."

  To the starboard side I could see Tangier in the distance, its white buildings tumbling down the mountainside to the sea, the walls drenched in blooms.

  I sighed, "It looks like the Arabian Nights, doesn't it?"

  "Missy, you've had your nose buried in too many books. The Arabian Nights got about as much to do with life here as the man in the moon. It's a melting pot in North Africa, every race on earth. Used to belong to people called Berbers, and there's plenty of 'em, and some Christians, and the Jews, who run some of the big trading houses along the coast. That's why the language is such a stew. They call it the 'lingua franca.' It's a jumble of Spanish and Turk and French and Italian. I've picked up a little, to trade. But still, most of 'em are Musselmen. And the women ain't Scheherazade, believe you me."

  He turned serious, adding, "Truth is, the women are pathetic. Men here are swine where women are concerned. The slave markets are bad enough. I saw one once, in Cairo. Wished later I hadn't done it. They call them okels, set up like souks to sell plain goods. It would make your flesh crawl, even though most of the women don't seem to think much of it. They're so beaten down, they think nothin' of being looked over like sheep. Some of 'em even smile and tease, to try to get bought by the one they want. I couldn't believe it. They sell young boys, too, and I won't soil either one of us sayin' what for."

  He sighed, shaking his head. "But it's no better bein' a proper wife. Doesn't make sense to me. They get stripped naked in the market, but the rest of the time they all go about covered up in this heat, even their faces. Like someone threw a bed quilt over 'em. They have to ask their husband for permission to use the piss pot. They even mutilate them, when they're only little girls, cutting away their womanly parts. That's what they think makes for a decent woman. Bastards."

  Bewildered, I asked, "I don't understand. How do they bear children?"

  He laughed, rather lasciviously. "No, you don't understand." His brow knit. "May be you're too young. But you'll learn soon enough, I suppose. You see, it's not like a eunuch. With them poor little boys, they take all the parts, the whole three-piece service. Cruel as the devil himself. There's a Christian monastery in Egypt where they're famous for it." He harrumphed then, adding, "Leastways, they call themselves Christians. But with the women, the parts they cut away bring a woman pleasure when her husband beds her. The rest is let alone, so they can still have children. The Musselmen can marry four wives, you know, but most of 'em can't afford it. I know myself what one wife costs," he said, grinning. "But any man with enough money can keep a whole harem if he likes. They beat them, for no reason but their own amusement. Same with divorce, they can do it with a word, God forgive them. For their women, marriage is nothing bu
t hell, start to finish. Might as well be slaves."

  All of it was shocking, but when I realized what he meant, the sickening thought of my sensitive nightly plaything being cut from my body, I felt the sudden need to retch over the side for the first time.

  It was that night, after the sun set, that the fog rolled in off the coast of Spain, and we lost sight of our escort. We reefed in the sail and slowed to a crawl, desperately trying to find them again.

  It was a strange night fog, not like smoke, and it was eerie standing on deck as if suspended in a midnight sky without stars, with no bearings at all. The water was black as the sky above, with no line of separation between.

  We crept blindly onward, my uncle rarely leaving the deck. He'd been troubled since we'd stopped for supplies two days before, and I knew of his concern over an attack by British privateers. I didn't realize his fears were darker. One of the mates told me the Barbary pirates had slunk back to their harbors, leaving these waters open to other predators, particularly the Salé pirates of the western coast, a famed brotherhood out of every nation of Europe. Their fortress home was dangerously near.

  My uncle put his arm around my shoulder to brace up my spirits so deadened by the inky blackness, as he said in a bluff tone, "Don't be afraid. It's been quiet for months. I don't think there'll be any trouble."

  The Chinese believe one should never say such things, that it is inviting the gods to rain down the disaster arrogant Man has dismissed. I think, perhaps, they are right.

  The first sails were sighted at dawn in a clearing sky, pacing us, flying a French flag, which meant next to nothing. By the time I rose, during breakfast, I could feel the silent tension on deck, and climbed up to find we were being tracked.