Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  “Aye,” I snapped, fiercely holding onto my anger in the face of his reasonable words. “And you think you know better than we how we should behave or what we should do.”

  “Aye, I think it’s the duty of a friend to protect a man from hurting himself when he’s not able to think clearly. When he’s mad with rum or… just mad.” His gaze flicked to Gaston.

  My matelot snorted disparagingly. “I am quite well at the moment.” He leaned out the window. “We can swim it.” He whispered to me in French. He overturned the table and began to kick two of the legs free.

  The pitying look upon Striker’s face re-ignited my flagging purpose.

  “We are not going to die!” I yelled. “It is our choice! It is my choice! I will love who I will. I will bed who I will. I will live where I will. Friendship and caring does not give you the right to tell me how to live.”

  “Will! For Christ’s sake!” Striker sputtered. “We would never… Damn it! Aye, I made a mistake in Porto Bello! I have not repeated it. We only locked Gaston away because he was threatening to kill people if we did not do as he wished.”

  “As I am now!” I howled.

  Striker was dumbfounded, and his mouth opened and closed several times before saying, “Will, you would do the same if it were Pete or I.”

  “Aye, which is why I cannot trust you now!” I yelled.

  The Bard’s hammock wiggled until the sound of quiet chuckling escaped it. “Give them their damn weapons,” the Bard said.

  A weak smile had slowly suffused Striker’s features; and Pete, his hands held wide in supplication, had moved to retrieve the oilcloth-wrapped bundle of our muskets from where they were stowed beneath the hammocks.

  The door burst open, and Cudro filled the frame, one hand held to his head where I had struck him. He glanced about the room before locking his gaze with Gaston. “What the Devil are you going to do, swim?” he roared.

  “Oui,” Gaston sighed. “I was going to place the weapons on this table and tow it behind us.”

  Cudro swore profanely in Dutch before turning to bellow at the men behind him. “Fetch a canoe!”

  I shook my head. “Nay, we cannot go out on deck to board it. You will be upon us if we do.”

  Cudro looked to me with incredulity before turning his gaze on Striker.

  Striker shrugged. “I say let them go kill themselves if that’s what they want.”

  “For the love of God!” Cudro sighed. “Fine! We’ll push the canoe through here and you can launch it through the window. Let your sister go, though, Will. If you let her go then this will be a thing we can all laugh about over a bottle someday. You have my word no one will stop you. If you’re this damn determined then…” He shrugged.

  I looked about. Pete seemed resigned but calm. Striker seemed deeply saddened. Dickey’s eyes were wide with fear and concern. The Bard—whose gaze I had not met since I was pulled aboard the night of my rescue—was sympathetic: pitying perhaps. I cringed.

  I felt Gaston’s steadying hand on my shoulder.

  I released Sarah.

  She spun about and slapped me. “You arse! Why are all the men in our family damned, self-serving fools?”

  I had no counter for her charge. I nodded meekly. “I do not know, but you are correct: I am no different from him. We are fools, self-serving fools of the highest order. I am sorry.”

  That truth burned in the pit of my soul as if a brand had been thrust there. “I just wish to be happy,” I whispered, and wondered if that was what my father wished for. Why did our happiness have to be at such cross purposes?

  “They raped and beat him to make him forsake me,” Gaston said quietly. “And you ask us to go to Cayonne, where the Church will ask me, as a lord, to forsake him, and…”

  The light of understanding dawning in their eyes seemed brighter than the lantern. I knew pity would follow. I could not bear it. Gaston’s arms closed about me as I attempted to dive through the window. He pulled me to the floor and held me close.

  “Will you ever… come back?” Striker asked quietly.

  “When Will feels he is able,” Gaston said sadly. “When I… am able to do battle with the priests, and the court, and my father, and…” He sighed heavily.

  “WeBeFuckin’Idiots,” Pete said with a heavy sigh of his own.

  I wished to argue with him, but I could not find the words. They were lost to the winds howling in my heart.

  They did not bring the canoe through the cabin. Gaston deigned to trust them; and laden with our weapons and some boucan and water, we clambered down the ropes to the canoe as the sun broke the horizon. I huddled in the middle of the little craft and did not look back as Gaston paddled toward a forest filled with bird song.

  We were free, but I felt lost. I prayed I would not have to anger and abandon the Gods in order to live as I wished.

  Eighty-Eight

  Wherein We Are Horses In Eden

  By the time Gaston had rowed us to shore, the Virgin Queen had raised sail and set out for Tortuga. We pulled the canoe ashore and squatted in the underbrush until she disappeared from sight. My matelot appeared thoughtful as we watched our friends sail away. My heart raced, my hands shook, and I panted as if I were swimming or running. I was afraid they would change their minds and come after us. I did not wish to shoot anyone. I knew without doubt that I would. I despised myself for it; yet, I was far angrier with them; and that, in its turn, threatened to overwhelm me with guilt.

  Gaston rummaged about in his bag and presented me with a familiar tin cup. I drank the drug without question. His mien was calm and loving as he smoothed a tear from beneath my eye.

  “Are we staying here?” I asked. I wondered how much he had given me.

  He shook his head. “Non, I wish to be farther east—across from Île de la Tortue. But I did not wish to paddle alongside them as they sailed there. So all you need do is sleep for a time.”

  Stupid, foolish, useless questions threatened to burble from my lips: Had I done the correct thing? Would we be well? Where were we going? Did he love me? I kept my jaw clamped shut.

  The drug was tugging at me as I helped him return the canoe to the gentle waves lapping along the shore. It took hold mere moments after I settled into the canoe and placed my head on our bags. Then there was only the rush of water under the hull and the dip of the paddle.

  I drifted awake with an aching head and dry mouth and wondered where I was. The sun was still low on the horizon. The canoe was ashore, and we were nestled in the underbrush beside a small smoky fire. Insects buzzed all about.

  Gaston handed me a water skin. “We will sleep here and climb to the highland in the morning. Let me know when you feel you can take watch. We are not alone on this coast.”

  I looked seaward and could see nothing in the haze. The dense forest obscured all I could see of the land. I could hear other men, though: distant barks of laughter and the thin strains of a pipe and fiddle.

  “We should avoid men,” he said. “There are more here now than before, and they are not our brethren.”

  I recalled Cudro’s words of warning—before I hit the poor man with a belaying pin… “Do you feel the Coast is now inhabited by men much like those seeking bounty from Morgan?”

  Gaston nodded glumly and stirred the embers in the fire. “When I would first come here, I would avoid men because I was in the grips of madness; but when I did choose to mingle with them, they were friendly and helpful. We were a brotherhood and our only enemies were the Spanish and the wilderness. That had changed by the last time I came here; thus my spending more of the year roving. Many of the old Brethren have become planters and merchants. And the new men are like those Morgan gathers: cutthroats and planter’s sons. I doubt their honor. They have no loyalty to the Coast. They are ruled by their love of gold and not freedom. I have heard tales of lone men being captured and sold into slavery, or murdered for their coin.”

  I mourned the passing of a peaceful idyllic existence. This land was n
ow inhabited by self-serving English swine like me. “How far will we have to go to escape them?”

  He shrugged. “I do not know. All along the coast there are villages at every anchorage. Everywhere it is flat and moist, there will be plantations. Beyond these mountains, there is a great dry valley the cattle enjoy. The mountains themselves should be empty.”

  “No money in them,” I said.

  “Gold once, but the Spanish ran out of Indian slaves to mine it, and Negroes are more useful on the plantations.”

  “This is a sad Eden you have brought us to,” I said.

  He chuckled. “For others. But not for us.”

  I supposed that could be possible if we escaped all others, but what of me? “So we are beneath mountains?” I looked up into the gathering dark and still saw only leaves.

  “Oui, across the strait from Île de la Tortue.”

  I did not recall seeing high ground this morning. “Did you row all day?” I asked sadly.

  He nodded. “It felt good: to be free: to be moving toward something. I am very happy we are here, my love.” His smile was full of contentment.

  I was pleased to see him so happy, and I did not doubt his sincerity, yet… “Is it truly good that we are here? They will surely hate us if we return.”

  He shrugged. “It is done. They will be well enough without us. We need to be here.” He grinned and poked me. “Frolic.”

  I shook my head. “I know not how. I suppose, in time, I will be able to indulge whimsy, but…”

  He placed the point of his finger between my eyebrows. “You are your Horse.”

  But I did not wish to be my Horse: not now. I shook my head hopelessly.

  Gaston sighed. He placed his fingers on my lips and his brow knotted with thought. “Let us make a pact,” he said seriously. “We will live every day as if it is forever, and as if it is our last. And we will not speak of that other place until we decide to return there.”

  “How will we know we have decided…” I mumbled around his fingers.

  He kissed me to silence. “We will know after the rains have washed us clean,” he murmured on my lips. “This is a place of Horses, Will. I used to think it a place of madness where I found sanity.”

  I focused on the firelight twinkling in his eyes. He was correct. I could not contemplate living here for however long we chose to if I was dwelling in the past. I would crush myself with melancholy. We were here to escape that. Horse or not, I must let myself heal. I could not constantly grind salt into my wounds. And, why should I?

  “Nothing else matters, does it?” I asked. I had felt that this morning. There was only my matelot.

  “Non, nothing,” he assured me. “This is real. All else is fantasy.”

  “Every day as if it is forever; and as if it is our last,” I repeated as the words took on meaning. I did not think I could live them, but I could try.

  “Just so,” he said and kissed me again.

  “I will try,” I murmured. “But I think…”

  His lips crushed the words. “Stop thinking,” he whispered when he released me. “Do. Feel. Do not think. Do not speak.”

  I started to tell him I could not, but his hand clamped over my mouth. The sudden pressure of it and the glint in his gaze took my breath away. My Horse snorted triumphantly and watched me with shrewd eyes. This was Gaston. This was safe. This was what my Horse wanted. No, I would not let the animal have His head every damn time someone… But this was Gaston. No, I could not do this yet. I needed time. I tried to pull away.

  Gaston bore me down to press me beneath him. His eyes were hard and bright.

  My hands were free. They found his shoulders, but not to push him away. I clawed at him. I did not know what precisely I wanted from him: release, perhaps: release from the nightmare of the past month: peace and respite from the war waging in my soul.

  I quieted and he removed his hand.

  “Make it all go away,” I whispered.

  His face hardened into a mask of resolve. “Not if you will keep thinking about it when we are done. I will not fuck you if you speak of that other place. I will not fuck you if I feel you are thinking about that other place.”

  I gasped with surprise and protest. “How can I not…”

  He clamped his hand over my mouth again.

  “Do you love me?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Do you trust me?”

  I nodded.

  I truly wished to do as he said, but I could not envision it. I was always thinking about… things: especially those things that troubled me.

  “You must be an animal,” he said seriously. “Animals are innocent and free. They are not troubled by the thoughts of men. They live by their wits and strength, not politics and promises. You have often seen me curse my Horse; well, He is what allowed me to survive all those terrible years of my childhood. He did not care what my father thought. He did not care if we were loved. He made sure I ate. He made sure I fought if someone sought to hurt me. He did not doubt. He did not fear. He made me strong. That was not always good when I had to deal with other men. But it was very good here. It was very good when other men wore me down. It is very good when I forget who I am.”

  He frowned with thought. “Yet I understand what it is to be at odds with your Horse. And I know you are angry with your Horse because you feel He makes you weak.”

  I nodded.

  “He makes you you, my love,” he said with warmth. “We are our Horses. And you are not weak.”

  I sighed through my nose and let him see the doubt in my eyes.

  He shook his head. “Then do not be your Horse, yet. Be a horse. Be a dog. Be a hawk. Be a cat. Be whatever you wish. I did not always envision that part of myself as a horse.” He sighed thoughtfully. “You just cannot be a man for now. This is not a place of men. That Will that you think you are: the one who was hurt: the one you are unhappy with: let him rest for a time.

  “You love me however I am. I will love you however you need to be,” he finished.

  His words set fire to the kindling of my head and heart. Thoughts raced like flames across a fallow field: burning everything in sight: preparing it for some new crop. I could see how his Horse was his protector. He was correct in that I perceived my Horse as my weakness. I had always protected my Horse. I had always had to protect horses because other people saw them as dumb beasts: things to be used and cast aside. Was that a proper metaphor then for the truth of my soul? Did I see my Horse as the truth of my soul? Or was He merely a part of me that must be cared for so that He did not run off a cliff or break a leg? Was I something other than a horse: my Horse?

  I closed my eyes and all I saw was a white stallion standing in a verdant field. I could not envision another animal. What else was I? I looked back—from where the horse stood—and beheld a man: the man I saw in a mirror. He stood before a heavily laden cart. It overflowed with people and baggage. He expected the Horse to help him haul it all; but that was not fair: it was the Man’s baggage.

  There was a black stallion standing at the edge of the forest. He was beautiful. He beckoned for me to follow. I wanted to; but how did one do that?

  I wanted to ask Gaston How? But then I knew: horses don’t ask how.

  I pushed Gaston’s hand away and pulled his mouth to mine. His kiss was tentative at first: speculative; and then he felt my hunger and he sated it with zest.

  He made love to me and derived great pleasure from it; though, to my continued disappointment, I did not rise. I pushed that thought away and ran far from it: as if it was a wolf chasing me through the woods. I need not fight it today. We would fight it together when we found some fine clearing suitable for a battle of that nature. Now, there was only the trail through the forest.

  When he finished, I pushed him off, and bade him lie down and rest. His eyes held questions, but he did not voice them. He at last slept with a smile upon his face, while I sat by the fire and fanned smoke to keep the insects away while watching for
wolves: especially those born of the shadows of thoughts. I found I could outrun them all; though it did take constant diligence.

  In the morning, we did not speak. We donned our high, soft boots and coated ourselves in fat to stave off the bugs and sun. We pulled the canoe far ashore and tucked it away in the underbrush; concealing it with branches and fronds in the forlorn hope it would be there if we should have need of it. Then we made our way up a steep path into the hills that were surprisingly close to the shore. As we ascended, we could see the hazy shadow of Tortuga to the north and west, and the channel between. The hard and unexpected exercise of walking uphill—at first torturous—became a balm to my dormant muscles. I knew I would ache yet again on the morrow, but for the moment I felt pleasantly warm and weary in body and calm in spirit.

  That night Gaston chose a place to camp in a copse of trees and brush. We did not light a fire until after the smoke would be disguised by the evening haze. He only spoke to instruct me on the choosing of camp sites and bedding fronds. I only spoke to ask questions about the same.

  The next morning we climbed higher. And so it went. The days passed unnumbered. There was no past or future, only the day at hand. We worked our way farther up the mountains, foraging as we went. Gaston taught me how to trap and hunt, find water, what plants were safe to eat, and which ones poisonous. And every night we made love in the smoke of a low fire. I healed, and there were days at a time when I forgot what I was healing from. It was Heaven—save for that part about my cock refusing to rise.

  After some wandering, we happened upon a stream with a waterfall and pool. It was beautiful, with no sign any other man had ever seen it—or lingered if they had. We made our home under an overhang of rock, and wove a mattress of fronds. The rains had started, and every afternoon the clouds rolled in and drenched the forest. We made love, cuddled, and slept in those hours; sat about and talked of untroubled things in the dark of the night; hunted at dawn; and frolicked in the morning sun.