The Fire Within

by Samuel T Clayton

  ‘You fucking bastard!’ yelled Percival. The intense pain of a broken nose made his eyes water, and he clutched his nose between thumb and forefinger as blood started running down his chest. With murderous intent, he launched a frenzied attack, but this time Tristan continued to sidestep him, and when Percival ran out of steam, he punched him on the cheek with a left hook. The raw power sent the man stumbling towards his crew who parted to let their captain through. Wide-eyed spectators watched the young captain bump into their table, gripping the sides to prevent himself from falling.

  ‘Fuck him up, Conway!’ Tayler threw a few blows in the air, as the rest of the riffraff gang cheered their captain on.

  Tristan stepped in to finish the job when Percival suddenly swung around, flinging the contents of a mug at his head. Tristan tried to duck, but gravity worked against him, and he ended up with a face full of pombé. The brown liquid stung his eyes, and it worsened when he tried to rub it out. When he looked up through the haze, he could only just make out his opponent and the right-hand blow that was already on its way. He swerved to the left, tilting his head, and the blow glanced off his right cheek but not before his attacker’s ring cut him open from the nose up to his eye. Pombé quickly leaked into the wound, adding more agony to the already stinging pain. Percival attacked with new vigour, and Tristan lifted his hands and dropped his elbows to protect his head. Knuckles pelted his forearms, and occasionally a blow slipped through hitting his midriff or waist. Out of sheer frustration, he lashed out with a straight right and with joyous satisfaction felt the soft tip of a nose and then a further crunch of bones under his fist. A cry followed, and the lucky shot bought him some time as he stumbled back to his corner and grabbed the shirt that Jabari held out for him to wipe his face.

  ‘Remember what I said!’ yelled the African as Tristan turned around, eyes blazing like sanguinary infernos while he walked to where his opponent was still crouched on one knee, gripping his nose.

  Nothing could have prepared the spectators in the room for what would follow. Percival tried to catch Tristan off-guard. He jumped to his feet and at the same time threw a punch that was aimed at Tristan’s chin, but the face was no longer there. In fact, the whole body had moved to Percival’s right, and before he could react, a left hook from Tristan thundered into his temple, and a thousand stars exploded in his head. Percival felt his legs buckle as he struggled to keep conscious. Through the fogginess he became vaguely aware of movement in front of him when a fist sank into the soft tissue below his sternum, driving all the air out of his lungs and sending sparks of pain reverberating through his body.

  Percival did not see what happened next, but those around him did. Tristan flew through the air, putting all his weight behind the blow and drove his elbow joint into the spot right between his opponent’s eyes. The force of the blow snapped Percival’s head backwards and sent him crashing down onto the floor, out cold, but still breathing, albeit laboriously.

  For a fight that lasted five minutes, it was all over in less than five seconds. Tristan stood over his opponent and gasped for air. In a dreamlike state, he lifted his leg to stomp the man’s head. It will end here, tonight.

  ‘Tresten!’ The African’s voice plucked him from his trance.

  Tristan looked at the pathetic bundle at his feet, snorted and spat next to the unconscious man in disgust before he turned around. As he walked back, his waiting friends and patrons cheered but then fell silent as quickly as they had erupted. Tristan whirled around. The captain’s crew had daggers in their hands and were approaching fast. Although outnumbered, Tristan’s men had heeded the silent call, and in the blink of an eye, they were standing behind him, armed and waiting. Jabari had thrust the stiletto into his outstretched hand, and when Tristan closed his fingers around the cold steel, he had already decided. The tall fella would be the first to go.

  From out of nowhere, a loud explosion ripped through the air inside the tavern. It made ears ring and stopped everyone in their tracks. The taverner stood behind the counter cutting an authoritative figure, two pistols in his hands, one from which smoke was now spiralling into the air.

  ‘You make me waste shot,’ said the annoyed man as he looked at the hole in the ceiling. ‘And my roof is hole now.’ He glared at both groups of men. ‘Next one I make hole in face!’ The remaining gun that he waved in the air meant no further explanation was needed.

  Purvis was the first to break the prevailing silence. ‘As per our agreement, I think that was your cue to leave, gentlemen. Your captain’s lying on the floor, and as you can see, our man is still standing.’ Mug in hand, he waved them a friendly goodbye and showed them the door.

  The British crew, now led by the officer who had started it all, picked up their captain and while making their way to the door started throwing insults, calling them commoners, bastards, nigger lovers and a whole lot of other obscenities. While Tristan and his men sat down, Tayler took up the challenge and berated the departing group with a few choice words of his own. The barrage he unleashed, some of which would have made a pirate blush, included everything from female genitals to copulation with animals.

  Not long after the defeated group had gone, the tavern once again returned to normality as waitresses started serving the remaining patrons, while the ladies from upstairs came down once more to see if their thick thighs can squeeze a few more coins out of any lonesome or lusty fool. Tristan had finished putting on his beer- and blood-soaked shirt, and once again settled into his relaxed posture, this time more slowly for the bruised ribs had started to take their toll.

  ‘I like being called a nigger lover,’ said Tayler. Then he quickly added, ‘No offence, Jabari!’ The big African nodded. Tayler had a smug look on his face. ‘I’ve done that a few times tonight and can honestly say that I’m a convert.’

  The others laughed, including Tristan, who signalled for Tayler to please stop, for his ribs could take no more. The doctor just shook his head. He had to give it to Tayler because the big buffoon could come up with some pearls at times. ‘Me, too,’ he said, looking at Jabari, ‘but only because I count the man as a true friend.’ The big African nodded in appreciation.

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ The men heartily drank the last of the beer. ‘More pombé!’ cried Tayler as he smashed the empty cup on the table.

  ‘Good fight, lad,’ said Purvis. Around the table, his mates grinned, nodded their approval and celebrated their friend’s bravado. The doctor looked at Tristan more closely, then reached out and pressed his thumb lightly into Tristan’s injured cheek.

  ‘He cut you good. We should’ve followed and culled the whole lot of them. The crocodiles could’ve had a feast tonight.’ Tayler, always living in the moment, rarely thought before he spoke. ‘And at the same time, we could’ve done the French and the Spanish a favour.’

  ‘And then tomorrow the rest of their mates will jump on us. Jesus, do you ever use that head of yours?’ Hanlon could hide neither his astonishment nor his frustration with his friend’s blatant stupidity.

  ‘Aye! Which head?’

  While the two carried on arguing, the doctor, under Jabari’s watchful eye, continued his inspection of Tristan’s face. ‘I will need to disinfect that cut, lad. If required, I can stitch it up tomorrow morning. I’m afraid I might sew up your eyelids if I try it tonight.’

  Right at that moment, Isabella arrived with another jug of beer and a smaller flask of rum. Her presence immediately brought order to the table. ‘Compliments of the taverner.’ She hinted at the barman, who gave them a nod. ‘My uncle knew it could’ve been much worse.’ She leaned in closer and in a low voice said, ‘And to be honest, for a moment there I think he nearly soiled his breeches.’

  An uncomfortable silence followed before Tayler broke out in laughter, no longer able to hold it. ‘Aye, she’s a good one, lad. A keeper for sure.’ Relieved, the rest followed suit. She joined them for a round of drinks, and the small talk continued with lots of jokes and banter.

  O
ut of nowhere, Hanlon asked Tristan, ‘What did he say to you before the fight?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jabari!’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on now. We’re all friends here.’

  Jabari, who had been silent for much of the evening, said, ‘I asked Tresten not to kill the man.’

  ‘Good thing you didn’t, lad,’ said the doctor and then, addressing the tavern’s closed door, ‘However, I’m sure our paths will cross again.’

  ‘Ahhh, fuck ‘em!’ yelled Tayler. ‘Here’s to good health and riches beyond our wildest dreams. Cheers!’ Calls of “hear, hear” echoed through the tavern.

  Each time he cheered or laughed, Isabella could see Tristan flinch when the wound on his cheek opened up, and liquid seeped from the gash.

  ‘Come with me!’ Isabella insisted as she stood up and held out her hand. He obliged and blocked out the taunts from behind as she led him away, with a sudden sense of urgency.

  The door behind the bar counter led to a single room with very basic furnishings. Isabella lit the lantern on the shelf and made him sit on the bed before she left him alone, only to return a couple of minutes later with a basin, flask, cloth and a small glass vial that was filled with a brown substance. She pulled up a chair and sat directly across from him. After she had wetted one side of the cloth with water from the basin, Isabella started wiping the dried blood from his cheek and down to his neck where it had soaked into his shirt.

  ‘I think you’d better take off this soiled shirt so I can clean the wounds properly.’ Her husky voice sounded hoarser than usual.

  As Tristan unclothed, she witnessed the bluish bruises on his waist and ribs. His arms, especially the left one, had multiple lacerations where Percival had landed blow after blow and where his ring had cut into Tristan’s skin. She took his hand and rested his forearm on her leg. Carefully, she washed the cuts with water, then doused them in rum and finally covered the wounds with the brown paste. He neither winced nor said a word, his only awareness the radiant heat underneath his palm.

  Next, Isabella started cleaning the blood from his shoulder and chest, slowly and thoroughly. A stubborn fleck of blood refused to give way, and she placed her hand on his chest to scratch it off with her nail. She felt his muscles flex under her hand, his heartbeat thumping hard and fast in rhythm with the vein that throbbed on the side of his neck that she had just cleansed. His skin was warm to the touch and damp from the physical exertion.

  She gathered the cloth and leaned closer to inspect the gash on his cheek. He could feel her breath on his face once more and her steady hands on his skin. He tried hard not to stare at her flawless features but quickly gave up. The slight frown on her forehead from intense concentration and the unruly black curl which she had to blow out of the way all the time made her irresistible, and him, hopelessly lost.

  Luckily, the cut on his cheek was not very deep, and Isabella repeated the cleansing process. Only, this time, there was a sharp intake of breath when the rum flooded the open wound, but he did not flinch, too afraid she might move or even stop. His left eye watered up and a single tear ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek. She dabbed it tenderly before she started closing up the wound with the paste, gently massaging it into the opening to create a seal.

  She leaned back to inspect her handiwork and came forwards once more, wiping away the excess. This time she stayed and turned her face towards his.

  ‘All done.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘What are you staring at, Mr Conway?’ Her voice barely a whisper.

  Tristan felt the blood rush to his head, and he lost what little inhibition he had left. Leaning in closer, he tilted his head to the side. Her lips were soft and full under his.

  ‘Wait!’

  The urgency in Isabella’s voice startled him. He pulled back, worried that he might have offended her as she got up and walked to the door. Oh, dear God. No! The flustered feeling returned quickly when he watched her sliding the wooden latch into place, and when she walked back towards the bed, she suddenly stopped. What followed next would stay with Tristan for the rest of his living memory.

  Slowly Isabella loosened the cotton dress and removed every single layer of clothing, slowly and deliberately, smiling at him each time there was a gasp for air when he momentarily forgot to breathe, completely fixated on the sight that was unravelling in front of him. She removed her pumps, and when she stood up, straight and proud, she was as naked as the day she was born, with a bundle of clothes at her feet. She started walking towards him.

  'Wait!' It was his turn, urging her to stop so that he could look at her in all her splendour, lost for words and breath. Her olive skin was unblemished, and its tone changed only slightly from her darker forearms, face and neck, to the rest of her body. His mouth went dry as he watched her pert breasts, each mound crested with a light-brown nipple. Her long legs were well defined, the features of an active woman, and where they met, a dark curly triangle glistened like the dew in an English meadow on a cool spring morning.

  Isabella took a seat in the chair. He reached for her, but she pushed his hands away. ‘Now you. Stand up.’

  Tristan needed no further encouragement and quickly rose to his feet. His midriff was level with her eyes, and he looked down to where her hands worked with urgency on the buttons of his breeches. She yanked down his trousers, and it was her turn to gasp when his erect penis sprang free from its confinement. She gripped him by the base, firm yet gentle, leaned forwards and kissed him on the stomach, slowly working her way down before her warm mouth engulfed him. Tristan arched his back in pleasure, hands hanging by his sides. She tormented him for what felt like hours before her mouth left him cold when she suddenly stood up.

  ‘Lie down.’

  ‘But—‘ he protested.

  She pressed her hands onto his chest and sides, where the blue and purple bruises were most prominent. He tried stepping back, but the bed caught his legs, and he fell onto the straw mattress.

  ‘Let me take care of you. I’ll be gentle. I promise.’ Isabella’s voice was unnervingly calm.

  All of a sudden, Tristan remembered Lucy. Visions of a grown woman leading an eight-year-old boy up the stairs flew through his mind. He recalled being slightly scared with an inexplicable sense of anticipation, not knowing what to expect, but ready for anything. His mouth had been dry then, just as it was now.

  She straightened him out on the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling his thighs. Her hand grabbed the stem of his penis and slowly rubbed him between the lips of her damp sex, driving him insane with want. He could hold out no longer and reached for her, but a hand pushed him back down. She lifted herself on her knees, pointed his erection up in the air and slowly lowered herself onto his cock, savouring every inch until he was fully impaled in her warm and wet sheath. A gasp escaped her pursed lips followed by a loud satisfied groan from underneath her. He reached out and cupped her breasts in hands, and when he ran his thumbs over the crests, it caused a sharp intake of breath.

  There was nothing sweet about their lovemaking. Much to Tristan’s surprise and delight, there was no gentleness as she had promised. Carried away with passion she scratched his chest, riding him hard while her long black hair hit him in the chest and neck, like tiny whips, as she swung her head from side to side in the throes of passion. All pain forgotten, he came upright and sucked on her now erect nipples, nipping them before he picked her up by the buttocks and lifted her up high only to drop her again, penetrating her to the hilt each time she slammed into his hips. The raw passion of youth overwhelmed all their senses and guided them to bliss far beyond any control as they lost themselves into each other.

  They carried on until neither could hold out any longer and with arched backs, they reached the crescendo within moments of each other. She pulsated around him while he erupted inside of her as they cried each other’s names, coming together like two oceans that met in a maelstrom of turbulence and noi
se.

  An exhausted Tristan fell back onto the mattress while Isabella collapsed on top of him. Motionless they lay, a heap of mingled and sweaty body parts that glimmered in the faint light while the musky smell of sex hung thick in the air. Hearts racing, curiosities satisfied and desires fulfilled.

  They had each other two more times before both were utterly spent, and by then, they had come to realise that life as they had known it would never be the same again.

  Naked, the exhausted lovers lay, entwined in each other’s arms, her head resting on his shoulder while she traced lines on his chest, connecting bruises with the tip of her finger.

  ‘La petite mort,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Pardon?’ His reply was a tired but contented one.

  ‘La petite mort. It is what the French call “the little death”. When you reach that complete feeling of bliss like you’re about to burst open with happiness, that short moment when nothing and everything makes sense.’

  Tristan had heard it before in the brothel, his school of sex. Never bothered to ask what it meant. It was not his business anyway. And if he did dare to ask, a smack in the head was the usual answer.

  ‘I heard the black man call you a name. Me-Megri…or something like that. What does it mean?’

  ‘The black man’s name is Ja-ba-ri – a great warrior and an even greater friend. And Nye-ge-re is the name he’s given me. It means “honey badger” in his mother tongue.’ Tristan explained the events that had led to the name. ‘Jabari has a name for you too. Malaika. It means “angel from heaven” but in your case, it came with a warning. He reckons you’re an angel but with the heart of a lioness.’

  Her hand strayed between his legs and stroke his flaccid penis. ‘Your friend is fond of names, and maybe he’s right, but I’d say there were two lions in this bed tonight, don’t you think?’

  Tristan did not answer, and when she looked up at him questioningly, he just gave her an exhausted and very painful smile. The hair surrounding her chastely face was a mess. By God, she looks gorgeous!