by J E Feldman
Jenaro and the Crimson Sails
Antonio Gonzalez-Rodriguez
It was the gentle touch of her fingertips on his scalp that woke Jenaro. The sun was beaming through the thin summer curtains that hung on his windows; its rays resting warmly on his face. A quiet breeze whispered its way through his room, bringing with it the briny aroma of the sea and stirring the acrid smell of stale wine and sweat that had settled in his sheets. A small babble from the city below crept to his ears. Yet, it was her touch that stirred him. He smiled slyly as her fingers caressed his head, from his crown to his temples. It drew a giggle from his consort.
“I knew you were awake,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her hand continued to brush his thick ebony hair.
Jenaro nodded from his pillow, keeping his eyes shut but his smile wide. “Tell me, Sharae, how?”
The woman reached down and slid her free hand beneath the sheets, grabbing Jenaro harder than he expected. Jenaro opened his eyes and with a groan, attempted to lift himself from his pillow.
“Once again betrayed by my best friend,” Jenaro moaned through clenched teeth.
Sharae giggled once more and loosened her grip. She leaned her face close to his and gently touched her lips to Jenaro’s ear. “What is the punishment for his betrayal, your grace?”
Jenaro’s smile widened. He could feel the warmth of her dark chestnut skin as she pressed her breasts against his arm and chest. Her breathing grew heavier with each passing moment. He turned his head and kissed her, holding her head with both his hands. Jenaro slid his hands backward, grabbed a handful of her curly black locks, and slowly pulled her head away from his. He then moved his lips to her neck, kissing just behind her ears and down to her collar. Sharae moaned as he released her from his grasp.
“A vigorous flogging, I would say,” he said, which warranted another snicker. “But not until I eat. Did Agostin bring my breakfast?” Jenaro asked as he swung his legs off the bed, leaving Sharae pouting over his departure.
“There was a knock some time ago, but you were asleep,” Sharae said as she lay back down on Jenaro’s bed, pulling the covers up to her chest to cover her body. Her glowing skin was the perfect contrast to the pale silken sheets. She playfully patted and tucked them under her body, leaving a sensual outline for him to drool over.
Jenaro stretched, first skyward, then touching his toes, then rotating at his hips; left then right. His gaze never left Sharae’s blanketed silhouette. “How long ago?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Hours. It is nearly midday, your grace.”
Jenaro laughed, but was immediately hit with panic. Surely she was lying. He could not have slept the morning away. Yes, he and Sharae had spent the small hours of the morning engaged in lustful enterprises. Yes, he was a heavy sleeper, especially after consuming the better part of a barrel of mango wine and carousing the night away. But to oversleep on a day like today was unthinkable!
“Do not toy with me, Sharae,” he warned as he bounced around his room, clumsily gathering his clothing.
“What reason would I have to lie?” Sharae asked, her tone offended. “Your man came by nearly after sunrise. It is almost the zenith now. Just look out your window.”
Jenaro cautioned a glance out the two windows that towered opposite his bed as he fell to a seated position, pulling his sandals over his feet. “Maboya, take me,” he cursed.
Sharae scurried to his side as Jenaro pulled his tunic over his head. “What troubles you?” she questioned, placing her hands around his chest and resting her chin on his shoulder.
“Sharae, now is not the time for sweetness,” Jenaro responded as he slithered from her grasp and stumbled toward his door. “My father required my presence at a meeting with the admirals today. The admirals! I was to be commissioned!” he shouted as he burst from his room. Just outside, sitting on its usual stand, was his breakfast. Jenaro skid to halt, grabbed a handful of fresh mango and cheese, then continued his sprint.
The halls of the duke’s manse were wide and airy. Most were open on one side, granting those traversing with large sweeping views of the city below and the ocean beyond. Large arches ran their length with plants and herb hanging between. Jenaro moved like a cyclone, rocking each potted plant as he passed.
Each hall was filled with servants and guards donned in azure with silver and trimmed in crimson, all of whom paused from whatever business was keeping their attention to extend the palm of peace to their prince. Some greeted him warmly, others simply saluted. Regardless, Jenaro returned each palm and word in kind, trying to refrain from exasperation in front of subjects who adored him so. He reached the great hall, surprised to find Agostin waiting for him outside the doors. Jenaro slid to a stop and placed his hands on his head to aid his breathing.
Agostin, Jenaro’s best friend and carib, was reclining on a bench, slicing a papaya with his dagger and slipping each sliver of juicy fruit between his teeth. He continued to do so even after Jenaro arrived.
“Please, catch your breath, your grace,” Agostin said without removing his eyes from his fruit.
“Tell me they’re still in there,” Jenaro managed through ragged breaths.
“Whom do you speak of?” Agostin responded. “The Duke, your father? The admirals? The Guazabara?”
Jenaro shook his head. He moved to speak then noticed Agostin’s curious sideways glance and wicked smirk. Jenaro raised his fists.
“You whore’s son, you,” he cursed at his friend before feinting a swing, but kicking instead. Agostin nimbly slid off the bench, avoiding Jenaro’s strike, and tossed the half-eaten papaya at him. Jenaro caught the fruit and snarled. “It is not even fore-noon is it?”
Agostin hopped to his feet and sheathed his dagger. He patted Jenaro on the shoulder and said, “It should be eight bells any moment now.”
“Sharae?” Jenaro asked.
Agostin smiled. He knew the question without Jenaro having to ask. “We planned it yesterday, after the ales, but before you opened the barrel of mango wine.”
Jenaro took a slice of the papaya and tossed the fruit back to his friend. Together they stepped toward the door.
“She is becoming bold.”
Agostin laughed. “That she is, my friend. That she is.”
Jenaro and Agostin pushed open the double doors that lead to the Great Hall. It was the room in which Josue delRios, BO’ of the Andolins, duke to outsiders and foreign dignitaries, held his court. It also served as a meeting room, dining hall, and the occasional ballroom for affairs of state. It was a high-ceilinged room with large, thin windowless arches lining each wall. Every surface was marble and gleamed as if a thin layer of crystal clear water rested on top. Large arches served to separate the hall into smaller sections, yet each seemed to draw the eye straight to the Duke’s throne. Adorning the facet of each arch was a censer filling the air of the hall with wonderful aromas of flowers and fruit. The dujo of the BO’ sat at the far end of the room, resting only two stairs higher than the floor. Behind the throne was a veranda with a view of the BO’s garden. Just beyond that was the sea.
The Duke’s guazabara guard, or simply guazas, lined the walls. Each man or woman bore the usual attire. Beast mask headdresses adorned their faces and scalps; jaguars and other large cats, even wolves. An armored gauntlet ran from thinly plated shoulder pauldron to fingertip, held fast to the soldier’s body with a series of leather straps that ran across the chest and around the torso. Their chests were bare, even the women, except for the blue and silver paint denoting their rank. Their captain had a crimson stag, the royal animal, painted on her chest. Their lightly mailed silver greaves were tucked into bright crimson and cream sabatons. Each soldier held a spear and small shield in one hand, while their other hand rested on the hilt of a scimitar. Each piece of equipment was decorated with the runes of the Andoli, words of strength and swiftness meant to empower those that wielded them.
Jenaro and Agostin strode into the room, pausing only briefly before
noticing the BO’ was not on his throne. He and four members of the Andoli navy were convened around a long table to the left of the dujo. Jenaro could see Admiral Gueybana leaning in toward his father. The admiral’s face was like stone, giving Josue no hint of the malice he held for Jenaro. As Jenaro and Agostin reached the table, the admirals rose and saluted Josue. They each in turn presented a raised palm and smile to Jenaro before exiting the room. All except for Gueybana, who simply nodded and brushed past.
Jenaro shrugged with upturned palms and a twisted grin. “I thought we were to have a commission hearing today, father.”
Josue rose from his seat, which prompted Agostin to bow, back away from the table, and head to the door. Josue walked to his son, gliding his fingers along the glossy wood inlays of the granite tabletop as he moved. He reached Jenaro and placed his hand on his son’s shoulders. He lowered his head in respect while Josue kissed his forehead.
“Walk with me, my son,” Josue said.
Jenaro walked alongside his father. Jenaro was the spitting image of the man, from the thick dark hair and olive skin to unusual height and lean build. The Andoli people were short and stout, unlike the delRios line. Josue claimed it was a result of the Andoli alliance with Tilsen. The only differences between the two were the streaks of grey hair adorning Josue’s temples and the scraggly beard that Jenaro wore instead of the thin mustache most delRios men chose. Even though they stood the same height, Jenaro always felt small next to the man. It was more than just his rich silk tunic with silver brocade, or the velvets that composed his breeches and slippers, or even the thin silver crown that twisted like brambles upon his brow. Josue’s demeanor commanded respect. He walked and spoke with an air only the BO’ could muster.
Jenaro was not immune to the effects. He loved and respected his father, but as they reached the veranda, it was fear that consumed him. Jenaro lowered his head and noticed the wine stains on his tunic and the small tear in his pants from where Sharae yanked them from his body. He didn’t need his father to tell him what had been decided. He already knew.
Josue placed his hands on the marble surface of the balustrade that bordered the balcony. Gardeners tended the large terrace below, pruning bush and shrub and tree; every plant flowering and bearing fruit. Jenaro leaned next to his father and stared at the ocean that swallowed the horizon. The steady roll of the waves added a gentle rhythm to the toils of those below. He inhaled, preparing himself for the imminent lecture.
“My son,” Josue began, placing his hand on Jenaro’s back.
“I was denied a commission,” he said before his father could.
Josue joined his son in leaning on the railing. “Hmmm,” he muttered with a nod.
“Gueybana?” Jenaro asked.
Josue remained silent for a moment then stood upright. “It does not matter the reason.”
Jenaro slammed his palms on the balustrade and pushed himself from the railing. “He hates me, father. He despises me for, well, for what happened…” he trailed off. Jenaro looked at his father and noticed the flash of disappointment in his eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The BO’s face tightened. “How could you carouse with the likes of a Gueybana?” Josue scoffed. “They have no passion, no humor; by the grace of Yaya, my son, if not for their ability to speak I might believe them to be dolls.”
Jenaro chuckled. “Well, father, the Gueybana women have,” he raised his hands and glanced skyward, “other substantial attributes.”
Josue smirked and shook his head. “Regardless, it may be several seasons before you may be considered for a commission.”
Jenaro sighed. He frowned, lowered his face from his father’s gaze, and said, “If you will allow it, my father, I will take my leave.”
It was a quick walk back to his quarters. The thought of finding Sharae still in his bed, lusty and destitute for another romp, filled Jenaro with a peculiar amount of dread. Thankfully, she was absent. Only Agostin was present, straddling the windowsill, eating another papaya.
“Are congratulations in order, my friend?” Agostin asked through a mouthful of fruit.
Jenaro kicked off his sandals. “He rejected the commission,” he stated. “I am his own flesh and blood and he denied me a commission.” Jenaro began to pace around his room.
Agostin swung his legs back inside the window, set the papaya down in his place, and asked, “The BO’?”
Jenaro ran a hand through his hair, angrily mussing his locks. “Yes the BO’, Agostin.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Agostin, my friend,” Jenaro started, “he is my father. He has been lying to me under the pretense of protection for ten years. It has been a regular decision of his since mama died.”
There was a long silence between them. Agostin leaned against the wall, lightly drumming his fingers on his stomach. Jenaro exhaled sharply and stepped toward the window. He saw a multitude of white sails skimming the brilliant blue waters of the bay. They were fishermen returning from their evening at sea, merchantmen entering the port with trade goods from Tilsen and Moravia, and lightly armed military patrols keeping watch over every activity. He envied the freedom of the seas. He longed to share in that life, to spend his days at the mercy of Bibi-Ama instead of under the thumb of Yaya. He wished to be counted among those who witness the coming of her caguama. The great sea turtle was, after all, always his favorite creature.
“We go to sea,” Jenaro murmured from the window.
“Pardon, your grace?” Agostin replied.
Jenaro slapped the windowsill and repeated, “We go to sea, Agostin. Who says we need a commission?”
Agostin chuckled and seated himself in Jenaro’s chair. “To sea. To do what?”
Jenaro folded his arms across his chest and spoke, but continued to stare at the shimmering jewel of the bay. “To find the caguama. To meet Bibi-Ama herself and live in her bounty. Imagine it, my friend: the freedom of the sea, to live as we wish.”
“Hmmm,” Agostin agreed with a nod. “The only problem is that neither of us have a ship. And those of the royal navy that, for all intents and purposes, belong to your father, do not count.” He reclined, locking his hands behind his head and resting his feet atop the adjacent ottoman. “What do you propose we do about this?”
Jenaro turned from the window, his arms still folded across his chest, and a wicked smirk painted on his face. “If my father and the admirals refuse to give me a ship, I think I will simply take one for myself.”
“Ha!” Agostin laughed. “The penalty for commandeering a vessel of any sort, let alone a royal one, is more than chastisement, your grace.”
Jenaro strolled past his friend and pushed Agostin’s legs from the ottoman. “Then we will need to be decidedly inconspicuous when we commandeer a personal vessel.”
Agostin smiled a wide, toothy grin and nodded in agreement.
The two friends spent the remainder of the day planning their evening and drinking. The preparation was primarily performed by Jenaro. He outlined their route to the docks, informed Agostin of the guard locations and rotations, and even spent a considerable amount of effort describing why he chose the future commandeered vessel that he did. Agostin listened intently, or as intently as the rum would allow, and made sure the two never saw the bottom of their glasses. He also criticized several minor points of the plan, to which Jenaro passively ignored. At sundown, Agostin stumbled away to gather the necessary supplies; a nearly impossible task while at such a level of inebriation, for anybody but Agostin. Jenaro chuckled as he watched his friend trudge away. The alcohol seemed to make him stronger, more determined.
After Agostin was on his way, Jenaro dressed in his darkest sailing breeches and tunic, laced his boots tight, and covered his head and face in a scarf. He grabbed his drawstring knapsack packed with his heirloom dagger, a small flask, and a length of rope, and slung it across his shoulder. Jenaro then killed each lantern in his room and climbed out of the window.
Jenaro spent most of his childhood scaling the trees, walls, and columns that populated the manse at Port Hyspar. It often drew the ire of the BO’ and his mother. Yet the long hours of climbing developed in him a keen sense of the manse and its ground, as well as a preternatural muscle memory of every ledge, branch, and toehold. In mere minutes, Jenaro descended from his quarters to the streets below. He quickly navigated them, walking briskly and keeping with the crowds of citizens that ambled from tavern to tavern, singing and imbibing. Neither person nor guard paid him any mind and soon Jenaro was strolling quietly down the royal naval pier.
As he reached the naval shipyard, Jenaro was surprised to find the guard house was absent of its sentry. He crouched low and crept to each post. Both guards lay slumped on the floor. That was when he heard a whistle. He rolled forward out of the guard house and noticed through the dim lamps that hung on each pillar a figure traversing the spine of the gate. It was Agostin. He was perched atop holding a line of rope. Jenaro could see his smile shining through the dark.
“Neutralizing the guards was not part of the plan,” Jenaro scolded quietly as he climbed over the fence.
The two friends slunk through the shipyard, slipping past guards and taking shelter behind crates when necessary. Jenaro took the lead with Agostin following silently behind. They were thankful for the cloud cover and the wind that had moved over the island. The steady breeze moved out of the harbor in a hurry, bringing with it a drone that, when combined with the lapping of the bay, entirely masked their footsteps.
They arrived at the designated vessel without incident. Agostin crouched next to his friend and shook his head.
“This?” he whispered to Jenaro. “Of all the ships in this harbor, you choose a cutter-rig instead of a piragua’?”
Jenaro turned to Agostin. “We needed a vessel the two of us could handle on our own, not a warship. But not only that, look!” Jenaro pointed to the stern of the boat. “Can you not see those runes?”
Agostin leaned forward. “Gueybana. You clever bastard.”