Brethren

by W. A. Hoffman

  He waited until we were well away, and then he said, “I did not overhear all he said, but I would not doubt the validity or veracity of it. He has always held my best interests at heart.”

  “Then I will not. He explained the manifestation of your malady; however, he did not mention what brings about these bouts, and that is a thing of which I am obviously curious.”

  Gaston paused in rowing and regarded me over his shoulder. “I cannot say, precisely. There is a tension that develops in my spirit and I have been told I become… brittle in mien. And then I explode. It is often after battles. I am sorry; I should have been more forthright.”

  “Non, you have been adequately forthcoming as to the condition, just not to the particulars. I have dealt with one who suffered from an ailment of the mind before. I do not fear it.”

  He gave me a weak smile and returned to rowing. “You are either a fine man or a fine idiot.”

  I laughed. “I have been awarded both titles many times over.”

  “Would you tell me of this other madman?”

  “His name was Joseph, and he was one of the finest painters I have ever had the joy to behold the work of. His portraiture could capture the subject’s soul, and seemed on the verge of movement or speech. His landscapes could evoke a melancholy for missing the locale, even if you had never ventured there. He was truly gifted with an extraordinary talent. Yet when I met him, he disparaged his own work in the name of others. After seeing more of his creations, I began to inquire of our mutual acquaintances as to the nature and relation of these critics who used him so poorly. None could give me answer, as these individuals were not known in the social circles we traveled in.

  “In time I came to his studio and he showed me several paintings he had done of these mysterious friends, and freely spoke of their names and histories. These portraits were rendered as beautifully as his others, and I was aghast at how the subjects could ever criticize him. He assured me they did, and that shortly he would destroy these canvases in order to placate them. I implored him not to and even offered to purchase them; but he refused. I passed the whole matter off to an unfortunate eccentricity on the part of a genius, and vowed to give these individuals my opinion if our paths should ever cross. I commissioned him to do several works for me.

  “Some time later, I was at his studio, and we were drinking and having a pleasant meal when he began speaking to another person. There was no one else in the room. He referred to this person by name, and it would have been one of the mysterious individuals he had committed to canvas. At first I wondered if the girl were hiding behind the tapestries and this was all some game Joseph was playing. Shortly I came to realize that the person in question did not exist, as he placed her in the room where she should have been visible. He even poured a goblet for her and set it upon the table as if she would actually take it.

  “Needless to say, I was quite astounded, and I questioned him on the matter. In his state of inebriation, he became irate and accused me of lying that I did not see her; and he threw me out, claiming I was just like all the others. I passed this affront off to drunkenness on his part and spent more time with him. I chose not to comment when he spoke to the imaginary people of his fancy, and in time he became perplexed that I did not interact with them as he did. I came to realize he harbored a suspicion that they were not real, and he simply did not know what to make of it or do about it.

  “Then, one day, after what must have been a furious argument with several of them, he destroyed every canvas in his studio and fell into a despair in which he did not eat or drink for many days. The few of us who now knew of his condition considered our options and wondered if he should be allowed his own care. I even went so far as to visit an asylum to see if they could offer him aid. What I saw in that house of horrors convinced me to never surrender anyone but my most hated enemies unto such a place.

  “So we did what we could for him, and in time he recovered and painted again. Some days he was better than others, and some days I found even myself involved in his arguments with his ghosts. And so time passed and he completed the portraits I had asked of him and we remained friends. I make it sound as if it was a happy time, but it was not. My heart ached every time I left him.”

  We reached the Hole and the beach and returned the canoe. We began to walk to Theodore’s.

  “What happened to him?” Gaston asked. “You speak of him in the past tense.”

  “He had a young lover he was quite enamored with, and the boy was as stupid as he was beautiful and rich. He could not understand that my interest in helping Joseph was platonic, any more than he could understand the nature of Joseph’s affliction. In the end, he left Joseph during a particularly bad time and Joseph hung himself. I found my friend a week later, after his landlord contacted me to complain of the stench and that the door was barricaded. I was so enraged I went and killed his lover. Not in a duel or anything so civilized. I found the boy, got him alone, bound him hand and foot, put a noose around his neck, and kicked a chair from beneath him. I have never felt remorse for it.”

  Melancholy had taken hold of me as I related my tale. I sought out my memory of the end of Joseph’s lover’s life, because it always filled me with anger that allowed me to bury the rest again. I had stood watching the boy writhe and die of slow strangulation. Alonso had been calling me from the door, urging me to flee. I had told him no, I wanted to watch the breath drain from the bastard’s lungs and the soul flee his flesh.

  This time the memory did not fill me with my remembered rage, but with a sense of dread. And I realized this was due to my finding another madman to fall in love with. And though I claimed not to fear madness, I did fear the price it could exact upon me.

  I found Gaston watching me intently when my thoughts returned to the present. I shrugged it all away and scratched my head. “And that is what I know of madness.”

  “You are truly a unique individual. Nothing you have said has made me like you less.” He continued up the street to Theodore’s.

  Perplexed, I followed. “I would say the same of you.”

  I vowed I would do better by this madman than I had done by the last.

  When we reached Theodore’s, I collected my possessions from the spare room, and we retired to the yard to sort and pack and make ready. After we shaved, I followed his lead and cut my hair to within a finger’s width of my scalp. I had never been that shorn in my life; and I fingered my handiwork with dismay, until a breeze ruffled through it, and I immediately perceived the benefits of not having any hair to block its cooling touch.

  I changed into my new clothing: a loose pair of canvas breeches and a sleeveless tunic of the same cloth. I had followed Gaston’s lead in this, too, and eschewed the common and unremarkable cream or tan of sailcloth, opting for fabric dyed in deep wine colors instead. The new clothes were as cooling as the new hair length, and I felt lighter and more at ease in the heat and humidity.

  Dressed and shorn, I handed him the gold hoops he had bade me purchase. “I do not think I can get these on myself.”

  He nodded with a degree of resignation and pulled a fine-pointed dagger. I winced. He rolled his eyes.

  “Sit down.”

  “How many of these have you done?” I asked as I doffed my shirt.

  “None.”

  “Truly? So in your estimation am I honored or a fool?”

  He grinned. “You are a fool, but it has nothing to do with allowing me to poke holes in your ears.”

  He braced a fold of a belt behind my earlobe, and I sat and endeavored not to move while he bored the hole and inserted the hoop. It was not as painful as I had imagined, yet it was of the type of annoying discomfort that is very hard to hold still for. This was made all the more difficult by his proximity and the rest of my body’s reaction to it. His very presence tightened my groin. I could feel his breath tickling my cheek. He did not touch me except to hold my ear and steady the knife, yet I could feel every point of contact as if it burned. I c
lenched my hands on my thighs, more in an effort not to reach for him than in response to the pain. And then we repeated all of this for the other side.

  He moved in front of me and regarded his handiwork with a critical frown.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  He met my gaze and nodded approvingly. “You are bleeding, and we should put rum on them.”

  “Why? I think we should put rum in me, as they are beginning to ache in the aftermath.”

  “Nothing lives in liquor.”

  “Oh.”

  “And unlike water, alcohol kills things it touches.”

  I raised an eyebrow again.

  “The little things swimming in water,” he added. “And larger things, like leeches, slugs, fish, frogs. None can survive in alcohol.”

  “So how can we drink it?”

  He shrugged. “People die if that is all they consume, do they not?”

  I realized the irony of thinking that a sobering thought.

  “I still want a swig or two.”

  We called for Samuel, and he provided us with a bottle. Gaston liberally doused my ears, and we both took several good pulls.

  Theodore showed up right after this, and sniffed the air while viewing my new attire. “I can see you’re well on your way to becoming a buccaneer,” he said wryly. “Bald, half-naked, bloody and rum-soaked.”

  I laughed and even Gaston smiled. I mopped myself dry with my old clothes and bade Samuel burn them. I donned my new shirt and kerchief. As I strapped on belt and baldric, I told Theodore, “I wish to leave my trunks with you, now that they are landed; and I believe you had something you wished me to sign.”

  He smiled and led me inside, to his desk in the front room of the main floor. There was a sheaf of blank parchment and an inkwell. I perused this curiously, and then realized what he wished.

  “You are not serious?”

  “You agreed you would.”

  “Aye, aye…” I shooed him out and retrieved my seal from my bag, and sat at the desk.

  Gaston regarded me curiously.

  I switched to French. “He wants me to write my father.”

  My friend nodded and went to peruse the book shelves. I put pen to paper and wrote two things: the date and “My Lord”. Beyond that, I knew not what to say; and I tickled my nose with the quill, watched a cart pass by outside, and touched my aching ears to see if they continued to bleed. I found Gaston regarding me.

  “I know not what to say,” I sighed. “What do you say when you write your father?”

  There was immediate tension in his shoulders, and I realized his parents were a subject to be avoided.

  “I am sorry, I will not…”

  He waved me to silence and sprawled across one of the armchairs in front of the desk. “I am exiled here.”

  “So you are spared this,” I said lightly. To my relief, he smiled. “In a way I am exiled here, too, but…”

  He spoke into my silence. “The day we met, you said you were not sure if you cared if you remained in his good graces, as you had done without them for too long to assign them much value.”

  I grinned. “I talk a lot while drunk.”

  “You talk a lot.”

  “And yet you have not disliked anything I have said,” I teased.

  He smiled. “You say interesting things.”

  I sighed. “He was a distant and disapproving figure before I left home when I was sixteen. Then I spent ten years abroad; and when I returned, we did not know each other and I harbored more ill will than I realized. I had also not been sure of his reception. I discovered why he dislikes me. He discovered that I had changed. We have a new respect for one another. He sent me here.”

  “You are twenty-six?” he asked.

  “Oui, and you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  I nodded. “As I thought. We are of an age.”

  “So what would you tell him if you did wish to gain his friendship?” he asked.

  “The interesting points and my observations of my adventure so far. The people I have met and the things I have done.”

  He grinned. “That may not be wise to commit to paper, even if it would be well received.”

  “You see my problem. And I have little interest in writing a dry report of the acquisition of the plantation and such things, because if that is all I am allowed to speak with him of I might as well not know him at all.”

  “So write the truth, but couch it in such a manner as to be open to interpretation.”

  I was amused at the prospect; and I wrote a brief but thorough report of my adventures thus far in the West Indies, saying what I could and implying the rest. Gaston read the pages as I finished; and he was quite amused, and deemed it a work my father would surely take great interest in. Though he disliked the glowing terms I used to describe my acquaintance with him.

  “And how do you feel your father will interpret this?” He read, “I have been extremely fortunate to make the acquaintance of a fine man of my own age, who hails from a family similar to my own and possesses an abundance of education, intelligence, and skill, and who I feel shall make a fine companion in my future adventures.”

  “He will think we are lovers.” I smirked. “And he will be in good company, as this is what everyone in Port Royal seems to think.”

  He blushed, and I regretted my flippancy.

  “I am sorry. I do not mean to cause you…”

  He shook his head. “It does not need to be discussed.”

  I bit my lip and held in the sigh, as on the one hand I most certainly did wish to discuss it and on the other I feared the outcome of such a discussion. “Of course not. The opinion of others is of little import.”

  He studied me for a long moment. “I am used to others entertaining conjecture about my person. I give them little real knowledge, and men are drawn to anything that smells of enigma. Our newly-acquired friendship waves a whole bouquet under their noses, and I must learn to accept that.”

  “Would you prefer we adopt the stance of actively dispelling any rumor or insinuation upon hearing it?”

  “Non, that will just make things worse. Let them think as they will. In some ways it may serve to our advantage. So are we finished here?”

  I decided not to inquire further, and hoped the other advantages would make themselves clear to me, as he was surely not inclined to explain them. “Non, I have two other letters to England; both will be much as the first. And I would leave a note for Fletcher and the boys.”

  “Who is Fletcher?”

  I explained my relationship with Fletcher while I wrote the man.

  “You are a philanthropist.” Gaston smiled as if it were not a bad thing.

  He waited patiently while I wrote to Sarah and Rucker. I wished I had time to compose a true compendium of my observations for my old tutor, but it would have to wait. I wondered if I should take paper and ink with me on my travels, but I knew I would not take the time to write unless forced. The missive to Sarah was to the point, and merely said that I was feeling much better about the world now that I was here and I hoped all was well with her. I also mentioned that I had enjoyed getting to know her as a young woman and I looked forward to seeing her again someday.

  Gaston was still dusting the pages for me and then folding and sealing them. He had taken interest in examining my signature and seal, and I hoped he would not begin to call me by my title.

  “Who is this Mister Rucker?” he asked.

  “My tutor. He is far more responsible for who I am than my father.”

  He smiled. “So we now know who to thank.”

  I elbowed him and wrote a quick note to Tom.

  “And this?” he asked as he read it.

  “One of the boys I sailed with.” I grinned.

  “Ah,” he said and read Sarah’s letter. “And this is your sister?”

  “Aye. She is seventeen and… I know her little, but wish I had known her more as she matured,” I said without looking at him.
/>   When I finished the notes, he was still staring at Sarah’s letter. His expression was odd, and I could not discern the emotion behind it.

  “Is something amiss?” I asked.

  He shook himself as if waking from reverie, and sighed. “Non.” He quickly folded her letter and sealed it.

  “Do you have family that you miss?” I asked.

  He took a deep breath as he regarded me. “Oui.”

  “Do you…?”

  “No more, Will.” He stood and left the room.

  I stifled my curiosity and reasoned it into submission. I would either learn his secrets in the fullness of time or I would not. I arranged the letters in bundles, one for England and the other for Jamaica, and followed him out the back door. We found Theodore in the yard sitting on the cistern. I wondered at this until I felt the relative coolness of the breeze.

  “You should put chairs out here,” I noted.

  “Aye, I consider it and then forget it until the next time.”

  “You should task Ella with it.”

  “I doubt her ability to choose a comfortable chair. Are you finished?”

  “Six pages, signed and sealed.”

  “I’ll put it on the first ship out. Which would have been the King’s Hope, but alas.”

  I remembered someone else I should write, and hurried back inside to compose a note to Belfry. When I returned to the yard I said, “I have also left a note and some coin for Mister Belfry. He was second officer of the King’s Hope. I wish I could provide him with more, as he is now without a job. I hope we will take a good deal of Spanish gold, as I have much I need to do with it.”

  Theodore frowned. “Damn, Marsdale, a man is truly blessed to make your acquaintance.”

  I grinned. “Not always. Have you heard any news concerning the ship?”

  He shrugged. “Five died, and the captain is bankrupt and stranded.”

  “As I said, not always.”

  He nodded soberly. “You are akin to some curious angel who metes out justice as you see fit, are you not?”

  “I would suppose that describes me.” I grinned.

  He nodded solemnly, and embraced me as if we had known one another years and not days. “May God protect you.”