He thought on it, and his answer was slow in coming. “When we sailed last summer, and when I lived amongst the monks. But Will, even then I felt I was in constant battle….”
“Hold a moment. When have you felt truly mad, so that there was no battling with the Horse at all?”
This answer was quick. “When I first recovered from the… flogging.”
“So, for perhaps three years of your life, you have felt mostly sane or mostly mad. And you are twenty-eight years? What of the rest?”
He frowned, but a wry smile slowly replaced it. “I see your point. I have spent most of my life betwixt the two. But Will, you do not know how very hard I have to fight the Horse.”
I clung to his metaphor. “Is that because the Horse is truly unruly and hateful of you, or because it wishes to go places faster and with less care than you feel prudent – because you feel it may lead you both into harm again? What does your Horse wish to do when it gets away from you? I know you are not truly a horse, but whenever I have had a horse refuse to go someplace, or buck beneath me, or wish to run in one direction or another, it always had a reason that made sense to it. Perhaps a snake was emerging from the hedge that I did not see, or it heard a thing I only later discovered.”
He was thoughtful. “I see what you say, and… I must think on it. Sometimes, I think my Horse is my soul, and it is a thing of the truth and light and cares little for civilized shadows on the wall. But then, on occasion, it delivers to me urges or thoughts I cannot abide and call myself good, and I want no part of it. If it is the truth of me, then I am evil.”
I wondered what thoughts could be so very dark. “Does that relate to the events with your sister?”
“Oui and non,” he sighed. “I must think on it, truly.”
“I do not feel you are evil.”
“I try not to show you those shadows,” he said solemnly.
I thought of last night, and of waking weeks ago to find him standing over me with a knife. I had many more questions, but I kept silent as he turned out the lamp and joined me in the hammock, his back pressed to mine. I mulled over events of the last two days, truly allowing myself to remember. I winced with shame at my humiliating reaction to his assault. That was a thing I must think over and reconcile, if not remedy. It brought to mind one other facet of the situation though.
“Gaston,” I whispered. He had not yet seemed to relax into sleep.
“Oui.”
“Last night, you stopped – or rather the Horse stopped, I suppose – when I cried out. I cannot see that as evil.”
Now I felt the tension ease from his back.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Neither of us slept for a time. I do not know what dark thoughts he harbored, but my own swirled about chasing their tails. I laid many a curse upon his father and Doucette, as I had many times since Île de la Tortue. Gaston had been well before, to such an extent that I had not been able to comprehend his claims of madness except for rare instances. Yet, if I truly looked back over our life together, I could see hints here and there of his Horse’s antics. I knew his assertion that he has always been mad was true, though I still chose to believe his father responsible for much of the Horse’s wildness – even prior to the disastrous night eleven years ago. And I could surely blame that bastard Doucette for inciting it to run amuck these last months.
This did little to ease my troubled mind. I wished to have clear villains to revile, as I felt I had in my own life. I did not wish to blame Gaston for his Horse being an unruly creature. I could place blame for my tormented soul squarely upon two heads, my cousin Shane’s and my father’s. Then I realized even that was folly. I considered myself equally culpable, did I not? Was I not the one who taught my Horse to run instead of fight? Had I not allowed myself to be herded through life? Had I not been born with my own madness, which I too rode poorly, though with different result? That begged the question: could Gaston not learn to ride his Mount better? This, in due course, led to the allegation that I could learn to ride better as well; and that I could still blame his damned father and all the others for not teaching him how to ride in the first place.
And how apt was this allegory of a horse for our heart of hearts? I seemed to take to it well enough. Were we all not just beasts ridden by a rational soul attempting to control what God had wrought? And where was God in all of this? Was He not responsible for Gaston’s having an abundantly spirited and sensitive Horse, or my having one that was too inquisitive and favored men? And could one learn to ride from another? And if so, how did one teach it?
I had trained a number of horses, some so spirited I was the only one they would allow to ride them. And there was a dark thought. Did I not take pride in being the only one Gaston ever handed the reins to, just as I had taken pride in being the only one able to mount my great destrier of a hunter, Goliath, or the others? Was that the unworthy pleasure I took in accepting the mantle of responsibility? Is that why I felt I walked taller under its weight? And all allegory aside, was that why I took such pride and satisfaction in our love, because I was needed?
I had never been needed before; I had always been the one doing the needing in my relations with others. I had always been the boy, ever running from trouble and ever seeking some small praise, a pat on the head, or perhaps a treat. And damn it all, could I not blame my father for that as well, as I surely never received a kind word from him as all boys should? And did he not allow me to be driven from his home prior to my becoming a man? I had to teach myself to become a man, to ride my Horse, and perhaps I have done a piss-poor job of it.
How was I going to help Gaston in that light? My Horse was always running amuck, was it not? But unlike Gaston, I did not cling to it for dear life; nay, I enjoyed the ride and whooped with glee as we jumped this or that fence and chased the sheep about. Yet, was that a fair comparison? Was my Mount as feral as Gaston’s?
I saw us as horses, he a wicked black one unused to the traces or even paddocks: a wild creature of the woods, a mythic forest denizen peering into the world of ordered green fields. And I was a white creature born of those fields, but badly trained and misused, so that I trusted few and ran far. And we met somewhere in a meadow betwixt forest and pasture, and frolicked in the morning dew like colts, sometimes challenging and other times examining one another. And we would race, until we fell into step like a well-matched team, hooves striking in tandem, stride for stride.
I woke feeling I had little sleep, as if I had truly been running about all night. Gaston looked as weary as I, but we chose not to trouble one another on it, or discuss anything of merit with Pete and Striker around. We went about the day.
It took sadly little time to pack the belongings we would leave behind in the sea trunk. We closed my crude shutters, blocked the door, and caught all the chickens we could. Then, laden with Gaston’s medicine chest, our weapons, traveling gear, and the fowl, the four of us made our way down the hill to the beach.
I stopped to look back only once at my abode. It had been more a home than many places I had lived. I hoped Theodore had completed the land grants. I realized that was a thing I needed to tell Gaston.
All were happy to see Gaston. He, of course, was not as pleased to see all of them, especially their pressing about and speaking loudly, but he made the best of it and I sheltered him as I could. That is to say, I was pleased he did not stab or even snarl at the men who I had to stop from embracing him. We could do little about their speculative looks, though. All seemed to wish to gauge his relative sanity. I understood to some degree; it was with effort that my eyes were not always upon him, wondering if this or that would upset him.
They had already begun to scrape the ship free of seaweed, barnacles, and all other manner of things that adore adhering to wet wood in the tropics. Once an area was clear, another man would apply pitch to the seams and coat the surface with tar. Meanwhile, a few men painted what they could above the waterline to protect the wood there. Painting was not an opt
ion for the decks, but all of the vertical surfaces were thus treated. The Bard had chosen a lively blue for this coat of paint, and I thought our Virgin Queen would be quite handsome once we were done.
Gaston quickly chose to take a turn with the scraping. I was put to work stirring the tar. I was not enamored with sitting about the smoky fire, even in a fine sea breeze, but other than scraping or applying pitch, tasks we already had ample men pursuing, I have little to offer the careening process. As no one else wanted to sit about the fire with me, I was left alone, except for Davey and Julio coming to refill their tar pails. So I was both pleased and surprised when the Bard joined me, and then I remembered that he might have matters to discuss with me in private. I was correct.
“Apparently a ‘thank you’ is in order,” he grinned. “Dickey has not shared the particulars of what was said, but I understand I have you to thank for raising the sail on the matter.”
I chuckled. “He approached me to ask advice of how best to woo you, and over the course of the conversation realized he had misinterpreted a number of signals from your quarter.”
The Bard sighed. “He is such the lad; I did not know what to say to him without being blatant.”
“It is a new and somewhat thorny matter for him.” I shrugged. “Until this summer, I do not feel he ever considered a man at all.”
“Nay, he did not. And even now…” He studied the horizon with a frown and shook his head.
“Do you judge him insincere?”
“Nay,” the Bard said firmly. He eyed me in a speculative fashion. “You favor men, true? As your first choice?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t. Not as my first choice. Men are a thing I learned since I went to sea as a boy. And he doesn’t favor men. To me it begs the question of what we’re about. Things aren’t as they were in the West Indies a decade ago. There are women here now, though they be few. Granted, I spend all my time aboard a ship, and that’s no place for a woman. There’s no place in my life for a woman at all, as I wouldn’t want one sitting in port. But Dickey has other choices he could make.”
I was surprised and curious. “You are the one who knows so much of matelots, are you not? Does not the heart sometimes lead the loins?”
He sighed and awarded me a wry smile. “Sometimes.”
“What is your real concern?”
“Damn you,” he muttered with a grin.
“To the Devil with you as well,” I said good naturedly.
He checked the consistency of my tar and played with the sand a little before finally speaking. “It is a huge thing, the taking on of another.”
“Ahhh.” I smiled.
“I’m used to being my own master,” he said. “I rely on no man. I’m respected. I have my skills. I have my money. I have not had to share it all in a long time. I have yearned, but never reached, for another these last years. And, bless his heart, he’s young. I’m afraid he’s swept up in the tide of coming here, and he’ll change his tack once the bloom fades.”
“I see. Hearts can change, but in the time I have known Dickey, I have found him to be consistently a man, albeit young, of sober reflection and steadfast but principled loyalty.”
“I know.” The Bard smiled. “Else I wouldn’t have found myself so fond of him.”
“Are there other issues of compatibility, beyond the concerns of wisdom and the cynicism of maturity?” I teased.
“Nay,” he chuckled. “Not that can’t be won.”
“Are there issues with gentling him down?”
He snorted and scratched his head with embarrassment.
“I do not mean to pry, and I will leave well enough alone,” I said quickly.
“Nay, nay, ask away.” He shrugged.
“All right then, understand I usually do not engage in this topic to any detail with men I do not intend to bed.”
He chuckled. “Neither do I.”
“Am I correct in assuming you would rather be sailed than do the sailing?”
This time he laughed. “Aye. But it has been a very long time since that has occurred, Will.”
“Ahhh…” I sighed.
“And he is such a pup. He knows … nothing, yet he has a great deal of enthusiasm. And I had rather hoped he had sought your advice on that.”
I grinned. “Well, send him back and I will tell him what I can.”
“Truly, Will, I’m amazed he can pleasure himself without incident.”
Davey awarded us one of his usual disapproving looks when he found us laughing such that we could not fill his pail steadily, leaving him to tend to it himself. This only amused us more until he left.
When we sobered a bit, I said, “I am sure you are a fine teacher in that as well as sailing.”
“I’ve never had to teach another that,” the Bard sighed. “It’ll be an adventure. And my getting sailed in that manner will be a long time in coming.”
I thought on my own fate at the hands of love and sighed. “I am sure it will be worth the time and effort.”
“As am I. I shouldn’t whine so. ’Tis good to have someone.” He shrugged.
And as if he had read my mind with the same ability he read the winds, he asked, “And you?” He looked up at Gaston, who was still working on the side of the ship.
“We are together,” I sighed. “And I do not fear a change of heart. And I truly believe the things we hope to achieve are both achievable and worthy of the effort.”
“But it is not an easy road you walk?” he asked kindly.
I shrugged. “Nay, it is not.”
“Is he well?”
“It is made all the more difficult by the scrutiny of others,” I said.
He nodded soberly. “Sorry, but Will, he’s going to scrape those planks to paper.”
I looked up and saw what he spoke of. Gaston was working at his section of planks like a man possessed, and I realized he had been at it far longer than a normal shift.
“I see your point,” I said quickly. “Watch the tar, will you?”
Gaston did not stop when I joined him in kneeling on the angled hull. I had to place both hands upon his before he slowed. His eyes glittered with a dangerous rage I knew far too well. I did my best not to flinch.
“I think you should stop now,” I said lightly.
He pulled away and flung the scraper down. He began to clench and shake his hands, and I surmised the old damage had made them numb again. I snatched one hand and turned it over to see the blisters. His callused hands had not wielded a tool steadily or with such force these last months.
“When last I did that to myself you became quite distraught,” I chided gently.
He jerked his hand away and balled it into a fist. He hugged himself and studied his handiwork of the last hour. His eyes softened.
“They keep staring,” he hissed. “I hate it. I have always been stared at. Always.”
I knew and understood, but what could I say?
“I would hate to think that I have chosen a matelot so unremarkable that no one would notice him at all,” I said lightly.
This earned me an exasperated look, just short of eye-rolling by virtue of anger.
“I am sorry they are as they are,” I added quickly. “It bothers me, too. They generally become bored after a time, though, and move on to something new.”
“Not when I give them new reasons to stare,” he muttered. “I am sorry, Will. I thought I could do this simple thing, and they would indeed become distracted, but I kept feeling eyes upon me and it minded me of all the other times and…”
“I understand.”
He looked at his palm and cursed quietly.
“I should stay with you,” he finally muttered. “You should keep me on a leash.” This last was quite bitter.
“I am sure your Horse will calm once it becomes accustomed to them again.”
“Non, it does not wish to be calm for just such a reason. It feels it is an imposition, an offense, that it must be calm and not allowed to expre
ss itself. It is why I often hate being about others. It is not a polite shadow on the wall. I do not wish to play their games. To follow their rules. It is not fair,” he ranted with more pain than anger.
That was indeed interesting, and I studied him with wonder. “Non, it is not. You wish to confront them?”
“Oui,” he smiled ruefully. “I did as a child. I would yell and tell them to leave me alone. As you can imagine, that led to more trouble. And I was always punished for it. So the Horse learned to hate them.”
I could well envision it. His fellow students would have been a pack of hounds on a fox.
“I thank the Gods I was not subjected to large packs of wolf cubs in boarding schools in my childhood,” I said. “I did occasionally encounter the local herd of lambs on my father’s lands. As I was a wolf cub, they would not play with me, and it left me more lonely than abused. Later, when I met wolves of my own age, I learned to be a jester in order to disguise my…. dissimilarity, because that is never tolerated.”
“I am not amusing,” he said sadly, and I nearly chuckled. Thankfully he saw the humor of his words and did not anger at my smile. A grin twitched at his lips.
“Non, you are not,” I said. “I was blessed with the ability to play the fool.” The thought pulled the smile off my face. “I am not proud of it. It shames me at times. Because, I too, want to tear their hearts out, and yet I make some jest and they feel safe and I allow them to. I feel the coward in that regard. I am not brave… in that.”
He shook his head and smiled. “This from a man who will confront priests… and me.”
“It is true,” I sighed. “We do not always see ourselves as others do.”
I looked about to see who might be watching us and found Davey glaring from farther down the hull. “Davey, for example. I doubt he understands what a belligerent goat he is. But is he brave in that regard? He surely does not feel the need to hide any thought he has.”
Gaston smirked. “That is because they are few and fleeting.”
I chuckled briefly. “What shall we do? I love some of these men as brothers, and the rest are our brethren as they are the Brethren. They mean no harm. And I know the knowing of a thing means little in comparison to the feeling of it.”
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