Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Of course you have my consent.”

  “Thank you. All I will require is some small private space. Perhaps I could make use of one of the barns, or a room in one of the outbuildings?”

  “Really, padre, you must feel free to use any of the rooms right here in the main house. The library, perhaps. Anyone who wishes to talk to you can come here tonight and wait in the drawing room. Then you can call them into the library, one at a time. If you think that will be an appropriate arrangement, I will instruct senhora Beatriz accordingly.”

  “You are most generous, my son.”

  “I don’t like to contradict you, padre, but this costs me nothing. Now, the only question is how to spread the word around the fazenda that you will be available.”

  Estevao stopped stuffing himself with dessert long enough to speak up. “I will take care of that, senior. I will discuss it with Anibal and Joaquin, and they will notify the employees.”

  “Excellent. That’s all decided, then.”

  Padre Valentin finished his coffee and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Then, with your permission, senhor Sebastien—now that I have been so well refreshed, I will take my leave of you, until this evening.”

  “I will fetch your robe and your backpack, padre,” Estevao volunteered, “and accompany you part of the way. I have several things I would like to discuss with you.”

  Sebastien was egocentric enough to wonder whether he was one of the “several things”—and what, exactly, Estevao might have to say to this monk about his employer, and the peculiar relationship the two of them had forged. But he supposed Estevao deserved some measure of privacy.

  That evening, Sebastien was working in the study when Estevao brought him his coffee.

  “Has Padre Valentin returned, Estevao?”

  “Yes, senhor. He is in the library now. And there are several people in the drawing room, waiting their turn to see him. Senhora Beatriz has offered them refreshments, as you suggested.”

  “Good. I hope she offered the padre something to eat, as well?”

  “She did, but he declined. He ate his evening meal at the home of one of the villagers he visited today.”

  “The padre seems to me to be an extraordinary man.”

  “He is very pious, senhor.”

  “What do you know about this order he belongs to?”

  “I have visited their monastery, senhor. It is small, and located in an isolated area not far from Guarás. The brothers are poor. They renounce the things of this world. They devote themselves to prayer, and to charitable works.”

  “And to flagellation,” Sebastien suggested.

  “I know the idea must seem strange to you, senhor, but it is a tradition.”

  “Padre Valentin mentioned that several of the men here on the fazenda participate in this Good Friday ritual every year. I assume you know who they are?”

  “Of course. It is no secret. The men take pride it in. Pride in representing the fazenda by humbling themselves—if you understand the apparent contradiction.”

  “Well? Enlighten me, Estevao. Who are they?”

  “I myself. Senhor Medeiros—”

  “You and Joaquin?”

  “Yes, senhor. Uver…Stênio, Edu, and Reymundo, of course—”

  “Of course. Those names do not surprise me, from what you have told me about them.”

  “Vinicius, and Cristiano—”

  “Cristiano!” Sebastien exclaimed.

  “If you keep interrupting me, senhor Sebastien, I will never get to the end of the list.”

  “Sorry. Do go on. This is most fascinating.”

  “Oranjinho, Ricardo, and Alexildo. Yes. Those are the ones who never miss. Some of the other men submit to the flogging now and then, but not every year.”

  “Are you telling me, Estevao, that there is a secret cult of flagellants, right here on Saõ Martinho?”

  “Really, mestre. Forgive me for saying so, but you are sometimes prone to exaggeration, and to jumping to conclusions. This procession of flagellants takes place only once a year. There is no secrecy about it. If some of us choose to perform certain acts of contrition, in private, on other occasions…that is a matter between a man and his God. Some of the people here in the neighborhood believe—” Estevao broke off, as though waiting for encouragement before going on.

  “Oh, don’t stop now, Estevao. Tell me. They believe what?”

  “That having themselves flogged in the name of St. Martin will keep the flood waters away from the cultivated land, or from encroaching upon their homes.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  Estevao turned to leave the study, but hesitated.

  “Senhor Sebastien, if you are really as open-minded as you told the padre you are, at lunch today—”

  “I can always tell, Estevao, when you have something on your mind. Come now, out with it.”

  “You have seen the cairn of stones, here on the fazenda, where St. Martin supposedly performed his miracle, driving back the flood waters. Some of us believe what our ancestors believed…that if a man submits to the lash there, by the cairn, it is an act of special potency.”

  “Yikes,” Sebastien said, in plain English.

  “Sometimes, men have been known to go there, at night, for that purpose. And yes—they do so secretly. I do not know whether senhor Gilberto was aware of this. He may have suspected, but I am not sure. He would have called it superstition.”

  “He might have been right. Forgive me, Estevao, but it does sound more like a holdover of old pagan beliefs than a Christian rite.”

  “Nevertheless…now that Padre Valentin is here…if you were to give your permission…one or two of the men might be inspired to perform the ritual, under his supervision, tonight.”

  “Instead of waiting for Good Friday?”

  “In addition to it, or rather, in preparation for it. One can be contrite on any day of the year. Just as one can sin at any time.”

  “True.”

  “Shall I speak to Padre Valentin, when he is finished hearing the confessions?”

  “Yes. Go ahead. Remind the good padre that he is to consider this house his home away from home, and that he is to act quite freely while he is here with us.”

  Sebastien worked for another couple of hours, although he found his mind wandering. There seemed to be no end of surprises, here on Marajó. He decided that he was really going to have to make a systematic effort to familiarize himself with the local culture. He turned to more secular matters, watching a news program on Brazilian TV. He had trouble concentrating on it, though. He caught himself trying to imagine what Cristiano would look like, being flogged.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. The house was quiet. Sebastien went exploring and found senhor Beatriz in the drawing room, tidying up.

  “Our visitors?” Sebastien asked her.

  “They have all gone home, senhor. They were most grateful for the chance to be with Padre Valentin. He is greatly respected, here.”

  “And the padre?”

  “He has gone to his room.”

  “I will not disturb him, then.”

  “He asked me to thank you, senhor, for your hospitality, in case he does not see you in the morning, before he leaves. The padre is a very early riser. I asked him not to leave before we can give him some breakfast.”

  “Maybe I will get up early enough to see him off. Good night, senhora Beatriz.”

  “Good night, senhor Sebastien.”

  Sebastien had been in his bedroom for only a few minutes when Estevao knocked lightly on the door.

  “Yes, Estevao?”

  “Will you go to bed now, senhor…or will you come with us?”

  “To the cairn?” Sebastien guessed.

  “Yes.”

  “Padre Valentin has no objection to my coming along?”

  “He invites you. He seemed most eager for you to accompany us.”

  “How many of ‘us’ are there?”

  “Only myself and Stên
io, in addition to the padre. That is sufficient for our purpose. A small group is better. More discreet. We do not want anyone to observe us. Some people might not understand.”

  “Indeed. Do I need to bring anything along?”

  “No. And the night is warm, senhor. You should not even need a jacket. Come as you are.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  They left the house by way of the bedroom windows, crossing the lawn quickly, like conspirators. Overhead, some masses of dense clouds drifted across the otherwise clear, starry sky. There was a strong, warm breeze. The air, as so often at night at this time of year, felt slightly damp.

  “Do you think it will rain?” Sebastien asked.

  “Even if it does, that will not deter us,” Estevao replied. “If a man is willing to abandon his body to the saint, he will ignore small hardships.”

  As Sebastien had already half-suspected, there seemed to be an element of putting one’s manhood to the test in this strange nocturnal adventure of theirs.

  Estevao led Sebastien toward one of the storage sheds. Suddenly, Sebastien glimpsed Padre Valentin’s white robe, in the doorway of the shed. The padre and Stênio approached the other two men. The padre was carrying something, wrapped up in a burlap sack, and Stênio was carrying what looked like two long metal pipes. Estevao took one of them from him.

  “Good evening, Stênio,” Sebastien said.

  “Senhor,” the husky young caubói responded, looking a bit subdued in the mestre’s presence.

  “You surprise me, my son,” Padre Valentin told Sebastien. “Many men, especially those with your background, would not be this receptive to—shall we say, to unorthodox ideas?”

  “I want to learn,” Sebastien admitted. “Everything that goes on here is of interest to me.”

  They walked toward the pasture that contained the cairn. At this time of night, the compound was quiet, but when they had left it behind, the open fields all around them were quieter still. Only the occasional cry of a bird or the hum of insects broke the intense silence.

  Sebastien paused to study the cairn, which he had not previously seen from this close up. Here and there, tucked into the gaps between the irregularly shaped stones, were floral offerings—some withered, others quite fresh. Estevao was crouching down nearby, looking at the ground.

  “Here is the hole,” he said.

  “The hole?” Sebastien asked.

  “Where the pipe has been driven into the ground, on previous occasions.”

  “I see. Do these occasions occur regularly?”

  “Often enough,” was Estevao’s evasive answer.

  Estevao and Stênio now busied themselves with the two pipes, which, Sebastien now saw, had threaded joints so that they could be screwed together to form a large T shape. It was the kind of contraption that could be used, set into the ground in pairs, to string up laundry lines between them, to allow the wash to dry outdoors, or to support cultivated vines.

  As Stênio and Estevao set the base of the T into the hole in the ground, Padre Valentin unpacked the burlap sack—pulling out a mallet, a coil of rope, and a small leather bullwhip, with a braided handle. Estevao used the mallet to pound the pipe securely into the earth, while Stênio began to measure out short lengths of the rope, cutting them with his pocket knife.

  “I will go first,” Estevao volunteered as he began to take off his shirt. His eagerness struck Sebastien as more than a little suspicious, but he reminded himself to withhold judgment.

  Stripped to the waist, Estevao faced the improvised metal whipping post. The crossbar was about level with his forehead. He crossed himself, then raised his arms and allowed Stênio to bind his wrists to either end of the horizontal pipe. Stênio made very tight knots, allowing Estevao’s wrists no play whatsoever.

  “He must be restrained?” Sebastien asked, in a whisper. They were out in the middle of the fields, where no one could hear them. He wondered why he was whispering. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

  “Yes,” Padre Valentin said, also in a low voice. “As Our Savior was bound to the Cross.”

  Estevao spread his legs wide, pressing his booted feet against the soil as though to steady himself, bowed his head, and waited, motionless. He was breathing hard. Padre Valentin began reciting a prayer, in Latin, in a monotone. Sebastien’s dim memories of college Latin classes didn’t allow him to follow all of the sense, but he could tell from certain repetitive phrases that Padre Valentin was evoking St. Martin.

  Stênio had also stripped to the waist. Now he picked up the bullwhip, uncoiled it, and stepped backward. He took a moment to gauge the distance to his target, and then he swung his arm back, swept it forward again, and aimed the end of the whip at Estevao’s broad bare back. At the first impact, Estevao tensed and sucked in his breath with a hiss.

  Methodically, taking his time, aiming each blow with great care, Stênio gave his fellow vaqueiro twelve lashes. Padre Valentin prayed unceasingly throughout. Only during the last three blows did Estevao’s body jerk and writhe with extra violence, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he tugged at his bonds. He also gritted his teeth and emitted strange, mewing sounds each of the last three times the whip struck him.

  Stênio lowered the whip and used his pocket knife to cut free Estevao’s wrists. Estevao stepped away from the whipping post, shivering a little, his face and torso gleaming wet with sweat.

  “You see, senhor,” he told Sebastien in a hoarse whisper. “It is nothing. Stênio is very skilled with the whip. He did not break the skin. There are marks, but they will fade.”

  “But didn’t it hurt?” Even as he asked the question, Sebastien realized it was a stupid thing to say. Of course it hurt! he expected Estevao to retort. It hurt like hell! What did you think?

  But, “We offer up the pain to our patron, the saint,” was all that Estevao said.

  Stênio took Estevao’s place, also crossing himself before allowing Estevao to tie his wrists to the crosspiece with two fresh pieces of rope. Then, while Padre Valentin continued to pray, Estevao stood and wielded the whip. Again, he delivered twelve measured, carefully placed strokes. Stênio tensed and grunted, but otherwise endured the punishment with admirable poise.

  Then it was Padre Valentin’s turn. He still murmured his prayers, under his breath, as he removed first his crucifix, then his robe, and finally his T-shirt, folding both items of clothing carefully before depositing them on the ground. Even in this dim light, Sebastien could see that the monk’s wiry, firm-muscled shoulders and back were not only crisscrossed by thin white scars, the product of healed welts—superimposed on these older marks were more recent dark stripes and bruises. To Sebastien, it was a somewhat disturbing, even shocking, sight. Padre Valentin crossed himself and took up his position facing the pipes.

  “Tighter, my son,” he urged Estevao, as the latter bound his wrists.

  “Yes, padre.” Estevao pulled the ropes tighter, then knotted them.

  Stênio once again wielded the lash. Padre Valentin’s eyes were closed. His lips moved, uttering now barely audible prayers. He barely seemed to react to the blows Stênio delivered to his back.

  After the first few strokes, however, he spoke. “Harder, my son. Do not hold back.” Stênio, who was already dripping sweat and breathing hard from his exertions, complied.

  “Harder,” Padre Valentin requested, after another few strokes, as politely as though he were asking for another cup of coffee. “Use your strength in the saint’s service.”

  Stênio paused after what Sebastien now recognized as the standard twelve lashes. He speculated about the possible numerical symbolism—one for each of the twelve apostles, perhaps?

  “Continue,” Padre Valentin said, quietly.

  Stênio delivered another set of twelve strokes. Toward the end, he visibly began to tire, breathing harder than ever.

  “Continue,” Padre Valentin pleaded. “Take the lash from him, Estevao. And do not spare me, my son.”

  Estevao crossed hi
mself before he took the whip from Stênio and set to work.

  “That will suffice,” Padre Valentin said, much to Sebastien’s relief, after Estevao had given him another dozen blows. Stênio hurried to free his wrists.

  Padre Valentin smiled at Sebastien. “As you can see, my son, one must become acclimated to this by degrees. I am no stranger to it, therefore I can endure more. We have done a good night’s work. Surely Saõ Martinho has heard our prayers.”

  Impulsively, Sebastien began to take off his shirt.

  “But we are not yet finished,” he said. “I wish…not just to observe. I want to participate. To submit. If I may do so without giving offense.”

  “The saint welcomes you,” Padre Valentin assured him. “Give me the whip, Estevao. I will employ it, this time, for you and Stênio must be weary.”

  Stripped to the waist, Sebastien crossed himself, then assumed the position. His heart was racing, and he could already feel his breath accelerating—in anticipation, combined with fear…fear that he might not be able to take it, that he might wimp out and disgrace himself by screaming for mercy. Estevao bound his wrists. The restraints really were tight. The coarse-textured rope bit into his wrists, and the loops couldn’t be left in place for long without one’s circulation being cut off. The discomfort, in some strange way, helped him to focus his attention.

  Sebastien did what he had seen the others do—he spread his legs, braced himself, bowed his head—and waited.

  “Breathe naturally, mestre,” Estevao advised. “Do not hold your breath.”

  Sebastien tried his best to do so. He almost did scream at the first sting from the bullwhip. It seemed to sear the flesh of his back and penetrate deep into him, like a jet of fire shot at him from some bizarre weapon resembling a miniature flamethrower.

  He clenched his teeth and ground them as he was struck again. It is nothing, Estevao had claimed. Was the guy out of his mind? This was pretty bad, as far as Sebastien was concerned. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to take it. He wondered whether anybody else had ever submitted to this punishment, only to change his mind and beg to be released, halfway through. Somehow, he doubted it.

  I’m not going to be the first, he swore to himself. I’m not going to back out now!