Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (30 page)

“I know,” Gaston said solemnly and went below.

Pierrot studied me for a moment before stepping closer to speak quietly. “You must take good care of him.”

I frowned. “I will endeavor to do so, though I feel I will need more care than he.”

He shook his head. “Not always.”

“There was mention of bouts of… madness…?”

Pierrot nodded and lowered his voice even further to speak very seriously. “When they strike, he knows not friend from foe, as he is busy fighting his own demons. At times he is quiet and docile and merely wishes to do things that…” He sighed. “He poses the bodies of the men he has slain. Thus many have taken to calling him The Ghoul. Yet that is harmless and quite preferable to what he does when the rage grips him. He becomes very dangerous, though more to himself than others, as he will do everything he can conceive to anger those around him.

It is as if he seeks death at their hands. If you are his friend, when these things occur, you must protect yourself from him and him from everyone else. I strongly advise knocking him senseless and trussing him someplace dark and quiet until he recovers.”

I was truly amazed. I could not envision Gaston behaving as he said.

My friend appeared to be the epitome of control and discipline; but I supposed that was how he chose to hide the other, or perhaps the two states were in reaction to one another. I was curious as to this posing of the dead. But I was far more concerned with Pierrot’s remedy to the situation. I did not condone that at all. It did not seem a compassionate solution or one I would be willing to utilize, but I did not argue.

We turned to find Gaston watching us from the hatchway. He joined us without speaking. He did not give us any look of recrimination, yet I was sure he knew what Pierrot had been saying. It chilled me to the bone. As before, when Striker had made mention of this madness, Gaston made no attempt to deny or relieve the accusation of its seriousness in any way. I remembered his words from that morning, about his parents being mad and how he had worn his welcome thin on this vessel with all save one, who I now knew to be Pierrot.

Gaston handed me a heavy rucksack and looked up at Pierrot. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

Pierrot shook his head and hugged him, a thing Gaston reluctantly allowed. Pierrot released Gaston from his embrace only to grab his face and kiss his forehead.

“Repay me by finding happiness somewhere, my friend.”

“I do not know if that is possible, but I will endeavor to try.” Gaston led me over the side, and a minute later we were rowing back to Port Royal.

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 clenched 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.