The Voyages of Trueblood Cay

by Suanne Laqueur

  Lejo, silent all this time, laughed against his crossed arms.

  “You shut up,” his brother said, turning the page.

  “Huh,” Lejo said. “That’s interesting.”

  They stared a long time. Interesting wasn’t the word Trueblood would’ve chosen, but this picture was certainly calmer. A man lay on his back and the woman knelt over him. Her hands rested on his shoulders and Trueblood closed his eyes a moment, imagining soft palms on his collarbones, pressing him down. Leaning on him with all that lush weight. Would it hurt? The man in the picture didn’t look in pain. He smiled as he reached a hand up to the woman’s cheek, as if reaching for a faraway star. Now Trueblood focused on his own palm, a girl’s smooth cheek within. It would be flat at first, then grow round when she smiled. Her smile would curve right into his hand, like a tiny apple.

  He squirmed. And rubbed. Just a little.

  “She’s pretty,” Raj said quietly. A fingertip traced down the ripples of the woman’s hair.

  “Women are so round,” Lejo said. His own pointing finger traced the woman’s limbs, moving in and out of the curve of her tiny waist. Its delicate narrowness sat above an ample backside.

  It’s in her, Trueblood thought, slowly pushing his hips down into the floor. That’s why it gets hard. So he can put it in her. And reach up to touch her face while it’s in her. He can touch all of her skin and she lets him. Because they’re gelang. They’re together and they love each other. They take their clothes off and sleep in the same bed and when he gets hard, he puts it in her.

  What does that feel like?

  Would it be warm or cool? Dry or wet? Loose or tight? Would it be as tight, wet and warm as his fist could be when he spit in it and curled into his palm like a smile…

  Raj turned the page.

  Trueblood was light-headed. All that skin and nakedness. He was so confused. Tongue bone dry in a watering mouth. Head buzzing with something he didn’t have a name for.

  “Grown-up men are so hairy,” Lejo was saying, drawing along this man’s splayed legs. “Their bodies don’t hide anything. They keep it all outside. Everything’s on display, even their hair.”

  “She has hair under her arms,” Trueblood said, pointing at the female who was as wide open as a wind-filled sail. “And hair down…there.”

  “Raj has hair on his balls.”

  “So?” Raj said. “Why are you looking at my balls anyway?”

  “Yeah, how do you know?” Trueblood asked Lejo.

  “I sleep with him, dumbass.”

  Lejo, Trueblood once wrote in his most private journal, is terrible at name-calling. Because he never means it.

  “I don’t sleep with my balls in your face,” Raj said.

  “Ew.” Trueblood shook his head hard to break up the visual.

  “Anyway, women are more secretive,” Lejo said, unperturbed. “Everything’s tucked inside and invisible. You can’t see anything.”

  “Well holy horses, these aren’t inside,” Raj said, pointing to the women’s breasts.

  “I think the artist was exaggerating,” Trueblood said. “No woman I’ve seen has tits that big.”

  “Merevhal doesn’t stick out like that,” Raj said, nodding. “She’d tip over.”

  “Maybe women can control how big they get.”

  “Sure. Like I can control how tall my mast gets.”

  “You cannot.”

  “Oh yeah? Watch.” Raj rolled over and went for the laces on his breeches. The other two boys howled laughing, shoving him off, yelling at him to put that thing away before he hurt himself.

  “They’ll be looking for us soon,” Trueblood said. “We should go.”

  A lot of shuffling and throat-clearing as they got up, Raj and Trueblood casually arranging their shirts outside their trousers. Lejo was a little flushed along his cheekbones, but otherwise seemed unphased by the whole episode.

  The boys gathered their unused bucket and brushes and mop, opened the door of the hold and walked smack into Kepten True.

  “Héjo, Da,” Trueblood said, his voice shrill and guilty in his ears.

  Raj gave his most dazzling smile and a grand wave behind him. “Well that hold doesn’t need scrubbing,” he said.

  Lejo’s eyes rolled toward his twin and closed briefly. “We were just reading, Kep,” he said.

  Raj kicked the back of his calf.

  “Ow. What?” Lejo said. “It’s the truth.”

  True’s face was impassive but his eyebrows were having a hard time holding still. He glanced to the book tucked under Trueblood’s arm and his chin rose slowly, then fell again.

  “Reading’s a fine thing but not when work’s to be done,” he said.

  “No, Kep,” Raj said.

  “Put the book away and get up to the quarterdeck. That’s where scrubbing is needed.”

  “Aye, Kep,” Trueblood said.

  “It’s Abrakam’s,” Lejo said. “I mean, it comes from his library.”

  A corner of the kepten’s mouth danced. “Well, we know how Abe feels about his books. Be sure to return it when you’re finished. And don’t get it wet.”

  “We’ll be careful,” Lejo said.

  “Hop to it, now.”

  “Aye, Kep.” The boys stampeded up three flights of stairs before saying anything.

  “Can you believe it?” Raj said. “I thought for sure he’d have our hide.”

  “Why?” Lejo said. “Because we were lazing off?”

  “Because of the book, stupid.”

  “You’re the stupid one. Rafil always says, ‘What’s for you won’t pass you by.’ Right?”

  “So?”

  “So if this book weren’t for us, it wouldn’t be on Abrakam’s shelves.”

  “But it’s got dirty pictures.”

  Lejo stopped dead, wearing the closest thing to disgust Trueblood had ever seen on his face. “Gelang isn’t dirty,” he said. “Skin and bodies and tits and hairy balls are weird, but they’re not… Honestly, Raj, you’re such a horse’s ass sometimes.”

  He sounded like he meant it. He stomped up the next flight of stairs. His brother and Trueblood followed, humbled and confused.

  “What does gelang mean?” Trueblood asked Abrakam.

  “It has two meanings, Troubled. Sometimes it means at hand. Someone who is always there when you need him. Or it means together with. When you belong to someone. That’s a little more romantic.”

  What’s romantic? Trueblood wanted to ask, but didn’t. Lately his words were a burden to him. He couldn’t say or ask anything he meant. Everything came out sounding stupid. He was so frustrated all the time. His body felt coiled like a spring, his skin too tight over his bones. He had one nerve and, holy horses, everyone and everything was on it. He bit his tongue hard in the presence of superiors, which meant he snapped at the twins and the other minoros, who snapped right back. The slightest provocation and they were in each other’s faces like feral horses, rearing and snorting and shoving.

  Once, they fought so bad, Merevhal threw the lot of them over the side of the ship to cool off. They had to work together to haul themselves back out, which made them forget their grievances.

  Until next time.

  The minoros drove the boatswain demented, but Kepten True largely ignored the below-deck altercations. He only punished disrespect and as long as none of the aggression and foul language was aimed at him or the senior-ranking maristos, he viewed the posturing and head-butting as healthy.

  “You’re growing boys,” he said. “You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  Sometimes Trueblood was tempted to mouth off. Tell Merevhal to stick it on the dark side of the moon. Because maybe whatever was wrong with him was nothing a good hiding couldn’t fix. Maybe if his outsides smarted as much as his insides, he’d feel better.
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br />   Gods, he needed something. He couldn’t say what. His soul flung up its hands without the slightest idea what ailed it. He was hard in his fist every night, sometimes even sneaking off during the day to deal with this impossible need. Twice. Three times. It left him sated, but confused. He knew the ferocious release and its hot spurting result meant something, but not this. Or at least more than this. More than him alone in the dark with his damp hand.

  Lately he couldn’t stop staring when Dhar and Merevhal went to bed and their cabin door closed. He was consumed with what they were doing in there. Right here on the ship. Right now.

  THEY. ARE. DOING. IT.

  So fixated were his thoughts, so persistent and so loud, he was sure everyone onboard knew what he was thinking. How he looked at every maristo and wondered what he’d look like lying on his back with the woman from the book astride him.

  Does he do it? Has he ever done it? Does he like to do it? When does he do it?

  When his bewildered gaze fell on his father’s tall body, he felt a mixture of revulsion and fascination that left him unable to look Ikharus in the eye.

  Da’s done it. Of course. He did it with my mother.

  This was unexpectedly sad.

  Does he miss her? Does he lie on his back and look up at nothing, and reach up to touch a face that isn’t there anymore?

  If you lose the one you belong to, are you still together and gelang?

  Can your hands still feel them?

  From the Most Private Journal of Pelippé Trueblood

  Beniv is Sayenne’s son and also a sail maker. He was very sick when he was little and the sickness made one of his arms so bad, they had to cut it off. The other arm was sick, too, but he still has it. It isn’t a strong arm and his fingers are twisted, so Beniv learned to sew and do other things with his feet. It’s a very wonderful thing to watch. His stitches are even tinier than Dhar’s.

  Da is quite fond of Beniv. He says it was a sight to see when Beniv climbed the Cay’s main mast. Eleven years old, with only one weak arm and his two incredible feet. He made it to the top, but halfway down he was exhausted and asked the guarding kheiron to take him the rest of the way. Da says he took Beniv aboard because he knew when to ask for help.

  Beniv always works hard and likes to do a good job. He doesn’t want pity for the way his body is. He asks for help if he needs it and never complains.

  Once, Trueblood watched Beniv whip the finished hem of a sail with thousands and thousands of criss-cross stitches.

  “Is that to secure the edge tighter?” Trueblood asked.

  “No,” Beniv said, bending toward the thread stretched from the canvas to his toes. He bit it off and smoothed the hem. “It’s just because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I like how it looks.”

  Trueblood glanced up at the Cay’s main mast. “But you’re the only one who will know how it looks. And only if you’re up in the crow’s nest inspecting it.”

  Beniv smiled. “That’s fine.”

  “But why bother?”

  “Because it makes a good job.” His weak, withered hand reached to pat Trueblood’s shoulder. “Whatever job you’re given, Troubled, be excellent at it. Even if you’re the only one who knows. Especially if you’re the only one who knows.”

  It made no sense to Trueblood until he wrote about it in his notebook, adding a little sketch of a sail rigged to a mast. He took his time bordering its hem with dozens of tiny Xs. As he hummed under his breath, the conversation with Beniv clicked into his soul like a lock turning. When Trueblood put things in his most private journal, he always did an excellent job, even if no one else would ever see it. He spent the effort because nobody else would see it. The pride he took in his especial beautiful penmanship and the pleasure derived from drawn details was for him alone.

  The food on the ship was good, but plain. The bread was dull in taste and texture. Fruit was dried and cloyingly sweet. Meat smoked, fish salted and vegetables pickled. Trueblood was never hungry, but the extreme food left him perpetually thirsty. The fresh water stored onboard grew stale in its barrels and never slaked to satisfaction. Rainstorms offered a welcome break, but often it wasn’t until the ship pulled into port that the crew got to drink their fill of truly fresh water.

  Trueblood and the twins knew the location of the finest well in every port city. They’d rush the gangplank and make a beeline for the square or plaza or market. They’d drink and drink and drink and drink, bellies growing round under their breeches. The kepten would find them draped on the cobblestones, sighing and moaning in icy, sweet relief.

  Water came hot in port cities too, and the crew had its favorite bath houses. Kepten True ran a clean ship and nobody was permitted to go unwashed. Bathing at sea, however, was an infernally chilly business. Quick shivering sponge-offs in the galley or a brave plunge off the side of the ship when they were anchored. What luxury to strip down and submerge to your chin in steaming hot water, lathering up properly with well-made soap and lingering until you were wrinkled.

  Slaked and clean, the three boys went in search of their favorite foods. In the sketchy ports of Sanpago, they had to stay with the kepten at all times. Holding his hands, they looked up at obelisks topped with golden calves. They passed modest temples Kepten True said sprawled underground in an endless warren of catacombs, passages, labyrinths and mazes. Unspeakable things hiding in their depths.

  The marketplace vibrated with sights and sounds and scents. After years of war and strife, Sanpago was under the protection of Nyland and striving to turn over its soil and reinvent itself. Most of the region baked under a shadow-less sun, but along the coast, terraced gardens grew figs, dates and olives. Hectares of sunflowers turned their heads to follow Solos across the sky. The burgeoning Apiary Guild was gradually cornering the honey market.

  Since cattle were revered in this land, and consumption of pork forbidden, nearly all the cuisine in Minosaros was vegetarian. Sanpago was becoming renowned for its superb milk and cheese exports. After a week at sea with a hold full of dairy goods, the lower decks of the Cay let off a pungent aroma that could knock you on your ass.

  Desert traders came to the Zeuxis markets, too, tying camels by their brightly-colored tents. They sold stained-glass windows and priceless rugs and tapestries. With the former wrapped carefully in the latter, the Cay crossed the Gullet and made its way to Hokosia, moving clockwise around the continent. First to the east coast, with its marble quarries and clay-rich soil. Calvo, the quartermaster, stacked the clay according to group, and Trueblood loved the names: kaolinite and illite and chlorite. The chunks and bricks lay damp and dank in the hold, heading to the eager hands of potters and sculptors.

  Next was the south coast with its forests of oak and pine and its fields of indigo. This was the realm of the Printer’s Guild. The Cay took on timber but Abrakam took on books. Trueblood always bought his leather notebooks, pens and pencils at the same shop and Raj prowled the markets for old maps.

  Around The Horn of Hokosia to the west coast, a cornucopia of farmland produce, fruit orchards and vineyards. Sheep herders and flax farmers supplied the textile cities. Here the Sisters purchased the raw materials to weave the Cay’s sails and the crew’s clothing, along with dyes and sewing implements.

  Finally, the ship reached the foundries and seafood markets of the north, which made the holds reek of rusty metal and fish.

  From Hokosia, the Cay sailed to Altynai, and weather permitting, dropped anchor in her secret inlet. They sailed away with a hold full of gold and jewels, which smelled of nothing.

  “Wealth has no scent,” Kepten True always said.

  Pelippé Trueblood was never as full of questions about gelang as when the Cay pulled into port.

  “Why are brothels always built near the wharves?” he asked Abrakam.

  “Convenience,” the centaur said.


  “That makes no sense.”

  “It will one day.”

  The houses of love were sumptuous and sparkling buildings, towering up two, three, sometimes four stories. Trueblood watched as some majoros ducked beneath signs advertising women, and others slipped through doors in search of men. Seven, the Cay’s cook, picked establishments that offered both.

  “At the same time?” Trueblood wondered to the Ĝemelos. Raj’s expression was twice as curious while Lejo’s was somewhere between trepidation and distaste.

  Lejo, Trueblood once wrote in his most private journal, is rather funny about matters of gelang. Raj has a bold and fearless mouth and can make any situation gelang-y. Lejo makes crude jokes the same way he calls names. He just can’t mean it.

  The boys wouldn’t be allowed into brothels until they were sixteen. In fact their presence wasn’t even welcome on the streets where the courtesans lived. Once shooed away, Raj’s sense of direction would find the way to fun, while Lejo’s went in search of misfortune.

  If the needle of Raj’s compass turned in all directions, Lejo’s only pointed to right and wrong. He led his brothers away from trouble not worth their time, guiding them toward trouble they could fix.

  Lejo sniffed out lost children and people dying unaided in alleyways. His needle had a keen edge for stray animals. Kepten True drew a firm line against pets on the ship, so Lejo was always bereft when they set sail. He’d stand forlorn at the rail as the city pulled away, his hands aching for kittens and puppies and birds.

  “You’re our pet,” Abrakam said.

  Which was true, whether it consoled Lejo or not. His was a tactile nature, and every crew member unconsciously reached an arm or hand when Lejo walked past. Not a beat of conversation missed as Lejo was drawn into crooks of elbows or under a shoulder. He never minded hands running through his hair or circles rubbed on his back.

  Women are always handing their babies to Lejo to hold, Trueblood wrote in his most private journal. Not because they need a favor, but because they want a blessing. They think whatever makes Lejo so simple and kind will rub off on their own children.