“It takes a heart of steel,” Rafil said.
True stiffened. “Rafil, are you in here?”
“It’s I, lad,” ele-Kheir said. “I need a strong heart to keep my sons safe.”
“Mine?” True said, beginning to shake. “Safe?”
She laughed in the dark, yet even her laughter was tinged with sadness. “You’ve made your heart into a beautiful thing, Ikharus. Your heart protects the Cay, but I need it now.” A hand touched his shoulder. “The world needs it. Help me, Kepten True. This is for everyone.”
“Can I see you?” True asked, his voice tiny and afraid, so afraid of how wonderful-remarkable the world is for him, all for him…
“None can see me,” she said. “I live on the side that never shows its face to man. I came a long way for you.”
“What’s for you won’t pass you by, lad,” Rafil said dreamily.
“Yes,” the woman said. “He’s right, Ikharus. And what’s for me mustn’t pass me by.”
True had no idea what she was asking or why.
He only knew he could not refuse.
He breathed in the scent of Nye and turned around in the dark.
A woman’s mouth kissed him.
O wonderful, remarkable, beautiful, you are mine, my lovely, scented like spice and silvery cool like the moon that—
Something plunged into his chest and tore his heart apart.
He woke.
He lay in bed. His own bed on the Cay. The largest bed onboard. Possibly in the world. It was built for giants.
Drifting in and out of dreamless sleep. In and out of waves of pain breaking and cresting in his heart.
It burns, he thought. Burns hotter than the sun. Burns like a star in my heart but isn’t it wonderful and remarkable though it burns…
He woke once and realized a sleeping baby boy was on either side of him, then the pain—it burns so bright—was on him again and he slipped underneath it.
When he woke again, he was curled on his side like a crescent moon, the twins nestled in the arc of his lap. His woozy eyes blinked and focused on the windows. Pure white clouds in a blue sky slid past the panes.
They were moving.
Good.
Home.
He looked down at the boys. Each slept with a little hand on the other’s head. Each hand had six fingers. One infant’s sleeping face exuded a quiet confidence, the air of one who isn’t easily rattled.
You’re not a giant, Kepten True thought, but I will call you Raj. After the mighty pilot who steered the Kaleuche. He was the compass. The wheel. Some stories say his strength and self-assuredness were the ship’s sixth mast.
The other babe slept with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, wreathed in deep, complex thoughts. The little mouth pursed in a worried frown, then smoothed into a pleased smile.
You will be called Lejo, Ikharus decided. Stories say he was the Kaleuche’s rudder. His conscience was clear as water, his integrity unimpeachable, his compassion boundless.
His large hand spread wide across the twin boys.
The Raj and Lejo of the stories sailed away and never returned. They disappeared forever into legend and lore. But I will never let you be lost again, my ones. My heart beats with yours. This day and every day.
The twins sighed together. The space between the little bodies seemed to twinkle. When True closed his eyes, pinpoint sparkles of light danced beneath his eyelids.
Far-away voices touched his ears. Raised high somewhere in the ship. All over the ship, shouting and calling, “The Horselord! The Horselord!”
“Il-Kheir is coming!”
“Clear the deck, stand aside, lads.”
“It’s the Horselord! Here for his foalboy!”
“Watch those hooves, stand back…”
Remarkable, Ikharus-Lippé True thought. He heard a rumbling clatter of hooves on wood before pain took him under again. Remarkable and wonderful and lovely and…
The year came when Raj and Lejo turned sixteen and became majoros. At their next port-of-call, Raj boldly went to one of the brothels. Lejo did not follow. He stood on the street outside, making a visor with his sixhand and squinting up at the shuttered windows.
Fifteen-year-old Trueblood thought he’d feel wildly jealous when this day came.
He felt strangely indifferent.
Curious, but indifferent.
“You’re not going in?” he asked.
“No. It’s not for me.” Lejo turned with a smile both shy and dazzling. “I’d rather be with you.”
The words made Trueblood’s heart whip around and stare.
Me?
Lejo took his hand. “Where should we go?”
We?
You mean, I and you without Raj?
The notion shivered deliciously. Lejo was walking now, pulling Trueblood’s arm out long, wanting him to come. Trueblood followed, willing and intrigued. As they wandered the city, he found he liked the feel of Lejo’s six fingers between his five. He let go to point at things, to purchase and peruse, but when they set off again, Lejo’s hand went looking for his.
He liked being looked for.
His young bones stretched with a new aplomb. When they passed shop windows, he noticed the reflection of a black man following them. Tall with broad shoulders beneath white clothes and long legs ending in black boots. His hair was shaved close from the temples down, with a corona of short plaits above, each touched copper-red at the tips. Handsome, composed and confident.
Wait, he thought, each time he caught sight of the man in the glass. That’s me.
He became aware of appraising, admiring eyes on him and Lejo. From both women and men. He liked it. Sometimes the gazes were glazed with jealousy.
He liked that, too.
As the days passed without Raj’s enormous presence, Trueblood quietly studied the nape of Lejo’s neck and how the light caught the fine hairs there. He’d known forever that Lejo had dimples but why hadn’t he noticed how they winked in and out of sight and beckoned a fingertip’s touch? Did breeches hang on every boy’s hips that provocative way, or just Lejo’s? Would any boy’s head feel good lolling against his, or only Lejo’s particular head and its soft, sunshiny smell?
Something’s happening, he thought, every time his glance collided with Lejo’s direct gaze. Or whenever Lejo held a finger out to shy birds, crouched down for stray cats and scratched the ears of sober, old dogs. Then he’d hold his hand out to Trueblood. Balance his chin on Trueblood’s shoulder to look at the world. Dig his fingers between Trueblood’s plaits and scratch.
Something’s happening.
One night when Raj didn’t come back to the ship, Lejo moved over in his bed and folded the blankets back. Trueblood blew out the lamp and got in with him.
They didn’t do anything but laugh and make stupid jokes at first. Then they kissed a little, which neither had done before, but they’d seen it in Abrakam’s books.
“Hold still, Pé.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop laughing,” Lejo said, laughing.
Trueblood felt a little dumb about the kissing. The nervous laughter wasn’t helping and he wondered, Is this it?
“Hold still.” Lejo rolled on top of him, crushing Trueblood into the mattress, all of his body warm and hard.
Oh. I see. This is… Oh.
When his mouth parted in discovery, Lejo’s tongue touched his and he felt a little less dumb. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin. Lejo had been eating oranges before bed and Trueblood could taste them.
“Gods,” Lejo said. He seemed bigger. Bolder. His hands were holding Trueblood’s head and it felt amazing. His kissing had a rhythm. It came in waves and it felt so good when he turned Trueblood’s mouth this way and that through each crest and swell.
You could kiss fast or slow, Tru
eblood discovered. You could kiss an upper lip independently of a bottom lip and each felt different. Kissing made little noises squeeze through your chest and made your thoughts do somersaults.
This is…
He put one tentative arm around the new, strange and wonderful thing. Then the other. Lejo shifted his hips and suddenly what he had was up against what Trueblood had.
Oh, Trueblood thought. His brave hands slid down the long plain of Lejo’s smooth back. They dipped beneath the loose waist of his sleep pants. His palms curled around and filled themselves and pulled it all in, getting Lejo to lie against him the right way. Getting that hard heat to rub in just the…
“Oh,” he said out loud, as the secrets of the universe whispered in his ears.
“Holy horseshit,” Lejo said against his neck, sounding like he meant it.
They laughed again, but the laughter was soft and secret and daring. And when they pulled off their clothes and let their hands explore, they stopped laughing.
It wasn’t anything Trueblood hadn’t done to himself before. But to have someone else do it was an entirely different ship on an entirely different ocean.
Oh. This is… I see now.
“What are you smiling about,” Lejo said afterward, nibbling the cap of Trueblood’s shoulder.
“I once wrote in my journal that you couldn’t do anything useful with your sixhand,” Trueblood said. “I was wrong.”
The nights unfolded into an I-and-you-without-Raj map. Together they co-piloted this private ship, following the course of first desire.
They were young. They trusted each other implicitly, but what they knew of sex was what they read in Abrakam’s books or heard the crew joke about. Some things they knew instinctively. Others seemed logical. After all, if a woman had a soft place where a hard man could go, it stood to reason that…
“Oh,” Trueblood said in the dark, and now his voice was a knife’s edge. “Lé, stop.”
“What is it?”
“It hurts.”
Lejo froze. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t like this. Let’s stop.”
“Gods, I’m sorry.” Lejo moved off him and the night crashed in pieces on the floor. “I probably did something wrong.”
This was tantamount to Lejo saying he’d committed murder.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Trueblood said. “I just didn’t like it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. Let’s just do something else.”
But Lejo had gone small and soft and was done for the night. His face filled with love and worry as he made Trueblood lie down. Then he wanted to look where Trueblood was clenched and smarting and Trueblood pushed him off, laughing anxiously.
“Stop.”
“You want to put some cold water on—”
“It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Holy horses, quit fussing over my ass.”
“I’ll fuss if I want.” Lejo stretched out and gently shoved Trueblood around a little, like he was a pillow. Finally he got his head in just the right place between Trueblood’s shoulder and chest and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
Not entirely right—the pain was seeping away and the monster in Trueblood was still hard and frustrated. But he couldn’t imagine doing anything gelang with an unwilling participant, so he lay still and quiet.
Lejo sighed again, slung an arm across Trueblood’s body and a leg across his calf. “To tell the truth, this is the part I like best.”
“What?”
“Being in bed like this.” He yawned. “I mean, the at hand part of gelang is fine. But I like the together with part the most. Just lying with someone this way.”
Someone, Trueblood thought. Not necessarily me. And I think the at hand part is more than fine.
Raj is at the brothels filling his hands, but he’s not necessarily together with someone there.
Lejo needs togetherness. He wants to belong and his hands don’t have to be part of it.
His mind folded its arms and nodded, pleased all this had been worked out.
Anyway, at least I know I like to bed men.
He shifted underneath Lejo’s trusting weight and bit his lip at the lingering soreness in his backside.
I think.
They had one more night alone in their cabin and spent it sleeping, curled around each other. Trueblood’s young, curious body wanted more, but his father’s words echoed in his head: You can bed anyone who wants to be bedded by you.
When the ship set sail and Lejo was sleeping with Raj again, Trueblood didn’t mind.
At least, not too much.
“What’s troubling my Trueblood?” Ikharus asked gently.
“Nothing.”
“Ah. My mistake.” The kepten draped his blue coat over a chair at the round table and sat. He took off each of his gold cuff bracelets and his silver hoop earring, setting them in a pile. Then he drew toward him the book Trueblood had been paging through. It was Abrakam’s tome of horsefolk, opened to the illustration of the magnificent kheiron. His equine body the deep indigo of a night sky. Miles of skin flowing over the muscles of his chest and arms.
He looks good to me, Trueblood thought, wanting to his bones. At least his human half. And the women in Abrakam’s other book look good to me too.
He’d had a taste of gelang and now the hungry beast was awake, moping over an empty plate.
“Did I ever tell you,” Ikharus said, “what Tehvan il-Kheir did at your naming ceremony?”
Trueblood smiled sideways. “He likes to be called Fen il-Kheir now.”
The mariner raised a long finger. “You are correct. My mistake again.”
“What did he do?”
“It was Fen’s first public appearance since being rescued. He walked into the great hall like a seasoned warrior. Nothing left of the happy little foalboy Alondra used to know. He’d built a fortress around himself. Just…untouchable. He came to the dais with il-Kheir, offered me gelango and kissed your mother’s hands. He glanced at your bassinette and it was nothing more than polite. The same disinterest any fifteen-year-old would show a baby. He turned to go and then he suddenly shifted into equos.”
“You mean a horse?”
True nodded, crossing his arms. “You could see the magic ripple down Fen’s back as the human half of him turned equine. The hall went still and silent. Like the world was holding its breath. You made a little noise. One coo rising like a bubble from the cradle. When he heard it, Fen dipped his head and rolled one front hoof on its edge. Gods, it was something to see.”
“What color is he?”
“Gray. But a silver-gray, like molten metal. His mane and tale are pure white and his eyes are blue. The equos only lasted a moment, then Fen shifted back to kheiros and walked away, aloof and untouchable again.”
“But why?” Trueblood said. “Why did he shift? What did it mean?”
Ikharus’s shoulders slowly raised and lowered. “Everyone wondered what it meant. I thought it was a gesture of respect, but Abrakam said Fen did it because he liked you.”
“He didn’t even know me.”
“Exactly my thought.”
Trueblood’s face grimaced as he sorted through his already-sketchy childhood memories, trying to recall if he’d ever talked to Fen il-Kheir. He remembered the herd’s general presence in the city and at the palace, with the epic form of Sevri il-Kheir looming above them. The kheirons were magnificent and fascinating for sure, but not the most accessible of creatures. Untouchable was the apt word Ikharus used. The herd was off-limits. Young Pelippé Trueblood hadn’t the courage to approach a kheiron, let alone befriend one.
Fen did it because he liked me?
“That makes no sense,” he said.
The kepten was leafing through the book’s pages, searching for a picture or passage. “Here. Listen. ‘When a kheiron stands in equos, he stands as his purest self, with no defense or artifice or deception. He stands naked with his soul on display, with no excuses for his deeds and no apology for what he carries in his heart.’”
“I don’t understand.”
Ikharus smiled. “My one, sometimes you remind me of a kheiron in equos.”
“I do?”
“You’re a lad who keeps his soul on display. You don’t make excuses for your mistakes or brag about your accomplishments.” He reached to give one of Trueblood’s plaits a tug. “And you should never apologize for what’s in your heart.”
The evening gathered father and son in its arms. Within the circle of lamplight at the table, Trueblood spoke of his discoveries about gelang. Not that he’d explored them with Lejo, but his idea that gelang was a ship with many decks and different holds.
“It’s confusing,” he finished. “One day I have it figured out and the next it slips through my hands and becomes a mess.”
“You’re waking up,” his father said. “It’s your time to learn of these things and be confused.”
True kneaded his fingers as he spoke. Lately he was doing this on cold, wet days. Wincing as he flexed and stretched his big hands. Or getting to his feet with a tiny groan of effort or walking stiff-kneed after sitting a long time. He seemed a fraction shorter. Lines cut deep in his brow, radiated from his eyes and framed his wide mouth. When the light hit his long black plaits, they sparkled silver.
Trueblood was waking up. And the mariner was growing old.
One day, Pelippé Trueblood was going about his business on the Cay when he came across Merevhal crying.
The boatswain was crying.
Arms crossed on the rail, head buried in them and weeping.
If Trueblood had caught her butchering a puppy, he couldn’t have been more taken aback.
He was a nineteen-year-old majoro now. He’d reached his full of height of six feet and ten inches, outgrowing his fear of Merevhal. Her brusque, formidable manner no longer twisted his stomach in knots, but seeing her laid-open and bawling her heart out, he didn’t know what to do.
The Voyages of Trueblood Cay Page 9
