A Beggar's Kingdom

by Paullina Simons

  There’s silence around the crackling fire. The aurora blazes in the sky.

  “That’s some story, son of Cruz,” Tama says.

  Julian rocks back, and resumes playing with his rope.

  “I’ve never heard of these Norse men, these Aztecs. Are you making them up? It all sounds made up. Doesn’t it, Tia?”

  “Yes,” his 16-year-old sister replies. “It sounds made up. But it’s wonderful!”

  “It is wonderful!” a smiling Hula agrees.

  Shae says nothing.

  Julian smiles. “Tama, you didn’t say tell me a true story.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  “Do you want me to tell you it’s true? Or do you want me to prove to you it’s true?”

  “Whatever you want, whiteman,” Tama says. “Since I don’t believe you, you might as well prove it to me.”

  Julian rises to his feet and stands with his hands at his sides, his unflinching gaze on Tama. “You want to know who I am, where I come from?” Julian says. There is no trace of a smile on his face or in his voice. “You think my body doesn’t tell a story? It’s because you haven’t looked at me closely enough.” He walks toward the young man. Tama jumps up. Everyone around the circle tenses, a natural reaction to seeing one man stride toward another in the night ring.

  “Relax, Maori boy,” Julian says. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He grabs Tama’s hand—making sure to reach with his right, to establish his handedness—bows his head and presses Tama’s fingers hard into his skull, into the long, raised scar that runs from his crown nearly to his forehead.

  “The scar is my moko,” Julian says, straightening out and staring coldly into Tama’s face. “And I didn’t get it in the comfort of a warm room with song in my ears and moonshine in my throat. I bought it with my life. You want to know who I am? I am an Aztec and a Viking. That is my story.”

  46

  Hula-Hoop

  SOME DAYS ARE LIKE THAT, FULL OF HUNTING SEALS AND convivial conversations about ancient civilizations and flensing men, and other days are quiet and the wind is light, and the sun shines, and they are still stuck in the ice, and the Terra Nova is still an ocean away, and nothing happens.

  Almost nothing.

  The ration gets smaller: a piece of salt horse, a biscuit, some molasses. Sometimes the cook prepares a careless petrel that has landed on the deck and is instantly harpooned. They stay in one place, chafing, waiting for something to happen so they can move forward or backward, impatient for movement, for action, for time to start ticking again so they can move to their future, whatever it may be.

  The days are filled with routine ship chores like coiling and disentangling ropes and cleaning and sharpening and polishing the butchering instruments. Julian takes it upon himself to take care of that task, to wear the duties of a blacksmith.

  Motion. Movement. Action. The future. Sometimes the bright days on the open deck are filled not with sharpening steel but with Hula.

  ∞

  “Julian, I have some stories too about the old days,” Hula says, inching toward him as they languish on the port side near the mizzenmast while the afternoon wanes. She hops onto a step by the furled-down sail. Julian’s head is near her breasts. She has unbuttoned her sheepskin coat so he can fully partake of her copious cleavage inside the half-open tunic. “Do you want to hear a story?”

  “From you, Hula? Always.”

  She undulates. “The Maoris and Europeans bartered things, like fish and weapons, in exchange for clothes and beads.” She leans forward. “And sometimes, they bartered women.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes. Sometimes, as a sign of hospitality, the Maori chief offered one of his girls to his important guests as a sign of welcome and good graces.”

  “Hula, clearly the Maori are a very hospitable people.”

  She leans forward some more. “We really are. We truly are. I am especially hospitable.”

  One more inch and her bountiful breasts will be at Julian’s mouth.

  “One could never accuse you of being inhospitable, Hula.”

  “By the way,” Hula says, batting her eyes and shaking her body, “just so you know, the chiefs never offer skinny pale crabby white women to their guests.”

  “No?” Where is the pale crabby white woman? Julian can’t take his eyes off Hula’s smiling face, and other things.

  “No,” Hula confirms. “It’s supposed to be a gift, not a burden.”

  Julian laughs. Hula is so vivacious, so utterly unafraid, so sexually frank, that in this dark hard life with the wind blowing sideways, Julian finds himself unsurprisingly eager for some of her hospitality. She leans into him, her breasts pressing against his bearded face, their ample softness hardening him.

  The girl arouses him. Her smile arouses him. Her breasts arouse him. It’s not just Hula’s visually exciting body. It’s her openness. She is a toothy, voluptuous girl who giggles at his every word.

  Recently Julian has been noticing that every time Hula is near him, he gets excited. He feels slightly guilty about it, but is no less excited. He wants his hands on her. He wants the relief that will follow. The ache for the relief heats up the blood in his veins. He wants her body to quench the abject thirst in his.

  It’s a cold late sunny afternoon, and he and Hula are passing the time, playing, keeping warm, his lust running hot. The boat sways, and she sways into him. He rights her and leaves his arm on her, just in case the boat lurches again. Better safe than sorry is Julian’s motto.

  I like the way you grab me, Hula purrs.

  Just to make sure you don’t fall, Hula-Hoop. We don’t want you hurt.

  Are you always so strong with your hands, she murmurs.

  Possibly.

  Would you always grab me like that…grab me to hold me steady?

  If you like.

  I’d like.

  A beat.

  I’d like that very much.

  Another beat.

  The girl clears her throat. Did you say there was something in your cabin you wanted to show me?

  Julian doesn’t speak.

  I think there is, Hula says. Didn’t you say you wanted to show it to me real bad?

  Julian can’t hide what’s in his eyes, what’s inside him and outside him. He glances around to see if anyone has spotted them talking like this, so close, so throatily, so shallow of breath. He looks around because he’s praying there is no one around—not Niko, not Tia, not Tama, not Rangi—so he can take Hula to his cabin and jump through her fire hoops.

  And who should Julian see glaring at him from across the deck but Shae.

  She stands against the starboard bulwark, her arms crossed on her chest. And in her dark eyes, because it’s also hard to hide, is fury, and disbelief, and jealousy—and hurt. In other words, there’s a pottage of emotion burning inside Shae.

  Shae.

  She is the absolute last person on the ship that Julian wants to notice him and Hula, and he is bitterly disappointed. He is also enraged and deflated. Quite a trick to pull that off all at once. He backs away from Hula, lets go of the mast, gives the girl’s fur a regretful platonic pat, says maybe another time, excuses himself, and vanishes down into the hatch, to his cabin below.

  ∞

  A few minutes later, there’s a sharp tap on his door.

  Welcome to hell, Julian mutters. “Come in, I guess.”

  Shae opens the door, but doesn’t come in. “We’re preparing supper. Are you coming?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He is on his bed, pretending to read. He doesn’t look up at her. She steps in, slamming the door behind her. His cabin is tiny, and unfortunately the fight that’s looming needs space, needs geographical distance, like a continent or two with maybe a black hole in between, three oceans, and a hundred years.

  Julian knows this because of the anger broiling inside him, like an opal thunderstorm. He shouldn’t be anywhere near her when he feels like this. She doesn’t
want to be near him when he feels like this.

  How dare she. How dare she, of all people, wantonly thwart his plans for some delicious time-wasting.

  Shae speaks first. “You got nothing to say?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes, you never do. Well, let’s have at it. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I am literally, alone in my cabin, minding my own business.”

  “Why are you sore?”

  “Who’s sore.”

  “Look, don’t misunderstand me,” Shae says. “I don’t give a shit what you do.”

  Julian bolts into a sitting position; the book falls to the floor. “Sure didn’t look like it out there when you were stabbing me with your eyeballs.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Nor you me.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” Shae repeats, spitting words out, “but what does get my blood up is you pretending to Mother and Kiritopa you’re some kind of fucking saint when all you want to do is fuck the first floozy who throws herself at you. You got some gall. She throws herself at everybody, you know.”

  “Lucky everybody.”

  “So? Go fuck her. Who’s stopping you?”

  “Somebody is stopping me—clearly.”

  “Oh, please. I’m not stopping you. I’m disgusted, is what I am.”

  “You’re disgusted.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hey, black pot,” Julian says, “why do you think I talk to her, not you, why do I want to talk to her, not you, why do I want to look at her, not you?”

  “Like I care—and that’s not all you want.”

  “Yes—that too!” Julian jumps up. “Because she’s nice! She doesn’t act like the creature from the fucking Black Lagoon. Or is it not an act, Shae?”

  “She doesn’t know how awful you are,” Shae says. “She has no taste. Any man is good enough for her, even you.”

  “If only I could be worthy of her bad taste. When was the last time you smiled at me? Oh, that’s right—never.”

  “Who’d want to smile at you.”

  They need more space. They are too close, yelling in a hiss through their grit teeth, flushed and fuming.

  “When was the last time you talked nicely to me,” he says, “or even the first time? When did you not roll your eyes every time I spoke? When did you flirt with me? Or shove your boobs in my face? Oh, that’s right—fucking never.”

  “I’d sooner hang.”

  “Yes, you’ve made that clear. But when was the last time you smiled at anybody?”

  “When I was with Edgar, if you really must know.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Julian says, all clenched up, taking a threatening step to her. “I don’t believe that man wants anything to do with you. Or that he would leave his wife for you—unless his wife is Medusa.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You know how I know he wants nothing to do with you?” Julian says. “Because what man would?” All the oxygen in the cabin is being sucked up into his anger. “Do you have any idea what men even want? Have you listened to yourself? Have you heard yourself? Everything that comes out of your mouth is dirt! I haven’t heard you speak a kind word to anybody or about anybody in all the time I’ve been with you.” Julian’s heart falls when he says those words. How long has it been? Five weeks? Six? Oh, God. But that’s on the inside. On the outside he remains verbal and livid.

  “Edgar,” she says.

  “Edgar what? You’re nice to a man who’s conveniently not here?” Julian sneers. “Tell me, is this charm offensive of yours the New Zealand way? Because you’re going to die out as a civilization if all the women here are like you. What do you think you’re offering this Edgar? And don’t give me that knowing look. A million women can give him that and not beat him down while they do it.”

  “Why are you here with me, if that’s how you feel?”

  “You think I would’ve come here if I thought for a second this is how you’d be? You think I would’ve ever fallen in love with you in the first place if this is how you were to me? Fair fucking maiden indeed.”

  The pin falls. Julian loses his temper. It doesn’t happen often. But it happens now. He yanks her to him, squeezing the flesh of her arms between his furious fingers. “If you only knew what I dragged my faith through, what I dragged my life through. I can’t believe I nailed myself to your cross for this.” Convulsing, he rattles her. “You think I would’ve risked my life for you, ruined my body for you, sacrificed every fucking thing for you?” Groaning, he clamps her so hard he thinks he might break her arm. His voice sounds like it’s been run over by a cement spreader. “To think what I lost while I was trying to make myself a better man for you. What a fucking joke. You’re hateful. You’re jealous I flirt with Hula? I’d fuck Niko’s grandmother before I’d lay a hand on you. Hula doesn’t make me feel every second like I want to rip my eyes out so I wouldn’t have to look at her.”

  “What a bastard you are! You think you’re getting on Godward’s boat with me now?”

  “Fuck you. No one is getting on Godward’s boat. I know that better than you, hell’s princess.” Julian shoves her away, seeing red, feeling red, no longer in control of anything. “So do whatever you want. Yes, your Edgar Evans doesn’t have much time, but you know what, he still has an eternity compared to what you’ve got, which is nothing. So smile, don’t smile. By all means, spend your precious minutes like this. Soon none of it will matter. But hey, look on the bright side, at least you won’t have to be chained to your miserable fucking self forever.”

  Gasping, she lunges for him. He grabs her hands. They struggle. She tries to hit him, to kick him, to head-butt him. He holds her away from him, watching her pant in breathless rage.

  “You’re a fine one to speak,” Shae says, her voice breaking. “You think you’re a ball of joy?” Tears run down her red face. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once except when you’re talking to Hula. What have you done to make me want you? What have you done to make me love you? You’re the sourest pill on this ship, you never speak to anyone, you’re a deaf-mute, you don’t sing or dance or joke or do anything but stare at the sea and dream of fucking her!”

  “Not her!”

  “Let go of me!”

  “Stop hitting me,” Julian says, blocking her, slapping her fists away.

  “Or what?”

  “Stop hitting me and get the hell out of my cabin.”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “You want to hit me back?” she says in a rasping voice. “Go ahead. I know you want to. You want to hurt me? So hurt me.”

  “If I hurt you, you won’t get up.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” Shae lunges for him again, her head like a ram, and Julian staggers back, but instead of head-butting him, she grabs him by his overshirt and kisses him. She kisses him so hard, her lips jam against his teeth. Her fists pounding his shoulders, then going around his back, still lashing at him, she kisses him in open-mouthed wrath like an untamed thing.

  Julian doesn’t know whether to shove her away or embrace her. The havoc between his body and soul is surreal.

  “Either hurt me or fuck me,” Shae says. “That’s your choice.”

  “Why choose,” he says, ripping her shirt, tearing it open, baring her breasts. Before he can touch her, she whirls around and bends over the bed, hiking up her skirt.

  “Fuck me,” she says, “until I can’t stand up.”

  “This is how you want it?”

  “This is how I want it.”

  Here is the next stage.

  It’s either love or violence.

  Still trying to subdue his panting anger, Julian grips her hips. She balls up the blanket into her fists. She cries out when he enters her. He tries not to move to the rhythm of his fury. She buries her face in the blanket to muffle her moans.

  Hurry, Shae says to him. Hurry.

  Julian doesn’t understand this command. Does she mean quicker? Or
does she mean quickly? There is a world of difference.

  She keeps repeating it. Hurry, I said. Hurry.

  Not until you hurry. They’re both gasping.

  Hurry, Julian, hurry, God, hurry, hurry, hurry…

  Oh, now she calls him by his name. He clasps her buttocks, squeezing her tighter over himself, adjusts his tempo, lowers himself a notch. He comes when she comes. But she comes in surprise, as if she wasn’t expecting it. She forgets to stifle her turmoil.

  Julian doesn’t let go. Still pulsing, his hands relaxing on her, he bends forward. Shae, he whispers. She shoves him away with her hips, straightens out, pulls down her skirt, holds her torn shirt closed, and rushes out of the cabin without glancing back at him.

  She doesn’t meet his eye during supper, or afterward around the fire. She behaves toward him as she has been behaving. Like they’re strangers. But when he gets up to go get himself some shine, he pours a little into a cup for her, and when he sits back down on the elk skin, he sidles up next to her.

  Here, he says, handing her the drink.

  She takes it from him without catching his eye. Kiritopa is coming back, she says.

  He can sit on the other side of me. Shae, Julian whispers, and it sounds like shh. Knocking into her lightly, he stares into her face until she blinks and returns his gaze. Her lip quivers like she’s about to cry. Kiritopa comes back. Julian faces forward.

  It’s not as if Kiritopa doesn’t notice the titanic change in Julian’s geography. He gives a measured look at Julian, staring ahead into the fire, at Shae, staring ahead into the fire, considers the situation for a moment, and then slowly lowers himself to the deck, taking his place by Julian’s right side. Here, he says, I brought her a fur. Cover her shoulders. It’s cold out.