The Search for Aveline

by Stephanie Rabig

  Deborah obeyed, breathless again as Katherine threaded the fingers of a hand through one of hers and placed the other on her knee, kneeling before her.

  She had always suspected the intimate things some women did together—through extensive experimentation she knew what to do to pleasure herself, and she knew the principles involved to stimulate another with the same type of body. But understanding a concept and experiencing it in action were two entirely different matters.

  As Katherine's tongue licked and rolled, Deborah clenched at the hand she held. She bit the edge of her bottom lip. She stared up at the dim ceiling of the hold, then closed her eyes and discovered the sensations became sharper, more exquisite, without sight to distract her.

  She found she could only breathe in short, labored gasps—then only by panting. There was an almost frightening pressure building beneath her stomach, a tightening knot of fire.

  "Please," Deborah heard herself beg. Katherine's movements had slowed, almost stopped completely, and she felt as though she'd go mad if she didn't quicken her pace. Her ragged request spurred her lover onto greater heights, fast and brutal and unrelenting.

  Then, just when it became too much and the pleasure began to verge on pain, the muscles in her legs and back seized, spasmed, and abruptly relaxed as the knot exploded in a dizzying, overwhelming rush of ecstasy.

  "Oh, oh Lord," Deborah whispered, rolling her head to the side. She was shivering uncontrollably beneath the aftershocks. Sweat had pooled in the hollow of her throat and was cooling rapidly, heightening the illusion that she had a newly-broken fever. She had never felt quite so giddy or unhinged.

  Katherine straightened. Pulled herself up onto the table. Straddled the shaking hips and lowered her body over Deborah's, until her tattooed breasts pressed firmly against her flushed, paler chest, nipple brushing over nipple. "How was that?" she asked, voice husky, mouth hovering above her ear.

  "Unbelievable," Deborah replied, putting her arms around her and turning her head to meet the playful eyes and kiss the smiling lips. "I thought," she said between kisses, savoring the strength of the body draped over her, "I was content to be a spinster. Content," here, she lost herself for a minute in the skillful manipulations of Katherine's tongue, "to never know physical love of the kind I craved. I thought," and she dared to slip a hand between the long legs, to plunge fingers into the curled blonde hair and wet folds she found there, to stroke Katherine's center in a way that made her breath hitch audibly, "I could be happy with the pure aesthetics of travel. Seeing new places and people," Katherine gently bit her shoulder, making her gasp, "Learning of strange cultures and languages. I thought that would be enough."

  "And now?" Katherine asked, eyes glazed and lips bruised.

  "After you? Everything else will seem weak tea, indeed."

  They rocked together. Fingers pressed against soft, yielding buttons. Pale hair mingled with dark. Sweat-slicked skin slipped and glided. Two voices called out as one.

  "And to think," Katherine said later, when they were dressing. "This morning, you were on a boring ship full of boring men."

  "Fortunes can change in the space between hairpins," Deborah said, finding several of the aggravating things strewn about floor and table. She seized one and thrust it into her limp, damp curls at random, fully aware that she looked like what she was: a woman who had been thoroughly ravished to within an inch of her life.

  "Don't bother with those, love," Katherine said, putting her hands in her hair and kissing her again very firmly. "They'll never stay put long enough to feel useful, anyway. Not while I'm here."

  Portrait

  "There's another reason why I can't go home," Alvar said one hot, placid afternoon. Agnessa was at the tiller, navigating the ship around a series of sandbars. He sat cross-legged behind her, his back against one of The Sappho's three masts, a book opened over his knees.

  "Oh?" she said, half her mind preoccupied by thoughts of Hugh and the things they had discussed the night before. Her lover was currently sitting in the landing craft at the other end of the boat, deep in conversation with Kai about the mythology of merfolk.

  "Father wants me to marry. To start fathering children of my own, in order to carry on the family name."

  "Yes," she agreed. "He's a traditionalist that way, and you are the heir apparent."

  "I can't do it," Alvar said quietly.

  "Give in to Father's demands anymore?"

  "Marry a woman. Sire children."

  The next sandbar was a safe distance away; she risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Alvar somehow managed to look hunched-over while sitting on a swaying deck. "Not because you don't want to," she said, "but because you can't."

  "Yes."

  "I've always suspected," she said. "But I didn't want to pry. I was hoping you'd tell me when you felt more comfortable about it."

  "Well, here I am. Telling you."

  "It doesn't matter to me, Alv. You're still you. You're still my brother. And I still love you. No one here will judge you if you choose to be open about it—the ship's called The Sappho, after all, and we've all sorts here."

  They fell silent. Agnessa turned her attention fully on the tricky maneuvering required to avoid beaching the ship. These sandbars hadn't been here last time they passed this way, and it was both puzzling and slightly worrying. Had some immense creature created these to ensnare passing vessels? Did the earth really shift, as Wil claimed, and was this evidence of new islands growing? Surely, something like that would take longer than a year to achieve. Or maybe black magic was involved, a curse upon this stretch of sea that would claim any too unwary or impure.

  "I lost someone on the Ilsa," Alvar said suddenly, shattering the quiet. "His name was Sven."

  Agnessa was torn—it was clear her brother was in a turmoil and needed comfort from her. But she couldn't slacken her focus, not with the entire crew depending on her. She bit her lip with indecision, knowing either choice could prove disastrous.

  "I can man the wheel," Hugh said suddenly at her shoulder, having appeared as if summoned. "I'm not a bad hand at a tiller, never fear. I'll get us through."

  "Thank you," she said earnestly, relinquishing her hold to his much larger hands and going to kneel beside her brother.

  Poor Alvar—the marks of his ordeal were taking so long to fade. He was still gaunt in body and haggard in the face. She had cut his hair two weeks ago, but it was still long enough to tangle in the wind. He refused to shave, and his beard had filled in to the point where, if he'd been wearing more ragged clothing, he would've looked like a typical castaway.

  "Tell me about Sven," she said, taking one of his hands and chafing it between hers. During those long nights on the black beach, she had sensed that there was something Alvar had been holding in reserve, something he was unwilling to share. Ever since they had set sail, she could feel a deep pain festering in him, peeking out at one moment only to be ruthlessly suppressed the next. Surely, this was its source.

  "He was a botanist. So intelligent, so well-spoken. But he was also innocent, despite all of his education and traveling. When we realized we cared for one another, he was surprised that I found him desirable—and he was so handsome, Aggie. Long ginger hair and serious eyes; he looked like someone da Vinci might have painted."

  "You became lovers?"

  "Yes." He fixed anguished eyes on her. "In secret—we had to be so careful—because if the commander had found out, I could have been summarily discharged and Sven could have been expelled from the research party, left at the next port. That seems like such a small consequence, when most men would have to worry about their own crew turning against them. But it was nerve-wracking, and... I loved him so much," he said, tears spilling down his cheeks, the drops catching and glinting in his beard. "And he loved me. He told me he loved me, that he'd never been happier with anyone else. When the voyage was over, we were going to go away together. I was going to turn my back on Father just as you had. Sven had money, from his m
other and his books, and we were going to find a place where we could live together and be happy. And then that damn plague—!"

  "Oh, Alv, I'm so sorry," Agnessa murmured, holding him tightly as he sobbed.

  "He was one of the first to die," he said after the full force of emotion had been spent. "He didn't linger like some of the others, he didn't have to watch the entire crew burn up. When he was gone, I didn't care anymore if I got it. I didn't care. I just pointed the ship out to sea."

  "And if you hadn't, you would be dead," she said, combing her fingers through his hair.

  "I don't even have anything to remember him by," Alvar said. "None of his notes, no daguerreotypes—everything was left on the Ilsa when it burned. It all had to burn."

  Agnessa mulled this over. "But you can describe him."

  "Yes, of course, but what does that matter?"

  *~*~*

  Silence listened to Agnessa's request with wide, unblinking eyes. They were in the cabin, which was shadowy and gloomy after the bright open air of the deck. Since she could no longer properly swim or fully submerge in water, Silence avoided the deck during the hottest, sunniest hours of the day; her skin dried out too quickly and the light reflecting off the waves hurt her eyes.

  Eyes which glinted blood-red in the dim cabin when she tilted her head and peered avidly at Alvar. It took some effort not to shudder and draw back; a part of his brain knew she was a predator, someone who might attack at any moment. It was hard to overcome that primal impulse to flee, try as he might to remind himself that this woman had saved his life when his organs were failing from dehydration.

  Silence is part of this crew, he told himself sternly, straightening his back. She means well. She cares for us. It isn't her fault that she can be so frightening to humans.

  "It would mean a lot to Alvar, Silence," Agnessa finished. "And to me."

  The siren nodded. Went to Miss Euphemia's roll-top desk and selected a large pad of paper and a pen. Then she unexpectedly knelt beside Alvar's chair—pressed the tip of the pen to the paper—and stared expectantly up at him, huge eyes fixing on his with all of the hypnotic force of a cobra staring down a mongoose.

  "He had a square face but a pointed chin," Alvar heard himself begin, voice echoing down a long tunnel. He was vaguely aware that he was talking, could almost hear distinct words, but it was all far, far away. He could only stare into Silence's eyes, eyes that never blinked, never moved from his, even as her hand skittered across the page over her knees, pen charting the familiar, well-loved, now-lost lines of Sven's face.

  It was strange, but the longer he spoke to Silence, the easier it became. Words flowed from his mouth. The ache in his chest faded to a bearable sting. The great sense of loss was no longer clawing its way up his throat and threatening to choke him.

  When he'd run out of things to say, he blinked. The room snapped back into focus and he became aware of a crick in his neck, how dry his mouth was, and that Silence's empty hand had reached out at some point and clasped his leg, not far above his ankle. The moment he realized this, she pulled it away in a clumsy, jerky motion.

  The pen slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor, stopping only when it struck the edge of a loose floorboard. She held out the pad, glancing away as if embarrassed.

  Alvar took it gingerly with hands that shook only slightly. Because there was Sven, smiling out at him. Somehow, between his words and her pen, Sven had appeared on the page as clearly and perfectly as if he had sat patiently for a professional daguerreotype. It was so exact a likeness that Alvar began crying again—this time out of pure reaction rather than pain, because his heart didn't ache as badly as it had even minutes ago. He could look at this portrait and remember the warmth of the love without feeling the sting of the loss.

  "It's perfect," he said through his tears to a siren who seemed confused and taken aback by his display of emotion. "It's him. You did a beautiful job, Silence. You made magic here. Thank you so much."

  She nodded again, flashed a hesitant, serrated smile, and retreated to the bed and the books that Miss Euphemia had given her.

  "We'll get Lizzie to make you a nice frame for it—or maybe keep an eye out for a really fancy one, in gold or silver," Agnessa suggested as they exited the cabin, the drawing pressed to Alvar's chest.

  "Thank you," he said, wiping away tears with the heel of his hand. "Now that I've told others about him, it doesn't hurt as badly. Keeping him a secret—keeping us a secret—felt like I was still dying. He deserves to be remembered; he should be mourned openly."

  "If you ever want to talk about him, I want to listen. I'd like to know more about this man who made you so happy. If he won your love, he must have been a great man, indeed."

  Luck Changes

  He'd always been "Lucky".

  When he was five years old, he and his brothers were climbing a tree. Daring one another to reach for the next highest branch, then the next. Whoever climbed the highest would win a large honeycomb, liberated from the neighbor's hives, not to mention bragging rights for a solid week. And Franky being Franky, he was always ready to push things to their limit. Agile as a monkey, lighter than his older brothers, he was confident the emaciated branch would hold his weight.

  He was wrong.

  And when it snapped, he experienced a sickening moment of complete awareness. That his confidence had been foolish. That he had been betrayed by his belief in his own immortality and was actually frail and breakable. In that moment, he almost saw bony hands reaching out for him.

  But then his fatal fall was cut short. The rope knotted around his waist as a crude belt was snagged by a sturdier branch and he was jerked to a safe, if bruising, halt.

  Most of the village had heard his shriek of terror and come running—there was no way to hide his brush with death. But when his mother's hysterics had subsided and after his father had smacked his backside red in punishment, everyone looked at him with something approaching awe. Lucky Franky, they started calling him. Saved by a miracle. God Himself had stretched out a hand to catch him.

  As he'd grown, his luck only seemed to improve. By the time he was twelve, the other boys refused to play dice or cards with him. Not because they suspected him of cheating—Franky was not the type who could lie convincingly; his eyes and voice gave away even the smallest of fibs—but because in his hands, the dice always fell on sixes and the cards always ordered themselves in unbeatable runs.

  Though he was as good-natured and friendly as the mark of a conman's dreams, no one could hoodwink him, either. It was a combination of his irresistible charm and the unfailing luck. A trader would set up a booth, have half of the village convinced about the sterling quality of his wares, then Franky would stroll up with a smile—and a little warning voice would start to whisper in the seller's head. Steer clear of this one, it seemed to say. Don't be fooled by that open face and rustic innocence. The smart would heed the voice, those with a sliver of a conscience left wouldn't be able to ignore his innate kindness, and the stupid? Well, Franky would pick up one of their items and it would promptly fall apart, revealed as the shoddy fake it was. Word spread quickly, and before long Franky's village saw only the most honest tinkers.

  By the time he was fifteen, his luck was serving him well in the arena of romance. He would smile at a girl, pay her a sincere compliment, and before he knew it they were in her father's barn, or enjoying long walks through the vineyards, or simply ducking behind the church after services. He always confessed everything afterwards to Father Michael, who would sigh and rub his temples and order suitable penances, which Franky would carry out to the letter and in a true spirit of contrition. But then next Wednesday would come, and then next Sunday, and Franky would be back in confession with another name—or two—on his lips. The old priest frequently sent prayers of gratitude heavenward that Franky's luck extended far enough that none of the girls ever became pregnant, and none of the fathers ever found out and picked up knives.

  Not long af
ter his seventeenth birthday, his father came home with life-changing news. He had decided to finally follow a lifelong dream and buy a boat, go to sea, and try his hand at fishing far out beyond the coast. He was tired of the drudgery of farming and he had always loved the sea. With his brother and best friend as partners, the three of them had enough to cover the initial costs for a small craft. If Franky would join them, they should be able to divvy up the work into manageable portions. Plus, it wouldn't hurt to have his by now-infamous luck on their side.

  Unfortunately, on his eighteenth birthday, Franky's luck finally ran out.

  The storm appeared out of nowhere. One moment, cheerful sun and smooth seas. The next, the deck was awash with rain and no one's shouts could be heard over the thunder. Franky tried to secure the rigging, only to suffer a blow from a bucket pitched by the wind. He fell overboard, half-dazed just as lightning struck the mast.

  The ocean swallowed him and everything went black.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was to a pink dawn. He was floating amidst wreckage, tangled up in rope and bits of splintered wood. Every inch of him ached and his left temple felt afire, throbbing where the bucket had struck him. He called out weakly for his father, for his uncle, for Nico.

  There was no answer.

  He drifted for a day, the sun baking his skin raw and the salty water splitting his lips. He contemplated attempting to purposefully drown—surely that would be better than death by dehydration, or being eaten by sharks. But even after the catastrophe and the loss of his father, a small shred of him still held out hope that his luck would return.

  When the ship appeared in the distance, he was sure it had. He mustered the strength to wave and shout, hoped that the wreckage would catch the lookout's eye, and thanked God for His infinite mercies.