Brethren

by W. A. Hoffman

I could see Gaston struggling with his composure. I could see his hand beginning to clench and unclench. Near that hand, I noted something else that was quite shocking. There was a telltale bulge in the front of his breeches. Gaston had an erection.

  I was both overjoyed and depressed.

  I stepped into the midst of them and faced Doucette, with Gaston safely behind me.

  “That is enough.”

  I was peripherally aware of Madam Doucette quickly dressing and the boy returning with the kettle. Doucette occupied the center of my attention, though. He seemed quite flummoxed that I had dared intercede, though he was not angry. His mouth opened and closed several times before he spoke.

  “Why do you take issue with…?”

  “Surely you dissemble,” I said calmly. “Are you blind or just insensitive?”

  Doucette recoiled and looked from Gaston to his wife and back again. “I meant no…”

  Gaston’s arm snaked around me, and I was forced to fight my own onslaught of anxiety as he pressed against me from behind. I could feel the thing I had seen; and I heard him gasp in my ear, as he must have felt it too. I wondered if he had been aware.

  “You will have to excuse Will,” Gaston said tightly. “He is very protective.”

  “I am sorry,” Doucette said.

  “I do not mind showing the lady that someone is more scarred than she,” Gaston said. “But…”

  “Non, say no more. You are correct,” Doucette said. “I have been beastly.” Madam Doucette hurried from the room with a small sound. With a last apologetic look to us, Doucette ran after her, pleading her name.

  Gaston released me and I closed the wall of doors. Once we had privacy, I regarded him. The bulge was still there.

  “Perhaps you should enjoy that while you have it,” I said gently.

  He shook his head and turned his back to me. “Non, it is vile.”

  This was quite alarming to hear. “Why is it so?”

  “It is wrong.”

  “Oui, but why?” I moved so that I could at least see him in profile and sat on the bed. The telltale bulge was gone. He had effectively dismissed it. The very idea of that was akin to blasphemy to me, and I was disappointed.

  “I am not supposed to have one in response to her. She is my friend’s wife and a fellow victim and a lady and… she is not you.”

  His words were very sweet in content, but his agitation and mounting anger belied them. “Your reaction to her could be considered the sincerest flattery for her as your friend’s wife, and for her beauty as a lady. And as for the other, you are a man, and your member obviously favors women, as most men’s do. There is nothing wrong with that.”

  He turned to face me. His breathing had grown shallow and his eyes were filled with tears. What alarmed me the most was the spasmodic clenching of his fists.

  “I dissemble,” he spat. “Do not excuse my behavior until you know the depth of its depravity. It was not because she was a woman. I have seen a number of naked women, and that has not occurred.”

  I held up my hands in supplication. If I had thought it would calm him I would have left and let the conversation lie; but I knew we would see this through. I chose to ignore his references to depravity for the moment.

  “Perhaps it has occurred now because you have been stimulated in other ways of late and your manhood has begun to wake. And… Have the other naked women been in close proximity to you, and comfortable in your nakedness? Those factors could have profound impact on your perception of the situation.”

  His eyes were hard. “That is not why.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “She resembled my sister. Not truly in face, but in hair and color and… body.” He choked on the last word and looked away.

  “Oh,” I said stupidly as many things leapt into my thoughts. It would explain a great deal. It made several pieces of the puzzle slide into alignment; and I doubted my conclusive leap was on faith alone, but more on logic in light of the evidence presented.

  “You would not be the first man attracted in that way to one’s own kin. There have been numerous plays. All tragedies, as you well know….” I winced at my last choice of words and he turned to me again.

  “Say it,” he snarled. “I cannot. Say it!”

  I understood what he wanted now. “It is likely…”

  I took another deep breath and rushed into it. “It is likely you bedded your sister, and that was the event that drove your father to act toward you as he did with such rage and malice.”

  He took a long, shuddering breath and nodded. “When I realized I had become aroused, I… It was as if a door opened for just a moment, and I saw… My sister was my angel, lying in that bed all in white.”

  I waited, as he seemed lost in reverie. When the tension left his shoulders I said quietly, “Gaston, it is good that you know this now. You can forgive yourself and…”

  His eyes snapped to mine, and they glittered with anger – and something else.

  “Non!”

  I sat very still and forced myself not to look away, or even blink, until his eyes flicked from mine.

  “There was more,” he whispered. “I cannot see it.” He regarded his slowly opening and closing hand as if he could see a thing I could not. “Blood.”

  I recalled every reference, no matter how slender, he had ever made concerning his sister, family, or that event. He had said his sister was dead. I was faced with a dilemma. Should I prompt him and possibly bring the last thing to light so that we could be done with the mystery once and for all? Or should I let him be? I wanted done with it.

  “You said your sister died. How? Did your father…?”

  “Non!” he hissed; and he was upon me, driving me back onto the bed with his fingers clawing at my mouth to close it. I did not resist. I lay quiet beneath him.

  “Non, non, non,” he moaned as he collapsed on my chest. I was not sure if I had an answer to my last supposition, or not. After a while, I wrapped my arms around him, and he quieted somewhat.

  I pulled his fingers off my lips. They would be bruised later.

  “We should use that tub,” I said gently. I rubbed his back a bit, and eased him over to my side. He lay where I left him, with his eyes closed. I pressed a kiss on his temple and went to check the tub. It was fine.

  His eyes were open when I returned to the bed, and he asked calmly. “Why would I do such a thing? I remember all the visits I made home, and that did not occur during any of them. If the supposition is true, then it was only that once.”

  “I do not know. Perhaps it did not occur and we are leaping to unwarranted conclusions.” I did not believe this, even as I said it; and I could tell from his eyes he did not, either.

  He shook his head. “It was her.”

  I nodded. “And there is more to it. I do not want you to think on it now, though. I want you to bathe, and I will trim your hair and shave you, and then perhaps you can nap for a time. That seems to set you to rights.”

  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  I gave him a grim smile and pulled him to standing. “Do not be sorry. Do not apologize to me for things you cannot help. Though I would appreciate some contrition over things you can.”

  “What would you have me apologize for?” he asked earnestly as he doffed his breeches.

  I could not help but look at his flaccid member and wonder a great many things. I looked away and shrugged as I led him to the tub.

  “I cannot think of anything at the moment, but I am sure something will occur to me.”

  He sat in the warm water, and I took up a sponge to bathe him. My hand shook, and we saw it.

  “Do I frighten you?” he asked.

  I found myself studying my hand, watching to see if it would succumb to the tremors again.

  “It is not you, precisely,” I murmured. “The demon that possesses you manifests in rage and sorrow. My demon shows itself in fear and shame and sometimes melancholy. Yours just calls to mine, that is all.”


  “Can you blame me for nothing?” he asked.

  “You blame yourself for everything already; why should I add to it?”

  He sighed and leaned forward at my urging, so that I could wash his back. “What do you fear when it grips you?”

  “I cannot answer that. What are you angry at when the rage grips you?”

  “I see. Everything and myself.”

  “The fear is omnipresent, so much so that I feel I fear the fear itself. I can chase about and name things that cause it to twitch.”

  “Have you always possessed it, or been possessed by it? Or did it develop when…?”

  “Shane brought me to it. Before that, I was merely different and haunted by the knowledge that I was never quite as I should be in anyone’s eyes.”

  We were silent as I finished bathing and shaving him. As I trimmed his hair, he spoke.

  “Will, you must not let me abuse you so,” he said.

  “But you do not.”

  He frowned. “Will, the rain is the fault of no man, yet you are not so stupid that you would stand in it if you could seek shelter. When I storm, you need to seek shelter from me.”

  “You asked me to never leave you; and I fear, truly and rationally, what would occur if you are left to your own designs or the mercy of others. I cannot abandon you when you need me most.”

  He craned his head back so he could regard me. “Then fend me off and strike me, as you did on the galleon. Believe me, I will thank you for relieving me of my consciousness when I am in that state.”

  “We both know I only succeeded in that endeavor because of Pete’s involvement. If it had just been you and me it would have been an even match; non, not even that. I have seen you fight. You are far better than I, unless we are at each other with rapiers. I could not have struck you down by myself. If I become your enemy when you are in that state, then our demons will battle and we both may not survive.”

  Our eyes held for a time, until he realized the correctness of my argument; and his head sagged back on the tub in resignation. I sat back upon my heels in relief.

  I continued with his hair. He began to sob bitterly.

  “I am an abomination.”

  “Non.” I held him.

  “I have harmed the only people who have ever loved me.”

  “I do not think that makes you an abomination. You have not done these things with malice.”

  “How do you know?”

  I had often had these arguments with myself. I knew there was no winning them. All one could do was drown them in some fashion until they passed.

  “I love you, and I want you to sleep now. If you love me, you will rest.” It was unfair but necessary.

  He nodded meekly, and I hauled him out of the tub and dried him. I put him to bed and stroked his hair until he slept. Then I sat in the tepid water and cried.

  I wondered what more the Gods wanted of us.

  Twenty-Five

  Wherein We Journey Through Darkest Night

  We woke to a light rapping on the door. I was surprised I had dozed.

  “Sirs, dinner will be served soon, and the guests are arrived,” the boy said.

  “Hold, hold.” I had wanted something; and as I staggered to the door, I remembered. I handed him a small coin. “Please fetch me some hot water for the basin, not the tub. And a bottle of wine. And what guests?”

  “The Fathers.”

  “Fathers? Priests?”

  He nodded.

  “Bring wine.”

  He scampered off.

  “I hate priests,” I said. “You cannot trust them. One errant thought at dinner under the guise of intellectual discourse, and then five years later you write a paper the Church dislikes, and suddenly those words uttered under the effects of wine and cheese are brought back to haunt you by an inquisitor. That happened to an acquaintance of mine in Vienna. He escaped with his life intact only by agreeing never to publish again.”

  Gaston pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. He appeared calm and a little bleary. I wanted to ask how he felt, but that would indicate there might be reason for him to feel poorly. Though I was sure he had not forgotten that afternoon, I did not want to do anything to make him dwell upon it. I crossed to the bed and embraced him.

  “Wine?” he queried with a grin. “Do you need fortification before dinner in order to dine with priests, or do you feel I need to be inebriated lest I fly into a rage and butcher everyone at the table?”

  “I so dearly love you,” I whispered.

  “Will, please do not ever stop.”

  “I will do my utmost not to, though you may do your utmost to convince me otherwise.”

  He kissed my lips gently. “Tonight, after you argue with priests, please make it all go away.”

  I chuckled. “I will do my utmost to thoroughly distract you.”

  Our kiss was interrupted by the boy’s return. He had brought one of the Negro boys with him again; and they had a bottle, kettle, ewer, basin and towels. They set them all upon the desk. I thanked them and they left with happy smiles.

  “Will you assist me in shaving?” I asked and uncorked the wine for a long drink.

  “If you trust me with a blade at your throat,” he said, only partly in jest.

  “I would bare my throat for you any time,” I chided gently and sat in the chair. I lie my head back and closed my eyes. He made quick work of shaving me and trimming my hair. I thought on it, as I could not speak while we were thus engaged, and found that I did trust him. Even at his darkest, I did not believe he would kill me. There was a distinct possibility he might injure me, but I did not think he would set about to take my life with malicious intent. Perhaps I was a fool, but I knew I could not live without these foolish notions; so I shoved all others aside.

  We finished the wine and donned our spare clothes and favorite weapons, and looked a little less rakehell than usual. At least we appeared fairly clean and well-kempt, despite looking like buccaneers with little attire and many swords and pistols.

  I did not question our arming ourselves for dinner at a friend’s house. As we would be dining with priests, I found our armament comforting. I was also not surprised that Gaston reapplied the mask. I briefly considered having him paint one on me.

  Thinking of his defiant behavior with Doucette reminded me of another thing. “Your name is Gabriel?” I asked.

  He froze and then sighed. “Oui. Please do not call me that. It is my name no longer. Though your pronunciation is sufficiently different to…”

  “Ah, I am sorry, Gah-bree-el.”

  “I do not like to hear that upon your lips.” He frowned.

  “Then I will not say it ever again. May I ask, though, is that your given name or your surname?”

  “Given.”

  “And Doucette has used it…?”

  He shook his head. “It is complicated. I knew not what else to allow him to call me, and he began to do so when I was healing. I chose to allow the familiarity to continue. I do not wish to discuss it.”

  “May I ask if you were named after the angel?”

  “Oui,” he shrugged. “But it is no matter.” His look hovered betwixt imploring me to change the subject and demanding I do.

  “I understand,” I said sincerely. “I am sorry. I just felt the fool when they spoke of you and I did not know who they spoke of. We have never discussed your name.” I shrugged apologetically. “So you view even that aspect of your life before the Line as truly dead?”

  He nodded. “It is only here that I am in limbo betwixt the two.”

  I sighed at my stupidity yet again. “I will endeavor to anchor you to your real life here and distract you.” I embraced him, and he relaxed a little. “But first indulge me a moment longer,” I teased. “Why are you called Gaston?”

  “That appellation was given me by a Dutchman I met on the Haiti,” he sighed with a small smile. “Gaston was a name he used for Frenchmen. I think it was a mispronunciation of Gascon, and he meant it as
a joke, since people from Gascony are purported to be loud braggarts.”

  I chuckled. “And you are anything but.”

  He shrugged. “The name stuck, as many names like it do amongst the Brethren. I am happy with it in that regard. It means nothing.”

  “It means much to me. I cannot conceive of calling you anything but. It is now the name of the object of my deepest desire and greatest wonder.” I nuzzled his neck.

  He rolled his eyes, only to grin a moment later and kiss me deeply. I was reluctant to leave the room. Unfortunately, my stomach had needs.

  Everyone was already in the dining room, but they had not been served as of yet. Doucette sat at the head of the table and watched us critically. Madam Doucette regarded us curiously from the other end. There were three priests of varying ages sitting along one side. I smiled amiably and Doucette introduced us to Fathers Pierre, Paul, and Mark. The young priest we had seen in the hospital was not among them. I noted that Tom was not among us either.

  “Excuse me, our friend Tom…?”

  “He speaks no French, and I believe he tried to tell me he wished to remain with your wounded friend. So I took him dinner and some books,” Madam Doucette said. “He seemed content. Is that acceptable?” She appeared concerned.

  “Oui, oui, I was merely curious,” I assured her with a smile.

  We sat opposite the priests, with Gaston to Doucette’s right. A young Negress served soup. I realized we would be having a dinner of courses. This seemed in keeping with the fine pewter, white-washed walls, and delicately-carved table.

  “So, Will, you are English, non?” Father Pierre asked after he finished saying grace. He seemed to be the oldest.

  “Oui, I am.”

  “Your French is excellent, and you possess exemplary table manners.”

  “For an Englishman?” I teased.

  He frowned momentarily, and then smiled. “For a fliebuster.”

  “Ah, well, thank you. I never managed to impress my mother or my governess; yet I have never been asked to leave a table. At least not for my table manners,” I corrected quickly. Gaston chuckled beside me.

  “What were you asked to leave a table for?” Doucette asked with mischievous curiosity.