Matelots

by W. A. Hoffman

“You fell because I kicked your legs from beneath you,” he said.

  I gathered from those words that he had suffered a bout of madness. It almost made me curious to peer into the light. Perhaps I was making much of nothing.

  He was shaking his head as if he read my thoughts. “I could make excuse that I was ragged from the battle and that the Horse proved too much for me, but… it would be a lie. I dropped the reins, Will, or perhaps… I did not.”

  Now he did not seem to wish to meet my gaze. I took his hand and he squeezed mine so that it hurt as he struggled with his words.

  “I saw you speaking with the Spaniard,” he said at last. “I told myself there was no concern and that you loved me. And I believed it. I knew you… love me more than you ever did him. I thought of all the ways you had proven it… and… I wished to show the Spaniard that. And… I do not know if it was my madness or not, if I lost control or not, but I thought I should let myself go and that you would care for me… and I wanted that, especially as you became more at ease with him… and… So, I cannot say if it was jealousy that drove me, or… I do not know.

  “I do know that I did not fight the Horse at all when it wished to run you down and haul you away.”

  He pawed tears from his eyes and regarded me with guilt and trepidation. As his words of yet had stirred nothing of the cave, I could but love him. I leaned close and kissed his cheek.

  He shook his head with consternation. “Non, Will, you do not understand. I did an evil to you in that. I let myself…”

  I put fingers to his lips until he stilled.

  His eyes narrowed and he pulled my hand away. “Will, someday you must become angry with me. With me!”

  I sighed with frustration and wrote, What did the Horse do?

  “Do you remember speaking with the Spaniard?” he asked. “Do you remember leading me to the stable? Do you remember our arguing?”

  This brought me to the cave. I stood facing the light. It did not seem blinding, but it was of such intensity I could make out little within it. I took a steadying breath and prepared to take a step toward it. I felt Gaston’s hand on mine, and then I could see him standing in the cave next to me, holding my hand, facing the light.

  I looked: I could see Alonso, and feel his need for me; I could see Gaston watching, and feel his jealousy. I remembered not wanting to do a thing in front of Alonso… not wanting to tryst before him, and not wishing to argue with Gaston over the matter. I scurried away, running, seeking a place to hide to have the argument. I cursed my luck as the stable seemed to be the only available location. Gaston followed me: the Horse followed me. I had been afraid.

  I did not wish to see what came next. I stepped back and opened my eyes. Gaston was regarding me intently, his cheeks still wet with tears despite his frustration. I let myself truly think on what he had said. Whatever had happened next that night, he had allowed it. He had allowed the Horse to come for me. He had not fought it. He was correct, I should have been angry with him.

  I had been angry with him.

  I was angry with you because I knew we would argue, I wrote.

  He seemed to find relief in this. “Good. I… goaded you. I said…” He shook his head. “It was not about the damn Spaniard by the time we were in the stable,” he sighed. “It wanted… I wanted to own you. I wanted to prove that I owned you.

  I stood in the cave again, with him beside me. I could see the events unfold in the light.

  “And you… fought me,” he continued. “Like you did at Theodore’s. You told me no. You faced me with anger and… The Horse panics so when you do that. It… I feel such the child when you do that. I feel as I ever did when I was outnumbered and I knew I would lose. And I feel compelled to strike out. And run… But I did not run. We wrestled, and it became trysting after a fashion, and you submitted to me, you seemed pleased to accept me.

  “And then, when I finished, you… I did not seek to please you. I regret that, I … But… You pulled your breeches up and reached for your belt and then… You drew, and you were upon me. There was such anger and hatred in your eyes. And it was as if you did not see me. I could not believe you would look at me as you did. I was… It was all I could do to keep my wits about me and hold you off. And then Pete and Striker were there, and I sought to get them to pull you off; but they distracted me, and you were able to press your attack and I was wounded. Then Pete hit you.”

  The light receded, and I saw what I had wished most to avoid. I almost killed my matelot. I had thought him Shane and almost killed him. I gave a great ragged sob as the horror of it gripped me with vicious claws. I had nearly let Shane rob me of this happiness.

  I had lost my mind.

  “Will, I am sorry,” Gaston said. “I am sorry.”

  I shook my head and wrote, I almost killed you.

  He swore. “Non, that is… I drove you to it! I have driven you mad.”

  That angered me. Non, I wrote, Shane drove me mad.

  Gaston swore again. “Will! I did wrong! You should be angry with me!”

  I tore the bandage from my head. He made no move to stop me, and he backed away from what he saw in my eyes.

  “Non,” I hissed. “I will decide who I am angry with! I will decide who I love! I will decide what I wish to think! I will not bring us to ruin! And I am not a fool!”

  I felt off balance, as if I had just over-extended my reach with a sword. I hovered there, leaning toward him menacingly, and I felt my ire die in confusion like flames under a pail of water.

  His eyes were full of a child’s panic.

  “And do not hit me now,” I added quietly.

  This elicited a short bark of amusement from him, and he regained his control. I saw a smile playing about his lips, and I could not but grin in response. His left hand went about the back of my neck and he pulled me to him to kiss me thoroughly. The kiss, and the prior activity of speaking, made my jaw ache terribly, yet I did not want him to stop. When he at last released me, we laughed, and that hurt even worse.

  I finally pulled away a little and cradled my poor jaw. I answered his concerned expression with a sad sigh. He nodded gravely and retrieved the bandage.

  “I must become inured to your anger,” he said thoughtfully, as we tried to rewind the bandage and tie it. “I know that it does not threaten… us. Yet, it scares me. You are so damn amiable most of the time that…” He finally trailed off with a sigh of frustration and eased his arm from his sling to use both hands on the bandage.

  I could see what he said. I wrote, I have surprised many with my anger. It surprises me.

  “I must not hit you again,” he said sadly, and gingerly touched my swollen eye.

  I nodded. There was little I could add to that. Now that I could remember the events of that night, I felt his blow – more than the straw, or the act of sex, or any other factor – was what had caused me to think he was Shane.

  I wondered how we could inure him to my anger such that he did not feel he needed to strike me, but I could think of nothing. I wrote, You seldom anger me.

  He nodded. “I do not have an answer for it. I have no wish to go about doing things to anger you such that it becomes a common thing.”

  I chuckled at that.

  We sighed companionably and considered the day around us.

  “Do you feel… better?” he asked.

  I nodded and raised a questioning brow.

  He nodded. “I feel much relief.” He regarded me curiously. “Do you feel you can frolic now?”

  I shrugged and wrote, I do not know if I can as you did that time.

  He sighed. “Your Horse and man are not so very separate as mine are.” His expression became thoughtful. “And perhaps…mine are not so very separate now.”

  I wrote, I am not troubled by that. Are you?

  “I do not know.” He shrugged. “Somewhat, I suppose. I always imagined I would someday conquer my madness. I envisioned it as a matter of dispelling it: being rid of it. And now, I have begun to see
it as a matter of mitigating the ill effects of it by allowing it to always be with me in some fashion. And I feel disappointment, in that I will never achieve my original goal; but, I feel the end I now strive for is attainable, and the other was not.”

  I smiled and embraced him.

  He shook his head with wry amusement. “I know it pleases you. You have always thought I should take that path, have you not?”

  I nodded.

  “And what of you?” he asked. “If you will not allow that I have driven you mad, will you allow that you are madder now than you were when we met?”

  I wondered at that. I surely had not had episodes of thinking one man another, or bouts of anxiety, fear, or other emotion such that I could not contain them in a rational fashion. Yet, had it not lurked within me? Had I not felt such things, sometimes without much reason? And though I had not expressed them as I seemed prone to do now, what had I done in their name? Had I not drowned them in wine? Had I not run from them like the Devil himself was at my heels? Had I not told myself this man or that was no longer my friend for reasons I could not name? Had I not challenged others to fight for their lives over some slight I had felt toward my person? Had I not lied to justify them or keep them hidden, even to myself, on those darkest days when I could not face the light at the mouth of the cave?

  I shook my head and wrote, I hid it well then, even from myself.

  He frowned thoughtfully at that, and at last nodded. “I have merely revealed it, then.”

  I wrote, It is good it is in the light. I may examine it now.

  “Centaurs cannot live in caves,” he said with a smile.

  I found that to be profoundly true, but before I could consider it at length, we saw Striker and Pete walking around the wall toward us.

  Tell them what you will, I scrawled hurriedly, and then I folded up the page I had been writing upon and prepared a new sheet in case I might have to communicate with them. Though Gaston’s side of our conversation had not been recorded, and mine was most likely nonsensical without the other, I still regarded my jottings as part of a private matter and I did not wish to see Striker’s curious eyes upon them.

  As it was, I found Striker’s speculative gaze as he approached quite annoying.

  “Will has remembered,” Gaston said without preamble.

  Striker squatted in front of us with an expectant look. Pete settled in amiably to sit, and rewarded his matelot an annoyed glance.

  I could see that there was much that need be mended between Striker and us, on our side of the matter as well as his; but apologizing did not sit well with me. Once again, I was confronted with an old and deep anger at ever being the one who need apologize. Yet, I found myself viewing Striker from afar, as if the closeness between us had already been severed. It was a thing I had felt before, usually prior to my abandoning one set of friends for the next. That was not acceptable now. I could not hide from the light.

  “I was suffering my madness that day, as a result of the battle,” Gaston was saying. “I… attacked Will, such that he felt the need to defend himself.”

  Pete and Striker were frowning.

  “That is much as we thought,” Striker said slowly. There was doubt in his eyes.

  Gaston’s eyes locked with Striker’s. “Will went mad for a time. You know that; others must not, and you know that, too.”

  Striker sighed and looked away. “Aye, aye, but I would know it...from you.” He looked to Gaston again. “What now? Will is the only one who has a chance of calming you, and now he is mad too? You do not wish for us to separate you when you are… that way. What are we to do?” he finished with frustration.

  I could well see his dilemma. I was not sure what I would do if confronted by the problem we presented, either.

  “You must trust… me, at times,” Gaston said, as if it were surprising to him as well. “I was sane when Will came at me. His drawing on me and looking at me as if I were another made me very sane. We know deep in out hearts that one of us must always be sane,” he added thoughtfully. “And so I was well enough, until… All of you jumped upon me as if I were the villain, which in ways I was, but not at that moment – and then I realized you would not allow me to tend to Will, and I was in pain, and… it drove me mad again.” This last was said with more sadness than ire.

  Striker and Pete were suffused with guilt.

  “ItWillNa’HappenAgin,” Pete said solemnly. “WeWillNa’GetIn The MiddleO’ItAgin.”

  I shook my head.

  “Nay,” Gaston said. “You… saved my life. I could not hold Will off without fighting him truly, and I could not do that. He, in his madness, would have killed me and…”

  “ISawIt,” Pete said. “ISeenYaWeren’t Fightin’’ImTrue. SoIHit’Im, ButThen…” He glanced to his matelot and gave a sigh.

  “It’s my fault,” Striker said and finally moved to sit, instead of squatting as if he might leave. He rubbed his eyes and sighed before meeting Gaston’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. I told them to keep you back.”

  “I know,” Gaston said. “And you would not listen: to me, to Pete, to Cudro...”

  “I know, I know,” Striker said irritably. “It’s… It’s me,” he sighed. “I don’t know what to make of madness. It bothers me… deeply. I have difficulty accepting it… that you are sometimes mad and other times sane. I couldn’t… Truly, if you weren’t with Will I would have nothing to do with you. I’m sorry. You’re a good friend, you’ve proven yourself to be a… fine friend, truly, but… that merely makes it all the more baffling to me when you’re a great threat. I know you two love one another, any… damn blind man could see it, but I can’t fathom it, and... if you were mine, and I loved you so, I would lock you in a nice safe place and visit you often and not…”

  “Inflict me upon others,” Gaston said sadly. “That is what my father did with my mother,” he added with a thoughtful frown. “I understand.”

  I was near the point of ripping the bandage from my head yet again; instead, I slapped my palm on the planks between us and captured Striker’s startled gaze with mine.

  “I know!” Striker said. “You would never, ever do that. I know.”

  My anger took on words, and I snatched up the pen and paper. You think me a fool!

  Striker did not flinch, but the sadness in his eyes pulled me in. “Aye, I do. I think it’s as Cork said, you know no better and therefore you might succeed. I have hope of that.”

  I glanced to Pete, and found the Golden One scratching his beard. He shrugged. “’EStandsAlone OnTheMatter. ’EBeThinkin’ AllMen BeSane. An’’ENaUnderstand TheWayO’SinTars.” He smirked. “Na’ThatAnyLikelyDo.”

  Striker snorted disparagingly. “There you are with that business again.” He looked to us. “He says you two are centaurs, and he’s a lion, and I’m a wolf.”

  I shrugged and nodded. Gaston was smiling wanly and considering the planks.

  “What the Devil does that mean?” Striker asked.

  “The world is comprised of wolves and sheep, those that rule and those that follow,” Gaston said.

  Striker sighed and said, “Many men see that as the way of the world. What of this other?”

  “Some men are neither wolf nor sheep,” Gaston said with surprising patience. “Will and I, and Pete, are neither wolf nor sheep. We do not think like other men. Pete is a great king of the forest and feels no need to snap at other men or run about in a pack unless it suits him. Will and I fancy ourselves mythical creatures, part man, part horse, which come from a time of olden Gods to deliver wisdom unto men.”

  I thought Striker might scoff, but instead he looked at each of us in turn and then sighed. “I can see that,” he said with great resignation. “So are centaurs mad by nature?”

  “I think they are,” Gaston said seriously. “Or at least that is how we are often perceived.”

  Striker was thoughtful. “That may well be, and I can see it and… You’re not like other men, ’tis true, but… What the Devil am I to do
the next time you take swords to each other? We were damn lucky this time. All know you to be mad, so they assumed the matter a bout of madness and made little of it. But… many saw more of it. They saw Will was mad too, they know he was raving for days. I’m sure they talked. I told Morgan he took a blow from a Spaniard, but a dozen men would doubt that tale and I’ve had several make comment that you two had a lover’s quarrel, about a Spaniard: which would almost be a fine thing for them to think, as long as they don’t think the two of you were actually fighting, because you well know that is a punishable offense while on a raid. I can’t have it getting about that you two are better than any other and that I won’t keep you in line. And if all think Will is mad… Damn, I do not know where that will lead.”

  “Blame it on my madness,” Gaston said. “And… I do not feel that particular situation will occur again. I cannot guarantee that we will not have some other issue in the future, but…”

  Striker was regarding him with narrowed eyes. “How will you prevent it?” he asked sincerely.

  “I was jealous that night,” Gaston said, “And I goaded Will such that we argued. He became very angry with me, so angry that he… thought I was another because… he could not countenance fighting me.”

  I thought that a very interesting interpretation of events, and I felt there might be some truth to it.

  “We know what occurred, now,” Gaston continued, “and understand it somewhat, such that we can seek to avoid repeating it.”

  Striker shook his head. “You talk as if this was some battle you waged in a war, and you couldn’t take the field in one manner so you’ll attempt another. I don’t understand how you can…”

  “TheyBeSinTars,” Pete said.

  Gaston smiled.

  Striker snorted and sighed. “Aye, fine, so… Whatever may occur, I’m not to assume you’re the one mad at the time, and…” He sighed again and looked away.

  “I am changing,” Gaston said earnestly. “And so is Will. In time we will not be so difficult to be around. I am gaining control of my madness, and Will is…”

  “Going mad,” Striker said.

  Gaston shook his head and considered me for a moment before turning back to Striker. “Non, nay, he is… We are treating an old wound of Will’s. It has festered, and we are draining it. The stench and fever will pass, and when he heals he will be far stronger than before.”