Chapter 6: Conversations
The arid land lay before him illuminated by the rising lemon moon, casting deep shadows around the rocks and low scrub of wormwood and camel thorn. Aarmaan stood guard concealed from view in one of the shadows beside wind eroded boulders at the crest of a hill. A lizard near his right shoulder absorbed the last of the day's heat from the rock and zigzagged off. The asses and camels from the caravan sent out their evening song and the goats baaed out their need for the boy who milked them. Aarmaan picked out angry bellow of The Cobra, a Bactrian named for the speed of her strike. Someone must have gotten between her and her white calf. Two days before she took a fair sized bite out of one of the boys brought along to tend the animals. Aarmaan looked to the mountains in the east that provided cover for bandits ready to sweep down on the caravan like wolves were not guards in place. He smiled and rested the curved stock of the jazail on the dirt at his feet and leaned the cool barrel against his cheek and watched for sign of movement. A fox cried in the night. The odor of cook fires drifted in the air. His stomach rumbled.
An arm encircled his throat and a harsh whisper sibilated in his ear, "You're my captive."
Aarmaan reached for the knife at his hip and paused. "Rahim, and if I'd drawn my knife and stabbed you?"
Rahim pushed closer dropping his arm to encircle his captive's chest. He kissed his neck slowly. His hand slid to the front of Aarmaan's perhan and slid across his thigh. "Draw forth thy Khyber knife." He kissed the stubbled cheek.
Aarmaan turned in his arms and kissed him quickly on the lips. "Pull forth thy Khyber knife. You distract me from watch to say something as foolish as that." They kissed again and laughter started to bubble up between them. They muffled their laughter each against the other.
"I brought you something warm to eat." Rahim's teeth flashed. He removed a small covered bowl from his bag. Aarmaan started to laugh again. "Dal and rice, fool."
"What, no goat?" Aarmaan lifted the cloth and dipped his first two fingers in the lentils and rice and fed it to Rahim then set the bowl aside. They kissed again and let their hands linger for a moment at each others' waists.
"I'll wait up for you. Say you'll come to my tent." He was interrupted again by Aarmaan's laughter. "Can I say nothing to you now without you laughing at me? Come." The laughter came harder. "Come when your relief arrives." Aaraam's shoulders shook. "Aarmaan, not everything has two meanings." Rahim laughed now. "I won't talk to you anymore."
Aarmaan turned to scan the land before him and leaned back again into Rahim's warm body. He turned his mouth to him for a last kiss. "I'll come to your tent, Rahim. And I will draw my Khyber knife."
***
Prize reached out in his dream and laid his hand on the hip of the warm form next to him. A smile on his lips. The skin soft beneath his calloused palm. "Rahim." The scent of lemon drifted up from the clean sheets. He jolted awake and carefully withdrew his hand. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his mouth went dry, cold grew in his stomach, dread and fear tightened his muscles, and he prayed Gordy still slept. He waited. Gordy did not move. His breathing slow and even. Below the small clock on the parlor mantel chimed four times and birds stirred in the trees outside. Still no movement from Gordy; Prize carefully slid naked from the warm bed into the chill of the bedroom and crept from the room. Carefully he avoided the first step with its squeak and placed a bare foot on the cold wood of the step below. He grasped the banister as a deep cough shook his ribs. He listened for movement in the bedroom, nothing. Like a shadow he followed the stairs to the Persian carpet and clicked the shackle around his right ankle. He crouched on the floor and gazed into the dead fireplace. The birds sang louder. The clock ticked hollow in the silent room. He pulled his hands over his head and tried to remember his dream. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Only one word remained, Rahim.
The touch felt warm on Gordy's skin long after the hand pulled away. More honest and intimate than any Prize ever gave him. Prize who kissed his thighs and sucked his nipples by rote and opened his lips for every kiss. Prize who sucked his dick and swallowed his pleasure. Each movement calculated to bring pleasure and satisfaction. They were never as warm and complete as the hand on him in the dark, touching his heart, jolting his soul. And the one word, Rahim, sighed in the dark. Gordy held himself still and mimicked sleep, hoping the hand would return. He waited as Prize slid slowly from the bed. Time to think. Sleep reclaimed him.
***
"Prize."
He stirred slowly and pulled his legs underneath him and moved to his knees, his face to the fire.
"What are you doing here?"
"I don't know."
"I put you in my bed and you left." It had been a conciliatory gesture, a way to repair the damage done.
"Yes." Prize's voice was flat and hollow.
Gordy stepped forward to stand directly behind Prize. "You dreamt."
"I didn't." He shook his head slowly, fighting panic.
"Prize, you talked. Who is Rahim?" There was no answer and Gordy filled his fist with black hair and pulled the head back.
Prize leaned back into Gordy's leg and whispered, "There is no one named Rahim," and rested his cheek against his inner thigh.
The touch Prize gave to Gordy, rote and practiced, was not the touch he gave in the early morning to Rahim. And Gordy wanted that touch again. He envied the whispered Rahim. Gordy threw Prize forward in disgust and walked to the door with long strides. It was stupid of him to want more. Mrs. Featherwink promised him a whore's son named Prize and that's what he received. The basket waited by the door. Gordy carried it to the table and unpacked it. He set aside a heavy envelope. He ate without tasting. He watched Prize. He did not call him to kneel at his knee.
He tossed some bread at him and said, "Eat." No more.
Prize lifted the bread to his lips and took a tentative bite. He took another. He turned his head to look at Gordy and discern what he knew beyond one word, to see if he felt the touch, to gage his mood. He sat as unreadable as the Sphinx. Only two days ago he failed to defuse his anger, and the results had been dire. He didn't want to make the same mistake. A cough tickled in the back of his throat. He fought to suppress it and failed.
Gordy looked at him with cool eyes. "Is that a hint for attention?"
"No."
Gordy pushed his chair back and crossed the carpet. He swept up the drawstring pants and threw them at Prize's head. "Put these on." He removed the key from his dressing gown pocket and freed the shackle. "I'll be down after I dress." He turned and ascended the stairs. The empty bed. The touch. To the devil with Rahim. Prize was his.
Prize pulled on his drawstring pants and began to clear away the remains of the breakfast. He looked at the food, some bread, a slice of mutton, jam. He listened as Gordy moved upstairs. One bite. He wouldn't know. Prize lifted a slice of bread and looked toward the stairs and dropped the bread on the plate. He drew his arm across his chest and over his shoulder and touched the slash on his back and winced. He moved slowly. His chest felt tight.
"Not finished yet?"
Prize jumped, clattering a jam spoon on the plate. "Soon."
Gordy smiled and looked Prize up and down. His hurt back, the dirty thin pants hung low exposing the top curve of his buttocks. The way his shoulders fell forward and the tremble in his voice and hands. "Come to me."
And Prize moved slowly and stood before Gordy. He kept his head bent. He waited. Gordy ran his hand down the side of Prize's face and paused along the jaw. He traced his lips with his index finger. The lips parted. The lips always parted. His hand trailed down Prize's chest to the top of the thin cotton pants. He placed his hand flat on Prize's lower abdomen and let his thumb slide below the cloth. Prize kept his arms at his side, his eyes on Gordy. Under his hand, Gordy felt Prize's breathing quicken, the muscles tightened. Gordy pulled his hand away.
"Finish here and join me in the garden."
The heavy rain had driven some of the lower growing plants into the mud. A few pea plants were torn away from their supports. Nothing beyond repair. Gordy indicated a wood chair he carried out from the kitchen and placed a cloth over Prize's shoulders. He took a few practice snips with the shears and started in on the hair. Dark and shiny in the light, it fell on the cloth and ground. Gordy surveyed his work. The result was acceptable. Short like the hair of a Roman senator. Still enough to grab if he wanted. It enhanced Prize's appearance. Prize plucked a strand from his leg and rolled it between his fingers. Gordy pulled the cloth from his shoulders and shook it clean.
"Much better. We've more to do." He moved back to the cottage. Prize waited looking at the storm damage to the garden. The wind lifted the cut hair and sent it rolling down the path where some caught in a puddle, among the lettuces, and some, buoyed by the current, floated over the wall. Prize rubbed his hand over his shorn head. He pressed his back against the wall to steady himself and looked again at his garden. Rows of lettuces, carrots, beets, his pea plants twined around poles at the far end. Herbs grew in pots by the door. A lazy plump bee hovered near the purple spikes of lupine her legs heavy with pollen. He inhaled. Fresh turned dirt. The promise of rain on the breeze. His eyes drifted to the ancient oak tree that stood on the crest of the hill behind the cottage.
"Come to me, Prize."
Prize paused to take a deep breath to calm the feeling of dread growing under his ribcage and turned. A cough caught him and pulled him almost double. He stopped a moment to set his resolve and moved out of the sun and into the cottage. Gordy waited by the open armoire an amber jar of viscous cream filled the palm of his hand.
Prize stopped. His skin crawled. He worked to keep his face passive as he eyed the jar. He knew nothing good came from the armoire, but he knew he would rather face whatever Gordy drew forth from it than what waited for him elsewhere. And elsewhere was what March whispered about, the cell, and that something that visited him in the stable accompanied by the acrid stench of gunpowder horrified him more than either.
"I want to know about Rahim." Gordy pinned him with an algid glare.
