~7777777~
Once Sojourn is out to sea she suddenly feels very small. The sights should astonish him but they don’t. The ocean stretches out as far as his eye can see - bigger than any lake he has ever known - and full of creatures at once terrifying and beautiful. By day dolphins - Josiah’s mermaids - effortlessly keep pace with the ship, rolling to their sides to look up at him while at night Jonas’ whales call to each other in voices high and clear and haunting. The salty air grows warmer and heavier. Palm trees stretch out over unending beaches. The food is indeed spicy. All of it should move him, make him think of God in kinder terms. But it does not.He closes his eyes and feels the sun and wind try to win him over. He is tempted to open his arms in an imitation of flight but instead holds tightly onto to Sojourn. Everything is bright and strange. Beautiful and unfamiliar.
Vin. He remembers and smiles. Vin is familiar despite his long absence. He’s nothing like himself and still Chris knows him. A solid soul made up of unfinished journeys. His mama’s son, a Tanner, if only for a short while. A Kiowa. A Comanche. A scout and sharp shooter for a bloody war. Hunter and hunted. Older than he looks unless you look in his eyes.
He has left five friends to find one. The math should be wrong but it’s not.
Still keeping his eyes closed he gives in and opens his arms and lets the wind take him where it will.
The days pass like this. Small windows of hope and anticipation look out over boredom and a creeping sense of futility. The sheer size of the country is daunting. What he thinks is another ocean a young barefoot crewmember calls a bay. Each port is filled with ships like the one he is on and some that are even bigger. Small consolation comes from another casually dropped piece of information that most of Brazil’s people live along the coast and do not venture too far into it’s dense interior. Chris reaches a point, half mad and ready to break windows, where he knows he will find Vin only because he has to.
Finally the day comes when Sojourn sails into Guanabara Bay. It’s as wide as the mouth of a river and displays Rio de Janeiro growing at the foot of a mountain sweetly named Sugarloaf. Clouds pass over the sun changing shadows. The slow passage of time Sojourn seemed to sail under lifts and suddenly every able body is running and calling out commands. As cotton is unloaded coffee and sugar replace it. Chris and his horse are quickly herded off the ship along with his fellow travelers.
He steps onto solid ground only to find that his legs still feel like they are sailing. Pony stomps and throws his head as Chris tries to lead him through the throng of people at Rio’s port. A large marketplace gives way to saloons and hotels. Women leaning over wrought iron balconies call to him in Portuguese, French and English.
His sweat soaked clothes weigh heavily on him. He is tired and not a little overwhelmed. The only sight that holds any promise for him is a livery where he takes the time to brush Pony down until the horse drops his head and nudges Chris gratefully. Chris leans against his powerful neck and then with a sigh collects his warbag and searches for the nearest hotel with a bathtub. He soaks only long enough to get clean and then falls asleep on his belly in the first bed he’s slept in since New Orleans a lifetime ago.
He rises early in the morning greeting a quieter city not quite up to it’s usual pinwheel speed. He hopes that he is walking in Vin’s footsteps as he heads back to the livery. He can’t imagine Vin staying for any longer than it would take to get directions to a smaller city, as beautiful as this one is.
At the livery he greets an old slender black man with the few words of Portuguese he learned on the ship. “Bom dia.” Good morning.
The man stops cleaning the tack in his hand. “Bom dia, Senhor,” and then waits for Chris to ask for more.
“Por favor,” What’s ‘no bueno’ mean? “Voce fala ingles?” Please. Do you speak English?
“Yes, sir. I do,” he says with a soft southern accent. A freed slave who has probably seen more of the world than Chris.
The thought makes him smile. “I’m looking for a friend. Name’s Vin Tanner.”
“No, sir. I don’t know no Vin Tanner. Sorry, sir.” He resumes cleaning his tack.
Chris watches him and then continues. “He’s about yay tall,” Chris gestures at the man who will not look at him, “long brown hair, blue eyes, probably wearing a cavalry hat, kinda skinny.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Haven’t seen no one like that.”
Chris cannot let go. “He’s a friend of mine. Had to leave his home through no fault of his own. I’m his friend.” Chris takes off his hat. “And I need to find him.”
The man finally looks up and studies Chris and then goes back to his tack. Chris puts his hat back on and takes a step to retrieve Pony.
“Does this friend of yours have a fine black horse like yours?”
“Yes.” Chris holds his breath. “With a white blaze.”
“Beautiful animal. Mean as sin.”
Chris smiles. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
The man nods and sets the tack aside. “He came through here about a year ago. Quiet. Made him stand out more than his horse.”
“Sounds like him. Did - did he say where he was headed?”
“I told him about Parati. It used to be a great trading port but now there are roads that pass her by. She’s a beautiful city - but forgotten.” He smiles at Chris. “That seemed to appeal to your friend.”
Chris smiles back. “Yes. It would. How do I get there?”
“It’s a little more than a 160 miles down the Costa Verde. I tried to talk him into waiting for one of the ships that still go down there but he said he could find it on his own.”
“He wasn’t bragging. He can.”
“I don’t doubt it. I reckon you’ll find your way, too.”
Chris takes off his hat again. “I’d like to know your name before I leave.”
“Joseph. Joseph Thomas.”
“Chris Larabee.” He shakes Joseph’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Joseph.”
~7777777~
Chris’s first day of travel is blessed with dry weather and a trail he can easily follow. The second day it begins to rain and seems disinclined to ever stop. He continues on, soaked to the bone, tired, irritable. The trail gives way to lush undergrowth, small bridges are washed away and have to be traveled around. Mud pulls heavily at his boots when he gets off Pony to lead him up a high mountainside and then threatens to send both horse and man skidding off the negligible path as it winds steeply down to the shoreline. Vines pull at his hands and feet as he tries to keep himself moving forward. He eats jerked beef and dried fruit from the marketplace and not much else; he sleeps sitting up while the rain lands heavily on his shoulders.
Soon he loses any sense of progress. The brittle, easily broken parts of his nature come to the fore and the landscape around him seems determined to snap each part off. He is no longer traveling but instead merely making his way through one day to the next.
He comes to yet another washed out bridge and sets about trying to find his way around it. He misses finding the trail and is fed out into a storm tossed cove. Turning around he heads back to the bridge only to find that he has turned and turned again and made a perfect circle back to the cove.
It’s too much.
He lets go of Pony’s reins and suddenly feels as if they are both untethered. Using the last his strength he removes his useless clothes. Mud has found a way into his boots and through his buttoned down shirt and pants. His legs, chest and back are slicked with it. He lets his head fall back while the rain continues to bruise his skin.
It’s not enough.
He walks into the water and finds that he has to go out far before it reaches his chin. The ocean is so unlike any lake he has been in before. Seemingly alive with a salty taste like skin after sex. He swims further out and lets it pull him under. It stings his eyes. Vin’s medicine bag floats around him and up as if trying to pull him to the surface. He catches it in his hand and holds it to his chest.
What a fool he has been to think he could find Vin. He remembers how the tracker could materialize out of shadows and disappear into them just as easily. Vin is the kind of man who finds you and not the other way around. He has been stubborn and contrary and there is no way for Vin to know that he needs to be found.
Chris has never been so tired. The rain clatters above him and tries to find its way to him. He sinks deeper. He has never been this tired and so he closes his eyes and sighs and sleeps.
. . .
The cove comes alive with the rising of the sun. Birds call out to each other while small monkeys move impossibly from one tree limb to another. Raindrops hang from enormous leaves catching light before they fall into the sand. It is warm and bright and the rain falls no more.
The sun shines warmly down on Chris’s pale body. The wet sand beneath him is cool and firm. He wakes up with a shiver that ends as soon as he rolls to his side and lets the sun find his back. He remembers the day before and shivers again. He is sure that anyone who has ever loved him would be ashamed of him now.
His eyes burn the way the sun has burned his skin. The tears he cries are different than the one that have come before. There is no anger or gritted teeth determination for revenge. There is only the grief that he has battered into a corner for all these years and now it is upon him with a gravity that brings him to his knees. His grief is heavy and painful and there is nothing he can do to stop it from running down his face and throat. A scream builds in his chest and threatens to overtake him and yet when he opens his mouth there is only silence.
At last the courtship with death is over. He has reached out for the last time to embrace her and has been soundly set on his backside in the wet sand - naked, shaking, crying, born again.
The sunlight refracts through the pool of tears in his eyes and for a moment he is nearly blinded. Not wanting to flinch from anything again, Chris squeezes them shut and then opens them to meet the brilliant sunrise. All the while he cries for his martyred wife and son and for the fear and pain they must have known. Did they think that he had abandoned them? Did they feel his love even when he was far from home? Do they know he loves them still? All the questions that have haunted him run through his body. He swallows and swallows again trying to catch his breath and trying to accept that he will never know their last moments any more than he has been able to force or predict his own.
Sitting up he wraps his arms around his middle and draws his knees up and holds himself this way for a long while. His tears stop and then roll down his face again moments later of their own accord. He pays them no attention. A sigh escapes. He looks around for Pony but the untethered animal is nowhere in sight. The dark muddied clothing that he had left in the very spot he sits is also gone. The tide which barely reaches over his toes has washed his widowers clothes out to sea. It pains him that the medicine bag he had held so tightly is no longer around his neck.
Voices sound off behind him in the dense foliage. He pushes himself to his feet and rises to his full height determined to meet whatever comes his way. Two men, one wrinkled and brown and handsome, the other a younger version of the first. They meet Chris’s proud, tear streaked face with their own astonished ones.
Chris swallows and holds himself steady and tells the truth. “I lost my horse.”
~7777777~
Vin’s house is small and plain by local standards. Perfectly square with its brown tiled roof and weathered deep blue shutters it lacks the baroque flare of its distant neighbors. Nestled among lush foliage on the tip of a cove it is easy to miss unless you know to look for it. A wide veranda runs around it allowing a view of the Atlantic from the front, coffee growing in neat rows on the hills to its back, a half circle of beach to the south and a rarely used path running from its doorstep into town on the north side. It’s small and plain and still more than he ever thought he would have.
Like so many things that Vin comes to love it had been an empty house for a long time. Built as an afterthought from spare materials it contains four rooms. Or more precisely, four areas as the only thing separating the sitting room from his bed is a curtain of beads. Both look out over the cove. To the right is a pot bellied stove with shelves on either side. Across from Vin’s feather bed, whose luxury makes him toss and turn, is an open area with a bookcase built into the wall. The beginnings of a library for a man still courting the written word.
Several people had advised Vin in whispered voices not to buy the property. The long untraveled path that led to it left it far from town and vulnerable. The main house that had been built in the hills above it had been burnt to the ground suggesting ill will for the previous owners if not the land itself. A storm only a year before had battered the small house but only managed to wreck its shutters. Indians whose ancestors had long ago been taken from the interior for slave labor were now free to live on the periphery of the property, no longer able to maintain their culture and not a part of Brazilian society, either. All this was said to discourage Vin but the promise of solitude and the threat of bad weather was an irresistible combination. With money saved by living as unobtrusively as possible and not gambling with Ezra he bought the property and settled in a best he could.
In short order the shutters were repaired. He salvaged a sturdy dark brown leather couch with flat wooden armrests along with a round supper table and, of course, the ridiculous bed with its new ticking. The few books left on the shelves were far too weather damaged to save and this pained him despite the fact that they were written in a language he was only beginning to understand. An empty ornate birdcage, its door flung open, hangs from the front of the veranda as if it is a piece of art or a promise.
He hired workers from town, not wanting to completely alienate them, and several curious and hungry Indians who trust his quiet ways, to plant coffee over the ashes of the long gone main house and watched amazed as a new life literally grew around him.
Chanu, he would think to himself, I have walked into a dream.
Other discoveries are also shared within the privacy of his own thoughts, ironically, to make them more real.
Josiah, today I took my boot off and with some other fellers punched holes into the blackest soil I’ve ever seen with our big toes and planted tomatoes and corn, squash and sweet potatoes. They think I’m funny and try not to laugh but sometimes they can’t help it.
When he thinks of JD he wants to tell him about one of the rich men in town who owns stallions that are born with black coats that turn snow white when they mature. When they trot they look like they’re dancing.
There are times, at the end of the day, when he is heading downhill while his neighbors disappear over the top of it that he can almost feel the heat and weight of Chris’s hand on his shoulder. If he keeps his eyes on his footing or the beach below, he can see Chris’s black hat from the corner of his eye. It’s a hopeful daydream so deeply rooted in need that he fears for his sanity when he catches himself indulging in it. A mere glance to the side proves that Chris is nowhere near. The shame he feels that so obvious a fact can still elude him leaves him winded.
In the morning he rolls out of bed and drinks strong black coffee with lots of sugar now that it’s so easy to acquire. He never sits at the table but instead wanders around the house from window to window. Each one affords a beautiful view but the one he stops at looks out over the path leading to his home. Sometimes the coffee in his hand is forgotten as he stares at the narrow archway the foliage has created over it. I’m surrounded by every shade of green and blue. The shadows within the archway shift and he holds his breath. A form begins to take shape, tall and lean. Relatively pale hands contrast with black clothing. He waits. A bowed head slowly lifts. He waits.
Chattering from his neighbors coming to work break the spell. He sips his cool coffee and wait’s a while longer.
It’s poured for over two weeks. My rain barrel is always full.
~7777777~
Senhor Emiliano’s son Pedro offers Chris his shirt to wrap around his waist. He speaks rapidly in Portuguese to his father who nods, smiles at Chris and is off and quickly out of sight, Chris assumes, to find Pony - or a jailer.
He is escorted into town with such little fuss that Chris begins to wonder if he is the first naked man that has been rescued or one of many. People stare but continue about their business unfazed if not amused. Children jostle around Emiliano for the candy he throws into the air. Chris cinches the shirt around his waist a little tighter. He is ignored completely.
Once they are at Emiliano’s home his wife, Maria greets them with a hand to her mouth before tottering off. Mumbling to herself she brings back more of her sons clothing and handing it to Chris she gestures to a room where he can wash up and change. He closes the door behind him and rests his forehead against it to gather himself.
When he comes back out he looks just as abashed as he did when he went in. Somehow he manages to look more vulnerable fully clothed than otherwise. All of the lean muscle and scars defining a life lived hard and at times desperately are covered in pale loose clothing draping over him instead of worn close to the skin. The V of his gauze-like shirt reveals the sunburned expanse of his chest while the billowy sleeves hide his strong arms. Sandals protect the soles of his feet but leave his long toes grasping for cover.
Maria hands him a large cup filled with coffee and hot milk. She is as fine and wrinkled as her husband. He nods his thanks and follows her to a bench just outside the front door where Emiliano waits for them. They sit on either side of him, like bookends, and smile. He sips his hot drink and enjoys the creamy taste with the kick of coffee behind it. When he swallows he swears he can feel it rushing to his head and to the ends of his fingertips and toes. He smiles back.
Tucked between their quiet good company Chris can finally take in how beautiful the town is. Pushed up against rolling green hills by a waterfront it moves at a much slower pace than Rio and Chris is grateful for it. All the buildings and homes are whitewashed with roofs that from a distance look like they were tiled with brown pebbles. Vines grow over every doorway. Palm trees sway next to church bells.
Chris clears his throat. “Parati,” he begins, still hoarse, “how far is Parati from here?”
They both smile and nod and gesture out towards the town. “Parati…”
Chris points down at the ground. “This is Parati?”
They also point at the ground. “Parati, Parati,” they both assure him.
Chris laughs at himself and they join in until he suddenly stops. “Vin Tanner. Do you know Vin Tanner?”
Maria smiles and nods, pats his hand to quiet him when he twitches to stand. She sips her coffee. Following her lead he settles back inbetween them with all the tired discipline he possesses and waits for their son to return with his horse and hopefully more answers.
~7777777~
Pedro passes several workers heading for Senhor Vin’s coffee plantation. Plantation seems too ambitious for the small crop he grows. It’s common knowledge that he shares the fruits and vegetables that grow on his land with his workers and rumored that he pays them well with the last of his money. Pedro hopes that the coffee that grows on the hills will reward him handsomely.
He remembers the fear many of the townspeople lived in when a panther had gone from hunting the cattle they raised to hunting the men who herded them, only to disappear back into the hills. Senhor Vin had tracked and killed the animal and then knelt down beside it and seemed to mourn its passing with a prayer in a language he didn’t understand. Still, the gesture spoke to him and allowed a measure of respect for Vin that he had only felt for his father until that day. While Vin remains a mystery to the town that surrounds him they are grateful to him.
The path narrows as he nears Vin’s small house. Not for the first time he thinks that Vin needs more visitors to widen the way. It worries him further to come out of the foliage pulling at him to see Vin standing at a window as if waiting for someone. Vin seems to collect himself and then greets Pedro at the steps of the veranda with a hand tossed in the air.
“Tudo bem, Senhor Vin?” Pedro asks, with a toss of his own hand.
“Tudo bem,” Vin assures. All’s well.
Pedro practices his English. “A man,” he gestures towards Vin and Vin understands that he means a white man, “he lose his horse - and everything.” He pats his own bare chest and throws his hands up to convey he doesn’t understand how this could happen - and then shrugs - but it did. Vin barely suppresses a smile. “Will you please help to find his horse?”
“No problem, my friend. Where did you find this feller?”
Pedro adds ‘feller’ to his growing vocabulary. “Not far from here. Redeemer’s Cove. You know it?”
“Yes. I’ll bring the horse to your house, if that’s all right?”
“Si, si. And stay for supper, yes?”
“Yes. And - thank you.”
“No, no, no. Thank you, yes?”
“Do you want a ride back to town?” Vin asks, to put an end to all the politeness.
Pedro looks over at the corral that contains Peso and decides to walk. “Uh, thank you, Senhor Vin. I stay a while and say good morning to Eduardo.” He points up to the hills. “This, OK?”
Vin nods. “Of course. Ate logo, Pedro.”
Pedro swats Vin heartily on the back. “Ate logo, Senhor Vin.” And then lopes back to the path and disappears.
Until soon.
~7777777~
As soon as Vin enters Redeemer’s Cove he sees a black horse chewing contentedly on the bark of a palm tree growing out over the water. Chris, he thinks, trying to roust his spirits, Pony has jumped the fence. It’s strange how this country which is like nothing he’s ever known can still remind him of so many things that are familiar.
Peso stomps around as if getting ready to bolt. Vin reins him in hard to no avail. “Mule, what’s gotten into you?” He dismounts, narrowly missing getting stepped on and tethers Peso securely to a nearby thick branch. He approaches the more docile horse on foot. Once he’s close he takes off his straw hat and holds it out to the animal. Curious and probably thirsty the horse presses its muzzle inside. Vin collects the reins and places his inspected hat back on his head. “Yeah, there you go, boy,” Vin soothes as he gently scratches the geldings powerful neck and jaw. The horse uses its wide muzzle to push against Vin’s chest. Almost marking him. Almost recognizing him.
The world becomes a silent place, no sound of water or birds calling as Vin focuses entirely on the horses black muzzle. Entirely black until Vin’s heavy hand pushes aside the long mane to reveal a small white star just above the brown eyes staring at him. He knees quake as he moves around the horse to run his hand over the fine saddle. Black and silver studded. Expensive and showy. Something he teased Chris about as often as possible.
Vin sits with a soft thud in the sand. Breathing is suddenly a mystery.
Pony nudges his hat off his head.
~7777777~
Chris follows Emiliano up a ladder to an attic that is flooded with noonday light and filled with beautiful paintings. Emiliano sits at a small square table near a large window at the front of the room. While his host gathers up several yellow blossoms and unceremoniously begins to grind them to a pulp in a small ceramic bowl Chris takes in the view. The waterfront and nearly the entire town stretches out before him. It’s the perfect place for an artist to try and figure out how to paint sunlight on water. Chris’s fingertips run over several of the paintings as he passes them by.
Everything is vivid and round and bold. A brown skinned woman, shoulders bare, hair loose, sits cross legged in front of a basket of flowers. Fishermen pull at sails. One painting, still on an easel, shows a nude woman lying on her belly seeming to look out at Chris and call to him. Emiliano shuffles up beside him and using the pain the has made reincarnates the yellow flowers into her hair.
When he finishes Chris turns to him and confesses, “I thought I knew everything until I came here. I don’t know a damn thing, do I?”
Emiliano, understanding Chris’s tone if not his words, raises his hand to Chris’s face and gently pats his cheek.
Maria calls excitedly from below.
“Ah,” Emiliano says, and then pantomimes holding the reins of a galloping horse. Chris smiles and follows him back down the ladder.
Vin stands in the sitting room, hat in hand, telling a delighted Maria in stuttered Portuguese that he thinks the horses owner is an old friend of his. A dear friend. As soon as the words are out of his mouth he begins to worry that he has somehow cursed himself with his own hope. Maria calls Emiliano to her to explain the good fortune taking place under their roof.
Vin watches as sandals and not the black boots and clothing he was looking for reach for the floor as the horses owner descends the ladder. His disappointment is so heavy that it threatens to crush him while Maria cries happily into her hands. He bows his head as Chris turns around.
“Vin?” a hoarse voice calls. “Vin, is that you?”
Vin looks up to a sight he can make little sense of. There is Chris, in another mans clothes, sunburned and coyote thin, staring back at him. He remains still, afraid of breaking yet another spell. Chris walks towards him and holds out his hand. Finally, Vin grabs his forearm in a familiar hold and then finds he is unable to let go. “Chris…?” Vin asks, though his voice fails him.
Chris tugs his arm. “I’m right here, pard.” But he can see the disbelief in his eyes. I still know him. He knows that Vin’s disbelief is not in Chris traveling so far, but in Chris traveling so far for him. He steps closer. “Hey…” Using his free arm he wraps it around Vin’s shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. Vin does what he has always done when Chris has reached out for him and remains utterly still, barely breathing. Chris moves his hand to cradle the back of his head.
“Chris,” Vin finds his voice and his nerve and grips the side of Chris’s shirt and lets his fist rest against his hip. “I have so much to tell you.”
. . .
Pedro arrives in time for his father to bring out a dusty bottle of sweet red wine and join a toast to “love and family, art, good friends and a good horse!” Vin translates for Chris who bows his head, smiles and raises his glass. Pedro shows them some of the plants and flowers he has collected for his fathers paints while Maria wraps up candy made up of coconut and sweetened milk. Handing it to Vin she issues another invitation to supper, some other day, when the reunited friends have caught up. With a kiss on the cheek for each of them she sends them on their way.
Riding home Vin hears Pony’s sure steps behind Peso’s. I’m not alone, he reminds himself and yet when he turns his head to confirm it he’s still surprised to see that Chris is really there. The closer reality comes to his longing the quieter he becomes. Chris allows him his silence and when Vin cautiously looks over his shoulder again he lets Vin catch him staring back.
Despite Chris’s strange clothing he’s not the only one who has changed although Vin’s changes are more subtle. His face has lost the last of its baby fat making his wide jaw even more pronounced. His eyes seem to hold even more history. Gone are the layers of clothes to be replaced by lighter ones in both color and material. The knee high boots he wears are worn on the outside of his pants. Chris tries not to envy them when his sandals slip from his stirrups. He smiles at the familiar red bandana worn around Vin’s neck and notices that his hair is gathered there and then runs halfway down his back in a long plait. A practical straw hat sits low on his head in place of the cavalry one.
Ever adaptable, he is still the only thing that makes sense to Chris.
When they reach Vin’s property Chris breaks their silence with an impressed whistle. Vin accepts the compliment with a small smile and invites Chris to look around while he puts the horses up in the corral. When he’s finishes he takes a moment to catch the breath he’s been holding. He leaves the corral expecting to find Chris inside the house or on the veranda but instead he’s standing on an outcropping of granite looking out over the cove. Vin walks heavily to let Chris know he’s approaching and follows his eyes through the foliage and down onto the beach.
“Is that where Pony was?” Chris asks.
“Naw. There’s dozens of coves in this area.” Chris still seems unsure of something. “He wasn’t far away, though.”
Chris lets out a gust of air that might be a laugh and then visibly collects himself. “Why don’t you show me around?”
Vin doubts that he wants the long tour and so he turns and points to the hills behind them. “My first coffee crop.” Chris nods as Vin lowers his hand and points to his house. “My house with the whiskey bottle inside.” Chris grins and walks with Vin towards the house. “The stairs leading to the whiskey bottle inside.” And then swats Vin’s hand down when he points at the double doors. Vin opens them wide and then the shutters. Chris stands just inside the doorway as light begins to take over each room. A cross breeze, warm and salty soothes him. He follows Vin to the back of the house where a wide bed and what looks like a small library are located. Vin sets Chris’s warbag by the bed and passes him again to fetch the bottle of whiskey from a shelf by the stove. “Do you wanna sit outside?” he asks, collecting his only shot glasses and Maria’s candy. Chris answers by following him out the door and sitting on a bench, much like Emiliano’s, tucked under the shade of the veranda.
Vin pours and sets the bottle between them. He raises his glass. “To good horses,” and then tosses the entire drink back.
Chris watches him pour another as he sips at his own. “I suppose I’m going to have to hear about that for a long while?” Vin tries to hide a smile and drink at the same time and ends up coughing instead. “Slow down, cowboy.” Vin glares at the name and then smiles at it, too.
They share the impossibly sweet candy that goes surprisingly well with whiskey.
The view of the beach seems to change continually. Clouds pass over the sun turning the blue of the water into one gemstone color into another. The blue and gray of the sky gives way to a slow sunset, orange and pink. The constant clamor of the bird calls quiets, if not entirely.
Vin goes inside without a word and then returns with a plate and two oblong pieces of fruit and a small sharp knife. He puts the plate next to the bottle and then sits and draws his leg up so he can face Chris. Chris does the same as he watches Vin cut the fruit lengthwise and then into narrow strips. A sweet smell fills the air between them as Vin hands a portion to Chris who follows Vin’s lead and bites into it like a small piece of summer watermelon. Vin grins at Chris as the flavor widens his eyes. Sweeter than a peach and tart as a green apple.
“What is this?” Chris asks, finishing one piece and reaching for another.
“A mango,” Vin informs, wiping juice from his chin.
Supper is served.
Whether from his long journey or the whiskey and nighttime sky, Chris’s chin grows heavy until it nearly rests on his chest. Vin watches him and remembers how his own exhaustion had hit him when he finally had a place to rest. He’s comforted, almost proud, that Chris still allows himself to close his eyes and sleep open handed in his company.
Vin stands and leans over him and touches his forearm briefly. “Chris…,” he whispers, not wanting to wake him entirely. Chris lifts his head and tries to open his eyes. “Hey, pard. I’m going to sleep. How ‘bout you?” he asks trying to head off any protest that he’s actually wide awake. It works. Chris nods and stands and without thought rests his hand on Vin’s shoulder and follows him blindly inside to the wide welcoming bed. He sits heavily on the edge, groaning and breathing in huffs through his fatigue. Vin tugs on his shirt and then lets Chris pull it haphazardly over his head and toss it at his warbag. The sandals are easily removed. Vin warms his bare feet in his hands.
“Vin?”
Vin freezes as if caught. “Yeah, pard?”
“Don’t tell the boys that I lost my horse.”
Vin is absolutely solemn when he promises, “I won’t.” Lifting his feet onto the bed Chris falls back and is asleep before Vin can pull a light cover over him. He watches him again, his hand reaching across and holding his shoulder where Chris had leaned on him. It burns.
Chris stirs in his sleep and this small movement releases Vin from his vigil. Soundlessly he lowers the shutters and closes the front door. He spreads out his bedroll near the library, not wanting to crowd his friend even his sleep. He removes his shirt and boots and falls into a light sleep listening to Chris’s soft snoring.
Sometime during the night Chris inhales sharply and wakes from a long dream about rain. This small noise brings Vin crouching to his side. Chris has come so far and still it’s necessary to reach a little farther until he has a firm grip on Vin’s wrist. He tests his strength, flexing his fingers, almost letting go before he pulls Vin over him and onto his other side in one slow motion. Raising up on an elbow he looks down at Vin who is holding still with all his might.
Not trusting his roughened palm to tell him what he needs to know Chris runs the back of his fingers down Vin’s temple to his cheek. The slight stubble there sensitizes his skin making Vin’s mouth feel softer, still. He feels a moist catch against his knuckles. Maybe a kiss, maybe a protest. Moving his hand down Vin’s throat he lets one finger register the quickened heartbeat there. The end of Vin’s plait rests on his chest. Chris slips the leather thong easily off and slowly begins to unbraid it. Vin’s hair is bed warm and soft especially at the nape of his neck where Chris buries his hand. A sound catches in Vin’s throat, his eyes drop closed. A shy hand raises and then falls. Chris shifts over him letting one leg settle between Vin’s. Their bodies react, moving against each other in a rhythm as old as time. Vin’s shoulder cradles Chris’s forehead. Warm breath soaks into his bones. Stubble reddens the skin around a nipple.
Without warning Vin rolls Chris onto his back and straddles his legs. Chris lets his arms fall open. The sight makes Vin feel as though he has swum too far out where his feet no longer touch the bottom. Chris takes a moment to read him in the dim light before he sits up to place a dry kiss to Vin’s chest. Resting his cheek there he wraps one arm around Vin’s lean waist while the other hand presses between his shoulder blades. He waits while Vin catches his breath and then holds him even tighter when Vin’s hands finally reach across his shoulders. Slowly, Chris eases him onto his back again and then breaks their contact to rise to his knees and remove the loose pants that aren’t really his. Tossing them out of the way he unbuttons Vin’s to expose a shallow bellybutton, a light dusting of hair and his sex. Vin lifts his hips as Chris pulls the last barrier between them off. Sprawling out beside Vin he kisses his bellybutton with his tongue and enjoys the feel of Vin writhing under this small attention. He moves one arm under Vin’s waist to hold him and then brings his mouth to join his hand around Vin’s cock. The precaution taken is wise. Vin pushes into his mouth with a whimper. A hand falls on his shoulder with a slap and then squeezes it erratically. The other hand rests lazily in his hair.
“No,” Vin grates out but Chris ignores the protest and listens to Vin’s body instead. He knows how pleasure after a long draught can leave a man aching and contrary. He knows because he feels it, too. It stings his eyes and works its way between bone and muscle until it floods his body and nearly shakes him apart. His mouth slips off of Vin and rests on his hip while he tries to catch his breath. His slippery hand leaves Vin crying for air.
Chris holds him tight. Vin lets go.
When Chris eventually lifts his head his eye catches sight of a small scar. Vin’s terrible wound - the one that almost took his life has also brought them both to this wild, overgrown country. It has brought them to a soft bed. Chris blesses it with a chaste kiss as if he is making peace with an old enemy. Vin sighs.
Vin lets his hands fall from Chris’s hair and shoulder when Chris stands on sea legs to go to the basin. Soaking a cloth he wipes his chest down and then rinsing it brings it back to bed. Vin reaches out for it to wash himself but Chris smoothes it over his waist and chest for him and tosses it back in the general vicinity of the basin. It’s the small gestures that leave Vin flustered and unsure and it’s the sight of Vin trying to make sense of the tenderness he invokes that touches Chris all the more. He crawls back into bed and follows Vin when he tries to make room for Chris to sleep untouched.
Resting his cheek on Vin’s shoulder and his arm across his ribs Chris asks, “Is this all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not too heavy?”
“Nah,” Vin assures him and then lets his itchy palm cover Chris’s hair again. You’re my anchor.
Chris squirms and makes settling in noises. Little grunts and sighs.
They fall asleep listening to the rain.
~7777777~
Vin prods an amber piece of glass with his toe before crouching to pick it up. A green piece has also washed up. Both have been tossed around in the South Atlantic until their sharp edges are smooth and rounded. They shimmer wetly in his hand. A sailors broken wine bottle transformed into gemstones.
I find the green ones all the time. The gold ones are rare.
How strange it was to wake under the weight of affection instead of resignation. Chris is heavy. But the thought of it makes him smile. He begins to feel foolish for crawling out from under it.
His toe finds a shell that’s small and white, ornate as a pastry and iridescent. Looking up he sees Chris walking towards him, shirt untucked, pants rolled up, barely awake. Chris shows him a smile that leaves him humbled. Suddenly the glass in his hand seems like a poor offering.
Chris does not stop a polite distance from Vin but instead wraps him a warm hug that keeps him from catching his breath. Chris laughs his funny hiccupping laugh right into his ear while Vin sways in quiet disbelief in his arms.
Chris straightens and reaches for the fist that Vin holds to his back. “What’s in your hand?” he asks, holding out his palm.
Embarrassed, Vin shrugs and shakes his head. “Nothin’.” And lets the glass fall back into the sand.
Chris crouches down to gather them up again and then with one eye squeezed shut against the morning sun he teases Vin, “You couldn’t just hand ‘em to me?”
Vin prefers being teased to being unsure. “It’s just glass.” Worn down broken glass.
Chris stands. “Uh huh.” He holds each piece up to the sun and seems to appreciate the effect.
“The gold pieces are rare,” Vin blurts out and then feels foolish for calling broken glass rare.
Without hesitation Chris hands him the amber one. “You take this one then.”
Looking out over the water Vin is ready to throw it back into the sea if Chris is making fun of him.
“Can I have this one? Vin?” Vin turns back and is chagrined to find that Chris is sincere. “Can I have this one?”
Choked, Vin can only nod.
“Thanks, pard,” Chris says as he puts the glass into his loose pocket and then watches as Vin does the same. “You all right?”
“Yeah…”
Chris shuffles from foot to foot. “I was thinking…that…now that I know where town is I could probably find a place to stay there.”
“Don’t,” Vin says, angry that he hasn’t dared to make himself clear. “I want you to stay. And,” he looks out over the water again, “if you can’t stay then I want you to visit for a long time.” He looks back towards Chris, if not at him. “For as long as you want.”
“Well, we’ll see if I’ve worn out my welcome by the time the next ship comes around.”
“No need. I’ve made up my mind.”
Chris waits for Vin to look at him. “So have I.”
. . .
Their kiss is their seal and their bond.
They set the watermark high from the very beginning. Sweet and hesitant and yet bestowed in broad daylight with the tide tickling their feet. Both are unable to keep their eyes closed, stealing glances of a flushed cheek, long lashes or an ear too small to hold all the hair Chris tries to tuck behind it. It’s a dilemma he solves by sinking his hands into the unruly mass of waves. It’s also his undoing. Vin is inconsolable, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth parted and waiting. Unable to collect himself Chris pants into Vin’s mouth and then abandons himself to a kiss that contains more heat than expertise. Vin rewards him nonetheless using his own considerable strength to hold Chris close.
The small complex negotiations of a kiss.
The warm good weather that shines down on them is paid no attention. They seek the solitude of the house with the shutters opened wide and the sunlight pouring in.
Undressing silently they crawl back into bed, sparing only a moment to be shy over what they mean to do. Kneeling, facing each other, amazed at their good fortune, Vin topples them both. Neither will ever be able to figure out how the other skipped a stone across all the isolation between them. Only that it was done without a word and with the smallest of gestures.
Vin, always a brave soul, holds his arms open to the unfamiliar pleasure of carnal love and then squirms under the details of it. Chris, strong and unusually patient, lets him go where he will as long as it’s within the confines of his affection. Nerves give way to curiosity. Tenderness governs even the most passionate exchange.
Chris falls asleep twining Vin’s hair around his finger. “I want a lock of this.” And then wakes to find Vin kneeling beside him and cutting a long wave of it with his knife from the nape of his neck. Chris takes it, still warm and incredibly soft, still smelling of Vin’s sweat and gets out of bed to place it in a folded piece of paper with the green glass set on top of it. His most valuable worldly possessions.
Vin reaches for him as he returns to bed.
The months pass and more than one ship that is traveling back to Rio and then onto the Gulf of Mexico pass by just beyond their cove, unhailed. This pleases Vin greatly although he keeps it to himself except when he’s in bed and unable to hold anything back. Chris makes the too soft bed more comfortable with his long limbed sprawl and his tendency to blanket Vin up against the wall. This lack of space should make him nervous and cramped but instead he tangles the knot further with his arms and legs.
Vin discovers that he can take Chris anywhere once he gets his arms around him.
On a warm day Chris pauses at the edge of the water. Vin sees him standing there, steeling himself against some unnamed trouble and wades back to shore. He stands in front of Chris unknowingly guarding him from the calm water so much like the cove he was lost in. “That’s all right,” Vin reassures him and puts his arms around Chris’s neck. “We don’t have to go for a dip.” Chris squeezes him and then still holding on walks them both into the water. Vin laughs into his neck and kisses him before he swims off, all the while watching him from the corner of his eye. An old trick they both use.
Chris ducks under the water and some of his tension eases at the sight of colorful fish and his feet sinking into the sand. He stands and breaks through the surface gasping until he sees Vin watching him. He swims over to Vin who wraps his arms around his neck again. Chris pulls him closer letting the tide lift them off their feet. He looks into Vin’s eyes which have always reminded him of great lakes, deep and dark blue and finally compares them to the ocean that cradles them and finds the Atlantic lacking.
Vin follows his line of sight and looks over his shoulder only to see the beautiful expanse of the sea ending far off on the horizon. Still looking he asks, “What’s got your attention?”
Chris soundly kisses his cheek and then places his hand there. “Look at me, Vin.”
Vin looks expectantly at Chris for his answer and when it finally settles on him all he can do is hide his face against Chris’s neck. He pulls back enough to kiss a rough cheek and tastes the cool salt water of the ocean and the hot salt water of Chris’s ever present high emotions for him. For a while it’s enough to press and pull and squeeze while the pool they swim in lifts and resettles them inconsequentially.
Chris moves his mouth to Vin’s ear. “Put your legs around me.”
Vin rest weightlessly around his hips, his mouth a wet seal wherever it lights on Chris’s face, neck or shoulders. Chris’s hands smooth Vin’s back until one hand slides between his backside. Chris presses a kiss to the bridge of Vin’s nose and then presses his fingertip against a part of Vin’s body that makes him squirm and smile against his cheek. Vin stills himself and then slowly pushes down on Chris’s one digit. The pleasure that washes through him in the wake of this small discipline is almost his undoing. Writhing against Chris tenuous hold Vin holds Chris’s face to steady his shaking hands and wonders how Chris can be so emotional and so precise at the same time.
“Love you,” Chris grates out. “I do. God…love you.”
Chris’s words are so sweet they almost make Vin mad. He grabs Chris’s wrist and pulls his hand away with a gasp. Before Chris can unravel him again Vin reaches for Chris’s cock and presses his body against it. It’s awkward and not completely painless but Chris is beautiful in his determination and Vin is desperate to feel him. His legs tighten their hold while his hands grab the back of Chris’s neck or swat his shoulder only to grab it, too. Under the surface of the water Vin relaxes around Chris despite the strength of his emotions. Sighing against Chris’s cheek he tries to press Chris further into him but Chris holds him where he is. Barely in him, he begins to move, letting the tide set the rhythm. The pace and depth are maddening. Vin’s body struggles for more but Chris’s hold is strong and sure.
Something in Vin tips and he ceases his little war with a kiss to the sweet hallow of Chris’s lower lip. He follows Chris’s lead which is the ocean itself and lets the water pull him this way and that as he mimics their movements with the tip of his tongue in Chris’s mouth. Chris is dark eyed and relentless. “Dammit, Chris,” Vin admonishes through gritted teeth. It’s no use. The sound of Chris’s breath tips him again and he is coming as though caught by a wave that’s pressing against him, blood warm and strong, and then through him. Not at all a headlong crash into some final act but a slow, dreamlike careen off of intense pleasure. He is still shaking, barely able to hold on when he feels Chris move all the way into him leaving him limp and sobbing up at the sky. The water slows Chris’s thrust and stings his over sensitized skin. Chris clutches at Vin and holds him tightly as he tries not to cry out.
Both are breathless. A moan escapes Vin as Chris leaves his body. He lowers his legs and tries to steady his breathing. An ache in the center of his body beats along with his heart. Chris kisses his cheek.
Chris has discovered that he can move Vin anywhere with a kiss.
They swim towards shore. Gathering up their clothes but not bothering to put them on. Chris’s tired body shivers at the sight of water turning Vin’s hair into a dark blur running down his back. Still unused to Chris’s fine appraisals of him Vin ducks his head with a smile.
That smile contains the width and depth of Chris’s satisfaction. That smile triggers his own.
They sleep late the next day.
Small pleasures dominate their lives. Vin’s crop brings in a fair profit with Chris throwing in his lot for the next one. Somehow fishing becomes part of their daily chores. Books steadily fill the shelves with every other one a gift from Chris - in part payment for a lost medicine bag. Emiliano’s art hangs from their walls. Chris buys new boots and yet frequently goes barefoot. His dark clothing remains in his warbag. Vin writes long letters that begin with, ‘Dear Friend’ and then sends them to Maude Standish in San Francisco who forwards them on to Ezra. Letters from Four Corners are sent to them through the same means and most begin with, ‘Dear Brother’.
Their days are long and lazy. The ocean they swim in is warm and shallow. They will never be rich men. They have lived alone and in good company, been embraced and burned down, learned new languages and kept their silence. One is never far from the other.
They walk quietly, side by side, in the way people do who have been to war and survived and no longer wish to tax their God’s attention for good or naught. They are alive and well - foot soldiers reunited only after they had made peace with themselves.
Sometimes when the moon is full Chris pulls their bedrolls out onto the veranda and makes a place for Vin to rest between his legs. Sometimes they fall asleep in a sweaty tangle. Sometimes they are quiet.
And sometimes, Vin reads to Chris.
. . .
The stars that once confused me seem now to light a path that is clear - that I have, in truth, been traveling for all these days; where I met what came and left behind all my sorrows and am traveling, still.
Restoration
Screenplay by Rupert WaltersEnd of The Hour of Separation
For X, with gratitude, whose art inspired me to find out more about Chris and Vin.
May 1, 2004
Feedback welcomed at: trueenough@gmail.com