Drawn Up From Deep Places

To which Parry neither raised his head nor seemed inclined to shiver, even with the threat of those huge hands laid along either side of his jaw—though now she considered it, Tante Ankolee nevertheless thought she might have heard the barest suggestion of a crack in that cool voice of his, just poised on the verge of widening. Asking, in return—

What would you have me say? The great Captain Rusk, who apparently still cannot put himself out to remember my true name after almost a decade locked in mutual combat, let alone to use it?

And here she saw something never brought her way before, not before the man’s death, or after: that not-so-little half-brother of hers look down as if genuinely abashed, bowing his black-maned lion’s head in what seemed like regret, if never quite shame.

I do know it, and you, “Captain,” he replied, quietly. Better by far, I think, than you have ever known me . . .

I have as much right to that title as any, sir! Perhaps more, given I held the position for twice the length of your own infelicitous tenure, at the very least—

Only because ye used guile and magic t’gain it!

And how were your colors rated to begin with, exactly? Through polite negotiation and diplomatic compromise? But here Rusk fell silent, leaving Parry to slump. God, how you exhaust me!

So I’ve seen, yes. Yet I might produce comparable effects in far pleasanter ways, if ye’d only see your way clear t’allowin’ me.

I’ve no great doubt but that you think you could. A sigh. Shall I invite you to ‘overbear’ me awhile, then, given there’s little else to divert us? Are you such a slave to your own parts you’d find that offer enticing, no matter how much contempt lurked behind it?

Did such things put me off, ours would be a very different story. But they have not, thus far.

Grip slipping down further, every finger shadow-nailed, brushing Parry’s clothes aside like smoke to get at what lay underneath, in all its lifeless glory. For only ghost can touch ghost, Tante Ankolee’s maman used to say, amongst so many other things. That why them choose t’ flock together, most-times, ‘stead’a passing by t’the Nightlands or sailin’ the Pearl-Bright Ocean, bound fah th’other side of All. ‘Cause it mean more t’ have just one person remember ‘em the way they once was than any preacher’s dream o’ White Christ heaven, ‘specially when them world grow so dark an’ unfamiliar . . . an’ that even if that other person an enemy, chuck, one ‘em hate poison-bad when them both still upright. Fah death a terrible thing, you see, no matter when or how, whah or who—an’ that no part of a lie.

Parry caught his breath, or mimed catching it—he, who did not any longer need to breathe. Ordering: You will take your hands from me, Solomon Rusk.

Nay, Master Jerusalem. I think not.

The chair held them both now, re-sized to fit, stacked one upon the other; Rusk stroking down Parry’s inseam with a rough palm, teasing in such a way as to make that stiff spine arch, rendering him blurred and boneless. ‘Til at last he came settling into Rusk’s over-full lap like a cat, wiggling shameless to find just the right angle, drawing a hiss echoed by Rusk as well—a shared spark hot enough to make them both flicker out, then reassemble on the bed, further entwined. They pressed their lips together, these two dead men, swallowing each other’s snarls as Rusk pushed Parry back with a heave, a groan; Tante Ankolee saw Parry’s eyes roll up, flush mounting, panting: Oh, but I hate you still . . .

I’ve come t’count on it, sweetheart. ‘Twould disappoint me sore were you to change your mind now, after all this time and trouble. And here he nuzzled the twitching muscle ‘neath the other man’s ear, musing, with a lick: Should’ve let ye sink with that bloody ship, I’d any sense at all, as many might tell ye. Yet common sense has never been my chiefest gift, neither then nor now—

Damn you, sir, do me no favors! Just stop your tongue; to your task, and diligently!

Rusk guffawed, greatly tickled by such rank hypocrisy, ‘specially when viewed at far less than an arm’s length. Be careful what ye wish for, he warned him . . .

. . . then sunk down ‘tween Parry’s legs, applying himself so heartily that at length that cold gentleman was forced to cover his eyes and cry out, hopeless—

Ah, aaah, Christ Jesus—Lord and God have mercy, who harrowed bloody Hell!

To which: Amen, Rusk agreed, grinning wide—and slid back up, rolling his much-beloved murderer’s slack-gone fleshly illusion over, to take what was only his due. Presently, he barked his own climax and clutched him close, gently mouthing his nape while Parry sagged in his arms to bury his red face in the sheets, as though desperate to hide from the same Savior he’d only so recently conjured.

The mirror took it all, drinking deep, leaving nothing behind. And T

ante Ankolee shook her head, amazed still by the sheer blunt force of it, after all that’d come and gone.

What need y’have of any Devil’s playin’-ground, either of ya, she thought, when this bed ya share already made so pitiful hard, this double-grave ya dug so deep?

Almost as though he’d heard, Parry shifted, pulling himself free with a wince as Rusk entirely failed to flop one hand out fast enough to catch him; pride-goaded, he sat up, ordering himself briskly. Promising, as he did: Yet this changes nothing—be assured, sir, I will find a way to sever from you, before the end. I will.

I hope ye do, Rusk replied, muffled; for all his earlier gloating, Tante Ankolee almost thought he now seemed suddenly tired as Parry’d claimed to be, before their frolic ensued. A fact Parry appeared wholly unaware of, checking his re-tied hair, before continuing—

Aye, you may well mock, you object, now you’ve had your joy of me. But I might have done great things in this world, if not for our paths crossing.

Rusk sighed, heavily. That ye might, I s’pose, he agreed, without rancor. Better than ye have done, any rate.

(And I too, perhaps, all things being equal . . . once upon a time.)

Now you do jest, I think.

Ah, you would say that, ye false divine! But I had my better qualities, and much though I may relish th’ mechanics of it, I’ve no great notion to spend my eternity playing out your very own personal ideal of self-punishment.