"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
The Knights of Aurora
From the Prologue . . . The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre . . . Present day.
"I thought all you did was take a pee!" said Jergen with a chuckle.
"Well, yes, I did that too." Jeremie stood and held out his hand. "Come, let's go back to bed."
"We only have a couple of hours," Jergen pointed out. "And I'm no longer sixteen!"
"My butt is freezing," returned Jeremie. "If I have to tell you everything, I would prefer to do it in a warm bed!" He leered at Jergen. "Of course, if something else . . . comes up we might have to postpone the saga."
Once they were in bed, and snuggled together in each other's arms, Jeremie said, "Where to start?"
"The beginning is usually a good place," responded Jergen.
"Well, first we went to Michael Chan's house, in Vancouver . . ." began Jeremie.
1
Comox Aerodrome Departures Lounge - August 1976
The dark-green painted bus, with the "Family Crest" of the Canadian Armed Forces painted on the sides, ground to a noisy halt in front of the CFB Comox Aerodrome departures lounge. First off the bus was the driver, who immediately opened the baggage compartments and began piling kit bags and suitcases on the luggage carts that were lined up in a row in front of the building.
The driver was followed by a line of neatly dressed young men and boys, Sea Cadets booked on the morning flight from the western terminus of what was referred to - not always in jest - as "White Knuckle Airlines". Following the cadets was a neatly dressed, black-haired young man. A civilian. Nethanyu Schoenmann was not to be left behind.
Inside, the counter staff, a sergeant and two corporals, looked up to see a well-upholstered, not quite elderly Chief Warrant Officer approaching the entry. The sergeant, who knew the man approaching, groaned under his breath. Chef could be condescending, rude, crude, a combination of all three, or he could be a model Non-Commissioned Officer. It depended on the time of day, the position of the sun and, or so the sergeant swore, the time of the month.
This morning, however, the sergeant saw a new mood. Chef was sombre, as became a man on a mission of sadness. Seeing the look on the old cook's face, the sergeant wondered what was going on. He glanced out of the dirt-streaked window and saw that the cadets were busily helping the bus driver to load the bags and suitcases onto the metal carts. While this in itself was not all that strange - Sea Cadets were still young enough and dumb enough to believe in serving "For Queen and Country" and always pulled more than their weight - this group seemed too quiet, not the usually happy and ebullient gang of hellions he had come to expect.
The door from the outside opened and four officers entered. Two were dressed in the expected formal Number One Blue uniform that identified them as Sea Cadet Officers. One, wearing khaki of a distinctive colouring, was obviously an American. The last, wearing the green and plastic-excrescence that passed for the Canadian Armed Forces Uniform, was a Lieutenant (N).
The senior Cadet officer, a Commander by the three gold rings on his navy blue jacket, passed a thick envelope across the counter. The sergeant quickly scanned the travel orders, route letters and, while his assistant checked the names of the travellers off of a long, printed list, began counting out boarding passes. He glanced at the clock dominating the wall behind him and said, "We anticipate no delays, sir. We should be calling for boarding in thirty minutes."
Commander Stockman smiled wanly and nodded. "Thank you. You've been very understanding."
The sergeant, who had no idea what was going on, looked at the cadets filing into the long, dingy waiting room, and blurted, "They look like they're going to a funeral!"
"That they are," offered Chef as he watched the cadets taking their seats on the uncomfortable Naugahyde sofas and chairs that lined the waiting room. "Sure and they've lost one of their own, so they have."
The sergeant, who had not heard of any deaths out at Aurora lately - word of such would have passed around the base with the speed of light - could only nod in silent commiseration. He handed the counted pile of boarding passes to Commander Stockman. "Let's see," said the sergeant as he scanned the manifest. "One civilian military dependant?"
"Yes. My grandson," Commander Stockman lied enthusiastically.
The sergeant nodded. Dependants were common enough and if there was a seat available, which there was, they were accommodated. Finished with counting the boarding passes the sergeant handed the thick pile to Commander Stockman. "If you could issue each of the boys a pass, sir?"
As he took the boarding passes Commander Stockman turned and winked at Chef. "A sad business, sergeant," he said with feigned emotion.
Together, Chef and the Commanding Officer found a seat. "It's working," Commander Stockman whispered.
Chef whispered back, "Aye. Within ten minutes of the Shrewsbury Clock the word will have spread. We are on our way to a funeral and there's none can say we are not."
A loud, rumbling noise, followed by muffled giggles, broke the funereal gloom. Both men turned their heads and glared. "Harry!" growled Chef as he shook his head.
Harry von Hohenberg, Chief Drum Major of HMCS Aurora, who was feeling anything but funereal, returned Chef's glare with a weak smile. "Sorry, Gyppy tummy," he offered as a lame excuse for his flatulence. Then he reached down to adjust the Pride of the Fleet. He preferred boxers, but this morning was wearing tighty-whiteys. As usual he had procrastinated about doing his dhobi until the last minute and as a result he had worn his last clean pair of underpants - briefs. They were most uncomfortable, and very constricting to the Pride and the Escorts.
Thumper and Two Strokes, who were sitting beside the Drum Major, snickered. "Thumper" Jackson, who had a perfectly good Christian name, Thomas, had been given his nickname for his proclivity to masturbate at the drop of a hat, anywhere, anytime. Roger Home, who like Thumper wore the Coat of Arms of Canada on the sleeve of his blue jumper, was a Regulating Chief Petty Officer. He had gained his nickname and notoriety, if not infamy when, at the end-of-year barbecue he had strolled off into the moonlight with one of the "serving wenches" from town. Unfortunately his one, and thus far only, attempt at conjugal bliss had ended disastrously, and had been compounded when the young lady had critiqued his size, his technique, and the time it had taken him to reach a less than perfect Nirvana.
Both Thumper and Two Strokes had served with Harry many times and they knew it was not in their best interest to provoke the tall, muscular, very handsome, black-haired Chief Drum Major with a stick. Still, Two Strokes could not let a golden opportunity slip by. "More like Delhi belly brought on by an over indulgence of grappa," Two Strokes sniffed righteously, expecting support from Thumper.
Thumper cast a disparaging glance at his fellow ship's policeman. Thumper had long ago learned that provoking Harry could result in the removal of various and sundry body parts. Had not Harry, on many occasions, threatened to rip off Two Strokes' most cherished possession? Thumper only had one, and he planned on keeping it safe and secure where it was, thank you. Besides, he had gone down to the beach with Two Strokes last night, and while the experience was hardly a disaster, Thumper was in a pout. "I didn't notice you saying no when the Twins brought out their last jug of vodka," Thumper said with a slight snicker and an even more righteous tone. Then he squirmed. "Of course, it sure didn't stop you from . . ."
"Shut up!" hissed Two Strokes. "They don't have to know our business!"
Chris Hood, a Chief Boatswain, who was sitting on the other side of Thumper, leaned forward and leered evilly at Two Strokes. "We already do!" he announced. He turned to Thumper. "Is he any good?"
Two Strokes turned beet red. "Don't you dare answer that!" he warned Thumper in a harsh whisper.
Ignoring his lover, Thumper grinned salaciously. "Let's just say that he'll never be called 'Tiny', although he does have a staying problem when he's on the booze."
Two Strokes opened his mouth to rage back at Thumper, closed it, opened it again, shut it again, and then scrunched his neck into his shoulders. He crossed his arms over his chest and decided to pout.
"Come on, Roger," Thumper murmured as he gently ran his hand across Two Strokes' thin shank. "We're only pullin' your pisser!" While poking Two Strokes might not result in the indiscriminate removal by force of limbs and projections, he could make one's life miserable just by being miserable and refuse to take a walk along the beach of an evening!
"Not any more, you ain't!" responded Two Strokes sharply. He glanced icily at Thumper. "Asshole!"
Thumper laid his head back against the stiff, uncomfortable, faux leather of the seat and pushed his distinctive, round, white Sea Cadet hat forward until the rim touched the bridge of his nose. His low, salacious laughter drifted toward Two Strokes. "He, he, he, gotcha!"
Further down the long room Lieutenant (N) Colin Arnott squirmed uncomfortably on the square seat, wondering if they filled the damned things with twigs and leaves! Beside him The Phantom smirked at his lover's antics. Colin saw the smirking look and glowered at The Phantom. "It's not what you think," he muttered, a glint in his eye.
The Phantom almost fainted. "COLIN!" he gasped, trying hard not to let his shock at his lover's lewd allusion show on his face. "I was thinking no such thing!"
Colin snorted, and then grinned. He leaned sideways a bit and whispered, "Gotcha!"
Pretending to be annoyed, The Phantom sniffed. Then he smiled warmly. "You've been hanging around Sea Cadets too long!"
Laughing, Colin nodded. "To be honest, Phantom, I love being around them." He looked thoughtful. "They haven't lost their youth, or their sense of humour."
"Hinting that they will, eventually?" asked The Phantom dryly.
"Maybe," replied Colin with a slight shrug. "I think I'll reserve judgement until after this little crusade of ours is over."
"You're worried?" asked The Phantom.
"Yes." Colin leaned forward and clasped his hands tightly together. He looked at The Phantom, his eyes sombre. "I've never gone into harm's way, Phantom. I just wonder how I will react when faced with . . . well, the unknown danger? Will I freeze? Will I feel anger, or pain, or terror?"
The Phantom resisted the urge to reach down to take Colin's hand in his. He wanted to, desperately, but dared not. Colin was an officer, in uniform. He was a Sea Cadet, in uniform. They were sitting - albeit uncomfortably - in a very open, public departures lounge. There could be no public display of affection.
"I feel the same," admitted The Phantom presently. His eyes spanned the length of the room and his heart seemed to skip a beat. "I wonder if I did the right thing, telling them what I had seen in my dream. I also wonder how many of them will stay the course, how many will fold . . . "
"How many threads of the Tapestry will unravel," finished Colin. He stared into space. "Last night, while you were snoring away like a Grampus."
"I don't snore!" interjected The Phantom firmly.
"Okay, you breathe through your nose," agreed Colin glibly. "Loudly!"
The Phantom was not to be baited. "You were saying?" he asked archly, on eyebrow rising. There was a glint in his eye, which Colin had come to recognize.
"I wondered if perhaps we've moved too quickly, put too much on them." He nodded toward the assembled cadets. "They are boys, after all."
"No," spoke The Phantom softly. "They are young men."
"Even Joey? And Randy? And Calvin?"
The Phantom regarded Colin and then said, "Do not underestimate them. They are young, yes, and inexperienced in many things. But they will learn. They have to."
"Phantom . . ." Colin began to protest but the look in the young man's eyes stayed his words.
"Colin, I have known them for a long time. I know what they can do; I know what they are capable of doing." His emerald green eyes met Colin's deep blues. "The Tapestry is real. Each and every one of those boys is woven into it." His eyes never wavering, The Phantom continued, "In the months that I was in Aurora I met many young men." He smiled wistfully. "There was a guy named Alfie. I liked him, and I think you would have liked him, too. He got sick, appendicitis, and got sent home. Then there was Ryan. He was a really nice kid." A small smile formed on The Phantom's lips. "He is probably the only cadet ever to undergo a 'little operation' in the Aurora sick bay!"
"Pardon?"
"Ryan had a problem . . ." He looked pointedly down at Colin's crotch. " . . . Down there. Doc circumcised him."
"In the sick bay?"
"He could hardly do it in the middle of the dining room," returned The Phantom flippantly. He sniggered and went on. "Before the operation all Ryan wanted was to be promoted to what he called an 'Aurora Chief'. He did not want to go home for his surgery. He said he did not want to leave his friends." The Phantom shook his head slowly and smiled warmly, "The real reason, however, was that he wanted the honour of being promoted in a ship that meant the world to him."
"Was he? Promoted, I mean?" asked Colin. More and more it was becoming obvious to him that the bond that joined The Phantom and his friends had begun in the ramshackle barracks and on the dusty parade square of HMCS Aurora.
"Yes. He'll be a good Chief Petty Officer in his home unit," replied The Phantom. He again regarded Colin. "A few days ago we had what, 200 cadets standing on the parade square?"
"If you say so. I wasn't there," said Colin. "I was cooped up in a gate boat with a horny Goanese who jerked off nightly." He shuddered theatrically.
The Phantom gave his lover an evil look. "The less said about him, the better. He stuck his pecker in the wrong girl, if what I've heard is true."
"It's true," said Colin smugly. "Not a pretty sight according to Commander Edmonds."
"I am sure that the details, including girth, length, and staying power, have been broadcast all over town by now," said The Phantom dourly. His eyes glanced at Colin, his eyes dancing with hidden laughter. "Louise Metcalfe likes to brag about her 'conquests'."
Colin grimaced, but did not reply. Any girl who was unwise enough to sleep with Neal Menzies had better do more than brag, such as arranging for an emergency D & C.
" . . . Anyway, what I am getting at," The Phantom was saying, "what I wonder about, is why of all the cadets, all the officers, and I suppose civilians, so few of the Boys of Aurora are woven into the Tapestry. Why the Twins, or Harry, or Rob? Why not Alfie or Ryan?"
"You actually believe in what you saw in your dream?" asked Colin. He was not a particularly religious man, and he had no truck with dreams, omens or miracles. "And why no women?"
Giving Colin a "Little do you know" look, The Phantom said, "There was one, very vague in the background. I don't know who she is." He looked puzzled for a moment. "And there were civilians, young men, people I don't know."
Colin considered The Phantom's words and then said, "Phantom, for some reason, which I don't understand, this little band of brothers was gathered in Aurora. Now they're going out into the world to take on some . . . horror, some unspeakable horror. I look at them, skylarking and laughing, and chucking shit at each other and I wonder if they truly understand what they are about to do."
Nodding, The Phantom replied, his voice low and very firm. "They understand. On the one hand they are still boys who think that they are invincible. On the other, they are men who are willing to face whatever comes along. They understand that there are dangers involved, and that the . . . I can't call them 'men' . . . creatures who are enslaving young boys as sex slaves must be stopped and, if necessary, be brought to the Bar of Justice."
"Even when that means 'Death by Hanging'?" asked Colin. "The Gunner and Michael Chan require that not only must justice be done, justice must be seen to be done. Have you thought of that?"
"I have." The Phantom straightened his body and nodded down the room. "As they have. They know what could, and probably will, happen." Once again his green eyes bore into Colin. "It is something we have been called to do. We cannot and will not shirk our duty, and we will see this thing to the end. We have been called, Colin, as you were called."
Sighing, Colin nodded. "The Guardian of Princes . . . Custos Principum . . . as I have been called. I was a happy, uncaring little Lieutenant, and along came the spider . . ." He grinned at The Phantom. "A fat spider that lured me into his web!"
"Chef told me," replied The Phantom. Without thinking, he reached down and gave Colin's knee a squeeze. "Chef is old, and maybe a little overweight, but he has good insight into a man's character. He looked at you and knew without really knowing why, that you were a part of the Tapestry."
"He also asked me some very personal questions," interjected Colin, "and threatened me with the wrath of the gods if I screwed up!"
"And he gave you a choice," returned The Phantom. "You could have walked away, rejected the gift he offered." With a slight wave of his hand The Phantom indicated the assembled cadets and officers. "They all had the same choices. They are here because the want to be here." He regarded Colin a moment. "So, to answer your question, yes, I am afraid. I am afraid for them; afraid that I might not be the 'Principum' they all seem to think I am. I am afraid for many reasons, Colin, but I am not afraid of doing what I know I must do. I pray for 'fair winds, and a following sea'."
"But fear 'A bloody war and a sickly season'?" asked Colin.
"Sometimes, yes," admitted The Phantom. "But, in the end, I think, 'Deus Vult!' and . . . I look at them, and at you, and I think we can't lose. God might will it, but we, all of us will do it. We will not lose, Colin, and yes, perhaps we will lose some along the way."
"I pray that does not happen," responded Colin with emotion.
"It has already happened," said The Phantom flatly. He saw the querulous look on Colin's face and carried on. "Chef has dropped hints about boys disappearing. Remember, in my dream I saw 'shades', formless shapes?"
Colin nodded.
"Some of them I believe are the spirits of boys who displeased their 'masters'. I have the definite impression the creatures involved in this . . . cartel of evil . . . this horror, look upon the boys as consumable goods. Use them, abuse them, and when they no longer please, or have grown too old, dispose of them." His hooded eyes grew sad. "How many lonely graves in some barren field, Colin?"
"I don't know," whispered Colin in reply. "But, yes, I suppose there are those."
Glancing down the room, where Calvin, Joey and Randy were sitting, sniggering and giggling about something, The Phantom's voice grew icy. "I can't help but think that it could have been one of them."
Colin agreed with a silent nod. "But according to Chef, and from what The Gunner has determined, the boys we hope to rescue are German, or foreign born."
"True enough," replied The Phantom. "I still can't shake the feeling that we are chipping away at the tip of an iceberg. I can't offer proof, it's just a feeling I have."
Lying back against the back of the seat, Colin thought a moment. "Every day there seems to be an article in the newspapers, or on television, about a boy or a girl going missing."
"And nobody knows what happened to them," said The Phantom, completing Colin's thought. "How many in a year? Where did they go, what happened to them?" The Phantom shook his head. "Something is wrong, Colin. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young boys and girls cannot simply disappear."
"But they do, and more often than not a few days later, after the hue and cry has died away, the file is closed and nobody seems to give a damn," Colin all but spat. "I wonder why nobody seems to care?"
"Perhaps because they are poor, from an area where law enforcement is under funded, perhaps because they are black, or aboriginal." The Phantom crossed his arms over his chest a stubborn look - which Colin had come to recognize as trouble, or inconvenience at the least - came into his eyes. "Something must be done," The Phantom said firmly.
"Phantom, let's just take one step at a time," said Colin, temporizing and thinking that The Phantom had to understand that he could not solve all of the world's problems . . . now! Seeing the stubborn look on The Phantom's face deepening, Colin continued, his voice firm, his words clear. "You are not Saint George, and it is not your place to slay dragons. Nor are you Saint Michael the Archangel, chosen by God to battle evil in all its forms. You are a man, a young man, and you will do what you can do. We will slay whatever dragons we encounter soon enough. When that is finished, then, and only then, will we move on."
The Phantom gave Colin an evil look. "Is that Colin Arnott speaking, or the Custos Principum?" he asked, his tone withering.
Colin ignored the tone and the sarcasm. "Both," he replied simply.
"I shall speak to Michael Chan," threatened The Phantom.
"Go ahead," returned Colin, a benign expression on his face. "I am sure that he is aware of what is going on in this sorry world we live in." He shrugged. "I am also sure that he knows all too well that what we do has limitations. He accepts those limitations, and strives to find ways to work within those limitations." He returned The Phantom's baleful look. "As should you."
"Ah, thus speaks the Custos!" sniped The Phantom. But he smiled. Colin was right, and The Phantom was not ashamed to admit it. He realized that wanted too much, too soon. That was not to say that he would not speak to Michael Chan. They were chipping away at the tip of an iceberg. He felt it, and he knew it instinctively. He gave Colin a quick smile. "One step at a time, then."
"Good." He leaned slightly to one side and whispered, "And you're lying."
"What?"
"You'll do exactly what you want to do, and nothing I can say will stop you. The first thing you'll do is hotfoot it for Michael Chan's office, or study, and the next thing I know we'll be taking up our swords and bucklers, and off in swirl of dust, with battle ensigns flying and trumpets sounding!"
"You know, for a Custos, you're awfully melodramatic," countered The Phantom. He regarded Colin and then said, "Not yet. You're right. We must take it one step at a time. First Ste Anne de Beaupre, and then . . ."
"Whatever," Colin said simply. His blue eyes grew bright, and then softened. "I will be with you, Phantom. I will stand at your side, yes, but I will also be praying that no harm comes to you, or to your brothers." His eyes scanned the room and his voice lowered so that only The Phantom could hear his whispered, "I love you. I need you, and I want to be with you . . . forever."
"And I have fallen in love with you, Colin Arnott," replied The Phantom emotionally. His voice was low, but his face was flushed with love. "There will be times, though . . ." The Phantom stopped speaking abruptly. Would . . . could . . . Colin understand the bond that existed between the Twins, Ray, Matt and him? Would Colin . . .?
"Phantom, before I came along you were with your friends." Colin held up his hand before The Phantom could answer. "I envy you."
"You do?" replied The Phantom, surprise at Colin's remarks written on his face.
"Phantom, until I met you my relationships were superficial. I had friends, of course, good friends. We did everything together, but we never did the things that truly bind a boy with another. We never loved, Phantom, and you have, and do, love."
The Phantom thought a moment. "I do love them. Sometimes I want so much to be with them. At other times it is just enough to hold them, to have them hold me." He glanced obliquely at Colin's flushed face. "I so hoped that you would understand and not be . . . angry."
Colin smiled tightly. "You needn't sugar coat it, Phantom. You're afraid I might be jealous of what you have." He turned and continued as he looked at the chattering cadets as they fidgeted impatiently, waiting for their flight to be called. "Well, I am jealous," Colin blurted. "I am jealous because I will never have their love. I might have their respect, but I will never have their love."
"You already have their respect," replied The Phantom with some heat. "They have accepted you, Colin." He slumped in his seat. "As for their love, that will come in time, when they realize what a wonderful man you are. They know that you are a courageous man, a man more concerned with the safety and welfare of others than of yourself. You proved that when you rescued Matt and me from that damned burning bush!"
Colin shuddered at the memory of the blazing tree that had engulfed the young man he had so come to love, and his friend, Matt Greene. He saw again the rushing cadets, the cries of pain as they tore at the blazing branches, heard again the murmured prayers from Joey and Randy, the loud, bellowing curses of Harry, and saw the fear in the eyes of Cory and Todd.
"I did so very little," he whispered. "I should have done something more."
"Don't," ordered The Phantom sharply. He too remembered that day on the barren island. "You were Beach Master and your place was on the beach! You did your duty, you did what you were required to do." He was firmly confident when he said, "Lesser men would have forgotten their duty and let their emotions rule their heads. You didn't, and that is why you were chosen to be the Custos Principum! You were chosen, Colin, chosen! From the day Chef threw you into that miserable little box of a cabin, from the day he abused you, asked you those personal questions, and offered you a gift that you could hold, but never keep, you were one of us. From the moment you accepted the gift, from that very moment, you became a part of me, of Cory, of Todd, of all of the boys. From that moment they became a part of you. I might be the 'Principum', but you as the 'Custos'. Not Chef, not any of the other officers, you." Then he added deliberately. "And not The Gunner."
The colour drained from Colin's face at the mention of The Gunner. He was aware of what had been between The Phantom and The Gunner. "I . . ." he began.
"It is over," declared The Phantom with a firmness that brooked no denial. "I am grateful to him, so very grateful for showing me how to love, grateful for his insight, his ability to see me as I am. I loved him, and I don't deny it. There was a time when I thought he and I would be together." The Phantom shook his head. "The Gunner is not the man who will walk down the road of life with me. He will be a part of my life, but not of my life."
"We will see him, eventually," said Colin tightly.
"Yes, we will," agreed The Phantom. "We will meet . . . as friends. He is a part of my life, but he is no longer my life. He knows it, I know it, and now you know it."
"Will you . . .?" Colin cleared his throat. "Will you and he be together?"
"Colin, there will be times when I will need to be with someone other than you," admitted The Phantom. He straightened and gazed levelly at his lover. "That someone might be Cory, it might be Todd. There will be times when Ray needs me, or when Matt needs me. I will respond to them because they are too much a part of me to refuse them. I cannot and will not deny my brothers but this I can promise you: that someone will never be The Gunner."
Colin heard the truth in The Phantom's words and nodded. "The man is a fool." He heard a muted sputtering from The Phantom and smiled. "He is a fool because he gave up the greatest gift the Order has to offer. Please don't be angry with me, Phantom. But it's the truth, and you know it."
"Yeah, I do," replied The Phantom sadly. "I hope that one day he'll find what he needs."
"You sound doubtful," responded Colin.
"I am. I want The Gunner to be truly happy." The Phantom suddenly leaned forward and turned his head. "But he won't be. He has a destiny, I think. He will make the Order his life, and he will dedicate himself to the Order. He will never know true, real happiness."
"That is his choice, Phantom," said Colin as kindly as he could. "Perhaps his dedication is his happiness."
"Perhaps," agreed The Phantom reluctantly. Try as he might he could not quite understand The Gunner, or his motivation. That he had feelings for The Gunner was undeniable. What bothered him was he could not, and felt he never would, really understand the man.
After a while the travellers settled down. None of them could understand why they had been required to crawl out of their pits at 0600, gobble down an ill-prepared and casually served breakfast (two apprentice cooks had been supplied by CFB Comox, and their apprenticeship obviously had just begun), scramble onto a bus, be bumped and jostled as the bus heaved and gasped its way to the aerodrome, and then sit and wait in what had to be the most uncomfortable waiting room, or boarding lounge, or whatever the hell it was called, in all Creation! And wait . . . and wait . . . and wait.
Chef, in a mellow mood, pointed out that the flight was scheduled to depart at 1000 and it would take an act of God, or Parliament, whichever came first, to get the lumbering aircraft into the clear, cloudless sky before the appointed time. That was all well and good, as several cadets loudly pointed out, but was there really a need for them to appear in full bib and tucker two flaming hours ahead of time? It was not as if the flight were overbooked, or even fully booked. A quick glance around the lounge told anyone with the sense that God gave the ship's cat that the only passengers were the cadets of the Aurora contingent! There were no so-called VIPs cluttering up the place and making life miserable for all concerned!
Chef considered the arguments and then nodded sagely. It was an international conspiracy amongst air traffic people. Sure, and did not the same thing happen at every airport? Several heads nodded. It was the same. Chef smiled smugly. Faith, he opined, they (meaning the traffic clerks at the check-in desk) had to justify their existence somehow, didn't they? More nodding heads. So, it stood to reason, how better to justify your existence by causing as much inconvenience to everyone as possible?
After many grumbles and dirty looks directed toward the check-in counter the cadets settled down. Harry, who thought that Chef was as full of shit as a Christmas goose, snuggled into the back cushion of the seat, pushed his cap over his eyes, and announced that he might as well have a nap. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep, contented sigh, thinking that a short nap was just the ticket and . . .
"ANNOUNCING THE BOARDING OF SERVICE AIR FLIGHT 100 . . ." blared the speakers fixed to the walls at either end of the lounge. Harry, startled, jumped upward - three feet according to witnesses, actually three inches according to cooler heads. His cap tumbled down from his head and landed on the less than clean tiles of the floor with a soft flop. He glared at the nearest speaker and his hand snaked out, reaching for the brown-glass ashtray that sat on the low table in front of him. Harry had been waging war with overhead speakers since joining the Sea Cadets five years ago. They were always blaring out orders and announcements, most of them innocuous and always at the most inconvenient of times. Harry's usual weapon of choice when battling overhead speakers was a boot, but an ashtray would do in a pinch.
" . . . COMOX TO SHEERWATER, NOVA SCOTIA, WITH INTERMEDIATE STOPS IN VANCOUVER, EDMONTON, WINNIPEG, TRENTON, OTTAWA AND MONTREAL . . ."
"Jesus Murphy!" swore Eion Reilly as he looked at the puddle of lukewarm coffee on the deck. He had been rash enough to patronize the vending machines and at the first blare had dropped the cup of coffee he was holding.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" snapped Peter Race. His container of Coke was forming a small lake across the cushion beside the one he was sitting on. "We know where the hell we're going!"
" . . . PASSENGERS ARE REQUESTED TO BOARD THROUGH GATE ONE AND HAVE THEIR BOARDING PASSES READY."
"Gate One?" asked Surgeon-Lieutenant Bradley Smith. Behind his rimless spectacles his eyes sparkled. "There is no gate one!"
Chef pointed to the double-glass doors at the far end of the lounge. Beyond, sitting on the taxiway, boarding stairs in place, was the Boeing 707, gleaming white with red accents. "Behold," pontificated Chef as if he were announcing the Second Coming, "Gate One!"
As the cadets hurriedly cleared away the flotsam and jetsam of their brief stay and they gathered up the books, magazines and small carry-on bags they all carried, the loudspeaker blared: "THANK YOU FOR FLYING SERVICE AIR AND ON BEHALF OF 437 TRANSPORT SQUADRON, HAVE A GOOD FLIGHT."
"You're not fucking welcome," muttered Andy Berg, speaking for them all.
The flight, from takeoff to landing at Vancouver International Airport, took barely 45 minutes, including take-off, landing and taxing to the terminal in Vancouver. Configured for 172 passengers, 12 in a miniscule "First Class" forward, the remainder in "Coach", the aircraft was echoingly empty except for the Aurora cadets and officers. CFB Comox was the western terminus for Service Air, and the aircraft almost always arrived near empty and left the same. The huge airliner could not land in Victoria. The runway there was too short (and would be for many years to come) and all service personnel flying to the military/naval complex in Esquimalt transferred at Vancouver to the puddle-jumpers of Pacific Western Airlines, which would take them to their final destination.
The "No Smoking" signs had barely blinked off when the flight attendants, two tall, slim, blondes with perfectly coifed hair, perfectly applied makeup and an insincere, fixed smile on their faces came down the aisles between the seats in coach, checking that each passenger was comfortable. Other than their frosty smiles, the attendants offered nothing except directions to the lavatories at the rear of the cabin.
The cadets, knowing that they would be in the air only a short time, settled as comfortably into their seats as possible and took out the magazines and books they had all brought with them. Some, notably Harry and Nicholas Rodney, the Chief Yeoman of Signals, pulled down the window shades, pushed their caps over their eyes, and napped.
The aircraft was empty enough to allow the cadets to sit wherever they chose, and The Phantom did not have to stand up and look around to know that Cory would be sitting with Sean Anders, or that Nathan Berg, a dark-haired, slim American Sea Cadet would be sitting with Fred Fisher, tall, lanky, blond and Nathan's latest infatuation. Randy, Joey and Calvin Hobbes, the youngest (and in some ways, oldest) of the cadets were sitting together, snickering and giggling about some bumf or other. Behind them Chief Petty Officer Phillip Thornton, lover, protector, mentor and keeper of Randy and Joey, sat alone.
Across the aisle Mike Sunderland, the Chief Physical Training Instructor, tall, broad chested and muscled from years of training as a semi-professional body builder, sat with Phillip Adean, called The Assistant. What Mike had assumed to be a summer fuck had blossomed into true love and the two young men had become inseparable. Brian Venables, Chief Petty Officer of the Guard (Queen's Company), sat with Sandro Signaranski and Nate Schoenmann. Sandro, who claimed to be the only Russian Jew in the RCSCC Cookery Branch, was annoying Nate about his being a most inadequate Jew. Brian, who claimed to be not all religious, and completely in the dark when it came to Judaism, sighed and drummed his fingers on the armrest of his seat, wishing the flight to end. Air travel, in a thin, cylindrical aluminium coffin, cramped seats and barely palatable in-flight meals, did not appeal to him at all. He was not afraid, just uncomfortable.
Forward, in the seats closest to First Class (where there was more leg room) Todd sat with Matt Greene. They were very much alike, blond, pink-cheeked, slimly muscled and once, when the ship's company had been in Victoria, and some of them visited Sandro's home in Saanich, they had been mistaken for brothers. Matt had at one time harboured some very unbrotherly feelings for Todd. Todd, determined to never lead Matt, whom he cared for deeply, down the path life had opened before him, had never returned the frankly overt overtures that Matt had made. Matt, finally, had decided to be his own man, to make his own way, without Todd. Still, Matt cared for Todd, and saw no reason why they could not be friends.
In First Class, sequestered there by the CF caste system, Commander Frank Stockman, Kyle St. Vincent, Andy Berg, and two most unwilling passengers, Chef, and Colin Arnott, sat in isolation. Colin, as an officer, was expected by the Flight Crew to sit there. He had not wanted to, preferring to sit back aft with The Phantom. Chef, being Chef, and grumpy, had never made any bones of preferring the Lower Deck to the Wardroom. One met a much better class of people - in Chef's opinion - on the Lower Deck. Unfortunately for both Chef and Colin, CF Orders were written in stone: officers and senior Warrant Officers travelled First Class, if available. As there were no general officers, travelling parliamentarians, odds, sods, boffins or other riff raff on the flight the officers and Chef were assigned seats in the small, not so luxurious accommodation. Chef consoled himself by whipping Colin's ass at cribbage.
Amidships, The Phantom sat alone. He was miffed that Colin was not sitting in the seat next to his, but understood why his lover was up forward. Michael Chan's words, spoken at the Investiture, still lingered in The Phantom's mind, as did the firm warnings given to him by Steve Winslow, "The Gunner" to all, warnings that proclaimed that The Phantom, and his companions, must never do anything to call attention to themselves, warnings that said they must conform as much as possible to the accepted norms of polite, societal behaviour. Colin could no more complain about his treatment as an officer than he could flap his arms and fly alongside the aircraft. Do the expected, in all things, Michael had said. Never try to proclaim your true self, The Gunner had warned.
It was all a pain in the ass, opined The Phantom. But then, both Michael and The Gunner were right. The world was not ready for openness, not when it came to gay males. Sighing, The Phantom looked out through the window at the brilliantly blue, cloudless skies. As much as his soul screamed out for truth and openness, he knew that he must remain silent. Dress like a normal male, walk upright, swear, flirt with girls, give the people what they wanted to see, and all would be well. Let the flame of your passion flare brightly and your ass was grass!
Closing his eyes, The Phantom admitted that he could not declare himself, except to his most trusted friends and confidants. Too many people depended on him, on his probity, on his truthfulness, on his honesty. He did not doubt that he could, and would, lead this small band of his brothers. Each and every cadet had, in his own way, declared his love, his loyalty, and his undying faith in him, Philip Andrew Thomas Lascelles, a small-town boy, really.
The Phantom recalled a saying that Chef was fond of quoting whenever he expressed his doubt at what was happening: "Some men are born great. Some men attain greatness. Others have greatness thrust upon them!"
Smiling, The Phantom wondered if he had been born "great". He, in his usual self-deprecating way, dismissed the notion. Until he had sneaked across the causeway, with lust and molestation in his mind, he had never done anything approaching greatness. He had done nothing that he thought warranted his "greatness" being, he now considered, thrust upon him. It was true that he had, reluctantly, and at great mental cost to himself, put paid to Paul Greene, Little Big Man as everyone called the slim, tow-headed, rat-faced boy. The Phantom still had nightmares about what he had done, what he had caused Little Big Man to do.
Of the cadets only Cory, Todd, Tyler and Val knew the true story of what had happened in the darkened Petty Officers Mess that fateful night. The others, Nicholas and, The Phantom suspected, Mark van Beck and Tony Valpone, the American Sea Cadets, had more or less figured things out on their own. Ray Cornwallis, The Phantom's first true love, also knew. Ray, sweet, gentle, doe-eyed Ray, would never reveal the truth. None of them would. The others might, in time, come to know what had happened. None of them would ever reveal the truth. They were figures in the Tapestry that was Aurora. They would never tell.
Squirming uncomfortably at the thought, The Phantom finally admitted, whether he wanted it or not, he was the golden thread that wove through the Tapestry, joining each figure to the other, joining the small band of cadets together. He could not understand why he had been chosen, just as he could not understand why Providence, or God, or Yahweh, or whatever Great Power ruled the universe, had gathered these special young men together in that barren, windblown, dust-blown, yet very special place called Heron Spit, on which sat in isolation the antique, white-painted shacks and buildings that were HMCS Aurora.
It was a special place, that almost forgotten little Sea Cadet camp. It had to be, The Phantom thought to himself. If not, why then, out of the hundreds of boys and young men who had passed over the causeway, only these twenty-odd cadets remained? Why the Twins, Cory and Todd Arundel, and not Ryan Ponthiere? Why Nicholas and not his pledged lover, Andre Noailles? Why Phillip Adean, and not his brother, Anson, who was much better looking than Phillip, and hung like a Percheron?
The more he thought the more questions beset The Phantom, and the more he questioned the figures woven into the warp of the Tapestry. The presence of The Gunner he could understand. But who were the young men, the tall, handsome, stalwart young men gathered about him? Who were they, and what role would they play in his life? Name after name passed through The Phantom's mind. Why were Calvin Hobbes, and Eion Reilly, Simon Keppel, and Harry's young lover, Stefan Gillan, woven into the Tapestry? Why was Nate Schoenmann, who was a Jew, and by his own admission, not a good one, here on board this aircraft when The Phantom could not remember him being in his dream?
As he stared into the boundless space outside the window of the aircraft The Phantom came to believe that the Tapestry was not finished. The Tapestry was a living thing, where new figures would glow with life while others faded.
The fabric of the Tapestry was bold with the strength of the men woven into it, the silken threads of colour, the vibrant reds, the forthright greens and subtle yellows, the deepest blues, blending into the taupe of the past, the silver of the armour accentuating the strength of the future that was to come. A golden thread of inspiration, of life, joined the colours of faith and charity, binding forever the images of the Boys of Aurora each to the other as they reached out to embrace the unknown.
The images dominating the Tapestry would glow brighter with beauty and clarity as they gained strength and brilliance from the wisdom gleaned of adversity and tribulation, drawing the threads closer together in spirit as a Band of Brothers.
Great towers would rise, buttressing the strength of the Tapestry, adding, ever adding to the intensity of purpose and determination of the images, and drawing them closer. Waves of adversity and prejudice would assail the great bastions of right, but the Tapestry would draw strength from the waters of hatred. The destructive sun of reality would cause some of the threads to fade and grow dim. The frailty of man would edge the Tapestry in the black of mourning for lost honour but new figures, new images, would step boldly forward and be woven into the warp and woof, new colours entwining the old with a common bond of purpose and trust.
The vision, and the dream, of the Tapestry would never fail as it reached out toward the Grail, guiding those who would see it along the triumphal highway that would lead the Knights to the New Jerusalem.
Questions remained unanswered. Forward, behind a closely drawn curtain, sat Colin Arnott, his lover. Why was Colin's figure woven largely into the foreground of the Tapestry? Why had Colin, his lover, his friend, his . . . Guardian, allowed himself to be bullied by Chef into accepting the gift - which The Phantom realized was himself - that he could never keep, and always hold. And if Colin was 'Custos Principum', did that mean that he, Phantom Lascelles, green-eyed imp and pestiferous brat, was he a 'Princip', a prince? Questions, questions, questions.
It was all too much to absorb. Three months ago The Phantom was thinking about how to keep Amy Jensen out of his pants, and scheming to find a way to get into her brother's. Not that he had got into Jeff's pants, nor ever would he. Not after learning the truth of the relationship between Jeff Jensen and his venal, evil-eyed little brother Robbie.
Remembering the morning he had met the two Jensen boys, when he had done a laundry run into Comox, and Jeff's red convertible, with Robbie very much in charge, had glided to a stop outside the laundry. The Phantom shuddered, remembering the posturing, the touches, the marking of Jeff by his brother.
A chill passed through The Phantom, a coldness that told him that one day, sooner or later, Jeff would return to his life, Robbie would return to his life and The Phantom could not help thinking that the icy feeling deep within him was a harbinger of something so dreadful, so horrible that his own life would be affected. Their families were entwined, inextricably bonded, and for the first time The Phantom felt real dread.
Trying not to think about the cesspool that Jeff and Robbie Jensen had chosen to swim in, The Phantom began to wonder what awaited him in Vancouver. He was a Knight and, whether he liked it or not, the leader, the recognized "Prince" that the cadets who were sitting about the aircraft cabin were prepared to follow, although with a maximum of bitching, complaining and generally just being teenage boys.
Thinking of Colin's title, "Custos Principum", The Phantom called upon his limited knowledge of Latin and translated. "Guardian of Princes", The Phantom thought. "Princes" was plural, which would lead one to logically think that there were other "Princes" lurking in the shadows. But whom? Cory? Todd? Tyler, who was tall, blond, ruggedly handsome, with a superbly formed body, looked like a Prince, and he had been, at the end of the day, the first cadet The Gunner had spoken to, the first cadet to have the existence of the Order revealed to him. Tyler would make a damned fine looking Prince.
A slow smiled formed on The Phantom's lips. If looks were the only criteria for nobility he would be far down the list. True, he was tall, slim, not too bad looking, and had emerald green, flashing eyes (or so The Gunner had described them) and tried to be clean and neat, courteous and polite. He silently shook his head. If looks were on the cards, then Harry would have the whole lot beat hands down. Of course Harry, being Harry would have bellowed and roared and made life dangerous for anyone who would think that he was not a prince anyway. Or at least an Archduke. Harry was vain, overbearing, crude and rude and many other things that would not pass muster in polite society. The Phantom loved him.
Questions, questions, questions.
Then there was the little matter of Colin's title. Michael Chan, at the Investiture, had mentioned it in passing, almost as a second thought. No one had actually proclaimed Colin's title, except for Chef, and who knew what was going on in his mind? For all The Phantom knew Chef had been the only one to proclaim Colin, and Chef's proclamation could be just another one of his flights of fancy. With Chef a guy never knew.
The Phantom recalled the boxes of jewelled collars that had rested on the table by the Altar. His brow furrowed slightly. What significance, he asked himself, did they have? The Gunner, and Chef, had stressed that the Knights of the Order had never worn any outward sign of their knighthood, no robes, or crowns, or medals. Nor did the Order "raise great temples", as decreed by the Gospel that Cory's father had researched and translated. So far as The Phantom knew, and he did not know all that much, there were no "great temples".
From the history of the Order, which so far as anyone knew had never been made public, and only Cory and his father had read, the only "temples" were in Jerusalem and Acre. Did the buildings still exist, or had they been swept away by the winds of war? Again, no one seemed to know. The small, non-descript priories in Europe - Germany, Austria, France - had all been razed or bombed into rubble, either by the Nazis or the Allies. It was a tossup which army, or air force, had done the deed.
Questions, questions, questions.
Through all his musings a small, whispering phrase drifted through The Phantom's mind. "Why me?"
Why had he been chosen to be the "Prince"? Why had he been chosen to be the central figure in the Tapestry that was Aurora? Why had he been sent the dream that had galvanized him and why did the young men of Aurora believe the dream, and decide to follow him?
"Why me?" The Phantom asked himself, not realizing that he was speaking aloud.
"Why you what?" came a soft, almost gentle voice.
The Phantom looked up to see Peter Race standing in the aisle. Peter's thin; dark-eyed, dark-browed face was smiling down at his newfound friend.
"Um . . . just thinking out loud," replied The Phantom, embarrassed.
"Do you mind if I sit with you?" asked Peter. He did not wait for an answer and sat down in the seat beside The Phantom.
"Sure, fill your boots," replied The Phantom, glad for the company. He noticed that Peter was holding a paperback novel, a western by the cover, a book everyone called a "Penny Dreadful", casually written, filled with gore, heroes, maidens in distress, implied sex and setting suns for the hero to ride toward. It was badly written, worse printed on pulp paper, and sold in the millions in every supermarket across the continent.
Peter saw where The Phantom was looking and grinned sheepishly. "Okay, it's not Shakespeare, but it helps pass the time."
The Phantom chuckled. "The Gunner told me once that the best read men in the world are sailors because they have nothing to do but stand watches, eat, sleep, poop and read."
Settling himself comfortably, Peter laid aside the book. "As I said, it helps pass the time." He regarded The Phantom and then asked, "So, why the question?"
The Phantom decided to answer Peter's question with a question. "Peter, why are you here?"
Looking startled at the blunt question, Peter's eyes widened. "Huh?"
"Why are you here?" The Phantom reached out to place his hand over Peter's. "I really need to know. You could be on a flight home, at least when we get to Vancouver, yet you're not. Why?"
Peter was an intelligent and perspicacious young man. From the moment he had hunkered outside the Staff Barracks, waiting to play at Sylvain's memorial, and had heard Cory, and the arguments following The Phantom's revelation of his dream, Peter had given much thought to what he had heard. He looked very thoughtful and then said, "Because it's where I am meant to be."
"Really?"
"Really." Peter returned The Phantom's doubtful tone confidently. "I am meant to be here. So are the others." He shrugged. "Deus Vult."
Peter's words sounded . . . interesting so The Phantom asked, "You believe that?"
"I do," said Peter without emotion. "I can feel it, I can almost hold it. This is where I am supposed to be."
"How do you know?"
Turning his head, Peter saw The Phantom's green eyes, level, clear, and almost mesmerizing, staring at him. He shrugged. "Phantom, do you believe in God?"
Starting, The Phantom shook his head, wondering what Peter was getting at. "What?"
"It's a perfectly legitimate question," said Peter. He returned The Phantom's look. "Well, do you?"
"Yes and Peter, please, I am not God!" The Phantom had no idea what Peter was thinking, but he was not about to allow the younger man to deify him. As far as The Phantom thought, he had enough problems, thank you.
"No one has ever said that you are God, or a god," returned Peter almost languidly. "We look to you for leadership, yes, and we put up with you, but no, Phantom, we don't consider you anything other than our 'Phantom'." He smiled impishly.
"Okay, so long as we understand each other," grumbled The Phantom. He nodded his head. "Yes, I believe."
"Why?"
"Well . . ." For a moment The Phantom really could not answer. He did believe in God, but how could he answer Peter's question. He believed, but why did he believe?
Peter, seeing The Phantom struggling, supplied his answer to his own question. "Phantom, when we're born, we're taken to a church and baptized. From then on our parents tell us about God - teach us to believe in a Supreme Being. We go to church, some of us go to religious schools, and so on." He scratched his chin reflectively. "You get my meaning?"
Nodding, The Phantom said, "We are educated to believe" He sat back in his seat and continued, "Each culture, each ethnic group, passes on to its young its customs, traditions and beliefs." He had a thought, "But how do you explain the atheists, the non-believers, the ones who walk away, dismissing everything as myth and bunkum?"
Peter smiled. "Their choice." His voice was calm as he said, "Phantom, I agree that much of what we believe is acquired but . . ." He held up his finger. "There comes a time when for some reason, a reason that you cannot understand, you feel deep within you, the belief in God. You don't know why you believe, you just do." He looked evenly at The Phantom. "And that is why we follow you. We believe. We cannot explain it, we cannot, most of us, understand why we believe in you, we just do. Accept what you cannot change, Phantom. You're stuck with us."
The Phantom sniggered. "And you're stuck with me!" he said.
"Not a bad trade," conceded Peter easily.
"But you still haven't answered my original question," The Phantom pointed out. "I'll go along with the acceptance, but Peter, why are you really here?"
Peter thought a moment. "To find myself, I guess," he replied slowly. "There are some questions about me that I would like to find the answers to."
"About being gay? Or your roots, your suspicions about your ancestry?"
Peter nodded. "Both, I think," he said.
Sighing, The Phantom said as kindly as he could, "Peter, those are questions the Order cannot answer. Questions I cannot answer."
"True," agreed Peter without reluctance. "But whatever happens I think that being with you, being a member of the Order, will help me find the answers. I know that I must find the answers myself, Phantom. There are answers that I alone must find."
The Phantom squeezed Peter's hand gently. "I will help you as much as I can, Peter."
"I know."
"There will be . . . things . . . we, the Order, me, that we cannot help you with. Things that just are."
"Being gay, you mean?" asked Peter, one eyebrow rising.
"Yes. Homosexuality is not an acquired thing. You either are, or you are not." The Phantom looked solemn as he continued. "You can run from it, hide from it, suppress it mightily, but I think that being gay is just being you. It's as natural a part of you as your eye-colouring, the colour of hair."
"Has to be," agreed Peter.
"Why would you say that?"
"Well, a guy would have to be as crazy as a coot to want to be gay," said Peter. "Who wants to be laughed at, vilified by everything with a bullhorn, denigrated, beaten by thugs and bullies, killed . . . who would willingly want to live that kind of a life?"
"That is a question I've been asking myself," admitted The Phantom. "Why accept 'The love that dares not speak its name' when you don't have to?"
"Lord Alfred Douglas to Oscar Wilde," said Peter idly. "But I get your point. I also say that being gay is like believing in God. At some point you just know."
"So, are you gay?"
Peter laughed quietly. "Phantom, I won't deny that there have been times that I've wondered."
"You have?"
"Sure. Every guy has. Even you."
"That I have," replied The Phantom. Then he added, for he wanted Peter to understand that there must be openness between them if their relationship was to continue. "I'm gay, Peter."
"And Lieutenant Arnott is your lover," responded Peter without emotion. He saw the questioning look on The Phantom's face. "It's the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you." He giggled. "You've both got it bad!"
The Phantom sniffed loudly. "A lot you know," he growled, his voice low.
"No, I don't," responded Peter. "What you have with him is between you and him." He shrugged. "The point is that you know. You accept."
"And you don't?"
Peter's face was serene as he attempted to answer The Phantom. "I have wondered, as I think every guy does, about being with another boy. I have wondered what it would be like, you know, to hold him, to feel him."
"To have him make love to you?" asked The Phantom. "To have you make love to him?"
"Yes," replied Peter with simplicity. "I've been around, Phantom. I know that some guys get together with other guys. I know what they do and it doesn't repel me, or revolt me. I guess you can say that I'm curious."
"That's natural," said The Phantom. "I think that as we go through puberty we all have questions about our sexuality. We all wonder about . . . well, you know."
"Getting your dick sucked? Sucking a dick?" supplied Peter with a grin.
"Yeah."
"Don't be embarrassed, Phantom. I'm not." Peter glanced obliquely at The Phantom and continued. "Just between us, I have wondered what it would be like to get in the sack with . . ." He paused, debating just how much he could tell The Phantom. Somehow, Peter knew deep within his soul, that he could tell the green-eyed youth sitting beside him anything. "I've wondered what it would be like to be with Jeremie Cher."
The Phantom admired Peter's taste. Jeremie was a handsome young man and, or so rumour had it, gifted by God. He wondered if he should tell Peter about the night when Jeremie had confessed that he wouldn't mind taking Little Jeremie for a walk in the moonlight . . . with The Phantom!
No, The Phantom considered. Peter must find his own way. He tried to make light of the situation. "Well, you never know unless you ask." He nudged Peter with his elbow. "And he's supposed to have a dick on him . . ."
Peter giggled. "He has. He'd give Harry a run for his money in a Pride of the Fleet contest!" Peter sobered and added, "He's not the only one."
Surprised, The Phantom asked carefully. He had a feeling that somewhere along the line he would be considered in the running, although not for a Pride of the Fleet contest.
"The very first guy who ever set me to tingling, and growing some wood, I never met, and only saw once," said Peter. "God, he was beautiful," Peter breathed. "And I never knew who we was, where he came from, and he never knew me!"
Peter's almost breathless desire seemed to fill the small space between them. Peter had never seemed to be the type who would . . . lust . . . after another male. "You'd better explain that!" The Phantom blurted out.
Peter laughed. "Don't look so shocked. You all but sent out engraved announcements the minute you set eyes on Lieutenant Arnott! Why can't I feel the same way?"
"You can, and what do you mean by that?" demanded The Phantom. He did not think that he had been that obvious.
"I mean exactly what I said," replied Peter with a grin. "Hell, Phantom, your eyes lit up and your tongue fell out!" He returned The Phantom's nudge. "I told you, you got it bad!"
Not wanting to pursue this line further, The Phantom asked hurriedly. "So, who was the guy that set you to slobbering?"
Peter ignored The Phantom's sarcasm and his eyes drew dreamy. "Oh, Phantom, he was sooo beautiful. It was at the start of the Natal Day Parade . . ."
The Phantom knew that the first Monday in August was a provincial holiday, somewhat arbitrarily chosen to help break up the summer doldrums, a day when each province or city celebrated something significant in its history with parades, speeches and fireworks. In Halifax, the founding of the old city was celebrated as "Natal Day".
" . . . I was standing with my Corps, waiting to march off, when the Stadacona contingent came marching past!" If it were possible, Peter's eyes grew even dreamier, and his voice more passionate. "And there he was! God, Phantom, he was . . .!"
"A paragon, a god, and beautiful!" supplied The Phantom with a snigger.
"Come on, Phantom," pleaded Peter.
"Sorry." The Phantom waved his hand. "So, what happened?"
"Nothing," muttered Peter, disappointment in his voice. He looked earnestly at The Phantom. "He was oh, gosh Phantom, he was there, and I can't to this day tell you why I suddenly wanted him. I couldn't keep my eyes off of him! I wanted every part of him! Like I said, I didn't know him, had never seen him before, and knew that he didn't know me from Adam's off ox!"
"But...you were attracted by him?"
"Big time. Most embarrassingly so."
"Little Peter went 'boing'?" asked The Phantom.
"Little Peter did more than that!" replied Peter, blushing. "He pooched out Big Peter's tighty-whiteys! Gosh, did the other guys kid me about getting a bone in the middle of a parade!"
The Phantom could not help but laugh at Peter's discomfiture. "Well, I once boned up during a swim meet. I wasn't looking at anything in particular, but damn, sixty guys in Speedos did turn me on!" he admitted.
"Yeah, well, it was embarrassing," grumbled Peter. "I couldn't for the life of me understand why I wanted to have this stranger, this total stranger . . ."
"Ravish you?" supplied The Phantom, laughing uproariously inside.
"Yeah, real knock-me-on-the-head-drag-me-to-your-cave sex!" exclaimed Peter.
"Peter!" The Phantom gasped. "You actually thought that?"
Peter gave The Phantom a deprecating look. "Yeah, me," he snapped. "What do you think I am, some sort of a sexless amoeba? I do have thoughts and feelings, you know!"
"I know, and I'm sorry," The Phantom apologized hurriedly. "It's just that you look so . . . innocent!"
"I am!" declared Peter. "But I still pumped my crank every night thinking about him!"
Once again The Phantom burst into laughter. "Until someone else came along?"
Making a face, Peter nodded reluctantly.
"Jeremie Cher?" suggested The Phantom.
Once again Peter's head nodded, reluctantly. "He came later. It was awful hard not to be attracted to him. Hell, he wandered around the mess deck naked, with his schlong waving in the breeze, and Phantom, it's big enough to wave!" His blush became deeper. "And I am sort of attracted to Eion."
"Is he . . . um . . . has he . . ." stumbled The Phantom.
"He's as big as I am," supplied Peter. "Nothing spectacular at all," he finished, a somewhat disappointed tone in his voice.
"Okay," drawled The Phantom, thinking that Peter was on a road of discovery, after all. "So, between Jeremie and Eion, there was someone else?"
"Yes."
"A schoolmate?"
"No."
"A guy from your Corps? Someone you met at camp?"
Peter stared directly at The Phantom, as he replied, "No."
A small light bulb came to life. "Oh, hell and sheeit," The Phantom thought. "He can't mean . . . "
"Yes, Phantom," murmured Peter.
"But Peter, you hardly know me!" exclaimed The Phantom. "I might be a pervert! I might like to . . . I might be into pain and suffering! I might . . ."
"You might be a lot of things, Phantom, but you're not." Peter grinned. "We, the others, we accept you as our leader, as the boy we love. You'll have to get used to it."
"But I don't have to like it!" thought The Phantom angrily.
"Let's face it, Phantom. A lot of guys look at you and down comes the thunderbolt!" said Peter with a grin.
"There's too damned many of them flying around!" retorted The Phantom. "Too damned many."
"But they are," said Peter. "It's part of why we want to be with you." He stood up and waved his hand lightly around the cabin. "Phantom, Chef calls Lieutenant Arnott the 'Custos Principum', the 'Guardian of Princes'. He's wrong because Lieutenant Arnott is not the only 'Guardian'." He looked evenly at The Phantom. "There are many 'Guardians', and all of them are here. But there is only one 'Prince'."
Peter looked disapprovingly at the dime-store novel he still held in his hand and then threw it casually onto the seat. "I don't know why I read that crap!" he said, almost off-handedly. His brown eyes then regarded The Phantom. "You are the Prince, Phantom. We know it, and we feel it. No one had to tell us, we just knew." He tossed a casual salute and added, "And you might as well get used to it."
It was a long time before The Phantom managed to close his gaping mouth and returned to looking reflectively out of the window of the aircraft.