DISCLAIMER: This story contains sexual acts between men. Do not read if it is illegal to do so in your state or country. This story is not to be shared or distributed without my written consent. If you would like to contact me, please email me at wheels-on-fire@hotmail.co.uk
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Apologies for the delay in adding another chapter to this story. The last time I visited this sea fairing Master was in 2012. On request of a favoured reader I have taken the time to pen another chapter to this story. Enjoy.
..."Get on the table and kneel there until I return." He says to me. I obey and he leaves for the Captain's summons. Below I hear a hive of activity as sailors begin running about the decks. Something is happening. The ship jerks as it is turned away from the wind. The sails fill with the breeze and the ship picks up speed. Something is wrong.
Chapter 3
All mornings start with the grey wash of light, the earth desaturated to the hue of pickled oysters where all things have not had the light to make their shadows show. The tempo of the day starts slowly, the exasperated exhale of wind, sloshing away while the world wakes up and has it's first cigarette. It was on one particular grey morning, I stirred and found that I was not where I thought I was just moments before. My head pounding, my lips crusted and glossed with the grit of the sand. My breaches wet, although from the sea and not me, clung to my skin. A linen shirt cold on my back. I lay there for a moment whilst the occasional lap of the sea tickled my toes.
Life had changed very suddenly. For the life of a boy, he soon learns to expect nothing, for everyday can be mediocre only to change without a moments warning. This was just one of those changes, for life had caught me up, spun me around and dumped me back again, and here I was; washed up in the foaming surf.
I lay in quiet contemplation for a while. Thinking about everything and nothing, never quite analysing, not with reason or conscious effort or thought. My eyes glazed.
The thunder of rigging when it is pulled against it's will as it vibrates in a gale has nothing but the voice of complaint. Angry at the men who have bound it and twisted it, interred all their aggression and strength into the cord. The storm calls back to it, the waves feel it's frustration and pound at the hull.
We, the pray, We were followed and the storm was not in our favour. The Captain demanded more from his crew than they could muster, they ship was built more for cargo than for speed, and as gracious as we were, there was pull.
The call of cannon fire is never to be forgotten. A mouth of iron shouts it's intention and hurls it's shot. As a boy I had no nerve for sea battles. I had little enough to stomach to handle the swish of the ocean, the storm, the flash, the clap and the boom shot fear into my heart. I lost composure and dashed out from the cabin where I had been told to stay put. The white wash of fear on the sailors faces still flares in my memory, washed and retched, like barely fleshed skulls. Howls of genuine pain, of disembodiment and the summoning of Death. The Main mast came down fast. Shot in freeze-frame, like a photograph, exposed on my retinas. The ropes, set free, pounded on their previous Master's backs, whipping in revenge.
Control and command was lost. The day was lost. The ship. Lost.
A boot broke through my memory daze. I had heard no one coming. Lost in the trauma I guess. "Up boy". A familiar voice. One that I knew, feared and respected. My saviour, my Master. He clicked his thumb to his finger and prodded me with his boot. "Ger up. We're leavin'".
My muscles complained. The fight in the sea had taken the strength out of me. My flesh, cold and preserved, stiff as if rigga had set it. But here, on the brink, there was another chance at life. And colour came back into my world fast.
I followed Master across the beach. I noticed after a while that although as drowned as I, he had shaken himself up and was walking with purpose. I had dropped back, but scared of being left behind I rushed to keep up. He implied the urgency where we needed to depart. All sailors knew the risk of surviving a wreck. If you were unlucky enough to survive, then land habited was as much of a danger as land uninhabited. A barren island was often favourable, for landing near natives was well known as a route to cannibalism, or they would plunder the reck and leave you for dead. Of all the islands we could have landed, there was little chance of meeting an aggressive band of natives. The rough shores near where were were sailing was regarded by most on board as home. We had bit whipped up and spat out again on the shores of Master's home country. And home was where he was taking me.
I will always remember the iron gates, the double fronted house with steps leading to a heavy black door. To enter Master's house properly, on two legs at the front door was memorable. I stepped over the threshold and no longer was I the Ship Master's boy, but Master's house boy.
"Kneel boy" he said.
To be continued...
Thank you to all the readers who wrote to me and requested another chapter. I appreciate the feedback as it inspires me to write. If you would like to share anything about your experiences with the story and things you would like to see then please send me an email. I love to hear from you.
wheels-on-fire@hotmail.co.uk