When The Wind Was Up

One night, late in the autumn, you were kneeling on a cushion at my feet, your head in my lap, humming quietly to yourself.

Your lullaby merged with the howling of the wind outside. It was blowing one of those un-seasonal gales that would have us out on the morrow checking which trees were fallen, which paths were blocked, which roofs were damaged and which ships had not returned to the safety of the harbour.

I was drifting in a mist of thoughts and half dreams, thinking of a new collar for you perhaps, when I became conscious of the wind dying down and a silence in the room.

The fire crackled and spat as rain splattered down the chimney onto the burning logs; and I shifted in my chair, suddenly aware that you were looking up at me, wide eyed and waiting.

"Tell me a story, sir," you smiled and licked your lips in anticipation. "I loved the last one you told me."

"Tell you a story, pet?"

"Tell me a tale of another time when the wind was up."

"Would that please you, pet?"

"Yes, it would."

"Then please me too."

"I'd love to sir," you grinned, sat up, pushed your hair behind your ear and leant forward to resume your duties.

I watched you indulge me for a little while, before murmuring: "I have to say, pet, that you are the most fantastic cocksucker ever, you know."

"A story if you please, sir," you insisted, briefly withdrawing your services. Then, with my hand bunched in your hair to guide you, but without another word, you returned to your endeavours, suckling, squeezing and tasting with such blissful results, that I didn't dare distract you to reach over you to get a sip my brandy...

"When the wind was up across the bay," I began, suppressing a cough and gripping your topknot even more tightly so as to control your movements, "far away from the main land a young woman would sit at the bay window of her parent's cliff top house. She would stare out at the waves breaking against the island defences and try to identify exactly where the grey waters merged with the grey skies on such stormy days..."

Whenever the sea mists descended, she felt as if she and the rest of the town and the whole island were entirely cut off from the mainland for ever. As a young woman she had determined that if she were to sail away into such a mist she would never be seen again.

And that feeling, that determination became her "raison d'etre" after a while, for her life, without the spell of the sea-mist, weaving through her imagination, was just a shadow of all she had hoped.

As the young woman grew to maturity she was able to see that the mists came and went with the seasons, but the images of isolation remained embedded in her mind (just like my cock in your mouth, pet – oh shut up and get on with it – hush pet, you have my appetites to satisfy – yes sir – good girl).

These images prevailed even when the mist lifted. The sky cleared; the mainland could be seen from the cliffs; but the dream in her head persisted.

Walking along the beaches she could watch the fishermen mending their nets as she wandered by, kicking a stone through the sands. She could dance on the upturned hulls of the little vessels, making the fishermen smile at her antics.

She could listen to the secrets of the sea in the new shells that the storm had spread across the sand.

Best of all, she could wave impatiently at the arriving vessels, when she reached the quayside, before settling down on a bollard, her hands around her knees, watching the bustle of the port and waiting for her favourite traveller to return.

He was only a few years older than her, but he seemed to have been everywhere around the islands, up and down the coast and even across to ports on other seas.

He would sit down and tell her of journeys that he'd undertaken weeks, months, and even years previously, when he was even younger than she was. He could make them seem as fresh as if they had taken place days before.

They opened up a whole unknown world to her, pushing the sea mists far away from her thoughts, clearing her mind, so that she could absorb all the wonders that he described to her.

She had never left the island. She had hardly even left the town. And yet, in her mind's eye, she had travelled all the way up the hill along the main prospect at Penringdon, the capital of the Duchy across the sea.

Her imagination leapt at the thought that through his words she had seen the canon round the port, the armoured soldiers in the sea fort and the multi-coloured flags waving in the breeze. She had stared at the many different goods in the shops and market stalls. She had watched the well-dressed elite trouping to and from the theatres and cafes and restaurants, as envious as he was of their finery.

Adventuress by proxy, she had observed the merchants' guards taking captives up to the slave markets: beautiful women seized by the corsairs; powerful men in chains destined for who knows what fate.

Oh to buy one of those handsome specimens, to exhibit and oil him; and then to enjoy his masculinity, pleasing her just exactly how she wanted to be pleased. Yes, and she had had the door slammed in her face, when she tried to join in the bidding, just as her beloved traveller had experienced.

Over the months she enjoyed all the free ports with him vicariously. She wandered through the forests on his arm and across the meadows, laughing to see the sun shining and the clouds dispersing as they journeyed in her mind together.

She had climbed with him up through the central ranges. And there, in the passes between the snow clad peaks, she had glimpsed the heat of deserts that stretched out for hundreds of miles beyond the coastal regions into the interior.

She had looked into his eyes and watched the caravans, bringing perfumes, fine cloths to be cut and spun into beautiful dresses. She had seen ever more captives to satisfy the hunger of the citizens of Penringdon and its subservient hinterland for the exotic, the perverse and the downright cruel.

It was of no real consequence to her for, in her safe little island abode, it was all a dreamland, far across the seas where cities that floated on lakes, monuments were marbled and lush gardens hid behind the cool walls of private palaces.

He told her how the people of the outlying villages were taxed out of existence to pay for the frivolities of the gentlefolk.

On one memorable occasion, he held out fistfuls of coins in his spread hands, asking her to choose a few. She couldn't make up her mind. The denominations were unfamiliar. The writings and graven images were strange. They were an ecclectic mix that came from the many different city states that he had visited, while she was carefully educated and brought up in the narrow confines of the twisting streets of her little home town by the sea.

And she soaked it all up.

When he was quite done and his little souvenirs were safely in her bag to add to her collection of exotica, she would hug her knees even tighter in her arms and look up at him and sigh: "And will you take me there? Will you sail away and take me?"

"Yes, sweetheart," he would murmur and look out to sea. "I'll take you."

"I want to experience it all."

"I know this."

"It's not enough to hear about all the sensations; all the excitements; I just cannot wait to grow up."

"There's plenty of time."

"But, do you promise, on your honour, by all you hold sacred?"

He would look at her thoughtfully then, and push her hair back behind her ear. He would play with her earlobes gently and look into her eyes, cupping her cheek and seeking out that air of innocent expectancy, before he slowly nodded his head in agreement and smiled: "Yes, my little lady curious, of course, I'll take you one day."

Then one day, he went away and didn't return. The sea mist seemed to have taken him and his shipmates: swallowed them up.

The fishermen shrugged when she asked them. It had happened before and would happen again. She would not listen to them though.

She took to watching for just his vessel every morning: it became a ritual, a need, an overwhelming desire. The weeks turned to months, the months to years, but the memories that he had instilled within her never faded.

Through the ensuing five years, she began to make little journeys of her own round the seven islands that surrounded the isles where she had grown up.

She was more than a little adventurous and caused her parents many worries as she sought out other travellers and merchants to tell her stories of the far-off lands.

She wasn't tempted though, for she missed the effortless way that he had impressed his particular memories upon her. She missed the way he looked into her eyes, the soft touch of his hand on her hair and the warm stroking of his fingers on her lobe. She missed the silent admiration and the promises. She missed the affection she thought she saw in his wistful gaze. She missed him.

Neither the winter nor the spring brought him back to her, but it ushered in the storms and the sea mist. The chill drove her back to her home high above the port. The demands of the summer kept her there.

Her father passed on the following winter when the snows and the ice kept the ships in harbour for longer than she could ever recollect. Her mother followed him in the spring leaving her well off, but lonely: alone with only her memories and her dreams for company.

Five years passed. And then the corsairs came.

They were strengthened by the wealth they had accumulated in their coastal ravages. They were skilled negotiators now, knowing how to extract a favourable outcome with just the threat of violence. The burning of a few isolated farms, the stealing of livestock and mere rumour of the imprisoning of a wealthy rural family was enough to ensure that the Island elders ceded to their demands.

Protection became the order of the day. The townsfolk gave the corsairs free run of the lower reaches away from the hub of the little town, but there were occasional incursions into the Upper Reaches where she liked to wander.

Girls had been molested apparently. One had been spirited off into the sea mists, never to be seen again; save, according to one unsubstantiated rumour, naked on the auction block at Penringdon.

The girl's kinfolk mourned their loss. A collection was gathered to purchase her back, but the corsairs took that one night, stealing hope away once more.

The impositions of these demanding intruders sucked at even the wealthiest citizens of the island. Our heroine began to feel cut off from her dreams, oppressed by the presence of drunks, thieves and mainland whores in the Lower Reaches of the town.

Their drunken howls round the bonfires lit at night, reached her window too often. And she sighed, her thoughts turning towards escape from the taxes, the curfews and the dangers that now lurked on the cobbled streets between her house and the sea.

When the wind was up, she would still venture out to watch the little wooden vessels ploughed their way through the waves, making their way towards the darkness in the East and those coastal ports on the mainland. She would make her way down to the quayside in the safer Upper Reaches, wearing a thick blue cloak to protect her dresses from the wet climate.

There she would find the familiar places that she knew well of old to stand near and stare out from the shore. Even on the coldest, wettest days, she could find some solace in the emptiness and in trying to make out the landmarks through the driving rain.

And, on other days, she just wandered, deciding just to let the winds and her thoughts take her where they would: almost anywhere was better than the Seven Isles right then. It seemed to her that he had been sailing back to her across the bay for half her life by then, fighting a head wind all the way.

Drawing the thick woollen cloak around her, she wondered what had become of her friend. She had hoped against hope that he would find his own way to make his peace with her.

Why has he left her to fend for herself? Why wasn't he there to protect her from the corsairs? She stood up and raged soundlessly into the force of the storm, cursing his name, decrying everything and everyone connected with him.

A sudden hatred burnt through her, leaving her exhausted. She felt as empty and dark as the lovely island dwelling, where she had watched for him through the years.

At times she had felt the faintest hint of his warmth, knowing that she fed his need for her with attention, suppressed desire and a stillborn passion.

Why had she fallen for his beguiling tones? Why couldn't she have just let him go to sea with the others, floating out of her mind like some drifting soon to be forgotten flotsam?

Curse the man. Curse her own vanity in thinking that she was the person he would always come back for. And curse the jealous little man in her head who wanted to know who he was with, how long he had been with her and exactly what they got up to together. She felt exploited by her loyalty to him. Damn him. Damn his travels. Damn his penetrating eyes.

A streak of lightning flashed across the sky. It illuminated the rough seas for a moment and lit up her face, tear-streaked, defiant and quite determined to make the best of whatever lay in front of her.

"My Lady?"

A gruff, unfamiliar voice interrupted her thoughts. She started up, wrapping her cloak tightly around her. Her heart was in her throat. Was this someone she knew? She turned towards the sound of his voice and looked over at his shadowy form, cloaked in darkness: "Yes?"

"The storm seems to be dying down a little."

"The waters still seem very rough though," she replied cautiously.

"Yes. I'm not sure where the island fleet will be able to dock. I think they are being driven up the coast by this infernal wind."

"What do you know of the fleet?"

"I sailed with it once, long ago."

"And now?"

"And now, I'm a corsair."

She shuddered, her worst fears realised.

"Are you allowed here away from the Lower Reaches?"

"No one restricts the corsairs, my lady."

"There are agreements."

"Parchments and paper," he sneered.

"Your leaders signed them in good faith."

"Do you think the corsairs have any faith at all?"

"I hope that they have a sense of humanity."

"I sensed humanity when we stormed the greatest of the Free Ports four months ago. Many lives were lost. Many slaves were taken. Many pleasures were enjoyed. Many families regretted those nights."

"Do you have no code at all?"

"Codes may not be possible in these troubled times."

"Even so you know of the code that bans corsairs from any of the islands' Upper Reaches?"

"What are the islands to you now, my lady?"

"They are who I am."

"They are who you were my lady."

"Don't argue with me. Go back to your kind."

"You are my kind," he stabbed at her with his fingers and she backed away nervously, resting her hand uneasily on a familiar bollard. "We will make for Penringdon now."

"I have a home to go to."

"You have a price to fetch my lady."

"Leave me be."

"It would not be kind to leave you in this weather."

"What do you know of kindness?"

"I know that there is a kindness in the shelter of the slave markets, at least for the buyers and the better merchandise."

"I don't want to be bought," she cried, batting his hand away. Then she reached down to the little purse held to her waist by a narrow belt. "Please, won't you accept my silver and leave me alone?"

"I will accept it. I will even think of it as an initial deposit ma'am," he grinned evilly, snatching the purse as she held it out to him imploringly.

Then he stepped forward again, his booted feet slipping a little on the wooden jetty. She could hear her own harsh breathing, as he stood over her in the darkness: "You will think of it as no such thing. Or you will be more than well paid by my kinsfolk."

"And where are they now?" He reached out and took hold of her arm, twisting it and pinning it behind her. As he held her close, he began to prod her flank. It was almost as if he were sizing her up for sale in the market: like a prize pig. She made to pull away from him, but his grip was firm.

"You would not want to encounter them," she persisted, looking up and down the waterside, quickly realising the extent of her isolation. "They will make you regret your impudence."

"More fool them for letting a prize such as you fall into my hands," he said, gripping her wrists and stoking the backs of her hands.

"Get off me," she cried, breaking free and slapping him across the cheek. The slap was wild but landed accurately. He lifted a hand to his cheek, rubbed the palm print thoughtfully and then began to laugh at her resistance.

A moment later and she was in his arms again as he effortlessly twisted her round, his right arm taking hold of her waist, bringing her face so close to his that the mist in their sharp breaths combined. She saw his eyes then, and she knew it was him.

"So I find that you're still a dreamer then, lass," he smiled coldly, pushing her forward hard so that she fell face-forward across one of the bollards on the quayside. "And a fighter too: I love a fighting girl. It's so much more of a challenge than those who lie still and unresisting. I could tell you a tale or two from the free ports."

"You'll regret this," she warned, feeling hot tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She shook her head defiantly, wanting him and them to disappear.

"No, my lady: I will enjoy this," he smiled and pushed her hair up over her ear, fondling her ear lobe, just as he had done in another lifetime.

"Pity me sir. You've known me since I was little more than a child."

"That's true. And I can see you've grown into a very, fine, lady indeed now," he grinned wolfishly in the darkness and fondled her bottom lasciviously with one hand, even as he tugged the diamond studs from each of her ears with practiced ease with the other.

"Please."

"Please lift your skirts and let me see what a big girl you are now, unless you want the finery ripped from you."

"Leave me alone," she screamed into the dark, kicking out at him.

"Temper, temper," he taunted as he held her leg in a strong grip.

She hopped back, holding on to his arm for balance despite herself as he tightened his grip on her ankle, and then her calf as he tugged her closer to him. She closed her eyes, unresisting and sought out stillness far away from the heart of this maelstrom that he was creating.

Despite the treatment he meted out, she was curious to see how he'd changed over the years. The soft, thoughtful, amused core was still there, but it had been subsumed to a brutish, demanding, self-centred creature; a being who was almost completely unrecognisable to her.

"Do you want me to bring others over to share my pleasure?"

"No."

"Are you sure? We shared several lasses in a brothel in your famous Lower Reaches not half an hour ago."

"Please."

"There again, not one of them was worth this moment."

"Do what you must."

"That has always been my intent, my dear, little stoic. No, you are not to be shared, my little lady curious."

She shuddered at his use of that special pet name from another age: the name that she had heard echo from his lips so many times, when she awoke, when she went to sleep and when she just turned her head to find what she imagined to be his shadow on her shoulder.

He seemed intent on desecrating all she had held sacred over the years in a nihilistic climax to their relationship, that would end in her tears and, probably, worse.

Then she breathed harshly into the darkness, controlling her instinctive sobs in a final gesture of defiance, as he slid his hand up her calf, between her thighs, against her sex, tugging at her skirt and petticoats as he did so.