Vigilia Mane Written: September 18, 2004 For Shanalle's two-lines challenge. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ each morning the sun shines through my window lands on the face of a dream come true rascal flats, ‘this everyday love’ It was dark in Doctor Maturin’s quarters. Bonden’s eyes could cut through most any shadow; often he went through his entire night’s watch without ever lighting the lantern beside the wheel. Eyes such as his could see through most any darkness, but he found he had to pause in the doorway to the little room and blink until his eyes focused on the flicker of the lamp, its orange glow wavering feebly in the stifling gloom and across the white shape on the bed. It took a moment to adjust his vision. Padeen looked up when he entered, dipping his head. Bonden returned the greeting — “Padeen” — in a whisper that came out too high, curled up on the end with all the questions he carried down from the deck and wasn’t quite sure how to ask. Padeen? Padeen merely shook his head; his gentle, solemn eyes turned back toward the bed. He held a cloth in one of his large hands; it was stained to a dark rust. “I’ll watch for a while,” Bonden said. “Do you go and rest a bit.” Padeen turned, considered Bonden for a moment, then gave a little smile and nodded. The lamp sputtered when he stood, his giant frame casting huge shadows along the walls as he passed Bonden with the usual smooth, silent grace. Bonden heard the cabin’s door-flap drop shut behind him. The bed had been stripped. The linens the doctor had brought on board in India were gone, replaced by an untied hammock and a sheet from the infirmary. Bonden almost smiled; he remembered lugging the bundle of embroidered cloth up the ropes while the Captain fussed in the background. Really, my dear, it doesn’t do for a ship of the Navy. They shall only be ruined, you know — nothing lasts long on the sea undamaged. One tiny luxury, dear; one fine thing. They are for my own chamber; who is to know? I shan’t be using them to line the sickbeds. Bonden’s smile disappeared. His eyes had attuned to the gloom, and he could see everything in the cabin now with perfect clarity. The basin of pink water on the nightstand. The bowl of untouched broth. The guttering lamp reflecting in the green depths of the laudanum bottle. The sodden, twisted sheet, dark with sweat and salve and blood. The ghastly grey pallor of the doctor’s face, sheened with droplets that shimmered as he trembled. The chair creaked as Bonden sat down; the doctor twitched and fluttered. The sheet had worked itself down his chest and the full swathe of bandage was visible across his belly, freshly changed but already seeping, angry red streaks curling out across translucent skin. Bonden knew those spidery stripes well. He had seen them many times, on many bodies. He reached over and pulled the sheet up until he didn’t have to see them anymore. Maturin stirred at the touch and opened his eyes. He looked around for a moment, eyes dull and glazed with fever, before they fell upon Bonden leaning over him and sharpened in surprise. “Bonden,” he said. Bonden smiled cheerfully, but his posture shifted away from the bed. “Hello, sir,” he said. “You’re looking well this evening. Fancy a drink, then?” He poured a cup of water from the pitcher and leaned forward, one rough hand strong behind matted curls as he held the doctor’s head up to drink. The doctor drained the cup without stopping, gasping out a breath, and grimaced with pain as he slumped back into the pillow. Bonden set the cup down and looked away until the doctor stopped shaking. “We raised the Acheron again at third bell,” he said. “The Cap’n thinks we’ll have her by tomorrow sure.” His voice sounded wrong, harsh, inappropriate. He set about squeezing the cloth in the cool water of the basin. “Good,” Maturin murmured. His eyelids lowered; he shuddered on the filthy cot and his hands twitched on his chest. “I spied some porpoise today,” Bonden said. He wiped gently at the doctor’s forehead with the wet cloth; Maturin winced and his eyes slid closed. Bonden’s gnarled fingers moved with careful grace until all of the doctor’s face was clean and cool. The water rippled in tinkling drops as he rinsed out the cloth. “Right curious they were, too. Followed along my rudder for a good league or so. Wasn’t sure of the s--sp--pecies, but I think wee Blakeney made you a drawing. He’ll be nearly as clever as you one day, I think.” He kept his tone light and watched Maturin’s breathing even out, relaxing beneath soothing hands. The doctor’s skin was hot enough for even Bonden’s fingers to feel, and he swallowed a sharp lump in his throat and forced them not to tremble as he moved the cloth down the flushed throat and into the hollow between sharp collarbones. All the while he talked, softly, a casual report of all the day’s events on board as if he were chatting with a mate. The doctor trembled and drifted, hitching tiny breaths at the cold contact, sighing with the repetitive touch. Bonden’s fingers reached the edge of wrapped gauze and stopped, hovering, as he ran out of words and fell silent. Bonden stared at red streaks on grey flesh, feeling his throat work as he searched for something else to say. The silence grew thicker with each second, threatening to close in and smother them both. The doctor so much preferred the fresh air. In the days after his rescue from the French he’d recuperated on deck, basking his thin frame in the healing rays of the sun. Now the light of the lamp was beginning to dwindle, and Bonden didn’t know when the night would end. Slender fingers closed around his wrist. Bonden looked up, startled, to find the doctor watching him. Maturin’s face was lined, shades of pain and weariness, things layered and unidentifiable. His eyes were pale but luminous. “You don’t have to do this for me, Bonden,” he said, managing little more than a whisper. “You have more important things to attend to.” Bonden thought of set thumbs and stitched scalps, a rowboat full of oranges and a tops’l full of books, the smell of spices in the pockets of a faded banyan and the sound of new worlds being revealed one scrape of chalk at a time. “Not as I can think of, I don’t, sir,” he said. The doctor’s fingers remained around his wrist for a moment longer, and then slid away to rest on the sheet as he smiled softly. “Well, finish your report then, Mr. Bonden. Did you do your assignment today?” Bonden’s eyes widened, suddenly remembering. “Oh! Aye.” He put the now-warm cloth back into the basin and wiped his hands. “Finished it straight after dinner.” Maturin grinned and closed his eyes, settling back with a sigh. “Well don’t just sit there and gape, let me here it, then.” Bonden reached into his jacket and pulled out a faded piece of paper, crinkled with fold-marks and cramped on every inch with writing in several kinds of ink. The lines began rough, wobbly, marred with scratches and blobs, growing smoother as the marks became fresher. Alphabets, Bible verses, spontaneous poems dictated in the breezy heights of the rigging. Bonden carefully smoothed out the page and found the newest lines, still mottled from fresh blotting. He wet his lips, swallowed, and spoke into the quiet gloom. Then we upon our globe’s last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky; From thence our rolling neighbors we shall know, And on the lunar world securely pry. Thus to the Eastern wealth through storms we go, But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more; A constant trade wind will securely blow, Bonden looked at Maturin’s face, still and peaceful and rising with each measured breath as he slept. And gently lay us on the spicy shore. There was a book by the water pitcher, something old and French and marked with a pressed fern leaf. Bonden folded the little paper and slid it between the ancient pages, never taking his eyes from his doctor’s face as he turned the lamp down until the cabin was almost entirely lightless. Eyes such as his could keep watch through most any darkness. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Bonden.” The voice reached his ears long before warm light began to soak into his eyelids. He stirred once, drawing in a sleepy breath, and heard it call again. “Barrett.” Bonden opened his eyes, blinking against the blinding glare. The morning sun poured in through the open tent flaps, shining in long stripes across his face where it lay pillowed on clean white sheets. His eyes widened suddenly and he bolted upright, flustered. “I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t—“ The doctor was smiling at him, not a little amused, the imprint of Bonden’s head still pressed into the linen beside his thigh. He looked down at Bonden from his mountain of pillows, pink face flushed above his grin. “A fine nursemaid you are, Mr. Bonden. Jack has been in two times this morning and you stirred not a hair to defend me.” Seeing the expression that flooded Bonden’s face, he added, “He agreed with me that you earned the rest these past days.” Bonden wiped his mouth and rubbed his neck. The doctor stretched a little, his nightshirt gaping over the uncovered stitches of his surgery. Dried blood crinkled at the corners of the sutures, fresh and whole on clean white skin. Bonden watched him move, watched the sun shine on the smooth planes of his freckled face and the dark, sleep-screwed tufts of his hair. The doctor grimaced slightly as he shifted a little higher on fine India linen, and then open his eyes and smiled. His eyes sparkled like the sea at sunrise. “Feels good to sit up a bit,” he said. A cricket game was gearing up outside; Bonden could hear Nagle yelling gleefully over a chorus of laughing voices. The wind brought in the sound of flapping canvas and calling gulls, and the distant rhythm of waves on the shore. Bonden watched the doctor’s hair stir in a fresh breeze. He sat up all at once. “Right, then, I better go,” he said. “The Cap’n’ll be wanting me for lookout duty.” Maturin said nothing as Bonden set his wrinkled clothes to rights and retied his hair. When he was properly tidy, Bonden dipped his head in farewell and turned to go. “Bonden,” said the doctor. “Aye, sir?” “I should like some of my broth, if you don’t mind. It’s on the table there.” Bonden picked up the cup of warm liquid and brought it to the doctor’s side, waiting as he took a long sip, one hand ready for support if needed. When the doctor nodded that he was finished, Bonden turned to set the cup on the table and felt a slim hand settle on the long bone of his forearm. He looked down; white fingers on brown skin, each with their separate scars. Maturin was watching him silently, his thin face still tired but clear in the sunlight. He moved his other hand and produced a small folded page, crowded with crinkled writing. “You seem to have misplaced this,” he said. Bonden took the paper from his hand, and his skin almost softened under fingers that almost moved. “Sorry, sir.” Maturin sat back and scratched his nose. “Paper doesn’t come easily in this beastly Navy, you know.” He looked up at Bonden and lifted an eyebrow. “We should make the best use of it we can. It’s a fine day for penmanship, Bonden -- come back when your duties are finished and we can discuss your many mistakes.” Bonden watched the sunlight refract in the warm blue of his eyes, fueling the smile on his lips, and he hid his own grin as he gave his salute and walked out into the bright morning. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ back