The Witchin' Canoe by Mel Bossa

Author:Mel Bossa [Bossa, Mel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2018-12-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18: The Ninth Hour

It must be three in the afternoon, but McGauran isn’t sure what day it is. Maybe Saturday. Yes, Saturday.

In Honoré’s bed, he turns to his side and rests his face on his hand to watch Honoré sleep. Finally, he allows himself to release the emotions he’s been holding back for days, even weeks. He won’t swallow back the tears of joy anymore. They run hot over his cheeks, tasting salty. Maybe like the sea? The truth, the one he’d been trying to deny, lessen, or postpone in the last years, overpowers him now. With a trembling finger, he touches Honoré’s face, and the contact of his skin, so soft and warm, causes him to collapse and hide his eyes in the pillow for a moment. He weeps quietly, letting the tension escape his body. He’s a man washed up on a welcoming shore after years of drifting aimlessly and alone. When the tears subside, he turns his face on the pillow and watches Honoré sleep again.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for him.

They’ve spent the week together, always together, hardly ever parting, save for necessity. The house is theirs to roam. The carriage is at their disposal to go wherever they please. Bernard and the others have stayed out of their way, and he can’t fully understand why.

Why is Bernard so accommodating?

Last night, in Honoré’s bedroom, fresh from a hot bath and scented oils, McGauran sat on Honoré’s bed, gazing out at the moon floating over the Saint-Louis Square. Around midnight, she was a round figure slicing through the smoky clouds, her gentle beams reaching Honoré’s eyes. Candles burned in the many bronze and silver candle-holders scattered around the room, and as the dawn rose, painting the sky pink and gold, Honoré surrendered completely to him, breaking the last wall between them, but though McGauran was the one to enter Honoré, this morning, he feels vulnerable and humbled by the experience. He never knew men could join in such a tender way.

Beside him, Honoré lies on his back, with the sheet tangled around his thigh, Naked and basked in sunlight, he’s an offering, a sacrifice, a vision. His eyes flutter behind their lids. Is he dreaming?

“Honoré…” McGauran wraps himself around his smooth chest, putting his ear to Honoré’s heart. He’s bound to that living pulse. One day, the blood will turn cold in those veins, and then so will his. He gazes over Honoré’s naked body, following the curve of his stomach, the line of fine brown down running under his navel, and then his attention lingers over the part of Honoré that is so much like his, and yet so different, tantalizing and mysterious.

After a while, he covers their bodies with the sheet, sinking into Honoré’s arms. As he drifts into a light slumber, somewhere near, a church bell rings. Then another. And another. All around the neighborhood, bells toll, chiming louder and louder, as they call out to one and other in their wordless language.

Father Hayes taught him the canonical hours.

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