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Chapter 4

Gouentine

"Make yourself look as handsome as possible, angel!" I commanded my otherworldly guest, pressing my fingers into the doorway. Whether it's from a lack of sleep, or genuine excitement (Thank the twins!), a wicked smile curls across my lips. I kick my hooves and sprint down the hall, past my bedroom's horrid state. I turn around again, entering my bedroom and yelling at Angel. "And meet me at the front door!"

Then comes the voice of my mother screeching from her dungeon. "GOUENTINE!"

"COMING, MOTHER!"

Twins, three pitchers of that tea wasn't enough to prepare me for this struggle. Dealing with the Angel, a lack of sleep, possibly the Mayor and his attendants, and now my mother? A splitting headache comes as I struggle to find my brush among all the dresses splayed on the floor.

Brushing my hair quickly, my hand falters, and my vision blurs. I swoon over to the mirror, blow off some dust, and immediately regret seeing the bags under my eyes.

I shove my hole muzzle into the basin. Pulling my head out, coughing, I slick my hair back and somewhat become more awake. Come on, Gouentine! Good times are ahead!

Mother yells for me again. Blasted bitch just give me a second! Kicking aside dresses, I leave my little personal Sodom and close the door. I can already imagine my proposition to the Mayor. The benefits! The future! It'll be bright and new, the opposite of this hallway and its rotting wallpaper. The opposite of this corpse of a house! A new home will be built! Greater! All thanks to that lovely Angel and the blessing of the twins! Good times ahead!

And then I remember my mother calling for me. I stop before her chamber, sticking my head in to witness her decrepit face behind mounds of cow-skin comforters.

"Who is in your bedroom, Gouentine? Please tell me they're rich."

"It's an angel, mom!" I sputter, my jaw feeling heavy.

"Young Ewe, if you lie like that, you'll never find a man."

Upon hearing the knocking on the door downstairs, I felt relief. Any excuse to leave my mother, even to deal with the Mayor, is welcome. "No, mother, I'm serious. In fact, that's the Mayor here to confirm it."

"Gouentine Thorin Boyse, you have left your mother ill time to prepare for guests! I outta box your ears!" Then, like an angry twig, my mother rustled out of her comforters, trying her best to settle her dainty hooves on the floorboard. Seeing her move so fast left me in such a state of unease I sprinted to her side and tried to guide her back under the blankets.

"Gouentine!"

"Mother, please, return to resting. You're in no state to see guests."

Then came the intense knocking of the bronze knocker against our front door. I heard Whispering voices, a group of at least five. Chemri's voice was well and clear, a part of that group. To see her this soon and in this state, dealing with my mother, lacking sleep, and having an angel? Ah, twins, why do you give me your most challenging battles?

I grip my mother's thin arm and look into her eyes. Golden pupils, gazing through crusty and baggy eyes with the same intensity and intelligence that captured my father decades ago. Eyes that could cut me down in better days. "Mother. Rest."

Her eyes die like embers of a soaked flame, filled with disappointed acceptance. Then, finally, her eyes close as the physically weak lady returns to rest among the blankets and pillows.

"I will represent us with pride, mother," I say, leaving the room and being sure to close the door behind me before heading down the stairs.

I take a deep breath. There is weight on my head and under my eyes. But by the twins, through carrying these weights in this tumultuous storm, I will be made more robust!

And then I nearly trip passing into the foyer. Blasted ruugg aaaah! I kick that aside too, almost losing my step down the stairs, and fumble onto the carpet before the door.

The corpse of a house. Scrambling to the door, I tap my chest, cough, and take a deep breath. My head swells. Fatigue picks at my eyes. Sleep later, Gouentine. Good times are ahead, Gouentine.

I open the door a crack and then peer into the waiting crowd. First, there was the gaunt face of the Mayor, his eyes looking darker under the large twisted knots of his Merno horns. He wore an oversized khaki tall coat over a blue vest and a pink bowtie. Then there was the Cleric, of the same stock, his horns covered in growths like the skin of a pumpkin and wearing robes traditionally found on the men of his position. Were this not the king's land, then he would be the only one to bother me, and it'd be a worse case dealing with only him.

Then behind the rams, I see my blue-eyed friend herself, Chemri! And a lady in waiting. We trade nods of silent greetings as the Mayor coughs.

"Good Morning, lady Broyne. Prey chance is your mother here?" The Mayor's voice has the tone of a business-like bucket of tar.

"Good morning, my Laird. I'm afraid my mother is ill and resting." The wool on my back is electrified as I anticipate his reaction. If mother had to talk to the Mayor of all people in her current state, it'd be the end of her!

"Well, I wish her a speedy recovery. She's not necessary for our discussions, seeing as you're the one who found the Angel. If rumors are true."

Discussions? More than just the topic of the Angel? I breathe a sigh of relief. Good times are ahead, Gouentine. "Oh, the rumors are true, my laird."

The Mayor shows his yellow teeth, giving me a smile that raises my anxiety. "I am pleased to hear that, my lady."

Then the door is pulled away from my grasp as the Cleric comes forward. His voice enters my ear like a chorus of nagging hags. "Enough of these trivialities. You know the rules, lassy. Angels found on the crown land belong to his majesty."

I step back as the Cleric enters my house. No longer do I feel lethargic. This dreaded fellow has awoken the anger passed on by ewes on my mother's side for generations. "I have the Angel. I have the right to him, for I was the one who found him."

"Who says?" Snarls the Cleric.

"Says I!" My eyes wander to Chemri, who, along with her lady servant and the Mayor, are all now in my house. Memories flood forth of our times at the parish. "By my education, earned by my father's service to the crown, on the parish belonging to his majesty for whom you claim to speak for! That is how I know I am right."

The Cleric grits his teeth while the Mayor turns to Chieri. I haven't the faintest idea of their relationship, but I can only guess it's as cold as the sea at night. She's just a source of information to him! My blood boils with anger, and my ears ring as I hear the Cleric's reply.

"No. To claim that the stories you were told as a wee lass are equal to the Clergy's God-given canon? Blasphemy of the highest sake. As treacherous as hearing the pride by which you mention your father!" He spits on my carpet. The curmudgeon! If I had a broom in my hand, it would be for that ram's round face!

"Father, are you saying the king's education means not, and so the king-"

"Do not try to weasel your way out of this!" The Cleric was now in my face, his muzzle spelling snot as he spoke seemingly with every orifice of his head. "By the droop of my ears, that angel does not belong to you, or so help me, twins!"

And then, realizing he had taken the lord's name in vain, the Cleric immediately turned round and began kneeling. Then, as he prayed, issuing a hail mary, I turned to plead to the Mayor.

"My laird, please!"

"Lady, the time for pleasantries is over." The Mayor said, removing his black coat and tossing it to his lady servant. Then, with a jagged hoof, he pointed at me and spoke. "You are stubborn like your father! Remember the last time I trusted him? I lost my ship! To trust you is to lose as well!"

"My laird!" I raised my arms and saw movement in the corner of my eye. Up the top of the stairs, once more in his alien outfit, the Angel. NO. My Angel. Watching this confrontation unfold.

Having finished appeasing for his sin, the Cleric turned to face me and caught a glimpse of Angel. Then, with a wicked grin, he moves past the Mayor (their horns knocking against one another) and shoves me up the stairs towards my last bastion of hope.

Twins, please! My head is alit with the pure emotion of panic and despair! Not even the saddest memories are drawn forth! Not even divine inspiration or newly found courage come to me! After all that has happened to me, not even instinct pushes me to be defiant.

I feel weakness in my knees and stumble over to a chair and pinch my forehead. I was going to leave my father's manor! I was going to be forced onto the streets! I may have to beg, to grovel, or even worse! I was indeed at my wit's end!

Then came the sound of struggle from the stairs.

"What are you doing?" Angel asked most plainly.

"You're the property of his majesty."

"Yeah, who says?"

"Says the canon! Do you not know your own laird's laws? Are ye a product of the evil twin himself?"

I felt a tinge of annoyance and pity as I witnessed Angel's casual attempt at resistance. And then I noticed that he was silent instead of the impulsive and frank way he usually spoke. Only a few seconds, bare in mind. Still, as he resisted the tugging of the Cleric against his arm, he lowered his head, and then as if he meant to fly, he stood on the tips of his leather shoes and announced in the most booming voice:

"NAE! For what trivialities do I owe such common sense laws when I have spent my life on but one craft?"

And then, with strength I've never seen in similar actions before, the Angel threw off his overcoat and presented the back of his blouse. Stretched across his admittedly muscular back, a figure much like an angel, adorned in a tri-corn like the musketeers of his majesty and bearing a Sabre in low guard. Beneath said blade were brightly colored and bold words: BUCCANEERS.

Chemri gasped as I nearly fell from my seat. Was Angel confessing to being what he denied this whole time, a disciple of the terrible twin and a partaker in piracy that which only the scum of the Menlo partook in?

"EXPLAIN THINESELF, FOR THOU HAVE ONLY MADE YOURSELF APPEAR MORE GUILTY, YOU LECHEROUS MARAUDER!"So screamed the Cleric, the fur under his neck quaking with his jowls.

"YOU ARE MISTAKEN! YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THE CANON BY WHICH YOU CONDEMN ME!"

Angel once more was donning his coat, his eyes closed and a smirk returning to his face. He raised a finger to the muzzle of the Cleric, who had his arm across his face and elbow towards Angel, expecting that perhaps the furless atrocity might cast lightning or explode into flames. "I would not expect anything less from a ram who forgets that Gluttony is a sin."

"Why I'd never!" The Cleric was now clenching his fists in rage as the Angel slowly walked down the flight of stars. "If you're not a pirate of the evil twin, then, pray tell, what are you?"

"You fool! Do you not remember my name, which is etched upon the walls of every doorway of the mills along the coast of the mainland? The name for which sailors friend and foe alike pray during a storm, seeking their vessel to see the next morning!"

Now it was the clerics' turn for silence, his hooved fingers rubbing against the fat rolls that took his chin. "Peadar?"

"THAT'S me! I am the builder of boats, creator of crafts, I am the saint of shipwrights, and the builder of the vessel all you must pay a toll to ride to reach the twin's heavenly abode."

Next, the Mayor spoke, newfound energy in his voice of excitement as he came to realize who he was coming into possession of. "Yes! Of course, the Snowdrop, the currach by which all must ride with Obol."

"That's a good design right there. So timeless. So efficient. You never hear of anyone falling into that river on their journey, and it's because of my work."

"Alright. Excellent. You've proved yourself not an evil angel." Now the Cleric was smiling and hooking his robe-covered around the Angel like he were a lady on a date. "Shall we take you to his majesty? "

"Nae, I belong to lady Gouentine."

"WHAT!" The Cleric stomped, but before more words could be sputtered out of his crooked-toothed mouth, the Angel raised his voice again.

"WHY BUY THE COW When you can get the milk for free?"

Milt? Can this Angel not be perverted for a moment?

The Cleric was fuming. "Cows milt? MILT? WHAT?"

Now it was time for the Mayor to comment. "Does he mean that in heaven, they buy the seminal fluids of cows?"

"No." Angel jumped three steps and landed where I was. "Well, maybe that living embodiment of evil you associate me with, but that's irrelevant. I can build you ships, especially whatever vessel this lady's father lost for you, and in exchange, I'd like to stay at this house. This lady here has been taking care of me, so there's no point in assigning someone new. And in her being my steward is enough to not charge her rent and take her house. How about that?"

"Preposterous." The Mayor was now fuming. "I could have you build ships from sun up to sun down and then cast you into a dungeon whenever you're not needed because you're on his majesty's property and he a divine representative. Thus by canon law, you are to help he that which is second only to your creators, the twins."

"Is the king here?"

"What? No-"

"So you'd be in charge of me."

"Well, yes-"

"But you're not second to the twins."

"Well, I was chosen-"

"Well, I was given divine orders to help this ewe."

Angel had turned to face me with a warm and genuine smile. It brought tears to my eyes.

I can't believe it.

They didn't mention this in Sunday school.

But it is a welcome surprise.

"As the only member of the Clergy on this island, It is my job to interpret the twins will! Not you…you… you rogue homunculi!"

"Between the two of us, I am the only one who has spoken to the twins. And let me tell you, the one thing they hate more than a sinner is a hypocrite." Angel walked up to the Cleric, his hands in his pocket, his eyes low. Darkness, vileness, anger only conceived by divine intent pierced into the Cleric's soul, sending the fat round ram on his ass, heating. "Are you going to add to your fuck ups by screwing with me?"

The Cleric failed to stutter a proper answer, and with sweat drilling down his fur, he nodded 'no.'

"Good." Then Angel turned to face the Mayor. "What were the specs of the ship you lost?"

"The what?" Said the Mayor.

"The weight. The tonnage. The Draft. The number of masts. The shape of sails. Length, width, hold. What were the ship's specifications that this lady's father perished on?"

The Mayor was dumbfounded. Then I spoke up. "I have the design. It was left when my mother inherited the estate."

"Alright. I'll remake the ship you lost. First one is free. Then, you pay this lassy for every vessel built afterward."

Still, the Mayor felt like he had to show some resistance." You'll have to also hire the crew for me!"

"Deal." Shifting through his coat pockets, Angel pulled out what appeared to be a miniature white tube and a metal box and, in an instant, was using a flame from the box to light the tube. Putting the tube to his mouth, he looked ridiculous. Still, he exhaled something I hadn't smelled since my father sat by the fireplace and read his paper: Tabacco. "Day after tomorrow, I'll swing by your office with plans. I'll need materials."

The Mayor swiped his hands before his muzzle. "You'll get what you need."

Angel stood before the Mayor and offered his hand: "What was this vessels name?'

And like that, they shook hands. "The Evening Star."

Their business concluded, the Mayor turned and pointed out the door. Chemri and her maid bowed, and then she winked at me before leaving. Then the Cleric followed suit, his robes dragging behind him like a freshly harpooned cow. And then finally, the Mayor was at the doorway when he turned and said one last thing.

"I also wanted to discuss how you would pay a larger rent. But, seeing as your Angel was a good negotiator, my point is moot. Have a good day Lady Broyne."

And with our visitors gone, I immediately ran up to the Angel and hugged him.

"Ah, don't mention it, Gwen." He said, his voice a harmony to my drooping ears. "I just figured that if you want to get something done, you must speak their language. I don't know how you guys speak like that. It's like mouth puke. Constant run-on sentences if someone had to write it down."

I gave little thought to his words. The ground was calling my name and my knees obliged. Slowly falling down, leaning against the Angel, my Angel, who had won the day and given me hope. No, given me the opportunity to rest. For once, fear was no longer in my mind. And so I could sleep.

"Gwen? Uhh… Gouentine?"

A memory of my father hugging me. Then strong arms, not my fathers, but not unkind, carrying me up the stairway to heaven into a bed of clouds. Good times are…