hoje
no vento do norte
fogo de outra sorte
sigo para o sul
sete mares

(sete mares - sétima legião)

The preparations had hastily been completed: now it was time for them to say their goodbyes and finally board the ship. Antonio feels something sharp like glass turn and scratch his chest, growing harsher and harsher like climaxing thunder. His eyes fall on his brother — the older brother that used to scoff at Antonio's mischievous shenanigans, the one who would tell him off for combing his hair the wrong way or something of such irrelevant caliber. The man who had been there with him, for him, all this time, is now leaving. That's his brother stepping right foot first, left foot second into the marvellously carved wooden ship, and he's not yet ready to believe it.

He's leaving soon. That's the man that used to dream of geography books filled with exquisite illustrations of nature and the wonders of the world. Afonso dreamt of sailing the sea and discovering faraway land, of reaching further and further.

He was a boy. Boys had dreams.

Sitting by the olive tree leaning against Afonso always made him feel a little bit more human than when he was taking orders from his bosses. In those moments, he felt like they were real boys, brothers born from the same mother. Their skin touched and it felt like real skin, not like parchment paper where treatises were signed. He sighs, as he wonders when he'll feel human again.

This is goodbye for a while, Antonio thinks bitterly. For all his life, he'd never been able to imagine what life would be like without his brother constantly taunting him from the border: the lack of a vividly painted picture of his loneliness lets him know that it will probably hurt much more than he'd been anticipating. He had prepared, but he was not ready.

Portugal's the brother who had defeated his people's army that warm August day in Castille; the brother that had once gently ruffled his disheveled hair and told him to behave, the one who would find them both something to eat whenever unexpected famishes hit their nations. Whenever they (Antonio) were starving and cowering as little kids, he had always been there. The one who used to tuck him in bed and tell him stories that sounded like the kind of fairytales people would make up when they were too bored and had too much alcohol in their cups; but he told him in a way that made them sound like history being passed down for generations.

Conquistador.

There he was.

And the sea, the sea stretching from north to south, from east to west, from—from there to anywhere — it would all, soon, belong to him.

Staying at home had been tempting; but rarely was he determined to be a good brother, and today had been one such occasion. Antonio knew coming here wouldn't make up for all the fights and wars they'd fought, that the hollowness in his chest didn't compare to the way they never let each other's wounds heal completely, how they'd much rather keep them open and bleeding, like they'd found the flowing rhythm of their blood to be a sort of sickly sweet lullaby. This was a humble and simple gesture that he hoped his brother would understand, a simple gesture of kindness and camaraderie and, dare he say, love, that he hoped would let Afonso know he was sorry for everything.

Having heard that his brother was leaving, Antonio thought nothing of it at first. In fact he'd been glad that he would not have to see him on a daily basis anymore: the constant arguing would finally be put to rest. Antonio had been wishing for peace for a long time, or so he had believed. And yet when the fateful day arrived, something had compelled him to jump out of his bed, afraid that he'd miss the undocking of the ship, afraid that he wouldn't be allowed a chance to say goodbye, and many other things.

Perhaps he should have stayed under the covers, dreaming up scenarios where everything fell into the right place at the right time, fantasizing about a time and place where they'd be able to share themselves fully with each other. He is usually an open and carefree person, but it's different with his brother. For one, they have no one but each other; for another, their mess of a relationship brought Antonio solace and respite from the demands of his superiors. His brother was a safe haven for him. But now Portugal was leaving for a long time, and although the travels across the sea were not a rare occurrence, this time had a different weight to it. There were more people at the dock, there were larger, better crafted ships awaiting for them. All moments had lead up to this moment, where his brother and his people would attempt the impossible: to sail across the ocean and find land. But Antonio suspected this would be a much longer journey than their excursions along the African coast; a longer stretch of sea lay dormant waiting to be explored, and with it, a myriad of unimaginable perils.

Boys had dreams, but they also left out a chunk of reality.

And now reality was hitting him as softly as the rhythm of the sea slowly filling up his boots at shore, his feet cold, a brown dusty cape waving in the wind, carried by a small morning breeze coming from the ocean. The sun was up, but some stubborn heavy clouds still pooled across the bottom of the sky. They would probably be facing a storm on their first night at sea.

Antonio winces painfully, catching a glimpse of Afonso as he steps onto the deck, his back turned to Antonio.

The sailors, scarcely dressed with strips of fabric tightly wrapped around their tanned torsos, with trousers too large for their skinny, trembling legs, wave their sun-kissed calloused hands at wives, sons and daughters, at relatives and priests, at all the people they don't know but yet share a story with, a story about the people who leave and the people who stay. Amidst the crowd Antonio catches saddened smiles, wrinkles at the corner of the Portuguese people's dark brown eyes: they're happy and sad at the same time. The excitement of leaving this little corner of the world to explore the mysterious seas mixes in the air with the vacancy these people will leave behind. That familiar feeling sinks in like an anchor. It's saudade, Antonio remembers with a smile. It might be.

Now he sees his brother turn around, his bottom hidden by the decks' thick walls and he smiles a smile that almost break his jaw, and Antonio thinks, "This is for your people. This isn't for you. This isn't for me." He waves back with a hand that doesn't feel like his, like it's acting against his will. The skin shines gold in the eerie morning light, and Antonio feels like it's a bit of a dream, that it isn't real, it doesn't feel real. The fog makes him feel as though they are characters in a painting, a sight too beautiful which he wishes to cherish close to his chest for a long, long time. If only he could keep the memory forever.

The smooth morning breeze ruffles his hair and cape again, and it might just not be a delirious vision after all.

"Dios mío, le proteja," he thinks, his eyes blinking at the realization that strikes him like thunder. His feet sink deeper into the mud, his boots filling up with filthy water. From the ship he can't see Portugal anymore, lost amidst the sea of sailor and ship maintenance crews. He sees some noblemen here or there, but does not consider them reliable enough to pass on his message.

Perhaps it's a message that doesn't need to be said with words. Perhaps Portugal already understands, and saying anything at all might be redundant.

Regardless, he wants to try.

He's constantly reminded that their fate isn't really theirs; that their lives depend on the will of governments and kings, on priests and bloodthirsty mercenaries. Antonio shouts for him. He turns around, unable to hide his surprise at hearing his name, his human name. Afonso excuses himself with the captain and gets on the platform, where his brother's green eyes glistening with unshed tears. He feels himself mirroring the gesture, like he's done so many times before: they are each other's most perfect reflection.

There is no sob or word uttered as Antonio buries his head in his chest, holding as tight as he possibly can.

Antonio's gotten used to thinking of himself as human whenever he finds his brother's arms within reach and finds his way into that warm embrace. Over the centuries, it's become a comfort to look forward to, and now that comfort is being pried away from his clutching hands.

It's always in moments like these that he feels himself to be made of flesh and bone. (And the salt of his tears.)

heyyy reader, don't leave just yet! would you be so kind to leave me a comment? i know times are tough, but it's little things like your comments that keep me going. thanks for taking the time to read.

shaka moon

november 2021