Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (26 page)

“Does this mean that forests are not really
haunted?” I whisper to Henry, turning around to see his face. I
feel very clever and mature for having deduced the truth on my
own.

He says nothing and stares at me, coldly
superior. He clicks his tongue at me, shoots me a look of amazed
contempt and rolls his eyes.

How dare he? It was an honest question. Yet I
now burn with embarrassment from Henry’s reaction.

“I hate you so much!” I whisper. “You are
so—“

“I said
sshh
,” he hisses, and grabs my
shoulders from behind. He wraps his arms around my chest in a
protective gesture, as if the participants in the scene are
dangerous, and pulls me backward a step or two. He leaves his arms
where they are, and I do not pull away.

A moment or two passes, and we watch the
couple, frozen within our own thoughts and sensations. I feel
boneless, and melt into Henry, grateful that he is holding me
upright. Arousal, I discover, is as contagious as a yawn. I do not
know that arousal is what has taken hold of me. I feel a secret
sensation I do not admit to Henry, but I now understand that the
look I saw in his eyes was indication that he is feeling this
too.

“We will have to do that ourselves, when we
are married,” Henry finally whispers to me. He picks up a braid and
tickles my neck with the end of it, pressing his lips to the top of
my head. He has not kissed me since we were tiny children, and
never tried until today, yet it seems natural and appropriate. I
like the way he is tickling my neck.

“Us?” I ask shocked. “You would do that to
me?” I sound aghast but do not entirely feel so. I stare
half-interested and half-terrified. I would not have admitted this
to him, but I am more interested than frightened.

“I will have to. We will be married.” Still
standing behind me, he grasps me around the waist and hugs me
tightly, touching his cheek to mine. Strange as it is for Henry to
hold me like this, I still do not pull away. I lean back into him,
and turn soft and pliable in his arms. I feel warm, held as I am
against him. Safe.

“Did you know of this before?” I ask him
while he rocks me back and forth. “Had you seen it done before to
know?” I continue, babbling as I often did. “I did not know that it
was even done at all. Who else does this? Are there others?”

“I’ve seen it,” Henry answers. He does not
mention where and why, though knowing Henry, I suspect he was often
prowling the woods in search of it to watch, following the sounds
that would lead him to it, and moving in stealth. I suspect he has
been watching for quite some time. Had I any experience at all, I
would soon know from the way he touches me, and where, that this is
true, and that he has spent many hours thinking about it on his
own. I would also know it has never been far from his thoughts when
he has looked at me, of late.

“You have seen animals do it. Did you not
know that we will do it ourselves one day when we marry?” His voice
is even, and matter of fact—even nonchalant—as if to deflect
attention from his hands, which have moved up to cup my breasts. I
press back harder against him and think of nothing but his hands
and how they make me feel.

“
I
knew,” he continues in a boasting
tone. “I have spoken in secret to the men. Men and women marry so
they can do that with each other. They like it. See?”

He points to the couple. The woman is
grunting, “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

I have to presume that, if she were unhappy,
she would be saying “No”. It
is
somewhat of a convincing
argument.

As an afterthought, Henry adds, “And you must
do it if you are to have babies, which, of course, we shall have,
you and I.”

I ponder the prospect while watching.

A thought occurs to me. I would wonder about
the woman and whether she was to have a baby, but would do this at
a later time. More practical issues are of concern to me now.

“At least you are not large like he is,” I
state as fact, hoping for confirmation. “I have no place where
something that size would fit. It would not work if you were
large.”

Henry says nothing for a moment, thinking.
“It
always
works,” he says, finally, with conviction.

I have not been spoken to on the subject
myself, and assume he knows of this on some authority. He is older,
and the man.

Still, I am not satisfied with his answer. I
pull away and turn around to ask again, “
Are
you large?”
adding, “I need to see. I want to see for myself.” I not only want
to see his size, I merely want to see, right now, and am
considering it with some anticipation. I do not let on to
Henry.

He backs away from me, and will not say. I
reach over and loosen the tie of his breeches, and try to pull them
down but, irritated and embarrassed, Henry shoves my hands away. He
turns his back to me then slowly, hesitantly, slips his trousers
down past his hips. He turns to me with his hands covering his
groin, and a look of childlike pleading on his face. I know this
look. I feel suddenly tender toward him and reach up to touch his
face, looking into his eyes.

“I will not laugh,” I whisper. “I just want
to see.”

Henry moves his hands away in a gesture both
hopeful and embarrassed. Behind them is revealed a huge, angry
erection.

I stare. This is not the benign organ I had
seen passing water behind trees, nor is it the tiny mushroom I had
seen on him in childhood before modesty forced us into separation.
It is something alive, and vulgar, and grown. I gasp and stop
myself just in time from covering my eyes. I am shocked. His
manhood is shocking. He grew so without ever telling me. When I
look at it, then up at the start of a black beard, I wonder where
my friend has gone, and who this is that I am left with.

For a moment, I am dumbfounded, then I force
myself to speak, and do so gently. I know how easily he is wounded,
and I take advantage of this at times. Something within me warns
that this is not the time.

“It is a very fine one,” I say (just as if I
had some basis for comparison), “but it would never fit. We could
never do that.” I gesture first toward Henry’s organ and then
toward the couple. I hug myself and make myself small while his
organ points toward me, large and threatening. It seems not to
belong with Henry’s hesitant and apologetic face.

Henry looks befuddled, as if at a loss for
conversation now that his breeches are around his ankles. He bends
over to pull them up again, then stops and looks at me as if he
were not being wholly polite, to put it away so soon.

“You can touch it though,” Henry says
affably, moving closer again. “Go on. I will let you touch it if
you like.”

That is very generous of him, I think. I am
curious, and appreciate the offer.

“Perhaps just once,” I say, and finger it
lightly. The skin is as soft as silk and I run my fingers over it
to savor the texture. Henry’s eyes grow sleepier and his head rolls
back. He grabs my hands and presses them hard around himself. It is
very peculiar, that Henry should want me to do this. I wonder if my
parents have ever heard of people doing this. I make a mental note
to ask my mother.

At his insistence, I obediently move my hands
over him. He breathes and closes his eyes, and reaches gently for
my neck, barely touching me. He fingers the hair at the nape of my
neck, and it gives me a shiver of pleasure. He pulls at the ties of
one braid, and then the other, and loosens them. He moves his
fingers up through my hair, and leans over to kiss me. I tilt my
chin up and let him, and am surprised because I like it. I kiss him
back, and then I lose his lips, for they move away to cover my face
and eyes with soft kisses. The arousal I felt in seeing the couple
becomes my own, and the source of it, Henry.

I feel his organ in my hand and remember how
he intends to use it. I pull back sharply.

“This will never fit inside of me.” Terror
and what I believe is common sense take over. “You will hurt me
with it. When we are married, you have to promise me you will never
do that to me. Yes?”

Henry is breathing hard. He answers me with
stern superiority.

“I cannot promise I will not do it. It would
be against nature and God’s will to be married and not take you in
that way, even if it hurts you.” Henry found pleasure in saying
such things. It was manly to hurt a woman. He finds less pleasure
in the act of hurting than in saying he will hurt me. He merely
likes thinking he could hurt me if he willed it, and in imagining
others assume him capable of being rough.

“But you are too
big
!” I insist, near
tears. They are not entirely tears of fear and protest. They are
also born of confusion. This is something I had never been warned
of, and I cannot decide for certain if I am, or am not, eager to
learn more. I have moved away from “eager” to “not” for the
moment.

I reach up and place my arms around his neck,
and hold him hard. When I am afraid or worried, I tend to run to
him for hugs and comfort, and I do so now, even though he is the
source of my anxiety.

Henry cups my face in his hands, attempting a
bargain and a compromise. “I can do it gently. If I were to do it
slowly and softly would you object?” he asks solemnly. “You must
let me do it, after all. You will be my wife, and you must.”

Tears well up in my eyes. I have never been
faced with such as this before. My inclination is to please him,
yet I am afraid. Henry wipes the tears, then gently kisses each
eye.

Nature, with some gradual, small coaxing from
Henry, begins to take its course. The tears dry and are forgotten.
The fears give way to something new. We are kissing and touching
and breathing.

Henry speaks first.

”Perhaps we should test it first before we
marry lest we make a terrible mistake. People who are married
must
do it, so . . . so if we cannot do it because we do not
fit together, we cannot be married in the eyes of God. Everyone
knows that. And if we are not married in the eyes of God, we risk
damnation.” Henry’s expression is one of earnest, God-fearing,
self-righteous good intent.

It is so like Henry. Had I eyes, I would roll
them as I watch.

I nod, dumbly.

“I think we should test it so we do not waste
any more time making plans if they should not be made, yes? It is
important that we know soon, while we still have time to each find
someone else we could marry . . . ” He gulps and continues in a
distracted whisper, “ . . . without sin.” He busies himself with
the laces of my bodice. His fingers fumble.

I feel a moment of concern that Henry is
considering abandoning me. He has never seriously spoken before of
not marrying me. I never realized that our marriage would be
conditional, and would take place only if my anatomy proved
acceptable. I look at him with hurt and alarm in my eyes.

He sees the look and does not need
explanation. He seems slightly ashamed of himself, although I do
not know why he should be. He hurries to reassure me.

“And if it fits, then we shall marry as
planned,” he continues, reaching into my bodice. His fingers are
cold. “Do you agree?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“In my opinion, we should make certain right
now. While we are thinking of it. Before we forget.” His fingers
are making me gasp.

I nod again. I need for it to fit so that
Henry will not marry someone else. I do not want to spend another
instant worrying that it won’t.

I would also like for him to test it for
other reasons.

We pause, momentarily, as the two people
finish their business, straighten their clothes, and pick their way
out of the woods and back to the encampment. We are motionless and
silent so they do not notice us, but Henry is nuzzling my neck and
exploring the contents of my bodice, and I can barely keep still. I
need to be pressed against him and held. I need for him to find me
and touch me.

“Yes? Are you certain?” He has stopped, as if
the full impact of what he is about to do has suddenly occurred to
him. He is looking at me questioningly, hesitantly, with real love
in his eyes. I have never seen love there before—not love like
this—because he is guarded, and has always hidden his love under
scowls. The look shoots an arrow into my heart, which leaps and
responds with a rush of feelings I had not known I felt for him. I
feel so much emotion I sense tears coming to the corners of my
eyes.

He stops to touch my cheek. “Because I will
not, if you do not want to.” His voice is gentle, and he is in
earnest.

“Yes.” I whisper. “We have to know.”

“It is important that we know,” Henry agrees
indecisively, rationalizing. He is suddenly hesitant.

The couple is gone. I can kiss Henry now, and
so I do.

I am not often aware of how deeply I love
him, but I know it with certainty now, and feel it coursing all
through me, powerful and agonizing. I say to him solemnly: “I want
it to fit.”

Henry pulls my head to his chest in a tender
hug. I hug him back.

I see expressions on his face that I missed
at the time. For a few seconds, he appears to be feeling guilty
triumph, then fear. Then suddenly his focus is solely on me and he
knows what to do. He lets his body do what his heart feels. His
heart feels love with the force of a myriad lifetimes.

۞

Love takes on a character that is almost
physical, when viewed from here. I can reach out and nearly touch
the love I see in Henry. It is an impressive, humbling love, and it
is for me. I marvel: a soul is capable of feeling this for me. I
would weep, if I were able. I cannot weep, but I can feel awe.

This force the two of us have created between
us cannot be easily undone I suddenly see—or am I shown? The love
is strong, and it is very old, and it is real, shared equally
between us. It can withstand attack and erosion, and will
regenerate itself no matter how it is despised or ill-used, for it
has been sorely tested over many lifetimes.