Free To the Edge of the World by Michele Torrey

blazing beside us. I had played my guitar and sang so much, I despised hearing myself. But Aysó, dearest Aysó, whenever I stopped, she motioned for me to play again. So I played again. How could I say no?
    She sat beside the fire on a bed of leaves, cross-legged, weaving a chain of flowers. Already she had woven one chain into a circlet, which she had placed atop her head. “Mateo,” she whispered, smiling to herself, her brown eyes peeping shyly from beneath the delicate crown. “Mateo.”
    I sang her a love song. Already I had sung it, what? Eight times? Nine? I had composed it myself and thought it very good.
    Eyes like water,

Lips like wine,

I drink your love,

Sweet love divine. . . .
    Then her hand clasped over mine, stopping my strumming. “Mateo,” she whispered again. My breath caught in my throat as she quietly, slowly, placed the circlet upon my head. I could smell her sweet warm breath. Then she gazed at me, and I swore I saw love in her eyes.
    But when I reached out to caress her, she gently took my hand and placed it on the strings of my guitar. She pointed at my guitar and at me. “You want me to play? Again?” In answer, she rubbed my hand across the strings. I smiled at the sound it made.
    And so I played and sang while she made circlet after circlet, draping them on her, on me, on my guitar. I grew weary, the scent of so many flowers intoxicating. I imagined myself as a bee, drunk on nectar. The night became a dream, hazy, as if I watched myself from far away as I sang and played and sang and played, dizzy with love. Finally, my eyelids drooped. I stopped playing, laying aside my guitar, expecting Aysó to protest. But she was not even listening.
    Instead, she lay curled beside the now smoldering embers, asleep on her bed of leaves, surrounded by flowers. Embers snapped and the orange of firelight flickered across her face, etching her in softness. She looked like a painting, motionless on a canvas. I watched her for a long time, unwilling to end this moment. Then, quietly, I removed my dagger, took off my shoes, and lay down beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist, imagining us together forever.
    She moved closer to me as the sweet scent of crushed flowers twined through my senses. Sleep pressed upon me. The last thing I remember was the whisper of her name on my lips, painted across my heart.
Aysó . . .
    There was a distant shouting in the jungle that night, but I pulled Aysó closer and heard her sigh before I fell back to sleep.
    Waterfalls. Dreams of flowers. Lips like wine. Shy eyes beneath a
crown of petals. . . .
I rolled over, dimly aware that the jungle darkness receded, that the fire was cold. Birds chorused overhead. Then a squawking, louder, louder . . . a rustling. The birds flew away.
    Suddenly, I was yanked to my feet by my hair. My scalp screamed with pain. My blood surged with shock. Aysó shrieked and clung to me before she was torn away.
My God, what is happening?
    Then a marine shoved his face into mine, his features vague and distorted in the early morning light.
    My heart leaped into my throat. Sleep vanished in an instant. I saw the deep shadows of pockmarks and knew I was in trouble again.
    “You, Dog-Boy, are in violation of a direct command from the captain-general!” Spittle showered my face, my eyes.
    “Command? But—but—I—”
    “We have been searching for you through the night! I have lost sleep because of you, Dog-Boy. Shore leave is hereby canceled. Report to the ships immediately to prepare for departure. We leave in a few days.”
    Another marine stood beside Pock-Face. He was black-haired, black-eyed, and hook-nosed, reminding me of a crow. I did not like the glint in his eyes as his gaze swept over Aysó. A chill ran through me.
    “I—I—must gather my things,” I said quickly, wanting to end this, to lead them away from Aysó, back to the waiting ships.
    Pock-Face shoved me toward my shoes. “Hurry. The captain-general is waiting. You sore