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But it was the shame from which Stilian had fled. From the time Andrei grew his first pubic hair, there always seemed to be someone jerking off. It was understood among the boys that you might do it, but like visiting the privy, you did not discuss it, at least not in front of Father. A beating was the likely result of that folly.
    The proper response to someone jerking off after the lantern was dimmed was to pretend you didn't hear it. If you were horny and you got a boner, you took care of it as quietly and efficiently as possible. This careful obliviousness lasted until the year after Stilian began to grow a dark thatch of his own. The problem was that Stilian's canniness came in with his pubic hair. Before long, when his brothers were feeling randy, so was he. It didn't matter if he touched himself; as soon as he felt the familiar earthly heat from one of his brothers, his cock went up like the tail on a startled deer. As his brothers beat to their private rhythms, so did he. When they came, so did he, whether he would or no.
    It didn't take long for his brothers to notice Stilian's problem. At first, they teased him. The randy runt would grow hair on his palms. Maybe he should keep a bucket by the bed. Then there were sidelong glances, muttered comments, and finally open name calling. The runt was sick. He was a pervert. He was degenerate. Stilian's worst fear was that they were right, and he began to hate the tyrannical new body that had him in constant fear of embarrassment and humiliation.
    Matters got worse during harvest, when the family was working late into the evening to bring in the crops. One day, Arnost stayed home with a fever. The sick boy was upstairs in the loft, where he was supposed to be sleeping. The boys gathered around the table for a late, cold, supper. But Arnost must have woken up from his nap feeling better. Finding himself alone, he took advantage of the rare privacy and began to stroke himself. Unfortunately for Stilian, Arnost neared his finish just as Father began to thank God for the bountiful harvest. Stilian, slouching in his seat to hide his erection from the sharp eyes of his brothers, froze, and tried desperately to think about something else. It was no use, and soon Stilian was breathing hard in time with his horny brother and trembling with the effort of staying silent. As Arnost came, Stilian shuddered and spurted into his britches. An unmistakable musky smell rose into the evening air. Stilian returned to himself to find his father staring at him with a thunderous rage working his face.
    "What is this blasphemy! Would you mock the Lord's grace?"
    "I meant no blasphemy! It was Arnost. I felt him. He--"
    "Arnost is upstairs. You blame your brother, who is sick with a fever, for your sacrilege? What has he to do with your, your--I do not have words for it. Come with me." He lifted Stilian bodily from his chair and dragged him through the door into the barn. "Strip." He took a whip from the wall, where he kept it for occasions when he felt the boys' behavior warranted it. "Bend over." He laid a stripe on Stilian's butt and continued to whip him long after Stilian could no longer hold back his cries. That night, Stilian's brothers told him that he could no longer sleep in the loft. Andrei said, "If you would rut in public like a beast, then with the beasts you will live."
    Harte

    Harte stood inside the waterfall, watching water run down the thick panes of hand-made glass that formed the skylight and outer wall of the solar. A strong breeze ripped and tore gaps in the grey clouds, periodically lighting up the windows and putting a spotlight on one of the paintings mounted on the walls of the room. The room was a gallery for his mother's work. As a child, he had spent many hours watching her paint here. She had a strict rule. He was not allowed to touch the brush or the paints; they were her magic tools. But he was welcome so long as he was quiet and did not disturb her.
    Blinking, he