Bilongo

By Brian Ray Brewer

Bilongo is a tale of romantic obsession that weaves its way from an American merchant ship plying Oriental waters onto a string of beaches in Central and South America in which the central character, Rawley Aimes, is torn between his love for his wife and his consuming desire for another woman. This book blends the themes of love, betrayal, redemption and the use and the abuse of occult power in a surrealistic form of writing which restricts the reader to an objective view like that of a hidden camera.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669879787

Brian Ray Brewer

Brian Ray Brewer was once a merchant seaman. He is an award-winning author and inventor who is a graduate of the United States Merchant Marine Academy, Harvard University and other institutions. Brian lives with his wife and daughters on water in Brazil.

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Copyright © 2023 by Brian Ray Brewer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/05/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

853690

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

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C andles flickered on the altar, rippling shadows at the feet of the virgin like breezes over dark water. Maria da Misericórdia looked down in silence at Marina, the young woman who knelt before her, head bowed beneath long raven hair, who prayed:

Ave Maria, cheia de graça, o Senhor é convosco; bendita sois Vós entre as mulheres e bendito é o fruto de vosso ventre, Jesus. Santa Maria, Mãe de Deus, rogai por nós, pecadores, agora e na hora de nossa morte. Amém.

Marina’s fingers moved down the rosary clenched before her. She prayed on:

Ave Maria, cheia de graça, o Senhor é convosco; bendita sois Vós entre as mulheres e bendito é o fruto de vosso ventre, Jesus. Santa Maria, Mãe de Deus, rogai por nós, pecadores, agora e na hora de nossa morte. Amém.

The candles sputtered, then strengthened. Marina stared into their glow as she prayed her novena. Mother of God, into their flames she stared as a scene played out upon ocean waves...

The moon is full and bright, casting an eerie glow to the cloud tops that mull below it, dark and brooding. Rain sweeps beneath them in sheets above the sea, which throws itself chaotic at the sky and at the ship that rides its swell. The ship is but a speck amid the tumult, a dim glimmer, bobbing wild off in the tumbled distance. But it looms larger and soon grows clear with the yellow light that pours from an open portal, dilating round and larger in the instant. Cold rain and spray beat upon the glass, but go unheeded by those within. Rawley drives hard into the woman beneath him with solid rhythm, pushing Lil down into the mattress and back against the metal headboard, which she grips with outstretched hands.

Ave Maria!

Their bodies move in unison, hips pressing together with heightened tempo at her urgent moans.

Santa Maria!

The ship rolls violently, and he works to stay inside her, wedging a leg between the mattress and the bunk without losing momentum. He clutches both her shoulders and pumps her even harder. Sweat rolls down his forehead and chest and falls in salty drops.

Mãe de Deus!

Half a world away at the foot of the virgin’s altar, tears fell from Marina’s brown eyes onto thin, clenched fists bound up in the rosary as she stared into the flame. The virgin looked on in silence as she spoke her prayer, "...rogai por nós, pecadores..."

Lil moans loudly, and her green eyes flutter shut as she bites into his shoulder and cries, Oh, baby. Oh, baby. Oh, yes. Yes. YES!

Rawley looks down on her intently, bathed in sweat, working hard to fuck her and stay mounted in the storm.

Yes!

He pounds on in fury, washing her in rivulets of salt that drip onto her belly where they pool.

All the while, Marina’s trembling fingers were drawn to the cross, which she wetted with tears beneath the eyes of the wooden virgin.

Salve Rainha, Mãe de misericórdia, vida, doçura, esperança nossa, Salve! A Vós bradamos, os degradados filhos de Eva...

Oh baby, that’s it. Just. Like. That.

...A vós suspiramos, gemendo e chorando neste vale de lagrimas...

Harder!

...Eia, pois, Advogada nossa, esses vossos olhos misericórdiosos a nós volvei e depois deste desterro mostrai-nos Jesus, bendito fruto do vosso ventre...

Oh, yes! Yes! YES!

...Ó clemente, ó piedosa, ó doce e sempre Virgem Maria...

Cum now, babe! Hurry up. I can’t take any more tonight. Lil draws a hand through the redness of her hair, then runs it down Rawley’s back, down low to pull him in. Come on, baby. Cum, sweetheart. You’re gonna wear my pussy out!

...Santa Maria, por favor, me ajuda! Por favor...por favor...

Rawley moans and collapses upon her, splashing their sweat onto the mattress.

The portal is bright but grows dim quickly in the distance until the clouds below obscure it.

The candles on the alter guttered beneath the wavering flames, and tears dropped from the crucifix onto the dirty tiles as she prayed her petition. The virgin watched in silence as Marina gathered up her bag and knelt to make the sign of the cross. She walked quickly toward the door of the church, then out into the light that shone beyond.

*****

Come right to two-six-five.

Right to two-six-five, aye!

Rawley glanced over to the rudder angle indicator to check the rudder’s function, then looked to the gyro repeater to watch the swing. The ship hung on the course line for half a minute, then gradually began to tick over. The helmsman brought her up short as she gained momentum so he could hold her steady on the new heading.

Steering two-six-five!

Very well.

Rawley glanced down at the collision avoidance radar and saw that the oncoming ship’s vector had opened. They would pass each other with 200 yards between them, too close on the open ocean but room to spare in the Singapore Straits.

He quickly checked the other vectors that clouded the screen, then walked out onto the port bridge wing to watch the oncoming ship. It was a worn old Russian freighter, hammer and sickle long cut from her stack yet still indelibly etched in shades of rust. As rough as she looked, though, she was down to her marks, still moving cargo from somewhere to somewhere else in the world, still working. She came up on their beam, and he scanned the men that lined the rail with his glasses. They were shirtless, shoeless Malays or Filipinos who faked out the hawsers on deck.

Rawley shifted his gaze forward, first to the tanker they were overtaking, then to the hydrofoil that would cross well ahead and finally mid-channel where a cluster of dugouts had bravely and foolishly set their nets. He would edge over a few degrees to starboard and pass them to port, then would move back to inch between the tanker and an oncoming containership that was still several miles off. He walked backed to the collision avoidance system rechecked the vectors, then ordered, Let’s bring her right to two-five-eight, Charlie.

Right to two-five-eight. Aye, mate.

The ship edged to starboard and her bow arced past the flotilla to point toward the shoals that girded Singapore Harbor.

Steering two-five-eight.

Very well.

The sun shone hot above the towering city of glass and steel and poached it with tropic heat as it did day and night, summer and winter, every day of the year. The harbor boiled with activity: ships headed into and out of the channel; ferries shuttled back and forth; bum boats tended to local commerce; and the ever-present fishing skiffs were amid all, oblivious to the traffic around them, interested only in the traffic below. The air was busy too—he counted no less than four large jets circling the airport, and even as he counted, a flight of low-skimming Singapore Air Force F-16s buzzed by. The planes routinely patrolled those oft-contested waters that marked the disputed borders between three not always friendly nations.

Rawley took bearings off a shoal light and a range marker and walked back through the bridge to the chart room to plot them. The captain was at the chart but stepped aside as he walked in. Rawley quickly scribed in their position and noted the time. They were farther to the right than he wanted to be, 150 yards off the shoals, but the gang of fishing boats close ahead left him little choice other than to veer out to port—out of their lane and into the oncoming traffic. He’d swing back mid-channel as soon as he could.

The captain looked at the position as Rawley plotted it, but if he was concerned, he didn’t show it. Singapore was always busy. Lots of ships in little water. One maneuvered as one could. They both walked back out onto the bridge where the captain took his chair and where he checked the radar for any new targets ahead. There were several. He dropped some they’d passed from the memory and acquired the new ones as he could—the computer couldn’t handle them all. He chose those he judged most pressing, then he was out on the port wing to watch the fishing boats as they drew near.

Fishing boats in the Orient were problematic: one never really knew what to expect when passing them. The rules of the road were as familiar to those poor fishermen as calculus to a crab. Their navigation, as their faith, was in the hands of Allah. Rawley watched them bob, intent upon their nets, heedless of the tons of commerce that steamed so close around them. The boats drew up broad on the beam, then gradually fell behind. He would wait until they were well back before changing course, so as not to swamp them with his wake, something many wouldn’t bother to do. He scanned the traffic up ahead. The oncoming containership looked to be opening up a little in anticipation of his move, and the laden tanker that he was about to pass seemed to be holding her course.

He stepped back onto the bridge and glanced quickly at their vectors, and said, Let’s bring her left to two-six-zero, Charlie.

Aye, mate. Left to two-six-zero.

He watched her swing, then steady up.

Steering two-six-zero.

Very well.

Rawley moved to the center bridge window, abreast of the captain who was still seated and looking at the skyline through binoculars. He grabbed his own from the windowsill and watched the ship they were approaching. Solar Wind, Guangzhou was painted large upon her stern in both English and Chinese. They were drawing up on her port quarter and would pass at about 150 yards. He panned forward, watching the container ship bear down on them at over 20 knots, when the phone rang. He turned to answer it, but the captain motioned that he would get it. The old man struggled up from the comfort of his chair and waddled to the phone.

Hello. Hello!

He slammed the receiver back down into the console.

Damned idiot hung up on me, he said. You think he’d be smart enough to dial the right number on a ship. It’s only two digits for Christ’s sake.

The captain filled his coffee cup and then settled heavily back into his seat, where he sipped it loudly.

As they drew abeam of the large tanker, the containership flew by, close enough to rock them, which was a bit too close. Rawley could hear the slow rumble of her main engine and the cavitation of her prop from where he stood dead center on the bridge, but that didn’t concern him—what did were the storm clouds ahead and the gray curtain that shrouded the channel. A squall was blowing straight toward them and would obliterate their visibility until it passed. The darkening sky bore down upon them and lifted the captain up out of his chair and over to the other radar.

They both worked vectors on the traffic ahead and listed them in order of importance. He stepped to the bulkhead to switch on the automatic whistle, then flipped on their running lights and the clear view screens to afford them small portals through the windows that would turn translucent with the squall.

I’ve got the con, mate, said the captain from the radar. You keep us plotted on the chart.

Yes, sir.

Rawley walked to the other radar and drew bearings from the fuzzy outline of the coast that ghosted on its screen.

Five degrees right rudder. Steady up on two-six-five.

Aye, captain, two-six-five, answered the helmsman.

The bridge windows shuddered from the blast of the whistle that screamed overhead and caused all within to hunker down like soldiers under fire the first time it blew.

Rawley walked back to the chartroom to plot their position. They were back near the center of the lane, nearly a quarter mile off the shoals to starboard and a bit further from the oncoming traffic to port. They were in good shape. He heard the rain hit the bridge when the phone rang again.

Goddammit, grumped the captain.

Rawley walked out to answer the phone but was beaten to it by the old man who already held the receiver and who then slammed it back into the console.

Stupid, cocksucker! Hung up on me again. What a useless fucking crew I’ve got. If that’s the bosun, I’m gonna skin him!

The captain waddled back to his radar and peered down at the blips that covered its screen while the mate walked to the window and peered through a whirring clear viewscreen out into the rain. He couldn’t even make out the catwalk 30 feet below them. Rain pelted the windows head on like spray from a fire hose. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed in answer to the roaring of their whistle. The day turned dark around them. He scanned ahead for any running lights or signs of movement, but saw nothing in the blinding rain, nothing, until...

The moon is full, casting grayish rays into the window of their bedroom which holds a vista of both the street lights below lining the boardwalk along Avenida Pepê and of the Atlantic beyond, whose rollers sparkle silver in the night. Marina doesn’t see the lights, though, nor the rollers. She is staring at the moon. It hangs low and orange in the sky and looks heavy, too heavy to belong there. The air holds all its weight, and she finds it hard to breath. She is lying on his side of their large bed, and she is crying. Tears well and course down to the already sodden pillow. They have flown free and long but won’t stop, and she can’t get to sleep. So, she stares at the moon as if it were an intruder with a secret, which she doesn’t want to share. A candle flickers weakly at their bedside between their two framed pictures. Its flame is dim in the moonlight, just a glimmer. Then it flares...

Sheet lightning flashed dead on, momentarily blinding Rawley. The bridge shook first with thunder, then again under the whistle’s tyranny.

He checked his wristwatch and saw that he was late taking a fix. He walked back to the radar and studied the coast for landmarks before taking two ranges and bearings. He was walking back to plot with them when the phone rang again. He grabbed it on the first ring and said, Bridge, second mate.

There was a silence, then, Hi, babe, can you talk?

It’s a little busy up here now.

Oh, sorry...look, I want you to come down when you get off watch. I need it, babe. I’m ahead in the galley, so I can take a quick break. Come down, as soon as you can. okay?

I’ll be there.

I’ll be waiting.

The line went dead.

Rawley hung up and walked back toward the chartroom, but was brought up short.

Who was that? asked the angry captain.

He hesitated then lied, The chief mate wants me to check some safety equipment after watch.

We’re maneuvering for God’s sake. Why the fuck does he have to do that now?

He started to answer, but the captain looked up from the radar and ordered to the helm, Left 10 degrees. Steady on two-four-zero.

Aye, captain. Turning left ten degrees to steady on two-four-zero.

Rawley walked back to the chart and picked up the dividers with shaking hands, then set them down again. He had lost his bearings.

*****

It was ten a.m. but Saturday, so the beach at Barra da Tijuca was packed. Beach umbrellas sprouted around Marina as soon as she stepped off the boardwalk, and the brightly colored blooms continued down the sand until the lapping surf blocked their progress. The sun felt hot and good on her bronze shoulders. She needed to get out more, down to the beach, which was just across the avenue from their condo, but she rarely did when Rawley was gone. It was ridiculous to live in paradise and not partake of it, but it was her way when he was shipping.

Today was different, though. There was defiance in the air. The confines of the condo, of work and of her life alone were boxing her in. She was out to feel the sun.

Marina walked straight and tall along the water with the pride of youth and beauty. She looked stunning in her bikini, her asa delta, which hid nothing, though there was nothing to hide. What was visible most women would die to have, and most men to possess. And what was hidden...even more so. She looked out to the water, out past the swell, to the granite and jungle islands just offshore. The sky was clear and the sun already high and hot, casting its rays directly down into the blue depths of the water.

She stood and stared into the color until she saw a tanker beyond the islands, which she followed with her eyes. She watched it steam slowly past, toward a terminal somewhere in Niterói or in the Bahia de Guanabara, toward the industrial part of Rio out by the international airport. Time rolled on and people walked by, lovers, gawkers, children and hawkers, and probably several thieves, yet she stood oblivious to all, silently watching as the tanker puffed slowly across the horizon. She didn’t hear the loud group of women her age who came up the beach talking and laughing, who stood behind her to watch her watching the ship.

Marina, called one, an attractive woman who was shorter and slightly thicker at the hip. Marina. Ma-ri-na! Mari!

The woman came close and pulled the band of Marina’s bikini bottom, sending it home with a snap.

Marina jumped and spun around angrily, hand ready to slap, then smiled at her attacker. "Ana Paula! Que supresa! How are you?"

They hugged and kissed on both cheeks.

"Tudo bem. Graças a Deus. And you? How’s it going?"

"Tudo bem. Everything’s just fine. Marina greeted the other women, Oi Silvia, Renata. Tudo bom?"

"Tudo bem, querida. And our solteira? How are you?"

I’m fine, Silvia, but I’m not single. He’ll be back soon—it’s just another three weeks.

"Good. I’m glad to hear it. You bring