“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 3

I have posted some of this novel on this blog over the years.  Wrote this in 2006, my second attempt at writing a novel.  It was 3 years of research into Celtic Mythology and there were other books that pushed it to the back burner.  It has a lot of sex, but perhaps that comes because earlier novels have many issues and how to present the sexual activity between characters is a major one.  Unless you are writing about nuns.  So, I will leave it up to the reader.  I am just the writer.  In fact, with this novel, it seems the characters did the writing and I was just a mere scribe.  Perhaps that happens when you  don’t know what you are doing.  

The Demon (Garrett Cortelyou, Dutch) torments Bess, a writer he has snatched from the 21st century to the New Jersey Dutch countryside of 1832.  He can read Bess’ mind.   He’s an attractive devil but insecure.

Lady Nyo

 

 

“DEVIL’S REVENGE”

Chapter 3

Stretching like a cat, I awoke slowly. Suddenly I smelled the strong scent of wood smoke and bounced upright in bed. Looking around, I saw the fireplace and realized where I was. Damn, it was happening again! The Demon was playing fast and loose with my molecules, zapping me from my own comfortable bed and century. How in hell does he do this? Hah! Like he would tell me, but at least this time I wasn’t sick to my stomach.

The Demon had a name, Garrett Cortelyou. Cocksure of his charms, arrogance fed into seduction and he was a danger to my decorum and decency. Compounding the situation he was devilishly attractive and exuded an unearthly charisma. He was master of a particular brand of sexual magic and his appetite knew no bounds. He delighted in corrupting me, shocking me with his…. techniques. I would call him a libertine. He had little concern I was married and I forgot I was when he was near. There was a certain charm in his humor and he was an entertaining devil. Sexual encounters with him were addictive and probably dangerous. But this could not continue – I was losing control of myself. What kind of world had he pulled me into? Why was I here? This was insanity and since it happened over and over, I knew I was not dreaming.

 

I also knew somehow… answers to this present situation revolved around the novel. Perhaps if I kept writing until the end it would resolve. I could return to my comfortable, boring life with my husband and my chickens and this excitement and unreality would disappear. I realized the book was a key, but which door did it open?

And then this demon? Well, I really didn’t know that he was a demon, just guessing. I didn’t have anything else to call him and ‘demon’ fit for some reason. Perhaps it was the magic and the mind reading, but I needed a name for him. What part did he really play in the scope of things? He was a sharp-eyed critic and petards my writing with his presence and demands. I knew he wasn’t ‘real’, oh real enough in some physical sense, but there were other considerations. How did he materialize and why? And why me? Of course, he used the ready excuse of the book and how I thought I had brought him ‘into life’, but the power of words, my words, couldn’t upset the universe to such a remarkable extent. No, there were other forces at work, and I would just have to discover in time what they were.

Here I was, early morning by the light in the room, and again, in a strange bed. I had to pee, and knew from past visits where the chamber closet was. It was cold in the room, the fire was dying down and I hurried across the floor. The sound of a pee in a china pot is quite intimate, as water with our modern toilets muffles sound. Leaving the closet, I stumbled over my feet in surprise. There, sitting in a chair, was the demon.

“I thought we agreed you would refer to me as your “Demon Lover”? Garrett was eating a large slice of currant bread, the Dutch escapes me–

“Kretenbroad”, he said, dusting the crumbs off his chest as he chewed.

“Thank you, the word eluded me.”

“Anna makes good kretenbroad.. I think I will marry her.” He grinned and snapped his fingers, making a dish of tea appear on the table.

“You could do worse.” According to the first novel, Anna was the spinster niece of Daniel Griggs, the manservant who lived in this house for thirty years.

“Much more. Get your facts straight.”

“Garrett, what gives you leave to invade my bedroom at all times of the morning?”

Still chewing his bread, he gave a devilish grin. “I like celestial music in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? What music?”

“The music a woman makes when she pees in a chamber pot,” he said, still grinning.

“You are a nasty demon.” I was getting impatient with his antics and he took great liberties.

“Come drink your tea before it cools”. He dusted the crumbs to the floor.

I sat down in my nightgown, and picked up the ‘dish’ of tea. It really was a bowl with two handles, but every time he conjured up tea, it was good.

“Of course it is, I made and stirred it with my –“

“Don’t tell me, Garrett, I won’t be able to drink.” He really was vile this morning, and his visits were always backed with a purpose.

“Always backed”? He rolled his eyes and snorted. “That’s more garbled English. Write it in Dutch.”

“All right, Demon!” He was so irritating. “”Why are you here?” (Better I ask why I am here…) I was struggling with the book, trying to finish and every time we were together in this room, there was a setback in my writing, or a detour, or something strange and distracting.

“Oh? You see me as a distraction? I can be more dangerous than that.” He burped loudly. He had the table manners of a goat.

“Bahhh”. He grinned crazily, and for whatever reason he appeared this morning, I was heading for trouble.

“First, give me your hand, and be more tender towards me.” He extended his hand across the table, and gave me a sweet smile. For some reason, he did this each visit. I never trusted him, especially when he was extending his paw.

“Hand.” He nodded to himself. “And call me ‘Lover’. I miss that.”

I had to smile. He was such an insecure devil.

“I am not. It’s just that you are a bad writer.” He lunged across the table and grabbed my hand. “And still not so fast on your feet.”

A current flowed from his hand to mine. I was knocked back at the intensity of his touch. He had done this before but something was different today.

“You fed me. See, Bess, I was starving, and your cooking restored my strength.” He grinned and squeezed my hand. “Anna made me stronger, too…and I thank thee for her.” Anna was a good Dutch cook, apparently.

“I don’t think I want to fokken her, though.” He couldn’t resist. “Nope, don’t want to do that at all.”

He scowled. “I read what you wrote…and again, you should stick to what you know.” He smiled, yanking my hand towards him.

“What in hell are you talking about?” He rubbed the front of his breeches, and leered.

“Sex?” Is that the word you can’t think of? You have to use sign language?”

“Ha…funny! Especially coming from a woman who obviously doesn’t know a thing about fellatio.”

I sat up, and thought back to what I wrote. “What was wrong with it?”

“See the sentence above the last.”

“Now you are going stupid. Of course I know about it, I’ve been married for years.”

“Then your husband doesn’t know much.” He had me there.

“I will teach you something useful –the devil leered again- and make you a better writer.” He grinned, and the current between us grew stronger. My hand felt like it was melting into his, the heat fusing our flesh together.

“That’s what good – (the devil burped) sex is supposed to feel like.”

Garrett was a cock-sure devil, (“damn right”) and most of his suggestions for the novel were on target. He had lived in those years, the early part of the 19th century, and knew the social customs of the period. I could only rely on my spotty research for these things.

 

“Hold still. I will put something nice in your mouth, sweet woman.” Ah, God…his mind was always fixated on lust.

“It effects better parts of me too, but you keep your knees together too much. Ah, seduction of women writers is hard work.”

“You’ve used that line before, Garrett. Now, who’s original?” My little joke didn’t please and he pulled me over the table and into his lap.

“Give your highwayman a kiss, sweet Bessie.” When he was in this mood, there was no denying the demon.

“Oh!” I said, sitting upright on his knee. “That’s one of my favorite poems. “The Highwayman”. I thought it the most romantic poem I ever read when I was twelve.”

“Doesn’t turn out too nice, both of them dead. That musket beneath her breast….” He shook his head and burped again. His stomach at least was all too human.

I put my head on his shoulder. He could be a sweet devil, and evoked tender emotions from me he didn’t deserve. He thought it a good time, when I was docile in his arms (“won’t last long”- I heard him think!) to pick me up and walk to the bed. He lay down besides me, and placed my head on his shoulder.

“You are rather sweet this morning, Devil.” His temper was usually like mercury. I think we were coming to terms.

“Well, we have, my darling. I have chased away all the competition and you have me at ball and cock.”

I had to laugh. I was still married, and older by decades.

“I was born in 1790. Beat that.” (I was to find this was a lie…another one.)

I thought I was robbing the cradle. He was such a beautiful creation, but still, just a figment of my imagination.

“You really need to expand your horizons, sweeting. There are so many parts to the universe and you just occupy one. You limit yourself by what you believe.”

I never accepted the stories of ghosts, haunts or spirits, but lying by his side, I was beginning to wonder. He appeared flesh and blood enough this morning, especially as he grabbed my hand and placed it on his half mast cock swelling under his breeches.

“Good. You learn something. Am I real enough for you now? Let me show you something else.” He passed his hand quickly from the top to the bottom of my nightgown and it melted away like smoke.

“Ah! The first time I have seen you naked. You wear too many clothes. Let’s see what I’ve caught.” He pushed my hair back from my breast, and stroked a nipple.

“You have pink nipples…very pretty! And perhaps you are pink elsewhere?” I lay in his arms and blushed at his words. He took my hand and placed it in his shirt, next to his heart. He always wore a heavy linen shirt and I had become enchanted by his smell of wood smoke and probably brimstone.

“Very funny. Now unclench those knees and let me make love to you.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me the portal to a woman’s soul is her mouth?” I thought to distract his limited mind.

He turned on his side and smiled tenderly down at me. “You use my own words against me? You show courage. You also forget I am a nasty demon.”

“Not so nasty. Getting a bit better.” His behavior had turned my mood from irritation to tolerance. There really was no way around things, if I wanted answers. I had to play a role. Conditions were changing between us and he was softening with a gentler touch.

“I have no softness, and don’t bet on it.” He stroked my thigh and squeezed a breast. I tried the same trick on his clothes, passing my hand down the length of him, and he laughed.

“It will take many decades, sweetheart, for you to learn that trick.”

“Even levitating a chamber pot?”

“You would have more luck just throwing it.”

He was a handful, this Demon. It was hard work keeping stride with his wit. He could have written a much better book, but then again, he likes best being the sharp-eyed critic.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007-2018

 

 

 

“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 40, a dip into Druid mythology…

 

This will confuse any reader. There are 10 chapters or so where the characters (sans Mme. Gormosy) are in “Another World”, specifically  a fading Druid world that is in a locked battle with the Christians. As I work to end this novel, I have to decide whether these chapters (a search for allies) add or break the theme of the novel. Right now I can’t decide, but I do know how it ends.  Have for a couple of years.  The issue is always getting to that particular place where all strings are tied up and you can let go of the writing.

 The era is 6th century England, where Christianity has dug in but the aging Druids are trying to hold onto their territory and power.  The Morrigan appears in this chapter. The names reflect the era:  Garrett is now called Lord Gwrtheynr and Bess is Bethan.  Lord Dilwen is the old Druid priest who shepherds the colony of the remaining Druids.  

Lady Nyo

The sun was barely above the horizon when they rode down the causeway and onto the shore.  Circling the water, they came to the main road and went though the forest and up into the hills. They rode for Gwynedd, days in the distance, and Lord Evan looked with narrowed eyes at the far hills, soon to turn into mountains.  He was leading these men, but one amongst them was the true authority.  He prayed this man would help protect them.  He was getting too old for these forays.  Soon the soil would warm and the spring planting would call for his presence.  The comfort of his own bed and wife beside him was alluring enough.

Lord Dilwen was that man of authority.  He sat his horse with suprising grace for one so  old and though the pace was not fast, they traveled over landscape that rolled with a constant rhythm.  The journey would challenge his bones, but he savored the chance to get away from the women. When he was given to the Goddess more than sixty years ago, he was trained to endure hardship.   He was a very old Druid and the priests of the Christ did not challenge him.  If they thought of him at all, they dismissed him as senile.  His Lady Dilwen and he now lived in the comfort of the castle and both needed the warmth of the hall fire in winter.  Spring was appearing, the weather had changed.  He was glad to be out from the castle.  It did a man good to be with men, out of earshot of women.

Lord Evan sat his horse, lost in thought.  He knew the three men from his homeland to the west.  They would follow his orders. The new one, this Lord Gwrtheynr, was a puzzle to him.  He would dismiss him as a cipher, but he saw the behavior of those about him.  He hadn’t a clue why the younger lord had such value, and he smelled like a damn foreigner, but he knew enough to withhold his contempt.  He was commanded by his council of his lordships  to deliver this Lord Gwrtheynr to the Isle of Skye.  He hoped they would meet little resistance as they passed through the kingdoms.  All except Lord Dilwen were competent swordsmen, and if the young Lord Gwrtheynr was killed by a raider, they could turn their horses homeward that much sooner.  It was all the same to him.  He smiled to himself.  Lord Dilwen may not be a swordman, but he had other powers to compensate.  Lord Evan’s horse was leading them through the forest and he looked back at the Lords Dilwen and Gwrtheynr.  He could vaguely hear Lord Dilwen’s voice behind him.

“It’s a twisted history this land has been given.”

Lord Dilwen’s voice was low for they passed through a forest not of their own.  Better they pass quietly, without drawing the notice of locals.  They were too small a group to take on another force.  Lord Evan would know where they were, but to other eyes, one forest was the same as another.

Lord Dilwen rode next to Gwrtheynr.   “The Battle of Camlan, now that’s where Arthur carried the image of Saint Mary on his shield. That showed the Old Ones how much Arthur betrayed them.  He had been King Stag at the Beltane, yet look what he fell to!”  Lord Dilwen spat over his horse. “It was his love of peace that set this betrayal.  With the priests of Christ welcome at his council, there was no turning back.”

They rode in silence for a while, while Lord Dilwen collected his thoughts, remembering the past, or perhaps considering the present, the future.

“Arthur and his forces were up against Medraut, the son of Llews.  That was your foster-father.”  Lord Dilwen paused a bit, and thought back over his history.  “Medraut joined forces with the Picts and Saxons and blazed through the north.”

Lord Dilwen’s memories heated his words.  “Ah, things were again to change, though news traveled slowly.  The great five princes of the land, Constantine from Cornwall, Virtipore, who had Dyfed and the regions south, let me think now.  Ah! It was Cuneglase of Powys and Maelgun of Gwyddyl, and I believe Conan of Gwent., they held the land in the name of the Goddess back then.”   He fell silent again and his eyes darkened a bit.

“It was the wavering of Maelgwn who was won by the Christ’s priests. He was the snake in the grass!  When he was young, he served the Goddess well, taking many heads of tyrants.  But age can sometimes do strange things, my young lord.”  Lord Dilwen spit over the side of his horse again.   “Maelgwn  repented of his past and swore before the priest’s Christ that he would be a monk amongst them.  He was powerful, but turned too much to the council of those priests.  They gelded him.”

Lord Dilwen took a water skin from his saddle mount and drank deeply.  He offered it to Lord Gwrtheyrn, who shook his head.

“So, what we have, my young lord, is chaos and confusion.  Princes raiding princes, Kings breaking pacts.  The land is in turmoil, and the Christians no longer wait as wolves at the door.  They have made good egress into the minds and hearts all over the island. Their brand of ignorance is particularly galling.   Now, the Goddess hides Her face, and plague has descended in the east.  The pox lasted 6 years last time. . It took off your family along with King Llews.  With no one to plow and crops to be set, famine takes what plague didn’t.”

Lord Dilwen looked sideways at Gwrtheynr.  “Did anything of your childhood come back to you when you entered the land of your ancestors? Did you remember your foster father, King Llews?”

Lord Gwrtheynr shook his head silently.  “I remember nothing, of people or place. One mountain could be as another.”

Lord Dilwen’s eyes glittered for an instant, and he smiled to himself, turning his head. For a few moments he was silent.

“Our priests were wise in preserving your life. You might pay with it now, but there was a greater wisdom in removing you.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Do you feel any stirrings of your magic?”

Lord Gwrtheynr looked at him in surprise.  “It is that apparent?  No, it seems all magic and power have left me.  I wondered what had happened.”

Lord Dilwen chuckled.  “It will return, my young lord.  You are standing in many magic fields, what they call dragon lines, though that is the name used by the people.  The old Druids knew another name, one that is not mentioned aloud, and it’s hard to tell where one stops and one starts.  They crisscross the earth, and are especially potent underground.  Your lady will have some knowledge of its workings before she is finished.”

Lord Gwrtheynr looked hard at the old Druid, his mind forming questions.  “I know, my Lord, of some of the plans for my being here.  The council has made clear what they want from me.  But as to Bess…I mean my Lady Bethan, is it wise to give her such knowledge?”

“Do you not trust her, my son?”  Lord Dilwen’s voice was soft, his eyes looking at the back of Lord Evan’s jacket.

Gwrtheynr was silent in thought.  “It’s not that I don’t trust her, my Lord.  It’s that she is so distanced in mind from all this.”   He made a rude choking gesture with his hand.  “She will be trouble for the one who is doing the teaching.”

Lord Dilwen laughed.  “All women are hard to teach, especially when they resist the lessons.  But none of these plans were made without care.  We all have a reason for being here, though the Goddess doesn’t tell that to men.  Perhaps in the matter of women, She is more gracious.”

Gwrtheynr lapsed into silence.  Whatever they were planning for Bess back in the castle, she would give them a good run for their money.  He knew her to have a sharp mind, but she was a modern woman, removed from the turmoil and customs of this present land and time.  It would take a major adjustment to not be overwhelmed and he did not think that could be avoided.  Well, there was nothing he could do at this distance.  Those around her would have to adjust to her behavior.  He smiled to himself.  It would be quite a contest of wills and he was glad he was miles away.

They were following a rough road that wound through the hills and through more forests.  The hills mounted upward, and soon Gwrtheynr could tell that they had left the lowlands. They crossed over a long valley and began to climb into the mountains.  Lord Dilwen sat his horse easily, and at times appeared to doze on his mount.  When they began to climb, and the altitude changed he became awake and looked about him carefully.  He explained to Gwrtheynr that he was looking for a particular place, sacred to the Old Druids and he wanted to pay his respects to this place.  Lord Evan knew his plans and dropped back to speak to the old Druid.  Gwrtheynr slowed his horse and fell away from them, allowing the two men privacy.  They talked together for a while, though Gwrtheynr would not hear their low voices, but Lord Dilwen eyes were keen in observing all about him.  It was a further hour and then they pulled their five mounts together and stopped for the night.

*                     *                    *

 

Lord Dilwen walked apart from the remaining four up a steep hill and into a clump of trees. Taking his bearings, he walked westward through these trees until he came to an outcrop. There he climbed around rocks and boulders until he found what he was looking for.  It was called “Idris’Chair” and it looked out onto a valley below.  However, Lord Dilwen had to carefully step down a very narrow path till he could climb into the stone chair.

It was not cut or hewn, but of a natural shape.  Deep and wide, it was a place of great lore and mystery. Only those who had the power to command these mysteries would dare to sit here.  Only one who had training and was conversant with magical powers would dare to touch its stone.

Those Druids who had meditated there had transformative experiences, such that either they awoke the next morning enhanced, wise or dead.  These high points served as windows to the otherworld.  Lord Dilwen had demons to command and he needed these sacred stones for his personal protection.  Respect and regard on earth was very different than what was batted about in the otherworld.

Lord Dilwen settled himself into the cupped bottom of the stone chair.  Dusk was settling fast and the first star of the heavens was clear and high.  Soon the moon would rise in the western sky before him, a beggar’s cup a quarter full.  It was the right time, and the forces could be called to him with this moon’s rising.

Lord Dilwen stretched his arms out on either side of the stone arms.  It would be cold tonight, the spring very new and tender, but he knew he would be past feeling discomfort.  The trance he would slip into would make him insensate to all elements.  Only those creatures that would float through the portal of his mind and into his essence would matter.  Commanding the demons and spirits he needed would be tricky.  Some would try to lure him over the side of the chair, his body to fall to the rocks below.  He would have to discern the tricksters from the ‘helpful’ ones, and this would be even more a test of wills.

Taking out a stone from a pouch threaded through his belt, he held it in his right hand, and traced the labyrinth cuttings on this slightly larger than palm-sized stone.  He hummed a particular tune, and to a hidden listener, it would sound out of tone, an eerie scale of strange notes.  Over and over his hand traced the same lines on the stone.  The birds had settled in for the night and the wind picked up and blew sounds like low notes from hollowed out bones.

He knew that the trance, the altered state was approaching, and the serpent’s tails on his wrists started to twitch. Lord Dilwen’s eyes rolled back in his head and his neck fell backward, his shoulders cradled by the hard stone.

I call out to you, the powers of the Universe, those foul and fair.  I have need of your counsel, I have need of your power.  Come to me, horrid Morrigan, Come to me, in t-Ellen trechend- come to me three headed Ellen, and give me your wisdom.

The wind picked up and moaning was heard around the valley below.  A low cackle floated up on the breath of the wind and circled the stone chair.

The night was dark, and the beggar cup of a moon seemed to telescope, to move closer to earth, to enlarge itself and spread like a sickening smile across the sky, east to west.  Lord Dilwen knew that the power was upon him, for his breathing slowed and he could feel his heart beat lessen.  A warm, caressing air embraced his old bones and he knew he was being tempted by some demonic spirit.  It would call out to him in whispers, for him to

Stand up and come to me! Come to me, my dearest lover, step out into the night time air, walk to me, I am waiting, waiting. 

He knew this was a first temptation, and he willed his loins to shrivel.  It was a seasoning, a seasoning of unholy lust that was calling within his mind, and he knew it to be false.  His manhood had not shown such vigor in years, and this was the first telling of the temptation.

He shook his head and raised his arms and the serpents crawled up and down his arms, their mouths opening and their tongues flicking.  One hissed and the other snapped his jaws, and the whispers moaned and disappeared…for now.

Lord Dilwen knew he would not sleep tonight, for to sleep would be to seal his death warrant. There would be no awakening on the morrow.  His limp body would be found either in the chair, stone cold and dead, or his body on the rocks below in the far distant valley.

Still his hand did not stop his tracing the tracks of the labyrinth.  He hummed a different and as discordant tune and around midnight, the wind picked up from the north and blew hard down the valley.  Lord Dilwen knew then he was to be granted the presence of some spirit, and perhaps it would be the great Morrigan herself.  But there would be a price to pay. There always was.

Suddenly the air was filled with a foul odor. Lord Dilwen knew what this plague was, because it was a plague sent by the foulest forces of the Underworld.  It was another attempt to frighten him away, but he had smelled death many times before, the particular sweet-sickening scent of putrefaction.  He had been on battle fields where the stomachs of combatants had split in half, and had stepped in their fouled guts with their staggering last steps.  He had smelled the land when plague took entire villages, and had arrived days later when the stench could be smelled a mile away on the wind.  No, this was not of the earth, it was a huge swarm of red-ochre colored birds, the birds of the dead, whose breath withered fields and orchards and suffocated any man or beast they passed close by.

Lord Dilwen tied a cloth over his nose and slowed his breathing.  He knew it was a test, another one to see how strong he was, and how much he could stand.  After a while, the birds disappeared, but the valley was befouled with their droppings.  Where their shit landed, there were burn marks in the grasses and trees would look in the morning as if they were struck by lightning.

Suddenly, the wind picked up again, but this time no foul stench from birds.  A vapor appeared in the valley and swirled and gathered, entwining like a coven of ghosts.  It rose and exploded, and formed again, tendrils shooting off the tops and sides, then an updraft of energy exploding it all over again.  The wide smile of the moon constricted as if even this cosmic form was diminished by what was happening in the valley below. This vapor formed again and again, slowly rising  towards the place where he was.  Lord continued to trace the lines of the labyrinth.  He reached into his pouch and pulled out the dried leaves of mugwort, sacred to Morrigan.  For him to eat it would be certain death.  This would leave him paralyzed in a dream, where he would not be able to move.  But spreading it before him on the ground would be an offering.  He also took a clear quartz crystal, her stone, and placed it on the left arm of the stone chair.

When the swirling vapor reached level to his chair, it suddenly burst into a multi-colored display of streamers that shot out into the air, disappearing with a fury of energy.

Lord Dilwen felt a presence and looking to his left spied a huge raven.

Ah! Goddess Morrigan!  You are honoring me with your presence.  I have come for your counsel and bring you gifts. 

No sound came from Lord Dilwen’s mouth, but a tinkling of what could be called celestial music, or to other ears, a well tuned wind chime.  It was answered by a rude calling, a cackling, a low, menacing  call not expected from a raven. 

I already know what you want, Lord Dilwen.  You have called me from my labors to answer that of a mortal’s concern?  Of what is in it for me? Why would I mettle in such mundane affairs of mundane creatures?

Lord Dilwen knew he had to proceed very cautiously.  The Morrigan was a touchy Goddess.  But he also knew her to be a curious one. Mettling in the affairs of mortals, attempting to mess with fate was second nature to these immortals. They fed on this as a mortal would his meat.

I am here as an advocate to Lord Gwrtheynr in his battle against another force.  I ask your counsel, wise Morrigan.  I know these two were once locked in battle as young bulls in our prehistory. They continue to clash and it is time that one over come the other. This battle must end.

There was silence.  The dawn wind was unusually quiet, and no birds yet to be heard.  The sickly grin of the moon had dipped low in the western sky, faded, muted though the sun was not yet on the horizon.

The raven was as still as a statue.  Lord Dilwen rubbed his finger over the stone, a meditation path protecting as well as communicating other things to him.

Go home, you old fool.  You mettle in things you know not of. No power of Heaven or Hell or of Annwn will protect or succor your young lord.  Go home. Your quest is pointless.

Lord Dilwen sat in silence.  Perhaps another way could be found to the Morrigan’s counsel.

What price, Morrigan, do you demand for your counsel?  Would you want the remaining breath of my body?  I would give it to you, for I am an old and feeble man, with little life left in me. Is this your price?

Suddenly the quiet of the predawn was broken.  A low, rumbling cackle filled the air, and seemed to creep up the walls of the cliff face from far down in the valley. Lord Dilwen knew this hellish sound was from the Morrigan, though the raven sat its perch on the rock, silent.

Of what value to me the rattling and stinking breath of an old mortal, even one such as you?  Priest! Hear me! You attempt to change the forces of fate with your puny involvement. These issues are far beyond your power.

Aye, she will take the bait, it is only the matter of time, he thought.

But they are not beyond you, Morrigan.  You can change the fate of all, and the outcome will be to your glory if you just stretch out your hand. You can trump the Christian Devil himself and show the power of the Old Ones once again. Our ways have faded to nothingness, our Gods and Goddesses now reduced to the leprechauns and fairies in the myths. But you, Great Morrigan, with your power can restore a rightful history.  You can redeem the true faith.

A wind whipped up from the valley and the near-morning stars seemed to churn in the still dark heaven.  This wind tossed branches, uprooted small trees and large bushes and like a vortex, danced in front of Lord Dilwen’s stone chair.  He pressed himself back in terror as the vortex crept closer and closer, drawing the breath out of his lungs.  His eyes glanced over to the raven and saw it surrounded in an unearthly glow, and its beak was transformed into a terrible smile. The words of the Morrigan came now from that raven’s mouth.

You shall have what you have sought, Lord Dilwen.  I will command the trees of the forest to gather in battle, under the banner of your Lord Gwrtheynr to fight all the forces of Hell. But this must not take place on our soil.  Go home, go home to your particular Hell.  Let none of the forces of God’s Hell gather on our land.

The next morning, the men found Lord Dilwen, cold, seemingly dead, cradled in the stone seat of the chair. They wrapped him well in cloaks and carried him to camp where they tried to revive him. Chaffing his limbs and forcing him to swallow a strong liquor, they were able to bring him to some life, but he seemed beyond intelligent speech.  The only words he would utter sounded like gibberish, but the best they could make of it was the sound of “ca godu”.  To them it was the dying rattle of a very old man.  And so he did and they bundled his thin body in his cloak and set out to return to the castle for his burial.

 

Note:  Ten years ago I had to do a lot of research into the history of England at this time.  In re-reading this chapter, I have forgotten so much of that research. But I am grateful for the time when I was able to devote two years (at least) to the research into Celtic times and mythology.  This research affected more than this novel.  I was able, as a poet, to write verse that reflected this exciting time.   As writers, our  knowledge grows not just by our random work but by the investigation into the times of our stories.  For a writer to say, (and I know a few….) that they hate history is admitting to a particular ignorance that will never serve them well.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009-2017

“When Cu Chulainn Courts Emer

(devientart.com)

—

I tried mightily, twisting and turning to form an Alouette but to no good.  So I am substituting this short Sonnet.  I am a terrible rhymer.

—

“In that sweet country, I’ll rest my weapon”

Said Cu Chulainn to beauteous Emer

And a war spasm came upon him fast

With face distorting, hair stood upended

Teeth barred in anger, cock a rigid mast

His body whipped around, his knees unbended,

And sweet Emer prayed his luck would last.

–

Her father, King Lug, Celtic God of Light

Set her swain to tasks and toil unending,

While Bricru the Poison Tongue cries in fright:

“The Hound of Ulster, Irish unbending,

Leads in battle for comes he in his might!

And Emer waits with patient love the day

When Cu Chulainn comes near and claims his right!

 

—

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

(The sonnet above was produced for a book, “Devil’s Revenge”, with a detour into Celtic mythology.)

“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 27…introduction to the Morrigan

 

The Morrigan

http://www.qcirisharts.com

==

 

 

“You are quiet this evening, Demon. Anything wrong?”

Smoking his white clay pipe, he looked across the table, shook his head and turned back to the fire.

Lately we have few words. He’s gone each day. At night, he would sleep for hours in the chair before the fire with his legs extended, his boots touching the embers. It didn’t seem to bother him.

I have kept my own counsel, and say little to him how I spend my days

The light was fading in the room, as it is still winter. The nights fall early. There were only two candles on the mantel and one on the table where I have my threads and needles. He liked to watch me quietly sewing, and sometimes he threaded them for me, awkwardly handling the different colored threads and trying to skewer the tiny needles. I think he liked the quiet domestic scene we make here, he before the fire, puffing on his pipe, his long legs stretched out to the heat, and I, in a half-light, sewing on my hoop, or darning a shirt. I have half-finished another linen shirt. He was pleased with the first, and wears it frequently. Another nod towards our enforced domesticity.

“You grow tired of the house, don’t you?” He knocked out the ash from his pipe onto the hearth.

“I am tired, not of this house, but of not being allowed to walk in the fields. I would like to open a window for some fresh air.” I stick myself with my needle from beneath the hoop and utter a curse. It has grown too dark to work.

“What if I make it so we leave for a while?”

“I thought it was too dangerous to leave for any reason.” I am testy, tonight.

“I could arrange something, but you might not like it.” He grins and of course the idea of leaving got my attention.

“Ah! More of your magic, I guess.” Scowling, I try to discourage him. I never knew if his magic would work, and will he be able to restore me to the original? He smiled back, and I have guessed it.

“I could transform myself into a dog, a big, black shaggy dog, and you could be a flea deep in my coat.” He smiled. “I could go outside and chase a rabbit. You hang on and get plenty of fresh air.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, “I’d rather not. With my luck, I fall off and you don’t notice. I freeze to death. End of the story.”

“Then I can transform you into a mare, and I gallop you across the fields. You would get plenty of exercise and fresh air.” He grins broadly.

I think about this, and start to giggle. “You ride me enough, right here in this bed. The thought of you riding me that way is too funny to consider.”

“Well, you think of something. Something to entertain and improve your disposition. You are getting cranky lately. Probably a sign you’re breeding.”

Oh! This is encouraging news, indeed! Obviously I had little to say in the matter.

“Nope, as you say….you don’t. It’s beyond your control.” He was enjoying my discomfort.

“How about another dream, then? A nice, big satyr. Perhaps one with a brother…and some cousins, too.” I looked at him coyly. I had his interest now, the kinky devil.

“Oh, you don’t want to play around with a satyr. They don’t care about proper mortal anatomy, they’ll poke around anywhere, and besides, they fight over who gets you first. They become violent.”

I was laughing at him, he knows I’m not serious. But I wondered at my wisdom even mentioning the dream. I remember Cernunnos, and I wonder just how much my Devil was pulling the strings.

“Perhaps another dream, one where we travel to Venice, gondola down the canals, dance in the squares, get drunk on wine. Wear masks. Fondle strangers.” I looked at him to see his reaction.

He puffed on his pipe and smiled back, the smoke obscuring his eyes. There is no telling what he was planning.

“I have come up with some interesting stuff from my reading. Would you like to hear?

“If it doesn’t bore me, or put me to sleep. You tend to do that, my little book worm.”

I smiled, quickly averting my eyes. His ego! But then again, I am dealing with….no, living with, either a demon or a demigod. Who knows? The possibilities here are endless, and so far, I don’t really have a clue.

I read him the poem at the beginning of Cad Goddeu:

“I was in many shapes before I was released:

I was a slender, enchanted sword,- I believe that it was done,….”

 

Ah! I have his attention. He likes poetry.

“Read more to me.” He puffed on his pipe and the smoke rose above his head like sylphs dancing. I read him not the stuff of animism and magic, this he knows already. He must know, he performs this magic daily with a snap of his fingers. I read him to him about the wizard Gwydion who transformed a forest of trees into a terrible army.

“Alder, pre-eminant in lineage, attacked first,

Willow and rowan were late to the fight,”

His head fell back and he stretched out his boots to the fire. He was listening to me intently.

“I came across something else. Reminds me of you and Obadiah, …and a bit of me.”

“Go on, you’re not boring me yet.” He smiled at the ceiling.

“Thank you, I will.” I told him about the battles between Ochall and Badb, the two bulls, who transformed themselves numerous times. Their argument went on for the generations of their transformations, to be reborn again finally, as two bulls. I told him how this reminded me of both of them. The point of this story, this myth, is how the land responds to truth and falsehood. And here, the dominant force, the constant that all else revolves around, is the role of the Goddess. If the King, her consort, is a good king, a true king, the land responds with fertility, the harvests were plenty, the weather mild, the people and animals give birth with ease. If the King, her consort was false, the land would shrivel and dry up, the crops would die from blight, and people would be killed by famines. The land would be barren, and the people unfertile. Only before truth, would the elements not recoil. The king, therefore, was a high-priest as well as warlord and chief. He was the human embodiment of the divine for the tribe. Their survival depended upon his labors. Further, the queen, or the consort, could be kidnapped by one or the other, and that be an excuse for slaughter and war.

I told him I was reading about The Dagda, Morrigan, Cuchulainn the warrior, and Birog, a druid priestess. These I told him about, but there were many others I didn’t. He pronounced the names of them, correcting me. On his tongue, the names had a music, as did a poem he recited while glazing up at the ceiling.

“Temair Breg, cid ni diata

indisid a ollamna!

Cuin do dedail frisin mbruig?

Cuin robo Temair, Temair? 

O shin amach ba Driunm Cain

In tulach a teigdis mair

A hainm ac Tuaith De Danann!” 

He smiled, and puffed on his pipe.

“Well, what does it mean?”

Though the language was alien, strange to my ears his voice was like water, soothing. I could recognize some as Old Irish. I could only understand the very last words, the Tuaith De Dannan…..the otherworld.

“Merely, place names, boundaries, rivers and hills. Accounts of pastures, if you will. Reads like a survey of land.”

“But the name, “Tuaith De Dannan”…I could understand that at the end. The “Otherworlds”.

“A powerful tribe in the Otherworld. One of numerous kind. At combat with the Fomoire at one time in history. It records the territory of the Tuaith De Dannan in prose.”

“But why would they do that?” I looked at him blankly.

“Because you hadn’t been born yet.” I still didn’t understand.

“Because there was no written language yet.”

Oh! Now I understood him. “So, these poems were a listing of natural boundaries. No more and no less?”

“If MacCuall raided the cattle from Mac Ness, the chieftain would call up his bard, and he would sing out the boundaries. Less bloodshed between clans if the bard had a good memory.”

“And how, Garrett, do you know all this?” Either he had been reading the same books or came by this naturally.

He smiled back up at the ceiling, not meeting my eyes. “There are some things I know, and many I don’t.” There was little else he would say. I have learned not to push.

But I did dream that night, a troubling and lengthy dream. At least I thought it was a dream, though it haunted my next hours awake. I dreamed I was walking in a cleared pasture. There were mountains, and hills in front all around me. To the east, the sun had risen, but was low in the sky. It was cold, and I had wrapped around me my red Irish walking cloak. It had a hood, but I was still cold. Again, I seemed to be barefoot. I wrapped my cloak around me tighter, my breath like smoke in the cold, morning air. I was walking up a steep hillside. As I reached the ridge, there, nestled in some rowan trees, was a stone cottage. Smoke was curling out of the chimney and a wide, low door was in the middle of the cottage. There was a high forest behind, and I saw a large black raven on a branch watching me. Her coat shined like glass, though the sun barely reached this clearing.   I knocked at the door, and it swung open to the pressure of my hand. The cottage was very dark to my eyes, only a low fire burning. There was a woman sitting with her back to me at the fireplace. I stood there, rubbing one cold bare foot upon the other. She turned her head in my direction, and I saw a very old woman, with white hair in two thick braids under her shawl. She silently motioned for me to join her at the fire, and I was grateful for the invitation to warm myself. I sat a few feet from her, on a stool and extend my bare legs to the fire.

“You are thirsty, daughter?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “There is cider in the jug on the windowsill.”

I got up and poured myself a cup of cider. “Do you want a cup, Mother?” She shook her head. I came back with my cup and sat again by the fire.

“Do you know who I am?” I shook my head, trapped in this dream.

“I am one of three, but yours to guess. You have come here seeking answers. Now ask three questions. I will grant you three answers.”

“Who are the parents of the Demon Lover?”

“Ah! You are curious for what reason? Is it because you must know what he is before you give yourself over to his magic?” She chuckles, and the sound she made was like tin cans rattling around a floor.

I was careful how I answered. She was a trickster goddess, and I had only three questions.

“I want to know, because he is in need of protection. If his father be immortal, he can demand his help in battle.” I thought it best to be honest. She might have second sight, the Taisch. Lying to her would be dangerous.

“I am known for more than that, girl.” She read my mind like the Demon.

“He isn’t a Demon. And he isn’t an Angel. Expand your mind. Look around you. You are in another place. The hills and valleys are plowed up by the violent lovemaking of The Dagda. He drags his cock like he drags his club over the land.”

I am in the land of the Celts! My dream has dragged me into the books I have been reading for the past week. This must be the Morrigan.

“You guessed right, but perhaps the raven gave you the answer?”

Of course! The Morrigan takes the shape of a raven. “One of three” is also her other sisters, Nemein and Madb. So, I have come to her because of my own dream, not something outside of me.

“If you know, Mother, tell me who his parents be.”

“Perhaps I know his father to be Cuchulainn, in the time of Connor McNessa and the High Kings of Ireland. But perhaps this is not so. His grandfather might be Lug, who is immortal. Who his mother is, I know not. But I remember that Cuchulainn was championed both by Birog and Scathach. Either woman could be.”

“Who is Birog?” I forget that this gives me only one question left to ask.

“Ah! She was a Druid Priestess. She allowed him to escape death numerous times on the battlefield. But Scathach granted him the ‘friendship of her thighs.” Morrigan cackled again.

“Who is Scathach, Mother?” I have unwittingly asked my last question!

“If I were looking for the strongest immortal to be the mother of your Lord, I would want it to be Scathach. She was a woman warrior from Alba (Scotland) who trained the young warriors. Cuchulainn was the bravest of them all for a time.”

Morrigan offered herself four times to Cuchulainn, each time he refused her. I remember these myths in the books.

“That was as it was written. Four times and the cock crows. Do you know what happens on the fifth?” She turns a milky white eye upon me, and I shiver in my cloak.

“He gave me three daughters. Three black crows to pick over the battlefields.” She cackles again, sounding like the cawing of crows.

“Now stand, daughter, and drop your cloak. Let me see what those two bulls fight over.”

I stood and dropped my cloak. She passes her hand in front of me, and I was naked and shivering before her.

“A bit old for the breeding, aren’t you?” She had a sly smile on her wrinkled lips.

“You know, don’t you, why he has chosen you? It is not for your figure, for he could have any virgin more pleasing than you.”

“I don’t know, Mother, why he has chosen me. I have stumbled into his world, and Obadiah’s, if they are the same. I don’t know.”

“He aims to make you his bard, girl. You can write and bring him up as ripe fruit, you can enter his world, the world of monsters and demons. You know music and dance. All these things he picks in you for his future. You will write of his exploits, his deeds, he will breed you and will spill his seed out of you onto the ground. You, as his consort, you will make the fields fertile. That’s if he wins.” She cackled, a low, evil sound.

“You throw your hips at him, and his cock will rival the Dagda’s. He will plow up the earth with his own mountains and valleys!” She coughed, spit on the floor and my blood ran cold.

“But I am years past fertility, Mother. I have never birthed a live child.”

“Come closer, girl. Let me look at you. Let me see what can be done here.”

I don’t dare refuse her, for she is Morrigan, and the Goddess of Fertility. She is also a Goddess of Death. I slowly move before her, standing in front of her. She reaches out a hand, and with one finger she pushes on my belly. Her finger produces a warm sensation where she touches.

“Sit down, daughter, on the table. I have some potions for you.” I sat on the bare table under the only window of the cottage. She goes to a cupboard, and takes out a jar of something.

“You will be an easy one to bring to fruit. He will not have problems with your breeding. You will tire him out.” She laughed at her words.

“Now, I give you a potion that will keep him from reading your mind. He will just think it is because you are breeding. This will be the only time your thoughts will be your own. Enjoy it why it lasts. You will be able to control him better when you are bred. Remember, he is both mortal and not, his parentage powerful. Lead him gently to any knowledge who his father is. He will fight you about it, for he is stubborn. You are only mortal, but you have a strong hand on his heart.

Morrigan rubbed a small, dark liquid on my forehead. This was to cause him not to read certain thoughts. Others he would. But some, if I concentrated well, he could not.

“Now, you will pay me with the birth of your first daughter. I will come for her when she is six months old. She will be brought up by me and my sisters and will take her rightful place. She will be a priestess. She will be powerful. I don’t want any boy child. That will be for your lord. But the daughter is mine, or she will die by the hand of Lilith. Do you agree to my terms?”

I was falling asleep, the potion she has rubbed on my forehead was making me fade. I could only nod for my tongue would not move. I forgot she was a powerful witch and I in her debt now.

She pulled my red cloak back over my naked body, and turned me out of the cottage. Facing the east, she spit at me, and I found myself back in my own bed, wrapped tightly in the cloak. I awoke, thinking of this strange dream. I remembered little of it, but I did remember the name of Cuchulainn. It was days before I remembered the rest of our bargain.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 26

This chapter reveals a change in the direction of the novel, or, hopefully, a deepening of the theme.  What Bess finds out in her research in the library points to Celtic mythology, history, etc.  This chapter won’t interest readers who have no interest or knowledge in Celtic mythology, but those who do, and stick with this, will find some good, historic  Celtic poetry entwined. JKB.

–

Madame Gormosy has made herself scarce. This is welcome because I can spend just so many hours playing faro and waving a fan. The Demon disappears behind his books during the day, and frequently leaves the house, to return by dusk. I am left to myself, and fill my hours with trying to finish the novel, the event that brought me to this place.

We have an unspoken agreement. I will not trespass on his time with his books, and he will not bother me when I am writing. I now see that regardless how I end the book, things have spiraled out of control, and there are forces at work far beyond what I have imagined.

 

This dream of Cernunnos bothers me for more than what is obvious. Perhaps this ‘fancy’ was not so random. Perhaps it has a deeper meaning, unrevealed, and it was ‘placed’ there by some unknown force, hopefully leading somewhere. Although the Demon claims control, I think he is unaware of what it portends.

Madame is a tricky devil. She claims the demon comes from a royal line, and is no common demon. I have called him a ‘demon’ because I have no other way to define him, my knowledge of mythology scant. Of course, magic confuses the picture, and devils are known for their trickery. Perhaps that is the seat of the confusion

As the Demon left the house, I went into the library and looked for some clues. There are enough books, all of them old. I thought about the libraries at Alexandria, destroyed by barbarian hordes. There, surely, with the combined knowledge and wisdom of Persian and so many cultures, would be the answers I seek. But that is dust and this is just dusty, and I am left to find what answers I can.

As I removed books from a high shelf over my head, one large book was unbalanced, and fell at my fo0t.  It was of Celtic Mythology. I was not one who was superstitious, but this seemed as good a place as any to start.   The dream of Cernunnos ran parallel to this book in my hand. Upon opening it, the first words I read expressed a dichotomy that was alive in my present life.

 

“It seems to Bran a wondrous beauty

In his curragh on a clear sea

While to me in my chariot from afar

It is a flowery plain on which I ride 

What is a clear sea

For the prowed craft in which Bran is,

Is a Plain of Delights with profusion of flowers

For me in my two-wheeled chariot

Bran sees

A host of waves breaking across a clear sea

I myself see in Magh Mon

Red-tipped flowers without blemish 

Sea-horses glisten in the summer

As far as Bran’s eye can stretch

Flowers pour forth a stream of honey

In the land of Manannan son of Ler

Speckled salmon leap forth from the womb

Of the white sea upon which you look;

They are calves, bright-coloured lambs

At peace, without mutual hostility

 

It is along the top of a wood

That your tiny craft has sailed along the ridges,

A beautiful wood with its harvest of fruit,

Under the prow of your tiny boat.”

 

Here is my confusion. Here is an answer, though only a piece of it. The Demon and I came from separate worlds, but now occupy the same. He floated through mine, and I stepped into his. This poem was spoken by the Otherworldly Manannan, attempting to explain to the mortal Bran how their differences in perception lie at the root of their divergent realities.

This spoke to the bafflement that ran through our life together. This spoke to my frustration.

As I read on, I began to understand the symbolism of the dream, as it was reflected in the world of the Celts. The natural world surrounded these people on all sides. They were aware of its presence and their dependence on its balance and fertility for their basic nurture and comfort.   Nothing bypassed this dependence, whether the soil, their crops or the animals. The hunters went out to the forest, to bring food for their families. The wolves and bears stalked the settlements for their own. Nature, in fang and claw, in blood and gore, would have shaped days and nights and filled dreams. It would have seeped into every hope and fear. The satyrs were symbols of the fusion of humankind and animals, and part of the magic and religious system that they carried in belief. And Cernunnos? He was the embodiment of the fertility that was necessary for the seasons to turn and mankind and all else to survive. I was, in that dream, very much part of that ritual of life. I could have been a vessel for that seed, from Cernunnos’ loins, planted into the soil, to be fruitful and nourish new life.

There was much more of this same theme as I read on. The foundation, the building stones of what I was reading, and this Celtic culture, was called animistic thinking.   I came across a dramatic example of this in the poem Cad Coddeu, or “The Battle of the Trees”. A mythical battle between two forces, one mortal against the forces of the chthonic deities, dwelling beneath the earth, where a wizard Gwyddion transformed a forest of trees into a writhing, hostile army.

 

“…Alder, pre-eminant in lineage, attacked first

     Willow and rowan were late to the battle

   Thorny plum greedy for slaughter,

   Powerful dogwood, resisting prince….

…Swift and mighty oak, before him trembled heaven and earth…”

Perhaps the Demon, though, at times I could no longer think of him such, would call forth a similar army.

This was a time, a period, and a culture, where shape-shifting was part of it all. It was part of the ‘DNA’ if you will, of a culture remembering the totemistic myths of previous ancestors. Clans seemed to arise around a particular animal. There might be bird-people, or wolf-people, oak-people or river people. Each clan would feel a strong kinship to a particular animal or element. It would be taboo to violate these totem creatures in any way. These spirits, these ancestral spirits protected the clan from disease and violence. To harm any member of the clan would provoke the wrath of this daemonic spirit. I thought perhaps, considering his courting manners, that the demon Garrett, …was part of the Goat Clan.

The more I read, the more I became convinced what I was witnessing here, between Garrett and Obadiah, was a magical conflict that battled though out an early history. In the myth/song, Tain Bo Cuailgne, the rivalry of two bulls, in separate regions, became a war of many transformations for the bulls. In fact (if that word can be used in mythology!) the two bulls were rival druid priests. They transformed themselves for their conflict into ravens, otters, and ‘screeching spectres’ and many other creatures, before they transformed themselves into grains of wheat, to be devoured by cattle and reborn as the two great bulls, Finn, The Light One, and Dub, The Dark. I could find no termination in their feud. But it was a story of kidnapping of each other’s consorts, mates, and enslavement for revenge. All within an animistic frame of reference.

There is comfort in knowing your dreams and illusions are shared by others. Small comfort, but not to be ignored. But why had I framed Garrett and Obadiah in the Christian mythology? Because it was the only one I knew. Though not a practicing Christian, and for a few years interested in pagan religions, I had Christian culture surrounding me from birth. It seeped into the brain and consciousness and formed my only reference for myth. But here, within the Celtic myths, was a culture with dark and light, perhaps good and bad, and this was easy to understand.   Religion stripped of its saints and devils harkened back to the first companions of mankind, the animals. This I could embrace. It felt natural.

I read further. There seemed to be three consistent parts to the Celtic mythology. The conception by magical means, the divine descent through amours of a divinity, and finally, rebirth.

CuChullain  (one version….)

 

Another one…..

Garrett had no knowledge of his parentage. Like Etain, who forgot her former existence as a goddess, now newly mortal. So it was with Cuchulainn, of great significance in Celtic myth, reborn as his father Lug. From the Father Lug, to the son, Cuchulainn, to be reborn again as the Father, Lug. It sounded like the Christian Trinity to me. But what was the Christian Trinity in Ireland, but Christianity covering the myths and religions of thousands of years before? Garrett had no knowledge of his parentage. He was like Etain,

Cuchulainn, and so many others caught up and born in the fog of myths. But I had the clue he was of royal blood. His powers were too significant to auger mere magic. There was something of the supernatural about him. Perhaps these Celtic myths pointed the way, as readily as a compass held in the palm of the hand.

I read further and found more of interest. “As mankind in his settlements achieves greater ascendancy over his environments, the gods and goddesses change to reflect his powers, mortal though he be. The gods showed more increasingly human characteristics. They had fallacies, weaknesses, had a connection with mankind. They bred with mortals, populated the earth with their seed. These half mortals have powers, and they are the heroes of their tribes and regions. They are represented by their fathers as numerous as the stars in the heavens. For different tribes had different Gods and Goddesses.”

There are  parallels with what I know of the Greeks and similar cultures.

I came across the experiences of the bard Taliesin in the Cad Goddeu :

 

I was in many shapes before I was released: I was a slender, enchanted sword – I believe it was done, 

I was a rain drop in air, I was a star’s beam,

I was a word of letters, I was a book in origin,

I was lanterns of light for a year and a half;

I was a bridge that stretched over sixty estuaries,

I was a path, I was an eagle, I was a coracle in the seas.

Shape-shifting among these immortals seems to be of two powers. One that was applied to oneself only, and other higher power, where it was possible with self and others. Garrett had shown his ability with the second. I remember the ride in the carriage, where he had transformed my face and form to an elderly, repugnant woman. I thought of his powers of flight, where he transformed distance into mere seconds. Even this snapping of his fingers and his ale appears, and my tea. He calls it ‘common, vulgar magic’. To me, there is wonder and awe in it. He talks vaguely of many transformations, and I have come to well believe him. He is arrogant with the power of knowledge and experience. He seems some sort of god to me. Or close enough.

Something that intrigued me, that focused my attention, was the reading of relationship of king (god) to queen (goddess) to the land. In the embrace of a true king, the land would be fertile, for the role of goddess (queen) would be to do so. In the embrace of a false king, the land would suffer, the seasons harsh and long, the harvests thin, and births were either deformed or infrequent in both humans and animals. The queen, the goddess, would languish, until a proper consort was found. Until the false king was overthrown, was sacrificed either through war or death. Vanquished so the land could become fecund again. I thought about Garrett and Obadiah, such opposite forces. Surely they would represent the true and false kings. And I? I was to remain the constant, though I believed myself barren. Already, my Demon has stirred my womb and I bleed. He protects my ripening fertility, he says, from all others. And yet, did he have control over Cernunnos? If I bred, would I carry Cernunnos’ seed or was that seed on my thigh Garrett’s? And if Obadiah would kidnap me away, would I breed to him for the same purpose? Is this what Garrett hinted in his words to me? I would have ‘power’ in his dimension…I would have prestige besides him as his consort.

There were no answers here, only pointers in many directions. But enough to start me to construct my own dimension with what I had read. Perhaps the dream gave a hint where Garrett was from. Perhaps this book, heavy and dusty and almost crushing my foot, had fallen for a purpose. Perhaps it was as much of a compass sitting in my lap as if I had held one in the small of my palm.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016….with thanks to http://www.eartisans.com for Cernunnos carving. http://www.screwattack.com for the first image of Cuchulainn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 35

I know this drives readers crazy, and probably away, but I’m jumping around here as I proof this book. This will be the first introduction I believe, on the blog, of Madame Gormosy, the Demon of Lust from Hell. She is a transgender devil apparently, changing from Monsieur to Madame at will, though she really perfers her shape as Madame. She plays faro and cheats, but she is also a tender devil.

Garrett has been advised by Lord Abigor and Lord Aamon, two Arch Dukes of Hell, to travel back in time to gather his forces for this upcoming battle with Obadiah and his legions of Hell.

Lady Nyo

DEVIL’S REVENGE

Chapter 35

“So, M. Demon”, Madame Gormosy raised her head from her cards and addressed Garrett across the table. “Tell us a bit of who declared for your side. Mon Dieu! This house was so full of those Devils that day! They have left soot marks on the walls and some dents in the floors.”

Madame Gormosy was having her fun. I am assured by the Demon nothing of the sort has happened downstairs. However, it is a couple of days before I was allowed outside of this room, and perhaps there was a kernel of truth in Madame’s comments.

The Demon looked up from his hand. He was losing, but that was because Madame had subtle tricks with the cards. She cheats. Faro was her game and she was hard to beat at cards. Garrett has not caught on yet, but he will. His pile of coin was lessening and Madame’s was growing. My old trick of launching my shoe to the side of Madame and peering at her cards was not working today, for she was not indulging my trickery. That was tolerated only when we are alone. I am not winning a coin here.

Garrett looked up at her and thought a minute. “Almost enough for my side of the board.” He referred to the impending warfare as the Chess Game From Hell.

“Ah! And who are these Demons that have come to your side?” Madame coyly kept her eyes on her cards.

Garrett uttered a low curse, and threw his hand on the table. He was a poor loser at cards, and not gracious at all.

“Madame”, he said sharply. “Will you indulge me and allow me some time with this woman?” He shifted his eyes and Madame smiled slyly.

“Of course, Monsieur le Demon. I have other work to attend.” Madame got up and left the room gracefully, my Demon bowing her out the door.

I put my cards down, suspicious of his behavior. “Were you losing that much money this morning?” I know he hates faro, and isn’t the card sharp Madame is to best her.

He turned from the door, his expression hard to read. “We have things to discuss Bess this morning. You can play with Madame later.”

He moved to his chair across from our tea table. “I have talked to Abigor. He agrees with my plans.” He sat there, not looking at me, and I could see he is struggling with something he had to say.

“And if they include me, would you at least tell me my part?” I saw him hesitate.

“These dreams you have, Bess. Abigor thinks they are important.”

Ah! So Abigor, an Arch Duke of Hell thought them important, never mind my sleep was wracked with images that frighten me.

“Aamon has bound me to him. I have promised to follow his counsel and visit the otherworld. You’re going with me.” He looked at me, and I could see from his eyes that he would not brook an argument. I remembered his handling of the whip a few days ago.

“Then tell me what this ‘otherworld’ is, Garrett. At least allow me the favor of this.”

“You know the dreams of the Morrigen and Cernunnos? They are not idle events. They speak to a kinship that I have known for a while and have avoided for various reasons.”

At least this is a start! It gave some shape and comfort to what happened here and some answers to his origin.

“But this otherworld you speak of. What is it exactly? Is it like Hell?”

“No, it actually would be something you would have studied perhaps. Let’s call it the Mystic Isles for the moment.” He looks at the floor, deep in thought.

“Somewhere in Scotland?” I think of a previous dream, that first one of Culloden.

“Close. But more distant, too.”

Ah! He’s into games this morning. But I’m not following.

“Avalon?” He smiles, he is humoring me.

“Avalon is only a small part of it all. The two worlds, the present and the otherworld have portals. Your visits from Morrigen and Aine had meaning to me but until I discussed them with Abigor and Aamon, I didn’t know how important they were.”

He sucked on a thumb and spit out a piece of a nail. “I am to seek support and forces from among my own kin. Obadiah has his forces from Hell, as do I have, but I also have the magic of this particular otherworld to plunder.”

He finally turned to me and looked at me closely. “Abigor thinks you essential to this. The Morrigen is going through you to reach me.” He pauses and scowls. “As is Cernunnos.”

It seemed to me both Cernunnos and the Morrigen had no qualms in how they reached him. If I was a vessel, the price I paid was a costly one.
“Whatever kinship I have with these others, I will have to claim it soon. That is why we will leave in a matter of days. You, as my consort among demons, will have the same position among these others.”

Ah! I’m beginning to see a pattern here.

“Tell me, Demon, what actually will you be doing in this otherworld you speak?”

“It grows near to the Beltaine. The Great Marriage between the Horned One and the Mother draws nigh. The fertility rites will be attended by us. You and I will be part of the consecration and you will be confirmed as my consort. That is only a part of the work. I will be conversing with others there as to the merits of my case with Obadiah.”

“And what does that entail, Demon?” I am all ears.

“Lots of orgies and gore. Perhaps a sacrifice or two.” He expects me to be frightened. He is not amiss in his expectations.

“Garrett, explain please. You are talking in riddles.”

“Any kinship I can claim to Cu Chulainn , as I am told I have rights, will force these spirits to come to my side. I can raise an army from my birthright.”

Good and fine. “Now tell me, Demon, what you expect of my presence?”

Garrett looked at me with a serious expression. “You, as my consort, will be expected to attend me in the ritual of the Great Marriage.”

“And what it that?” I seem to have remembered some pagan rite of spring, something to do with the fertility of the land, but whatever I once knew, it has faded.

“You know of the festival of Beltaine?” I nod my head. “A number of times a year, more than two, but is known by most at Samhain and Beltaine, the Horned God and the Goddess couple in symbolic gesture. They, by their mating, assure the fertility of the land for the halfyear to come. At this ritual, you will be initiated as my consort, and will enact the same rites.”

I look at him in confusion. “We are to get married?”

He smiles to himself, but I see that there is more to this smile than he lets on. “A very public wedding night. Shared by others.”

“What part of all this is shared by others?” This should be interesting.

“You will be instructed by women as to how to deport yourself. And we will not see each other for a number of weeks. I will have my own instruction to attend to. You will be in the good hands of women who are steeped in these mysteries. Your time there will teach you far more than mere magic.”

I feel that he is avoiding my questions, but what he has said gives me meat enough for thought. After a while he leaves me to myself, and I notice a book placed in the window sill. I had not noticed it before, nor was it one of the few that I had brought up from downstairs. The Demon must have placed it there, or perhaps Madame Gormosy. I settled at my tea table and read what I could. It was a book on the history of the Druids and in it I came across what he called “The Great Marriage”. The pages were spotted with age and water, and the printing had strange characters in its alphabet, but I read on.

It seemed the Great Marriage was a ritual more public festival among pagans than the Christian monks would wish. In our eyes, some of the parts of the rituals would be distasteful enough, but one was especially perverse. It seems that a white horse was found at Beltaine and the Horned God, I would suppose Cernunnos, would mate with this mare. She would be killed, he washed in the blood, and would eat of the raw flesh. White horses were rare, and the sacrifice of one was a significant event. Then there was a very public ritual of the mating of Cernunnos with the Goddess, and it seemed that all hell broke loose. Bonfires were set on hills, and cattle driven over the flames or between two bonfires to insure fertility. Young women and men would jump through the flames, and they would pair off and mate in the open and throughout the forest or glen. This was not frowned upon, at least by the ordinary folk, for in its superstition, it assured the coming fertility of the crops and the expected harvest. Some man with antlers representing Cernunnos would run around and mate with as many women as possible. I shivered thinking about my own encounter with Cernunnos. I could do well to avoid him again.

Madame Gormosy came back later in the evening. We would begin to pack for the trip. She recommended stout and warm clothing, and boots and woolen stockings. Since it was still not spring, I thought as we traveled, we would meet a cold and dreary landscape. If my trips to Scotland and England taught me anything, it was that the weather was awful, and I’d probably get sick. We packed what woolen clothes I had, and a stout pair of leather boots. My red woolen cloak and some shawls completed my trousseau, for what I packed was a strange assortment of wedding finery. No modest veils or satin, and the heaviest of linen chemises for my wedding night. Hah!

There was little else I could do or prepare, and went back to playing faro with Madame. She was not to come with us, and I realized that I would miss her companionship. Although Madame, and at times, Monsieur, kept me guessing, she was, as my Demon declared, all sweetness and light. That’s when I didn’t catch her trickery at cards, but she had centuries of cheating beneath her belt, and I continued to play the plucked chicken.

Ah, Madame! I will miss your smile and your wandering hands. What I face on the morrow would be much soothed by your company!

Jane Kohut-Bartels,
Copyrighted, 2009, 2013

“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 41

Sunset, damonandamy.com

Last night I was talking at a poetry jam with other writers. We had finished with the poetry and were moving on to a small discussion of novel writing. It seems most of us write purely to entertain…first ourselves and then others. If we are serious about a story, a tale, a book, we mire ourselves in copious research, especially if we are writing about a culture or a time that isn’t our own. I thought back to this book, “Devil’s Revenge” that I started in the beginning of 2007. Then I thought of the research into Celtic Mythology and realized that it was something that disrupted the writing for about two years. But then again, it is never enough.

As I go back to this book to finish, I realize I am thrown back into research, this time of a different theme. But that is alright because it extends the scope and breath of our imagination. It gives us a fleshing out of plot and character. And that, most importantly, is the heart of our writing books.

Lady Nyo<

Chapter 41

The men reversed their journey and made their way back to the castle. There was no question of burying Lord Dilwen in some forest, nor did they consider continuing onwards towards Gwynedd.

They rode without break, neither considering hunger or sleep. They drank from water skins and ate their ration of hard bread from the leather pockets on their saddles. Riding hard for almost three days, they came through the forest to the shore. Lord Evan lead the silent, exhausted men and slowly they crossed the stone causeway leading to the entrance of the large cobbled courtyard.

It was early in the morning when they arrived, and only a few sentries were on guard. However, within a short time, more men gathered in the courtyard.

A murmur went through the small crowd when they realized Lord Dilwen’s body was tied to the horse. Others ran into the castle to alert Lady Dilwen.

Garrett slid off his horse, and almost fell to the ground. This ride was hard on all of the men physically, but the sadness they felt added to their despair. Without the wise guidance of the old Druid, they wondered with some confusion what was to happen. The future, once with such solid plans, was now very murky.

Garrett felt this loss deeply. It was two-fold for him, for it wasn’t just some answers that died with Lord Dilwen. It was that the old Druid had extended himself in friendship, and this was not something Garrett experienced commonly. It was a rare occasion for him to have another he could trust and share confidences. Now he felt very much alone. He also felt an immeasurable sense of guilt, for he knew, as did the others, that the Druid priest had gone to consult with the demons on his behalf.

There was a great clatter of noise as people emptied the castle and rushed into the courtyard. Lady Dilwen appeared slowly, at one point leaning upon the stones for support, and then being surrounded by her women. She slowly made her way down the steps and then to the horse where her husband’s body was tied. She almost silently crooned a lament, over and over, a lament that expressed all the sorrow in the world, a new widow greeting her beloved husband of many decades.

“Ah, Mordag, just yesterday was it I kissed your cheek and sent you off with the others? Had I known you would return lifeless to me, I would have fallen to my knees and grabbed at your stirrup. Oh, husband of mine, what is to be done now? I am lost without you. I will perish without you. What is to be done now? Where do I turn to? Your people are wanting, are waiting, Oh Mordag! And this be the end of our days?”

Lady Dilwen clutching her narrow, bony hands over her heart, and with her women crying softly around her, demanded Lord Evan bring her dead husband into the hall and let her look upon his face.

A wide wooden plank was brought and laid on the ground and Lord Dilwen placed upon it. Four men shouldered this burden and slowly climbed the steps into the castle hall. Lady Dilwen and the rest of the people followed and a soft keening floated, a primitive dirge, up into the rafters of the hall.

Garrett saw Bess amongst the women but did not acknowledge her. There would be time enough to talk, but now it was time to prepare for the general grieving.

Lord Dilwen was buried in the forest, in the middle of an oak grove, as was befitting a Druid priest. All day the incantations and prayers were offered by a group of elders, Lady Dilwen amongst them. They tried to make her return to her rooms and rest, but she was determined to spend these last heavy hours with her husband.

Lord Dilwen’s grave was dug and lined with stones. His body was placed in the bottom with emblems of his office and food for his journey to the Abred, the Otherworld of their belief. Many stones were placed upon his grave, a cairn built up, and thick branches were laid upon those stones.

That evening a fire was built upon the cairn, reaching to the tops of the trees, these heavy, old oak trees which had grown for centuries in this virgin forest. The sorrowful face of the full moon looked down upon the grove, and the flames seemed to reach to that pallid orb. It was morning before the fire burned out, and only hot stones and ashes remained of the old Druid.

* * * * * *

“I have sent a messenger to summon trusted friends and advisors, my Lord Gwythern.” Lady Rhonwen spoke to both Garrett and Bess.

“ It is right and proper for us to understand and proceed carefully, for the death of Lord Dilwen has great portend. We have discussed some of the details of Lord Dilwen’s last hours with Lord Evan. We have drawn some conclusions. We must prepare ourselves for the loss of Lord Dilwen. We must decide how best to help you.”

Bess looked at the dark, silent men around Lady Dilwen and shivered. They were a sinister looking bunch in their dull woven robes, their faces shadowed by deep cowls. Garrett and she sat across a trestle table and Bess looked at her hands in her lap. These hands had changed in just the few months she had arrived. They were now rough and reddened with the various daily chores. More than her hands had changed: she knew something fundamental had changed within. She was no longer the woman writer of the 21st century. Her concerns were very different now. The death of Lord Dilwen was only part of it.

She wondered if they would be blamed for his death.

She looked up at Lady Dilwen and caught a sad smile and knew Lady Dilwen had read her thoughts. Oh, the grief this poor woman must feel after all these years! Her eyes clouded with tears and she quickly lowered her head.

An elderly man slowly pushed back his cowl and revealed his face. Bess looked at him and gasped, her eyes rudely traveling across his face. He looked like close kin of Lord Dilwen, and this exactly was what he proved to be.

“From what Lord Evan related,” said Brother Griffin, “I have no doubt he spoke to some demonic force up on that mountain.”

He looked across the table at Garrett, and his eyes were hard and narrowed.

“Perhaps it was not a demonic force, but a God or Goddess of long ago, Brother Griffin.” These words came from another elderly man, whose voice could be barely heard in the hall. He was known to the others, but not to Bess or Garrett.

“We have the power of Christ to drive out all these dark things, Brother Llews. That my kinsman Lord Dilwen would deny the true faith and hold to dark superstition says much about the current failure of our monks.”

“Brother Griffin.” Lady Dilwen’s voice was faint but she made an effort to speak clearly. “It is clear you are grief stricken with the death of your kin, but now is not the time for our differences to divide us. We have many tasks ahead to decide. First we have a responsibility to these two young people before us. My dear husband’s concern was to find guidance for Lord Gwrtheyrn, to help develop some answers. That was why he was traveling with him.”

Brother Griffin looked at Lady Dilwen and clamped shut his mouth, his lips forming a line across his face. Bess could see that he was struggling with his desire to argue.

“My apologies, my dear kinswoman. My sorrow is nothing compared to that of yours.” He bowed his head in obedience to Lady Dilwen and sat back in his chair. His glare at her belied his own polite words.

Lord Llews spoke up. “It is not exactly clear what Lord Dilwen’s last words meant, but I do think he was trying to tell Lord Evan and the others something. What it was, we have some conjecture.”

“From what I think, it was more the dying confused words of a very old and shocked man.” Brother Griffin kissed the heavy wooden cross that dangled on a chain from his neck.

“But perhaps it was not? Perhaps it was a final message, Brother. Perhaps we have enough of something here, in these last words, to discern a meaning, something of importance.” Lord Llews looked around the table, and his eyes were excited.

“ I think it is very possible that these last words, “ca deus” could mean something that would reveal what happened up on that mountain.”

Each spoke in turn as to their opinion, but there was little really of that. This death sat too close to the heart, and as Lady Rhonwen said, it would take a few days perhaps of prayer and thought for it to be made plain, obvious to them all.

**********************

Days later Bess and Garrett met with Lady Dilwen and Lord Llews. Lady Rhonwen joined them with drop spindle and a basket of wool. Bess smiled to herself. Lady Rhonwen could spin wool thread in her sleep if it pleased her. The harpist Lord Rhys appeared out of the shadows in the corner of the hall. The light was waning outside, as the sun sank to the horizon. Dust motes danced in the few rays of light that streamed down on them from the high windows.

Lady Dilwen spoke in a very low voice and though Bess was seated across from her, she leaned forward to catch the old woman’s words.

“You are well aware now, that there are great differences amongst us. Brother Griffin has come from the monastery across the strait, and of course as a close kinsman of my husband, he has his concerns. His faith and ways are not of our own, but there are many people in the castle who believe as he. In fact, our beliefs, the old ways, are disappearing in the face of Brother Griffin’s religion.”

Lord Llews looked at the Lord Rhys and the Lady Rhonwen, and cleared his throat.

“We are in a battle to preserve our old ways, or at least not to be drowned in the holy water of the new. The Christ’s priests have grown prominent and strong in the last few generations, even stronger than in Arthur’s time, and we are now standing on less and less ground.”

“Yes”, said Lady Rhonwen, dipping her covered head in his direction. “And we see Good and Evil in different ways. Brother Griffin’s beliefs are a challenge for us in many ways.”

Lord Rhys gave a low laugh at her words.

“Challenge is an understatement, my Lady. We are fighting for our lives. The Christ’s priests would finish the work Caesar started those many centuries ago. Only the total destruction of our existence is fitting for them. They have destroyed the largest part and we are clinging to the mists now.”

“Yes, Lord Rhys, what you say is right, but we are not without our friends.” Lady Dilwen’s voice was soft but her presence carried weight amongst them and not only because of whose widow she was.

“Yes, my Lady, but each generation our friends become fewer and fewer.”

Lady Dilwen’s eyes shone and her face softened.

Lord Llews looked at Garrett and his voice was pitched low, almost as if he feared he would be overheard.

“There is little we can do about the Christ’s priests, but keep to our own faith. We have our own miracles. This aids us. Our powers are not completely depleted.”

Bess glanced at Lord Rhys. It seemed he had grown larger. Perhaps it was a trick of the dimming hall light, or perhaps something else. He just seemed different, if only for a second.

Lady Dilwen caught Bess’ eye and lowered her head as she smiled at her.

Bess heard Lord Llews’ soft voice and strained to catch his words.

“The Old Beliefs differ from the priests in many ways, but perhaps most significant when the soul flees from the breath of life.”

Bess saw the confusion on Garrett’s face, but the others did not seem to hold the same sentiment. In fact, they exhibited almost–a quiet joy.

Lady Dilwen spoke, her voice strengthening suddenly.

. “The Christ’s Religion have their miracles. We have our own.”

For some reason all eyes turned to Lord Rhys, the harpist. His face wore nothing extraordinary, but a serene smile, though one would be struck by some difference upon seeing him. What this change was, Bess could not grasp, but something was in the works.

“Aye, Lady Dilwen, we have been again in the presence of a miracle.” Lord Llew’s voice held a strange note of awe.

Casting his pale blue eyes upon Garrett and Bess, his voice was firm but his words made the hairs on Bess’ neck prickle.

“When the soul flees from life, it searches out another to carry on it’s work. Since Lord Dilwen’s death we have awaited this ‘thing’ we call a miracle, though it is no miracle.”

He cleared his throat again and lowered his voice.

“Life seeks life, and death is a stepping stone to another life. The soul of Lord Dilwen has sought a life to continue his work and a way to continue to give of his wisdom. Before us, we behold the miracles of miracles. Lord Dilwen has chosen well in his journey. Lord Dilwen has chosen the Lord Rhys.”

Suddenly the beams of light which had lessened over the past quarter of an hour were no more. The corner in which they sat was plunged into a murky darkness. But Lord Rhys seemed to beam forth, his body aglow with a aura, a surrounding gleam that was unearthly. There was a majesty, a noble cast to his form, as if he had expanded in bulk. But perhaps most noticeable was the tender compassion that shown from his eyes.

Bess looked at him in fascination, wondering what had happened. Suddenly wind whirled around, making a soft humming sound. A vortex of a pulsating light swept up from the rushes on the floor and towered over them. It was like a rainbow of many colors come to the earth, a carnival ride where one could not move a limb. She closed her eyes, this queer light filled her head and confused her senses.

She smelled the scents of the forest in the night, and heard a whippoorwill or a nightingale, she couldn’t tell what exactly, but heard this soft birdsong close by. Opening her eyes she found herself standing in an Oak grove, with the glimmer of something like ribbons chasing through the branches of the trees. She saw Garrett and the others standing there and she knew something very strange had happened to them all. She felt no fear as she sought Garrett’s hand. She blinked and smiled up at him, his eyes wide and startled.

Lord Rhys smiled at them, the others neither startled nor confounded by where they had landed.

“We are in the sacred Oak Grove, the part that is not seen by many mortal eyes. We come here when there is occasion to do so, and we are safe from the eyes of those who would bid us ill.”

Lord Rhys’ voice was strange, neither the strong and young tones of a young man, but more the rusty vocals of an elderly man. With a start, Bess realized she was hearing the voice of the dead Lord Dilwen. Her expression must have changed with this because Lord Rhys gave a chuckle.

In his own voice now, the strong voice of a younger man, he spoke again.

“Yes, Lady Bethan, you are hearing the words of Lord Dilwen through my mouth. He can do this, you know, when he so pleases.”

He glanced at Lady Dilwen and bowed from his seat.

“Three days ago, Lord Dilwen came to me as I slept. When I awoke, I had beside me the small sickle knife of Lord Dilwen’s possession. We buried the good Lord Dilwen with his knife. I knew then I had been chosen to continue the tasks of this Elder.”

Lord Llews spoke next as the multicolored ribbons vibrated and glimmered through the trees. Bess realized that this grove, this sacred grove, was not of this dimension. Though not afraid, she squeezed Garrett’s hand for comfort.

“We have counseled these three days and we have knowledge what Lord Dilwen’s last words meant. They were not his dying death rattle, nor the confusion that comes upon a body as life is fleeing. They were direction for you, Lord Gwrtheyrn and your lady. You have come amongst us for counsel and now we give it.”

Lord Llews looked at the younger Lord Rhys and nodded his head.

Again in the voice of Lord Dilwen, the young harpist spoke.

“The Great and Terrible Morrigan, who parleyed with me that fateful night when my spirit split from my mortal form, told me what it was she would do.

“Listen carefully, my children, for she will be heard in her wisdom and she has pledged her favor.”

Lord Rhys face changed, a frown of concentration formed upon him, as if his words were dug up from a great hole in the earth.

“The Great Morrigan will aid you in the fight with this foul Devil called Obadiah and his gathering demonic forces. She will call forth the very trees that will do great battle, those that will lash out with their heavy branches, all the trees and birds that are under her command will march from all points of the compass and stand behind you. She herself will pick out the eyes of these demons and cast them to her flocks of crows, ravens. They will be blinded in battle and you will make victory with the magic of the Cad Caddeu. “

His eyes narrowed into slits and Bess felt a shiver go down her spine.

“But you know the terms for her help. The Great Morrigan is merciful, my Lord and Lady, but she demands of you the daughter yet to be born. She will raise her as a Druid Priestess, and she will have great power.”

Inwardly Bess groaned, but said not a word. There was nothing she could say for all this was unreal. How could anything rational be applied to now? From the moment she awoke in that bed in the 1820’s…no, there was nothing real to anything. Not then, and certainly not now.

She looked at Lady Rhonwen and then at Lady Dilwen and their eyes caught and held hers. She saw Lady Dilwen raise her finger and she couldn’t think anymore. She heard Garrett speak but the words made no sense, they were all a jumble, tossed at random and fading fast from her hearing. It was as if a strong narcotic had been injected into her veins. She stood there, senseless and rooted to the ground like the oaks surrounding her.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009-2013

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“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 40

sky in the NorthEast, Jane Kohut-Bartels, June 25, 2012

What a day. I had a friend have a meltdown, a computer process that scrambled chapters, and the weather keeps threatening rain. What else can happen?

Oh, I’ve been asked to read a poem at a poetry club tomorrow and haven’t a clue as to what to read. There are good poets there, and though it’s a welcoming group, I don’t read my own poetry well in public. My husband tells me to practice, so I’m walking around mumbling.

A good friend read this chapter. She has an interest in Celtic Mythology, and I told her before she got this chapter today that I was taking great liberties with Celtic Mythology in this chapter. Actually, in this book.

So….the Demon and Bess find themselves in early 7th century Wales, and that’s what happens when you are loitering around the ley lines of the Earth, also known as ‘dragon lines’ by the plain folk. This chapter will confuse those who have been reading “Devil’s Revenge” because I haven’t posted anything that segues into this scene, (or century) but there it is. Hope it entertains, which is all writers of fiction can hope to do.

Lady Nyo

“DEVIL’S REVENGE”
Chapter 40

The sun was barely above the horizon when they rode down the causeway and onto the shore. Skirting the water, they came to the main road and rode through the forest up into the hills. They rode for Gwynedd, days in the distance. Lord Evan looked with narrowed eyes at the far hills, soon to turn into mountains. He was leading these men, but one amongst them was the true authority. He prayed this man would help protect them. He was getting too old for these forays. Soon the soil would warm and the spring planting would call for his presence. The comfort of his own bed and wife beside him was alluring enough.

Lord Dilwen was that man of authority. He sat his horse with suprising grace for one so old and though the pace was not fast, they traveled over landscape that rolled with a constant rhythm. The journey would challenge his bones, but he savored the chance to get away from the women. Given to the Goddess more than sixty years ago, he was trained to endure hardship. He was a very old Druid and the priests of the Christ did not challenge him. If they thought of him at all, they dismissed him as senile. Lady Dilwen and he now lived in the comfort of the castle and both needed the warmth of the hall fire in winter. Spring was appearing, the weather had changed. He was glad to be out from the castle. It did a man good to be with men, out of earshot of women.

Lord Evan sat on his horse, lost in thought. He knew the three men from his homeland to the west. They would follow his orders. The new one, this Lord Gwrtheyrn , was a puzzle to him. He would dismiss him as a cipher, but saw the behavior of those about him. He hadn’t a clue why the younger lord had such value. He smelled like a damn foreigner, but he knew enough to withhold his contempt. He was commanded by his council of his lordships to deliver this Lord Gwrtheyrn to the Isle of Skye. He hoped they would meet little resistance as they passed through the kingdoms. All except Lord Dilwen were competent swordsmen. If the young Lord Gwrtheyrn was killed by a raider, they could turn their horses homeward that much sooner. It was all the same to him. He smiled to himself in thought. Lord Dilwen may not be a swordsman, but he had other powers to compensate. Lord Evan’s horse was leading them through the forest and he looked back at the Lords Dilwen and Gwrtheyrn. He could vaguely hear Lord Dilwen’s voice behind him.

“It’s a twisted history this land has been given.”

Lord Dilwen’s voice was low for they passed through a forest not of their own. Better they pass quietly, without drawing the notice of locals. They were too small a group to take on another force. Lord Evan would know where they were, but to the other’s eyes, one forest was the same as another.

Lord Dilwen rode next to Gwrtheyrn. “The Battle of Camlan, now that’s where Arthur carried the image of Saint Mary on his shield. That showed the Old Ones how much Arthur betrayed them. He had been King Stag at the Beltane, yet look what he fell to!”

Lord Dilwen spat over his horse. “It was his love of peace that set this betrayal. With the priests of Christ welcome at his council, there was no turning back.”

They rode in silence for a while, while Lord Dilwen collected his thoughts, remembering the past, or perhaps considering the present, the future.

“Arthur and his forces were up against Medraut, the son of Llews. That was your foster-father.” Lord Dilwen paused a bit, and thought back over his history. “Medraut joined forces with the Picts and Saxons and blazed through the north.”

Lord Dilwen’s memories heated his words. “Ah, things were again to change, though news traveled slowly. The great five princes of the land, Constantine from Cornwall, Virtipore, who had Dyfed and the regions south, let me think now. Ah! It was Cuneglase of Powys and Maelgun of Gwyddyl, and I believe Conan of Gwent., they held the land in the name of the Goddess back then.” He fell silent again and his eyes darkened a bit.

“It was the wavering of Maelgwn who was won by the Christ’s priests. He was the snake in the grass! When he was young, he served the Goddess well, taking many heads of tyrants. But age can sometimes do strange things, my young lord.” Lord Dilwen spit over the side of his horse again. “Maelgwn repented of his past and swore before the priest’s Christ that he would be a monk amongst them. He was powerful, but turned too much to the council of those priests. They gelded him.”

Lord Dilwen took a water skin from his saddle mount and drank deeply. He offered it to Lord Gwrtheyrn, who shook his head.

“So, what we have, my young lord, is chaos and confusion. Princes raiding princes, Kings breaking pacts. The land is in turmoil, and the Christians no longer wait as wolves at the door. They have made good egress into the minds and hearts all over the island. Their brand of ignorance is particularly galling. Now, the Goddess hides Her face, and plague has descended in the east. This pox lasted 6 years last time. . It took your family along with King Llews. With no one to plow and crops to be set, famine takes what plague didn’t get.”

Lord Dilwen looked sideways at Gwrtheyrn. “Did anything of your childhood come back to you when you entered the land of your ancestors? Did you remember your foster father, King Llews?”

Lord Gwrtheyrn shook his head silently. “I remember nothing, of people nor place. One mountain could be as another.”

Lord Dilwen’s eyes glittered for an instant, and he smiled to himself. “Our priests were wise in preserving your life. You might pay with it now, but there was a greater wisdom in removing you.” He was silent for a moment. “Do you feel any stirrings of your magic?”

Lord Gwrtheyrn looked at him in surprise. “It is that apparent? No, it seems all magic and power have left me. I wondered what had happened.”

Lord Dilwen chuckled to himself. “It will return, my young lord. You are standing in many magic fields, what they call dragon lines, though that is the name used by the people. The old Druids knew another name, one that is not mentioned aloud, and it’s hard to tell where one stops and one starts. They crisscross the earth, and are especially potent underground. Your lady will have some knowledge of its workings before she is finished.”

Lord Gwytheyrn looked hard at the old Druid, his mind forming questions. “I know, my Lord, of some of the plans for my being here. The council has made clear what they want from me. But as to Bess…I mean my Lady Bethan, is it wise to give her such knowledge?”

“Do you not trust her, my son?” Lord Dilwen’s voice was soft, his eyes looking at the back of Lord Evan’s jacket.

Gwytheyrn was silent in thought. “It’s not that I don’t trust her, my Lord. It’s that she is so distanced in mind from all this.” He made a rude choking gesture with his hand. “She will be trouble for the one who is doing the teaching.”

Lord Dilwen laughed. “All women are hard to teach, especially when they resist the lessons. But none of these plans were made without care. We all have a reason for being here, though the Goddess doesn’t tell that to men. Perhaps in the matter of women, She is more gracious.”

Gwytheyrn lapsed into silence. Whatever they were planning for Bess back in the castle, she would give them a good run for their money. He knew her to have a sharp mind, but she was a modern woman, removed from the turmoil and customs of this present land and time. It would take a major adjustment to not be overwhelmed and he did not think that could be avoided. Well, there was nothing he could do at this distance. Those around her would have to adjust to her own behavior. He smiled to himself. It would be quite a contest of wills and he was glad he would be miles away.

They were following a rough road that wound through the hills and through more forests. The hills mounted upward, and soon Gwytheyrn could tell that they had left the lowlands. They crossed over a long valley and began to climb into the mountains. Lord Dilwen sat his horse easily, and at times appeared to doze on his mount. When they began to climb, and the altitude changed he became awake and looked about him carefully. He explained to Gwytheyrn that he was looking for a particular place, sacred to the Old Druids and he wanted to pay his respects to this place. Lord Evan knew his plans and dropped back to speak to the old Druid. Gwytheyrn slowed his horse and fell away from them, allowing the two men privacy. They talked together for a while, though Gwytheyrn would not hear their low voices, but Lord Dilwen eyes were keen in observing all about him. It was an hour further when they pulled their five mounts together and stopped for the night.

* * *

Lord Dilwen walked apart from the remaining four up a steep hill and into a clump of trees. Taking his bearings, he walked westward through these trees until he came to an outcrop. There he climbed around rocks and boulders until he found what he was looking for. It was called “Idris’Chair” and it looked out onto a valley below. However, Lord Dilwen had to carefully step down a very narrow path till he could climb into the stone chair.

It was not cut or hewn, but of a natural shape. Deep and wide, it was a place of great lore and mystery. Only those who had the power to command these mysteries would dare to sit here. Only one who had training and was conversant with magical powers would dare to touch its stone.

Those Druids who had meditated there had transformative experiences, such that either they awoke the next morning enhanced, wise or dead. These high points served as windows to the otherworld. Lord Dilwen had demons to command and he needed these sacred stones for his personal protection. Respect and regard on earth was very different than what was batted about in the otherworld.

Lord Dilwen settled himself into the cupped bottom of the stone chair. Dusk was settling fast and the first star of the heavens was clear and high. Soon the moon would rise in the western sky before him, a beggar’s cup a quarter full. It was the right time, and the forces could be called to him with this moon’s rising.

Lord Dilwen stretched his arms out on either side of the stone arms. It would be cold tonight, the spring very new and tender, but he knew he would be past feeling discomfort. The trance he would slip into would make him insensate to all elements. Only those creatures that would float through the portal of his mind and into his essence would matter. Commanding the demons and spirits he needed would be tricky. Some would try to lure him over the side of the chair, his body to fall to the rocks below. He would have to discern the tricksters from the ‘helpful’ ones, and this would be even more a test of wills.

Taking out a stone from a pouch threaded through his belt, he held it in his right hand, and traced the labyrinth cuttings on this slightly larger than palm-sized stone. He hummed a particular tune, and to a hidden listener, it would sound out of tone, an eerie scale of strange notes. Over and over his hand traced the same lines on the stone. The birds had settled in for the night and the wind picked up and blew sounds like low notes from hollowed out bones.

He knew that the trance, the altered state was approaching, and the serpent’s tails on his wrists started to twitch. Lord Dilwen’s eyes rolled back in his head and his neck fell backward, his shoulders cradled by the hard stone.

“I call out to you, the powers of the Universe, those foul and fair. I have need of your counsel, I have need of your power. Come to me, horrid Morrigan, Come to me, in t-Ellen trechend- come to me three headed Ellen, and give me your wisdom.”

The wind picked up and moaning was heard around the valley below. A low cackle floated up on the breath of the wind and circled the stone chair.

The night was dark, and the beggar cup of a moon seemed to telescope, to move closer to earth, to enlarge itself and spread like a sickening smile across the sky, east to west. Lord Dilwen knew that the power was upon him, for his breathing slowed and he could feel his heart beat lessen. A warm, caressing air embraced his old bones and he knew he was being tempted by some demonic spirit. It would call out to him in whispers, for him to

Stand up and come to me! Come to me, my dearest lover, step out into the night time air, walk to me, I am waiting, waiting.

He knew this was a first temptation, and he willed his loins to shrivel. It was a seasoning, a seasoning of unholy lust that was calling within his mind, and he knew it to be false. His manhood had not shown such vigor in years, and this was the first telling of the temptation.

He shook his head and raised his arms and the serpents crawled up and down his arms, their mouths opening and their tongues flicking. One hissed and the other snapped his jaws, and the whispers moaned and disappeared…for now.

Lord Dilwen knew he would not sleep tonight, for to sleep would be to seal his death warrant. There would be no awakening on the morrow. His limp body would be found either in the chair, stone cold and dead, or his body on the rocks below in the far distant valley.

Still his hand did not stop his tracing the tracks of the labyrinth. He hummed a different and as discordant tune and around midnight, the wind picked up from the north and blew hard down the valley. Lord Dilwen knew then he was to be granted the presence of some spirit, and perhaps it would be the great Morrigan herself. But there would be a price to pay, there always was.

Suddenly the air was filled with a foul odor. Lord Dilwen knew what this plague was, because it was a plague sent by the foulest forces of the Underworld. It was another attempt to frighten him away, but he had smelled death many times before, the particular sweet-sickening scent of putrefaction. He had been on battle fields where the stomachs of combatants had split in half, and had stepped in their fouled guts with their staggering last steps. He had smelled the land when plague took entire villages, and had arrived days later when the stench could be smelled a mile away on the wind. No, this was not of the earth, it was a huge swarm of red-ochre colored birds, the birds of the dead- whose breath withered fields and orchards and suffocated any man or beast they passed close by.

Lord Dilwen tied a cloth over his nose and slowed his breathing. He knew it was a test, another one to see how strong he was, and how much he could stand. After a while, the birds disappeared, but the valley was befouled with their droppings. Where their shit landed, there were burn marks in the grasses and trees would look in the morning as if they were struck by lightning.

Suddenly, the wind picked up again, but this time no foul stench from birds. A vapor appeared in the valley and swirled and gathered, entwining like a coven of ghosts. It rose and exploded, and formed again, tendrils shooting off the tops and sides, then an updraft of energy exploding it all over again. The wide smile of the moon constricted as if even this cosmic form was diminished by what was happening in the valley below where Lord Dilwen sat. This vapor formed again and again, slowly rising up towards the place where he sat. Lord Dilwen continued to trace the lines of the labyrinth. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the dried leaves of mugwort, sacred to Morrigan. For him to eat it would be certain death. This would leave him paralyzed in a dream, where he would not be able to move. But spreading it before him on the ground would be an offering. He also took a clear quartz crystal, her stone, and placed it on the left arm of the stone chair.

When the swirling vapor reached level to his chair, it suddenly burst into a multi-colored display of streamers that shot out into the air, disappearing with a fury of energy.

Lord Dilwen felt a presence and looking to his left spied a huge raven

“Ah! Goddess Morrigan! You are honoring me with your presence. I have come for your counsel and bring you gifts.”

No sound came from Lord Dilwen’s mouth, but a tinkling of what could be called celestial music, or to other ears, a well tuned wind chime. It was answered by a rude calling, a cackling, a low, menacing call not expected from a raven.

I already know what you want, Lord Dilwen. You have called me from my labors to answer that of a mortal’s concern? Of what is in it for me? Why would I mettle in such mundane affairs of mundane creatures?

Lord Dilwen knew he had to proceed very cautiously. The Morrigan was a touchy Goddess. But he also knew her to be a curious one. Mettling in the affairs of mortals, attempting to mess with fate was second nature to these immortals. They fed on this as a mortal would his meat.

“I am here as an avocate to Lord Gwythern in his battle against another force. I ask your counsel, wise Morrigan. I know these two were once locked in battle as young bulls in our prehistory. They continue to clash and it is time that one over come the other. This battle must end.”

There was silence. The dawn wind was unusually quiet, and no birds yet to be heard. The sickly grin of the moon had dipped low in the western sky, faded, muted though the sun was not yet on the horizon.

The raven was as still as a statue. Lord Dilwen rubbed his finger over the stone, a meditation path protecting as well as communicating other things to him.

Go home, you old fool. You mettle in things you know not of. No power of Heaven or Hell or of Annwn will protect or succor your young lord. Go home. Your quest is pointless.

Lord Dilwen sat in silence. Perhaps another way could be found to the Morrigan’s counsel.

“What price, Morrigan, do you demand for your counsel? Would you want the remaining breath of my body? I would give it to you, for I am an old and feeble man, with little life left in me. Is this your price?”

Suddenly the quiet of the predawn was broken. A low and rumbling cackle filled the air, and seemed to creep up the walls of the cliff face from far down in the valley. Lord Dilwen knew this hellish sound was from the Morrigan, though the raven sat its perch on the rock, silent.

Of what value to me the rattling and stinking breath of an old mortal, even one such as you? Priest! Hear me! You attempt to change the forces of fate with your puny involvement. These issues are far beyond your power.

Aye, she will take the bait, it is only the matter of time.

“But they are not beyond you, Morrigan. You can change the fate of all, and the outcome will be to your glory if you just stretch out your hand. You can trump the Christian Devil himself and show the power of the Old Ones once again. Our ways have faded to nothingness, our Gods and Goddesses now reduced to the leprechauns and fairies in the myths. But you, Great Morrigan, with your power can restore a rightful history. You can redeem the true faith.”

A wind whipped up from the valley and the near-morning stars seemed to churn in the still dark heaven. This wind tossed branches, uprooted small trees and large bushes and like a vortex, danced in front of Lord Dilwen’s stone chair. He pressed himself back in terror as the vortex crept closer and closer, drawing the breath out of his lungs. His eyes glanced over to the raven and saw it surrounded in an unearthly glow, and its beak was transformed into a terrible smile. The words of the Morrigan came now from that raven’s mouth.

You shall have what you have sought, Lord Dilwen. I will command the trees of the forest to gather in battle, under the banner of your Lord Gwytheren, to fight all the forces of Hell. But this must not take place on our soil. Go home, go home to your particular Hell. Let none of the forces of God’s Hell gather on our land.

The next morning, the men found Lord Dilwen, cold, seemingly dead, cradled in the stone seat of the chair. They wrapped him well in cloaks and carried him to camp where they tried to revive him. Chaffing his limbs and forcing him to swallow a strong liquor, they were able to bring him to some life, but he seemed beyond intelligent speech. The only words he would utter sounded like jibberish, but the best they could make of it was the sound of “ca godu”. To them, it was the dying rattle of a very old man. And so he died. They bundled his thin body in his cloak and set out to return to the castle for his burial.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009, 2013

“Devil’s Revenge”, Chapter 3

I had no intention of every revisiting this book but since I have, it has an energy to it that still surprises me. It was only my second novel, and it got lost in the excitement of writing other books and of course, poetry. But it has a certain charm (at least to me…) and also has some inventive characters who will make an appearance later. It’s good to reread earlier work, and to see how it stacks up with work years later.

There were three years of some pretty extensive research into Celtic mythology and of the poetry from that time. I also wrote some of my very first poetry into this novel. If I post later chapters those poems will appear. Overall, this novel, though basically a work that needs a lot of rework, was a wonderful time of investigation and forming characters. There are frogs in here too with their own particular magic.Lady Nyo

Chapter 3

Stretching like a cat, I awoke slowly. Suddenly I smelled the strong scent of wood smoke and bounced upright in bed. Looking around, I saw the fireplace and realized where I was. Damn, it was happening again! The Demon was playing fast and loose with my atoms, zapping me from my own comfortable bed and century. How in hell does he do this? Hah! Like he would tell me, but at least this time I wasn’t sick to my stomach.

The Demon had a name, Garrett Cortelyou. Cocksure of his charms, arrogance fed into his seduction and he was a danger to my decorum and decency. Compounding the situation he was devilishly attractive and exuded an unearthly charisma. He was master of a particular brand of sexual magic and his appetite knew no bounds. He delighted in corrupting me, shocking me with his…. techniques. I would call him a libertine. He had little concern I was married and I forgot I was when he was near. There was a certain charm in his humor and he was an entertaining devil. Sexual encounters with him were addictive and probably dangerous. But this could not continue – I was losing control of myself. What kind of world had he pulled me into? Why was I here? This was insanity and since it happened over and over, I knew I was not dreaming.

I also knew somehow… answers to this present situation revolved around the novel. Perhaps if I kept writing until the end it would resolve. I could return to my comfortable, boring life with my husband and my chickens and this excitement and unreality would disappear. I realized the book was a key, but which door did it open?

And then this demon? Well, I really didn’t know that he was a demon, just guessing. I didn’t have anything else to call him and ‘demon’ fit for some reason. Perhaps it was the magic and the mind reading, but I needed a name for him. What part did he really play in the scope of things? He was a sharp-eyed critic and petards my writing with his presence and demands. I knew he wasn’t ‘real’, oh real enough in some physical sense, but there were other considerations. How did he materialize and why? And why me? Of course, he used the ready excuse of the book and how I thought I had brought him ‘into life’, but the power of words, my words, couldn’t upset the universe to such a remarkable extent. No, there were other forces at work, and I would just have to discover what they were.

Here I was, early morning by the light in the room, and again, in a strange bed. I had to pee, and knew from past visits where the chamber closet was. It was cold in the room, the fire was dying down and I hurried across the floor. The sound of a pee in a china pot is quite intimate, as water with our modern toilets muffles sound. Leaving the closet, I stumbled over my feet in surprise. There, sitting in a chair, was the demon.

“I thought we agreed you would refer to me as your “Demon Lover”? Garrett was eating a large slice of currant bread, the Dutch escapes me–

“Kretenbroad”, he said, dusting the crumbs off his chest as he chewed.

“Thank you, the word eluded me.”

“Anna makes good kretenbroad.. I think I will marry her.” He grinned and snapped his fingers, making a dish of tea appear on the table.

“You could do worse.” According to the first novel, Anna was the spinster niece of Daniel Griggs, the manservant who lived in this house for thirty years.

“Much more. Get your facts straight.”

“Garrett, what gives you leave to invade my bedroom at all times of the morning?”

Still chewing his bread, he gave a devilish grin. “I like celestial music in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? What music?” He could be so silly.

“The music a woman makes when she pees in a chamber pot,” he said, still grinning.

“You are a nasty demon.” I was getting impatient with his antics. He took great liberties.

“ Come drink your tea before it cools, “ he said, dusting the crumbs to the floor.

I sat down in my nightgown, and picked up the ‘dish’ of tea. It really was a bowl with two handles, but every time he conjured up tea, it was good.

“Of course it is, I made and stirred it with my –“

“Don’t tell me, Garrett, I won’t be able to drink.” He really was vile this morning, and his visits were always backed with a purpose.

“Always backed”? That’s more garbled English. Write it in Dutch.”

“All right, Demon!” I was getting irritated. “”Why are you here?” (Better I ask why I am here…) I was struggling with the book, trying to finish and every time we were together in this room, there was a setback in my writing, or a detour, or something strange and distracting.

“Oh? You see me as a distraction? I can be more dangerous than that.” He burped loudly. He had the table manners of a goat.

“Bahhh”. He grinned crazily, and for whatever reason he appeared this morning, I was heading for trouble.

“First, give me your hand, and be more tender towards me.” He extended his hand across the table, and gave me a sweet smile. For some reason, he did this each visit. I never trusted him, especially when he was extending his paw.

“Hand.” He nodded to himself. “And call me ‘Lover’. I miss that from you.”

I had to smile. He was such an insecure devil.

“I am not. It’s just that you are a bad writer.” He lunged across the table and grabbed my hand. “And still not fast on your feet.”

A current flowed from his hand to mine. I was knocked back at the intensity of his touch. He had done this before but something was different today.

“You fed me. See, Bess, I was starving, and your cooking restored my strength.” He grinned and squeezed my hand. “Anna made me stronger, too…and I thank thee for her.” Anna was a good Dutch cook, apparently.

“I don’t think I want to fokken her, though.” He couldn’t resist. “Nope, don’t want to do that at all.”

He scowled. “ I read what you wrote…and again, you should stick to what you know.” He smiled, yanking my hand towards him.

“What in hell are you talking about?” He rubbed the front of his breeches, and leered.

“Sex?” Is that the word you can’t think of? You have to use sign language?”

“Ha…funny! Especially coming from a woman who obviously doesn’t know a thing about fellatio.”

I sat up, and thought back to what I wrote. “What was wrong with it?”

“See the sentence above the last.”

“Now you are going stupid. Of course I know about it, I’ve been married for years.”

“Then your husband doesn’t know much.” He had me there.

“I will teach you something useful –the devil leered again- and make you a better writer.” He grinned, and the current between us grew stronger. My hand felt like it was melting into his, the heat fusing our flesh together.

“That’s what good …(the devil burped) …sex is supposed to feel like.”

Garrett was a cock-sure devil, (“damn right”) and most of his suggestions for the novel were on target. He had lived in those years, the early part of the 19th century, and knew the social customs of the period. I could only rely on my spotty research for these things.

“Hold still. I will put something nice in your mouth, sweet woman.” Ah, God…his mind was always fixated on sex.

“It effects better parts of me too, but you keep your knees together too much. Ah, seduction of women writers is hard work.”

“You’ve used that line before, Garrett. Now, who is original.” My little joke didn’t please and he pulled me over the table and into his lap.

“Give your highwayman a kiss, sweet Bessie.” When he was in this mood, there was no denying the demon.

“Oh!” I said., sitting upright on his knee. “That’s one of my favorite poems. “The Highwayman”. I thought it the most romantic poem I ever read when I was twelve.”

“Doesn’t turn out too nice, both of them dead. That musket beneath her breast….” He shook his head and burped again. His stomach at least was all too human.

I put my head on his shoulder. He could be a sweet devil, and evoked tender emotions from me he didn’t deserve. He thought it a good time, when I was docile in his arms (“won’t last long”- I heard him think!) to pick me up and walk to the bed. He lay down besides me, and placed my head on his shoulder.

“You are rather sweet this morning, my Demon.” His temper was usually like mercury. I think we were coming to terms.

“Well, we have, my darling. I have chased away all the competition and you have me at ball and cock.”

I had to laugh. I was still married, and older by decades.

“I was born in 1790. Beat that.” (I was to find this was a lie…another one.)

I thought I was robbing the cradle. He was such a beautiful creation, but still, just a figment of my imagination.

“You really need to expand your horizons, sweeting. There are so many parts to the universe and you just occupy one. You limit yourself by what you believe.”

I never accepted the stories of ghosts, haunts or spirits, but lying by his side, I was beginning to wonder. He appeared flesh and blood enough this morning, especially as he grabbed my hand and placed it on his half mast cock swelling under his breeches.

“Good. You learn something. Am I real enough for you now? Let me show you something else.” He passed his hand quickly from the top to the bottom of my nightgown and it melted away like smoke.

“Ah! The first time I have seen you naked. You wear too many clothes. Let’s see what I’ve caught.” He pushed my hair back from my breast, and stroked a nipple.

“You have pink nipples…very pretty! And you are pink elsewhere, I see.” I lay in his arms and blushed at his words. He took my hand and placed it in his shirt, next to his heart. He always wore a heavy linen shirt and I had become enchanted by his smell of wood smoke and probably brimstone.

“Very funny, sweet woman. Now unclench those knees and let me make love to you.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me the portal to a woman’s soul is her mouth?” I thought to distract his limited mind.

He turned on his side and smiled tenderly down at me. “You use my own words against me? You show courage. You also forget I am a nasty demon.”

“Not so nasty. And getting better.” His behavior had turned my mood from irritation to tolerance. There really was no way around things, if I wanted answers. I had to play a role. Conditions were changing between us and he was softening with a gentler touch.

“I have no softness, and don’t bet on it.” He stroked my thigh and squeezed a breast. I tried the same trick on his clothes, passing my hand down the length of him, and he laughed.

“It will take many decades, sweetheart, for you to learn that trick.”

“Not even levitating a chamber pot?”

“You would have more luck just throwing it.”

He was a handful, this Demon. It was hard work keeping stride with his wit. He could have written a much better book, but then again, he likes best being the sharp-eyed critic.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007, 2009, 2013

Sonnet: “When Cu Chulainn Courts Sweet Emer”

“Emer, courted by CuChulainn”  Irisheart.com

–

 

This is a companion piece to the sonnet previously posted, “Immortal Marriage”.

Celtic mythology is a convoluted place in literary history. It is like a swamp actually, as it is complex and sucks you right in.  To get out may take years.

Lady Nyo

——-

“In that sweet country, I’ll rest my weapon”

Spoke Cu Chulainn to beauteous Emer,

And a war spasm came upon him fast

With face distorted, hair stood upended

Teeth barred in anger, cock a rigid mast–

His body whipped around, his knees unbended.

–

Sweet Emer, fainting,  prayed his luck would last.

Her father, King Lug, Celtic God of Light

Set her swain to tasks and toil unending,

While Bricru the Poison Tongue cries in fright:

“The Hound of Ulster, Irish unbending,

Leads in battle for comes he in his might!

–

And Emer waits with patient love the day

When Cu Chulainn comes near and claims his right!

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels,

Copyrighted, 2012