“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

The spookier part of Chapter 40….”Devil’s Revenge”

(This is a draft of a work in progress…it needs fine tuning and more)

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.

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 on it  had trans formative  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 ether.

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 tax his strength.

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  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 a 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 is old bones. 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.

This was the  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 it was 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 tattooed serpents crawled up and down his arms, their mouths opening and their tongues flicking. One hissed, the other snapped his jaws, and the whispers moaned and disappeared…for now.

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

The wind blew hard from the north, the north being the Land of the Dead.  There would one find the Great Morrigan, who picked the bones and flesh from the battle fields.

Suddenly the air was filled with a foul odor. Lord Dilwen knew what this plague was, because it was one sent by the foulest forces of the Underworld. It was another attempt to frighten him away, but he had smelled death many times before, this 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 the 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 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 the Morrigan. For him to eat  would be certain death.  This would leave him paralyzed in a dream, and 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 shooting out into the air, disappearing with a fury of energy. Lord Dilwen felt a presence and looking to his left spied a huge crow.

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 mortal ears, a well tuned wind chime. It was answered by a rude calling, a cackling, a low, menacing call not expected from a crow.

I already know what you want, Lord Dilwen. You have called me from my labors to answer that of a mortal’s concern? What interest do I have meddling in the affairs of such creatures?

to be continued….
Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

“Devil’s Revenge” Chapter 40, Part 1

I am having more fun with this book.  I’ve really been struggling to figure out what happens, and it’s been a tough slog.  Part of the problem is expectation.  I am waiting it out and seeing if it all falls together.  I’m as clueless as any stray reader.

What I am posting of Chapter 40 today isn’t the mythological stuff….but it sets the stage for what happens next.  Lord Dilwen communicates with some demonic spirits and there is (I hope) some exciting outcomes to this…but that is for Part 2.  Later this week.

Welsh mythology is a bugger, and I am just getting my head around the essentials.  Again there are some pov issues, but I’ll take care of that in the rewrite.

Lady Nyo

DEVIL’S REVENGE”

Chapter 40,  Part 1

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 traveled 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  elderly 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 deep thought.  He knew the three men from his homeland to the west.  They would follow his orders. The new one, this Lord Gwrtheyrn , he 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 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, and 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 swordman, but he had other powers to compensate that.  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 Beltaine, 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 off 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 or 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 Gwytheyrn 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 Betsy…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 a further hour and then they pulled their five mounts together and stopped for the night.

A Challenge: Plot changes and do they work? Then, “Devil’s Revenge”…Chapter 26, Part 1

A fine writer friend, in the UK, has been writing a novel in public.  How this goes I am not exactly sure, but he writes and then asks for suggestions on plot, character, etc.  This is risky business, but it also is a very interesting way to include readers right in the beginning, or at least at points where advice could be helpful.

All novelists get into a rut. Life intrudes.  Or perhaps, we allow our characters to run away with the story/plot/action.  Sometimes I will read something I’ve written months ago, maybe years, on a WIP, and I think…where and how did I come up with THAT?

Perhaps that is the fun of writing, but we have to take control of our books.  Not overly so, where we have no surprises (for ourselves) or we gag, mute our characters…but we have to drive the carriage.

The character Garrett sprang full life onto the stage: I know where he came from…a previous WIP,  but he was so different.  He was fully fleshed out and took control of the book early on.  I ‘allowed’ this because I was curious as to where he would take it.  Well, I thought the book would hit the wall, but it didn’t…it just took a sharp detour.

And this is where it stands.  Garrett, Abigor, Madame Gormosy, the other devils, and Betsy, are being shifted into another plane.  Another dimension apparently.  A suggestion was made by Abigor somewhere that Garrett reach back in history (way back!) and consolidate his power with ancient kin:  9th Century Wales and the dribbles of Druids left, to be exact. Apparently, Obadiah has his own legions on earth, and Garrett needs to consolidate his from where he can find them.

Confusing?  Yep, to me too.  I haven’t a clue why and how this happened…but I wrote it.  It’s there, and then it made sense.

So, I am warning  readers that this shift from 1820s to 9th Century Wales is going to be a bit strange.  Dragon lines, Ley Lines, energy lines, horned gods and goddesses, magic of a very different kind than devil’s magic.  But still magic.

So much of the research I did then centered around ‘anima loci’ (the place personality or ‘place-soul’) a concept we have lost and should rediscover.  Our gridded out streets and litter filled parks and constant concrete doesn’t satisfy something primal in us at all.

This chapter is one of the first where plot changes are pointed out.  Where there are going to be some big shifts in the reality of the characters and the story.  Any ideas are very welcome because I can be as confused about where this novel is going as anyone reading.  And, I haven’t changed the tense of this chapter yet, and might not do so, but sorry if it lends to some confusion.  There’s plenty enough to go around.

Lady Nyo

DEVIL’S REVENGE

Chapter 26
.

Madame Gomosy has made herself scarce.  This is welcome because I can spend just so many hours playing faro and waving a fan.  My 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 my novel, the event that brought me here 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 the obvious reasons.  I am beginning to think this ‘fancy’  was not so random at all.  Perhaps it has a deeper meaning, unrevealed as yet, and it was ‘placed there’ by some unknown force, leading a way to some answers. Although my Demon claims control,  I have come to think that even he is unaware of what it portends.  Madame is a tricky devil, but she claims that my 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.  They can be too entertaining.

As my Demon leaves the house, I go into the library and look for some clues.  There are enough books, all of them old.  I think 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 remove books from a high shelf over my head, one large book is unbalanced, and falls at my feet.  I stoop to pick it up, and it is about Celtic Mythology.  I am not one who is superstitious, but this seems as good a place as any to start.   The dream of Cernunnos runs parallel to this book in my hand.  Upon opening it, the first words I read  express a dichotomy that runs through my present existence.

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 partial.  My Demon and I live in separate worlds, but occupy together the same.  He floats through mine, and I step into his. This poem is 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 speaks to the bafflement that runs through our existence.  This speaks to my frustration with him.

As I read on, I begin to understand the symbolism of the dream, as it is reflected in the world of the Celts.  The natural world surrounds 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 bypasses this dependence, whether the soil, their crops or the animals.  The hunters go out to the forest, to bring food for their families.  The wolves and bears stalk 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? Ah! 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 was a vessel for that seed,  from Cerunnos’ 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 my Demon, though I could no longer think of him in such terms, but my Garrett, would call forth such an army for battle.

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 that remembered the totemistic myths of previous ancestors. Clans seemed to arise around a particular animal.  There might be bird-people, or wolf-people, oak-people and river people.  Each clan would feel a strong kinship to a particular animal or element, and it would be taboo for them 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 my demon Garrett, …was part of the Goat Clan.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

“Devil’s Revenge”…used to be “Another Story”

Two years ago this month I started a novel. I was a new writer and didn’t know squat about writing….still struggle with it, but I have learned much in those two years.

I also ‘fell’ into an interest that I had no idea existed. Well, a couple of them actually. What I was told later was BDSM, and also the mythology of Demons and Devils.

This book wrote itself…not an especially ‘good’ thing, but I realized that after a long time, I was suddenly getting in touch with some latent sexual issues, and even the issue of sex itself. There was a long dead period for me.

I have decided to rewrite this book, as it has caught my interest again, and I can do better now. In this book , I explored the issues of ass-rape, time warps, bondage, all these sexual things I didn’t know had names or were part of someone’s life. Apparently, many people.

Betsy is a 21st. century writer, who is trapped in a time warp, with a Devil who insists on living (for now) in the early 19th century. Garrett Cortelyou is actually a very old devil, and has his hooves in early Celtic times, in Wales. He is a produce of a powerful union between a mortal woman and a seriously potent Demon, but who his parentage was, is not known. However, he has the ‘respect’ and patronage of Abigor, close to the throne in Hell. Betsy has been raped by Obadiah (another devil) in previous chapters and she is in the middle of a tug of war between Garrett and Obadiah. Each devil strikes at the other through Betsy.

Lady Nyo

ANOTHER STORY, Part 14

Oh! I am writing at a furious pace! I am trying to finish this book. Actually, I am trying to kill off a character, Obadiah, but today, I could kill them all, especially Garrett Cortelyou.. Now I’m told what has just happened has nothing to do with me. But! Had I not delayed, procrastinated, and plain farted around, perhaps things would be different.

It is a pretty morning and I am sitting at the little table before a bright fire. It is winter, an endless winter, and I have been told to stay in this house. Perhaps I am a prisoner of this room. Fearful enough, I stay indoors. I can see the distant fields from my window and I see a hawk fly high up in the sky. I have watched this bird for a while now. It’s questionable that this hawk is only a bird of prey. Garrett, the resident Demon, thinks it might be another, the Demon Arachula, an evil spirit of the air. It watches the lay of the land, and hunts its prey in the woods by the house.

I am writing fast, with frequent pauses to read what I scribble. I hear a very faint sound of bells, a tinkling of brass somewhere in the distance. It could be outside, like the clinking together of milk cans, or the sound of sleigh bells, but there is no snow on the ground. It grows closer, and suddenly, the Demon appears in the room. He is grinning like a Cheshire cat, and has something behind his back.

“Goedemorgen to you”, he says grinning broadly. He speaks excellent Dutch. He sits down in his usual chair and I hear the sound of something clinking together. He pulls up his hand, and there are my zils.

“How did you get my zils? My Turkish zils?” He’s wearing my finger cymbals on four fingers of one hand. Suddenly I know where he’s been!

“You Bastard! Still up to your old tricks! What else have you stolen from my bedside?” I can’t believe the nerve of this demon!

“You know demons are thieves. It’s a failing among us. We are like magpies and crows. Can’t resist the shine.” He sounds my zils with a clap of his hand, and holds them out of my reach.

He tells me he visits in the night and apparently last night he was there. He claims he is bored and appears at my bedside, where he watches me snore. I think he is lonely. I have already told him my husband keeps a shotgun in the corner, but he doesn’t care.

“I have found something else”, he says, pulling out my coin scarf from his sleeve.

“Insufferable monster!” I can’t believe this, but then, what should I expect? .

“I like your underclothes, too, but only the silk ones. I will bring some for you here, though I think you will freeze. I like the sweet smell of woman in them.” He grins at me, detestable devil!.

So he goes through my drawers and clothes…

“Oh, I do much more, sweetheart. Helps me know who I’m consorting with.”

“Devil! Is their any decency left in your nature?”

He laughs, his voice sounding like a bass fiddle tuned low. “Ah, darling! The short answer is — “no”. And before you go at me for my nature, how come this is the first time I find you dance in a harem. Makes a devil wonder what he has bought.”

I sit there and think. Since he reads my mind when he wants, I have learned to parse my thoughts when near him. At times it works but he has a way of getting what he wants for he’s tricky…

“Oh you ignorant devil! What would you know about such things? They are two worlds apart. Nothing alike.”

“Well, dance for me, and let me judge.”

Hah! That is one thing that I would not do. I’m not married to him, it’s part of a code, but I won’t tell him ‘the rules’.

“Tell me what? Think of me as a Pasha, and let me tie this scarf around your pretty hips.”

I sit there wondering how I am going to avoid dancing for him. He gets what he pleases, but I am learning ways around his whims. Perhaps I can interest him the in the history of this dance and he—

“No, you can come here now and dance. I know more than you think.”

He usually achieves what he wants. Through persuasion or magic, he gets what he’s after.

In a twinkling of an eye, I was parked between his legs, the coin scarf around my hips. He pulled my skirt low and patiently placed my zils on my fingers like I was a child.

“How can I dance? I need music for that.” He snapped his fingers, and faintly I heard the sound of a slow piece of music. I recognized the song, it was Turkish. Hynotic with its Karsilama scales, I hear it and my body couldn’t stay still. I sigh, he has played me again.

“Then put your hands around me and you can feel the movements of my hips.” Most men would like that…

Dancing in such a constricted space was very much like the Eygptian style. Such dancers made very little rotations with hips and torso. In fact, the torso remains above the pelvis, barely moving. The arms are more pronounced, but the shimmies were generally the same. Just more restricted. The Turkish style, the one that I studied and loved the most, was danced with broader and more joyous movements. The torso leans back and tilts the pelvis forward. Turkish dancing is based on the Romany, or gypsy styles, and since I am half Hungarian, this style suits my blood. The music is developed from the Ottoman rakkas, similar to the raggis of India. The drumming feels like the beat of blood coursing through my veins.

The music swells with a beat that follows a rhythm of 9/8, and other pieces of the body come into motion. Where he is holding me, I can only move slightly, with hips in figure eights and a kick of the hip on the upbeat. I can do the ‘snake arms’ movement, which is lovely viewed from the back, as it is led by the elbows upward and a flip of the hand at the apex of the movement above the head.

Ah! The music swells, and I have to step out of his arms. I have just learned to use the zils, and it gives such structure to the arms. It was hard at first to isolate the different parts of the torso, all in movement at different parts of the beats, and then to gracefully, with beautiful, lyrical movements, try to move the arms as a frame for the body. The zils helped because they extended the flow of the beat.

I am dancing to myself, not a dance of seduction for he who watches me silently, carried as I am by the music. I am seducing myself, making love only to me. I make the birth movements of the downward hip fling, with the pelvis flung to the sky, and I make the ‘habibi’ movement, which is a rotation of the torso forward and around, with the pelvis straight. It is a movement to be made on the head of a cock by a woman deeply aroused. I am fully possessed, my eyes closed, my blood beats a counterbeat to the rakka. He has somehow picked the music used by the Turkish badladi, the form I love best. I can drop to my feet, not on my toes now, and can use my heels in another counter rhythm. Ah, primal, sensual movements that bring forth the evening wind in the desert, the sounds of hunting hawks above, hooded hawks on dark arms below, the trickle of precious water, and the smell of woodsmoke!

Somehow I make my way back to him, drawn by the pulse of the dance, the piercing, haunting sound of the desert flute. Finding myself between his legs I place my hands on his chest, palms gently on his warm skin like a blessing of love.

The music stops and I am glossy with sweat. My hair is in tangles over my breasts, my breath drawn in pants. He is silent, more silent than I have ever known him to be, and stone-still. Dazed, he pulls me to him, breaking he spell of the music. He breathes my scent deeply and picks me up in his arms. He moves to the window with me as his prize.

I am exhausted and limp in his arms and we look out over the landscape. He is smiling at something and there is an expression I have not seen before. He is looking at the hawk, the hawk who hovers over the field and his face is defiant!. Ah! He is challenging the shade of Obadiah out there in the trees. He is showing what he now possesses. Obadiah will have to kill him to take me.

Nothing can match the intensity of his expression. Here in its fierceness is the stare of the lion. He will fight for what is now his and he will kill with an appetite honed through the ages. All the gloss of the 21th century drops from my mind as I see his rapture in his challenge. Men or Demons, like wolves, have a heart beat that stretches back to the hunt. They glory in its primitive urges. They glory in the gore they will spill.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2006, 2008

And from Phil on the same subject:

Phil:

At the risk of drawing such deep contemplation aside I wanted to discuss the Kiss?

We have seen words about Holly and Ivy but there is also the Druidic traditions attached to Mistletoe. Druids are frequently depicted in slightly sinister and often comic guise but their pagan beliefs are as valid as any other and their history is long.

I have been fortunate to visit Silbury Hill, Avebury and of course Stonehenge all in Wiltshire. The power of all three sites to fire the spirit and feelings of smallness in the face of the Universe can only really be appreciated by being there in person. I confess that I touched the stones with some wry self mocking but felt something … indefinable. Probably indigestion my partner said and it may have been simply my own mind filling a blank. But it left me feeling … different.

Which draws me back to Mistletoe and Kissing. It is a British tradition, often used as an excuse in office parties to hang a sprig of Mistletoe and stand under it inviting a kiss. Usually the more unnattractive men hoping to get lucky!

But connecting with a partner under the influence of the Mistletoe has deeper meaning, that of fertility and the securing of the new year in terms of abundance. I don’t believe it is coincidence that the berries bear a striking resemblence to droplets of semen.

The Kiss is such an intimate expression of emotion. It is often said that sex workers avoid kissing as it is too personal, too engaging. Yet how many of us consider how we kiss and what pleasure can be gained from that touching of lips and sharing of breath.

It is a complaint that I have heard that some men are too quick to penetrate. Hmm I shall rephrase that. That they use their tongue too soon and pay insufficient attention to the senses before pressing home their attention. But women are allowed to take the lead also. It does not have to be a passive experience.

I mentioned the swapping of breath earlier. Here too there is deeper meaning and emotion to be gained from a kiss. The taking and return of life essence, the mingling of breath is to some exceedingly erotic.

The deep penetrating and exploring kiss for others is sufficient to tip them over into orgasm. The sensations of being over powered and mastered, coupled to the embrace and caress are wonderful, needing nothing more to satisfy their sensual needs.

Despite the schoolyard warnings, one cannot get pregnant from a kiss, of itself! But it can be a delight and worth spending time and effort to do properly. To kiss well, with dedication and concentration, considering that your partner is the only thing in your universe at that moment will make both of you feel … different.

Perhaps it is that feeling of difference that we are all seeking in some small way.

My regards

I said I would hold off comments, but I have been to Stonehenge, and though not allowed to physically touch the stones themselves….we were allowed to walk around them. I did pick up a piece of the chalk, in the shape of a duck…and am looking at it now. There is power in those stones, for some reason, and we were fortunate indeed to be there during the fall equinox.

One man’s religion is another man’s superstition, but regardless, there is beauty in culture and devotion, even if we don’t understand it in our own lives.

Lady Nyo