dontravis.com blog post #570
Photo Courtesy of 123rf.com
This
month, my Okie buddy Mark Wildyr and I are exchanging guest posts. He’s chosen to give me one with a mystical tone set back in the days of fairies and enchantresses and other such folk. Hope you enjoy.
THE
MOUNTAIN
By
Mark Wildyr
“Be ye Hargis of Rodenbury?”
The harsh voice pulled me from my
cobbler’s stand. A broad, rough-hewn man of middle years stood straddle-legged,
arms planted on hips.
“Aye…I am Hargis,” I answered uncertainly.
He had the look of the law, but in these times when the unlawful often dealt
much misery in the kingdom, they were necessary, I suppose. I quickly examined
my last few days for offenses committed. None came to mind.
The stranger’s face eased its stern frown.
“You have knowledge of Lavena and Dirkston of Dag Durgess?”
“Aye, I know them,” I answered with a
broad smile. “Until the family left to find fortune on the far side of the realm,
they were my companions. You have news of them?”
“Aye,” the man replied, accepting my
indication to take the seat opposite me in my small stand at the edge of the
market. Normally, it was a stool reserved for those who bring me custom;
however, he was welcome to it if he could refresh my knowledge of my two
friends. He gave the loud sigh of a heavy man happy to relieve his feet of
weight.
“I’ve but returned from Dag Durgess; my
boat docked at early light. I searched for you in the rock quarry but was told
to find you here.”
“I worked the quarry through the last high
summer, and then found a master who taught me to cobble. But where did you see
my friends? What did they look like? How are they doing?”
The man held up a good-natured hand. “Hold!
Don’t bury me with questions. Before we sailed, a fair youth hailed me and
asked if we were bound for Rodenbury. He prayed that I deliver a missive to a
big lout called Hargis. Marveling that a lout could read and write, I agreed. Then
a pretty vision stepped to his side and handed me a message, as well. They
introduced themselves as brother and sister, which was needless wind since one
could have been the other, give or take a few changes.”
“Aye, they are twins. Born of the same
mother in the same birthing bed, one after the other. He first, and then she. They
are well?”
“Doubtless they advise of their estate by
these,” he answered, holding aloft two sealed letters. “They looked well fed
and decently hosed. Spoke like my betters; acted the part, too, although there
was nothing offensive in their demeanor.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Tis
time to be about my business; I’ve accomplished theirs. May this day in the
next Year of Our Lord find you well, Hargis.”
“And you, sir. Thank you for your
kindness.”
Lavena’s letter reflected my recollection
of her. Small, neat letters formed precise words conveying exact thoughts. She
told of her work as seamstress at the nearby Manor and her brother’s position
as gamekeeper at the same. Their parents were in health. They were well favored
in their lives and content except for missing their childhood playmate. She
closed with the words ‘All love, Lavena’. No mention of swains or
would-be-beaus. No hint of wedding vows. Nothing to tell me if she was still a
maiden not yet promised.
Aye, and Dirkston’s missive, which I
eagerly read, reflected him, as well. Bold letters carelessly formed, yet
conveying straightforward thoughts. He liked his job, loved his family, and
chased the girls. His message closed with ‘faithfully’.
I pictured the two as they were some three
years past when we all had seventeen summers. Lavena was tall for a girl and
possessed a heart-face crowned by curly golden tresses. She had budded long
before either of us and had the bearing of a woman while we were yet
striplings. The rock quarry was beginning to put muscle and a man’s form on me,
although Dirkston still had the look of a boy. They were both beautiful. Her
beauty was feminine, his beginning to emerge from its androgyny.
I reread the last lines of his letter. “Oh,
how I long for you again! You would not believe Lavena. She’s the rose of this
town, as I am its thorn! I catch my share of looks from the girls, let me tell
you. The Festival of the Harvest Moon looms hard on the horizon. It is a wild
time. Wicked…without being Evil, if you take my ken. Anything goes. We could
have a grand time together were you but here.”
Seized by a acute yearning, I cast around
with a speculative eye. My parents had gone to The Lord, and there was nothing
to keep me here, certainly not this little stand. A man can cobble anywhere. And
while I had improved my station in life, there was a disquiet, a hidden longing
eating at me at odd moments.
Two fair images floated in my mind, and I
made a small game of trying to decide which I missed the most. Lavena held the
calm and ready wit of the pair, yet I missed Dirkston’s rough and tumble and
his odd moments of intimacy as we shared important secrets of childhood.
It took three days to sell off my meager
collection of things not required to set up business anew. The effort reaped
barely enough to keep body and soul together during my trek, but far less than
the price of a berth on a ship. One master gave my strong body the once over
and offered passage in exchange for seamanship. I eagerly accepted but grew so
green with mal de mer on the dory ride
to the boat that he sent me back to shore in disgust.
Thus it was that I set across our island
kingdom by foot, and being a cobbler, I was superbly shod. My remaining
belongings strapped firmly to my back, my stout hickory staff in hand, I turned
my face to the east and took the first of countless steps.
The freshness of being on the road fell
off my eyes quickly. By the end of the first day, I was tired and sore. A
twelve-month away from the quarry had softened me beyond belief. I slept beside
the road, one eye open for riffraff and highwaymen and the like. In truth, I
half hoped for a set-to with miscreants to stir my blood.
Days passed as I paced along watching a
distant mountain loom larger. At the foot of the thing, the trail forked. The
well-trod road turned north while a faint path led into the mountains. There
was no question in my mind that the path over the mountain was far shorter than
the highway. Nor was there doubt as to which I would take. The direct route
would gain my goal quicker. With hardly a pause, I strode resolutely eastward
toward the distant sea.
The mountain trail was easier than
expected. This must be some sort of a pass through the hills. At times I walked
with sheer stone walls on either side; at others, I broke out into pleasant, forested meadows. In the second of these, I halted at the sound of singing.
A rushing stream sparkled through the
trees on my left. Quietly, I left the trail and made my way to the edge of the
forest. Spread out below was a glade of such beauty and peace that it took a
moment to focus on the young woman singing as she stood ankle deep in the
water. Clad only in a thin shift that clearly revealed the long legs and
darkened mysteriously at her pudendum, she removed garments from a small basket
to beat them against a broad, flat rock. Her back was to me when she bent to
the water and rinsed a linen. I grew aroused as her shift tightened against her
buttocks. Realizing she was aware of my presence, I boldly stepped through the
brush and marched down the slope.
“Hail, master,” she called gaily as she
turned to me, not in the least disturbed by my presence.
“Mistress,” I returned the greeting.
“You travel the high trail, I see. Tarry
awhile. I do not see many travelers. Where are you bound?”
“Dag Durgess on the eastern sea. Before
I’m done, I will have crossed this kingdom from shore to shore.”
“Kingdom? What kingdom?”
“Why this kingdom. This very place where
we stand.”
“I know nothing of kingdoms. This is not a
kingdom; this is the mountain.”
I laughed disdainfully at this pretty
lass’ ignorance of the outside world. “The Great King will be surprised to
learn we are not of his realm.”
“Perhaps so, but enough of this. You’re
tired and require a refreshing swim in my brook,” she declared. Laughing gaily,
the beautiful young woman strode a few paces up the shore to plunge into a deep
pool. Excited, I stripped to my trousers before joining her.
The water pasted her thin shift to her
flesh, and at times glimpses of the dark nipples hiding beneath made my rod
rise against my codpiece. I was of a mind to release it, but she turned and
swam away. Anxious to keep up, I abandoned the idea and raced after her. As she
rested against the far bank, I rose to my thighs in the water. Her gaze raked
my torso frankly, and I flamed with unseemly pride in my build. The quarry had
laid a slab of muscle over my breasts and pulled my sides into a narrow waist. My
corded arms had never been a matter of interest until now. She reached out and
touched them gingerly, cooing over their strength.
My rod rose so urgently that it strained
painfully against my trousers. She saw and giggled. Suddenly ashamed, I sat in
the water, covering myself.
“What is your name?” I asked for something
to say.
“Gwyndolyn,” she answered with another
laugh, dropping her eyes shyly, an artifice if ever I’d seen one, since she had
boldly examined me intimately just moments before. “And yours?”
“Hargis,” I answered. “Hargis of Rodenbury.”
I cannot explain what happened next. Gwyndolyn
loosed all her feminine wiles on me, which is as it should be since she was a
female, but the sidewise glances, the feigned modesty, the teasing with
fluttered eyelids cooled my ardor. Of one thing I was absolutely certain, never
had such alluring female flesh been so available, and never had I desired it
less. Abruptly, I stood, the water running in rivulets from my body. Even her
gaze leveled at my codpiece did not rekindle my lust.
“I’ve a long way to go,” I said firmly. “Best
be on my way. The bathing was welcome. For that you have my thanks.”
She made a small moue of disappointment,
standing in the water to give me a look at everything blurred only by the
sodden linen shift. “Are you sure? Are you certain? So few come up this path. I
get lonely. I would make your stay worthwhile.”
“I am sure,” I replied, the sincerity of
my tone surprising even me. Retrieving my clothing and staff, I set off down
the trail without looking back.
So Hargis of Rodenbury is
off on a journey and takes an unfamiliar route on the way to the sea. He
chances upon and is tempted by Gwendolyn. Why did he not advantage that ripe
plum? I don’t know. But he isn’t over the mountain yet. What lies ahead?
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