***
Once upon never: sacredly profane
Exhausted body and soul, Tom knelt before the hewn-stone altar completely drained, following a three-day fast. He had an ambiguous spirituality, but prayer and fasting were what men did before being knighted. Though he'd yet to turn twenty, he was already battle-scarred and world-weary, having served several years as page, which was the way these things worked.
Tom often seemed to be one of those people who "fall through cracks." When only a few months old, he had fallen through a crack in the floor, a tremor having shaken the house where he and his mother lived. Village monks cleared rubble a few days later, unearthing a scrawny, malnourished little wretch. Digging deeper, they saw his mother had not survived: the orphan was taken to the monastery.
Found a week after Easter, the child had been given the name Thomas - because the monks had their doubts he would live. On a whim, he was assigned the middle initial "J" for January, the time, based on his size, they figured he may have been born. This would also distinguish him from the monastery's other resident Thomas.
Since no family had claimed the lad, the Order had housed and educated him in their ways. They were not, however, a cloistered order and young Thomas had been exposed to pagan influences as well as Christianity. He often thought longingly of the warmth of Beltane fires and the Samhain rituals. At thirteen, his as-yet-untested manhood had found release in sacred frolic with a comely priestess of the ancient rites. Years later, he still experienced a swelling in his loins when he thought of her well-formed breasts, the slight roundness of her belly and the fullness of her thighs and buttocks. At times he wondered if their union might have resulted in pregnancy, but left that concern to various deities.
Tom knew the good friars would be scandalized to hear him speak of any but "The One True God." Yet his heart, soul, and mind embraced the mysticism of nature. He was comfortable in his own mind that he was leading a good life: he acted in good conscience; treated others fairly; protected widows and orphans. Seldom the aggressor, he nonetheless defended the rights of those unable to fend for themselves.
Now he had spent three days in prayerful vigil, fully cognizant the fast had induced a transcendent state. Tom prepared to end his vigil by going to bathe in a nearby stream. Afterward, he would break his fast, taking plain but nourishing fare. Coming to the body of water, he saw it shrouded in morning mist and thought for a moment he saw his priestess. Entering the coolness of the stream, it seemed his vision had taken form, for a maiden bathed there also.
On impulse, Tom reached for her, thoroughly expecting her to vanish as the mist burned off. Yet she did not. Mildly surprised to find this man sharing her bath, she yielded not only willingly, but avidly. Twining her arms about his neck, she kissed him fully and eagerly on the mouth. Feeling her nipples grow taut against his chest, Tom felt a swelling in his nether regions. Grasping her around the waist, he lifted her supple body and entered her, nearly delirious at the warm, wet, welcome. Time seemed irrelevant as the two consummated their passion.
Spent yet exhilarated, Tom remained unsure if what had just happened was reality or dream. It mattered not. "God" or the gods would sort it out. The Fates would spin and cut the threads of his life and, if they were kind, he would end his days in glorious battle after a night of triumphant and ardent lovemaking.
Onward to the battlefield of life, and to the victor go the spoils.
***
Throughout his twenties and even into his thirties, Tom entered battle when necessary, which is to say, whenever the reigning monarch desired acquisition of more land, or felt brute force would quash ideas of rebellion. Not feeling deep-seated loyalties, Tom was wont to switch his allegiance - for a price.
In due time, he had left the confines of the monastery and built his own home, hoping one day he would find a woman who would share his hearth and bear his children.
* *
There was a matron named Hannah, who served the abbey as washer woman. Like many of the villagers, she secretly observed mystical rites long engaged in by her elders, while making a show of following the teachings and practices of the Church of Rome.
Tom had been aware of her from his youth but in his early years, she was merely another adult in a child's world. Hannah had been kindly enough, but the youth had no reason to believe he had any more distinction in her memory, than she did in his. During his tenure as page and knight, she had occasionally done his laundry and he had, in his turn, taken her some game, if he had been lucky in the hunt. Hannah had made meat pies sometimes, and tarts or pastries from wild berries she had gathered. Once in a while she would hug him or brush a kiss on his brow, but he had thought nothing of it.
Hannah, whom many villagers called Aunt Honeysuckle, because of her sweet nature, was a great one for defying convention but as no one felt threatened, her mannerisms were accepted as amusing quirks. She had a quick wit, an apt mind and a keen ear for languages. She had taught herself the rudiments of reading and writing, but kept it a closely guarded secret, as only males of the gentry were taught these skills and she did not fancy being declared a witch.
Hannah had taken to wearing her hair very short: she had first cut it in a fit of raging grief for her husband, who had died when she was still young enough to be considered a blushing bride. Other men wooed her, but she was not inclined to "settle" for mere comfort. Life was a struggle but she survived, even thrived, to a degree. As time went on, the conveniences afforded by bobbed tresses convinced her to keep her locks shorn - it also pleased her not to be plagued by lice, as many were.
Her mode of dress was something less than high fashion, which could be said of anyone in the lower economic strata. She did not object to wearing castoff clothing, if it were practical, and had availed herself of a pair of handsomely-tooled boots whose sole fault was not being fashionable enough to suit their well-heeled erstwhile owner.
Returning from an extended tour of duty, Tom was strolling through the village, when he heard a familiar musical laugh. He scanned the crowd and found Hannah, grown gray and stout over the years, a smiling and pleasant neighbor. Making his way closer, he addressed her rather formally, "Good mistress, do ye remember me?"
After a moment's quizzical look, she declared, "Ay, 'tis Tom, who oft brought me a bit of game and enjoyed my tarts. Are ye come home now, lad? Would ye care to take supper with me?"
"Surely, I would. Thank ye."
"You remember the way to my cottage, at the edge of town. Come around dusk and share my provender."
***
Feeling whimsical, due to the mild evening, Tom picked a few wildflowers for Hannah. He also had a small measure of good wine, which he knew would taste better, when shared. As he neared her domicile, tantalizing aromas intrigued his nose. Hannah bobbed a little curtsy as she welcomed her guest. A pleasant evening of good food and delightful conversation, cheered on by wine, ensued. Tom regaled her with tales of his adventures.
Twilight became dusk, then full dark as the two continued to talk and drink. Finally, the fatigue that follows good food and good wine beset them and Tom said he would make his way home. "Nonsense," declared Hannah, "I'll make a pallet by the fire." Wisely, a bit drunkenly, Tom offered no dispute and was soon bedded down. Tipsy in her own right, Hannah dropped a kiss on the young man's head and went to her own sleeping quarters.
Both were lost in their own dreams, as celestial entities followed their paths in the sky. While the heavens displayed the glory of countless stars, Tom stepped outside to relieve himself, then stumbled drowsily, and somewhat uncertainly, back to bed. A goodly portion of the bed was occupied by a form he didn't remember being there when he went to sleep, but he crawled into the inviting warmth under the covers and nestled down, next to the plump, softly snoring figure, throwing an arm over.
As an ample rump wriggled against him, Tom was aroused, but still not fully awake. Snuggling close, inhaling heady woman-scent, he used his mouth and hands to explore the delectable terrain. Hannah's plump breasts were nuzzled and the nipples sucked, making them erect. As Tom's hands caressed her receptive and responsive body, Hannah murmured in delight and, in her turn, showed herself to be a skillful lover. Calloused hands stroked smooth warm thighs and, as fingertips encountered dampness, Tom eagerly explored Hannah's depths. He lowered his mouth, tasting her, savoring her sweetness and sucking her labia. When Tom brought his head up to kiss Hannah, tasting her scent on his mouth drove her wild! She came up, pushing against him, lowering him onto his back, then kissed him from chin to belly to thighs, finally taking his turgid penis deep into her warm, wet, mouth and was satisfied when she heard his gasp. She savored the power she felt, making a man tremble in pleasure. She then raised herself to look down at his naked glory for a moment, before lowering herself to take him within her.
Kisses, some slow and sensual, others urgently demanding, rendered lips slightly swollen and yet longing to give and receive the taste and pressure of more kissing.
Each partook of the other until sated, then dreamed some more. When full light came, bringing cognition, there were tender smiles and no need for shame, the rites of pleasure being a birthright. Hannah and Tom found new pleasure in seeing each other in the full light of day and sated their lust anew.
*****
Time came and went as it is wont to do. Hannah gave birth to a well-formed child, naming him Hanson - not only a contraction of "Hannah's son," but she found her little boy handsome, and the word-play amused her. The village had its share of children born *on the wrong side of the blanket,* so little Hanson was not burdened with undue scrutiny.
Tom had married a lesser lady of the court and thus cemented his allegiance to the crown. It was not a love match - but that was a rare thing anyway. The union was suitable, by all accounts, and produced issue. The firstborn child was a little girl, christened Elspeth.
When young Hanson was a toddler of about three years, Hannah was forty years old; practically ancient. It was unfortunate she died when her child was yet so young but Divine Providence intervened, in its own inimitable way. One day Hannah had taken her son into the village: to do errands; catch up on gossip; see people. Toward day's end, she was resting under a tree, while Hanson gamboled nearby. She drifted off as her son played - and never woke. Evening came and the air grew chill. Hanson began to cry, when unable to rouse his mother. As Fate would have it, Tom wandered by, drawn by the boy's wail. He recognized Hannah; kneeling, he felt Death's cold pall. Yelling to other villagers, he sent one for a priest.
The practicalities of the situation were expedited but the question of the child remained. Hannah had no kin to speak of - if she did, they were distant in both geography and lineage. Tom may have been the person who knew her best. He also was all too familiar with orphanage life and could not in good conscience choose that life for someone else - not when he held enough power to prevent it. The lateness of the hour prompted him to take the child home, so the tot would at least be warm and well-fed.
*
Tom's wife was a kindly woman and accepted the child into the family. Hanson was a playmate to Elspeth and a surrogate big brother. As Hanson grew, he learned from Tom the things boys learn from their fathers. He grew up, grew old, and died: that is the pattern of life, as we know it.
Each generation ponders those that went before and those which will come long after. All any of us do is to learn well and make wise decisions - and try to do it with kindness.
*****
In its inception, this story was only a fantasy, written to intrigue a young lover. Later, it grew into a tale that longed to be told. At one point, part of it was submitted to a writing contest. All stories involving individuals are never-ending; at least until an apocalypse occurs. I doubt I will be around for that, or if I were, that I would be the chronicler. This is my little saga; make of it what you will.
jbd
No comments:
Post a Comment