Crucifix of Sin

County Gleannmointeach, in the south

It was a gloomy winter day in one of the years of the darkest Middle Ages. A dense fog hung over the hills and forest, dripping off the trees and soaking the ground and visibility was so limited, that only the first line of trees at the forest’s edge could be discerned vaguely.

In the distance two silhouettes came into view on a narrow path. They appeared to be two ghosts, their slightly darker grey contrasting with the lighter shade of the fog surrounding them. But their features slowly became more and more distinguishable when they neared the forest edge.

One of them was an elderly man of an age, that could hardly be determined. He supported himself on a wooden crutch, clearly the result of an ailment in his left leg, that was packed in dirty and bloodied bandages. If it was the result of an illness or a brawl was unclear, but it was apparent that it wasn’t his only discomfort. The left side of his sunken face showed a deep and long scar, while his left eye looked as if it was perpetually closed, pus slowly dripping from between the eyelids.

His clothes were as tattered as his body: from his boots to his coat it was worn out and dirty, holes visible in the textures of the coat. The hood of it hung over his unkempt grey hair, that came down onto his shoulders.

Making an effort to walk slowly as not to outpace his companion a young boy of about sixteen or seventeen was on his side. He had a lean but fit body, a narrow face with blue eyes and blonde hair, also hanging on his shoulders. The look in his eyes made it clear that his suffering was not merely physical, but that the pain was in his heart and soul. His clothes were hardly better than those of the old man.

While walking besides the elder Cynwrig considered how he got linked up with this scarecrow in the first place. Life used to be so pleasant when he was still living with his parents in a town many days of walking from where he was now. His mother had always taken care of him and his father taught him a lot of tricks of the trade of the building of musical instruments, a trade in which his father was a master. But all this happiness of youth ended when both his parents became victims of the Black Death, that terrible disease that decimated the populations of villages, towns and whole counties, maybe even of the whole world, but Cynwrig’s world was limited to the small county where he lived. After his parents’ death he ended up in the orphanage in town, being hardly able to save the flute, he had built himself under his father’s supervision, from their small household.

Cynwrig found life at the orphanage sheer hell. He found out that the nuns who ran it were little better that the worst kind of witches he could imagine: they beat up the children, humiliated them and gave the harshest punishments for the smallest violations. After a few days he started to see the nuns as the Witches of Satan and there was only one thing he wanted to do: he wanted to get away from it, but, even as a child, was aware he couldn’t.

And then there was this parish priest, the one who considered himself the spiritual guardian of the orphanage. But this man was not mean or violent. To the contrary: he gave Cynwrig a kind of feeling of humanity when he stroked the boy softly in the neck. Cynwrig got addicted to it and didn’t even object when the stroking was expanded to his haunches. It gave him a feeling of human warmth and security.

When the priest one day suggested that he would undress and show the glory of God’s creation in all splendor to him he gladly complied: everything was better than to lose that small spark of kindness in the cold hell of his everyday life. And when the priest gave him the gift of the first experience of an ejaculation at the age of thirteen while sitting on the man’s lap he had another addiction: he loved the pulsing of the dick, the gorgeous feeling in his groin and the shivering of pleasure all over his body. But he also started to see that one line in the Sermon of the Mount from the Bible in another light:

“Let all children come to me...but let them take a cloth with them to clean up afterwards”.

The priest apparently decided to expand his explorations of Cynwrig’s body because after his first ejaculation the man started to toy with his poop hole. Cynwrig always thought that the function of it was pretty limited, but the parish priest made it very clear to him that it could have other purposes as well, purposes of a beautiful nature that increased Cynwrig’s enslavement to the man’s attentions. But each and every time they had been together the priest admonished him to shut up and not to discuss it with any living soul. As an extra measure he was then threatened with hell and eternal damnation in case he would tell anybody. Cynwrig always mentally shrugged at the threat of hell: he was already there! But eternal damnation impressed him; the thought of having nuns around him from now until Doomsday was a bit too much for him.

On an early spring afternoon one of the nuns screamed at him with her cold and squeeky voice and ordered him to deliver a message in the town. He left after making sure he had his flute in his coat pocket. Not that he was planning to play it, but it was the sole relic of happier days and the thought, that some other child might steal it, frightened him.

He walked towards his destination with a note and passed the central market place in the middle of the town. There he saw a high pile of branches stacked up with a stake protruding out of them and a lot of townsfolk standing around it. He wondered what it was and, having no specific time that he was required back at the orphanage, he decided to stick around to see what might happen.

He didn’t have to wait long. Two soldiers dragged a young man, maybe a bit older than he himself was, from the town hall towards the pile. His condition made it clear that he had been tortured. Blood streamed from his face and he was unable to walk, his feet dragging behind him. He was pulled on the pile and put up with his back at the stake, where the executioner shackled him in a most professional manner. One thing was clear: no matter who he was and what he had done, there was no escape possible. Some murmur of expectancy went through the amassed townsfolk.

The man and the soldiers were followed by the magistrate, the bailiff and a monk, who positioned themselves in front of the pile, facing the crowd.

Cynwrig saw how the monk turned around and climbed the pile where he started to talk to the young man. The young man shook his head with an angry face, but somehow the monk insisted. The young man yelled something, but being too far away, Cynwrig couldn’t hear what was said. While the young man turned his head away from the monk the clergyman made a blessing gesture and then left the pile, disappointment clearly on his fat face.

The magistrate, dressed in a red gown as a sign of his dignity started to unroll a roll of parchment with theatrical movements, who were clearly meant to make himself and the occasion more important and to impress the townsfolk.

The man looked into the crowd with a stern and penetrating look in his eyes, coughed noisily and started to read:

“Hear this! Hear this! Today the Court of this county found this criminal guilty of heresy. Logan, son of Tarmon, born in this town and by his own saying having reached the age of eighteen, confessed that he at several occasions shot the semen out of hand with several boys. He also confessed of the crime of sodomy with a boy, whose name we will not mention. The details of this last crime are so repulsive that we will not read it here, but according to the law it is written down in Latin in the records”.

Cynwrig didn’t understand the meaning of it all so he asked a neighbor:

“What is sodomy?”

The man looked at him with a wry smile and answered:

“He slept with another boy”.

“But, sir, if they are only asleep why is there a ground to condemn him? It doesn’t make sense to me”.

The man looked at him with a mixture of disdain for so much stupidity and amusement over so much naivity and whispered:

“He shot his semen in that other boy”.

The magistrate just continued:

“The crime of sodomy is a direct violation of the Laws of the Lord and therefor heresy. The Court has condemned Logan, son of Tarmon, to death by burning alive at the stake on the pyre to give him a last chance to rinse his depraved soul and thereby gaining a small possibility to enter the Realm of Heaven. Above that the Court has decided that his ashes will be buried outside the town in unconsecrated ground and that his name will always be burdened with shame. May the Lord our God have mercy on him! Spread the word! Spread the word!”  

Cynwrig would never forget what followed. The magistrate made a laconic gesture as if he was swatting a fly and the executioner dropped a burning torch on the pyre’s branches. The fire immediately caught in the bone-dry wood and flames licked toward the boy, who looked at them with panic and horror in his eyes. Cynwrig felt how the cold shivers ran over his spine.

The flames reached the boy’s legs and he started screaming from an excruciating pain. Cynwrig stuck his fingers in his ears in an effort to block the sickening screaming but it didn’t work. The higher the flames went the harder the boy screamed, moaning at the top of his longues. The sounds of pain and agony kept entering Cynwrig’s ears and he started feeling sick.

The flames engulfed higher parts of the body and the yelling and moaning only grew more intense. The smell of roasted flesh hung over the market square and made Cynwrig almost vomit.

When the whole body was in flames the screaming stopped. The boy was dead. The corpse burned on and it seemed as if the heat had shrunk the body so that by now it hung in the chains.

Then something horrible happened: the forearm moved up and a hand, that looked like a raven’s claw, was stretched towards the sky. Fleshless and sooty phalanges stuck up as an indictment against God and his church. Yes, it was a coincidental spasm of a muscle, caused by the extreme heat that engulfed the body. But for the simple Middle Age townsfolk it was an omen or maybe even a curse, casted by the dead boy; in any case it would beset the town with terrible disaster and disease. The crowd recoiled in horror. Some of the audience crucified themselves, others fell on their knees and started to pray.

Cynwrig couldn’t look at it any longer. He felt sick, on the verge of fainting while his bowels were rumbling like mad. He pushed his way through the crowd and started running. He didn’t think to where he was running: any place would do, as long as it was far away from this square and this town.
He had no idea how long he had run. But when he came at a clump of trees, he found himself out of breath, while his heart was pounding in his chest. He slumped down, his head on the ground and relived the experience, again smelling the burnt flesh and hearing the cries of agony.

When he had calmed down, he thought it all over. There was something that he didn’t understand. OK, the boy had been burned because he had shot his semen into another boy, something that was apparently not allowed by God. But if this was the law...why was the parish priest still alive then? Or did God have two sets of law, one for the folks and one for those, frocked in the clothes of the clergy?

It was all too confusing for a young boy. He became overwhelmed by the emotions of all he had seen and felt at seeing it and started crying out of some kind of undirected anger. However, gradually the grieve over the loss of his parents and his sad existence at the orphanage mixed in. He kept crying until he fell asleep exhausted.

When he woke up it was pitch dark, far in the evening or maybe even in the night, he had no idea. He didn’t have a clue where he was and didn’t know how to get back to town. Besides, he could expect a thorough beating by the nuns for coming home so late after only running an errand.

“What do I do now?” he softly asked himself.

Being too tired to think about it he wrapped his coat around his lean body and continued sleeping.

He woke up at first light, surrounded by the singing of birds. It didn’t take five seconds before the same question, with which he went to sleep the evening before, popped up in his mind:

“Where do I go from here?”

It was clear to him, that going back to the orphanage was no option. Apart from the fact that he had to find his way back to town, the beating he feared yesterday evening would only become more draconic and it might even end in a whipping, the standard punishment the nuns had for running away. Besides: he wanted to avoid the parish priest. No matter how addicted he was to the attention the man gave him, he had witnessed what it could lead to the day before, a fate that made him shiver if he only thought of it.

Suddenly it dawned on him: he was free! He was free to go where ever he wanted and free to do whatever he pleased. He had his flute, his faithful companion, with him and maybe he had a chance to earn some money by playing it in villages and towns. 

His stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since noon the day before. He was hungry. But nevertheless: he rose and started walking in the direction where the sun was rising, not for a specific reason other than that it warmed him up.

He had been walking for three days, finding out that freedom had its drawbacks as well. The first day of his wandering he had been lucky: he had earned a little money by playing his flute in a village he passed, cheering up the dull and sad existence of its inhabitants, who actually danced to his cheerful tunes. It afforded him to buy a chunk of bread and even a pretty decent meal in a tavern he passed along the way.

But for the rest his stomach had growled with hunger, only partly relieved when he stole some apples from a small orchard.

Now, at the end of the third day, he wasn’t that certain if freedom was only a positive feeling or that it was just another mixed blessing. After walking three days through green, rolling hills his feet hurt, his legs were burning from the exertion and he felt simply exhausted.

“But I’m not going back”, he muttered, “I’d rather die and join my father and mother. I don’t care who comes to help me to struggle on, God or the Devil!”

When he came at a small forest, he entered it, dropped to the ground, wrapped his coat tightly around him and within the blink of an eye he was sound asleep.

He started to wake up when something stabbed him in the side. It took some time to realize what is was: it was a piece of wood that was rhythmically prodding him. He looked up to find out that the piece of wood was actually a crutch. 

His eyes followed the crutch up to find out who was holding it. It turned out to be a frightful view of somebody who looked like an old, dilapidated scarecrow. It was a man of an undeterminable age with the build of a skeleton, dressed in what could only be described as lumps. His leg was wrapped in ragged bandages and his hollow face looked as if beaten up with only one eye visible, an eye that seemed to spit fire although it looked cold at the same time.

“Well, boy, what are you doing here?” the man asked, his voice sounding like a raven, suffering from a severe cold.

“I…, I was sleeping, sir”, Cynwrig stammered.

“Yes, boy, that was perfectly clear to me, but I was wondering why you sleep here and not somewhere at home”.

“I’m travelling, sir”, Cynwrig replied.

“Ah, and what is your destination, boy?” the man asked in a suspicious tone of voice.

“I don’t know, sir! I’m just going that way”, Cynwrig answered, making a vague gesture with his hand towards the east.

The one eye in the man’s head look at him in a penetrating way. It made Cynwrig feel uneasy, as if the eye could look right through him and read all his thoughts like a priest reads his mass-book.

“Ah, you’re a runaway, aren’t you?” the man asked.

Nobody had ever told Cynwrig how the devil sounded when he talked, but in his imagination it could well sound like what he had just heard. It gave him goose bumps on his arms but nevertheless he decided not to answer.

“I asked you a question, boy”, the man insisted in a low, incredibly mean voice.

Cynwrig look at him with uncertain eyes and succumbed:

“Yes, sir”.

“What are you running for, boy?”

Cynwrig told him about the death of his parents, his time in the orphanage with its many beatings, humiliations and cruel punishments, of his witnessing the execution and how he somehow just fled it all: the execution, the orphanage, the whole town.

“Ah yes”, the man said with a vile scowl, “The nuns, the witches of the Lord!”

After which he added:

“May I sit with you, boy?”

Although posed as a question Cynwrig felt it was meant imperative. It turned out to be meant that way because without waiting for an answer the man sat down beside him. Cynwrig wasn’t elated at the idea to have the old vagrant sitting with him, but he felt there was not that much he could do to change that.

“Well,” the man continued, “you happened to run in with the right person. Forget your sorrow and forget your past and listen to me. I’m perfectly willing to provide assistance to you on becoming an independent young man. I’ve travelled everywhere and have learned all languages you can imagine. So, I can teach you and you will be able to speak them all”.

Cynwrig looked at him in disbelief. How could a creature like this speak all languages he could imagine? On the other hand: it intrigued him!

“Besides”, the man continued, “I happen to be a master in the seven free arts as well. I can teach you the seven free arts: rhetoric, music, logic, grammar, geometry, arithmetic and alchemy. It will turn you into a wise man in the near future, even a man that is respected by his peers”.

“You want me to learn all that now?” Cynwrig asked amazed.

“No no,”, the man chuckled, “You have to come with me on my wanderings. And since you have no other destination in mind, I can’t see any problem in doing so”.

Cynwrig considered it, but suddenly something popped up in his mind:

“You mentioned music as one of the seven arts?”

The man nodded.

“I know something of music. I can play the flute quiet well”.

“Aaaahhhh”, the man acknowledged with a mean smile.

“But I don’t want anything to do with black magic, with witchery”, Cynwrig said firmly

“Oh no”, the man replied, “Witches is something of the past for you. No, I will teach you the seven arts in the time to come. Well, boy, what do you say?”

“But…”, Cynwrig asked, feeling hesitation, “What is in it for you?”

“Your contribution to the deal will be that you serve me faithfully and do whatever I command you without hesitations or questions. We will make a formal contract out of it. If you break it, you will be going to hell. Oh, and before I forget, you will from now on never ever crucify yourself again. I hate that bad habit, that gesture of superstition. Is that clear?”

 Cynwrig couldn’t see any harm in crucifying himself but considered it a small price to pay for all the blessings of science he was going to receive. So he simply nodded in approval.

“What is your name, sir?” he asked curious.

“My name is Moenen, the one with the one eye but well known by many good friends. And my I learn your name, boy?”

“My name is Cynwrig, sir”, he replied.

“Ah, Celtic pedigree…always a good thing for everything” the man smiled, “So, Cynwrig, do we have a contract? That is, including going to hell if you break it and no crucifying from now on?”

Cynwrig considered it briefly but then he nodded his consent.

“Fine!” Moenen said with a satisfied smile, “Then let’s go to wherever we end up!”

That was the way how Cynwrig got stuck with the old scarecrow. From that moment on he smelled the stench of rotten eggs where ever they went. It was something he couldn’t understand but anyway, he got used to it. Actually, after a few days he didn’t smell it any longer.  

Sliabhfarley Monastery, up north

A young monk walked through the long corridor of the abbey, the sound of his sandals reflected by the high vault above him. He was on his way to his next lecture. He loved the learning of everything they gave to him, the writing, the reading, the philosophy, the old Gregorian chants and everything else. His mind absorbed all new knowledge like a sponge with a rapidity that astonished his teachers. It gave him chances his parents would never have and in due time it would give him the knowledge to think and reach his own conclusions.

Brother Damien wasn’t a monk by vocation but was more or less kidnapped and forced in the habit. Originally the monastery was built as a place of worship and a spiritual and religious center, but gradually it had developed into a secular power as well. It owned acres and acres and acres of land in the wide surroundings. But they also owned the woods, the fields, the game that lived in the forests, the sheep that grazed the heather and the pigs in the stables. And they owned the biggest part of the people living on the land, because most were serfs, little more than slaves and often considered to have less worth than a cow. Brother Damien was a direct descendant of such a simple poor serf, destined to become a serf himself, toiling for the monastery for the rest of a generally short life.  

It was only a twist of fate that made him a monk. When he still wore his original name and lived with his father, he had been weeding one day in the small patch of land, on which the serfs were allowed to grow their own feed, singing while doing so. He loved singing. He didn’t know what he sang, he just invented it in some kind of improvisation. Since nature had gifted him with an exceptionally beautiful voice it always sounded as if the angels were singing at their forest clearing when he sang.

While he was weeding and singing two monks passed by. That was not exactly an extraordinary thing to happen; monks passed by regularly. But these two stopped and listened to the singing until the oldest of the two exclaimed:

“That is a beautiful voice I hear. You sing very well, my son!”

He had turned around in amazement. Monks were not known for having conversations with their property.

“What are you singing, boy?” the man inquired.

“Just what pops up in my mind, father”, he answered shyly.

The old monk nodded in approval and with a “Carry on the work, son, and keep singing!” the two went on their way.

Four day later a whole delegation of monks came by. They ordered Damien to pack his pitiful belongings and come with them to the monastery, since the abbot had decided that his voice was needed in the monastery’s choir and would be used to sing the praise of the Lord.

His father had attempted to object, but after he was threatened with severe punishment for rebellion and heresy for denying the Lord the pleasure of his son’s voice the poor illiterate man had succumbed and with tears in his eyes he saw his only son leave for a life as monk.

Initially the boy liked life in the monastery. He got three meals a day, a rare luxury for someone who was used to go to bed hungry. He liked the regular rhythm of each day with its many prayers and he relished all they taught him, from the fine arts of reading and writing to singing and musical theory.

And he was an extremely fast student. No matter how the monks saw their serfs in these dark days, in modern times the boy would have been rated as highly-intelligent. But since nobody in those days had an idea of that phenomenon he settled in as a young monk and a choir singer in the large monastery.

Especially his role in the choir expanded rapidly. His musical teacher, the cantor himself, once said to him.

“It looks that the good God has sent a nightingale in human form to earth with the sole purpose of singing His praise and glory”.

Which earned him the nickname of Nightingale in the choir, used by some in jealousy but by most good-humored.

But with the passing of years and the increase of his intellectual capabilities he also became more skeptical and started to ask himself questions about monks, monk’s life and religion in general.

The first incongruity he noticed was in the creed that all men were equal to God. At first sight he had accepted the tenet for what it was: another line speaking the only truth in the Bible. But some time afterward he started reflecting on it and noticed a contradiction: if the line was true indeed then it looked as if God had two sets of equality, one for the monks and one for the serfs, between them a huge gap of inequality. As if some were more equal than others. Because weren’t the monks in this part of the country the suppressors and the serfs the suppressed?

In his innocence he had asked his theology-teacher about it, but the only answer the old monk with the rigid mindset had given was a barked:

“Shut up, young fool! And accept the Word of God as the only truth!”

It wasn’t very helpful in putting Damien’s mind at ease on the subject; it only triggered another question: is the Bible a book that is solely written to support and justify the oppressors? It was a line of thought that kept haunting him.

When he came in his teens he noted another inconsistency between that, what was taught, and that, what was done. The teachings told him that monks vow to poverty and chastity. Well, he considered their kind of poverty very wealthy compared to what he had experienced during his childhood. But the vow of chastity amazed him to the extreme, at least the practical application of it.

He found out that monks were men and like all men had desires! Some of them directed their desires towards females but, as he experienced first-hand, a fair number was more interested in the young novices.

Damien had no objections to their rapprochements. Actually, he loved the feeling of the hard rod inside him, imagining it as a sweet predator that reconnoitered his intestines for young prey, signaling the finding of it by ejecting warm, sticky fluids out of its body into his. He cherished the feeling of warmth spreading out inside him.

After some of these encounters he started imagining how it would feel if his lance would enter another boy, when he was alone on his plank bed in the night. He was sure the feeling would be overwhelming; it had to be, because why else would all older monks pursue it? While dreaming about it he mostly started stroking his dick without thinking, ending up by squirting the same white liquids, he had felt in him so often, on his stomach and chest. Yes, he knew damned well he sinned in this way, but so did the others and he explained it by thinking that God gave them some lee-way for the normal human desires. He never mentioned it at confessions, afraid as he was for the consequences.

The final rift between the young brother and the congregation came rather unexpected. It developed when one day his music teacher told him:

“We are a bit worried how your voice may develop while getting older. So, the abbot has decided to remove some small parts of your body to keep the quality of your voice as it is. Because when it changes all education was a waste of time and you are as worthless again as the serf you once were”.

He was shocked by the contempt the man displayed, contempt of him, of his father and of all others who happened to live on the monastery’s extensive properties.

“Besides”, the man said with a cruel smile on his face, “It are parts you won’t need during your life. It will only guarantee you will keep to the vow to chastity”.

During the next night he thought about what was said and he decided to flee. No abbot was going to mutilate him for the further glory of God. Apart from that:

“Do I want to stay a monk forever? Do I really want to stay a part of this double standards and hypocrisy? Do I choose to live the rest of my life in this old, damp building and in the end be buried in the graveyard where all monks end? Or do I want to find out more about the world?” he mused.

Quickly he devised a plan to get out of this building once and forever.

The next day he started the implementation of his plan. First step was to obtain the kind of clothes normal folks wore. It was no use to flee in his frock, he would be too conspicuous.

He made a long walk in the lands around the abbey until he found a set of clothes that might fit him. Since he had no money to buy them, he had to extort them from the poor peasant by misusing his status of being a monk. It made him feel deeply embarrassed and ashamed; it was as if he was extorting his own father. But he had no choice! When he arrived near the monastery, he hid the new set of clothes and then went in, just in time for the vespers.

During the night he packed a few small items in a bag, one of them being the small crucifix he had carved so diligently himself. He took the blanket from his bed, the one the monastery had given to him. It occurred to him it wasn’t a bad idea to have an extra blanket along the way. Yes, he felt shame when he extorted the clothes from the peasant, but now, although stealing the blanket, he felt somewhat amused. Then he slipped out, went to the hiding place with the clothes and changed, leaving his frock simply on the ground. He smiled to himself and softly proclaimed:

“Well, that was brother Damien once and forever. From now on I will use my old name, the Gaelic one my parents gave me. I’ll be Bayrd, the one who sings ballads”.

When the first rays of sunshine started to filter through the dark sky he was walking to the south at a steady pace, singing some songs he knew.

County Gleann de na Deithe, in the south.

Their foot voyage to the north continued on and on. Cynwrig became fed up with adapting his tempo of walking to the slow pace Moenen managed, while crippling on his crutch. And he started to wonder when Moenen would start teaching him all the world’s languages and the seven free arts. Because since their joining three weeks ago he hadn’t heard another word about that.

They passed a village without seeing a living soul and moved on to the main town of the county, which encircled the castle of the regional ruler. From a distance it looked like a pleasant town, but Cynwrig found it rather odd that they were the only two who walked towards it, while whole groups of people passed them in the other direction, as if they were fleeing it.

“Why are they all going the other way?” he asked Moenen.

The old man only shrugged his shoulders and answered with an indifferent:

“We’ll find out when we get there”.

When evening fell, they entered town and the first thing they saw, was a wagon, drawn by two black horses, loaded with coffins. The irregular surface of the narrow road made it clear to them that the coffins were not empty, the corpses in them rolling against the sides with every bump. Cynwrig recognized it immediately, pictures from his childhood flashing through his mind.

“Oh no, the black Death!” he stammered, “Let’s get out of here!”

“No need to worry”, Moenen said irritated.

Cynwrig looked at him dumbfounded but regained his wits and said with a panicked voice:

“No need to worry? Are you out of your mind? We might get sick, we could even die!”

Moenen looked at him with one cold eye and in an incredibly sharp tone he lectured:

“I told you not to worry, boy! The black Death can’t hurt me. Nor can it hurt any person who is under my influence. Now stop whining and come along. I need a drink!”

Cynwrig had learned when he should shut up and he saw that the time to do that had come. Still feeling uneasy and scared about entering a town where the black Death ruled he walked along the old man.

“Where are we going?” he asked with a still somewhat shaky voice.

“To the Golden Tree, so you can get acquainted with the real life”, Moenen answered with a smile.

“Why there?” Cynwrig wanted to know. He couldn’t understand why real life could only be encountered in some tavern.

“You’ll understand when you see all those revellers, who spend their last pence on wine and ale, all the horny whoremongers and all the lights-o´-love”.

He looked Cynwrig straight in his eyes and added with a mean chuckle:

“Not to mention all the young desirable boys”.

“Sounds like fun!” Cynwrig said, “I’d love to see that spectacle”.

They walked through the silent streets and alleys, only seeing a human being so every now and then, face covered by a shawl or cloth and looking at them in disbelief or even with an accusing look in their eyes.

They entered the tavern and Moenen ordered two ale. Cynwrig looked around. Despite Moenen’s description of the big party it was pretty empty, but no doubt that was caused by the black Death.

On a table in a corner of the tavern a man leaned over to his drinking companion and whispered:

“Look at that lovely boy, over there, with that old fool!”

“The old one looks to me as a boaster but yes, the boy looks gorgeous”, the second man said.

“Come on, maybe we can join them and see and try if we can get that boy”, the first one said.

“We can always put him on the knife”, the second man said, “Nobody will mourn a crippled scarecrow. But getting the boy seems a bit tricky to me. You know where we will end if somebody finds out”.

“Ah well, do as you please, but I’m going to give it a try!” the first man whispered.

Leaving his drinking partner chuckling he rose and went to the table where Moenen and Cynwrig were sitting.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he started, “May I join you?”

“Of course”, Moenen replied cheerfully, “Let us drink together, always better than drinking alone!”

“No, no,” the man said, “I have my own right here. But if you allow me, where are you from?”

“We’re from everywhere”, Moenen said with a mysterious smile.

The man looked at him in surprise but it seemed as if he decided to let it fly over, because he didn’t insist.

“Who is the boy with you, my friend?” the man inquired cautious.

“That is my servant. He will do everything I tell him”, Moenen said with a pleasant smile.

“Everything?” the man asked, not believing what he was hearing.

“Oh yes, my friend. You can have him the whole night if you give me a crown”.

The man looked at him with eyes of someone, who had the idea he was being fooled but he grabbed in his purse and threw a crown on the table.

“Always a pleasure doing business with a gentleman, my friend”, Moenen with an amiable smile. Then he turned to Cynwrig and barked:

“You go with this gentleman and you will give him anything he desires. Be back tomorrow morning. You know where to find me!”

Cynwrig looked at him in horror. Although he had largely missed the previous conversation, he instinctively knew what “everything” meant.

“I can’t do that!” he cried out.

Moenen’s one eye looked at him, spitting an intense and fierce fire, and he hissed in an incredibly threatening way:

“Do I see disobedience, boy? May I remind you we have a contract?”

“Some contract”, Cynwrig objected valiantly, “You promised me to learn all languages of the world and about the seven free arts. Well, since we’ve been together nothing has come of that, I’m still as ignorant of them as I was in the beginning!”

“Hold your tongue, young fool!” Moenen growled, “You are going to learn the first of the free arts this night, the art of how a young boy can please a man! But if you disobey, I’ll turn my back on you. You know, you might be a victim of the black Death then and die. Or maybe even better: I could hand you over to the bailiff as a sodomite and a godless heretic. You will end up on the pyre and very slowly burn to death. And then your soul will go to hell, where it will suffer from the hottest fire you can imagine for all eternity”.

The threat was too enormous and Cynwrig surrendered. He rose and followed the man.

The man took him to a room on the upper floor of a smithy. In the vague light of a single candle Cynwrig could only discern a crude wooden bed and a single equally rough cabinet.

“Pull your clothes off”, the man snarled.

Cynwrig hesitated, but the man solved this directly by hitting him in the face. After he recovered from the blow, Cynwrig hurriedly undressed until he stood stark naked in front of the man.

“Oh, look at that marvelous young body”, he heard the man moan, feeling callused fingers over the skin of his buttocks, then gradually slipping between them until they started stroking his tightness in between.

Cynwrig let him do as he pleased: Moenen’s threats and the blow had broken all resistance. He kind of resigned. He was used from a small boy on to abuse: the beatings of the nuns and the totally different kind of attention from the parish priest. He was simply beyond caring. Heaven was already far out of his grasp. Purgatory would be the best place where he could end up after he ended his life on earth.

At least the parish priest had pretended he cared. This beast behind him certainly didn’t: it was just pure lust he wanted to relieve. Violently he pushed his too large pecker in Cynwrig’s too tight hole. The boy felt tears welling up in his eyes from the excruciating pain, which felt as if he was ripped apart from the inside out. He screamed but a large hand came in front of his mouth, stifling all sounds. To his relief he felt the juices come out very soon and he thought the ordeal was over: he was dead wrong! The man kept him in the room all night, repeating it all for another six times before he sent him back to Moenen in the early morning.

During the short periods of relative relief in this night Cynwrig had fond memories about the parish priest. No matter how forbidden it was and despite the fact that he committed the same penetrative act as this man did, he had been always gentle and tender to him. But he thought over his situation as well. He knew he was fooled by Moenen: the old wreck knew nothing of languages or seven free arts but he, the young fool who saw opportunities to escape his miserable life, had consented to some kind of contract, which had made him Moenen’s personal property. He finally understood that he was now blackmailed by the threat of the pyre and a life after life in hell, both fates he was too scared to consider. He was in a quandary: either break away from Moenen and burn here on earth and in hell or avoid those fates by constantly increasing the number of terrible sins he committed.

When he finally staggered back from the room to Moenen he took a decision. He had no idea how he would do it, but as soon as the opportunity would arise, he would abandon the old scarecrow and bear the consequences, if there were any.

Loch Sithe area, up north

He liked the place at first glance. It was quiet and it sure was beautiful. The silvery waters rippled in a gentle breeze, that made the leaves on the many trees rustle. Rolling, green hills rose up from the water’s edge as far as the eye could see. Bayrd decided it was a nice place to rest up.

After he had left the monastery, he had taken care to get enough distance between the monks and himself, but he noticed during his walking he was still conspicuous to everyone he met. It took a few days but then it dawned on him: although wearing peasant clothes he still had his monk’s tonsure!

He could solve that pretty easy: he just had to find himself a nice place to rest up and hide, until his original curly dark hair had grown enough to walk around without sticking out as a white raven. And with this plan in mind he found the gorgeous spot by sheer coincidence.

The weeks of living on his own had been an intense and tiring time, not only for his feet and legs but also for his mind. Along the way he found it odd and at the same time funny that he had no idea how old he actually was. The authorities had seen no need to register the birth of each serf’s child. It would have been foolishness; one could as well register the birth of piglets!

But actually, it didn’t matter to him: he felt perfectly well that the days of being a child were over and that he was a man now, an adult man.

The walk to the loch gave him a feeling of freedom. There were no more prayers, no more lectures. The only thing he really missed was the singing. He did his voice training during walking and, since he planned to make a living out if it by singing in towns, villages and at castles, he picked up some local folk tunes from some old peasant or granny, singing them a few villages further on the road. It yielded him a penny here and a penny there, enough to buy some bread or vegetables. Meat was no problem for him: he simply reused the skills his father had taught him, catching, cleaning and cooking rabbits and fish.

One hot summer evening he lay naked in the grass. He could afford it, there was not a living soul around. He enjoyed the lukewarm breeze over his skin and stared to the countless stars, that twinkled in the black-velvet sky covering the surroundings. He dreamed that one of these stars would turn into a young man, the young man he would love, imagining into detail how his lover would look like. It was the man he would enter, cautiously and with love.

Accidentally he softly stroked over his nipple. It seemed a movement without consequence to him, but he noticed how the stroke caused a tingle over his spine and he felt a fire being lit inside his body. His phallus started to erect and grew hard.

“Am I sinning?” he muttered to himself, “Is this the beginning of lust or is it already lust in his raw form?”

He considered it hardly possible: it was only a physical reaction on the accidental stroking of his nipple. And even if it was lust…then lust had to be an essential and inseparable part of his body, just like his feet, his fingers and his eyes. The body which, according to the Bible, was created to the image of God. It appeared to him that, in that case, God had included lust in this body, maybe even felt lust Himself. Why was it called a sin then?

While thinking and questioning his fingers had started an exploration all by themselves and now stroked the blunt tip of his pecker, that felt as if it was glowing and swelling, in the mean time secreting a sticky moisture.

The gorgeous feeling got a grip on him and the philosophic questions in his mind faded away as if blown out by a wind blast, that toppled over whole woods.

“Oooohhh…this feels good!” he moaned, starting to image that his lover from the stars did all this to him, the beautiful image his phantasy had drawn: the fine-cut facial features, the lively blue grey eyes, the smiling mouth and the long blonde hair.
He had no idea what happened to him, he had no idea where it all might lead to, but he was vaguely aware that he was submerged in the most exhilarating experience in his life.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out where it might lead to. His body started to tremble and, dreaming that he did it in the soft, warm intestines of his imaginary lover, he felt how his lance started to pulse and to squirt juices, as always with boys his age in copious quantities. And with still more than enough in storage to redream the same dream and then again and again during the same night.

“Aaaahhh”, he whispered in ecstasy, “I love you!”

The after waves of his eruption flushed through his body for some time and slowly he regained control over his breathing.

Almost he had whispered “Forgive me, Lord for I have sinned” out of habit, but he didn’t, for he did no longer consider it a sin. He stared at the stars again and the train of thought, that was interrupted by his lust, was picked up again:

“It is no sin! It is only made a sin because the Church says so. Man is created to God’s image, including lust, but the clergy says he must refrain from it since it is the work of the Devil. That is contradictory…or is it meant as a conscious deception? The mortal can’t refrain from lust as it is an essential part of his life as given by God. So, clergymen can’t refrain from it, since they are only human and mortal. I know all about that! Lust is not unnatural, the suppression of it is unnatural!”

He squinted his eyes for a minute, his mind racing at something he just found odd in his previous thought:

“But why deception? Is it meant to enable the suppressors to not only control the lives of the suppressed, but also their minds, their thoughts and emotions? By placing a natural feeling in the realm of the Evil and deem it a work of the Devil? So they can threaten them with eternal doom?”

It brought him automatically on the other question he already had while in the monastery, the question about equality. It occurred to him, that all suppressed were the original inhabitants of the area while the oppressors were all Christians from the south or those that had decided to collaborate with them for their own well-being and benefits.

Somehow his way of thinking had something to with the fact that he became aware of his ancestry, that he was Gaelic! He had no idea if this was caused by using his original name again but what he did know was that the Gaelic were once a proud people of warriors, who were subdued by the Christian invaders from the south, after which they were forcefully converted to Christianity. Oh yes, they had been given a choice: become a Christian or lose your head! Some choice that was.

It was strong stuff he was considering and he realized that it might even have his dangerous sides. But he couldn’t help it: the fire of anger was lit. He wanted to contribute to the restoration of the freedom and pride of the Gaelic people. But he wouldn’t do it by the sword. He knew full well he was not that kind of person, nor did he have the capabilities to do that. His contribution would be by his words, by his ballads. His parents must have had a reason to give him the name Bayrd.

For this night he gave it up to find answers. It was only questions with one question leading to the next one. For a second time he started to stare to the stars, his dreamlike lover came out from one of them and he redreamed the dream another time, until he lost another portion of his juices,

One summer evening he forgot the dreaming. He sat up and stared over the water surface, enjoying the reflection of the full moon. It was such a tempting place to stay forever but he decided against it. He took a deep sigh and said to himself:

“Well, laddie, time to start moving south tomorrow”.

Then he wrapped himself in his blanket and fell asleep.

Contae Na Moin, in the center of the land, one year later

Cynwrig was still walking besides that old scarecrow Moenen. He had not seen any opportunity to run away from him. Instead he continued to endure all Moenen tossed at him, mostly lovers for one night. Some of them had been kind and compassionate and he had actually enjoyed being with them. Others were simply too drunk to do anything, apart from snoring through the night without touching him. And there were the ones who were volatile and who had beaten him up just for the fun of it. At those instances he had returned to Moenen bruised, with black eyes and pain all over his body. The only reaction Moenen had given was a hearty laughter and the remark:

“Must have been fun, boy. But never mind, it brought me another crown!”

Every morning he walked, or staggered, back to Moenen after one of his “working nights” he wondered why he actually did return. It looked as if Moenen knew his only soft spot, the only thing that made him vulnerable: the paralyzing fear of dying on the pyre, in the same brutal way as he had witnessed in his hometown. The fear was not only paralyzing, but it robbed him of all reasonable thinking as well, turning him into a person without willpower of his own. It made him go on as was demanded from him, despite the continuous promise to himself:

“There will be a day that the chance comes and I’ll be gone!”

In the mean time they continued their travel to the north for reasons unknown to Cynwrig. Moenen was not in the habit to make him privy to any decisions at all. The one peculiar thing Cynwrig noted was, that Moenen was able to find each and every dodgy tavern along the way but wouldn’t recognize a church if he saw one. They had passed through several counties, some of them without causing problems and in some of them Moenen had been able to create quiet a lot of upheaval.

Cynwrig remembered the tavern in a small town were Moenen had provoked and encouraged a fight between two drunkards, ending with one of them stabbing the other in the throat, causing him to die. While the whole establishment was in commotion and blood was all over the floor, Moenen had only smiled with satisfaction on his face, but was sly enough to leave before the bailiff and his troopers came in.

While hurrying out of the town Cynwrig had asked him about his role in the stabbing and about his smile afterwards. The old man had only shrugged and said indifferently:

“I can do wonders, wonders that bring the malefactors to the place where they belong, to hell! It is only a shame that we had to leave a place so fast, where all lead their lives in debauchery. There were only gamblers, fighters, reckless whoremongers, concubines and whores, all in large numbers. That was my kind of tavern, boy”.

The answer and the way it had been given made Cynwrig wonder if Moenen was a man, a human, or if he might be some kind of demon that brought him under his control, a thought that persisted in the time to come and that scared the hell out of him.

Now they entered Contae na Moin, the County of the Moors. While walking along the only road Cynwrig looked around. He had never seen such a desolate landscape before. It was all grass with muddy water shining through and a dead tree pointing skyward here and there. There were no animals to be seen, nor people. The only sounds were the wind and the rasping of a raven, the harbinger of death, so every now and then.

“When we get to the town, I have to run an errand”, Moenen said with a mean smile, “Someone who is ready to be fetched”.

“Fetch?” asked Cynwrig, not understanding what the old man meant.

“Don’t worry, the day will come when you understand what I mean, boy” growled Moenen.

Somehow Cynwrig got the feeling he should worry about it but it was unclear about what exactly.

When they walked on the market square of the small town Moenen ordered:

“Go and sit there on that bench and stay there until I have finished my business and return, boy!”

Cynwrig did as he was ordered to do, but the minute Moenen disappeared into an alley it dawned on him:

“This is the chance!”

He quickly checked if his fateful flute was still in his coat pocket and started to run. He ran as if the devil was on his heels, out of town, into the countryside. After a long time he fell down in a small clump of trees breathless.

Once he regained his breath he was puzzled what made him do this. Was he finally set free from Moenen’s spell? Did he really lose his fright for the pyre and hell? Or had the time before this been so grueling that he simply didn’t care any longer what his fate might be?

No matter what, he was his own man again and he let a broad smile play around his lips at the thought. Now he only had to figure out where to go from here.

After resting for a while, he rose and started walking, instinctively to the north.

After a couple of hours of stiff walking he came at a small village. When he made his way between the houses, he heard singing. No, not just raw peasant’s singing, but somebody with a beautiful voice sang a remarkable song. He decided to find out where it came from and who sang it.

He found the source of the singing on a small square. A very handsome young man sang devotedly and around him the villagers listened captivated. Cynwrig looked at the singer, his heart skipping a few beats. The young man was so beautiful, so enticing. From where he stood, he could see the eyes of the singer. They were a deep dark color and expressed warmth and passion.

Cynwrig did it without thinking: he pulled his flute out of his coat, picked up the key of the song and started to accompany the singer, just improvising along, listening intently to keep the tune. The young man looked around, surprised to hear an instrument accompanying him and their eyes met. The singer smiled. It was the kind of smile that Cynwrig had never seen before in his life but which melted his heart. And the young man’s eyes gave him the feeling that he was reborn, not as a fearful boy as he had been, but as a young man as well as one, who knew what he wanted. Playing his flute, he decided on the spot:

“I have to find him! I want to be with him! I want to be with him for the rest of my life!”

After singing another few tunes the singer thanked his audience, grabbed the money in front of him and walked out of the village. Cynwrig also started walking, following him at a safe distance, determined to find out where the young man lived.

Bayrd managed to survive over the months. Of course he had his good and bad days, days with food and without, moments of delight and moments of depression.

The monks had been right in one respect: his voice had changed. He had lost his crystal-clear boy’s soprano but the damage was that limited, that it didn’t warrant a mutilation, because it had developed into a beautiful tenor with enough flexibility to make excursions in the altus-range. His repertoire increased and he sang regularly in villages and towns, earning some money with it. He even sang during a party at a castle, not only being paid but also given a good meal in the kitchen. He kept moving to the south for no particular reason but noticed he became more and more weary.

Like every morning this particular day started early for him. Bayrd opened his eyes when the first sunrays peeked over the horizon. He had the distinct feeling that he woke up each morning a little less rested as the day before. It was the price for the endless walking, days after another. He forgot how many days it had been, he simply lost count. But all these days seemed too long and all the nights too short.

A bit listless he broke camp. He knew damned well it was no use to search for something to eat in his knapsack because he was certain he wouldn’t find anything. By luck he had been singing in some villages along the road the days before so he earned some pennies, enabling him to buy a paltry meal in the next village.

He was also aware of the fact that he needed a longer rest, one of a few days to regain his strengths. But he would only do it if he found a nice spot, like the one along the loch, one that seemed ages ago. So, he did what he had to do: he started walking again, another day in so many, many days.

His steps were heavier and shorter. The miles didn’t pass as fast as they used to do. Walking had become a kind of slogging along the silent, dusty road under a sun that continuously burned on his head. He really needed a break!

It took him three days before he found a decent place that looked promising for a longer break. It seemed a dry patch of land in an area which was mostly composed of moors and it had a little forest on it, that stretched out on both sides of the narrow road and whose high trees casted a beneficent shadow over it, protecting him from the burning sun. Looking at it from the road it looked densely grown. Trusting his good luck he walked into the right side of the forest to search for a nice resting spot, a place that had not only to offer seclusion and shadow but also sufficient berries and some small game.  

He fought himself a difficult path through the dense undergrowth and penetrated deeper and deeper in the forest until he came at a tingling stream with water so clear, that he could see the fishes swimming over the bottom. At its banks the planting retreated somewhat and it would certainly make walking a lot easier if he followed the watercourse. The forest’s coolness felt great. The sun was filtered by the tree canopies and trickled through their cover as a soft light.

After following the stream for a while, the forest receded further and formed a clearing, directly alongside the bank. On the clearing stood a dilapidated shack, the same kind of shelter as where his father lived.

He looked around with mixed feelings: on one hand he was curious. Who was living at such a remote spot? On the other hand, he also felt some undefined fear. He had no idea where he might get into. Curiosity won!

“Good day!” he called out loud.

There was no reaction. Only the birds in the trees continued singing.

“Good day!” he gave it another try.

He heard only the sounds of the forest. Slowly he walked to the entrance and called out a third time, but nobody said something back or showed up.

He looked around in doubt. There was a shack and a brook but he saw no cultivated patch of land with nourishing plants or even where one had been in the past. The ground around the shack was virgin. He started to wonder if it was inhabited.

Although he felt like an uninvited intruder he entered the shack. When he looked around, he reached the conclusion that the small building was no longer inhabited and by the looks of it had fallen into disuse years ago. It looked incredibly filthy! Spider webs hung in every corner, here and there he saw a bird’s nest and vines crawled through the walls over the floor. But there was also a real plank bed with a blanket, some clothing lay around, there was a fire pit that still contained ashes and in a corner he saw some tools.

“Who ever lived here, he is not living here any longer”, he whispered to himself.

OK, he had to clean the place up but it proved to be an excellent spot for a longer period of rest. He went out again and made a short walk through the surroundings. He found blueberries and blackberries, there was sufficient fish in the brook and no doubt a number of rabbits was hopping around here as well.

While walking around he found a possible solution for the absence of the disappeared owner of the shelter. Overgrown by grass and vines he found a wooden cross, a clear sign of a grave.

It looked as if it had been there for years. The wood was rotting and the letters and figures that were notched in it were no longer readable, weathered as they were by wind and rain. The deceased was reduced to a corpse without a name and even the year of death remained a question.

Without thinking he made the gesture of the cross and murmured a prayer for the salvation of the unknown dead. Who had he been? Was he an ordinary criminal, on the run for the law? Or had he been a serf, that fled from his landlord’s properties to find a certain amount of freedom? Or maybe it was a hermit, who had specifically searched for a place to live in isolation in an ultimate attempt to be nearer to God? It was something he would never know. But no matter who the dead had been, it was someone who had selected this lonely spot because he didn’t want to be found or out of his own free choice.

Anyway: he decided it was the perfect place for an enjoyable period of long rest. He started with a thorough cleanup of the structure right away, removing webs and throwing bird’s nest and vines out of the door. Then he installed his few possessions.

He had just finished his work when the sun slowly started to set. He pulled off his shirt and boots and sat himself at the bank of the brook, enjoying the last sunlight of the day, light that at the end of the daily orbit always had a soft and golden nature. His legs dangled in the cold water, that soothed the pain of the many blisters on his feet and the overworked calf muscles. He felt tired but he also felt happy in these surroundings. It caused him to start musing and his thoughts wandered back to the grave a small distance away from him. Involuntary he accompanied his thinking with a soft humming of some non-descript musical theme.

He felt content and somewhat dreamy, enabling his mind to come up with some thoughts that he normally would not dare to consider. Why had he made the sign of the cross when he stood at the grave? And why did he say his prayer? The dead in it meant nothing to him. Was it only because he was taught to do it, because “that’s the way it should be done”?

Especially the making of the cross sign bothered him. It seemed an almost obscene act to him.

“The cross that covers every church and every abbey”, he mused, “and hangs over each altar should represent something good, something exalted. But with the same cross on the chest monks abuse young novices and probably boys outside the monastery as well. And they get away with it! Is the cross covering them for a just punishment? Is that the reason why a boy from some village, but without a cross on his chest, is executed for the same crime and they aren’t? Funny, sleeping with another man is deemed heresy for one man and is considered a pleasant pastime, always prone to repetition, for another. So far for justice! Oh no, of course not, because apparently the cross gives them the right. And the same cross gives them the right to exploit and oppress my father. And not only him, but the whole village and the whole county. And they do it unpunished again, because of their cross. Yes, the church oppresses everyone and the only ones who get wealthy from it, are the monks and the parish priests, who rule as tyrants in their own little realm and who squeeze their parishioners even more by demanding extra sacrifices. And keep them in the dark about the real meaning of the Gospel. And all that under the symbol of the Cross! What is it with this cross? Is it degraded to a symbol that justifies everything that is wrong?”

He stopped humming and stared into the orange-violet sky in the west. Slowly darkness fell over the forest and his little spot in it. He knew, that the owl was seen as the symbol of wisdom, But the nightly cry of that one owl in the black emptiness between the trees couldn’t answer his question.

He had postponed his departure several times. He felt perfectly happy at his little clearing along the brook in the dense forest. He found out very fast that the next village was an hour walking away and regularly he went there to sing songs for the villagers and earn some pennies for it, exchanging the money directly for food. Without knowing it he was near a village, that was a route for pilgrims on their way to some shrine in the south. These were more lavish than the villagers and they could not only appreciate his singing of folk songs but also his Gregorian chants. ´

When the days grew visibly shorter and the leaves began to fall, he decided to stay in the shack and spend winter there. He considered it a bad idea to travel around through cold and snow.

On an exceptionally sunny and warm autumn day he decided to seize the opportunity and go to the nearby village to sing some tunes, earn some pennies and use them to expand his stock of winter supplies.

After the customary hour walk he arrived on the small square, found himself a nice spot in the sun and just started singing. There was nobody around yet, but he knew how it worked: as soon as people heard his voice they would come out of their houses and gather around him to listen intently. He considered it a great gift, the capability to mesmerize and enchant people with only the sound of his voice.

He was nearing the end of today’s performance, just three or four tunes to go, when something unexpected happened. All of sudden he heard a flute. It was not playing his own tune independently from what he was singing, but followed his tune, played around it and merging with it. It had never happened before and he was very curious who played it. Continuing his singing his eyes scanned the audience until he found the one who played the flute: it almost made his heart stop beating.

It was the boy that came out of the stars! The same slim body, the same long blonde hair and the identical lively blue-grey eyes. He nearly missed a couple of lines from the lyrics he was singing, purely from bewilderment.

Of one thing he was sure: he had to find that boy! But he knew full well he couldn’t just approach him and tell him he was his boy, coming out if the stars. People had been accused of witchery for less than that. Besides, when he looked around the boy was gone, as if he had been only an apparition. Disappointed he grabbed the money together and walked to the small store to buy some foodstuffs as far as his finances allowed him.

Depressed he walked back to his shack. It had been so close, so easy within reach, and still it had eluded him.

“How can I find him back?” he whispered, feeling slightly desperate.

When he came back at his small clearing in the forest, he felt sweaty and judged it to be a splendid opportunity to take a bath in the brook. It would probably be the last time this year: the water was never warm, but it wouldn’t get any warmer during winter, so bathing had to wait until next spring. He undressed and stepped in the water stark naked.

Initially the cold water made him shiver but gradually he got used to the change in temperature and the cooling down felt as a boon. The water slipped between his thighs and along his phallus, giving him a funny but pleasant sensation in his groin.

When he felt clean and brisk, he sat down in the grass along the water, letting the sun take care of his drying. He heard the humming on a lone late bumblebee and the singing of a blackbird somewhere in a tree. Without thinking he threw pebbles in the water, waiting in vain for the circles to appear on the surface: the water flowed too fast and the pebbles either sunk or were dragged away. The bird’s song and the sounds of the forest brought him in some kind of trance and he lied down, slumbering off.

Suddenly he got the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him.

“And who might that be?” he laughed, “Maybe the eyes of a raven?”

He got up and looked around but couldn’t discover a raven, nor by sight or his ears. He pushed the feeling aside and lied back down, planning on doing a short nap in the sun.

But the feeling couldn’t be suppressed, it returned after only a few minutes. Bayrd was certain: he was spied upon by a pair of eyes of a human being. He shot up again and looked around for a second time, seeing nobody!

“I know you’re there!” he called out, “So be an honest man and show yourself!”

It seemed a useless action: most likely there was nobody around or his calling out would not make an impression at all in case there was. It surprised him very much when he saw movement in the bushes to his left, a young man coming out of them. He was dressed as all simple peasants: a woolen jerkin, leggings and boots. He was thin, especially for his length. His cheeks were somewhat hollow, showing the cheekbones very clearly in his delicate facial features. From under his flax blonde straight hair two shrewd blue-grey eyes observed the naked figure in front of him, who, overcome by shame, held his hands protectively in front of his genitals. A bag with some belongings hung loosely from one of his shoulders.

Bayrd stared at him dumbfounded and with open mouth. It was the boy that had played the flute earlier this day; it was the boy that had come from the stars!

“Don’t…don’t do that”, the boy stammered, “It is…it is…well, you know...it is so beautiful to look at!”

“Watch what?” Bayrd asked in surprise.

“You”, the spontaneous answer came right away, “The way you lie there naked in the sun”.

Bayrd wasn’t sure what shocked him most: was it that exactly this boy, the boy from the stars, showed up as if his prayers had been heard or was it that someone had found out where he was?

“How did you find me?” he asked. It struck him odd that a living soul had penetrated his own small world.

“Simple, I followed you” the boy answered with a grin, “You know, if I would want to do you any harm, like cutting your throat and rob you, nobody would have known about it. But that is not what I want”.

“What is it what you want? And why did you follow me? Where did you see me?”

“Oh, my lord, what a lot of questions”, the boy laughed, “I saw you in the village like you saw me there when I played the flute. I saw how your eyes were looking at me. I immediately thought you were very handsome and very sweet. So, I followed you”.

“But why then?” asked Bayrd, still not comprehending where the boy was aiming at… or maybe too afraid that it was all a dream.

“Because I fell in love with you and want to stay with you!”

Yes, Bayrd felt elated that the boy showed up, despite his pessimism. But he had no idea what to think. The strange boy was extremely direct in what he said and Bayrd decided to start out with some routine questions, which might buy him time to think it all over:

“What is your name?”

“They call me Cynwrig, that’s the name my parents gave me”.

“Where you’re from?”

“From the western counties”.

“From the western counties?”, Bayrd asked in an attempt to get a more specific answer.

“Yeah, I lived in the western counties, that way!” Cynwrig answered with a wide gesture with his hand in the western direction.

The answers came as fast as Bayrd was able to ask questions. He got no respite in reorganizing his thoughts.

Finally he had only one question left:

“But, what is your quest?”

An incredibly sweet smile came over Cynwrig’s face when he answered in a low voice:

“Stay with you and love you. And give you my body!”

Bayrd looked at him terrified and cried out:

“But that is sodomy! You can end up on the pyre for that crime”.

Cynwrig smiled scornfully and just said:

“Yes, I know it is sodomy. But I have learned the hard way over the time there are many, many sodomites. I don’t think they can find enough wood to burn them all!”

“Don’t you feel any fear for such a fate?” Bayrd wanted to know, surprised by the boy’s answer.

“Oh yes”, Cynwrig confessed, “Actually, I was terrified when I thought of it. But somehow the fear left me when I saw you, because you gave me the feeling that the two us can resist all they throw at us”.

“Funny”, Bayrd thought, “I have the same feeling when I am with a boy, who is so confident”.

He started to realize that he was losing this battle. This Cynwrig was not only the beautiful boy from the stars, but also very intriguing, actually he was too intriguing to just send him away. And if he was honest to himself: he still waited for his first chance to enter a boy and Cynwrig might give him the opportunity, that he had dreamt about so often. Besides: wasn’t it more sociable to spend the winter with another person then just on his own?

“Very well”, he said somewhat resigned, “Then stay!”

Cynwrig’s eyes gleamed. He indifferently dropped his bag on the ground, got closer to Bayrd and kissed him full on the mouth.

“You won’t regret it”, he said with a soft giggle.

It seemed as if he wanted to make his point right away, because he fell on his knees, kissed Bayrd’s phallus tenderly, after which he took the whole body part in his mouth and started to suck it voluptuously. 

Bayrd was in doubt: should he allow this right away? The feeling was too overwhelming to have it stopped. He wanted to feel more and more often…tomorrow, next week, next month…every minute! He shuddered when he felt the tongue over the slit in his dickhead, he moaned when it slid over the shaft. This was not about satisfying the lust of some old monk, this was a boy who coddled him in a way he had never felt before. The boy did it as if he perfectly understood the art of doing it.

His release didn’t take long to come. Cynwrig took it in with delight and then swallowed it all. Bayrd gasped for breath, having the feeling he had just been worked over by an angel.

“I told you, you wouldn’t regret it!” Cynwrig whispered with shining eyes, his tongue licking his wet lips.

“No…”, Bayrd whispered with a satisfied smile, “I don’t think I ever will!”

From now on they were two of them on the secret and silent campsite in the forest.

Their first evening together was as could be expected. For the first time Bayrd saw the boy of his dreams naked, not as some image in a dream but in flesh and blood, right in front of him. He marveled at the sight of the slim body with the milky skin and stroked the soft haunches ill at ease. He saw some scars on the back but suppressed the urge to ask what had caused them, not wanting to spoil the sultry atmosphere between them. Gradually he got more courageous, slipping a finger between the buttocks and softly stroking the tight hole in between.

Encouraged by what his eyes saw and his fingers felt his dick went through its second erection in a few hours. The idea, that he would finally experience what he had dreamed of, brought him almost out of control. He pushed his middle finger in the narrow cave and let it slip in as some kind of first reconnaissance. He felt the sphincter tremble and pushing against the sides of his finger, not in rejection or resistance but in encouragement. His fingertip sensed the warm and soft environment and he was certain that the big rod between his legs would love it in there.

He rolled on his back, pulling Cynwrig on top of him. The boy maneuvered his buttocks in position right over his dick, that stood up straight. Cynwrig placed his tightness against the tip and let himself sink over it, taking the whole javelin in, with head thrown in his neck, eyes closed and his cock resting on Bayrd’s stomach, where it left sticky marks.

For Bayrd the experience was the most intense he ever had: slowly he pushed his shaft in and then started to thrust, carefully and softly at first, unfamiliar as he was with it, but slightly increasing tempo and intensity with his increasing assurance. His tip was stimulated to the extreme by the warm and soft tissue that encompassed it and stroke along it continuously. He knew he would cum fast...even if he wanted to postpone it, he simply wouldn’t be able to do it.

“Oh, this is delightful”, Bayrd moaned softly, “For this I would take the pyre for granted!”

For Cynwrig it was certainly not the first dick inside him but the way Bayrd took him was a first nevertheless. What he felt now was not the acted tenderness of the parish priest a lifetime ago, nor the brutal bestial thrusting of the drunkards to whom he was rented out by Moenen. He sensed how the swollen tip cautiously entered him deeper and deeper, as if it was searching for a passage in an unknown territory. He felt every small blood vessel tremble in anticipation and he relished every second of it. When Bayrd finally released his juices, he felt the cock shock and pulse deep in him and he almost wept when the warm flood spread inside him with a tender, loving care. Cynwrig now knew how it must feel when he would arrive in heaven.  

Their desires quenched they lay in each other’s arms and stared into the flickering light of the fire pit and the dancing shadows in the shack.

Only after a while Cynwrig broke the silence and asked:

“Where do you want to go when spring comes?”

Bayrd shrugged and answered:

“Down south, I think. I heard from pilgrims that there is some city over there with some saint’s shrine. It seems to be a busy pilgrimage and I have already found out that pilgrims are more generous than the townsfolk in the villages. So, we could make a pretty decent living over there”.

“We?” Cynwrig smiled expectantly.

“Yes”, Bayrd said with conviction, “I don’t want to lose you. Besides: it sounded kind of good when you accompany me on the flute”.

“I know how to play a flute”, Cynwrig uttered with some disappointment, “But I don’t know anything about music. In other words: I don’t really know what I’m doing”.

Bayrd shrugged and said:

“I can learn you. We got all winter to rehearse”.

Cynwrig giggled, kissed him on the lips and sighed:

“Am I glad I followed you. I love you!”

Bayrd stared in the lively glowing eyes and said:

“Am I glad you followed me! I love you too!”.

The next morning, while over a scanty breakfast of a piece of bread and water, the question about the scars came back in Bayrd’s mind.

“Cynwrig...” he started hesitantly.

The boy looked at him, waiting for what seemed about to come.

“Well, “, Bayrd continued, “I was wondering…I know it is not of my business but…”

“Ask!” Cynwrig said with a sweet and encouraging smile, “I have no secrets for you!”

“Those scars on your back?” Bayrd asked, “What caused them?”

Cynwrig look pensive for a short moment and said:

“There are two possibilities. It can be from the beatings I got from the nuns at the orphanage or it was caused by the beasts that I was rented out to by Moenen”.

“Rented out to?” Bayrd asked carefully, not understanding what was meant.

“Yes, to fornicate me. But some also had pleasure in beating me up”.

Bayrd stared at him appalled.

“But Cynwrig…” he cried out, “How will you account for that when you are before God’s throne?”

The sweet smile disappeared immediately and was replaced by a cold cynicism.

“God?” he asked, “Is that the guy who lives somewhere in heaven, like the nuns and the priests always tell us? The one with love and compassion?”

Bayrd nodded emphatically.

“I have nothing to account for”, Cynwrig said, “He has to account to me for the fact that I am actually alive, for the time in that orphanage and for all the things Moenen forced me to do while being on the road”. 

“But who is this…Moenen?” Bayrd wanted to know.

“Some old scarecrow I travelled with for a while before I met you. I know it sounds silly, but he promised me to learn about the seven free arts and all that things. But now I come to think of it: I don’t know anything about him, apart from the fact that he is the biggest evil walking on two legs. Well…”, he added with a grin, “In his case more a leg and a half”.

Understanding what was meant Bayrd grinned as well, but decided to shut up and let the matter rest. There was no argument against what Cynwrig had said, it just matched his own doubts. He had no idea where an illiterate orphanage boy got the wisdom, but it looked as if street wisdom was wisdom as well.

“Well,” he said in a comforting way, “Moenen is past for you. He must be real evil to win from the both of us!”

Cynwrig’s smile at his answer was unforgettable.

Cathair an Scrin, in the south, late next Spring

It had been a long and tiring walk, but finally they arrived in the big city, a city so large as none of them had seen before. The streets were crowded with people, all speaking different dialects, betraying they had been coming from all directions of the wind with the sole purpose to worship the shrine in the cathedral. They both had no idea which saint was supposed to be in it, but Bayrd had the feeling that all those pilgrims might bring them a pretty penny.

First they had to find lodgings, ending up in an affordable small room above an equally small tavern in a side street that, compared to the main streets and squares, might be called quiet. 

The first day they took a walk through the city. They wanted to find a good spot to sing and play and they found it on the corner of a square and a street near the cathedral, where sufficient people passed who might drop a penny in front of them. When on their way back to the tavern they passed the church and Cynwrig asked:

“Do you really think there is a saint in there?”

Bayrd laughed and said:

“I’m not sure. I guess nobody is. But I have the feeling it is all a shrewd sense for trade, based on superstition”.

Cynwrig looked at him quizzingly so Bayrd continued:

“Let us see it this way. You’re a bishop and ruler of a town, which is not very prosperous. You will have to find a solution. In the first place for the benefit of your own treasury and secondly to keep the townsfolk happy. So, you build a shrine and make it widely known that a saint is buried there. That nobody has ever heard of him doesn’t matter. Because the pilgrims come, to worship, to get their indulgences and, since they are here anyway, to have a good time. Everybody happy: the bishop happy because his tax revenues go up, the townsfolk happy because their business increases and the pilgrims happy, because they get what they want. Maybe there are bones in the shrine, I don’t know, but nobody can say with certainty if these are bones of a saint or of some executed criminal from let us say two hundred years ago. And let’s be honest about it, my love: we are happy too with it”.

Cynwrig smiled at the last remark and they continued their walk to the tavern, amazed at seeing so many people in one single city. As if the whole country was here!

The weeks that followed were pleasant. They sang and played at their corner near the cathedral and it looked as if Bayrd’s assumption proved to be correct: never before they had earned so much money. It actually allowed them to have a rather comfortable life, but they were also very cautious. Part of the earnings were saved for the lean times, that would no doubt pop up their ugly heads later.

After a long day of singing and observing passers-by they had their evening meal in the tavern. Yes, it was one of their favorite pastimes between singing, just observing the many people that walked around. Some were interesting, some were funny. Over dinner they chatted about their songs, about those people that had been noticed while walking by and other small talk. All of a sudden Bayrd held his hand up, urging Cynwrig to stop talking: he overheard something from a conversation of two men the table besides theirs.

One of the two, an elderly man with a white beard, told the other with eyes, filled with sadness, about a serf’s uprising in the north that had brought terrible consequences for the population. As he had heard the local landlord, some abbot, didn’t have enough troops to quell it and had formed his monks into gangs to assist them. Both mercenaries and monks went in with a vengeance, the monks being no lesser animals than the soldiers. They slaughtered, murdered, raped and arsoned as frenzied as the troops.

“Where was that?” the second man asked.

“Some county called Sliabhfarley, far up the north of the country”, the elderly man answered sad, “Anyway, it seems hundreds of those poor sods were killed during the fighting. And a fair number of those who survived, were later executed”.

Bayrd felt the blood drain from his head. He stared with empty eyes to his still half-filled plate, the words milling through his mind, seeing the terrible images in his imagination and he felt the anger flare up. Apart from the rage he went through fear for the fate of his father.

“Let’s go”, he hissed to Cynwrig, who looked at him in surprise.

“What is wrong?” the boy asked him.

“I’ll tell you upstairs!” was Bayrd’s only reply.

Once in their small room Bayrd let himself fall on the only bed and started crying. He was unable to discern if these were tears of fury or of grieve, but it felt good to let the emotions out.

Cynwrig sat beside him and put his arms around his shoulders, asking softly:

“What is it that upsets you so much, my love?”

Bayrd recounted what he had overheard during their evening meal, but the real meaning of it eluded Cynwrig, who said:

“There are always rebellions here and there. What bothers you in this one?”

Bayrd looked in his eyes and answered:

“I am from county Sliabhfarley, I was born there!”

Cynwrig looked to him with horror in his eyes and only said:

“Oh, my God!”

“Leave him out of it”, Bayrd replied sternly, “I’m done with him!”.

“Hush, my love”, Cynwrig reacted shocked, “If someone overhears you, it might lead you to a swift death!”

“What else can I do?” Bayrd asked, “I won’t accept this massacre. Monks are supposed to be the men of God, of this God of love and mercy. But they were the biggest butchers! So far their reputation of being the men of God. Or is something wrong with God himself? Isn’t he what, we are told he is? Is he just the upper chieftain of all those oppressors, like abbots, bishops and priests? And maybe the best question of all is: does God really exist or is it just some invention from those, who oppress the rest, some means that comes in handy to keep the poor masses of serfs in check?”

“My love, I understand what you say”, Cynwrig softly said, “But a lot of people call this blasphemy and heresy”.

“Let them”, Bayrd ranted on, “You know, my love…each church has a cross on it, each altar has one hanging over it. That crucifix covers all their wrongdoings. It is not a sign of love, mercy and compassion. It is the crucifix of evil, it is the crucifix of sin!”

Cynwrig was beyond words. He understood why Bayrd was so angry, he felt genuinely sorry for him. But the words his love was speaking terrified him as well. But on the other hand: didn’t he, as a small boy, called the nuns the witches of Satan? Wasn’t that the same?

He still held Bayrd in his arms, kissed him in the back of his neck and whispered:

“Let me make you feel better! I’m very good at that”.

Bayrd’s anger melted away when he looked in Cynwrig’s eyes and before they knew their bodies were naked. They both enjoyed the kisses and the stroking over their skins. Their lovemaking had been changed since their time in the isolated shack. There was no loud moaning, no roaring at release, not even the bed was allowed to crack. Nobody outside the room was supposed to hear what they were doing, so by necessity they learned to do their sex as silent as a mouse, tripping through a tavern’s kitchen very carefully so he wouldn’t wake up the cat. But the silence didn’t mean there was less passion.

With Cywnrig laying on his back and thereby showing his full splendor Bayrd couldn’t resist the urge to let the tip of his tongue slide over his chest and stomach until he reached the parts that mattered. He took each of Cynwrig’s balls in his mouth, tugging them a little and pampered them by licking the skin that covered them. Then his tongue slit up, to the tip of the pecker, where he noticed a little pool of clear liquid that had assembled in the slit. He licked it up, tasted it and found its taste gorgeous. He slid his lips around the spongy tip, caressing it with the soft and warm lip tissue. Cynwrig moaned.

“Hush, my love!” Byrd admonished him softly.

He took the phallus in his mouth. Although not of an extraordinary size it felt enormous in the confined space and Bayrd treasured the feeling of it and the trickling of the precum, that he all licked away. He started to suck the tree-like form gently, in the meantime picking up the restless, excited throbbing between his lips. From the corner of his eyes he saw Cynwrig’s belly muscles contract and release, just to contract and release again and over again. He felt the dick tip expand in his mouth and awaited the ejaculation. It followed soon enough, blot after blot squirting in his mouth. He smacked on it as if he evaluated the taste of it and decided he liked it.

Cynwrig uttered another moan.

“Hush, my love”, Bayrd whispered awkwardly, having his mouth full of cum, “No need they hear us all”.

Cynwrig giggled and looked with seed-asking eyes in his.

“Mmmmmm...you sweet angel”, Bayrd said softly, “You want to take me in, don’t you?”

“Yesssssss”, Cynwrig hissed with a seducing look.

Bayrd spread Cynwrig’s legs and admired the tightness that showed itself. It seemed to beckon him by opening and contracting by itself.

“Oh, darling, you want me that badly?” he murmured softly.

Cynwrig didn’t say a word but his feverish eyes gave the whole answer.

Bayrd worked his hips, maneuvering in the perfect position for his tip to enter and then pushed slowly in. The narrow opening seemed somewhat damp, making the entry a lot smoother. The rhythmic contractions continued, squeezing his shaft softly while it went in millimeter by millimeter. It was as good, no…as perfect, as it had felt the very first time. The soft warmth around his phallus, the vibrations of the many tiny muscles that massaged it during its voyage to the inner parts, the clamping of the sphincter as if it would never allow him to leave again, it all filled his senses and drove him mad with desire. Without making a sound his body started to shock when the white sticky pearls shot out deep into Cynwrig. Only now he felt how Cynwrig almost captured him by bracing him with his legs around the back.

His pedigree got limp and slipped out again. He lay besides Cynwrig, whispering sweet things. The boy just looked him in the eyes, his own eyes radiating warm love.

The sex had made Bayrd’s anger vanish into thin air, but he felt determined as never before. He rose, walked to the small table and took a crayon. Then he started to write the first stanza of his first ballad:

“Celts, will ye suffer

Or will ye rise

Against the oppressor’s lies?

Let freedom make a new start

And let us go to battle

Feeling Gaelic with all thy heart”

He wrote it in Gaelic, being the language of the audience for which it was meant. Besides: the Christian oppressors had a greater knack for Latin than for Gaelic, most of them not understanding a word of it.

He was aware that Cynwrig had never learned to read so when he was finished, he read it out loud for the boy, who only nodded in approval and said:

“That sounds great! Well said!”

Bayrd’s war in words had begun.

Daily life continued. They sang and played, they talked and they enjoyed the relative prosperity and peace around them. On one afternoon Bayrd sang his ballad for the first time, feeling somewhat apprehensive. After finishing it part of the audience cheered, others looked as if they didn’t understand the lyrics. To his amazement even a priest applauded, maybe not because he got the meaning of the words but only because he liked the tune, which Bayrd had shrewdly adapted from a Gregorian theme as an extra means of camouflaging the rebellious nature of the ballad. To their relief no questions were asked and no repercussions followed.

But this particular afternoon they were just playing the tunes as every other day. It looked as if the pilgrim season was nearing its end, because the money in the can was less than it had been before. But for the rest it was a normal sunny afternoon.

Until they heard a low, growling and threatening voice behind them:

“There you are, young scoundrel. I’m coming to fetch you!”

Both turned around, Bayrd in amazement. He saw a small, old man with dirty clothes, a leg wrapped in bandages, a crutch and apparently one eye. He couldn’t recall he had ever seen the dosser before and he looked questioningly to Cynwrig. He startled from what he saw: the boy’s face was ashen, his eyes wide with fear and he stood as if petrified.

“Cynwrig, who is this…character?” he asked, making the correct estimate that Cynwrig knew the man.

“It..it…it is…Moenen!” Cynwrig stuttered.

“Ah, that character”, Bayrd sighed. Then he turned his attention to Moenen and said in a

 haughty way:

“I don’t like the way you speak to us. Especially since I can’t recall we have ever met”.

“Hold your tongue, young fool!” the man growled, “I’ve got no quarrel with you. Only with that rascal there. Come on, boy. Time to fulfill your commitment. I’ve come to fetch you and take you where you belong: in hell!”

“I don’t want to go! I want to stay with Bayrd!” Cynwrig uttered in an unsteady voice.

“Ah, lovers, hey?” the man said with a wicked smile, “That is the gravest sin there is, boy. Now come on, you broke your contract, so it is time you pay the price for that. Follow me!”

As if possessed by the man Cynwrig stepped forward and wanted to follow him, but Bayrd extended his hand and held him by the shoulder.

“He isn’t going anywhere!” he said clearly in an angry tone, “Especially if he has made it clear that he wants to stay here. Now, bugger off, old fool! Go bullying someone else!”

“Do you question my power?” Moenen cried out in rage, “Do you have the courage to stand up to me?”

Bayrd looked at him. He didn’t know why he sensed, he knew what he heard and he had the feeling he was familiar with what he saw. There was something in the man, that triggered something in his deepest memories.

“I guess that is a fair summary of it”, he said in an ice-cold voice, “But maybe you can clear me up about what you actually want of the boy?”

“I have come to claim what I am entitled to”, the old man growled in a menacing voice, “And I am entitled to his soul, so I have come to claim that. Right here and now, no matter your resistance!”

That did it; he recognized it subconsciously. Instinctively he grabbed in his coat pocket and took the crucifix that he once carved himself out of it, holding it out in the direction of the bum. The reaction couldn’t have been bigger surprise.

The eyes of the man got a size not seen before; yes: both of them! His face contorted in terror and he started to dance and hop around on the spot as if he stood on hot coals bare-footed and screeched intelligible cries. After a short while he started to talk some kind of sense again when he cried out in an unearthly, demon-like voice:

“Put that away! That is the worst symbol to man! I hate it, I detest it! It has caused more evil than even I can dream up!”

“I know, I’m very well aware of that”, Bayrd answered with an ice-cold voice.

The man hopped around hysterically a little more. Then a voice was heard, which seemed to come right out of hell. It was a low, grumbling, frightening and chilling to the bone:

“That symbol has brought the worst and meanest evil in the world!”

“I told you I’m very well aware of that”, Bayrd repeated his earlier reply.

“Put it away!” the voice screamed.

“I have no intention whatsoever!” Bayrd said, shrugging his shoulders.

The panicked eyes kept looking at Bayrd for another second. Then flames came out of the old men’s clothes and within the blink of the eyes he was engulfed in flames, showing only his silhouette, that revealed horns on his head. The smell of rotten eggs was everywhere around the burning shape. A plume of black smoke appeared, going up to the sky. Then the fire and the man, it had engulfed, were completely gone. Not even ashes were seen on the ground.

Cynwrig, who had seen it all happening, stood shivering besides Bayrd and asked with a creaky voice:

“What was that?”

“That was Moenen”, Bayrd answered, “Or maybe I should say: that was Satan, disguised as the human Moenen. You’ve walked with the devil, boy”.

“My God!” Cynwrig exclaimed.

“No”, Bayrd said, while dropping his voice, “Leave him out. I’ve told you: I’m through with him. But you, my love, are done with the devil. He will not bother you any longer”.

Relief overcame terror in Cynwrig’s eyes and he almost embraced Bayrd on the open street, but just in time he seemed to realize the possible consequences and restrained.

“Come on”, Bayrd said, “We’ve done enough for today. Let us go back to the tavern and occupy us with happier things!”

But happier things were not to be. When they arrived at the door of their room a woman was waiting for them and beckoned them. It was Brianna, a red-haired woman, slightly older than themselves, who also lived in one of the rooms of the tavern for a longer period. They followed her to a quiet corner and there she said in a low whisper:

“I want to warn you, boys! I saw Ronin, the creepy one, listening at your door this morning. Don’t ask me why, but I suspect he is a snitch for the authorities. I guess he is on to something. Hi hi, maybe he thinks the two of you are sodomites. No, no, don’t confirm and don’t deny; it is none of my business. And if so: I like the both of you. Always kind and charming boys you are. I’d cry my heart out if I saw both of you end on the pyre. It was just meant as a warning”.

She left. Bayrd looked in Cynwrig’s eyes and nodded silently with his head towards their room door.

Once they were in, he lost no time and said:

“I think it is time to leave here. What do you think?”

“What a shame”, Cynwrig said somewhat disappointed, “I kind of liked it over here. And the money was good”.

“That is no problem. The pilgrim season is at its end, so no need to stay here for that purpose. But I really think we should be on our way. The fact that an informer is on our tail bothers me”.

“Me too”, Cynwrig said, “You’re right. Let’s pack up and move on”.

They packed their belongings right away, settled the bill with the tavern owner and were on their way at first light the following morning.

County Cnoic an Iarthair, early spring

They were walking on the road again. Bayrd laughed silently at the thought that, if they went on like this, his feet would have reached the end of their lifetime before he himself would close his eyes forever, which would leave him without feet for a while. Gone were the comfortable days in a warm and soft bed in some tavern, returning as they had to improvised camp sites along the road. The only advantage of it was, that there was no need for strict silence during their sex.

They played here and there with earnings again limited to a penny so every now and then. They didn’t consider it as a problem: there were still enough savings from their time in the city. And with the area, through which they travelled, becoming more and more Gaelic in character, both played Bayrd’s ballads more often, always received with much enthusiasm by the audience.

On the fifth day after leaving the big city they entered a medium-sized village. The weather was gloomy with grey clouds obscuring the sun. The forebode did not look well for the coming days. While walking through the streets they sensed an intangible sweltering atmosphere, as if some rebellion was brewing. After arriving on the village square they unsuspectingly started singing and playing their songs. As usual people came out of their houses to listen.

After he sang some harmless folk songs at first Bayrd started one of his ballads; in fact he started his first ballad, the one with the opening lines “Celts, will ye suffer or will ye rise”. In surprise he saw how it caused an uproar. People cheered, people applauded! Feeling a bit uncertain he looked at Cynwrig, but the boy just cheerfully smiled and continued playing his flute.

Bayrd finished the ballad and was just about to start another innocent folk song when a voice in the crowd called out “Arís!”, meaning “Again”. In seconds other voices cried out the same and within a minute the whole crowd was scanning “Arís! Arís! Arís!”. He looked somewhat overwhelmed and helpless to Cynwrig, who looked at him with a beaming smile on his face and said:

“Always give the audience what they want!”

Seeing no way out Bayrd started the ballad for a second time but after ending it the crowd didn’t let him off the hook and wanted a third time and after that a fourth. When he sang the ballad a fourth time the crowd had picked up the tune and the lyrics, joining him in a loud riotous choir, their singing reflecting against the walls of the buildings along the square. Bayrd felt great that his ballad had ignited this fire.

“Time to leave before the trouble might start”, Cynwrig warned him softly.

Bayrd just nodded and grabbed the coins that were in front of them. They were just about to leave when an old man came shuffling to them, carrying a bhodrán.

He stopped right in front of them and said:

“I want to give you boys this”.

Both Bayrd and Cynwrig looked at him stunned.

“But sir…”, Bayrd objected, “I can’t accept it. It looks very old and precious”.

The man looked at him with penetrating coal-black eyes and smiled, showing that his mouth had no teeth any longer.

“Oh yes, boy”, he said slowly, “You can accept it. I won’t be needing it any more. My remaining time on earth is too short to let the instrument be of any use. You use it while you sing your battle song for us and bring courage in the hearts of the Celts”.

“Battle song?” Bayrd asked, not fully understanding what the man meant.

“Yes, that ballad you sang this afternoon. It will be a great battle song when the Celts march against the ill-treaters that rule us. You know, they came even before I was born. They took all from us: our properties, our culture and, worst of all, our dignity. But the time will be coming when we strike back. And when this time comes, your ballad will be on the lips of all the brave, who march to the battlefield!”

He sighed. It sounded as a sigh of disappointment, maybe even one of despair.

“I’m too old to contribute with force. I’m too old to carry the sword. Let this be my contribution to the rightful struggle. Use it, boy. Use it to accompany your battle song, so that the real Gaelic heartbeat in your ballads can be heard by everyone”.

“Yes, sir, I will do as you say”, Bayrd answered humbly. He felt as if he granted a supplication.

The old man smiled again, laid his hands on both their shoulders and said:

“Fare ye well, boys! And fight the battle with your ballads!”.

Then he turned around and, without looking back at them, shuffled into a narrow alley.

“It seems you achieved what you wanted, my love!” Cynwrig said in a low voice.

“What is that?” Bayrd asked, uncertain of what he actually wanted.

“You’re fighting the struggle with your ballads. And you touch the people in their hearts with it”.

Bayrd considered it for a few seconds. Then he sighed and said:

“Maybe. Anyway, let’s get moving. We have to find a place to camp before evening falls”.

They started out early in the morning and reached another village the day after their glorious performance. To their surprise they received the same reception here: in a short span of time the whole village was singing the ballad with them!

When they left, they inquired about directions and when they might reach the next county.

A peasant told them:

“If you follow the road it will be some time before you reach the next county, because the road runs north for a while before you can turn left on one of its side roads, which leads to the coast. But…if you cut through the forest the next country is about half an hour away”.

“Coast?” Bayrd asked.

“Yes, the next county is on the coast. It even has a port”, the man replied.

The answer pleased Bayrd. Port towns were always good for musicians. Sailors loved music and when they were ashore on liberty, they had lots of money to spend.

“Let’s go there”, he said to Cynwrig.

The boy just nodded his approval and off they went.

But luck seemed to have left them when they were following the road in the afternoon!

They heard horses behind them. When they looked behind them, they saw a group of five horsemen approaching them. The one riding in front beamed importance. There was no doubt that he was the leader of the group.

The five horsemen, of which four turned out to be soldiers, overtook them and their leader yelled a:

“Stop, you two!”

They stopped. There was little else they could do.

“I’ve never seen you before around here. Who are you?” the man barked.

Bayrd felt revulsion for the man right away. For a second the thought played through his mind to ask the arrogant horseman who the hell he actually was. But he swallowed the question, considering that the man might have importance in this county and that his defiant attitude might cross him, which could bring them in lots of trouble. So, he answered:

“I am Bayrd, my lord, and this is my friend Cynwrig”.

“And what are you two doing here?” the man asked, still in an ill-tempered, rude way.

“We are travelling musicians, my lord”, Bayrd replied, “We are on our way to the coast”.

The man frowned and seemed to think it over. Then he said:

“Are you those two firebrands that sing rebellious songs in these areas?”.

Bayrd looked shocked and resented at the same time and cried out:

“Oh no, my lord, we would never do that. I can sing you one of the Gregorian chants I know. I can’t imagine you will find anything rebellious in that”.

The man scowled down at him, but suddenly he asked:

“Or are you two silent sinners?”

With all the innocence of the world in his eyes Cynwrig asked:

“What is a silent sinner, my lord?”

The man, still arrogant on his saddle, smirked at Cynwrig, probably holding him for a simple mind. Then he said:

“You better get out of my county! If I can find even a shred of half-evidence that warrants torture, I’ll coming to get you and draw you to the rack. And by God I promise both of you: you will confess to anything I want you to confess! Now get out of my eyes!”

The man turned his horse and with a wave of his hand ordered his soldiers to follow him. They galloped out of sight at high speed.

Bayrd softly whistled and said with a sigh:

“That was a close call! A bit too close if you ask me!”

“Who could he be?” Cynwrig asked.

Bayrd shrugged but added:

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the bailiff in this county. So, let’s cut through the forest to get in the next county faster!”

“What’s the difference?” Cynwrig asked a bit puzzled, “This county or another? We simply have the dogs on our track”.

Bayrd smiled shrewdly when he said:

“Other county, other bailiff! But I think it is wise to keep a low profile during the next days”.

Cynwrig nodded approvingly. They went off the road and disappeared in the virtually impenetrable green wall the forest provided.

The port of Calafort Ceo, on the western shore

Both knew the sea and ports only from imagination, fed by vague stories from travelers during their childhoods. When they finally saw it both for themselves, they were appalled and exhilarated at the same time.

The voyage to the port town had been dull and heavy. First there was the cutting through the dense forest, then a trudge in lashing rain, driven by a fierce wind blowing from the front. They had abstained from singing in the villages they passed, sticking to their intention of not causing any suspicion. They would wait until they were in the port city. Being larger it gave much more opportunity to stay anonymous and they weren’t the only musicians there. It was no use to let another bailiff drop an eye on them.

But that thought was not on their mind when they stood at the sea shore. They were awed by the vast expanses of grey water, whipped up by blasts of wind, rolling in white-capped waves towards the land. It was beautiful and fearful, because both sensed the power that was hidden in the rolling waves.

They crashed on the stone mole, that encompassed the actual port, fragmenting in smaller splashes and droplets of water, that fell on and behind the stones with the main mass rolling back into sea, only to be followed by another wave in some continuous and eternal movement.

Both felt as if they couldn’t handle all their eyes and ears and even their noses gave them. They saw many ships, small and large, in the harbor, they looked curiously at the many sailors, scurrying around in their rough woolen clothes, making even rougher jokes, which none of the them could understand. Their noses smelled the silt air of the sea and the odor of fish, that was stacked in wooden crates on the quays, ready to go to the market. For Bayrd and Cynwrig it was as if they had entered a new and unknown world.

Bayrd’s eyes followed the shoreline and at some distance to the north from the port he noticed a huge cliff, jutting out into the sea. In a way he felt drawn to it. The land feature intrigued him; he had almost the feeling it lured him in some intangible seductive way.

Cynwrig was the first who broke the silence between them, when he said:

“It is all so…”

Then he fell silent, looked at Bayrd with an apologetic smile and continued:

“...but I can’t find the right word for it!”

“Enormous maybe?” Bayrd suggested with an uncertain giggle.

“Yeah, maybe it is”.

“Come on,” Bayrd said, “Let us find a place to sleep for the coming times”.

It took some effort to tear their gazes from the sea, the harbor and the cliff but finally they entered the town itself.

They found lodgings in the only tavern they could afford. They had seen others, but these were meant for the wealthier merchants and others, whose purses were better filled as theirs. It made them end up in a ramshackle establishment, where they were given a small room, looking out on an alley, where there was continuous noise of brawling sailors, strays and fighting locals.

“Moenen would have loved this place”, Cynwrig remarked acidly.

But even this small room was almost withheld from them, because when they inquired for lodgings the landlord had looked at them suspicious and had said:

“Two boys in one room? What are you: sodomites or something like that?”

“Oh no, sir!” Bayrd had answered, “We’re just two travelling musicians and we are used to sleeping together. We do it as well when we camp in the open”.

The man was clearly not satisfied and objected:

“But that room only has one bed!”

“Then we have to switch, sir, one in bed, one on the ground!” Bayrd had replied, “I can pay two weeks in advance, if you like”.

It remained in doubt if the objections of the man had been cleared or that the prospect of cash did the trick, but he gave them the key. And that was all that mattered to them.

They flopped on the bed, both bone tired. For a moment the thought of sex played through Bayrd’s mind, but he decided against it. After all the walking he simply wasn’t up to it. Tomorrow was another day.

Apparently Cynwrig had the same feelings, because the boy snugged up against him and was asleep before Bayrd could even draw a breath. He allowed himself to doze off as well.

Suddenly he heard Cynwrig say:

“Bayrd? Are you asleep?”

“Hmmmmm???” Bayrd reacted, forcefully open his eyes.

“Ah, sorry!” Cynwrig whispered, “You were asleep”.

“Not any more, my love”, Bayrd said, “What is it?”

“I don’t know if I was thinking or dreaming it but…” Cynwrig hestitantly muttered.

Bayrd looked into his crystal-clear blue-grey eyes as some kind of non-verbal invitation to continue.

“Well…”, the boy continued, “Are you ever afraid of death?”

Bayrd looked at him, astonishment written all over his face. It was the kind of question, that a concentrated man would have difficulty to answer, but for one, that was just torn from his first deep sleep it was on the verge of the impossible to answer right away. However, the philosophy lectures from his time as a novice helped him out when a memory popped up:

“No, not particularly”, he answered, “Maybe I am afraid of dying, because dying can be terrible. But I have no fear for death. I learned once that an old classical Greek philosopher has said:

“If death is there, I am not there

If I am there, then death isn’t there

So why should I worry about him?”

Cynwrig nodded and said:

“Nice way of seeing it. But you are afraid of dying then?”

“Yes, if the way of dying is chosen by another”, Bayrd answered, “If possible, I want to choose my own method of dying”.

“So do I”, Cynwrig agreed, “No pyre for me!”

It looked as if he felt satisfied or maybe even comforted in his fears, because he snugged up again and both fell asleep in each other arms.

Since they slept all evening and night, thereby missing out their evening meal, they were starving when they got down next morning and attacked their breakfast with the gusto of hungry young dogs. When they finished, they went out to sing and play, hopefully getting some pennies in return. They did so for several days but, no matter how much they liked what they did, even performing turned out to be a slogging match. It had nothing to do with the summer days in the pilgrimage city, when they had basked in the sun while singing. Here gales blew over the city and forceful rain squalls chased everybody inside when they had nothing more urgent to do on the outside. It left them often without any audience at all, only feeling soaked and miserable.

They turned their attention to the many inns and alehouses, where they were at least warm and dry and where they could find people almost every hour of the day. One innkeeper liked it so much, that he offered them twenty pence for each evening they would be singing in his establishment, an offer they gladly accepted. The days and weeks stringed together without anything spectacular happening.

But this changed one evening when Bayrd started to sing his ballad, the one with the opening lines ““Celts, will ye suffer, Or will ye rise”. He had sung it before in this town without more than lukewarm approval but this evening turned out to be completely different.

A little over half the visitors cheered and applauded in approval but the remaining whistled and howled in derision and dislike. Bayrd didn’t mind: he never expected that everybody had warm feelings for what he wanted to express. But then the whole inn turned into a great ball of fighting men and women, wrecking the interior in short shrift.

Bard looked in shock to Cynwrig and cried out:

“Let’s get out of here!”

He didn’t like the idea to get involved in the fight, but he certainly didn’t like the prospect of the bailiff and his troops arriving to end it, no doubt asking questions what had started it in the first place. Cynwrig stuck his flute in his coat and was barely able to save the bhodrán from the turmoil and both ran out. They slipped out of the back door and ran through an alley, scaring two stray cats that scurried for cover. They stopped running at the rim of the town, catching their breaths.

“Now what?” Cynwrig asked.

Bayrd shrugged, considered it briefly and said:

“I guess we can forget our twenty pence for tonight”.

He looked around. The wind had reduced to a gentle breeze, it had stopped raining and a full moon shone on the few clouds, lightening their upper surfaces. Unexpectedly it had become a beautiful autumn night.

“It is a very nice evening. Let’s go the cliff!” he suggested.

Aillte Deireadh Talún, that same evening

They needed about half an hour before they walked over the lush meadows that covered the surface of the cliff. The moon shone over it, flooding the surroundings and the sea in a soft silvery light. During their walk to the cliff Bayrd had felt his desires grow with each step he took.

Bayrd walked to the cliff’s rim with a lot of bravado, looked over it into the depth and made a few steps back.

“That is bloody deep!” he cried out, “I get dizzy when I look down!”

“Then don’t look down”, Cynwrig giggled, taking him by the hand, “Come on, I’ll lead you to a safe spot where you can’t fall over it!”

The burning look in his eyes made it perfectly clear that his desires were also at an extremely high level.

At a safe distance from the dangerous edge they sat down in the grass and Bayrd took the boy tenderly in his arms, kissing him on the temple.

“I want you!” he hissed.

“Then do it!” Cynwrig whispered back with a sultry voice.

Bayrd pushed Cynwrig slowly on his back and laid on top of him. He kissed the boy’s lips very tenderly and slid his lips along the jawline towards the ear, stroking the skin all the way up, where he started licking and nibbling the ear-lobe. His hands worked independently on opening Cynrwig’s jacket and when they finally managed to do so, his fingertips stroked the small, hard nipples. He heard a soft moan escaping Cynwrig’s lips.

“I’m so happy I followed you that day”, Cynwrig whispered.

“So am I, my love!”, Bayrd acknowledged.

He got on his knees and tore Cynwrig’s boots from his feet. The leggings followed, slowly drawn down over the legs, all part of the build-up of tension to the final revelation of the central organ in what was to follow.

Cynwrig’s underwear followed. His dick tip popped up, already gleaming and damp and Bayrd pressed a soft kiss on it, tasting the sweet flavor of the precum on his lips. He always felt, that this delicious taste was the harbinger for all the beautiful and intense things to come.

While kissing the tip his nose picked up the scent of Cynwrig’s burning desire in his groins. It intoxicated him and it only served to increase his own urge, causing him to undress as well in a very short time.  

Two pairs of lips started kissing wherever they could kiss. Two pairs of hands commenced to stroke naked shoulders and backs. Two aroused phalluses, both oozing the first fluids, pressed against one another and into bellies, leaving sticky droplets behind on the skins. They were absorbed in their own world of love and passion!

With eyes closed Bayrd found Cynwrig’s ear with his senses and whispered:

“Love of my life, I beg you: take me in!”

Cynwrig complied with a smile, spread his legs and gave him unhampered access to the small area of his yearning. He laid on top of Cynwrig’s torso, between the spread legs and maneuvered his hips in such a position that he lined up his dick with the small, narrow cavern. He entered it with respect, immediately feeling the contractions around his tip and shaft, as Cynwrig arced his back, receiving him to the fullest possible extent. For another time he was marveled at how such a small tight, inconspicuous tunnel was able to express a whole scala of emotions. He penetrated deeper, feeling the velvet vibrating glove around his lance and he also noticed how Cynrwig had clamped his legs around his back, in an attempt to push him in deeper.

“Deeper, love!” Cynwrig sighed, “Deeper, please!”

It was a request that Bayrd was unable to fulfill, since he was already in the boy up to his balls, his shaft being too short to penetrate any farther. But he did his best: he thrusted, trying to gain another millimeter; another thrust…maybe another millimeter. He tried to visualize the progress of his tip, thrusting deep into Cynwrig.

Cynwrig was beyond reason and with every thrust in him he panted:

“Bring me in heaven! Bring me in heaven!”

“Oh yes, my love”, Bayrd muttered with difficulty, breathing hard, “Let us go there together, hand in hand!”

The urge to squirt his juices became unbearable, but he tried and actually managed to postpone the moment until he was no longer able to hold them and ejaculated with a loud roar, leaving Cynwrig laying with his eyes closed, enjoying the spread of warmth inside him.

But not long! After Cynwrig felt the first emotions subside he pushed Bayrd off him and with his back to the ground. Then he sat astride on him, his back near Bayrd’s face.

“I have to clean you up, my love!” he uttered softly with a seducing smile on his face.

Cynwrig bent over and started licking Bayrd’s still dripping dick, sucking in all remaining drops of semen his tongue could find. His still aroused phallus hung over Bayrd’s mouth, who simply drew it in and started to stimulate it with lips and tongue, actually siphoning Cynwrig’s hot juices out of his balls. With Bayrd’s pecker growing again from Cynwrig’s loving attention, both sucked vigorously on each other until both exploded with closed eyes and shallow, panting breathing, while they drank the white gold that was in their mouths. However, they were so pre-occupied with one another that none of them noticed the two spying eyes in a clump of low bushes, nor did they see how a shadow silently left from them.

With their inner fires of lust subsided they noticed the cold of the evening, that chilled them in a moment. Rapidly they dressed and then sat beside another, shoulder to shoulder and head against head, both staring over the softly-rippling waves of the moonlit sea. After a long silence Cynwrig said:

“When I see that sea and tomorrow the port with its many ships, I dream of leaving this land, together with you”.

“Where do you want to go then, my love?” Bayrd asked surprised.

“I don’t know”, Cynwrig answered with a shrug, “Away from here, to a place where we are free. Don’t you feel it that we are restricted over here? We are not allowed to think what we want, we are not allowed to say what we think and we’re most certainly not allowed to live the life we want. And let’s not talk about the fact that we are not allowed to love the one we love.  It is all about oppression, oppression of the livelihood, of the body, the soul and the heart”.

Bayrd sighed. He felt exactly the same way, but what would fleeing change? So, he said:

“I don’t think fleeing is a solution. I have the feeling that the whole world is the same. Fine, we go to another country, where they have another ruler…but they have the same set of rules as they have here! Or maybe even more limiting”.

“Can’t imagine a more limiting set of rules”, Cynwrig muttered, “In other words: we’re bound to stay here?”

Bayrd nodded; he tried to do it cheerfully and energetically but he actually felt sad about it. Somehow it seemed all so hopeless.

He took Cynwrig in his arms and in attempt to comfort him he improvised a new ballad, both the lyrics and the tune. Softly he sang:

“Hush, my love, don’t despair

Hope will always be there

No matter what they say

We will never obey

Yes, we both will die

But we don’t give in to their lie

No matter where we belong

Our love will always be strong”

Cynwrig buried his head in Bayrd’s hair, who felt the boy’s shoulders shock. Tears welled up in his own eyes as well.

“Don’t weep, my love”, he said softly, “Before I start weeping as well!”

“Sorry”, Cynwrig muttered barely audible, “It was a bit too much for me”.

“Never mind, we are only humans”, Bayrd replied, sweeping away the tears from his own eyes.

For another moment he stared over the tranquil moonlit sea but then it hit him, as if he was struck by an invisible bolt of lightning:

“The crucifix of sin…I know what it is! It is the cross of Jezus, corrupted by the greed of the rulers. Just like the scribes nailed Jezus to his cross to die a grueling and slow death the nowadays rulers and their accomplishes and collaborators in the Church have nailed Love and Compassion to the cross to die a grueling and slow death. Only to safeguard their greed for wealth and power, all in the name of God! That is the clue: Jezus thought independent and free, something not looked very kindly upon by the scribes. And now…all free thinkers and all, who live another live than what is accepted, are prosecuted and killed. Because the rulers can only use the meek sheep, those who don’t or hardly think, those who are malleable and docile! Everybody else is a threat to their privileges. And, of course, all in the name of God under the sign of the cross! Nowadays cross is indeed the Crucifix of the Sin of greed! Man, why did I take so long to find that out?”

He shook his head and a broad smile came on his face.

“Come on”, he said to Cynwrig, “It is time to return to our lodgings”.

“Wait a minute”, Cynwrig objected, “First I will hide the bhodrán and the flute someplace on this cliff. I think we won’t need them for a while…if we ever need them again, that is!”

After Cynwrig found a suitable spot to hide both instruments they took each other’s hand and walked back to the port town.

Calafort Ceo, early in the night

But it was not to be that way! When they rounded the corner of the alley towards their tavern they saw two fully armed troopers standing at its entrance. Only darkness saved them from immediate arrest.

“What now?” Cynwrig hissed, “They are after us!”

“Quiet down, my love”, Bayrd said, “I guess we will go back to the cliff and wait for what is going to happen. But really, don’t ask me what will happen next!”

They sneaked out of the town and walked back to the cliff they had left not an hour before.

Aillte Deireadh Talún, a little later that night

After they had arrived on the cliff for a second time that night they lied down in the grass, close together.

Bayrd stared into the ink-black night and to the many stars that twinkled in it. It seemed more than he had ever seen before.

“You know…”, he said, “A long time ago I lied on the shore of some loch looking to the stars. And I imagined that out of one of them a beautiful boy appeared, a boy that I could love with all of my heart. And now that boy is right beside me, in another starlit night”.

“That is such a sweet thing to say”, Cynwrig whispered in his ear.

There was a long silence, both of them having thoughts of their own. But suddenly Cnywrig said:

“I know it sounds funny, but now I know how Jezus must have felt in the Garden of Gethsemane”.

The remark surprised Bayrd and he looked into Cynwrig’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” he wanted to know.

“Well, it is really pretty simple”, Cynwrig answered, “When Jezus was in the Garden of Gethsemane he knew it was coming, but he didn’t know when it would come. I have the same feeling being here: I know it is coming, but I have no idea when”.

Bayrd was astonished to notice that he didn’t ask what that “it” could be. It was clear that they both knew the answer.

Bayrd resumed staring to the stars. Cynwrig’s head lay on his chest. After a short while he could have sworn the boy was sound asleep. But he wasn’t, because after another long period without words being exchanged Cynwrig asked:

“What are you thinking of, sweet love of my life?”

“About nothing!” Bayrd attempted to avoid the possibility of speaking his thoughts out loud.

Cynwrig looked in his eyes and with a smile he said:

“Don’t lie to me! I see it in your eyes that you are thinking!”

Bayrd didn’t take exception to the word “lie”, sighed deeply and said:

“What if I’ve been wrong? What if God exists and I will be standing in front of him to account for myself, the boy who denies His existence? He’ll send me to hell, where I’m stuck with a Devil who I already defied once and who will gladly take his chance for a revenge”.

Cynwrig stroke his long blonde hair softly along Bayrd’s cheek and answered:

“Don’t ask me if God exists, I don’t know. But what I do know is, that he can’t be the God we experience here on earth, because that would mean He is the God of cruel oppression, not the God of Love as He is called in the Bible. Maybe God is a good guy, who can forgive you. And maybe only his emissaries on earth are rotten and corrupted to the bone. That would explain the difference between the Bible and the reality we live in”.

“I guess you’re right”, Bayrd sighed.

“But, my love,” Cynwrig continued, “Don’t doubt your struggle for the Gaelics, how limited as it might have been. That torch will live on! And now…I want you to love me intensely for the last time!”

“Now?” Bayrd exclaimed.

“Yes, now…” Cynwrig smiled, “Let us see it as our own form of saying goodbye”.

Bayrd was deeply touched, nodded and started undressing.

They made love: although their lovemaking always had been intense this time was the most intense both experienced. Never before had Cynwrig taken him in so willingly, moaning at every thrust and doing his utmost to feel and live through every little movement inside him. And despite the fact it was Bayrd’s third release in one night, he never spent so much sperm before.

After they were satisfied, they both redressed, laid down and waited for the things both knew would be coming. It was about half an hour after they finished their lovemaking. The galloping of horses could be heard.

“Well, you know now when it will be”, Bayrd said softly.

They both rose. Nothing was discussed beforehand, nothing was agreed between the two of them. But they both walked to the edge of the cliff and turned around to face what was thrown at them.

It was a group of soldiers with another very pompous man in their lead.

“Ah, there we have our two rascals”, the leader growled, “Not only rabble-rousers but silent sinners as well, those godless that indulge in the disgusting crime of unnatural fornication. The court will love to sentence you. You will not suffer from cold this autumn”, he added with a cruel smile.

“You still haven’t got us, bailiff”, Bayrd replied coldly.

“That will change soon enough”, the man barked. With a wave of his hand he ordered:

“Grab them!”

A number of soldiers dismounted and started walking towards them. After they had taken a few steps something unexpected happened.

Over the sea, behind the two boys, a blinding fireball appeared. In it was an appearance of a figure with horns on his head and goats paws instead of feet. It was Satan, who for the occasion had clearly not seen any reason to disguise at Moenen. The figure roared with a demon-like voice:

“Now I finally got the two of you! Come on, I have come to fetch you! It is time for hell for both of you”.

The soldiers recoiled in horror and all of them fell on their knees, shielded their eyes with their hands and started to pray. It included the brave bailiff!

“You haven’t got us yet, bailiff”, Bayrd cried out.

The fireball remained where it was, spreading an eerie light over the cliff. The roaring and high- pitched screaming continued, full of curses and abuse.

Bayrd grabbed in the pocket of his coat and took the crucifix out, the one he had carved himself.

He held it in the strange light, that came from behind, making sure that the bailiff could see it. Then he tossed it in the direction of the man.

“There is your cross”, he yelled, “It is the crucifix of sin, a piece of filth, that only represents oppression, crimes, corruption and greed. It bears no longer any resemblance with the meaning of the original cross. And you, bailiff, are just another hound of this Crucifix of Sin”.

“Shut up, fool”, the man roared, “Don’t you think you’ve got problems enough. You want to add heresy to your list of crimes?”

“What does it matter?” Cynwrig said sarcastically, “What do you want to do? Burn us three times?”

The demon continued his barrage of insults and the most terrible curses imaginable.

Bayrd looked Cynwrig in the eyes and asked:

“My love, do you want to end on the pyre?”

“I have no intention what so ever” the boy answered, perfectly quiet and relaxed.

“Do you want to be handed over to that …thing behind us?” Bayrd asked his following question.

Cynwrig looked with clear contempt over his shoulder, scolded and answered:

“Oh, him? No, let him go to hell where he belongs!”

They turned towards each other, took each other in the arms and kissed tenderly.

“I love you, sweet boy that came out of the stars”, Bayrd muttered softly.

“I love you too, sweet love of my life!”, Cynwrig answered, equally soft and intimate.

“Fare ye well, and we’ll see each other on the other side”, Bayrd continued.

“Yes, we will!” Cynwrig answered, “Fare ye well, sweetest!”

They kissed again and then took each other’s hands. Both made a quarter turn, showing their backs to the bailiff and his soldiers, looked in each other’s eyes and jumped off the cliff’s edge, plunging into the depth.

Their bodies were wrecked and their lives ended the second they impacted on the boulders along the waterline. At the same time the fireball vanished as sudden as it had come up!

The bailiff ran forward and peered over the cliff’s rim.

“Oh man, that is terribly high”, he said, feeling shivers of fear running over his spine.

He cursed out of pure frustration.

“Damned, they got away!” he growled, “Come on, men. Let’s find out how large this rebel group is and round up a few more”.

They mounted their horses and disappeared.

The two bodies along the waterline were washed into the large expanses of the sea by the first morning tide, still holding hands.

Epilogue

About fifteen years later

A young boy wandered listlessly and aimlessly over the cliff, the one that is called Aillte Deireadh Talún in the western counties. He felt bored, finding nothing interesting to do in the port town. Besides, he feared a beating by his father because he had been caught red-handed when stealing an apple on the market square. So, he just did what he always did when he sought refuge: he went to the cliff, to look out over the sea, to dream about voyages and about future and to enjoy nature around him. Or he just observed how the seagulls soared in the sky and glided over the wave tips. He would love to be able to fly like a seagull and feel free in the sky.

He walked a bit here, a bit there, he couldn’t find the rest in his mind to just sit down and give way to daydreaming. He didn’t understand why he was so restless. Usually all trouble, small and great, just disappeared when he came to this spot.

Suddenly he saw something shining in the sunlight, right there in that clump of bushes. It triggered his curiosity, a curiosity that exceeded that of all other boys, each of them already gifted with a healthy dose of it.

Slowly he walked to the bush, got on his knees and started touching around in it. He felt the shape of what he considered to be the shape of a bhodrán and pulled it out into full sight. Yes, it was, what he thought it was:

“Look at that, a bhodrán!” he said surprised with a broad smile of delight on his face, “I wonder who left it here”.

A short looking-over of the instrument added a question: how long has this thing been here? But he found it in still pretty good shape and gave a bang on the skin. A deep rumbling sound could be heard, spreading over the meadows.

He grabbed in the bush again, in a circle around where he had found the bhodrán. His fingers felt the drum stick and a flute.

“Funny”, he muttered, “No something to put in a clump of bushes, is it?”

He started to drum around a bit with the stick, using some rhythm he remembered having heard from a street musician. The thunder he generated dissipidated in the wind and caused a euphoric smile on his face:

“It sounds like the heartbeat of the Gaelic”, he whispered in a bliss.

He took the instruments home and, in the weeks following their finding, he tinkered on them to repair the damage, caused by the wind and the weather. Then he started to learn how the play the bhodrán in earnest, helped by his grandfather. His grandfather, a wise man with a memory going back for decades, also taught him some old ballads he could sing while playing the drum.

And so it came that, when de great uprise in the western counties started, the young boy proudly walked in front of the massed peasant army, that was marching against the ruler’s soldiers, encouraging the men behind him by playing the bhodrán and singing an old ballad, that started with the words “Celts, will ye suffer, Or will ye rise?”

He paid dearly for it: one of the first arrows, that were shot by the soldiers, hit him in the throat and he fell mortally wounded to the ground, where he died a few minutes later. Many more in the peasant army followed suit, as they were slaughtered by the well-trained and ruthless mercenaries. The few who survived the battle were taken to the dungeons for “later disposal”.

The mercenaries then turned their attention to the villages, raping women, killing children and burning most of the villages to the ground. They turned the whole western counties to a wasteland for many generations to come.

The Crucifix of Sin had added another bloody victory to its already extensive list of bloody and cruel victories, of course all in the name of God the Almighty!