To Redeem His People

The Stone of Seren

Brynnan paused for breath, his eyes following the steep trail that led to the summit of the sacred mountain, Cadair Annwn. This was the Fox’s Path, treacherous and icy. Seldom used, it wound up the mountainside following a partly frozen rushing torrent named ‘Nant y Llwynog’, Stream of the Foxes. 

The Bard had left his two companions far below along with his horse. Geraint, the old Warrior, had protested loudly, but Nijal had argued for the mountain journey, in the end prevailing to let Brynnan go alone.

The Bard thought back to two days earlier. They had parted from the young Wanderer, Col, who had stayed with the horse herders to continue his journey to reunite with Andri, the young singer whom Brynnan and his friends had left behind at the Ruithin College, high in the forested mountains of ArMor-ys. It gave the Bard great comfort to know that Col and Andri would be together. He recalled in detail their parting from Col.

The three men, in the privacy of their tent, had agreed to send Col on his way with sucking the young man’s cock. Nijal and Brynnan had knelt before him, servicing his penis, taking turns at sucking the handsome prick, and Geraint had knelt behind, licking and tonguing his ass. Col was still recovering from having his ass fucked for the first time and had been highly aroused. It did not take him long to cum. It was the companion’s wish that Col’s new skills in ass fucking and being fucked would be a gift he could bring to their beloved young friend, Andri.

Brynnan sighed and returned his focus to his journey, closing his mind to all but his ultimate destination, the Shut Lake just below the summit. As he ascended, the wind grew more robust, and he had to use his hands in part of the climb. He approached the summit.

The mountain had this characteristic: it was shaped like a giant throne at its top. The back and ‘arms’ were three crags, with the centre one being the tallest. Below the crags, a hollow formed the ‘seat,’ comprised of a reputedly bottomless lake, called the Shut Lake, or Llyn Cau. The mountain was a place of legend, and only the bravest, or most foolhardy, visited it; if a person slept the night beside the lake, they would be subject to three things: he would die in the night, become a poet, or become insane. In addition, there was reputed to be a monster in the lake.

 The afternoon was late when Brynnan trudged through the snow up the northern arm and reached the tip of the summit from where he could look down at the lake. Turning, he viewed the surrounding lands. More mountains formed a chain, stacked in shades of misty purple, with snow-capped peaks extending from north to south. To the east was the High Plateau from where he had come. On the far side of the plateau, another chain of mountains ranged: the Teeth, or the Fanged Mountains; said to be inaccessible. These showed white with blue shadows, bathed in the light of the falling sun. Brynnan finally turned to the west where Ar Mor, the sea, shimmered with gold and turquoise.

He heard a harsh cry and, looking up, saw a raven in the sky circling over him. He called to it, and the bird landed atop the cairn. It hunched its body and shook its feathers, making a bell-like note. 

“Greetings, Raven Brother,” the Bard addressed it. “Let me make an offering here.”

Brynnan picked up a rough, round stone and placed it on the high summit cairn. The raven flapped its wings, croaked loudly once and launched itself into the air. It circled the Bard again before it flew away to the east.

A low stone wall extended from the cairn, forming a break from the prevailing western wind. The Bard crouched, drinking from the flask he had tucked inside his coat before descending the southern arm of the throne, back down towards the lake. 

He was struck by the fact that no snow gathered around the shore and that the lake itself was unfrozen. A cold mist gathered over the still surface in the cooling air. Across the bowl of the lake, on the far slope, a few wild goats grazed.

He carefully made his way down to the bowl. Now he was back on the shore of the lake. The sun had set, and the wind had died. All was silent except for the faint trickle of the Foxes’ Stream, flowing from its source. Above the peak of the throne, a bright star hung in the sky like a jewel in an invisible giant’s crown. Other stars began to glimmer faintly in the deepening twilight.

Close to the shore, a large, nearly man-high boulder lay. Brynnan chose to pitch a tarp from the boulder’s top to the ground, creating a crude shelter that he anchored with stones. He took out the food he had brought and placed some on a flat stone by the water as an offering. Then he poured a small libation from a flask of wine upon the rock.

He invoked the four directions in an ancient, simple yet still powerful blessing: “Bless the Winds, bless the Water, bless the Fire, and peace to the Dead.”

Thanking the Mother-of-All for her bounty, he ate his supper of oatcakes and cheese but did not make a fire. Then, sitting cross-legged under the tarp and wrapped in the wind-silk cloak, he meditated and fell into a dream-like trance.

He must have slept because he awoke in darkness late into the night. There was silence, then a rushing noise assailed him like the sudden roar of the wind that bends the treetops, but there was no wind and no trees. Silence descended again. Brynnan waited, not venturing outside his shelter. Then a new sound came: the familiar and loud baying of the shadow hounds of the Wild Hunt.

Brynnan left the shelter and stood on the shore of the lake. Across its expanse, he could see the white hounds bounding towards him. Although the lake was not far across, the hounds seemed to be running from a great distance away and only slowly gaining ground. As they drew closer, their cries strangely grew fainter. The Bard seemed in danger of being torn to pieces.

But he stood calmly, watching them approach. Then raising both arms above his head, he called out, “Come, oh my Father, come Arawn, King of Annwn. I await thee.”

The white hounds flooded around him, red eyes flashing, circling him but not attacking. He lowered his arms, letting his hands brush against their heads and flanks. A rider on a pale, dappled horse approached across the lake. The great, grey shaggy dog ran at the horse’s side, its broad and massive head facing him and its bearded jaws. It barked once, and the sound shook the earth.

The King arrived, reining to a halt. “Brynnan, my son, come,” he said and reached down an arm.

Brynnan took it, swung up behind Arawn, tightly gripping his father’s back. The King turned and rode his horse onto the lake. Then they sank into it, the hounds surrounding them. Brynnan was about to swallow a draught of the cold, dark waters when their surroundings changed to a silver mist. The horse’s hooves touched ground, and they were in a meadow of purple grass. A wood surrounded them bathed in soft twilight, and before them was a hall of timbers and stone.

They dismounted and entered the hall. Servants, grey, silvery forms of men to Brynnan’s mortal eyes, attended them. They took off Arawn’s cloak and hunting clothes, replacing them with a robe the colour of dark amethyst. They threw a mantle around Brynnan’s shoulders of lighter amethyst colour. Before sitting beside him, Arawn led Brynnan to the high dais in the hall and seated him in an elaborately carved chair. Servants brought food and drink.

“My Father, it is said that if one eats the food of the Otherworld, he cannot return to the material world,” Brynnan said.

The King waved the comment away with a long-fingered, pale hand. “Eat, my son. Other mortals do not have your heritage.”

Brynnan chanced the wine. It was a pale green vintage, slightly effervescent, that tasted of summer, apple blossoms and woodruff herb.

“I have brought you here for a reason,” said the King. “Your mind is troubled with the attempted attack of the Watcher from the starship that approaches.”

“Yes, my Lord, the last time he was in my mind, I nearly lost myself. Nijal alone couldn’t hold onto me. It took six Ruithin priests employing a sexual ritual, penetrating my body. Even they could not fully succeed until you intervened. Yet I must engage with this Watcher, allowing him to think he controls my thoughts until I learn of him and others like him.”

“My realm, too, will be threatened by these Invaders who are on their way to our world. To that end, there is a ritual that may strengthen you. You need a more intrinsic connection to our realm. Therefore you must leave a part of yourself here.”

“What? A part of my soul?”

Arawn laughed. “No, my son. But a part of your essence nonetheless. Your semen. You need not mate with a woman, but there is a particular stone in my land that I had brought here. The Stone of Seren will absorb your seed.

“When you engage with this Watcher, eventually you must try to get him to release his essence also, thus indirectly chaining him to the Shadow Realm, or at least my part of it. It will take some time for you to accomplish this, but linear time is only a quality of the Material World.”

“I will do this ritual while I am here?”

“Yes. My servants will bathe you and prepare the elements now. Focus, then reduce your desire to three sacred runes, which you will illuminate upon the Stone.”

“How will I know the runes, my Lord?”

“Come now, did you not hang beneath the oak on Solstice night, ‘acquiring wisdom,’ as Kian-Hen would have it? Despite his designs, you were gifted that night by the Winter King, the Lord of the Wood.”

“Very well, I submit to your will, my Father.”

Brynnan was taken then by the servants and bathed. They combed his hair, which hung in water-damp curls below his shoulders. The servants again placed the amethyst robe upon him. The King’s own golden torc hung heavy at his neck, and the crimson silk rope harness bound his chest. Otherwise, he was naked beneath the robe and unadorned.

Arawn led him through a door in the great hall which opened onto an orchard. Apple and pear trees stood with fruit-laden branches, of which some were still in blossom. They walked for what seemed a long distance, but when Brynnan turned back to look, it appeared that the doorway through which they had left was only a stone’s throw away. They came upon a hill in a clearing, like a tumulus or barrow. On the crest of the hill stood the Stone of Seren. It was a white stone as tall as a man, but with an opening in it, filled with darkness and stars, like a window into night.

Phantom King and mortal man approached the stone. As Brynnan stood before it, he had a sense that the opening looked into different times as well as space. The Bard let his mind drift freely. He did not know what could sexually arouse him in this place, so he searched his memories.

He was drawn to the night when his heart’s love, the Warlord Samir, and he had first truly explored their love for one another. His body newly scarred from the results of a terrible bullwhipping, he had discovered similar marks upon the back of the Warlord. Impelled by his deep love, he had kissed each scar, surrendering more of himself with each kiss. Then his Lord had fucked his ass with a passion that bordered on the brutal; so inflamed had he become. They had lost themselves in each other, bathed in firelight and lust.

Brynnan opened his eyes. His robe had blown open in a wind that seemed to come from the portal in the stone. He had a raging erection. He gazed at the runes incised into the face of the stone. Three drew his attention. He knew then that they represented Eternity, Wind and Night. Stroking each rune with his fingertip, he was not surprised to see them glow in a phosphorescent blue. He pulled back and began to caress his cock with long, slow strokes. Then he became aware of a hand cupping his balls.

King Arawn stood so close beside him that their bodies touched. His hand continued to grasp his son’s balls as Brynnan masturbated. Far from being a ghostly, cold touch, it generated a fire that spread up his genitals and anus, then further seemed to pour into his heart. The Bard stood with his head thrown back in abandon, yet he did not rush to ejaculation but continued to build up his own sexual energy, edging himself close time and time again.

At last, the pent-up energy seemed too great to be born, and he almost felt that if he ejaculated, he would die. With a great cry of longing, he let go of his cock, saying, “Take my seed, Father!” Then he felt the King’s grip close upon his throbbing penis to deliver the final strokes. Cum spurted forth with heat and force, and the Lord Arawn caught it in his hand. He stayed holding his son’s penis and balls until the spasms within Brynnan subsided.

The King lifted his cum-drenched hand and placed it three times over the face of the stone, upon the glowing runes. Each time Arawn did so, Brynnan felt a burning finger trace the rune upon his own body. He did not think he would ever forget them as they imprinted into his conscious mind. Drained by the outpouring of spirit and need, he dropped to his knees in the grass.

Taking his hand, the King led him back across the orchard to the doorway in the wall. In the main chamber, servants came with silver bowls and ewers of water, and Arawn washed his hands before taking a cloth and bathing Brynnan’s genitals himself. Finally, he poured more of the summer wine and passed a cup to his son. This time, Brynnan drained it entirely, and the King refilled it.

Seated, they spoke again. Lord Arawn said, “The next time you are in danger of becoming lost, or if you cannot free your mind, envision the stone and the runes you chose. They will be your anchor.”

“Thank you, Father. My passion was overwrought, and I couldn’t have finished without you stroking me.” He dropped his gaze.

“There’s no shame in it, my son, especially when it is an offering. But you must have a powerful love that can arouse you to that degree.”

“I do,” Brynnan smiled, thinking of his Lord Samir. Then he switched the subject. “My Father, when I rested by the lake in the Material Realm, in my shelter, I heard a tremendous noise as from nowhere and everywhere, like a sudden roar of the wind. What caused that?”

“Why, that was the water monster, my son. Lucky that you did not venture forth, or it would have devoured your soul.”

Brynnan looked sideways at Arawn, not knowing if he entirely believed him. The words had been delivered in a disingenuous manner. “I understand, my father; I ask too many questions of you. Time to let my own wits enlighten me.”

King Arawn laughed.

*    *    *

They returned to Material Realm through the Shut Lake again. Brynnan felt himself rising through the black waters, and then they were on the shore. Brynnan had dressed in his own garments, and he was not surprised that they were dry.

The white hounds swirled around King Arawn, their howls faint. The massive grey dog stood beside the King’s horse. Arawn leaned down and took Brynnan’s hand in a firm clasp. “Farewell, my son, may this night’s work bring us closer to our goals. Call on me when you need me. Meantime, I leave you the companion I promised.”

 The grey horse reared, pawing the air. Then it turned, and King and hounds drew back across the lake into the distance, with the howls becoming louder before they faded away. Brynnan wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and shivered. The night did not seem any further advanced, so he decided to sleep. He was just about to turn to his shelter when he noticed that something still remained on the shoreline—the great grey dog.

“Hello,” he said, approaching its silent form. The Bard knelt down before it. The dog’s head was just higher than his face. Its dark, intelligent eyes looked at him inquiringly. Unafraid, Brynnan reached up with both hands and scratched the dog’s neck and shoulders. It licked his face, just as it had when he’d first encountered it, as he hung upside down from the sacred oak tree on Solstice Night.

“You are the ‘Ci Ysbryd Lloyd’ I saw in my visions, the grey ghost dog. I think I will just call you ‘Ghost’ since my father has not enlightened me with your true name—yet.”

When Brynnan lay down in his rough shelter, the dog followed him and curled up pressed to his back, warming him.

*    *    *

In the morning, the sky was greying, but the lake was still calm. Brynnan set out with the dog, following the tumbling Nant y Llwynog’s watery journey down the mountainside. Ghost chased and caught a rabbit, answering one of the Bard’s questions about the dog’s survival in the Material Realm. In the afternoon, the slope levelled out, and they finally reached the high plateau.

Brynnan looked around and spied a copse of trees nearby. He heard a familiar sound, the neigh of Myst, Nijal’s horse. He started running and rapidly gained the trees, where he found Geraint and Nijal sitting by a brisk fire.

Geraint got up and seized the Bard in a bear-hug, swinging him around. “I don’t know whether to beat you or kiss you. I don’t mind saying I had my doubts about letting you run off by yourself up that mountain. Thank the Angels that nothing seems to have happened to you.”

“No, I had a fairly uneventful night except for one or two little things.”

Catching Nijal’s eye, he said, “I’ll tell you later. Meantime, here’s someone I want you to meet.”

Geraint looked up. Then he caught sight of the massive, hairy dog with its broad head and powerful shoulders. It was staring at him.

“By the Great Mare’s Tits! What is that?”

“Oh, that’s just Ghost. ‘Ysbryd’ in my tongue. Whatever you do, don’t make him bark unless you want to stampede the horses.”

Nijal came up to them, then he called Ghost to him, and the dog came. Nijal made a fuss of him.

“I feel I should know this beast.”

“He is a gift from the Dread Huntsman, my father if you must know. My friends, meet our new companion, Ghost.” The beast looked steadily at them and wagged its tail.

*    *    *

Later, Geraint expressed his desire to fuck the Bard. “I’ve missed you, m’lad,” he said. “Lie down for me.”

Brynnan complied and stripped off his clothes. Geraint leaned over him and kissed him intimately while Brynnan reached up and stroked the old Warrior’s hairy back. Geraint drew his gaze to Brynnan’s body, suddenly pinning him in place, and called out to Nijal. The Guardian entered the tent.

“What is it?”

But Geraint addressed Brynnan, “Who burned you, lad?” he demanded.

Brynnan looked down at his chest. Across it, in the spaces between the rope harness, were the branded marks of the runes: Eternity, Wind and Night.

*    *    *