Chapter 1
Orla
The full moon rendered my white sheath translucent. I pulled the door to my mother’s cottage closed and clicked its new lock in place. Since only my family and the Griffins still resided on the Mountain, I usually left it open. But tonight was Beltane, the Mountain overrun with its diaspora and those recent converts to the old religion. Two days ago a group of tattooed lads had banged on my door looking for “readings” and were quite put out when I refused their offers of silver. As if I was a carnival charlatan and not the strongest Devlin witch in over a hundred fifty years. As if I would I share my gifts with outsiders. I’d done that once, and had learned my lesson.
Last week I’d found empty lager bottles in the garden so my husband Declan installed the new lock yesterday. Better safe than sorry.
My nose twitched from the Beltane bonfires burning all over the Mountain, the shouts of the raucous men carried by the late evening breeze. I reached out my arms to sense if rain was coming. The hairs on my arms rose. A storm would arrive in two days’ time. Though sorely tempted to call the storm to me now and quench the men’s fires, I resisted. I couldn’t use my powers simply to clear the Mountain of a temporary annoyance. If nothing else, a decade of witchcraft had taught me restraint. They’d be gone in two days. I’d bide my time.
As I passed the circle of men in the back field, aware my thin sheath left little to the imagination, I pulled my ceremonial red cloak closer to protect me from their probing eyes. But I needn’t have worried. The men, caught up in accessing their own thin sliver of magic, didn’t notice me. I walked on.
Beltane. In the past few years the Mountain’s lost children periodically returned to the Mountain to celebrate the old festivals, as if returning to Mecca. For all the other festivals, Lughnasadh, Imbolg, only women participated and I would join them in their gentle prayer circles. But Beltane. For some reason, aside from the few harlots willing to serve as the festival’s May Queen and her attendants, mostly men celebrated Beltane. Beltane was a celebration ofspring, its fires burning the old to make way for the new. Why that made me uneasy, I didn’t know. Even before I’d made my way back to the Mountain, when I lived in Dublin and later New York and didn’t celebrate the old holidays, early spring always made me nervous.
Declan had suggested I skip tonight’s “meeting,” as he called it. As if I were off to a book club. After all this time he knew it was pointless to argue with me. Much as I would’ve preferred staying in with my family, it was full moon. To protect my family and all the Mountain families, I had to adhere to the ritual, regardless of who else wandered the Mountain tonight. I continued my trek to the west side of the Mountain. The high pitched laugh of a woman, a young girl, rose over the deep chants of the men as I came upon yet another fire. Really, this was too much. Perhaps I should call the rain to me.
This fire was beside the path. I wore only light slippers so dared not wander far from the dirt trail. But the crowd didn’t notice me. The two dozen men, ranging in age from twenty to sixty, and three girls were lost in their revelry. One girl was dressed in a long white sheath, not unlike mine, white flowers strewn in her wild red hair. Their May Queen. Her right breast escaped the low neckline of her sheath. The men devoured her with their hungry eyes. One brave lad, tall, broad with red-gold hair, took her hand and spun her around the fire. Faster and faster they ran, a red streak against the dark night.
My head spun and nausea overtook me, yet I could not look away. Another girl ripped her sheath in two and danced naked around the fire. Two men grabbed fistfuls of mud and anointed her legs, ass, breasts and face with the sacred Mountain soil. The girl kissed the taller man, pushing the mud into his waiting mouth.
For some reason, my mouth filled with the sour taste of grit, of wet earth as I stood like a statue, transfixed by the Beltane worship.
One man had noticed me. Tall, late fifties I’d say, with still vibrant dark red hair. His hypnotic green eyes, the eyes of the Mountain families, captured mine and I fell into them. In flashes, I saw myself, young and fair as I skipped around a fire. The catcalls of men filled my ears. Cold mud pressed against my back as I lay before the fire, this man’s face above me, twisted with his orgasm as the crowd chanted on.
T he man nodded, as if he could see the pictures filling my mind. Madness. This was
madness. I forced my legs to move and escaped into the dark night.
*** *
My ghostly coven awaited me when I reached the grave. A first. I usually had to summon them. I set yet another stone from the Feale River onto a decade’s worth of stones covering His grave.
With a look of reproach, my grandmother, Roisin, took my left hand, another black- haired beauty took my right. I shivered as the chill of their dead flesh crept up my arm. There were nine of us in all. A full coven. We circled the grave and began our chants, our binding prayers. My mind wandered from the task at hand, to that other circle. The circle of fire. The flame-haired man. Roisin noticed my inattention and squeezed my hand to bring me back. I nodded, apologetic. As the only living Devlin witch, my spells were the most potent, vital for keeping Slanaitheoir encased in His cement tomb, buried under a decade’s worth of curses and spells. Even after all this time, we could not risk becoming complacent. I shook my head, willing the flashes of memory to leave me. It was full moon. I had to give my full attention to keeping that bastard underground. Where He belonged.
*** *
Fiona
The whiskey burned my throat, but the crowd of men shouted with unbridled passion as I threw my head back, taking the neck of the bottle deep in my mouth. I moved it up and down, real slow, and I swear the aul fella next to me nearly wet himself. When I could take no more, I handed the bottle to Ashling and gave the aul fella a thrill by thrusting my whiskey-soaked tongue in his mouth.
He grabbed my right tit with a calloused hand and squeezed, hard, like he was milking a cow. I pushed him and he fell on his arse. “Fecker,” I spat.
That lovely ginger fella, Johnny Murphy I think, took my hand. I grabbed Ashling’s, someone took her other hand, and soon we all raced around the fire. My head spun as the whiskey’s warmth spread from my gut. We ran around and around, so fast, until Johnny broke from the circle and the two of us fell to the ground. The others didn’t notice as they raced and roared around the fire. I could barely hear Johnny when he said, “Let’s go the May Queen bed.”
“The what?” He pulled me up. “Come on, you’ll see.” Grabbing another bottle of whiskey from the ground, I took Johnny’s hand and followed, past the fire to a small grove of trees. A fresh pit was lit by a half dozen torches pitched on the surrounding ground.
“Hey there, Johnny. What are you planning to do? Bury me in that?”
Johnny took the bottle and drank. I took it back from him and finished it.
“It’s the May Queen’s bed. Have you ever been fucked in a May Queen’s bed?”
I laughed. “No.”
“They say you’ll come like a freight train.”
“A freight train. How romantic.” I pulled the sheath over my head.
“No knickers?”
“I never wear them. Now, Johnny, no coming like a freight train until I say so.”
He bowed low. “Whatever you say, my May Queen.”
He was sweet. I ran my fingers through his soft curly hair, and kissed him. He pulled me
close. Laughing, I pushed him into the shallow pit, the May Queen bed, and jumped in. I crouched over him and took him in my mouth.
I could barely hear his moans above the chanting and the drums. I heard some rustling and thought we might have company so I lifted my bare ass in the air and wiggled it. There, let them look. Let them all look and see what they’re missing.
But Johnny heard them and shouted out, “If I find ye, I’ll kill ye!” A young boy laughed and ran away. Johnny touched my nipples, and pulled on the metal rings piercing both. I moaned, and Johnny sat up and took a nipple in his mouth. He pulled the small ring with his tongue. My breasts were on fire, and I stroked myself between my legs. I was wet, waiting for him.
Johnny gently laid me in the center of the pit. The wet earth embraced me, the cold mud warmed from Johnny’s body. I spread my legs, allowing the earth to feel me, all of me. Johnny’s tongue found a new home, and I melted into the earth as waves of small orgasms rippled through me.
“Hey, hold on, my queen. I’m not done with you yet.”
I lifted my hips. “What’s stopping you, then?” Johnny slipped into me, and his thrusts pushed me deeper into the waiting earth. I wrapped my legs around his hips. The earth hummed with energy. Shoots of its electricity shot through my back, my ass. Through my very being, embraced me. Welcomed me home.
Johnny lifted my right leg, running his hands along it, and then stopped. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
Oh, no. It couldn’t be happening. Not again. “Don’t stop. Ignore it. Keep going!” My right leg, up to my thigh, had assumed the consistency of mud and my foot had become a hoof. My left leg had also turned.
He pulled out. “What are you?”
“The best fuck you’ll ever have.” I wrapped my legs around his hips and my legs, filled
now with the strength of the earth, trapped him in my embrace. “Close your eyes and fuck me. Tell me this doesn’t feel good.”
Johnny did as he was told. His thrusts, with the assistance of my iron legs, went deeper and I felt myself come. Again and again. My limbs darkened as I became one with the earth.
My hands, now claws, tore at Johnny’s back as I pulled him closer to me. I was there. I was almost there.
Johnny opened his eyes, and reflected in them was my blackened face. He screamed with terror, with revulsion, as I came. I pushed him off me, and because he wouldn’t stop screaming, kicked him in the head with my hoof.
Sorry, Johnny.
I climbed out of the pit. The waves of pleasure, of orgasm, left me. In my mind’s eye I saw myself as I usually was, skin soft and pale, covered with a smattering of freckles. Slowly, I felt my skin assume its normal consistency. I looked down and smiled at my nipples, pink and taut in the cool evening air.
When I reached the fire, I met an older red-haired man, Johnny’s uncle. “Where’s Johnny?”
“Resting. I was too much for him.” I played with my nipple ring. “How about you? Are
you ready for a taste?”
Johnny’s uncle, a tall broad man, still handsome and strong, looked at me. His green eyes
matched mine, but they betrayed nothing. No passion, no lust. “Not me.”
“Well, I’m sure there’s those who are ready for me.” A young man walked over, and I called to him. “How about you? Are you ready to fuck the May Queen?”
Wordlessly, the young man took my hand to go back to the pit.
“No, not there. I don’t like the mud. I want to fuck you on the blankets beside the fire. In front of everyone.” I looked back at the older man. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”
“No,” he said. “You don’t tempt me.”
I shrugged and led the younger man to the fire.
*** *
Orla
My head buzzed, it ached, as I walked through the dark fields. Usually I felt energized after an evening with my Devlin sisters, especially on a full moon, but tonight something was off. Probably the presence of so many strangers on the Mountain had disturbed its powers. And my own.
But we’d done what we needed to do, and hopefully Slanaitheoir would remain tucked in His tomb, alone in His endless slumber. Did He sleep there? I imagined He did. What else could He do? Or perhaps He was awake and alone with His thoughts. Of me, my mother and all the generations of Devlin women He’d loved and tormented for decades. Was He lonely? I hoped so. I hoped every minute was torture for Him.
I came upon a Beltane fire, now only smoldering embers. The smell of whiskey was overpowering. Several men lay passed out by the fire. Their loud snores echoed through the empty fields.
“Orla?” The tall red-haired man from before appeared out of the shadows. He had the look of the Mountain, but I didn’t remember seeing him around Kilvarren.
I detected a hint of a Manchester accent. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”
He came closer and touched my cheek. “Do you not remember, love? Do you not remember being my May Queen?”
I stepped back. “What are you talking about?”
“Have I changed so much you don’t recognize me? Your own Green Man. Your servant? Your love?”
“I think you’ve had too much whiskey. Now let me pass.”
He stepped forward and stroked my hair. As before, I felt frozen in place, transfixed by this stranger.
“You’ve changed. You’re even more beautiful. I’ve thought of you often over the years. That night never left me.”
He took my face in his large hands and kissed me, his lips surprisingly gentle. Despite myself, I responded and found my hands on his shoulders, drawing him close to me.
“Oh, Orla. My love. My queen,” he murmured as his lips traveled down my neck.
My cloak, seemingly of its own accord, slipped from my shoulders. My sheath was translucent in the moonlight. Nothing was hidden from him. He tore the sheath in half, scattering its pearl buttons on the ground.
His hands cupped my heavy breasts, breasts that had fed four children, and he looked at them with wonder. He knelt before me and sucked on one and then the other. I ran my fingers through his soft hair, lost in the sensation of his lips, his tongue.
A wind ripped from along the back field, and despite the heat from this stranger, I shivered. He lifted me and carried me to a small clearing next to the fire, away from the drunken louts. He laid me, gently, on a soft blanket. And as he entered me, as I betrayed my husband with a second man, his face hovering above mine and our cries joining together, the memories came.
I remembered that night on the Mountain when I was seventeen.
*** *
Slanaitheoir
I awakened beneath a tower of stones, encased in a small square of concrete. Where was I? I tried to gather up my strength to break free, but could not. The pounding, the pounding of feet above me shook the earth. Rattled me awake.
In the distance I heard her. “Close your eyes and fuck me. Tell me this doesn’t feel good.”
I will find you, my love. The feet above stamped, shaking the earth. A low crack sounded and I felt along the
corner of my concrete prison a thin line. “How about you? Are you ready to fuck the May Queen?” I am coming, my love. I will find you.