Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Wild Hunt

by Riccardo Berra

(c) 2011 all rights reserved

Lo!, 'tis true I prized a hunt above all else when I'dst should'a been a'church and 'twas rather in the fields and forests with aught but the wind and the bay of dogs to flap me beard. And though 'tis true, I be  trothed to a soothfast woman of good birth who'd bore me two stout lads and a pretty wee lass, I have laid many a maid on Hallows Day.

The maids all howl and cry at their ravishment and I see the murdrous raving tearful fathers bound for their own safety by my men. All eyes dry forthwith when they spy my coppers. Unlike masters who only feign nobility I do not slaughter parents to plunder the sweet morsels of their daughters. I pay all their due. I am fair and beloved of my people. My ready maids preen; take airs, an outsized vanity in their lord's cock in their pink withers and they strut their blossoms most tiresomely for my attentions. Don't go to her Lord Eadric, instead take me again, Lord Eadric, they cry out, for is not mine sweeter than any other quim you have tasted?

I pat their arses and tell each and every maid she is my best. Now they only wail when I quit their straw chambers for the other more glorious rut; that of horse and dog, of spear and quarry.

Now I lay me 'pon the heath, breastplate cleaved, and all is a senseless red haze, but for the far off bay of the hounds. The boar's right tusk has split my chest like a maidenhead and his blood spills with mine. My last spearthrust spit him clean, snarling throat to quivering entrails. His life gurgles forth, dark-spilled, mixed with mine, his panting head and glazing eyes pressed to me as hot and fast as any lover's final embrace.

Oh, that clarion trumpet, it heralds my judgment is nigh and I be fresh afeared for my eternal soul, having had no time to make contrition for my many sins. For my wanton ways, I am called Eadric the Wild.

No longer wouldst I gallop for the conquests and glory of King Æthelred the Unready. No longer shall sweet Sága, my doxy prize, lift her skirts and spread her charms beneath me. No longer will my spear find home in the tender breast of the stag or the yielding flesh of woman. Never again will I see my widow, my castle or the boy child who unknown to him, is now master o'er all my lands.

In the twilight of this day and mine, carrion crows o'er circle and hounds of hellish mien stalk me. My eyes avert in terror, for the dank steam of their breath, hot upon my breast bodes naught of Paradise. A booming command bids me look hence.

It is not Satan who summons, but proud Lord Odin and his comely naked queen, Lady Freya, both high astride towering steeds, tall as trees and black as pitch. The lady, fair and terrible, bids me rise and I must keep my eyes downcast and respectful as the bounty of her bosom and the ruddy flush of autumn on her withers bids a rising of another ilke.

Mercy fair lord, fair lady, I cry, for though I be heinous and a libertine, I've no taste to be Satan's bitch and wouldst but serve the Almighty! Lord Odin laughs and the far mountains ring and quake in refrain. Rise, young Eadric, he bellows, for it is in His service that you are pressed. Rise up, young Eadric, comely Freya commands as she hands me the trace to a stallion, brother to her mare.  I, asteed once more, spy 'neath me the broken shell of a mortal man and a spit pig. The shell I have no further use for. I take the pig, for he is my kill and wheresoever we ride tonight, we must feast before a roaring fire.

Freya's lathered quim presses to the saddle as she lifts spear and voice to the heavens and the helldogs howll and the ravens wheel and caw. Her breasts swing wild and unfettered as she kicks her spurs and canters forth, to the quickening of the hunt. Baresark legions stream about her, till aught is left between me and the godking whose baleful all-seeing eye now-fixed straightaway on me knows my every shameful imagining.

Mercy Great lord! I quake. Whither ride we? I quaere. To the hunt boy, he thundered, shaking a fearsome finger at me, to the hunt. What be afoot Lord?  I hailed as he galloped. The souls of the damned, he shouted. The souls of the newly damned.

A new thrill, a new sport, a new chase, I am in death, a new man whose galloping charcoal steed catches apace the Naked Lady of the Hunt. Behind from the miller's hut where I knew so many happy hours, sweet Sága bursts forth, rending her garment in grief, until she is as flawless and fleet afoot as the proud Lady on horseback. Catch her up, the horsebound Lady spake, for it be seven long years ere you taste such earthly charms again.

Desperate, leaping, Sága grasps my outstretched arms and swings like a pendant, once, twice, her toes graze now the tops of trees as I wrest her into my saddle. Oh, my Lord, she cried, I knew you wouldst not forsake me. How could I, my morsel, I cried as she covered my grimed face with salt tears and sweet lips, I could not, and sheathed my surging manhood in her saddle as she clung in terror and ecstasy to my neck as the horses surge, the horns bray, the dogs howl and the Lord and Lady of Judgment's Hand scour the land for the unrepentant, calling out …

"To the hunt, to the wild hunt!"

No comments:

Post a Comment