Him and Me

HIM AND ME

           John Dunn was in his own opinion, a good man.  He had worked his way through life and now oversaw the abundant production of iron in the mines flourishing in the Severn Valley.  He stood, tall, his elongated fingers placed on his hips surveying the landscape before him.  The great swirling stretch of river perambulating within its muddy banks, the cloying clay reaching up to the flora and fauna swaddling the river.  The light was beginning to fade and soon tools would be stored for the sabbath, John observing this time as God commanded.

       His sturdy mount stood stoically chewing, awaiting his return to the saddle and the comforts of home.  John was feeling more trepidatious about this than his horse as memories of the previous evening flooded his conscious mind.  He hadn’t intended to take the diversion homeward, but the tracks were clogged with mud and fallen trees, causing him to veer off into the great oak groves that lay in the valley.  His calloused hands gripped the reins as he had been redirected into limbs of the trees enclosing him, grasping at his beard.

       His horse beneath him came to a standstill, John lifted his head to consume the vision he saw ahead.  As if in a trance he slid silently from his seat, mesmerized, his heart thundering in its cavernous cage as he exhaled exclaiming,

“Is this the work of the devil?”. 

      The apparition stooped some 30 feet ahead, seemingly pulling and tugging at the undergrowth before her, a curtain of gold tangled curls about her shoulder framing the rippling sheen of pure white flesh through its tendrils.  She rose, angelic in her lightness of step and whirled to an imagery rhythm.  John dropped to his haunches, his breath stilted as he watched her drop her grey flax cloth attire about her feet, her slim digits reaching to her female privacy, daubing and touching, in earnest.  Her head flung skywards toward the crown of the trees.  He felt the red-hot pulse of blood running through is veins, watching her twist and twirl, the leaves shifting and whispering above her, like tiny paper instruments. The inhalation caught in his throat, causing him to gag.  

“Was this the goddess Sabrina before him risen from the waters of the estuary.?” 

He felt the engorgement of his phallus, pushing at the riding breeches, knowing deep down he must be vigilant against the attack of the carnal self.  His mind being transported unwillingly to the gates of hell.

           He watched as she moved wantonly, thrusting her smooth perfectly formed breast to the wind, her hair catching slivers of the setting sun through the branches that encased her.  John felt his flesh lust against the spirit within him, being led into a demise he could not detach from, he ogled the performance before him.  As ethereal as a spirt she slipped away, cloaked in the dense wood, the trance lifting, and John felt his soul returning to him. He rose shaking, the detritus from the woodland floor he brushed from his thighs, grabbing at the reins to steady, he mounted and blindly turned to home.

            Sunday bloomed bright and cool as John had convinced himself he must have fallen victim to some exhaustive malady the previous evening. He headed to the chapel, his pious sister at his side taking four steps to his two, John shaking the hands of friends and foe as he entered the stone chamber to cleanse his mind.   The priest r before him raised his arms, speaking of sin, temptation and lust, evil disguised in many forms before us for which we must repent.  John’s hands he noticed were clammy, wiping them on his Sunday best as he tried to hold the holy scripture steady to concentrate. His sister Molly placed her hand on his arm and looked at him quizzically from her small blue eyes, sharp as an eagle in flight, she observed him. 

               The walk home was leisurely, their souls lightened or so he thought, nevertheless John’s attention was no longer based he felt in this world, a longing dragging at his core to return to the vision, see if he was wrong.  He dreamt of touching the alabaster skin and immersing himself in her winsomeness.  His sister noted the absence and silence of her brother.

“Does some malady ail you, my brother” Molly enquired,

John jolted back to the present, “Ur, no sister, just the pressures of work I’m sure” he responded guiltily averting his eyes. 

MOLLY

Molly linked her arm through his as they continued returning to Bathurst Park.  It was shortly after she watched from the upstairs as she spied John heading out walking with intention, to where she wondered.  A macabre shadow rose over his head, looming in wake, the crow cawing as he disappeared. She gasped, relinquishing her curiosity and grabbing her coat from the lobby she followed.  Molly felt a clammy sweat cloak her under the woolen fabric that clothed her, scurrying quietly in the direction John took.

         The dark spikey tendrils of witch -clawed pine cling to Molly’s face as she unrevealed followed the track her brother had taken, her step quietened by the carpet of needles that relinquished their musty fragrance as she crept over them.  The woodland parted, curtained with golden hues of beech encircling a small grove, an orange and amber tapestry woven by nature before her eyes, yet what lay in the distance was not of a natural order.  John ahead was crouched on the ground, his arms raised in a prayer like pleading manner, hands clasped, knuckles white.  Before him a stood an ethereal form, the dappled light framing her feline features, naked and lascivious as she rolled her protruding tongue over her parted lips.

        Molly dropped heavily to her knees, a tremor shooting through her body, an earthquake, sweat pouring from every skin cell.  Ahead her brother she loved crumpled, folding like an old, putrefied book.  She peered unwillingly at the scene unfolding before her, feeling swallowed by the woodland around them. John’s head disappeared into the black, austere collar of his Sunday coat, a screech curling from his contorted mouth.  The heavy, dense fabric momentarily abandoned on the forest floor and in its place a large bristling head, emerged, an elongated snout snuffling at the air.  As the button eyes turn in her direction, she is sure a tear glistened on the coarse fur of its snout and the oink was carried away on the ensuing breeze.