Yielding to the rushes of love, of bliss and sanctity, the wifmunuc remained solemn. In silence, then, she prayed before the slab, Her holy sweosters joined her from behind, menteled in black, in the cirice.
“Modor, Druiwif, Dother fo Nisfan,” the wifmunuc bid, raising her arms. “We give lof fom eard, os hüslpegns, in yur soo, we fi wuldor, lar, gliw.”
“O, Blessed One, hear our prayer.”
“Ure heofan yur nisfan.”
“Receive our prayer.”
Each wifhand then dropped their mentels, nude beneath. They bowed in the cirice, sweat shining on their backs. Several wreccans stood to the rear, blank-faced, bearing torches to give light in their conqueror’s eard. Then the wifmunuc rose and stepped out of her own cæppe, which was black as the others’, but sewn of the finest silk. Naked, she pressed a hand to the slab. Untold wonders bloomed on her face, the most holy visions, unspeakable, incalculable. She looked into the slab, staring.
Two more wreccans dragged in a hüsl, who had been properly gagged so as not to disrupt the wifmunuc’s muse. Now the wifhands broke. A second hüsl, a female, was removed from one of the pens. Wreccans gagged her, stripped her, brought her forth.
The male hüsl was held upright. He was typical, a stray drunk picked up hitchhiking. But the wreccans had sought well—this one was young, muscular, handsome. As they stripped him, the terror in his young eyes was beautiful.
Yes, the pig would make a beautiful sacrifice.
More wreccans—the cokwors—stoked the great fire in the cooking pit. Each stoke flooded the cirice in lovely, hot waves. For a time, the wifhands took turns touching the male, reveling in the sensation of flesh. They caressed the chest, buttocks, and genitals, their faces grinning in firelight. Then:
“Wîhan!” ordered the wifford.
The male was laid upon the dolmen, which was encrusted from countless feks. Wreccans tied him down. Pots of leahroot smoked fragrantly about the dolmen, charging them all with the sweet passion of their god. The wifford began to fellate the male, while others stroked his flesh with flaxbalm. They took turns, moving in a watchful circle, each taking the helot unto their mouths. Soon the leahroot and balms had seeped into his blood. Despite his terror, his genitals hardened.
The female was forced to watch. Her tainted features proved her distance from the bludcynn. Stringy white-blond hair, blue eyes, faint pink nipples on large breasts. She shook, sweating, as two wreccans held her up. Urine streamed freely down her tanned legs.
In the nave, though, the wifmunuc continued to supplicate their god, her face peering into the nihtmir. The cold stone against her fingertips filled her with coruscating heat. Her vision delved; it was being led away deep into the stygian field. Deeper, deeper…
Each wifhand took turns straddling the male helot, their faces turned up in bliss, while the others looked on.
…and down. She was in a different realm now, where madness was the only order, darkness the only light. It was beautiful…
The helot shuddered in his own sweat as he lay there to be taken again and again. The wreccans brought the blonde closer still, to see. When she dared to close her eyes, a white-hot stoking rod was lain across her buttocks. Two more wreccans approached the dolmen, with knives.
…so beautiful to be led into their god’s wondrous lair. Her physical body behind her, the wifmunuc seemed to float through the shifting blackness like a feather on the wind. Soon she drifted out of the chasm and onto a strange precipice. It was another time, or, perhaps, another world…
“Soo, soo,” hotly whispered the wifford. It began with her, and it would end with her. She pushed a sweoster off and restraddled the helot, penetrating herself upon his penis. She grunted, thrusting down.
…yes, a precipice backed by the strangest twilight, scarlet and flashing black stars. Two masci guarded the summit, hairless, swollen-faced things, eyes long since healed over. Blindly, they sensed the wifmunuc’s presence, tilting up their heinous, misshapen heads. They let her pass, then went back to their meal of bones, black maws cracking down to expose the succulent marrow. Suddenly, the wifmunuc was reborn. She was a child, naked in twilight, standing amid the highest trees. A sound could be heard beyond the forest, a presence could be felt. The wifmunuc lost her breath…
“Wîhan,” panted the wifford. She leaned back on her hands, to deepen the penetration as her orgasm spasmed. The helot, too, began to tremor, his semen exploding into her sex, and then—
“Wîhan, wîhan!” she shrieked.
—the wreccans sliced his belly open at the same time. The helot convulsed on the slab; the wifford chortled. Blood flew this way and that as the wreccans’ hands delved into the rive to expeditiously extract the more delectable organs. The wifhands rejoiced, in awe of the scarlet spectacle. The blonde was in shock now. Very quickly, her ankles were tied, she was hung upside down against the wall on an iron hook, and her head was cut off with a machete. The body still twitched for a time, as the stump bled like a spigot into a small chettle. The helot’s head, too, was cut off, and both were tossed into the fire, to cook. The blonde was gutted similarly, then all of the organs were thrown into the chettle. Seasonings were added, and the chettle was set on the fire.
The wifmunuc’s eyes widened in wonder, in love. The lambent figure approached, beautiful in its grace and perfection.
Lean, naked, dark hair flowing behind it like an endless mane. The wifmunuc, still a child now, began to sob in this vision of holiness. Moonlight dappled the dell through high branches. The moonlight was pink…
While the festival meats were left to cook, the orgy ensued. Wreccans were taken aside, ordered to perform for the whims of each wifhand. The wifford, sated and bespattered, stood aside to watch. Moans rose palpably into the cirice. The floor became a carpet of moving flesh in firelight. Sweating backs, legs spreading, buttocks plunging. One wreccan was ordered to fornicate with the helot. Meanwhile the cokkers stirred the chettle as the blood began to boil.
…perfection could be the only word—the perfect being in perfect light. The wifmunuc stared up, faced by the radiant, perfect flesh.
“Ure give wynn!” she rejoiced. “Wi give lof bi soo ure folclagu!”
“Joindre mi in me wudu fo nisfan,” the figure whispered back, flesh glowing in the pinkened moonlight. “Give lof, give wîhan, ond joindre mi on doefolmon.”
“Modor!” cried the wifmunuc, reaching out.
The Ardat-Lil gazed down. “Soon my time will come again,” she said. “Until then, fedde me.”
Suddenly, she was back before the nihtmir, in her old body, her old world. Behind her, the hustig rose to revelry. But it took the wifmunuc a moment to get her breath back, to readjust herself. Her flesh shined with sweat in the excitement now, and in the grace of what she’d just witnessed. The wifford came into the nave and kissed her. They rejoiced.
They all ate heartily of the hot meat pulled from the chettle. They filled their bellies. The wifmunuc, enlivened now, chose the newest wreccan and raped him on the dirt floor as the others watched, their eyes full of joy, their mouths smeared red.
Before the hustig was ended, they passed the engraved cuppe. They each took a sip of the blood and sighed.
The wifmunuc gustily swallowed the rest.
«« — »»
Erik hoped his white hair didn’t give him away. He’d left the van covered by brush miles back in the woods. Skirting town was the only way. He felt certain they were expecting him.
He wore dark clothes. He brought a flashlight and carried the shotgun across his back. The pinkened moon followed him; it seemed to harass him as he wended through the dense woods.