Buzzards, Hawks and Ravens

(Account of Six Friends' Lives in the "Dark" Ages)


Ruwen Rouhs

Chapter 13.3

- The Pilgrimage -


- Bealltuinn: The Night of Nights -


In the far west, the crimson layer of clouds touching the horizon faded with the last rays of the setting sun, and the silvery band of the broad river melted into the dusk of the forest. Twilight spread through Oranna's Vale. With the onrushing dusk, the fall wind from the mountains gathered force and cleared the air in the box valley of the smoke from campfires. With growing darkness, the noise of the pilgrims voices faded and only once in awhile the nickering and snorting of horses was reflected by the cliffs surrounding the pasture containing the chapel.

At Ruwen's request, Bastian carried Jeroen to a folding chair on the healers stage and wrapped up the feeble boy in warm blankets. In the morning they had given the boy a careful wash and wrapped him up in a clean shirt. Offering him pastry Bastian had gotten at the baker, Ruwen told his patient, "From up here you can watch the spectacles happening at the chapel and later on around the Bealltuinn fire. Nobody can spot you in the dark. You will be safe. Anyhow one of us will be around all the time."

Berrit, coming from the heel of the cart, sat down on its ramp and leaned his head on Jeroen's knees. "Do you mind supporting my head, young man? I am tired from treating patients all day long!"

Jeroen felt funny, for two reasons. First he hadn't recognized Berrit right away, because the young duke had shed the healers coat and was now in the stylish garb of a noble. Secondly he was surprised, because the healer asked him, his feeble patient, for a favor. Jeroen's amazement grew further when one after the other of his hosts turned up dressed like nobles, even Jannes and Thimus.

Thimus bowed in front of the ailing peasant boy and addressed him with a deep bow, "Welcome, Jeroen, Oranna's Son, to the circle of the travelling healers, the most famous healers of the universe. May I introduce you to the famous Prince Berrit of Quentisburry, to Anzo, the Count of Veldegg, to Ruwen and Bastian, the legendary sons of the Weird Sisters, also known as the Midnight Princes, and me, Thimus the Gamin, and Jannes Jannesson, their humble squires?"

Jeroen was thunderstruck by this perfect introduction and looked wide-eyed from one to the next. Berrit started laughing, "Thimus is overstating. First of all, we are humble traveling healers. Therefore forget about our lineage, Jeroen. Our task is to serve the wounded and ailing." Turning to Ruwen, "Our guest needs a better dress tonight. It's the night of nights, the Bealltuinn celebration and we have to welcome the summer properly. Could you spare some of your clothes, Midnight Prince? Jeroen is about your size."

While Ruwen leafed through his spare clothes, the others joined Berrit at the ramp the healer's stage. "Look! Look over there, Berrit!" Thimus pointed to the chapel, "People are already gathering in front of the chapel. Look at the grey women in front of the entrance. They look like witches!"

"Those are not witches; those are Wise Women, Sibyls." Berrit explained, remembering old tales, he added, "The Sibyls are the ones to enter the chapel first!"

"The Sibyls are carrying candles! Look, all the peoples waiting along Orn-Creek are carrying burning candles or small lanterns. There are hundreds of pilgrims. Look, still more pilgrims are arriving." Jannes shouted, excited.

"Why don't they enter the chapel? Look, the Sibyls are knocking at the door! Listen! --- Listen, the pilgrims have started singing!" Thimus added excitedly, pointing over to the chapel.

Listening for some time, Berrit answered pensively, "You are right; they are singing! Yes, I remember; they have to! They have to ask the chapel to open its doors. The pilgrims have to ask the chapel to open its doors on its own accord!"

"Why ask the chapel? It's a building of stone! --- You don't ask a village gate to open itself; you have to ask the city guards!" Jannes objected.

"This chapel is not a chapel like others. This chapel is unique! She is living! It doesn't walk around, and doesn't take care of her own maintenance; but she has a will of her own! The chapel only opens her doors for those she wants to receive. The chapel acts on her own accord! She doesn't open her doors every year. Sometimes her doors stays closed for years and deny the pilgrims a visit."

"That can't be!" Anzo protested, "A building can't act like a living person. A building has no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no mouth to speak!"



Silence, other than the soft voices of the singing pilgrims, hovered over the dusky vale as a cold draught coming down from the mountain made the healers shrink back and huddle together. Suddenly the peacefulness of the valley was broken by a clear, ear-splitting clatter. "Listen! Listen!" Ruwen and Bastian exclaimed with one voice. "Listen! The chapel is talking! She is talking!" Berrit shouted, then went pale.

The Vale of Oranna reverberated with sounds not heard by the traveling healers before, not by the former novices, Berrit and Anzo, nor by the Midnight Princes, nor by Thimus and Jannes or by poor Jeroen. It was not like the sound of the church bells of the High Church in Niwenburg Abbey or of the cathedral in Quentisburry. No! The sound emanated high up in the mountains. It rolled like boulders bouncing down the steps of the mountains. The ear-splitting clattering filled Oranna's Vale from rock face to rock face. The sound then traveled through the gate of the valley, spread out over the forested foothills of the mountain ridge, announcing the night of Bealltuinn in the See of Trescrossing.110


Thimus and Jannes tried to keep their ears covered with their hands, Jeroen's eyes began to water and the movements of the four friends froze. The line of pilgrims along Orn Creek stopped dead. The pilgrims listened, trembling, to the unearthly sound, till the clattering faded. After Oranna's Vale was silent again, the pilgrims revived and rejoiced. "The chapel is open! The chapel is open! Oranna's waiting! Bealltuinn! Bealltuinn is coming!" Suddenly the valley abounded with shouts of joy and the pilgrims pressed forward impatiently towards the chapel.

While the thunderous voice paralyzed the pilgrims, the chapel's gates had swung open, making way for the pilgrims. The Sibyls were the first to enter the pitch-dark nave. Two by two they crossed the doorstep, holding burning candles high over their heads. Then the common pilgrims crossed the threshold of the gate, holding high their own burning candles. The light in the chapel grew more and more, till it oozed out of gates and the loophole shaped windows, and cut swathes of light into the darkness of the chapel's square.

The chapel had three entranceways; two wide, head-high, round-arched ones, to the left and right of the centre of the front side, and a small knee-high one in the centre. The doors of the left gate opened to the inside. Through this entrance pilgrims had streamed into the chapel. The doors of the gate to the right swung to the outside. It was the exit. The low gate in the centre had no door. Its opening was cross-barred by wrought iron. Through this the waters of the Orn Creek rushed out. With the growing brightness inside of the chapel the swift waters flowing outward through the mouth began to sparkle like it had been studded with diamonds.

"Hurry up, hurry up, let's go, Berrit! We are late, Anzo!" Thimus pushed.

"We don't want to be the last ones to enter the chapel! Hurry up, Ruwen! Hurry up, Bastian!" Jannes yelled, "Hurry up, let's run!"

Bastian looked questioning at Jeroen, wondering what to do with the wounded boy. "Please, take me along." Jeroen begged, "I have to meet the boy again, the boy who directed me to the chapel. I have to see his radiant face again! Please, I have to thank my guardian angel! I know he is there!"

Ruwen and Bastian exchanged glances and then, by mutual consent, nodded, and Bastian, as the strongest, picked up the boy. "You are light as thistledown, Jeroen; I will carry you to the chapel!" Jeroen put his good arm around Bastian's neck and leaned his head against his strong chest.

Down the hummock the seven young men went, Jannes and Thimus in front. On the bank of Orn Creek they joined the long line of pilgrims moving solemnly to the chapel. The adults carried candles or tallow lamps in their hands and prayed with monotone voices. The very small children holding on to their mother's aprons squinted uneasily but curiously into the dark; while the slightly older boys and girls looked excitedly down the line for friends and newcomers, and exchanged whispered words behind the backs of their parents.

Jeroen felt happy for the first time since he had been abducted from his village by the marauders. Clinging to Bastian, tears of relief streamed down his cheeks. Frantically he tried to hold back his sobbing, but soon he couldn't control himself anymore and started crying openly.

"Hey, boy! Hey, Jeroen, what's wrong?" Bastian asked softly, sensing the convulsive sobbing more than seeing it.

"I am so happy!" Jeroen answered, but then his happiness overwhelmed him and the sobbing increased to a howl. "I am so happy! I feel so secure in your arms, Bastian! For the first time I feel safe since I was torn from my family!" After a moment he added, "I am so ashamed, but I can't help crying!"

"Cry, Jeroen! Cry! You are out of harm's way! You are part of our family now, you belong to the Traveling Healers!" In speaking these words, Ruwen expressed the feelings of the whole group. Walking next to Bastian, he took out a soft cloth and dried off Jeroen's tears.

These simple words needed some time to sink into Jeroen's awareness, but then he realized its meaning. These words revived the ailing boy more than the strongest medication. His tears dried up. He loosened his arm from around Bastian's neck and begged proudly, "Let --- let me down, Bastian, my brother, please! As a member of the family I have to walk on my own feet from here. I have to master the pilgrim's path all by myself like all my brothers do."


Thimus and Jannes pushed forward impatiently. Coming out of the dark, they stopped dead at the entrance of the chapel, blinded by the blazing light. At first glance the entire centre of the chapel seemed to be on fire, at a second look the startled boys discerned hundred of candles and tallow lamps on a high rising boulder. The big rock hovered over the spring of Orn Creek. The icy water arced out from under the blazing rock, filling up a wide basin encircled by roughly cut stones. The blazing lights on the rock were reflected many-fold by the whirling waters of the wellspring. The billowy surface of the water sent waves of light through the dome, but this light was not enough to fill the nave to its last corner. It was swallowed by the blackness hovering at the edges of the pentagonal chapel. Through an outlet in the basin the gurgling water made its way through a narrow channel to the front-wall of the chapel, where the holy water left the sacred place by the round cross-barred gate. Down the vale the waters rushed, into the wooded foreland and further, on to the city of Trescrossing.

The stunned boys had to be pushed into the chapel by Berrit and Anzo. Neither of the young noblemen had ever seen a burning rock before, nor had Ruwen and Bastian, the Midnight princes or Jeroen, the newest member of the healers family. While the others still gazed in awe at the burning rock, the Midnight Princes tried to pierce the darkness still hovering in the seemingly endless hall. When Ruwen finally started to speak up, he had to help Bastian catch Jeroen, who nearly fainted, awestricken by the miraculous sight.

In the back of the chapel and directly opposite the entrance, in the hovering dark, Ruwen discerned a high altar of enormous dimensions. The big slab of dark rock was topped by a high reaching cross of withered tree trunks, resembling a wayside cross which had become furrowed by centuries. The cross was empty. The corpse of the Crucified was missing. Instead of the Savior's corpse a Sun-Wheel adorned the cross, a symbol as old as a hill. It was a bulky ring of glimmering material with a cross inside. The circle represented the sun, and the cross the four quadrants the four seasonal cycles of the year. Ruwen and Bastian hadn't seen a sun-wheel before, but they recognized it immediately. This was not a Christian sign. This was the sign of Uuoden, the god of the forefathers, a pagan symbol.

The walls behind the altar were mosaic decorated, and glinted golden in the candle light. The twinkling outlined the shapes of two saints. Ruwen recognized both immediately. On the left, the lovely young woman praying with her arms raised was St. Oranna. On the right, the young man leaning on a shepherd's crook was Saint Wendalis. The two saints were the children of the Scottish King Frochard and his spouse, Iveline, and missionaries to this part of the country.

The chapel was by now overcrowded, with pilgrims up to the darkest corner. Old and young ones alike were staring wide eyed towards the burning boulder guarding the holy spring. No-one but Ruwen and Bastion had turned eyes to the altar or the cross or the saints. While the pilgrims prayed on their knees, the Wise Women, twelve in number, circled the burning rock and holy pool with ceremonial strides, chanting songs with the piercing voices of old women.

At first, neither the Midnight Prices nor their friends were able to catch the meaning of the verses. Concentrating hard, Ruwen and Bastian finally caught some of the words. All were the names of pagan deities, of Wld, Tuiz, Frija and Uolla. Wld or Uuoden was the highest deity of the olden, Tuiz or Tyr was the god of war, Frija or Frigg was Uuoden's wife and Uolla or Fulla was the goddess of fertility.

Berrit and Anzo, as former novices well-educated in questions of the Christian faith, were amazed and repelled at the same time by these pagan mysteries. Looking at each other and then to the Midnight Princes, they rubbed their eyes in disbelief. "Is this a Christian Pilgrimage site?" a shocked Berrit whispered to his friends, and Anzo asked in disbelief, "Can you see a priest? There are only these odd Sibyls around and not a single priest or monk!"

Studying the altar site closely, Bastian called Anzo's attention to a person sprawled at the steps of the altar. "Look over there, Anzo! Look, there is a hooded figure at the steps of the altar! Look, a prostrated monk. He is praying; his arms spread wide!"

After a while Jannes and Thimus got bored standing around. "Let's sneak closer to the burning rock. I want to have a better look at it!" Thimus suggested to his buddy. Holding hands, they tried to push their way through the praying crowd. Immediately a sturdy man bid them hold, took them back to where the healers were, and then ushered them all together to an elevated place close to the altar.



"Please would you stay here in the dark, my Lords! Please, be guests of my people. No ordinary mortal is allowed to approach the holy rock, only the Wise Women are. Only the blessed are legitimated to perform the holy dance around the burning rock! Please stay with my folk." Turning to the two boys he issued a warning, "Entering the circle of light around the Burning Rock will kill you!"

Surrounded by praying villagers, the healers suddenly felt strange hands touching them lightly. At first Ruwen was touched by the timid hands of small children, then by the more daring hands of young girls or boys. Curiously the village kids began to probe his body, touching him tenderly here and there. Finally, to his greatest amazement, two nearly grown up drew close, a maiden and a young man. They welcomed him with kisses on both cheeks. Surprised deeply by this approach, he searched the dark for his friends. His surprise grew, because now everyone of his friends was framed by two young villagers, Berrit as well as Anzo, Thimus as well as Jannes, Bastian and even Jeroen. All of them were welcomed in the same ritual way, by kisses on their cheeks.

Meanwhile the Wise Women had carried on with their ceremonial dance around the Burning Rock and the spring. The melodies they chanted flowed like the water of the spring and the airy sounds filled the nave of the chapel. The lyrics of their prayers were utterly strange to Ruwen as well as to his friends. The chants seemed to date from a faraway time.

Then, however, Ruwen was able to recognize one of the songs, a prayer to Uuoden used in his home village. Back there the farmers celebrated the last day of grain harvest with a pagan custom, humbly beseeching Uuoden for a good harvest in the next year:


Wld, Wld, Wld!
Hvens wei wat scht,
jmm hei dal van Hven st.
Vulle Kruken un Sangen ht hei,
upen Holte wsst manigerlei:
hei is nig barn un wert nig old.
Wld, Wld, Wld! "

"Wld, Wld, Wld"!
Heaven's giant knows what happens,
Looking down from heaven,
Providing full jugs and sheaves.
Many a plant grows in the woods.
He is not born and grows not old.
"Wld, Wld, Wld"!

The ceremonial dance seemed to continue indefinitely. Ruwen, as well his companions, became more and more drowsy. He was nearly asleep, when the chapel began to talk again. At first it was only soft growling. Then, little by little, the sound increased its volume. It started him from his doze and in the end the booming sound nearly blew his head off.

Darkness had spread through the nave, because most of lights on the rock had extinguished. When the last of the unearthly tones had faded away, the Wise Women left the chapel, carrying their burned very low candles. The pilgrims followed the twelve Sibyls into the darkness in a winding procession. Only some elders stayed behind. They took the still burning lights from the rock, fastened them onto little bark boats and let these ships float out of the chapel on the swift water of the Orn.

The healers had been nearly the last to come to the ceremony in the chapel. Now they were also the last ones to leave the chapel, accompanied by their guides. At the head, Jannes was escorted by a boy and a girl of his own age, as were Thimus and Jeroen. Anzo, who was shy with girls, was guided by a blond maiden holding his left hand, while a slim lad walked to his right, embracing him lightly. Every one of the traveling healers had two escorts. They guided them through the dark city of tents and wagons to the hummock holding the woodpile for the Bealltuinn fire.

The ground around the hummock was still dark and mysterious. However, the darkness seethed with excitement. The pilgrims had expected not only the wonder of the Bealltuinn but also the opening of St. Oranna's fayre, an indispensable part of the beginning of the fertile season. The stalls pitched at the foot of the hummock were still dark. Despite the darkness, they were able to recognize the booths of the innkeepers by their decoration of branches and leaves, the food-shops by the tempting smell of dishes filtering out through the gaps in the canvas and the booths of the fortune-tellers and harlots by the red flickering lights behind the shades. The stages of the strolling players and touring minstrels were still empty.


On top of the hummock the Sibyls began to perform the rites of the Bealltuinn night as it had been done for centuries. Their arms upraised, they took up the dance and the chants performed in the chapel at the Burning Rock and the crowd gathering at the foot of the hummock joined in. Six times, the Wise Women danced around the looming pile of wood, holding the burning candles high up to the night sky. Then they came to a halt, bowed deeply and shouted:

"Uolla! Uolla! Uolla! Great Goddess in Himelinberg! Grant fertility to our virginal Maiden and give strong haunches to Lads! Grant strong children to our women and milk in abundance to the nursing! Grant healthy livestock and rich harvest! Make mittigart a paradise!"

Then they set fire to the stake. Immediately the dry straw and hemp between the small twigs caught fire. Soon the blue flames licked the brush-wood and the resinous branches of firs. The flames ignited the deadwood and finally set the dry logs on fire. The fire flared up to the sky. Clouds of sparks sprayed up into dark sky and then floated back to earth like falling stars.

Young girls in bright flowing gowns rushed to the blazing stake, carrying sheaves of grain, dried hemp-flowers collected the year before and frankincense in shallow cups. They fed the fire with their offerings and flames flared up to the sky once more and sparks rained down like shooting stars again. The pilgrims cheered the fire rain and chanted to Uuoden, and Frija and Fulla again for full jugs and sheaves of grain and strong offspring of men and beast. Soon a cloud of smoke spread, crept down the hummock and covered the folk at its foot like a cloak. The sweet smoke filled the lungs of the pilgrims with the strong scent of the hemp-blooms.

Wld, Wld, Wld!..........the crowd chanted. Then instruments joined in. At first a wailing hurdy-gurdy on a band-stand at the eastern foot of the hummock took up the melody. After the first chorus, drums joined in, throbbing like a giant heart. Then the melody was taken up by bagpipes on a stage in the south, followed soon by viols and rebecs and jingling tambourines on a bandstand in the west. The circle of sound was completed by the instruments on the northern stage, by shawns, lizards and crumhorns. With every new instrument the beat of the drums sped up, faster and faster, accelerating the heartbeats of the pilgrims.

Kicked off by the tunes, the maidens offering the sacrifice of hemp and frankincense began to slowly circle the high flaring fire while holding hands. When the beat stepped up, their circle-dance gathered speed and when the fourth band joined in, the circle broke up into grouplets of two to four girls dancing ring-a-ring-of-roses. Spinning around faster and faster, the maidens in their flowing robes transformed into incandescent roses, emitting the scent of grass, flowers, and hot summer nights. These flashing roses allured the young lads and bachelors, like flowers do the bees. The young men left the crowd at the foot of the hummock, dashed to the Bealltuinn fire and circled the grouplets of spinning maidens. When the intensity of the music was at full blast, the lads darted into the grouplets, plucking girls like hawks pluck doves. The pairs whirled around like berserkers, in front of the blazing stake.

Side by side with his friends, Ruwen and his two guides had marveled at the beginning of the spectacle from the edge of the crowd. The young maiden was clinging to Ruwen's left anxiously, when the Sibyls started the ceremony by dancing around towering pile of wood. When the Sibyls ignited the stake with their candles, the girl became feverishly excited. When the stake was on fire and the Bealltuinn flames flared up to heaven she seemed to burn of expectation. Finally, when the other young maidens began to rush to the burning stake, she broke lose as well, pressing through the crowd and joining the circle of dancing maidens.

The lad clinging to Ruwen's right gripped him harder as soon as the maidens darted for the stake. Staring at the dancing girls, the young man began to shake like an aspen leaf. When the first of the lads darted at the grouplets of flashing roses, he gripped Ruwen's hand, "Come! Come on! Dear Sir, we have to hurry! We have to pick a maiden too! This is the night we have to pluck the roses! We have to hurry! This is the night of nights! Let's not be late!" Without waiting for an answer he dragged Ruwen up the hummock to spinning maidens.

Ruwen tried hard to resist the lad. He tried harder to resist the imperious beat of the music and tried even harder to resist the appeal of the dancing roses. He couldn't, he was powerless. He searched the crowd for his friend. In vain! Bastian, Berrit and Anzo seemed to have vanished; only Jannes, Thimus and Jeroen were standing there, awestricken, accompanied by their guards. Ruwen followed the lad to the high blazing stake, plucked the next rose and joined the whirling pairs in the dance around the blazing stake. Then Ruwen danced and danced...



The bright morning sun filtered through a crack in the tent's canvas and hit Ruwen's face. He struggled to open his swollen eyelids and shut them immediately, blinded by the light. "How late is it? How come I am so cold, stone-cold?" Opening his eye only a slit, Ruwen looked around. He was resting curled up in fetal position on crushed quilts. He was naked. Somebody was embracing his thighs, resting his head at Ruwen's butt, snoring. It was Bastian, also naked like a newborn and also cold as ice. Berrit and Anzo were cuddling on the other end of the tent on a layer of hay and quilts. Anzo lay spread-eagle on his back, Berrit's head buried in his crotch. Both were snoring away.

Rubbing his eyes while covering himself and Bastian up with a blanket, Ruwen wracked his brain. "What had happed the night before?" he asked himself several times. The last thing he could recall in detail was the beginning of the Bealltuinn celebration. He was sure that he had joined the dancing crowd, dragged to the stake by his guide. He could recall the first few dances. The one with a maiden in a pinkish wide flowing dress, then the second one with a maiden in a lilac dress. Her skin smelled like violets on a hot spring afternoon. Then there was a third round with a white dressed maiden. The dancers always swapped partners when the band playing on one of the stages stopped and the band on the next stage took over the melody. After only the first dance he had already felt like he was on fire. The heavy smoke from the stake, smelling sweetly of flowers, of hemp and of frankincense, filled his lungs, his vision had gotten blurry and his body called for water. All the dancers seemed to be thirsty and drinking bags of goatskin were passed around. The faintly aromatic drink smelled of honey and grass and even a bit like mushroom broth. After he downed the first sip his stomach had tried to turn over, and he saw red spinning before his eyes. However, before he could throw up, the blond girl in the lilac dress had carried him off for the next dance. The sip during the next pause had already started to taste like ambrosia and with every new sip he had gotten more and more addicted to the potion.

His memory was full of holes. He must have had more than a dozen dancing partners and more than a dozen sips of the holy brew before the stake was burned out. He wasn't clear about it, but he faintly remembered that at one or another time his partner was a lad and not a girl. Dark-haired and fair-haired, maidens and lads took turns with him. He also recalled having seen Bastian and Berrit and Anzo dancing with maidens and lads.

When the crescent of the moon had crossed the horizon, the apex of the hummock was a sea of ashes with blinking stars of dying coals. The last girl he was swinging around dragged him away from the hummock down into the dark besides the chapel. But what happened there amidst the shrubs in a small clearance on the soft meadow? His memory was blank. Was it all a dream? Did she ask him to make love to her or did he ask her? He couldn't remember! He only remembered his throbbing wood in her hot furry slit. Did he rape her, or did she rape him? He had never had a girl before. He was so hard when he entered her, and inside her he came and came and came.

There seemed to have been another encounter too; maybe three or four more. One time it was not a girl, but a woman; a big woman with wide haunches and enormous breasts. She fed him her breasts while sitting astride his cock, guiding into her wet pussy. Without hesitating a moment Ruwen had let his stiff wood glide up and down inside her in a steady rhythm, filling her up with his hot cum in no time.

Then there must have been a last encounter; this encounter leaving him delirious. Between the shrubs he encountered the maiden who had welcomed him in the chapel with a kiss, but it was not only the girl he ran into, it was the young lad too. "We've been searching for you for ages now! And finally we found you," the young man stated with a sigh of relieve. "My sister has saved her cherry for you! She was looking for you all over the place, the whole night!"

The girl entwined Ruwen like a vine; she kissed him deeply, slipping her tongue into his mouth, fighting his tongue. Breaking her hot kisses she gasped, "I waited for you all night, Midnight Prince! I've waited for you my whole life! You have to be my first! Take me! Take my cherry. Make me a baby!"

She got down on all four in front of Ruwen, turned her white butt to him and smiled back and wiggled invitingly. He couldn't help it; he got hot again. Getting down on his knees Ruwen began to sniff her crack, then went lower with his nose and sniffed her snatch. She smelled musky. His member throbbed. It got harder and harder. Grabbing her hips with his hands, he steadied himself behind her and launched a fierce attack. He pushed his wood into in the narrow slash between her swollen pubic lips. He thrust forward, the girl pushed back. He tried again. He hammered and hammered his rod into her snatch, but couldn't break the hymen.

Almost in a trance, he tried to enter her again and again. Suddenly he felt a soft rimming of his rosebud. He looked back over his shoulder. It was the boy guide, the girl's brother. The young lad smiled sweetly, bent forward and kissed Ruwen's lips. "Take her! Take her! Father a child! She wants your child! I'll help you," he whispered in a hoarse voice and then coyly, "I love you. I love you too! I have to take you! Do you feel how hot I am for you?" Then the lad pushed his rod into Ruwen's hole with the wild force of a rutting deer. The lad's attack increased Ruwen's force, doubling it, and with a loud cry he was finally able to break the maiden's hymen. His prick went into her up to the hilt. Sandwiched between brother and sister, his excitement rose beyond understanding. The lad pumped into Ruwen, Ruwen pumped into the girl and the girl met Ruwen's assault by pushing back. Then, all of a sudden, the lad's cum spurted into Ruwen and Ruwen flooded her body with his semen. Again and again Ruwen pumped into her till his cock became flaccid and he passed out.



"But how had he gotten back into the tent? When did he come back? Where was his clothing?" These questions remained. "Was it more illusion than reality?" Ruwen couldn't decide! "Did this night really happen or was it a dream? And what in heaven had happened to Bastian and the others, to Berrit, to Anzo, to the boys?"

Ruwen had to know. He looked down at his body. He touched his cock. His toy was soft now, but looked red and raw, as if it had been used it more than a dozen times. His pubes were sticky. Maybe he had done all that! He couldn't figure out. With his forefinger he searched his rosebud. It felt ravaged and swollen and was encrusted with dried up spunk.

Ruwen turned his attention to Bastian. He fondled him, without any response! His best friend slept like the dead. He kissed Bastian's cold forehead. No effect, either! Then Ruwen got daring. He checked out Bastian's cock. His friend's best piece was slightly turgid, burning hot and raw. He probed Bastian's love hole and found it sticky with spunk. "Hell, what a night!" Ruwen groaned to himself.

The groaning aroused Anzo from his deathlike sleep. Kneading his temples he whimpered, "Is the night over? Something is smashing my brain to mush. What was this, Bealltuinn Night? The night of nights?" Turning to Berrit, he screwed up his nose, and looked down at his friend, disgusted. "This guy reeks of spunk and cunt. Oh gosh, his body is covered with hickeys, big ones and small ones!"

"You can't complain, my love," was Berrit's growling answer. "Your little pecker is sticky and your pubes full of dried blood! How many girls and boys did you rape? --- Turn around Anzo," Berrit bid, and began to trace the cleft of Anzo's small butt with his forefinger. "You got raped by a monster! There! Dried blood is smeared all around your love hole! That wasn't me! I'm always sweet to you! I'm no monster!"

Anzo blushed, "That's not my fault! I don't know what happened at all after the fire went out! My memory is blank!"

"Mine too! I feel like a broken spoke on a wheel" Bastian groaned, stretching his limbs. "We must have had a lot of fun! My mind is blank however. I can't remember anything, but I feel like I've deflowered a whole flock of heifers and been taken by wild bulls."

Ruwen started laughing. "My whole body feels sore. Do I reek like you do Bastian, of sex and spunk?" Taking Bastian's hand and helping him stand up, Ruwen proposed, "Let's go down to Orn Creek and clean our bodies. The holy water will wash away our sins as well ... Help God to do that!"

This midmorning the banks of fast running Orn Creek were frequented heavily. Slightly hidden from sight by willow bushes, young girls were seen scrubbing their white bodies. The lads were not as shy and displayed their bodies to everyone who wanted to take a glimpse. Naked and stiff-legged, Ruwen and Bastian staggered down to the creek and jumped bravely into the cold water. Splishing and splashing, they cleaned each other of the sticky mess. Shortly afterwards, Anzo and Berrit also came rushing down to the creek, hiding their shriveled peckers from sight with bare hands. The holy water removed all of the mess from their abused bodies, miraculously healed all the sores and hickeys and cured their aching heads.

On the way back, the four healers met their guardians from the night before, already clean and ridded of the sinful games of the Bealltuinn Night by the holy water. The young men embraced each other and sealed their new friendship with kisses. Surprised by the offbeat behavior of the lads, the maidens looked bashfully at the ground, covering her bodies with towels. But soon their cheeks bloomed like roses, because each of the four traveling healers locked their sweet angels of the night before in his arms and showered her face with sweet kisses; brotherly kisses, as they explained to each other later.

Later, back in the kitchen tent and dressed up for the first day of May, Ruwen, Bastian, Berrit and Anzo met the insistent questions of their two squires, and Jeroen, with colorful explanations. However they didn't dare to give away the incredible secrets of Bealltuinn Night to their fresh-faced young companions.



I would like to express my special thanks to B. for doing an unbelievable great job by correcting all the wrong expressions and the punctuation used by a non native English writer.

Comments, reviews, questions and complaints are welcomed. Please send them to And I would like to add, thanks for reading.

Stories by the author:

Ruwen Rouhs:

Buzzards, Hawks and Ravens (2007 still going on; posted on,,

Fate and Fortune (2008 still going on; posted on;;

Palm Sunday Magic (2007, posted on;


Sean E & Ruwen Rouhs:

Terry and Sam, a Christmas Story (2008, posted on;;;