Date: Tue, 3 Jun 2014 14:10:14 +0200
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: "THE LEGEND OF FERGUS AND MOHAR"

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"THE LEGEND OF FERGUS AND MOHAR"

(nb, The Cliffs of Moher and the Fergus river are in
Co.Clare, Ireland) 

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"THE LEGEND OF FERGUS AND MOHAR"

When you are waiting to be murdered, disbelief, like a wall in the mind,
occludes meditation; regrets heal, like the gulls wheel simplistically
through the giant air, nowhere and un-intended.

One tiny window, less than a hand, bright with the outside day, floor-lit a
light-pond near Fergus, eye-shut in despair; reflected, accustomed eyes
made his form of a man: head hand held, toes tight, swaying on his folded
legs, back angled and folded, swept, like a coastal mountain falling into
the sea, like a cliff, like an island.

Mohar called, "Fergus, Fergus!"


Fergus turned to look at the narrow door-hole through which Mohar was
visible, just his charming eyes. He stood like a sack and walked the two
steps over to be close to Mohar again.

"Mohar."

Fergus was naked, though a thick rope round his neck weighed him down. It
wasn't tied to anything, just heavy, drawn too tight to remove, and
dragging.

"Fergus, we're trying to get you out."

Mohar was so fine. Mohar was tall.

"It's too late. Don't get into trouble. Do as I say,? called back Fergus.


Mohar, angry again, said, "You do as I say: Don't be stupid. There's plenty
we can try. Are you fine? Turn. Let me look... my beauty."

"I wish I could see you," said Fergus; the half light caught his skin at
the edges as he turned, drew a raw golden line around his labourer's shape,
broad working shoulders and his waist, firm with carrying, and his hair
which was like pale copper and his legs which were cart-strong and his
buttress-arched sex, testes, and his buttocks which were for Mohar's, to
hold and hold and caress.

"I wish I could see you," said Fergus.

"Here I am!"

"No, I mean, like you can see me, your chest, your legs, your cock, again,
like I love to look."

Mohar smiled, his eyes un-teared. "I'm here," he said, "pressing against
the door's wood. Press yourself against it. Feel me."

Fergus gripped the bars hard and pulled himself up hard on his toes, his
calves sinued at the stress, and with all his might hard against the planks
his penis pushed the hardest, his lips extended to touch and his tongue
licked the cold rusted window rods.  Mohar's tongue did too. They did not
meet; their spit did meet, and they could taste each other.

"I can feel you," Mohar said. "Can you feel me fucking you?"

"I can feel my prick rubbing against you when you bury yourself deep inside
my stomach."

"Yes, that's it."

Mohar came with a shout, caught his seed and poked his fingers through the
bars, dripping.  "Keep my taste," he said, and Fergus licked it and Mohar
said, "Good, there, always inside you... I shall always be."

Fergus stepped back, leaving his own rolling descending lick of ejaculate
slithering like a jaguar at hunt across the ridges of the flawed timber.

Breathing heavily, Mohar said, "I'm coming, I promise, with a deal, to get
you back. I won't let this happen. I can't let you go like this and... I
won't." Turned and ran.

"Don't miss me," cried Fergus.

Through the gap he could see Mohar, his tall, long back, running to the end
of the corridor. White skin. He was strong as a tree. Sun stroked Fergus
was strong too, like a tuna!

"I can be strong," he whispered and rolled on the floor like a dog in a
smell.

===

Only three days before there had been trouble. The Fathers met in fire
council, squatting circle, flame hot, dealt the calculus: Fergus was the
one. He was the strongest. Fergus was the best, and he had Mohar's germ. He
had to do.

Mohar stood in anger: "I am the Lord of Fergus, he's mine, not yours to
give. Choose another."

The Fathers agreed it was unfortunate: "We must give our best, so it'll
know it has been obeyed. There is no other; you are a stranger."

"How do we know what it wants?"

"Obvious: For months now there has been no luck. It demands sacrifice. What
is sacrifice if it is no sacrifice? We must give it our best."

Against the logic argument was powerless. Mohar raised great arms
star-ward, large, sword-strong, with a mighty chest, cloak-clasp pressed
against his manly throat, bare legs head-height with the Fathers, planted
his sandalled feet.

"When did I lose your trust?" he shouted in sadness and fury.

The men were moved, head-hung and awful: "We welcomed your advice. We gave
you our best son!  You chose him yourself; you had him to own when you
could have had daughter or ox! You wanted him and in return for your gifts
we yoked him to you. It made us glad to see our best male kneel beneath
your belt,

bend to your plough, anvil to your beat, tender to your groin. It was
correct.

"But of late we have had no luck. And we NEED luck.

"Mohar, you showed us our strongest son. Without your choice we should not
have known which one to give. You chose Fergus, thus he was the best. You
have always known. Trust us in this, as you trusted us to trust you."

And so Fergus stood: Firelight shadows drifted like blood-drenched clouds
across his naked chest, nipples glinting like frosted stars, his sex proud
and his breast heaved with hurt, fingers tight, arms tense with mighty
determination, his belly breath drawn to his breast, navel dark shadow
drain of pit hope. His legs wide-spaced to steady his nerve, said, "What do
you believe?

"We cannot win until we give in", and was given the rope and walked to the
cave built from a blocked cliff rift onto the ocean. That was the ritual.

"As he dies, so so our luck should revive," the men said. The rule was,
Water Only.

Mohar had sworn then: "I'll return with an army," he said.

They laughed. "You have no home. No one knows you. We are your
army. Fergus, your lieutenant. You cannot lead if you are tied to a dead
man. You cannot advise: your insight is exhausted.  You have served."

"I'm still good. Look at me!"

The Fathers looked.  Each of them wished he had been their son. White flesh
stretched on his muscular frame, seized with the freshness of youthful
strength: It would have fed well on his bursting sap, had he not been a
stranger.  Sacrificed, he should have restored the well-spring of luck and
dwelt in the other world for eternity, protecting, deflecting ill destiny,
breaking the cycle for all time.

"But you are NO good," they said, sadly. "Stay or go, you make no
difference. There is NO luck! We need sacrifice to heal it. Luck replenish
must. Fergus must feed it."

===

Now Fergus waited in the place for death to eat him and nine days had
passed. He was not weak. He preserved his hardness.

The Fathers were aligned: "This slow is a good sign: Shows it is dawdling,
feeding small, taking, tasting and sipping, savouring, eating his juices in
pauses, sucking his succulence long drawn in stages, ebbing his full man's
death-yearn spring like the tides break a shoreline and cave it in."

"But what if it is not?" asked Mohar with a sigh.

"It is," said Fergus.  "I am being tasted. I can feel it sip."

"But I have to fuck him," said Mohar. "Look at me. I have seed for him. I
am full of his sperm," his sex like a war axe, and full of pulse.

"Take another," they said.

"How is it I led and now must follow?"

"Take another, and lead again."

===

Only years had passed, not centuries: He came as a stranger; finding the
Fathers, quickly impressed them, made him their leader over their sons -
where leading was needed!

He had hated his home, learned enough to know his way and, taking wisdom
from his own anger, ran into the landscape, seeking what was new and free
and his destiny to obtain.

Tall, slim and strong, he bestrode the peat, unselfconsciously powerful,
that first day when babies came running calling "STRANGER!!" and were
gathered like caught birds in the nets of dresses, aprons, the cloak-caves
of their village mothers.

Rushed to defence, the home sons broke their farm tasks, Fergus among,
gathered their sticks and what swords, stood, like a wall of infants,
massive, scared and brave, ready and confused, hot, a union of boys, men,
cold in their private hearts.

Fergus was one of the growing sons: Red skin blooded with defensive drive,
breath swell large in their trembling chests, he with his many brothers
arm-linked and armed, sun-gilded-bulk face to the sweating marsh where
Mohar came now black-shaped with the sun behind.

Fergus was the most beautiful Mohar from the peat road saw: Of all the
brave sons wanted him; of all the brave sons, wanted him; of all the brave
sons first seen and gleaming hard bodied like polished brass, the most
beautiful eyes clear and willing: Mohar wanted him above all of the brave
sons.

Approaching in a moment, he waved their spears off with a hand
flick. Questioned, he had their laughter, trust and welcome; marched them
like a cohort, battle blood and booty burdened, screaming and pointing at
the vanquished sky in jest. He had their arms in new-found brotherhood,
Fergus among them, first in Mohar's quiet eye.

Next to admire were the women, amazed and drenched in children, peering
into and out of the smoky-dark of their labour places, hands wrapped in
wool: Wowed at this mightier comrade, hand-slapped, hugged and first in
their crew of warriors; warriors skipping. Mothers of children wondered
what sons he could give to them or their daughters, body arched strong and
shining in unheard of white like the glow stone cold of the morning sky;
head dark-haired and beardy, eyes that seemed to pierce the tent and
browed-black, fierce to make their thrust in aching manhood.

They rushed to think, "He must be fed!"

So it was the Fathers, rent with their affairs, returned to find him
feasting, dressed in gifts and ankle-played by trusting kids, sons seating
all around and still in laughter, the discard of the day plundered from the
pantry, matrons working platters, filling flasks, and awed girls in full
sight from the hollow shadows throwing flowers, fetching favour; Fergus by
his side, the best and strongest son, arm slung on Mohar's neck, Mohar's
grip of ownership, even now, on Fergus' knee.

What is this? The Fathers sat groaning for tired pain, pushing sons and
wives and party-mess aside, sought to search his entails and intents,
asked, Would he leave, or make home here in the peopled marsh?  Pull the
plough, or feast and go away?

Would he stop smiling? They heard him speak sober, now with the
determination of one who has not come to spoil, deep throated with casual
authority: He spoke and answered; he voiced a new insight; he opened the
future and solved the past. They could see at last a new option for the
Fatherhood in this clear-eyed, firm thinking young man.

As the sun broke, golden on the yellow hills they agreed: He was
stupendous; let them give him his lead! Let him test the sons.

Taking his part, agile in ability, physically admirable, always able to
demonstrate his ways, Mohar worked their sons hard in field, hunt and
battle, returned their eagerness with fresh challenges.  Inspired, a new
agony of dreams arose in the hearts of these young men, wanting triumph in
everything and competing for his approval, besting themselves and each
other, driving their herds in pride and their enemies in retreat.

The realisation dawned: A Hero had presented himself to them. In his
strength they would never want for purpose. The Fathers were impressed.

===

"Where he goes, I go," said Mohar.

"No more," said the Fathers.

===

Fergus was built of work: carrying, herding, defending; keeping dogs,
cutting the turf, building; training with spears and swords and shot;
manning the watch and marching the hunt; running the boundaries and fixing
the fields. All agility and force were his focus.

Though friendly, Mohar was alone. Pick out one you need, they told him, one
to hold. It could have been a wife; it could have been a dog loyally
bred. Thus sanctioned, Mohar said, "Mate me my lieutenant, Fergus", who
with Mohar ecstatically accepted union. "I'll make him take it in
pleasurably!"

Of that, said the Fathers, we have no doubt!

They were from then beheld as one, heroes twinned in celebration.

Arm linked and touching, they walked the bare uplands, eager to find
themselves in each other they saw themselves in their landscape: "This rock
is you, Fergus: Solid rough rounded, sturdy beaten unyielding. Here there's
one pressed like your back, riven with crags and sweat strong."

"Here's two boulders shaped like you!" Fergus laughed, kneeling, open
mouthed. "You are a man like these mountains," he said, humbly.

"So are you," ached Mohar, lifting him, cum-covered, licking his gore, man
face to man face, hand to hard and to heart.

Night trusting, when they held together, Mohar told Fergus how his whole
yearned to be inside him, the core of Fergus, hard and fountain-filled,
precious, golden and beautiful.  ("Holding me; filling me," said Fergus.)
Found his anus which he had always wanted, kissed with his tongue, touched
with his wet lips, and tight-slid.

"I am happy to be your fuckboy" said Fergus, thinking, The Fathers have
said he's the greatest they ever met. "Let me hold your sperm!"

Mohar thought: Fergus, held in my bed, your sword by my sword, hand held,
step with my step: bearing my standard, man-strengthened and doubled, I'll
rule this coast! The Fathers had no mind when they met me what they had; no
mind what they had when they made you!

They stared at each other, felt and tasted, smooth with caressing, sore
with kissing, marks of their passion tattooing its secrets.

"Now, release yourself in my mouth," asked Mohar.

"You want me?"

Fergus gave panting, wide-eyed, amazing. Mohar drank him, his mouth filled
to bursting.

"Together we'll feed always," they laughed to discover, "and never starve
til death part one from the other."

Fergus lieutenant and Mohar his Lord, in kinship led that great prospering:
increased harvests and battles won, neighbours tithed service, gave girls
to make mothers, sons to slave. All bore fruitful return to the Fathers'
trust, and other bounties, including gold.

===

Thus the years have passed, said the Fathers, but not forever.

You had great promise, but it dogs, now you are spent. You have milked your
greatness now into our son! We know it.  It must be paid back. The earth
awaits. It is right: He has your strength.

"And what of this coast?" Mohar demanded, ready to fight them all.

We see the body-force of Fergus is the price. Send him ahead to represent
you in the deep. Sated upon him, it shall return your power. So shall our
luck revive. We'll rule the coast at last. You'll take another
man. Several. Destiny drags you to own them. It is your fashion...

Or take one of our women and make a son, they suggested, to satisfy
yourself better.

"That disgusts me," said Mohar.

===

"There was that time we walked in the field. Before things got
complicated. Fast, bright, and mind twinned in talk: Us, us, us! We stroked
naked where they say the sacred swim, breast to breast in the water,
Fergus, towers in the pond, touching, waist tight in river, arms caught
like fishes. Slipping like sailors. My hands on you, your mouth in mine,
eating each other's laughter... Fergus!! Here in this cliff-cut fastness
you will die but I'll not return to see you drain into the soil."

Mohar, tear faced, sore from crying, head aching with sorrow, pulled his
fingers from the dark bars, heart drawn like a building wave pulls gravel
from the beach but cannot break, turned from his wasting love, Fergus, who
held on and called him, "Mohar! Please return... Mohar! In the world
beneath, I'll tell them: You are bear brave, tree strong, love to hold me,
heart beats mastering mine, chest heaving on my chest; how I feel you and
sap you when are buried and spurting; how you relieve me, drive me and
... how I have wished not to leave you all alone!"

Fergus' tears, meshed with man-sweat, and the cave dew, ran on his rippled
skin, like rain overflows its gullies, leaps from a mountainside, sheer of
waterfall.

Mohar crept from the dark cleft, through the winding light, mind walled and
murdered; out on the top edge gave his body to the ocean, face to the gull
wheel, fell simplistically through the giant air, nowhere and un-intended.

In time, Fergus followed, as storm breath worries the hedgerows.

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END OF "THE LEGEND OF FERGUS AND MOHAR"