The Luck of the Irish – Part 2: The Otherworld
The Luck of the Irish
Part 2: The Otherworld
My conference in Dublin went well indeed. My paper on why some species of mammals have a baculum while others (including human males) lack one was well received and was the topic of much discussion and debate. The male scientists, in particular, seemed fixated on the evolutionary history of the penis bone! God knows why; who needs an actual bone when muscles and blood flow can create a structure with so much variation, does the job and can give so much pleasure. The conference dinner had been great fun, with hilarious conversations full of innuendo, quite a tasty dinner, and good music and dancing to follow.
I set off on the Killarney bus the morning after the conference dinner, feeling a little the worse for wear. I arrived at my B&B in plenty of time to get out to Daly’s SupaValu supermarket to buy my provisions for the next two days. And then a visit to O’Connor’s Pub for a drink, a good meal, and a bottle of whiskey to help with my own Beltane celebration up on the mountains.
People looked up as I came in, and some greeted me with smiles. I went up to the bar to order a drink, and an oldish man quickly leapt up to offer me his bar stool. He introduced himself – Turlough, and then introduced me to his wife sitting beside me – Tara. It’s true what they say about the Irish; welcoming and hospitable.
“’Tis an unusual time of year for us to be getting visitors,” said Turlough. “Are ye here on business or to see some of the grand sights of Kerry?
I responded, “I’m a keen hiker and I’ve been told that there is some great walking in Kerry.”
“Aye,” he responded. “Some grand walks indeed. There’s hikers aplenty here in the summer, but not so much at this time of year.”
Tara piped in with: “Where are ye thinking of going lass?”
“I’m planning to hike to the Paps of Anu,” I said. “An old boyfriend of mine, an Irishman, always wanted to take me there. We broke up a while ago, but I’m still fascinated by the history… and the walking. What do you think?”
They both nodded, and so did others who were overhearing our conversation. “’Tis a good walk, that,” said a man behind me. “And you can visit the city while you are up there.”
“A city!” I exclaimed, incredulous. They all laughed. It seemed it wasn’t a city at all, but the translation of Cathair Crobh Dearg, the sacred place with the spring, which I was planning to go to anyway. Some of the people in the pub believed that ‘the city’ was a ‘fairy fort’ and there were fairy paths from there to the two summits. I couldn’t tell whether they were having me on, or were just superstitious.
“What would be the best way to get there,” I asked. “I’m thinking of taking the bus to Gortcareen and hiking up to the mountains from there.”
Turlough frowned. “Ach no,” he said. “You’ll not want to be going that way…” He looked around, and others were nodding in agreement.
“Ye’d take the Ballyvourney bus and get off at Clonkeen. Go past the wee church and then take the narrow, windy road to the left. It’s not signposted but it is just past the house where widow Shea used to live. It’s a good stretch but it’s a fine walk…” He paused for emphasis: “… on a fine day!”
“Aye,” others nodded in agreement. “And you get a much better view of Danu’s breasts from the south!” said someone, to great laughter. The comedian continued: “The track goes off down from her cleavage dead straight towards the Cathair… you’ll be like a drop of perspiration trickling down her belly towards her…” he stalled with a slight blush, “her you-know-what!”
Everyone, including me, laughed at the discomfort he’d created for himself. I wished I’d had the courage to finish his sentence for him, and encourage the blush a bit more, but I didn’t know what word to use! ‘Cunt’ would have been far too crass, and I don’t like the word anyway. And ‘box’, ‘pussy’, ‘twat’ and ‘snatch’ were crass too, in this company. ‘Vagina’ and ‘vulva’? Too anatomical. Maybe the old-fashioned ‘cunny’ would have been good, if I’d been thinking quickly enough. Afterwards, I recalled that I’d heard ‘The Great Depression’ as a slang expression: what a great topographical play on words that would have been! Ah well, an opportunity missed.
“Going on your own, are ye?” said a woman who’d been deep in serious conversation with Tara. “You’re a brave one lass, and that’s the truth of it. The Tuatha Dé Danann live up there, ye know, the fairy folk. They’ll be out and about around Lá Bealtaine.” Some of us have seen them, especially up there on Dá Chích Anann.”
“Oh? Where’s that?” I asked.
“Sure it’s where you’re after walking, lass. That’s the real name for these mountains. It’s old Irish for ‘the breasts of the goddess Danu’. ‘Tis a magical place, to be sure. Danu was a beautiful woman, so she was. It was she who created that spring by playing a magical harp belonging to her father. It’s not a safe place for us humans around Bealtaine, so it isn’t.”
Tara interrupted. “Aye,” she said. “What about young Sinéad O’Guiney? Maybe 40 years ago, lass, a young woman from a village nearby ventured up there all alone, so she did. Just like you. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but there was no trace of her, then or ever since.”
She lowered her voice and almost whispered: “Well, not all will agree, bit I think she was the ‘chosen one’ for the Bealtaine ceremony. I say she was seduced by Bilé in a fertility ritual and fell in love with him, and then Danu transformed her into one of the Tuatha – her fairy people. How do I know? Well, lass, that year was the best harvest we ever had, before or since. And some people say they still see Sinéad, or someone very like her, around the village at Bealtaine time. Make of it what you will, but you take good care of yourself up there on the breasts of the goddess.”
The following day, I followed instructions and set off on the bus bound for Ballyvourney. As predicted, it was pouring rain, with strong gusts of wind making the bus swerve a little as it lumbered along. My enthusiasm for this walk was rapidly diminishing and I was starting to entertain thoughts of exploring Ballyvourney for the day when the driver stopped the bus and announced to all the passengers: “Here’s the lass’s stop – Clonkeen village. She’s off on a walk to the Paps. Lovely weather for it!”
That drew a laugh and people patted me on the back as I walked through to the front of the bus. An old woman clutched at my sleeve as I brushed past. I turned to look at her wizened face; she must have been a hundred if she was a day. She looked up at me when I paused. “Here,” she said, pressing a small round flask into my hand. “Ye may be needing this,” she said earnestly. “’Tis mead – the drink of the gods. Make it meself, so I do. And not many do nowadays. I got the recipe from the Tuatha.”
As I thanked her, without really understanding what she was on about, she added in a whisper: “Tell Bilé I still dream about him. Tell him he lives on through me.”
I had no time to ponder this, as someone lifted down my pack and handed it to me, holding it up for me as I wriggled my arms into the straps. They all wished me well. “See you back at O’Connors the day after tomorrow,” someone shouted out. “Watch out for the fairy folk,” someone else added. What a friendly community this was – I decided I could live in Ireland!
I trudged along the small road in the rain. My view, if I’d been able to see a view through the rain, was blocked by stone walls and fuchsia hedges taller that I. Every now and then the rain would ease and the clouds would lift, and I would look up to the north, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mountains.
I laboured on up the slope, quickly leaving the hedgerows and the last clump of trees far below me. Suddenly the wind picked up and seemed to blow the low clouds away, revealing the two mountains. Sure enough, they were in the shape of a pair of perfectly formed breasts, each with its erect nipple pointing up to the wild-looking sky. The breasts of Danu. I felt a thrill of excitement, and added an inch to my pace as I strode on up the track.
The track got even steeper and more rocky and slippery. I was starting to puff and was sweating beneath my anorak. During a rainy squall, I took a wrong track for a while and gave myself a fright when I found myself at the top of a steep cliff above Lough Negeeha. A few more steps would have spelled disaster. That had my pulse racing!
As I found the right track again, the sky cleared and the view was breathtaking: beams of sunlight sparkling on the two nipple-like cairns on the two summits, the heather rippling in the breeze, and it was just me, the mountains and the elements. Invigorating! Once again I felt a familiar fluttering in the pit of my stomach, which spread warmly through me, putting a flush to my cheeks and a smile to my face. Even though it was steeper now, I climbed faster, with the summit in sight.
The ancient cairn on the summit was huge – well over three times my height! It was just begging to be scaled. I dropped my pack and peeled off my anorak, scrambling up the rocks. The top was flat and a few meters in diameter. Still panting through the exertion of the climb, I stood right in the middle and turned around, taking in the vastness of the view, stretching into infinity in all directions.
I felt a sort-of gravitational or magnetic force drawing me downwards. I sat down. The rocks were surprisingly warm, almost hot. I guess they had been bathed in sunlight, but I didn’t think it had been for long enough to warm them that much. I don’t know what made me do it, but I had this irresistible urge to strip off. I unlaced my boots, peeled off my sodden socks and threw them down off the cairn. Then my shirt, bra, pants and knickers. It felt so liberating. So ‘right’.
I lay down on my back on the warm rocks, arms out with the palms of my hands touching the rocks and my legs spread out. This pushed my pubic mound up towards the sky and I could see and feel the cold breeze wafting through my pubic hairs. A shiver went through me – not of cold, but of excitement.
Lying like this, it was easy to imagine that I could feel the earth rotating beneath me, with my toes, mound, breasts and face pointing upwards to the gods and the rest of the universe. I closed my eyes and imagined myself as the ‘chosen one’, bound to the earth and carrying the responsibility of connecting the humans to the gods – the ‘go-between’. It was an exciting fantasy indeed! I could feel the blood flowing into my labia and my clitoris starting to swell and twitch. The breeze trembling my pubic hairs and wafting past my labia felt like cool liquid… causing a hot, wet response!
I collected myself together and resisted putting my hand down between my legs. The day was drawing in and rainclouds were gathering again, so I decided to abandon my plan to hike over to the other summit and instead head down, ‘like a drop of perspiration’, to set up my camp at Cathair Crobh Dearg.
The Cathair was indeed a circle of stones, and in the middle, a stone-lined well. Crystal clear water was welling up from below. I was hot and sweaty from my exertions, despite the weather, so I knelt down and splashed it over my face and neck. So cool and refreshing. Then another handful down the front of my shirt to cool under my breasts, which made my nipples harden and causing me to gasp. I cupped my hands together and drank deeply. It was sweet and tasty.
There was nobody about, so I stripped off and stood naked on the rock next to the well, and used my tin mug to pour cool water over my head and all over my body as I rinsed off sweat and grime. I shivered a bit in the breeze but enjoyed the sensation of rejuvenation and freedom, and perhaps a slight thrill of exhibitionism, though there was nobody else about.
Dressing myself again, I uncorked the half bottle of whiskey I’d bought at the O’Connor’s and poured a generous measure into my mug. I felt I’d earned it after the exertions of the day, in wild weather too. It was instantly warming, and went straight to my head – a not unpleasant sensation!
I put my tent up, inside the stone circle, but not too close to the well, got out my little gas stove and heated up a packet soup. Didn’t it taste wonderful, accompanied by the soda bread with a thick smear of butter! The can of stew with a packet of freeze-dried vegetables wasn’t as tasty, but it filled a hole. And, afterwards, I poured myself another whiskey, diluted this time with a little spring water, and took it off to my tent.
I stripped off and slipped in to my sleeping bag. Propped up on one arm, I sipped my whiskey and listening to the sounds of the night. Wind in the nearby trees, a very distant cow mooing, a mournful curlew call.
My whiskey finished, I lay down, feeling warm and pleasantly drunk, thinking how strange it was to be camping without Colm. But I was pleased not to be with him any more. I thought back to the feelings I had while lying naked up there on the cairn. It may have been the exertion of the climb that I found sexually stimulating, but I was sure that there was some other connection with the mountain as well. Something spiritual that made me really horny, and made me want to touch myself, to play with myself.
My hand went back between my legs as I recalled the experience, and I could feel the moisture, and the same tingling sensation. “How about a quick homage to Colm?” I said to myself, out loud. “To lay his ghost!”
As I fingered the area around my clitoris with one hand and stroked my belly, breasts and nipples with the other, I moaned quietly, then more loudly. I fantasized about the Tuatha, the little people, deciding if I was to be the ‘chosen one’. “Come and look,” I said out loud. “Yes, come and see. Feel my breasts, my nipples. Yes, pinch them. What will your gods think of those?”
I imagined dozens of little people watching me as I stimulated myself, judging my movements and reaction to report back to Danu. This fantasy made it even more exciting. Warming to the game, I continued: “And what about my mound, will they like this?” I cupped my hands round my pubic mound, slipping my fingers gently between my legs. “Come, look at me. See how my lips are swelling and parting. Ready to take your god inside me. Ready to pleasure him. Look! Come closer. Feel for yourselves.”
As I continued to pleasure myself, I could almost feel dozens of tiny little hands moving all over my body, caressing my breasts, and little fingers tickling and tweaking my nipples, playing with my pubic hair, and starting to explore my labia and swelling clitoris.
“Yes, feel for yourselves,” I shouted out, as I became even more aroused. “Come on, play with me!” My fantasy continued by imagining little mouths all over me, their tongues in my ears, licking my earlobes, their little teeth nibbling my nipples and breasts, their mouths sucking my toes, and their fingers flicking my clitoris, like tiny human vibrators.
“Yes!” I panted again. “Watch me come… I’m coming!” As I reached the summit of my orgasm, I cried out: “I’m the chosen one!” and I let out another long moan – an orgasmic moan.
I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and didn’t wake up until the morning was well advanced.
To be continued...
Copyright © 2016 Crystal Knight. This is an original work. It may not be reproduced or distributed in any form without the written permission of the author.