The Prayer
She was a goddess about to endure the torment of hell.
The village elder had called her the Prayer--the one who prays. Apparently their
god would hear no prayer unless it was accompanied by the proper sacrifice. He
certainly seemed to be a demanding bastard, but I had to admit that he also had
a certain taste.
The girl, the Prayer, was only just become a woman. Perhaps she could have been
married by now but for the fact that she had been taken by a priest of Los at
the age of five in order to prepare her for the hard life of a Prayer. She
looked to have seen fifteen summers, perhaps sixteen, and she shone with the
glory of her youth even as they began her newest torture.
"A woman of the village came to pray for rain so that we might have a good
harvest," said the elder beside me. I nodded, mostly to humor the old man. He
kept talking, but I stopped listening.
Perhaps the priest's predecessor had died just recently, as he too was very
young: not more than seventeen or so. Clad only in a loincloth and sweat from
his labor and the oppressive midday heat, he was darkly-tanned and well-muscled,
and he strode about the temple clearing as if he, not the god, was in control.
He shot me a dirty look when he caught me looking at him--You're in my domain,
it said. By the way he treated that poor girl, one would have believed him.
She was a picture of absolute submission as she stood with hands bound behind
her back, sweat mingling with the oil that he'd used to anoint her flesh, her
hair tied back so that we could see the full account of her sacrifice written on
her pain-etched face. The youthful priest smiled at her and said a few soft
words before he picked up his flogger once again. She nodded in answer and
prepared herself.
She was going to ride the Spike, I'd been told. I was not sure what that meant.
It was an oaken post topped with a bronze horn that came to about my waist,
though it was far too high for the girl. Even so--
"Surely she isn't going to mount it!" I exclaimed.
The elder nodded, a serious look on his face. "Aye, she is," he answered. "But
this pain, at least, has almost ended. For three days she has been without food
in order to make this sacrifice. For three days she has ridden that awful horn
for an hour at midday. For three days she has endured the sting of the burning
water in her most sacred place. But it has almost ended."
Three days! But what was burning water?
"See there?" he spoke, pointing to the Priest, who now took another flask of
thick red oil and poured it onto the horn. The oil caught in the ridges and
bumps of the finely decorated bronze and I could see the girl's breathing
quicken as she watched. "It burns like a very flame. It will light a fire in her
womb."
But she hesitated only an instant, and only because she needed the priest to
lift her and place her on the horn, such was its height. Immediately her every
muscle sprang tight like a bowstring and her feet clasped the pole, pushing down
in a wild effort to relieve a bit of the pressure placed on her tender hole, now
tasked with supporting all of her weight.
Her hour had begun.
We had but to watch. Myself, the elder, the priest: we did nothing at all while
she was set aflame from within. At first she bore her punishment in silence, her
eyes closed, her breathing even. Her feet would slip a bit and she would clench
her teeth as she adjusted them, again pressing down to relieve some of the pain.
But my little goddess could not long remain quiet.
First the sweat began to bead on her flesh and then to drip down, joined in
salty rivulets by tears that fell from her beautiful face. Her flesh, the color
of polished copper from hours spent in agony in the sun, shone in the light of
the sunset as the first gasps and whimpers of pain were heard.
At last she could bear up no more and her legs hung idle beside the pole, her
entire body supported only by the tender lips of her sex, penetrated by the
curving horn that sought the very soul within her. Her head bowed, her breath
coming in ragged sobs, her hair dripping shining perspiration into the dirt
beneath her, she began to say a prayer.
"Los, hear me, see my sacrifice, my pain.
"I endure, unworthy, to be made pure.
"Make great my pain, make me suffer, break me.
"Tear this whore apart and make the fields bloom."
At that, the priest approached her once again. He took a soft leather strap and
set it between her teeth before he brandished a great four-tailed whip, its
leather blades soaked in oil, and held it before her eyes. His face was hard,
cruel, his mouth turned up with derision as if to say, "You can't be serious."
But the Prayer took one last deep breath, and then she closed her eyes and
nodded for him to continue.
And he did. Her young flesh bounced with each blow and I must admit that, as I
looked on, I longed to taste her charms and my thoughts turned not to her rescue
but to her ravishment. I do not know how many times he struck; I was too
engrossed to count. I do know that it wasn't long before she cried out past her
improvised bit, a tearful moan that cut into my heart. But she sought to master
the pain and banish such pitiful sounds.
Each stroke of the whip was met with a grunt, and then with only a gasp, as the
flogging continued. Finally, she spat out her gag and began to say something, a
low murmur I could not understand. I had to know what she was saying and moved
closer to hear. Close enough that I had to take care to stand clear of the whip,
and close enough that I could feel the sweat splattering off of her reddened and
welted skin.
She flung her face toward heaven and repeated herself. She was repeating her
prayer, over and over, in time to the whip!
Once more it was repeated and when the priest had finished I was sure that her
flesh was not just red but bleeding as well, if only a little. Unable to stop
myself, I stretched out a hand to caress her, to soothe her hurts--or to fulfill
the need that had grown within me--but the elder snatched my hand away.
I watched without understanding as the priest brought forth a bucket and a
brazier filled with burning incense. He set the brazier before the girl, still
impaled on the horn.
The priest looked to the elder and then to me. "The incense is lit and her hour
is begun. We must go now, and return when the incense is gone."
And then the priest poured the contents of the bucket out over her head,
drenching her abused flesh and making her gasp. It was saltwater--I could tell
by the smell--and I could only imagine how it burned in her eyes and in the cuts
on her tender skin.
But the Prayer held her head high, her eyes clear as the pain engulfed her,
gazing into some distance we could not see. She spread her legs, holding them
away from the pole that ravaged her, her body resting solely on her faith and
her sex. Her muscles quivered, flexing hard beneath her smooth, tormented flesh,
and I could see sweat dripping from the bottoms of her breasts, from her toes,
from her chin. She drew in a shaking breath and exhaled, struggling against the
urge to give voice to her agony.
It had only just begun.
# # #
She sat on the ground leaning against the bronze horned post that had been her
lover only moments ago. She meditated, trying to calm herself and catch her
breath.
"Look at her," said the elder. "Already she prepares for her next ordeal."
There would be more! How could they?
But even as those thoughts entered my mind another supplicant approached the
priest. He brought with him the payment for his prayer, a string of fine pearls
as a gift to the temple, and he told the priest what he desired. I could not
understand his words and went to ask the priest what was happening.
"Stay, friend!" said the elder. "Do not interrupt. The man's wife is sick and
will likely die unless the god intervenes. He has come to ask the Prayer to
pray."
Of course. But what of her sacrifice?
The priest whispered into her ear and she nodded solemnly, rising from her place
against the pole to kneel before him, head bowed.
"No!" I could hear the priest say, but she moved not at all. He gave a cry of
rage and slapped her, and again, hard. Blood appeared at the corner of her
mouth, but she would not be turned from her course. He hawked twice and spat a
wad of phlegm onto her face. "Stupid bitch."
He turned to us. "She says she will fast again until her tasks are complete to
ensure her prayer is heard," he said, "and she will drink only the holiest of
water."
What the hell did that mean?
"Come," said the elder. "We must do what we can to help."
He pulled me by the arm and I followed, coming to stand before the Prayer,
though I knew not why.
The signs of her suffering were many--it was clear by her face that her sex was
still being ravaged by the horn's fire and that her other hurts pained her
still, but she seemed at peace nonetheless as she looked up at us. The thick
leather collar at her throat made me think of a dog--my mind turned, uninvited,
to thoughts of a bitch in heat--and the cuffs at her wrists, at last released
from their bondage, reminded me of things done by lovers at night, things that
made my blood run hot.
Her womanhood, raw and bloodied by its long ride, lay open and gasping,
convulsing as she kneeled before us. I had never seen anything more inviting.
With some embarrassment, I sought to hide the fact that I had begun to rise to
the occasion.
"No," she said, her voice so quiet I was surprised to have heard it.
"Please--may I?"
What was she doing? She removed my broad belt and let my trousers drop, setting
me free. I was powerless to stop her. Was she going to--
As a matter of fact, she was. The priest beside me dropped his loincloth and
began to massage himself as well, using both hands in a peculiar fashion, and
soon the elder joined him.
I had no will to resist, of course, and soon she swallowed my seed. The priest
could not contain himself and scattered his release on her face and chest; he
seemed to get pleasure from covering her with his milk, laughing at her as she
tried to scrape his semen from her cheek and breasts and into her mouth. The
priest was beginning to grate on my nerves.
I stroked her lovely face, gathering the priest's filth, and allowed her to lick
it from my hand. She then turned to the elder and coaxed a gift from him as
well, his old voice rising as he reached his peak.
"I haven't done that in years," he muttered, a smile on his wizened old face.
I raised my trousers and was about to buckle my belt when she said, "Wait," and
placed her hand on mine. "I am still thirsty."
The priest explained what she meant with actions rather than words, annoying me
further still as he let loose his bladder on her. She turned toward him, her
mouth open wide, trying to drink what she could, but he pointed his stream first
at her chest and then her belly and then her hair and this way and that, making
it impossible.
The elder joined him and she took the end of his member between her lips and
drank eagerly, at first losing hardly a drop though her face twisted and her
nose wrinkled at the taste. But she could not long keep up with his pace and
much of his offering spilled out in the end, much to her disappointment. And
then she turned to me.
"No," I said, mostly to myself. How could I do such a thing--piss on such a
lovely creature? Piss-diluted blood still dripped from the corner of her
mouth--how that must have burned! Not to mention how the yellow stream must have
felt on her ragged flesh. "No!" I said again.
"Won't you, please?" she begged once more, and I thought I could see tears in
her eyes as she looked up at me.
"Please, sir--you must do what you can for the man's wife," said the elder. "And
it's the only thing she'll have for the next three days."
"Please help me," she said once again.
How could I deny her? I released my water as slowly as I could so that she could
drink it all.
"Now," said the priest, "the two of you can observe the second part of her
sacrifice later. For now, go, drink, and recover your strength and you can be of
service when she is finished."
So we walked down to the well to slake our thirst.
"She's the best we've had in a long time," said the elder. "There are three
other Prayers at the temple, but none of them are half as good as her. She has
never turned down a request, and she's never failed to make herself heard. The
god holds her in special favor."
This was their favor? How ironic.
"I've never seen any Prayer more willing to give of herself for the good of her
people," he said, amazement plain in his voice. "Such beauty and such strength!
And she has great faith. But she won't last long."
"What do you mean?" She's been a prayer since she was five, has she not? Ten
years already--she must have been a woman of amazing stamina.
"Last Samhain she took her vow and began her true life as a prayer," said the
elder. "It will be a miracle if she sees the next one. And to be released from
her vow she must serve for three years or be wed, which no one will do, of
course. She's too valuable."
"And besides, soon her beauty will be marred with scars, both outside and in,"
he lamented. "The people ask too much of her--she asks too much of herself. I
fear she will die before winter comes again."
The old man was crazy, surely. "No," said I, "she must be smarter than that."
And I spat on the ground, unwilling to believe.
# # #
We slaked our thirst at the well and, as I drank, my thoughts turned for a
moment to the girl we had left back at the temple who now had nothing to drink
but piss and semen. Could she really survive the next three days? And had she
not already been three days without food? Surely she must be nearly faint with
hunger! I tried to pity her but failed. I had guzzled almost an entire pail of
water so that I would have more for her on our return.
The sun was low in the west when we reached the temple again, though the heat of
the day had hardly diminished, and I was torn between anxious worry and
excitement at my beautiful Prayer's final activity for the evening. When we
arrived, however, I must admit that I did not understand what was happening.
Indeed, she was nowhere to be seen.
"The altar must face the sun for her offering," the elder explained. "She will
move it to face the east in the morning and the west in the evening, and then
she will offer herself upon it once after dawn and once before dusk."
So, the disorganized pile of stone before me was to be an altar?
"She has gone around to the other side of the temple, I expect, and she'll be
back shortly with another piece of the altar."
And indeed that very moment she appeared from the east side of the long wooden
house that served as their temple. On her slender shoulder she carried a great
wooden beam, as long as I was tall and as thick as my leg. She staggered as she
came into view and fell to her knees, the massive chunk of wood threatening to
pound her into the ground or snap her neck as she fell. My breath caught in
horror--
But she caught herself somehow and struggled on. Again and again she made the
journey, carrying stone after stone and three more of the big wooden beams. She
fell time and again, her knees were bloodied by sharp rocks found in the soil
near the temple, her arms and shoulders bruised by the altar's many parts, but
she kept on, unwilling to stop, hardly slowing down--though she certainly could
not move very fast. She would make it! I thought, forgetting that she would have
to do this again tomorrow, and again that evening--three times she would have to
offer herself.
The altar seemed nearly complete, so I followed her to the other side. One large
stone still remained: one of four slabs that seemed cut to sit atop the altar.
They must have weighed twice what all the others had weighed, even more than the
heavy wood she had carried. She had managed to shift the last of them only
fifteen or twenty paces before she collapsed, her breath coming in rapid gasps
like a panting dog.
Her flesh turned pale and the marks of the abuse heaped on her through the day
stood out in sharp relief, and her breathing grew even faster before her entire
body convulsed and I realized that she was retching.
Of course, she'd been without food for several days. Her wracking convulsions
produced only a trickle of yellow-tinged fluid and then nothing, but her body
kept shaking for several minutes afterward. When at last she regained control of
herself, she began to try to rise.
"No--" I began to say, but the elder pulled me back.
"She must!"
"It is true," she said, every muscle quivering as she pushed herself to her
hands and knees. But the effort was too much and soon she collapsed to the
ground again.
And suddenly the priest was there, and he stood over her laughing, a thin cane
in his hand. "What's wrong? Is it finally too much for you, bitch?"
Then he fell to his task with vigor, striping her flanks, her shoulders, her
back, her thighs--it was all I could do to watch without killing him. Fresh
blood welled from the newly formed welts he placed on her fair skin, but it
seemed she could sweat no more so he went to fetch another bucket of saltwater
from the temple. I almost praised the Prayer's god aloud when he left.
"Please rise," I said to her, "can you rise? He'll only beat you more when he
comes back."
She nodded and I let out a breath of relief, but then she said, "Of course he
will. It is his duty to the god." Her shaking arms pressed against the ground
once more, but it was no use.
I bent to help her.
"No!" she shouted at me. "Touch me and this will all be for nothing!"
But I could not sit by and do nothing! Then it occurred to me, the one thing I
could do.
"True," I told her, "but it will also all be for nothing if you do not complete
your task. Now get up!"
As if by a miracle, she forced herself off the ground and remained there
kneeling before me.
"Now," I said with force, "drink!"
And I offered her more "holy water," which she took greedily, thanking me when
she had finished. The elder was about to give her some of his as well, but at
that time the priest returned.
"Ah, you're halfway there," he said, almost disappointed. "Then I can make use
of your front again at last."
Now he was savage! He began to sweat with his effort as he sent the cane into
her breasts and stomach time and again, and so careless was he that one stroke
actually caught her on the throat, though she was--thankfully--protected by her
collar. For a third time he began to draw blood, and only then did he slow his
pace, at last beginning to choose his targets though he certainly did not strike
with less force.
But that seemed to make no difference to the girl. Her mouth opened, her head
raised to the heavens above, now turning purple.
"My flesh bleeds for you, my bones ache, breaking.
"But your whip and your rod, they comfort me,
"Bring me to your throne, throw me at your feet.
"Take me, my pain, or my life, in her stead."
I don't know how much longer he beat her, for I was enchanted by her once again.
She did not cry out even once as he continued, but only repeated her prayer.
Even a bucketful of stinging water could only raise a quiet whimper from her. At
last, she stood again and took up her stone, and she bore it to the altar.
Her altar.
# # #
Night had all but fallen! By the gods, would they not call a halt to this
insanity and allow the poor girl some rest? She looked as if she could barely
lift her eyelids, much less her body, as she mounted the altar.
And what an altar! Even now the priest was building a small fire in its base,
not hot enough to cook her but certainly more than hot enough. And as if weren't
bad enough, she was forced to sit on a saddle of iron set in the middle of the
altar. When asked why such a rare metal would be wasted so, the elder said that
it was so that the saddle could stand the heat. Alarmed, I inquired as to the
Prayer's safety, but the elder promised that it would not get hot enough to do
much lasting damage. Even so, the idea of the metal burning her most sensitive
place was enough to make me cringe...
But it also forced me to adjust my belt and trousers so that I could remain
comfortable where I stood. How could she have such an effect on me? I feared I
was turning into some kind of monster.
The heat rose about her as darkness fell, but she never moved, even when the
saddle became hot enough to make me jerk my finger away when I touched it. No
tears, no sweat, not even a quickening of her breath. At last she began to
recite her prayer once again, begging her god above to amplify her suffering, to
hear her anguish in the heavens.
"He can't hear you," said the priest. "What kind of pathetic sacrifice are you,
anyway? I've seen children's spankings more worthy of his attention. Come on,
make it hurt!"
So she began to rub her sex on the hard iron saddle, the rough ridges and scales
on its surface tearing at her lips and inner thighs like hundreds of dull
knives. I imagined that I could hear the sound of blood sizzling on the iron.
She was panting once again, a whimper escaping her lips now and again. Soon she
forgot all about her prayer. Her eyes closed and her head bowed as she
concentrated all her energy on thrusting her hips forward and pulling them back.
I could hear her arms, tied behind her, slapping against her backside as she
moved.
Still she did not sweat. Something was wrong.
"Bring water," I said to the priest.
"She can have no water," he snarled. "She will ride until she is done, and then
she can drink." He turned to watch her ride once more, ignoring me altogether.
This buffoon had a thick skull, but my hand, applied to the side of his head,
opened his mind to new ideas.
"Water to pour over her! And I don't care if it has fucking salt in it!" I
shouted in my own language, and the elder translated for me.
"That will cool the saddle," the elder said, delivering the priest's reply. "We
cannot afford it. Besides, she is nearly done."
The priest disappeared into the temple for a moment and returned with two
fistfuls of green plants, each the length of his arm from shoulder to fingertip.
His hands were covered with leather mittens and I suddenly had a sinking feeling
in the pit of my stomach--his two newest whips were made of nettles, holly, and
rose branches.
"Don't worry," said the priest with one of his wicked smiles. "I won't take my
time."
The Prayer never stopped, never slowed in her ride, but it was clear that the
pain of the nettles had its effect on her. She flung her head up toward the sky,
her eyes open wide, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck stood out like
strained cords with each new stroke, and soon she was in constant, unrelenting
pain from the sting. Her skin turned red and raw from the punishment both in
front and back and, at last, she found her voice.
Her wail rose to the heavens, her voice cracking as she cried, a sound beyond
mere pleasure or pain, older, more primal than any simple human sensation. Her
eyes took on an animal luster, their depths becoming wild, rampant. I could not
look away.
"Burn me beat me kill me hurt me fuck me
Eternal hell, torment, torture, anguish!
Whip me flog me cane me crush me tear me
The life you break, the life you take, is mine!"
Her prayer sang out into the dark shadows of the forest. They could probably
hear her all the way back at the village. Did they know what they were doing to
her? Did they even care?
The priest didn't.
Her last reserves gone, the Prayer's body went limp on the saddle. The elder
lurched forward to catch her but waited to see the priest's response. The
bastard shook his head and walked slowly back toward the temple.
It seemed to take him an eternity to return, but he did at last, with two more
buckets, each at least twice the size of the ones he'd been using for the
saltwater. It didn't smell like saltwater.
"What's in here?"
"Don't worry," said the priest. "She'll love it."
With that, he dumped the first bucket over her head.
She sat up instantly, shrieking in pain. The liquid, yellow by the light of the
quickly-dying fire, dripped from her wounds, scalding each welt, every pinprick,
in turn, washing away the blood, the sweat, the oil, and perhaps the last
remnants of her sanity. She sobbed uncontrollably, her whole body shaking as it
seemed that every pain she'd ever felt returned to her for a moment.
But then, as if by magic, she was calm once again. The priest put the second
bucket on the ground and glared at her. "Promise me," he said.
She shook her head.
In a rage he backhanded her face, opening her bloody lip once again.
"I'm not doing this unless you promise me!"
"What does he want?" I asked her.
"Something I can't give," she said, bowing her head.
I glared at the priest, suddenly realizing what I had to do.
"Are you ready?" I asked her, lifting the last bucket.
She opened her eyes, rimmed red and bloodshot, and she looked into mine. And
nodded.
This time only a whisper of the pain escaped her lips. She was such a beautiful
sight as she endured.
When it was over she said, "Thank you."
# # #
I had never seen anyone so exhausted. The elder had ordered the men of the
village to supply her with holy water and she had drunk her fill, so perhaps
that had helped. But even so...
"Are you sure you're going to be all right?"
She only nodded her answer.
I took her in my arms and carried her back to the temple. I set her down against
the wall and wrapped my shirt around her, sat down beside her. "I've never seen
anyone or anything like you--like what you did."
I didn't really expect a reply.
"How long will you continue?"
Her answer was immediate. "Until my time is done or until Los claims me," she
said. "Or..." But she never finished that thought.
I think I knew what it was.
"And you're happy?"
She shook her head. "No matter what I do or how hard I try, my work is never
done," she said. I started to voice my agreement, but she cut me off. "If only I
weren't so weak! If I could endure but a little longer, maybe I could--"
I grabbed her mouth to stop her talking. "Never! Never call yourself weak," I
told her. And then something strange happened.
I kissed her.
I don't know what I was thinking, but I'm glad I did. At first she struggled
against me but she was far too weak from her long day, and then I took her
bottom lip between my teeth and bit down. Soon her arms were wrapped around me
and my shirt was forgotten in the dirt as we embraced, and then her shaking arms
tried desperately to remove my belt and I helped her, and we were lost in one
another.
Our coupling was like none other I'd ever experienced--and I was beginning to
get the impression that she was a very singular girl. She was willing enough
that I felt no guilt about taking her, but there was a quiet resistance within
her, almost as if she resented our pleasure. That resistance didn't last long. I
remember our moments together as if remembering a dream, snatches of motion,
sensation, and then something about an ending, and I know the basic result, even
if I don't know how it happened. I do remember that it was amazing. She told me
so.
"Please stop! You're going to ki--kill m--me!" she gasped even as her hands
sought purchase on my back and her hips slammed into mine. My teeth found her
neck and, when at last she stopped moving and thanked me and I felt it safe to
withdraw, I attacked her nipples as well.
"Please!" she groaned again. "I'm so thirsty, would you...?"
Perhaps recalling my disapproval, she seemed hesitant to ask, but I was all too
happy to oblige. I let her have both of my gifts, but much of my semen wound up
on her face rather than in her mouth. I suspect she did that on purpose.
She licked the seed from her fingers as she talked, her voice that of someone on
the edge of the dreamworld.
"You can't save me. Don't try. I belong to Los now, and I believe he wants to
kill me," she said. "So I will let him."
I couldn't think of any reply. And I didn't think she knew what she was saying.
And I liked the sound of her voice. So I let her speak.
"I'm glad you enjoyed today," she said. "Somehow, I did too--for you, I think. I
wanted... to suffer for you. But I'll be glad when you're gone, trader, gone
down the road never to come back. I will say your prayer tomorrow, and then you
can leave."
I caressed her beautiful face and kissed her cheek, kissed her lips as she tried
to speak.
"I gave myself to Los last summer. You're confusing me. I cannot--" she yawned
deeply "--serve two masters. And I don't know..." I thought for a moment that
she wouldn't finish. "...who I would choose."
"Thank you," she said, her eyes fluttering closed. She'd fallen asleep.
I had just finished putting my trousers back on when I noticed the priest. He'd
been watching us.
# # #
