The Merry Llewd

The stallions stood around the courtyard. Barely a word was spoken. The braziers had been piled high. Radiant heat fought with the cold air. The worst of the rising wind was blocked when the large oak doors to the main street had been swung closed. They creaked at rattled as the gales rose.

There was a quiet excitement mixed with trepidation. Old Iron Gall, the town librarian, looked around and stroked his finely trimmed beard. “This is good. Everything is in order.” The smell of spices was in the air as the ceremonial wassail simmered over a fire pit. The old doe had provide sachets of mysterious collections, which now bobbed into and out of view in the hot cider. The Count had insisted that one of his best casks be broken open for the event. The cook had balked. “That’s not cooking cider!” In the end, though, the importance of the event had become clear.

Iron Gall took one last peak out the smaller door, set in the gate, grunted, and moved to the makeshift platform. Another keg was broken open and a toast offered. All had changed into ceremonial smocks: pure white, trimmed with red and green. Some had briefly balked at the requirement that they wear nothing underneath, but all had complied.

The librarian pulled out a slip of paper as he held up his cup. The crowd grew hushed. “The matron of winds approaches. She will not be contained, save by our tribute. She will be ravenous, and wanton. She will be desirous. We all know our duty, and we will fulfill it.” Then he looked closely at the paper, carefully reading the words that had been phonetically written.

Yatamay hanet tootivie siks mutta haluamay

Roo ah key too moota hemoo

Ya sitten toolian kuningas lowtah hanet

There was a gust of wind, a long wailing blast that whistled through the parapets. All the stallions looked up pensively and shivered. A loud, booming knock came on the massive oak gate doors. Silence and anticipation fell over the crowd. At a signal from the librarian, the ostler’s apprentice ran to unbolt the door. As soon as the rod was pulled back a gale swung the door open with crash and sent a swirl of mist and snow scoured from the streets into the courtyard. The braziers flared and the flames shot up in the moving air. The snow swirled into vortex column of crystals. The pillar of snowy air engulfed the platform, and rose up, growing narrower, denser and higher, until it reached above the rooftops.

Down in the street, Fern’s antlers tilted, then she looked up to see the crimson column, lit from below. Count didn’t notice. He was lost in his own mix of arousal and frustration. She just gave a small nod and moved on, confident that plans were in progress.

In the courtyard, the wind died suddenly. The snow sprinkled down over the crowd like a chilly blessing. As the flakes settled on heads, snouts and shoulders, a wave of arousal ran through the crowd. Each stallion stood a bit more erect. The cold, descending air brought a rise to the fine hairs of their pelts. It had a fragrance of an early spring, and tilled earth, and spices, and a warm hearth. Then the heat from the braziers reasserted itself. Such heat that made each of them think of their first time with a mare.

Silhouetted in the door against the glow of a rising moon was an apparition. The wind rustled the fabric, revealing the curves below. She clipped in on huge, split hooves. Spiral forms on her dress glittered and glowed.

Wordlessly, she came forward, lead by the old doe holding up the festooned staff. There was the sense of immense power, barely contained. And immense hunger. Her steps took her too the platform. Its height was such that a normal stallion, standing on the boards, would find himself face to face with this high apparition. Her slow, clopping steps took her to the cut in the platform. The Librarian watched, eyes wide, sweaty palms on the release lever.

As her front bumped the small table on the platform, he muttered a little prayer that his rigging worked and pulled hard on the lever. Sandbags fell, and the trap door swung upward banging into position. The imperious old doe slide the thick pins into place, trapping the feet of the Matron of Winds.

Cinny let out a long low growl that shook the stallion’s bowels. With surprising nimbleness, the old doe leapt onto the platform and was in front of her, holding up her staff. Cinny looked left, then right, taking in the crowd. Then, with a predatory grin, she slowly bent forward, laying her torso onto the provided support, her hands fell down to the leather shackles, and the doe quickly bound them.