Sensual Fiction
Purpose in Life
Suspense, love, and mythology. A fiction story of death and new life.
The spider is waiting patiently in her web. Is it a Black Widow? Nay, this is Ireland. More likely a Nobel False Widow…
I once read that a spider web is not a good analogy for the web of life. It’s a murder weapon! I’m watching her hairy legs, engrossed in thought.
So I nearly missed the blond giant crossing the field in my direction. He’s dressed in an old bomber jacket, jeans, and walking boots. A backpack hangs loosely over his right shoulder.
Immediately, an image of possibility appears in my mind’s eye. Cú Chulainn is emerging…
He might be the person to fulfill my dearest wish. He might bring about the end to a life without purpose.
In a year’s time, I will no longer be lonely in my Irish shed. Just a few more steps and he’ll be within my reach.
“Come on, keep on walking…” I murmur.
His right foot mounts the dry stone wall. And his left foot steps down on the land, I like to call my own. He looks at the sheep. There’s one black lamb among them.
He looks at the shed that I’ve made my home years ago.
I try to see it with his eyes, but don’t succeed. It has become such a normal environment for me that it’s hard to watch it with a stranger’s eyes.
He kneels down, sits with his back propped up against the spiky stones, takes a notebook out of his backpack and writes.
I wonder what he writes. Shall I ask him?
Twenty minutes pass before he stands up again. Continues his walk. I’m a patient person. Time has never been my enemy.
His sun-bleached hair falls across his forehead and I feel an urge to push it back.
His eyes look vaguely in my direction, but I’ve posted myself out of his vision. I observe him, but can’t be watched. When he’s close enough, I make myself materialize.
I could have said: “I appear in the doorway” if there would have been a door in my sheep shed alias home. But there isn’t any. The entrance is no more than a gaping hole in the wall.
He looks startled when he sees me.
“Hello, I’m Niels,” he says with a slightly foreign accent.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t expect anyone here.”
“I know.”
“Do you work here?”
“No. I live here.”
Niels’ reaction is endearing. His compassionate grey eyes are big with incredulity before they shrink again to normal size.
He pushes his hair back to no avail.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No.”
I decide to save him the embarrassment by changing the subject.
“What did you just write?”
“A poem… But do you mean it? Do you live here?”
“Yes, ever since I was fourteen and kicked out of my father’s house. And before you start wondering… In summer I wash in the stream and in winter I mostly use the bath of one of the farmers. He owns the sheep.”
Niels smiles. I must have guessed his thoughts right.
I feel his admiring gaze shift from my face to my body. It feels like a dozen flames licking my eyes. My chin. My torso. And eventually my legs and shoeless feet.
The glow spreads like warm wine through my veins. I shiver.
“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe it! I’m walking innocently through the Irish countryside, only to find this sheep shed with no door. Discovering there’s a mysterious woman living here.”
Dreamily, he describes me.
“Your hair is black as ravens’ feathers. And I bet it’s soft as silk. Contrasting nicely with your light blue eyes. The skin on your face glows from within. And although your purple dress is shapeless, it’s flattering.
I just long to watch you and write poems about you. What’s your name?”
“Morrigan.”
I wait for a startled reaction. But none comes.
Foreigners don’t know about Celtic mythology. Still, I need him to know what he’s getting himself into. I want him to take the risk consciously.
“I’m named after the Irish Goddess who announces death.”
“Mo-rr-i-gan.”
Niels makes the sound of my name roll on his tongue. This way, it sounds like the name of bubbly wine or a roaring sports car.
Wishful thinking. A pariah will never become a princess.
“I can’t understand your parents for giving you such a sinister name,” he says. “But I do like its sound.”
“My mother died while giving birth. My father never forgave me for killing her.”
Niels looks horrified.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. What’s the poem about?”
He hesitates but tells me anyway.
“The sheep. I always write poems. About everything,” he says shyly.
“May I read it?”
Instead of answering, he hands me his notebook.
Black lamb, where are your roots?
Where’s your base, your origin, your core?
Who’s your father, who’s your mother?
Who are you?
Knowing this will be independence
and defence against them who’ll say:
You’re not one of us
You don’t belong
I recognize myself in the words, but I know it must have been the black lamb that inspired him.
Am I a black sheep?
I don’t want to think about my mother and my father. I don’t want to belong. I just want an end to the loneliness. A future he might give to me.
“Will you write about me?” I ask. “Bring me a poem when you come back?”
“I’d love nothing more,” Niels replies.
His grey eyes see right through me before he turns and walks away.
I know he’ll be back.
It takes Niels three days to come back. I watch him. His backpack is slung nonchalantly across his right shoulder. Like before.
He passes the dead tree in the neighboring field and looks up. A flock of crows spreads its wings. Screeching their displeasure at being disturbed.
He stands still. Watching the birds. And I wonder if he has researched my name, Morrigan, and the accompanying mythological stories.
I asked around in the village and found out a little more about him. Apparently, he is a Dutch guy on holiday with some friends. One of which is most likely his girlfriend.
She’s seen in the village doing the shopping. Greeting him with a kiss on the lips when he took one of her heavy shopping bags.
She’s described as more handsome than beautiful. Her blonde hair is braided. She wears sensible shoes and a rain-resistant parka with a hood.
When I heard this piece of news, I doubted if he would come back to me.
But now he has.
“Hi,” Niels says, placing his bag on the moist grass.
He sighs deeply. He must be smelling the fresh morning smell of juicy, green Ireland.
He takes out his notebook and flips through it.
Upon finding the desired page, he holds the words against his body. As if he’s not yet ready to share his gift.
“You must know I’m engaged,” he starts.
“You’ll understand the poem better if you know.”
He hands me the notebook and I read in silence.
Raven black hair and pale blue eyes
A temperament I’ll never own
Passion and fire replace the rippling stream
of my love for blonde, sensible and well-known
Guilt, pain and sadness are pushed aside
God, I don’t know why I strive
Her look bewitches and I can’t help but watch
this woman who’ll destroy my life
I remain silent. Silence will make him explain.
Most people use more words than necessary. Whereas silence makes them uncomfortable.
“You’re different,” Niels says.
“Different from all the women I’ve ever known. You’re ethereal. Beyond this world. But also a survivor. I want to know about you. You’re a muse. An inspiration. But meeting you feels like a dream. Are you for real or am I imagining you?”
“I knew you’d come back,” I say.
“I didn’t even know it myself,” Niels replies.
“Some things are inevitable.”
He sighs again. This time I can’t read its meaning. It can be desperation or acceptance.
“Are you never lonely?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” I reply.
I stand closer to him now.
He’ll be able to smell my hair. Freshly washed with lemon and lavender oil. He’ll definitely want to touch it.
The feeling of warm wine through my veins returns and makes me immeasurably happy.
We go inside where I’ve put two sheepskin rugs next to each other on the floor for comfort.
We are dancing in silence.
No music.
No sound.
No words.
Just feelings and movements.
Niels, living his dream. Me, fulfilling my future…
What’s in it for me?
Everything!
The moment he appeared on the other side of the dry stone wall, I knew he would bring me my purpose in life.
No more loneliness.
In nine months’ time, I’ll have what I want most. A child and a future.
And although he’s the strong, blonde giant straight out of the Irish folk tales and I am the Morrigan, he will not even have to die in battle.
He groans and I push his blonde hair back from his forehead.
Or will he?
Thank you, Mike, for confirming that this story is enjoyable for men as well as women. Suspense and sensuality are gender-neutral…
