Jorandil: God of Beltane: Sons of Herne, #4

List of the Pagan Sabbats

WHILE THE RITUALS AND situations created for this series are purely fiction, they are based on actual holidays observed by a number of pagan paths. The eight pagan sabbats take place on or between an equinox or solstice. Dates vary based on the sun and hemisphere. Some pagans consider Yule the beginning of their year, while others begin with Samhain. For the purpose of this series, I used the Northern Hemisphere and Yule as the starting point.

Yule

(Dec 20-23) Winter Solstice, longest night of the year. A celebration of the rebirth of the sun, as the days will now get longer. Yule logs, wassail, and mistletoe are traditional, as is the holly king, who some believe is part of the Santa Claus legend.

Imbolc

(Feb 1-2) Also called Candlemas or St. Brighid’s Day. A time when ewes bring forth lambs, meaning spring is coming. Sacred to the goddess Brighid. Candles, St. Brighid crosses, and priapic wands are common associations.

Ostara

(Mar 20-23) During the Spring Equinox. Sacred to Eostre, lunar goddess. Spring has arrived, and new life is celebrated. Eggs, rabbits and flowers are traditional.

Beltane

(Apr 30-May 1) A sabbat honoring fertility. Summer arrives, when the god and goddess consummate their union and conceive life. Dancing around the maypole, bonfires, handfastings, and sexual revelry are common traditions.

Litha

(Jun 20-22) Summer Solstice or Midsummer. Longest day of the year. Said to be a time of high magic, especially among fairy lore. (Remember A Midsummer Night’s Dream?) The sun is at its strongest, but will weaken as it gives way to the darker half of the year.

Lammas

(Jul 31-Aug 1) Also called Lughnasadh, after the god Lugh (pronounced: Loo). The first of three harvest sabbats, it is a time to begin reaping what has been sown. Baking bread, corn dolls, and wheat are common traditions and symbols.

Mabon

(Sep 21-23) Fall Equinox. The pagan thanksgiving and second harvest sabbat. Crops are almost fully gathered now, many of which have been stored and turned into ciders, jams, and other goods. Named for the god Mabon, known for freeing captives.

Samhain

(Oct 31) Halloween/All Hallows. Summer is gone and dark days approach. The veil between worlds is thin, meaning spirits of departed souls may cross over/communicate. Apples, black cats, Jack-o-Lanterns, and brooms are common.

JORANDIL: GOD OF BELTANE:

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THE RESTLESS PULSING in Jorandil’s cock would have clued him in to what was happening even if he hadn’t been standing in front of the veil, watching the anomaly unfold. It happened every year the same way, starting as a vague ache in his loins coupled with an impending sense of doom. A warning crawled over his skin, pricking up gooseflesh beneath the quills of his wings. Then came the arousal, the writhing, grinding urgency to plunge his cock inside a female until the universe fell back into proper alignment.

It was the night of Beltane, a sabbat few humans still marked on the calendar, and far fewer still grasped the danger of two worlds hanging in the balance. Should Jorandil or the others fail in their task, humanity would discover that truth—but too late to do anything about it.

The shimmering opalescence of the veil grew more translucent, the waves of energy thinning under tremendous forces. The worlds were near colliding. He reached out with his thoughts into the mortal realm, sifting through echoes of voices. Some were angry, others frightened or despondent. All were unaware of their current plight. He pressed on to find the ones he sought—those busy celebrating the sabbat with raucous laughter, song and dance, and though far less frequently these days, with giant bonfires and sexual revelry. Beltane was a time to rejoice in the mating of god and goddess, and some still honored that tradition by fucking themselves into oblivion. What they did not know is that they were instinctively mimicking the act required to close the veil and preserve their world for another season.

Jorandil heard the men first, rutting and grunting as they thrust their rods into pussies or asses as though the fate of the universe depended on it. He allowed himself a tight smile at that, for he understood the imperative all too well. Still, his attention quickly drifted to the females receiving such attention, and his cock began stiffening more rapidly when he found them. The veil stretched tighter, and he could see them through the mists. Willing women in the throes of passion, like the one with her skirts raised as she lay on her back on a grassy hill. Another knelt on all fours with her hair hanging in her face. A third with long nails and a loud cry was clutching the back of her mate while he brought her to a place Jorandil had never been able to take a woman. He watched her for a brief while, letting the sounds of her passion wash over him, imagining what it would feel like to elicit a response, any response, when he was buried inside a human female. But no woman would ever writhe beneath him. None would cry out his name as they soared to climax together. The women he joined with each Beltane would not feel his passion. They would never even remember he existed.

The god Herne had warned Jorandil in private and at length about the temptation of human females, a notion Jorandil had scorned when he had accepted his father’s appointment as overseer of Beltane. Now, however, he wondered whether the god of the hunt had known his son better than Jorandil had known himself.

Jorandil, son of Herne.

Andero’s voice jarred Jorandil from his thoughts, but he didn’t bother to turn away from the veil to greet his friend and the overseer of acolytes in the Counsel of Sabbats.

The time approaches, Andero went on. The torch must soon be lit. Have you made your selection?

Jorandil sighed and let the loudly climaxing female slip from his view. Does it really matter whom I choose?

I suppose not, assuming she is pure and untouched. Andero’s dark eyes pierced Jorandil as the man came alongside. You’re not still questioning the importance of your task?

I do not question the importance of it. I simply no longer find the satisfaction in it that I once did.

Saving two worlds is no longer achievement enough for you?

It should have been, Jorandil knew. His father had appointed eight of his sons to oversee the sabbats, and the wings inherited from his mother made Jorandil the perfect choice to assist other angels in sealing the veil on Beltane. Keeping the worlds divided when the veil thinned was a task that occurred twice each year, the greater threat during the darkness of Samhain. That was the domain of his brother, Archipellus. He was not half angel, like Jorandil. He was something else, and his methods for sealing the veil were his own. Still, his brother’s guardianship style would become moot if Jorandil failed to restore balance at Beltane.

Saving the worlds is not an achievement, Jorandil replied. It is a sacred duty.

Andero nodded. Then make your selection. The other angels are already in position and preparing to join wings as soon as the veil breaches. He paused, his eyes measuring Jorandil from beneath unruly brown bangs. You do understand why your presence is not made known to the women involved?

I do.

Humans aren’t ready to know the truth.

I said I understand.

Sometimes I wonder.

Jorandil turned toward Andero, his mouth set in a tight line. Our realms would merge forever in chaos if the angels of the four corners fail to seal the breach on Beltane Eve. That is not a fate humans are ready to know about. There would be dangerous consequences if they were made aware of just how perilous our situations are when the veil thins.

Dark eyes scanned him warily. You say the words, son of Herne. But you are not convinced of them.

I am convinced humans would not be happy to know that an angel comes in the night to use their women.

The women give consent or not, as their will decides. Free choice is vital.

Yet they feel nothing, see nothing. They are not even consciously aware they have consented to the sacrifice of their virginity.

Their role is not to stroke your male ego, but to join with you to preserve the balance. One soul from each realm, united but separate, bringing forth the life force of an immortal and the virgin blood of a human. Within that act lies the power to seal the veil. Your body is designed to perform instinctively to that end, regardless of your partner’s interaction. Who cares if they lay beneath you as lifeless as my first wife?

A stab of annoyance melded with the restless churning in his gut. So, they needn’t know they were instrumental in preserving our worlds for another season. They go about their lives with the normalcy most humans seem to crave.

Of course. Andero cocked his head and raised a brow. Although perhaps more’s the pity for the women you visit. One look at your flowing hair, broad shoulders, and piercing, blue-gold eyes and I’ve no doubt most women on the planet would happily sacrifice themselves to your cause. The other guardians standing at the ready around the veil are merely angels. But you are the handsome son of a god.

Jorandil frowned at him and ruffled his wings lightly. You are not helping.

Just trying to lighten the mood. You’re always staring into the other realm as though the weight of the worlds rest on your wings alone.

I am my father’s chosen, Jorandil said. The god of Beltane. The fate of the worlds this night does rest on my wings.

Together they stood looking through the veil, and the tension drawing him nearer to the earth realm grew more taut and difficult to resist.

These women are hardly virgins, Andero said, waggling a finger. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your maiden, and fast.

A brief shudder went through Jorandil, and along with a surge of blood through his cock there was a faint pop of pressure in his ears. The breach was opening, pulling him in.

I needn’t bother choosing, Jorandil said. One is exactly the same as the next.

And if she is uglier than the back end of a centaur?

Jorandil shrugged. He didn’t need her to be attractive. He didn’t need to be mentally present with her at all. Simply closing his eyes to call up images of those he’d been watching would offer better inspiration than a woman whose spirit would consent while she slept through the whole thing.

The choice matters not, he said. I’ll leave it to fate to provide a worthy candidate.

Then light the torch, god of Beltane. Call forth the power to seal the veil.

Andero stood back, and Jorandil flexed his shoulders and back. His wings unfolded, massive and powerful, spanning his side of the veil. The wingspread would anchor him to this realm while his body pressed through the breach.

He turned to the pedestal, to the jewel torch that sat in a holder, waiting. The white silk