Eventide by Celia Kyle Page B

collected the corpses of man and beast, incinerated them, then mixed the ashes into his horse manure and chicken droppings. It is no wonder he grew the best vegetables in the kingdom. Twice weekly he collected the corpses by horse-drawn cart. Grandfathers, old dogs, sick livestock. It mattered not. All returned to the earth by way of his furnace.
    And the mother—the garden-corner wench’s mother—was from the land where the sun rises. Her magics were well known and even the Queen had called upon her to see what visions lay in the bottom of her tea cup.
    Using his spyglass, Lin watched the garden-corner wench, envisioning that someday, he would lift her skirt and take her from behind, atop that rich soil, amongst the turnips and carrots. He would add his sacred seed to that of her garden and see the fruits of his labor blossom under him night after night.
    Market day saw the girl at her family’s stall, selling vegetables, fruits, spells and potions.
    The prince always bought an apple from the girl. She was just as sweet and her lips even more red and delicious looking. Like most commoners, she averted her eyes and bowed her head whenever his party approached. Only when she was alone in her garden and he traveling the road past her cottage, did she look into his eyes and offer the slightest of smile.
    The prince was smitten.
    *
    Lin pulled the feathers from the smallest of the pheasants and skewered it over his fire. The fatty meat of the bird sizzled and spit and the glow of his fire became enveloped in the odor of roasting fowl. He uncorked his wine and drank.
    Aged, deep red and pungent, it warmed his throat and hit his empty belly with force, causing his head to reel and forehead to perspire. He took a second swallow and sank back against the stone, pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders.
    The song of the sizzling bird and the pull of the wine put him off guard—just a bit. Thinking of his garden wench, Sigyn, by her given name, relishing the curve of her bosom as she stooped to pull a weed or offer him a tasty apple, he felt his manhood harden.
    He licked his lips, tasting the fermented grape clinging to his beard. Oh, but if the soft hairs of his own face was the soft fur of his sweet Sigyn’s nether regions! There is a feast hidden between her thighs and someday, I am going to have my fill of her.
    Lin unlaced his hunting braes. His erection jutted up from his groin as straight and true as a tree trunk in the surrounding wood. He licked his palm to moisten his way, and encircled his strong right hand around the shaft.
    He closed his eyes as he stroked his hand, putting thoughts of night spirits and hunger from his mind as he made love to the garden-corner wench, turning her on his member like he turned the pheasant on the spit before him. He would pump into her and fill her over and over and allow her to bear his children. He would even wed her. And if not, he would keep her as his mistress. No woman could ask for more than that.
    So entranced with his masturbatory fantasy, Prince Lin failed to notice the mist rolling in from the darkest parts of the forest or the oddly out of place honk of a goose so far from the river. He shivered, for it had a biting chill, but still he stroked his hand until his seed welled, brimmed and spilled.
    He then noticed the call of the geese—it was the same sound he’d heard when a thick fog had first befallen his party.
    As he returned to earth from his euphoric climax, he noticed a new scent on the breeze. The mist had carried with it an odor of foulness and misfortune. He carefully tucked away his prized kingly penis and slowly opened his eyes. The forest spirits were afoot—likely trying to steal his supper or worse, seduce him into becoming further lost and more imperiled.
    He knew better than to wander into the mist a second time. He was embarrassed to admit it, though he knew it was a kingly attribute to face his own mistakes and learn from them. He had lost sight of