The Prayer

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.”

By the god of pain, three days! But 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 and holly 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.”