Magic in the Electric Eye of Wild Brigitte
Aibell’s magic still burned in my mind when I woke in the wild clover. Driven by the fairy queen’s design, I stripped off my clothes and slipped into the icy, emerald waters of the hidden spring.
Through a veil of ferns, I saw her. She knelt by the water, naked and uninhibited as a wild doe, a cascade of fiery hair spilling over her bare shoulders in the golden light. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Was this the woman who had haunted my visions in the phantom deserts of Africa—the only oasis in my parched past—or a siren conjured to break me?
We lingered in a charged, electric silence as the sun dragged across the sky and gave way to a heavy, star-choked night. The sheer proximity of her stoked a primal heat in my gut, a tension that held until exhaustion finally dragged me under.
At dawn, the invisible tether between us pulled taut. We rose together in the pale light, our bare feet sinking into the wet grass as we moved toward the artesian well. The waiting was over; it was time to break the silence and uncover exactly who she was.
“Is your native tongue Gaelic,” I asked, my voice a low murmur against the chorus of birdsong, “or did the Romans school you in Latin?” Only the trill of a robin answered. In a moment of primal connection, I stuck out my tongue. She, with a child’s innocent defiance, mirrored my gesture, her small, pink tongue flicking at me. I pressed my fingertip against its tip, and repeated my question, but her response was a soft, drawn-out “ahhhhh,” a sound that resonated with the earth itself.
“Though I do not recall your name,” I confessed, my words a hopeful offering, “I feel a profound familiarity, as if I’ve known you from the dawn of time.” The memory of our desert sojourn flickered. I knelt, scooping mud from the bank, and sketched the undulating dunes, the slender grace of a palm tree. Her eyes, deep pools of ancient knowledge, watched me. Then, with a swift, decisive movement, she seized a stick and etched a symbol in the mud – an ankh, the ancient Egyptian sign of life. A cascade of memories, like bubbles rising from the depths of my soul, flooded my consciousness. Anubis, the jackal-headed god, guardian of the underworld, took form in the mud under my eager hand. Her eyes widened, her soul catching fire, a light I knew intimately. Then, her stick fell. Tears welled, blurring her vision. Were they tears of joy, of reunion? Or of sorrow, for a love that had perhaps withered through the eons, like autumn leaves starved of sun? My own heart sank, a heavy stone in the churning sea of my emotions.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush of remorse. “For gazing upon your bare form. I presumed the women here… that nakedness was as common as the wild shamrock. This may be the cause of your silence. My apologies.”
I reached for her hand, my fingers tracing the lines of her palm. With her own hand, I guided her finger into the mud, and together we etched a single name: ‘Lugh.’ A smile, radiant as the dawn, bloomed on her lips. “Lugh,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze. “Lugh, Lugh, Lugh.” A blush, warm as the sun’s first kiss, crept up my neck. She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek, a touch that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated knowing through me.
“You surmised correctly,” she said, her voice now clearer, stronger. “Being naked before a stranger was indeed the source of my silence. But you are no longer a stranger. What name do you bear now?”
“Lugh,” I answered, my voice steady, full of a newfound certainty.
“I go by Brigitte these days,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with a mirance that belonged to the fae and the ancient goddesses. “From Egypt to Ireland, we always find each other, no matter how far apart on this spinning world we are born. I hope you do not mind that I shed my clothes and tied the rags to a tree. I was on a pilgrimage to this spring, this cloutie well, a place every true Celt must know. It is my way of honoring the spirit of the well, of drawing the luck of the Irish. But enough of my babbling. Tell me, Lugh, what brought you to this sacred place?”
“My travels had led me along the eastern shore of our fair island,” I explained, my gaze drawn to the distant line of the western sea. “But a pull, a yearning, drew me here, to the edge of the world.”
The sun, an ancient cartographer, traced its path across the sky. But unlike the fiery orb that had dominated the day, we did not surrender to the encroaching shades of dusk. Brigitte, her hand in mine, led me to a patch of clover, a verdant haven that stirred within me a profound sense of déjà vu, an echo of the dream that had paved my way here.
She laid herself down upon the soft, fragrant carpet, like a bride awaiting her groom, her only dowry the unyielding love in her heart.
On the horizon, wisps of smoke curled skyward, the scent of aboriginal funeral pyres, a fragrant incense carried on the moist breeze. The distant burning bodies were a stark reminder of the ephemeral nature of the flesh, as fleeting as the wind, as transient as a whispered promise of love in the hush of night. And yet, in that moment, surrounded by the wild beauty of Ireland, with Brigitte beside me, I felt an eternity bloom. The thread of my past, woven by Aibell’s nimble fingers, had led me here, to this moment, to this woman. And though the world burned and faded, our love, a flame kindled by fire and water, by desert sands and Irish dew, would endure, a testament to the enduring power of the soul’s deep remembrance.
She, Brigitte, spoke, her voice a soft current in the twilight air, “I have always been sensitive to the brushstrokes of the shaman, when he painted me blue for our Druidic rites of spring. The touch of the brush on my bare skin, illuminated in the moonlight, made me feel more alive than I have ever felt. Please, dye me before we die.”
Though I had illustrated manuscripts in my youth, my hands had not touched a brush for years, nor held dye for such a sacred purpose. “I have no dye or brush,” I confessed, my gaze lingering on the curve of her throat.
A knowing smile played on her lips, touched by the dimming light. “I have already prepared blue dye, drawn from the Woad plant, in anticipation of such an evening as this. You will find it in the mortar by the clover patch, where the pestle has already worked its magic. And the artist’s tool you need is there as well, a feather from a raven’s wing, made ready for your hand.”
She lay on her stomach, as still as a blade of grass on a windless night, her breath barely stirring the air. For a fleeting moment, a subtle tremor passed through her, perhaps a ripple of nervousness, or the thrill of anticipation, I could not tell. But the moment dissolved, and she regained her composure, her form unmoving. I sat beside her, my fingers tracing unseen patterns on her skin, a slow dance of touch that mesmerized us both.
I dipped the raven’s feather into the deep, midnight blue of the Woad, a liquid shadow holding the essence of the night. On one scapula, I painted the intricate branches and roots of the Celtic Tree of Life, a whisper of ancient connection. On the other, the endless loops of a Trinity Knot began to bloom. My river of art flowed down her back, as shamrocks, signs of thrice-held magic, took shape from the dye on the feather, upon the living canvas of her skin. Each stroke was a prayer, a blessing woven into her very being.
A soft gasp escaped her, charged with delight. “You’ve stained a good luck sign upon my bottom!” she exclaimed, her voice vibrating with a primal joy. “Your tracery upon my skin feels like when a girl once drew her name upon my hand with a quill. It feels as if you are writing a love note, not just upon me, but to me, a silent binding of our souls.”
After the ink, still damp with the evening’s dew, had dried to a matte bloom, I drew my treasured book of spells from my knapsack. Its leather was worn smooth by generations of hands, its pages rustling with forgotten wisdom. “This is a book of spells for any occasion,” I told her, my voice low and resonant. “I consider this to be the right one for this moment.”
“Are you the sole proprietor of your spells?” she challenged playfully, turning her head to meet my gaze. “Because exclusivity, like many things, will soon be a relic of the past. Besides, my Gaelic is so rusty, my responses might give you tetanus!” A brief, sweet laugh escaped her. “But you know, one day my dream is for all the paper books to be recycled into banners of remembrance, for husbands and wives whose vows were broken by the betrayals of the heart, that truth might stand visible for all to see.”
“Yes,” I mused, “a field where honor might be reclaimed, and broken bonds revealed in the light of day.”
“Think of all the trees felled in our ever more denuded Irish forests,” she continued, her voice heavy with sorrow, “all to build armories for our foolish wars.”
“Our woodlands are the very lungs of the earth,” I replied, the weight of her words settling upon me. “To what useful purpose do our wars truly serve? It is time for sanity to reclaim this planet, lest we perish.”
“Oh, and don’t get me started on honeybees,” she murmured, her eyes distant, as if watching their unseen flight. “They have a utopian matriarchal society, with the queen bee at its sacred center. And they are the key to the pollination of fruits and some vegetables, the very sustenance of our lives.”
“The male drones,” I added, “meet death before their lives have truly begun.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged, a strange reverence in her tone, “but they do so in ecstasy with the queen, fulfilling their primal purpose.”
“Well, aside from their macabre but necessary mating ritual,” I prompted, “what is the trouble in bee land?”
“The unnatural blight of the farmer’s solutions,” she explained, her brow furrowing slightly, “the vinegar they use as a pesticide, is wreaking havoc on the drone’s potency. The drones, whose primary role is to mate with the queen, are becoming impotent. The ancient cycle is broken.”
“Where on earth did you learn so much about bees?” I asked, marveling at her depth of knowledge.
“I read the book ‘Naturalis Historia’ by the Roman author Pliny the Elder,” she said, her smile returning. “Sadly, that was his last book before Vesuvius consumed his mortal coil.”
“We think alike on this issue,” I said, a warmth spreading through me, “and on many others, I dare say.”
She looked back at me, a wicked grin blooming on her face, and our dance of words opened a door to something deeper. “There is a place of ancient records nearby, where I once cataloged the deeds of generations. As a keeper of such ancestral records, I surmise that I am a document you could check out, for whatever sacred binding you might need me for. Would you like to check me out and take me home? You can only have me for the duration of the ritual.”
“Don’t I get renewals?” I asked, a playful challenge in my voice.
“Unlimited renewals,” she promised, her eyes sparkling, “as long as you keep me in good condition. You know it’s just you and me alone here, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors. Now, please, recite some love spells to bind me as your lady.”
I replied, my voice falling into the rhythm of ancient verse, “You were forged by the elemental smith, Lord of the Molten Core, with iron in your veins and fire in your heart. Your molten love, primal and fierce, was destined to be given shape by the anvil of fate.”
“Your recitation is quite beautiful,” she breathed, her gaze fixed on mine.
“When Orion ran across the Irish hills,” I continued, the words flowing like a river, “your cast iron feet caught fire and found flight. They became light as a flame dancing on the wild range, in search of the only sustenance a woman can truly thrive on.”
She tilted her head, a hint of ancient mischief in her eyes. “And what, pray tell, would this be that is the sole provender for a woman such as I?”
“For women,” I declared, my voice a solemn vow, “love is the profound moan of Danu, Goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann, that lingers for millennia, an echo of creation itself.”
She pouted, feigning indignation. “I should hope love lasts for you men longer than a mere wink of a maiden!”
“Longer than the stars above,” I promised, my sincerity like a deep well, “for men like me.”
Giggles, like silver bells, sprang from her burgundy lips, filling the quiet night. “I am a bit drunk now,” she confessed, “pardon my mirth.”
“But you haven’t been drinking?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I am drunk from this encounter,” she replied, her gaze intoxicating, “and am intoxicated by your bookish charm. Though you are well versed, your fingernails are those of a woodsman, rough and unhewn. When we consummate our love, I want you to pinch my bottom, as a playful penance for me being Irish, but not wearing green, like the men in the tavern did when I was a barmaid.”
Fireflies, like tiny, whispering lanterns of the fae, blinked on and off through the star-spun darkness, illuminating the trail to a bed of moss, softened further by the welcome embrace of a patch of clovers.
On the gentle rise in the land, the distant flames of the funeral pyres glowed, a reminder of the cycles of life and death, as she led me into realms of both light and darkness.
Her touch was the rich, dark earth that nourished my deepest roots. Her body, an open flower, craving my pollen, unfolded under my exploration. She opened each petal of my heart with gentle persistence, laying bare my vulnerable center. She gently cradled my most secret self, holding the pristine, vulnerable egg of my deepest feelings. She tenderly stroked the very nexus of my unfolding sensate swell.
Our moth-winged watchers, the small, floating lanterns, illuminated us, imprinting their fleeting light upon my retinas. Their tail-haloed forms blinked merrily, dancing to the tune of her deep-throated warble, allowing me to see the passion play on her face, as though she were a soul rising in ecstasy from purgatory into heaven. When her reminder to wear green came, as promised, courtesy of my playful fingers, she howled, a wild, free sound like the wind sweeping across the moors.
The next morning, the sun baked the dew from our clover bed, and Brigitte stretched like a contented feline, her skin bare to the morning light, the blue woad designs I had painted upon her only adding to her breathtaking, unbridled wildness. We were sharing a simple breakfast of berries and fresh spring water when the heavy thud of marching boots shattered the tranquil chorus of the forest.
Three men emerged from the treeline. They were heavily armored, their faces scarred and their beards tangled with the dirt of a hundred battlefields. Warlords, by the look of their furs and plundered steel. They halted, their hard eyes immediately fixing upon Brigitte, who sat entirely unclothed upon the moss, thoroughly unbothered by their sudden arrival.
“Well met, travelers,” the leader boomed, though his gaze never left the curve of her hip. He offered a wide, insincere smile that showed half-rotted teeth. “We caught the smoke of your fire. The road is long and lonely, and we thought we might share a meal with such… friendly folk.”
They sat themselves down without waiting for an invitation, sprawling their massive, unwashed bodies around our small camp. They ate greedily from their own rations, tearing at salted meats, but they dined with us as though they were just a jovial group with no desire to do harm. Yet, every word out of their mouths dripped with heavy, thinly veiled desire.
“It takes a brave man to camp so close to the borderlands,” the second warlord grunted, tossing a bone into the fire. He leered openly at Brigitte. “And a very fortunate man to have such… spectacular scenery to keep his blood warm at night.”
“Indeed,” the leader purred, leaning forward. “Such rare beauty is wasted in the wild. A queen of the forest, surely. Tell me, lovely creature, does your protector share his treasures, or must a man barter for a taste of paradise?”
Brigitte’s eyes flashed with a wicked, iridescent light. She leaned back on her hands, proudly displaying the full, unashamed glory of her form, a sly smile curving her burgundy lips.
“You flatter me, fierce warriors,” Brigitte cooed, her voice dripping with sassy confidence.
“Let me consider your proposal. First, I must speak in private with my lover man, and then you shall get your prize.”
She rose gracefully, unabashedly naked, and took my hand, leading me a short distance away behind a cluster of thick oaks.
“Brigitte,” I whispered, my hand moving to the hilt of my blade. “I do not like the look of these beasts. I should run them through before they try to take you by force.”
She laughed, a mischievous, sultry sound that sent a shiver down my spine. She pressed her bare, warm body against mine, her fingers tracing a teasing path down my chest. “Hush, my fiercely protective wolf. Leave your sword in its sheath. I have a much more entertaining weapon in mind. Did you see how they salivated over me? I am going to seduce them with this boundless beauty and trick them into a humiliating defeat.”
“By offering yourself to them?” I asked, bewildered.
“By offering them a fantasy their swollen heads cannot resist,” she purred, her eyes dancing with risqué delight. “Just watch your clever fae work her magic. They think I am merely soft flesh, but I am going to leave them wallowing like the muddy swine they are.”
She kissed me deeply, a promise of later rewards, and strutted confidently back into the clearing. The three warlords practically tripped over their own swords standing up to greet her return, their eyes devouring her every step.
“Come to me, you big hunks of men,” Brigitte announced, striking a pose that made the leader swallow hard. “After all that marauding and pillaging in the company of hairy, unwashed male brutes, you must be simply ravenous for a woman’s softness. Your armor looks so heavy, so… rigid.”
She walked toward the edge of our camp, where the land dipped into a wide stretch of dark, uninviting muck—a bog that looked deceptively like a shallow pool of rainwater. She stood on our side of it, gesturing for them to approach the opposite edge.
“If you cross the mud, I will give you pleasures you have never known,” she promised, her voice lowering into a husky, irresistible register. She ran a hand slowly through her fiery hair, her body swaying with wicked intent. “But you must cross the puddle before you to prove you are worthy of my most wicked charms. A woman like me requires a man of unyielding action. The first man to cross gets me at my freshest, before having been pillaged.”
The warlords shoved each other, practically foaming at the mouth, but the leader held out a hesitant hand, looking down at the dark sludge separating them from their prize.
“But my lady,” the leader said, his brow furrowing. “It may be a bog. We could be swallowed by it, never to gaze upon your breathtaking beauty again.”
Brigitte let out a theatrical sigh, putting her hands on her bare hips, her eyes sparkling with sassy mockery. “A bog? Oh, you towering pillars of masculinity, it is but a puddle no deeper than a frog’s leg! Fear not, my steely warriors. You have no doubt been through many bloody battles and faced obstacles much more daunting than a tiny puddle of mud! Do you conquer lands merely for gold, whose cold, hard value pales in comparison to the warm, forbidden treasures of a woman?” She playfully bit her lower lip, arching her back. “Or are your spears just for show?”
That was all the provocation their fragile pride could withstand. The leader puffed out his chest, his eyes locked onto her swaying hips. He walked just a short way into the bog, the mud barely splashing his shins. He looked back and summoned his men with a victorious grin.
“She is telling the truth, you cowards!” he barked. “No deeper than a newt’s leg! Accompany me. Then you too will experience her unparalleled charms!”
The other two let out a guttural cheer and plunged in behind him. They all moved forward into the bog, their eyes entirely fixed on Brigitte’s unclad, mesmerizing form.
But as they progressed, the mud quickly thickened. The dark sludge rose to their knees, then their waists. They began to struggle, their heavy armor weighing them down, the suction of the bog gripping them like a vise.
“My lady, the ground… it vanishes!” the leader grunted, his face turning red with exertion.
Brigitte laughed, a musical, tinkling sound. She stepped right up to the edge, kneeling so they had a perfect, maddening view of her bare breasts. “Be not afraid, my brave little soldiers! If you desire to know my female magic in its fullest, most wicked pleasures, you must do this to prove yourselves! Push harder! A true lover never quits halfway!”
Driven mad by her risqué teasing and the tantalizing proximity of her naked flesh, they surged forward, abandoning caution entirely. They moved faster, thrashing violently, until they stepped right off the hidden shelf into the deepest part of the bog.
With a collective shout of panic, they sank straight down, the thick mud rushing up to their shoulders. They were utterly trapped, their arms pinned beneath the sludge, looking like three furious, dirty heads planted in a garden of filth.
Brigitte stood up, roaring with laughter, slapping her bare thigh in delight. “Oh, my poor, fierce stallions!” she taunted, pacing along the edge in a sassy, feline strut. “Look at you now! I was fully prepared to let you explore every secret curve of this body, but I do prefer my lovers to at least wash behind their ears! What a tragedy! So much great pleasure you might have known, and now all you have to keep you warm is the muck!”
“Witch!” one of the men spat, sputtering as mud splashed his chin. “Get us out of here!”
“Me? Get my hands dirty?” Brigitte gasped in mock offense, tossing her fiery hair. “I think not! I am a lady of refined tastes, and you gentlemen look positively filthy!”
Just as they began howling curses, the thunder of hooves shook the ground. A courier, adorned in the crimson and gold crest of the Queen of the Warlords, burst into the clearing. He pulled his steed to a halt, staring in absolute disbelief at the three elite warriors buried to their necks in mud, being gleefully mocked by a stunning, entirely naked woman painted in blue woad.
The courier quickly dismounted and called out to the trees. A dozen of the queen’s men poured out of the forest with ropes.
“What is the meaning of this?” the courier demanded.
Brigitte stepped forward, radiating mischievous innocence. “Oh, kind sir! These three naughty boys came to my camp, stared at my bare flesh like starving hounds, and boldly demanded to taste my Irish charms! I told them they needed a bath first, and they eagerly jumped right into the mud to impress me!”
The courier’s face went pale, then flushed with rage. He glared down at the trapped men. “Fools! You have shamed the Queen! You know the decree—flirting with an Irish lass is strictly forbidden, punishable by the lash! And you have let yourselves be defeated by a puddle while trying to break her law!”
The queen’s men threw the ropes, hauling the warlords out like oversized sacks of wet grain. The three men, once boastful and terrifying, now stood dripping with black, foul-smelling sludge from head to boot. They coughed and shivered, utterly humiliated.
“Take them back!” the courier barked. “They will face the wrath of the Queen back home in the castle for this disgrace!”
As the men were marched away, shamefaced and trailing a river of muck, Brigitte blew them a highly exaggerated, sassy kiss. “Better luck next time, you big hunks of mud! Try not to slip on your way to the dungeons!”
She turned back to me, her eyes dancing with triumph and wild, uninhibited joy. She wrapped her bare arms around my neck, pressing her warm skin against mine. “Now, my Lugh,” she whispered playfully, “where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by those swine?”
We grew old on the Irish cliffs, the rhythm of the tides dictating our final years. But Brigitte had always yearned to face the deep water. One afternoon, we rowed the currach far past the safety of the bay. The sky abruptly bruised purple. A fierce squall slammed into us without warning, churning the ocean into a frenzy. A rogue wave crested and crashed, shattering the hull and plunging us into the freezing Atlantic. I fought the churning black water, reaching for Brigitte, but the sea dragged us under.
Instead of drowning in the dark, I gasped for air and found myself standing on the soil of a sunlit farm, Brigitte suddenly beside me. It was a fleeting, impossible haven. Before we could even catch our breath, the sky shattered. Two shadow-draped enforcers dropped onto the grass, their presence extinguishing the light. They delivered a cold, absolute decree: our time in this realm was void, our lease expired. They raised their hands, and a freezing wind ripped through the farm, tearing Brigitte from my grip and hurling me into a blinding, swirling void.
I fought the chaotic currents of the in-between, terrified of losing her forever, until the scent of crushed heather cut through the mist. Queen Aibell materialized, her emerald sprites pushing back the shadows. With a commanding sweep of her hand, she carved a path through the dark and pulled me into a glowing, ethereal glade.
There stood Brigitte. Her spirit was vibrant and unharmed. I rushed to her, our raw, ethereal forms colliding in an embrace so profound it chased the freezing terror from my bones.
Brigitte stepped back, looking at our bare, glowing forms, then turned to the Fairy Queen. “You do conjure the loveliest dream, Queen. To be here with Lugh, gazed upon by the watchful eyes of you and your band of merry makers, is a delight beyond measure. But tell me, why is it that being garbless with Lugh, witnessed by your troupe in bedroom sport, doesn’t feel immodest at all? It feels… utterly natural.”
Aibell smirked, a secret mirth playing on her lips. “Chalk it up, my dear Brigitte, to your wild Irish spirit. It is a flame that cannot be vanquished by the cold hand of physical death. It demands truth and unvarnished joy.”
Brigitte’s eyes sparkled. “I am an Irish lass after all, what need have we wild women of the moor for such a gratuitous thing as garb when love is true? Yet, Queen, are you not embarrassed to witness our intimate moment?”
Aibell’s silvery laugh echoed through the glade. “My dear, I am the friend of lovers everywhere. I have not only witnessed thousands of such amorous rendezvous, but have often been their gentle guide. How could I feel ashamed to be the marital aid, the rekindler of spirits, for lovers in desperate need of that sacred connection?” Her playful gaze swept over us both. “What will be our next destination, then? Where would you like to go?”
Brigitte’s joyous laughter rang out. “One more life in Ireland, pretty please, Queen Aibell! Just one more chance for the green lands and the misty mountains!”
“Yes,” I enjoined, stepping closer and pulling Brigitte against me. “I vote for Ireland too. Our souls remember it best.”
Brigitte giggled, leaning into my warmth. “Oh, Lugh! We can go au naturel by a pond, just like when we first met in our last incarnation, before even the thought of farms and leases existed!”
“First impressions are lasting, my love,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “And yours was carved into my very soul.”
Aibell nodded with a slow, majestic gesture. “Then the Emerald Isle it is. Shamrocks and heather for you two, and the ancient spirit of its wild heart to guide you.”
“And mead!” I interjected. “Plenty of mead, Queen!”
Brigitte beamed at her. “Aibell, you truly are such a dear, giving us our choice, making our deepest longings real.”
Aibell’s eyes twinkled like distant stars. “My dears,” she purred, a knowing smile gracing her lips, “I always was the torch singer of your dreams.”
With a rapid, shimmering swirl of mist, the fairy queen cast us forward, plunging us out of the glade and hurtling us back toward the wild, green earth.
