She gasped as he eased inside, her voice joining the chorus of tree frogs, crickets, and the muted cries and moans from couples in the surrounding forest.
Gods, but she’s sweet, he thought. How could I have missed this? But William? Would he approve?
He retreated and advanced, taking his time at first. The fingers of one hand cradled a full breast, the other tangled in her hair as he pulled Anna’s face to his. Doubts evaporated as he sank into her essence.
“Oh, Cyril,” she cried, “it’s so, so good!”
What? Who’s Cyril? Christ, she’s the wrong one. God damned fucking Saint What’s-Her-Name!
“Don’t be gentle, Sweet! We’ve waited so long!”
She was the wrong one, but he kept going. Her cries and the others in the forest spurred him on. It had been a while, and there was no stopping.
He lifted his head, trying to see the small forest clearing and listening for anyone close. There was no moon, and thick clouds covered the stars. The warmth of the day was fading as the dew fell. There didn’t seem to be anyone else nearby, but it was impossible to be sure.
He gave the woman his full attention once more, not caring what William or Anna or gods-damned Cyril or anyone else thought.
~~~
Dearest Lawrence,
I write to you as spring breaks in our little village. The long winter is at last over. The fields are muddy with the thaw, and the trees are bursting into bud. As winter is a time of endings and death, so spring brings death to winter!
When my beloved William succumbed to the lingering illness three winters ago, he begged me to go on with my life. You were there, as I remember, his oldest, best friend. He asked you to watch over me, and you’ve done just that, checking in from time to time.
William was always grateful for your friendship. Of course, in the manner of men, he probably never told you. But in our quiet times, especially toward the end, he often spoke of how good his life had been. He even dared tell me of some of your exploits while in the legion! He didn’t speak of battles or missions, but of stolen moments with farm girls and lonely wives. I am surprised either of you had the strength to fight from the stories he told!
I wonder, did he ever tell you of the legend we tell here in St. Christopher’s Parish, the one of St. Catherine and St. Christopher? There is a longer version, but for brevity’s sake, I will save that for when we meet in person. Suffice to say that we have a feast day in late spring or early summer when those, let us say mature individuals, who tire of being alone, can come together in anonymity. If they choose, they may continue a relationship after the feast and there is no judgement, no recrimination.
On the evening of the feast, the village gathers in the square. Women, widows and spinsters usually, wishing to end their loneliness, leave the gathering quietly and, taking a dark lantern, go into the forest. A pathway is maintained by the older men in the parish, with small clearings of soft forest grass and wildflowers.
The women choose their positions and get comfortable. When the night is full, men slip away into the forest. Sometimes when they couple, sparks fly! And sometimes they fizzle. Either way, everyone is less lonely when they make their way home.
As it happens, dear Lawrence, the feast of St. Catherine and St. Christopher happens in three weeks as I write this. My granddaughter has convinced me to take part. I intend to be in the forest that night.
Of course, the “feasting” is meant to be anonymous, but it is not uncommon for couples to take advantage of the custom.
If you are available, I do hope you’ll be here to celebrate new beginnings.
With much love,
Anna
~~~
“You’re not Cyril.”
Her arms wrapped around his neck as she petted his hair.
“No, er… sorry.”
She shivered beneath him, caressing his shoulders.
“Mmm. Don’t be. I mean, obviously, you’ve got to move on. But I do hope you find someone. That was divine.”
She kissed him one last time, then helped him back into his robe.