Pilgrimage

by Kim Fielding

  But that raised a second issue, which was lube. Or more accurately, the lack thereof. He’d used a few odd things when he wanted to beat off and nothing else was available—hair conditioner, aloe vera gel, hand lotion, and once a handful of margarine. But he’d never tried any of those things for internal use, and in any case, he didn’t exactly have a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! lying around.

  Goran misunderstood his hesitation. “You can fuck me instead if you want, Mike. I’d enjoy that. Or we could—”

  “No, I like your original plan just fine. Just thinking about how we’re going to do it.”

  With a grin, Goran rolled them over again. “Less thinking, more doing, pretty boy.” He gently flipped Mike onto his stomach and spread Mike’s legs. For a heart-stopping moment, Mike was afraid Goran was going to dive in just like that. But he shouldn’t have worried—what Goran actually did was part Mike’s asscheeks and start licking at his hole.

  “Ohh,” Mike said—a gasp more than a word. He tucked his knees underneath himself to give Goran better access. Goran rewarded him by inserting his hot, slick tongue.

  “Oh God.” Mike wasn’t even sure which god he was invoking—maybe this kind of thing fell within Agata’s territory. Maybe he was invoking all of them, because Goran inside him felt so fucking good. Um, a little too good, actually. “Gonna— Fuck me, Gor,” he choked out between gritted teeth.

  Luckily, Goran was quick to obey. He removed his tongue, gave Mike’s ass a quick and friendly squeeze, and repositioned himself. And then he slowly pushed his cock inside.

  It hurt. Although Mike’s muscles had been loosened and he was more than ready psychologically, spit and precome didn’t make for the easiest going, and it had been a long time since any man had gone where Goran was going now. But Goran showed remarkable self-control, easing in very slowly, and Mike moved rapidly past the point where he cared about the pain. “More!” he ordered. “Move!” Yes, perhaps he’d been called a pushy bottom on more than one occasion.

  Goran, attentive and compliant, gave him more. He thrust a few times, very slowly, and when Mike groaned happily back at him, he sped up. But after only a few moments of that, he squiggled an arm under Mike’s chest and, without breaking the contact between their lower halves, drew Mike upright. This left Goran in a deep squat, one hand behind himself for balance and one wrapped very nicely around Mike’s cock. Mike, in the meantime, remained impaled on Goran’s cock, straddling his lap, and had only to flex his thighs in order to drag himself up and down, to feel the good burn in his ass and the sweet friction around his dick. A strong, athletic lover was a wonderful thing.

  Now that he was in the driver’s seat, Mike could move things along more quickly. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Every time he rose or fell, sparks of pure pleasure danced through his body. He dimly realized that he could be as loud as he wanted—no neighbors to complain about the noise around here—and with that realization he released something tight within himself, a door he’d been keeping carefully locked for years. His movements became quicker and less rhythmic, Goran’s almost wordless chanting rang in his ears—“Yes, yes, yes, please please please!”—and with a roar that echoed through the trees, Mike came.

  Goran shouted and his arm gave way. They collapsed in a sweaty pile of flesh, their hearts beating madly.

  But Goran was still capable of surprising Mike, because even before they’d caught their breaths, he scooped Mike into a tight embrace and murmured softly against his neck: “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mike.”

  Chapter 9

  THEY NAPPED awhile with limbs entwined and then went for another swim, as much for the fun of it as to wash up. By the time they got out of the pool, the afternoon had turned to early evening and their clothing was dry. Goran put on his garments and disappeared into the woods. He returned shortly with another marblebird.

  They didn’t speak much that evening, but the fire wasn’t the only thing glowing. Mike felt a warm sense of contentment deep inside. It was more than the aftermath of really spectacular sex. They touched often: a hand on an arm, one leg pressing against another. There was a certain depth to Goran’s smile that hadn’t existed before.

  They made love again before they went to sleep, and if anything it was even better than the first time. They settled down near the dying fire, no longer keeping a few feet of neutral territory between their bodies. But as comfortable as Mike was, snuggled back against Goran’s warm bulk, sleep didn’t come easily. He was worried about the depth of his contentment, the strength of his feelings for Goran. The fact that his goal was to leave this world and return home.

  “Stupid,” he whispered, too quietly to awaken Goran. “This can’t last.” Wouldn’t last. He’d just have to enjoy it while he could.

  MIKE AND Goran arrived in Varesh well fed by the game Goran caught, and very well fucked. They’d tried out a variety of positions as they traveled, which meant that the journey had taken longer than it should have. Neither of them considered the time ill spent, however.

  Varesh was a large city. Its buildings spilled well beyond the original city walls, and the traffic—people and draft animals and carts—was heavy. Located on a broad plain at the confluence of four rivers, Varesh had boat traffic as well. Many small canals laced the central part of the city, inside the walls. “It’s like Venice without the sea,” Mike observed shortly after they arrived. “And without the Italian food.” He would have killed for pizza.

  Goran had become used to Mike making references he didn’t understand. Now he simply shrugged. “We can get food here. Maybe.”

  They moved through the crowds toward the center of the city. Goran made a good leader here, using his bulk to advantage as he pushed his way through. Mike mostly followed in his wake, trying not to lose him or to gape like a hick tourist.

  But it was hard not to gape. Varesh was clearly more prosperous than anyplace Mike had visited in this world. The shops and market stalls burst with goods for sale, the outsides of the houses were decorated with statues and paintings and various other gewgaws, and many of the people wore richly ornamented clothes and shiny jewelry. Intersections and public squares were dotted with statues of men and women and weird half-human creatures. Instead of wells there were fountains adorned with spouting fish, scrollwork, and other frippery.

  Goran had warned him to be careful of thieves in Varesh. Mike didn’t have much for anyone to steal, but he kept a careful eye on people around him and wished for one of those neck wallet things that were supposed to keep pickpockets away from your passport and credit cards. After the peace and solitude of the forest, the crush here was a little overwhelming. Mike was relieved when they sat on the stone stairs outside a temple in a relatively quiet square.

  “Is this the shrine?” asked Mike.

  “No. You just looked like you needed a break.”

  “Thanks.” Mike slumped comfortably and watched a gaggle of screaming children chase a leather ball, kicking and throwing it to one another. If there were rules to whatever game they were playing, he couldn’t fathom them. “You know, it didn’t occur to me when we were in the forest, but how come there’s a pretty nice road through the middle of it but there was nobody else on it?”

  “It’s the wrong time of year. Earlier in the spring, hundreds of people from Varesh would have passed through on their way to their family farms near Tesli, in the foothills of the Forgotten Mountains. They’ll raise hops and glowberries and barley there. And at the end of autumn, when the last harvests are done, they’ll return here.”

  “That seems like a lot of… movement.”

  “That’s how it’s always been done. Nobody wants to live in Tesli during the winter. It’s bitterly cold. Besides, they can make a better living by coming back to Varesh and brewing ale and wine.”

  Mike figured he shouldn’t criticize. He knew people who spent hours daily in commutes from the Central Valley to the San Francisco Bay Area.

  One of the kids th
rew the ball wildly. It bounced off the pavement and almost into Goran’s lap. He caught it neatly and tossed it back, earning him cheers from the rowdy gang.

  “Nice arm,” Mike said. He’d played Little League and made the high school varsity team but wasn’t good enough to pull down an athletic scholarship in college. But even when they’d grown up, he and Marie would go over to their parents’ house to watch games with their father. A transplant from the Midwest, Dad refused to transfer his loyalties and remained a White Sox fan his entire life. He’d taken special glee in rooting against Oakland. Benny liked the A’s. Maybe that explained part of his parents’ antipathy for the guy.

  As Goran watched the children, Mike remembered his story. On his own at ten years old. Did he and Pavo ever have time to play ball, or were they too busy trying to survive? Christ, at ten Mike still insisted on sleeping with a night-light and considered himself very accomplished when he managed to toast a Pop-Tart all by himself.

  “What are you supposed to offer at this shrine?” Goran asked.

  “Not a clue. This time my helpful author guy didn’t bother to say. Man, I hope he didn’t quit his day job, because he makes a shitty travel guide. But hey, he did inform me that goats give more milk and hens lay bigger eggs if you sing to them every evening at bedtime. So there’s that.”

  One of the kids was a runty girl with badly cut red hair. When the ball rolled to a stop at her feet, she picked it up and then stubbornly refused to let it go. Some of the bigger kids began to yell at her, at which point she burst into tears. Then another girl—a larger, older version of the ball hog—punched one of the bullies, and a miniature brawl erupted. The fight was amusing, but Goran stood. “Let’s go before it gets too late. The shrine is still a good distance from here.”

  He wasn’t lying. They walked for another hour, this time mostly through less fancy neighborhoods. Once they came to a square where a crowd of adults was yelling and calling out insults. At the center was a tall, thick stone post on a little pedestal. A man was chained to the post, his bound wrists tethered high over his head. He was shirtless and his pants were hardly more than rags; his back was a mass of bleeding welts. He moved around as much as his chains permitted, trying to avoid the garbage and small stones the crowd pitched at him, but he kept getting hit anyway.

  “Goran,” Mike began, coming to a halt.

  Goran grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the square. “We can’t help him.”

  “But—”

  “He’s a criminal. If you try to interfere, you’ll end up just like him.”

  “Will… will they kill him?”

  “I don’t know. Depends what he did and depends on the mood of the crowd.” They were in a narrow alley now. It smelled like cat piss. Goran let go of Mike’s arm and turned to look at him. “Don’t they use the pillar in California?”

  “No.”

  “But you do have criminals?”

  “Oh, we have plenty. Mostly we put them in prison.”

  A large puddle of unidentifiable but disgusting goo took up most of the alley; Mike and Goran had to hug the wall to avoid stepping in it. “What’s a prison?” Goran asked. “Is it like a noose?”

  “It’s a building. A not very nice building. They lock up the bad guys for… a bunch of years, usually. Depends what they did.”

  Goran looked appalled. “They lock them up and don’t let them out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d rather have the pillar. Or the noose.”

  Mike nodded. Goran was so at home in the forest. Mike couldn’t picture him encased in concrete and iron. He’d be like a tiger in one of those old-fashioned zoos, the ones with the tiny cages that drove the animals to pace and, ultimately, to insanity.

  They emerged from the alley into a neat, quiet street lined with what appeared to be closed-up shops. No other people were in the street, just a cat napping in a patch of sunshine. Goran stopped in the middle and looked around in confusion. “This isn’t right.”

  “Are we lost?”

  “No, it’s not that. These shops should all be open. They sell little statues and parchment-paper money to give as offerings at the Temple of Four Winds.” He gestured toward the end of the street, where a large building of white stone squatted.

  “Is that a problem?” Mike asked.

  “Your shrine is in the temple. There’s a room in the center where they used to make human sacrifices a very long time ago. That’s where Alina’s shrine is.”

  Two young men came from a side street near the temple, heading toward Mike and Goran. They walked slowly, arm in arm, laughing over some shared joke. They didn’t even glance away from each other until Goran stepped into their path, at which point they looked slightly alarmed. “We don’t have anything to steal,” said the shorter one.

  “And there are guards just around the corner if you try,” his companion added. He was a little chubby.

  Goran raised his hands placatingly. “We’re not thieves. My master is on a pilgrimage.”

  The men visibly relaxed, and the taller man spoke. “That’s too bad, because the temple is closed.”

  “Closed?” Mike and Goran said in unison.

  “Until the next full moon. Until then, the priests are in seclusion. They do this every year. Didn’t you know?”

  Mike muttered curses against the guidebook author under his breath, and Goran looked distressed. “That’s three weeks from now,” Goran said.

  “Sorry. Nobody can disturb the priests. Two hundred years ago there was a huge fire. Half the city burned. People pounded on the temple doors, begging the priests to come out, but the doors stayed locked. And when the fire burned out and everyone returned, not a building was standing in this entire quarter except for the temple. The gods spared the priests because they were so pious.”

  Well, that was just dandy. Goran rubbed his forehead. “I suppose there’s no place for pilgrims to stay, then?”

  The men shook their heads. “Not until the temple reopens,” the shorter one said. Then the men continued their walk, heads leaning close together.

  “I am so sorry, Mike. I’m your guide, and I should have known. If we’d traveled faster—”

  “Don’t.” Mike put a hand on Goran’s shoulder. “I enjoyed our… detour. A lot. It was better than the best vacation I ever had. We’ll just have to wait three weeks.” He hoped Alina was patient. His family back home no doubt already assumed he was dead. He was sorry for their added grief, but since he wasn’t at all sure he was ever going to return home, a few more weeks didn’t much matter.

  Goran still looked upset but also relieved that Mike was taking the news so well. “We can return to the forest if you want. If we stay here, we’ll have to find a place to sleep and some way to get food.”

  As much as Mike had enjoyed his time with Goran, he was really missing a bed, even if it was a crappy one. Besides, he’d run out of tooth-cleaning twigs and his soap was down to a thin sliver. “Do you think there’s any chance we can stay?” he asked.

  After several minutes of silent thought, Goran nodded. “I think so. If you don’t mind a little bit of… burglary.”

  Mike thought of that poor guy at the pillar and swallowed hard. “Okeydoke.”

  They left the temple neighborhood at a brisk pace and twisted and turned down a number of streets. Sometimes they crossed small stone bridges just like the ones in Venice. Eventually they came to a district that straddled one of the rivers and nudged up against one of the city walls. The houses here were freestanding and square, each two stories high and made of timber and stone. Each house had a large yard in back, with small outbuildings and stacks of barrels. The air in this part of town smelled like fermenting fruit.

  “The people from Tesli live here,” Goran explained. “There shouldn’t be many people around until late autumn.”

  “So… we’re going to do some housesitting?”

  “I think we could stay in one of the sheds and nobody would notice. I’m not so sure about
the houses themselves. They might have someone staying there.”

  There went Mike’s dreams of actual beds. But a shed floor was probably not too lumpy, and the roof would protect them from rain. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Good. Wait here.”

  Mike sat on the low wall along the river’s edge, dangling his feet and watching the water move sluggishly by. The river was very dirty, full of debris and smelling even more strongly than the fermenting fruit. When it reached the city wall, it disappeared through a dark tunnel too low to allow boat traffic. A sewage system of sorts, he guessed. Not environmentally friendly, but effective.

  Goran returned soon, smiling. “I found us a place.”

  Mike rose from the wall and followed him. The house Goran chose wasn’t on the wide street that paralleled the river but rather on a narrow side street. That was good. Less traffic. The house looked neglected, with a second-story shutter hanging by a single hinge and weeds poking through the paving stones near the front door. The house hid the shed from the street, and behind the shed rose a tall stone wall. The yard was littered with broken bits of wood and pottery.

  “Look,” Goran said, pushing open the shed door. Mike peeked inside. It was mostly empty, apart from a thick layer of dust. There were a few stoneware jugs, a rough wooden table, some empty shelves. An iron bed had been set against one wall, mattress and all.

  Goran bounced inside and patted the bed, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “It’s almost a palace!”

  “Almost.”

  “I think this family is gone for good. Nobody’s lived here for a long while. The neighbors might notice if we moved into the house, but nobody will see us here if we’re careful.”

  “Why is there a bed?”

  “This family made wine. See the bottles?” He pointed at a tall shelf where, sure enough, a couple of empty glass bottles lay on their sides. “When the new wine is bottled, it needs to be turned every six hours to prevent settling. I suppose it was easiest for the winemaker to sleep in here instead of walking back and forth all night.”