He came to Earth as if on a bolt of lightning, feeling potent and energized when he appeared as a man of flesh, standing naked in the warm midsummer night on the abandoned court of some long-vanquished stronghold—no, an outer-work, some picket station for counter-sappers.
The partially overgrown court appeared to be formed of a shaped and sanded lava flow.
Apparently they have learned a thing or two over the ages of my absence.
Yes, I can sense him, the prophet. He lies to the west, a hundred leagues or so. I should acquire a steed.
Perhaps they shall come with offerings? Some lowly, star-gazing seer must surely have witnessed my descent.
All that remained were some flimsy, blocky ruins surrounded by a thicket of rusty iron briars. He managed to scale this miserable obstacle without suffering injury, only to come upon the obvious reason for the demise of this hold and the desolation of the surrounding countryside.
Father’s giants laid waste to this place!
He could plainly see the ages-old iron and timber ladder used by the giant hordes of yore to scale some immensely high wall. The ages of decay had sunken the timbers and rails into the rude track of lose stone that had obviously been a siege master’s causeway in some distant age. Even he could not budge a section of this huge artifact. For a moment he doubted himself, and his promised war against the giants, if they could build such things. Then he recalled that the giants currently living were probably hopelessly inbred and no longer had the stature of their ancestors. Or so he hoped.
This can only lead to more ruins. Yes, there, to the left, not two bow shots off, is a road. See how they light their way with lanterns dangling from their wagons. Perhaps it is a procession come to greet me!
He hurried down to the wide roadway of baked lava, shimmering in the night beneath the beaming lanterns of unthinkably fast wagons, carts, carriages and chariots—all without horses!
And there, look, listen, there roars a great wyrme!
He made his way to the side of the processional way and admired the horseless conveyances and the great rumbling wyrme—no, it is a wagon of sorts—a wyrme wagon!
They might be petulant and petty, but they have accomplished great things in my absence. No wonder I fell in with their prophet. As soon as I take his head and bring them to heel, I might enjoy an age of rule among them. Look, listen, how they adore me, admiring my splendid form!
Yule felt welcome and even worshipped among the admiring host of nocturnal cart-drivers as they made their way down the dark road in their wondrous conveyances, slowing to cheer him, make their carts bleat like great goats, and pump the fist of victory in the air as they shouted in their odd dialect. Men and women shouted to him compliments that he did not quite comprehend, though one obviously knew him to be the swiftest runner in Heaven as he cheered him for “streaking through the night.”
His cult had obviously persisted, for they called him by his name, though in a form reduced and withered by the ages. ‘Yo’ was not as potent a name as ‘Yule’ but it at least marked a collective attempt on the part of men to remember his deeds among their ancestors.
Yes, they recall, though dimly, and they do remember my swift and tireless pursuit of broken foes in days of yore.
What is this, a long sleek carriage packed with drunken maidens—no wenches, wanton by the looks of them.
Of course, they have seen my star in the sky and bring a bride to be deflowered and planted with my immortal seed. Yes, it is good to be a god among men!
The man piloting the long carriage was tall, dark and smartly dressed. He pulled abreast of Yule and commanded the glass window above his access panel to lower, and addressed Yule most respectfully, “Yo, Tarzan, would you like a ride? These ladies would like to get to know you, especially the one that’s getting married tomorrow.”
He tried to recall the most appropriate formal address in this dialect but it eluded him, so he addressed him as he once remembered speaking to his cupbearer after the day-long slaying of the Stagsmen. “I’ll not leave a virgin in this hall, man.”
With that bit of bravado two drunken women, the color of ironwood, with coarse hair like night, crawled out of the carriage on stilt-heeled sandals and led him inside with much pomp, as the passengers in other carriages rolled by indicating their approval with bleats, huzzahs and raised fists.
Once inside the long lush carriage, with music apparently provided by some sorcery or another, he began to attune his ears to their dialect. The women were very finally dressed—the daughters of the leading families no doubt, their grandfathers perhaps reavers of the Middle Sea—young, generally full-figured, and darkly colored, running from hazel to black. He was immediately aroused by their manner and appearance, which brought squeals of approval from the wenches, at least two of their number being wanton to the core.
And Mother, you had me thinking this would be a punishment!
One of the women was using a length of pearls to measure his manhood and comparing it favorably to some manly war-dancer by the name of ‘Nasty Ass E’. Ale, wine, beer and spirits were passed around while the plump and appropriately bashful little bride was ritually stripped by her sisters for her deflowering.
Yes, it is good to be a god among mortals, and to drink again!
There was a strange ritual aspect to copulation among these folk. Apparently a man was not considered worthy unless he had burst all of the scented sheep intestine casings that the women had brought to adorn his sword of love. There was also some significance to the bride being penetrated by a lord so adorned as the plump young maiden was openly reluctant to be mounted by him without a whole scented sheep intestine to as an amorous sword sheath.
No matter, a few more glasses of spirits and she no longer knew the difference. After planting her with seed he repeatedly demonstrated his ability to sow as often as necessary. It was good that they were so wanton—though one rather refined one hid behind the ale bucket and refused to couple—because their flexible marriage rituals gave him the opportunity to demonstrate his god qualities. In fact, the largest women, a great, sand-brown, milk-cow of a nymph who he grew quite fond of and named his favorite, named him a “god.” Of course, she had mistaken him for his brother Brenner, the God of Love. But Yule was so pleased to be recognized rightfully as a divine incarnation, he made no motion to correct her.
After a few hours and many couplings his ride in the processional carriage of the now unconscious bride was cut short, as it arrived at a predetermined destination, a great glittering palace of a building surrounded by the dark sky full of sparkling buildings, towering toward the moon. The cupbearer who piloted the carriage waited patiently while Yule finished his second coupling with the great-breasted, mother cow of a woman.
Might this great wench be half-giant?
Perhaps this is how Father got started fathering all of my large enemies? I should be careful. Her offspring might rise up to challenge my rule over men.
Than let him come to me, sword in hand!
Eventually, their love making done, he slid off of the sweaty, sweet-scented mountain of a woman and removed himself to the seat next to the cupbearer, where he drank one of the sealed tin cups of very fizzy ale. One did not dally with wenches, once used, not even with the most eager favorites. A goddess—his whore sister, for instance—might take offense and slay the poor creature for sapping his divine essence.
After gathering her things and dressing, the woman then stepped from the carriage and blew him a kiss and handed some folded parchments adorned with royal crests to the cupbearer, saying, “Mister DJ Jervis, anytime you are planning another ride with my Yule Baby here, please give me a call. Ya’ll have a nice night.”
And so, Yule, God of War over Men, planted the world with future foes in imitation of his mortal-seducing father.
