Harvest of Change
Darragha Foster
Published 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62210-282-2
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2015, Darragha Foster. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
http://LSbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Blurb
Judah Hayaam “Hay” El-Bara is a marked man born with the nevus of the Harvest Goddess. It makes him special but also portends his doom. He is destined be her husband, the seed to her soil, and it will more than likely kill him. He wants to do what’s right—for his family and for the faith to which he no longer subscribes. But he has no sexual interest in women—goddess or not. Beck Nazari shows him doing the wrong thing is way more fun and important. Will his relationship with Beck cause the sky to fall and burn because the bridegroom loves another man? Or will the gender-fluid goddess kiss away tradition-born fears and help usher in a new era? Either way, change is coming as surely as winter never fails to turn into spring. And most folks are uncomfortable with change.
Dedication
For my inspiration—my daughter.
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
The day of change
His cock slicked with the plant-based lubricant used to grease the machinery on the farm, Buck pummeled into Judah with such force he thought for a moment the friction might spark and set the hay loft ablaze. Friction. Oil. Heat. Love. All the components for combustion. They’d wanted to blaze a new trail—and their actions had started the burn.
He just about spilled reveling in the glory of the moment—his thick member buried to the hilt in the sweet ass of another. Another man. His man. “I love you, Hay,” he whispered as the pre-surge of orgasm overwhelmed him. “I’ve waited so long for this moment. This is it—everything is going to change now.”
In the distance, the sound of wagon wheels rolling against long-used furrows in the hard-packed soil increased his ferocity. He grabbed a handful of Hay’s ass as the sweet rush of release poured from him. He froze, transfixed with pleasure as he climaxed. He could feel his big vein throb and pulse, deep and hot inside Hay. He bit his lip in desperation. He tasted blood. He wanted to scream.
It’s all about being seen. Being witnessed. One can’t start a revolution in hiding. Judah knew the plan. He labored to keep his wits about him. Come now the witnesses who will be our pawns.
A moment later, Buck pulled away. Judah barely discerned the words said to him through the haze of their passion. “Turn around.”
Judah “Hay” El-Bara, red-faced and exhausted from being stretched open and fucked hard, turned and fell back against the bales. “I’m certain after the pounding you gave me, I look such a fright they will think I’ve been possessed by the spirit of harvest blight.”
*
“You are no blight, Hay. You are that which makes my heart beat and blood flow.” Buck dropped to his knees before Judah and took his lover’s swollen shaft into his mouth. He stroked upward with his right hand and mouthed and licked at the head as if he ate a frozen sundry on a stick in mid-August. It was a messy, wet, salty, forbidden treat. And one he relished like none other.
He shivered as Hay’s fingers entwined in his white hair, encouragingly. His cock hadn’t deflated in the least. He could do it again—and again. He tasted salt and a moment later let the nectar of his lover’s climax slide down his throat.
Buck rose to his feet and swept Hay into his arms in a magnificent, penetrating kiss.
The trap door to the loft slammed open. “What insanity prevails here?” a panicked voice shrieked. “I saw a silhouette from the road and could not believe my eyes.”
Naked, hard, sweat and semen covered, the lovers broke their embrace. A defiant glance passed between them. Buck watched as the veins in the intruder’s forehead and throat bulged. The elder-brother was apoplectic.
“Holy Harvest. Judah, it is you. And Beck. Bless the mother and the seed…Judah, what have you done?”
Hay closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders and made no attempt to cover himself. He palmed Buck’s face and drew him in for a quick kiss. “Call me Hay. And what we do is honor the harvest, brother.”
A clap of thunder rolled across the heavens and a heavy rain began. Hard rain, alive with thunder and bejeweled with lightning.
Buck laughed. “Comes now the hard rain that will wash away the old. Trust me.”
The elder-brother went ashen. “Trust him? Do not trust him, Judah El-Bara! The right hand of the goddess is buggering her bridegroom. Judah, do you know what you have done? Your so-called love shall destroy the harvest. The crops will spoil in their fields, and the harsh mistress of winter will confine us and starve us.” The elder wept. “How did this happen? How? Judah Hayaam El-Bara…you bear the Mark of the Harvest and have been promised to her since the day of your birth. You have condemned us all to cold, hungry deaths.” He tore at the flesh of his cheeks, raking his nails hard against his own flesh, not even grimacing from what must have been terrific pain.
“How did this happen?” He held out his accusing, bloodied fingers. “How?”
Chapter 2
Weeks Earlier
Judah Hayaam “Hay” El-Bara stole into the forest as the sun climbed high in the sky. The heat had been relentless. The kiss of the harrows had little effect on the sun-scorched, hard baked earth. Sweat drenched him head to toe as he’d begun to prepare the land to take seed.
He’d simply had enough. The damned acreage wasn’t even going to be sown this season, anyway. Just tilled. A waste of time—like so many of the traditions he’d grown up observing. There was no end to the rituals of his faith. He promised to drown himself if ever he came across an obscure ritual of which the elders no longer spoke about the proper procedure and prayer for shitting in the woods. He was certain such a sacrament existed. There had been a time in his great-grandfather’s youth when one could not commit personal waste on land sanctified to the goddess. In the fields, men defecated into burlap sacks, and an oarsman took the bags beyond the boundaries and into the bay for disposal. Rudimentary outhouses were developed, and later, civilized privies came into existence. He had considered bringing up the topic at a prayer meeting once. He had been full of the devil that night, and his mother’s watchful eye was the only thing that kept him from asking about the antiquated tradition.
Now, however, he wasn’t filled with the devil of childishness. He was filled with the wanderlust of youth. The questioning mind of a man. His only true desire was to sit in the dark of the canopy, maybe rest his feet in the creek and have a few minutes alone. A man needs time to think. Time away from the apron strings of the mother and stern glances of the father. Away from their expectations, their hopes and dreams. Their traditional, conservative, superstitious expectations.
He had been born to a traditionalist sect of harvest worshippers who eschewed scientific proof for rituals. To say the harvest came by the passage of time and not because every minute detail of tradition had been followed was blasphemy. If said aloud.
Nature was to be feared, revered, and placated.
Never studied, discussed, or tracked.
<
br /> He vanished into the trees, leaving prying eyes behind.
Hay had found a tattered progressive book in an irrigation ditch on the south side of his father’s land. He wanted nothing more than to sit and read it and have the time to digest this new food for thought. The book pressed against the flesh of his belly. Such decadence hidden behind the muslin of his work shirt excited him to no end. It was more sinful to have this book against his belly than a woman in his bed or his own hand on his penis. Sin was sin, but progressiveness was literally a sin against nature—against the harvest. Progressives shunned ritual and believed in open love. Love without limit. They used clocks and did not say the prayers. Seven times a day they did not say the prayers. They studied the stars and tides without offering and humility. They did it scientifically. They were lawless beasts. Progressives. The word alone made his cock twitch.
If the elders discovered he had the booklet, they’d whip him. Even though he had been born to fulfill a great purpose, he would not be able to escape punishment for breaking a law. Progressiveness was forbidden. Forbidden by word, thought, and deed. And yes…a man’s thoughts were subject to search—as was his home, his barn, his saddlebags. There were herbs that could set a man’s tongue to wagging. A young woman from his school had been sent to the stocks for trying to capture her menstrual blood inside her body instead of allowing it to flow freely. They used the herbs on her to discern the truth of her actions. She said the red shelter where she and other menstruating females were housed was a place of punishment for a natural occurrence. The elders didn’t disagree. They believed, as traditionalists do, menarche was against the harvest; for if seed had been planted, no blood would come. Pregnancy was sacred. Not being pregnant was unfruitful and without benefit to the goddess. After marriage, conjugal relations were expected and encouraged.
Thereby, because of fearful upbringing and a strong desire to please his loving parents, Judah had led a righteous life.
Upon his shoulders rested the hopes and dreams of the community for an abundant harvest and prosperous future season. Progressiveness was especially forbidden for him. The whip of the elders would cleave flesh from bone if he were caught.
He’d never been caught.
So deftly had he hidden his passions and desires even his own mother did not know of his sins. He averted his eyes when temptation reared its lovely head. He enjoyed the form and sinew of other young men. It was a sore temptation and one he found his mind would not do without. The round bosom of females, though artistically speaking were intriguing, he preferred the company of men. One day—one day soon—he would be a bridegroom to the Goddess of the Harvest. Sacred, Holy Harvest. His seed planted in her belly would assure future abundance.
From the moment of his birth he had been groomed and reared up to serve one purpose and one purpose only. He was the sacrificial lamb tied to the stake, waiting for the dragon to swoop down and take a bite. So to speak.
He’d stolen away from the fields before and knew he could be gone until late afternoon before the hounds were sent out to find him. Few ventured into the forest on the Tilling Day. The day was about hard work and reflection. Each windrow, whether or not seeded, represented another facet of the glorious harvest. He had fled the field without so much as a nod to the others. His kith and kin, who dutifully prayed as they hoed, raked, tilled, and created windrows of soil ready for seed.
He wished now he’d taken his horse. He could give the dogs a run for their money on horseback. Once it was discovered he had fled the field, they’d find him. The bloodhounds slept with his old clothes. The lost lamb would be found and retrieved to perform and adhere to meaningless rituals another day.
Until he figured out how to escape.
Hay felt his shoulders slump and chin drop to his chest in defeat. There is no escape. I am born to a purpose my heart abhors. I am a walking contradiction. The most sacred and the most profane. Judah El-Bara. The Chosen One. Guarantor of the Harvest. Idiot on parade.
* * * *
Next to spending time with his horse, truly, time spent in the solitude of the forest was a balm for his wounded soul.
He had a favorite tree.
Its roots humped out of the ground like the back of a water serpent. It reminded him of a picture of a king’s throne. He wanted nothing more than to stretch out with his back against that tree and use the bow on either side of him as armrests while he read the forbidden booklet.
Life for him had been an intricate production of the tried and true. Each moment of every day was lived in service of the harvest and to prevent the Everlasting Winter from taking hold.
Traditionalists shunned science and ignored time, tide, and the overall workings of heaven and earth. Traditionalists believed without the rituals and sacraments, the sky would fall, the oceans vaporize, and all life would end.
Hay loathed his culture. Its teachings gave him nightmares as a child. His mother had used the doctrines to keep her children in bed at night. “Hunger sits in the chair by the door and watches you sleep, waiting for a chance to steal your full belly away and leave you hollow and empty for all eternity.” What kind of belief system thrives on frightening children? He had ceased believing a long, long time ago. It was for his mother’s sake alone he half-heartedly adhered to ritual under the burning sun to plow barren fields, because untilled soil was unholy and displeased the Spirit of the Harvest.
The leaves of the trees were perfectly placed to allow just enough filtered light through so the ground was dry, not spongy. The light was perfect for reading. If his eyes did not catch fire and burn out of his head for the sin of reading a progressive book, he’d be able to return to hearth and home and call it a good day.
He settled in and carefully scanned the vicinity. Believing he was alone, he removed the treasure and inhaled this sweet taste of freedom.
Hay chuckled. It was better than expected. The book was a treatise on the progressive belief of love without limit—the most forbidden of all progressive teachings. And I found it in an irrigation ditch which shuttles pure water to the fields that the blessings of the reaping will be bountiful. Thank you, Mother Harvest.
He read the inside cover. Love stems from the infinite past, from a time when there were three beings of dual-nature—man/man, woman/woman, man/woman. Some forgotten apocalypse ripped apart the bound souls, and for the remainder of eternity every man and woman must search for his or her other half to be truly fulfilled in love.
He sighed. Quite refreshing and the opposite of the traditionalists’ teachings.
And the book had pictures. Wonderful, explicit pictures.
Progressives have such a deep, unfettered understanding of the world. He flipped a page. I must escape the prison of my birth before I am sent to slaughter. What my life is now is nothing compared to what it could be; if only I was not forced into observing the faith and rituals of a people who believe the sun rises and sets in my shorts. I am not the divine seed of the harvest. I’m just a guy nicknamed Hay, born with an oddly shaped birthmark—who wants out.
He felt his cheeks flush crimson as he ran his fingertips across a sketch of man/man. He studied the page, read the caption. The flush headed down to his groin, and his manhood twitched and stood erect. Embarrassed, he flipped the page to an intricate illustration of man/woman, embracing and engaging in intercourse. His erection wilted. I am destined to seed the harvest and the thought of taking a woman into my bed shrinks my member into hiding. He flipped back a page to man/man. The image depicted Gemini. Identical men facing each other, penises erect. Each man’s right hand was extended to capture the member of the other. This is what appeals to me. What is so wrong with desiring the touch of another man?
He opened the center of the book to a pictorial section. He studied the photo of “fellatio.” Do husbands and wives do this thing? Yes, it is shown. It is probably true of my people, too—for sexual acts within marriage are considered private, sacred, necessary, and a part of love. But a wife should not bring
her husband to fruition in this manner. To spill seed outside her body is forbidden.
He moved his attention to the next photo. Not of man and woman, but man and man. The full lips of a young man encircled the thick member of another. This is where my interest lies.
He unfastened the hook-and-eye closure of his pants and withdrew his cock from the sedate white cotton boxers all traditionalist men wore. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his shaft while cradling the book against his legs. It was a sin to spill seed without thought of harvest. He brought his hand up and licked his palm to ease the motion as he stroked his cock to full erection.
I want what I can never have. I want to make love to another man. I do not want to be consort to the spirit of harvest. He stroked his hand harder, faster. I should cut the flesh away whereupon the creator marked me. My birthmark is a curse.
“You’re going to get the book all sticky if you don’t put it down before you cum.”
Hay bolted upright, his erection jutting out from him like an old-growth tree trunk. “Who is there?”
A man with dark, sun-kissed skin and pure white hair, closer to his father’s age than his own, stepped out from behind a tree. “I’m sorry to disturb your privacy, but that book is mine, and I’d like it back in one piece. Wherever did you find it? It must have fallen from my pack as I traveled.”
Hay’s member, fully erect and showing no signs of going flaccid, throbbed with heated intensity as the stranger approached. The brown-skinned, white haired man was beautiful. Yes…that’s what it is, this man is beautiful. “I found it in an irrigation ditch.”
“Thank you. May I have it back?”
“Are you going to tell the community of my transgression?” Hay asked.
“Why would I do a thing like that? You are of age. Can a man not read what he wishes and give himself pleasure as needed? Goodness knows a sound mind depends upon it. A man will go mad from desire if he is not allowed to touch himself.”
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