Hounds of Love

By Mark S. Bowne

(Inspired by: 'Hounds of Love', a song by Kate Bush from the album of the same name. Play the song while reading this story.)

Hart trudges through the dense forest on the north side of Spaunton Manor. The Scottish Moors await his discovery. Suddenly as if by magic, the curtain of green parts and waves of pink heather crash across the ground, against the rock, like the froth of the sea. Wet blossoms cover his new Wellingtons as he walks. The landscape steals away his breath.

Covered with pink and green, the rocky hillocks continue to the horizon like the mad hatter's patchwork quilt. Beyond the horizon to reach for the steel blue sky. Hart stops, transfixed by what he sees. He can't believe he's in the land of his ancestors. The completely open space frightens, is unrelenting in its vastness. He imagines Cathy and Heathcliff wandering these same moors, these same pathways. Locked in a timeless struggle of love and hate.

He carefully makes his way down the paths, over the slick rock covered hills. The few trees that dare to grow here are stunted and crippled by the ferocious winds that blow over the land...bends the land to its will. Beaten down; the stubborn tree limbs, gnarled like a crone's bony fingers, still reach for the sun.

As he hikes the uneven land he watches the Peregrine falcons circle about and screech to each other. By accident, paying more attention to the falcons than to the path, he wanders off it and into the three foot tall heather shrubs. He scares up a covey of Red Grouse. Frightened, they take flight startling him. Hart looses his footing and tumbles down the hill. Over and over he tumbles until he comes to an uncomfortable rest at the foot.

We wakes to a handsome man bending over him. Distress covers the stranger's face. Dressed in country walking clothes: gray woolen trousers with braces, heavy white cotton shirt with a silk maroon and gray stripe tie about his neck. His jacket, brown tweed with patches on the elbows, suggest to Hart an Oxford professor. Atop his head a large black brim hat. His trousers tuck neatly into well worn Wellingtons.

“Are you injured?” the stranger asks, concerned.

“I...I don't know,” Hart says once he catches his breath. He tries to sit up, but instantly falls back. “Dizzy.”

“Rest yourself, sir. I shall fetch you some water.” Returning within moments, he tips his hat to Hart's lips and encourages him to drink. “Drink, it will do you good. Cool, pure water from the moors.”

Hart drinks deeply. Looks up into the stranger's kind hazel eyes and smiles. His concern etched still in his raised brow. “Thank you. You are very kind to help me.”

Eyes locked, the men stare at each other as if in disbelief. The shock of seeing another human being in this forlorn land is unsettling to them. It is an alien landscape.

“It is dangerous on the Moors. You must take great care,” the stranger warns as he caresses the side of Hart's face. Without thinking, Hart pulls the handsome man's hand to his lips and kisses the palm. “Come, we must get you warm. My horse is but down the hillock there. Can you walk?”

“I don't know. I'll try.” He grasps the stranger's hand as he pulls Hart to his feet. He slips his arm around Hart. Keeps him close to his body, supporting the majority of his weight as he escorts him carefully down the remainder of the hill. Mounting the horse, is another matter. Laughing like schoolboys, almost falling again, Hart manages to sit the saddle. No points for gracefulness are to be awarded as the stranger shoulders the majority of his weight.

“I have a hunting cabin just inside the forest. We will get you warm there,” he says as he leads the horse towards the green trees in the distance.

Inside the cabin, the fire roars. The stranger sits Hart on the small cot covered with a handmade quilt then busies himself with making tea. Within moments, the kettle boils, cheese and bread appear upon the table in front of the fire. Hart feels better already. He finds himself suddenly hungry.

“You're doing all this for me and I don't even know your name?” he asks.

“My apologies, sir. I thought all knew me here. I am Sir Francis More, owner and lord of Spaunton Manor and its lands.”

“Your hospitality and kindness amazes me, Sir Francis.” Hart replies.

“No formality here. I am simply Francis. And you? You are not English, Scottish.”

“Hartford Crane. My friends call me Hart. And I must confess, I am an American come to discover my Scottish root,” he smiles.

“Nothing wrong in being a Yank. Come. Drink, eat your fill, Hart. You are indeed welcome...and a handsome man,” Sir Francis says as he walks to Hart, reaches for his hand and leads him to the fireside table. Warmed by the fire, the men eat their fill. They drink the hot, strong tea in silence, their eyes lock yet again, but this time with desire. When they finish, Francis leads him back to the cot.

“And now you must sleep, regain your strength,” he says as he places a light kiss on Hart's lips, stirring up his emotions. Hart's eyes close unwillingly. The more he fights sleep, the weaker he becomes. He reaches out for Sir Frances, but fails to catch him within his arms. Instead he feels a damp mist cover his face, his limp body and all is darkness. All is sleep...and dreams.

Hart feels heat emanating from his loins. His dick is on fire, hard as a steel rod. He reaches down to find a mouth engulfing his erection. It is Francis. He moans, pushing himself deeper into his lover's mouth. So deep the head of his penis hits the back of Sir Francis' throat. Now, it is Francis' turn to moan.

Quickly, Hart shoves his trousers to his calves, his Wellingtons preventing total removal. Francis dives into his channel, opening him to what he needs, desires. Penetration. “Francis, please I need you inside me,” Hart moans. Sir Francis slips inside. There is no pain, only pure lust. Francis thrusts hard and deep into Hart's slick tight channel. Hart moans yet again and meets his lover's thrusts. Soon, their half naked bodies slap hard against each other...again and again until their breathing stops, their pleasure peaks, and their orgasms erupt like blooming heather spills out over the moors.

The cold of late evening wakes him. Fully clothed, crotch moist, Hart finds himself on a dirty old cot, the fire dead, the entire cabin as cold and dark as a tomb. Frightened he rushes out of the building. He calls out to Francis, but his call goes unanswered. Disoriented, his fear increases.

“Mr. Crane, Mr. Crane!” the Manor's steward calls out. His flashlight bounces as he rushes towards his guest.

“Yes, I'm here!” he yells back. Suddenly relieved to hear another human being's voice. He runs towards the light.

“We've been so worried,” the steward says. “You've been out so long and it's late.”

“I'm fine,” he says willing himself to calm down. Regain his composure. “ I fell asleep in the hunting cabin.”

“We've got to get you warm...”

Hart follows the manor's steward through the darkened forest. Calmer, though his hands still shake he keeps the steward in sight. The man's light leads the way to safety, to home. Inside, the steward sits him in front of the main fireplace. He orders strong tea, laced with brandy, brought to them.

“Have you eaten at all today?” the man asks.

“Yes. Sir Francis was gracious enough to give me tea,” Hart says now almost calm.

“I beg your pardon, sir. Did you say Sir Francis?”

“Yes. I'd fallen on the moor. He found me and brought me to his hunting cabin in the forest. He was good enough to fix tea.”

“I beg your pardon sir, but Sir Francis has been dead for over 60 years, now.”

“Impossible, I was just with him this afternoon.”

“Unless someone was pulling your leg, sir...He died before I was even born. My father was in his service. Shall I show you his portrait?” The now solemn steward leads a shaking Hart down the corridor towards the solarium. On the wall, opposite the entrance to that greenhouse like room hangs a portrait, the spitting image of the man who made love to him that afternoon. Striped tie, black wide brim hat and vibrant hazel eyes.

Hart turns white as a freshly bleached sheet. He pivots on his heels and runs to his room.

“Mr. Crane? Mr. Crane? Have I don't something wrong?” the steward yells after him. “What about your tea?”

Hart locks himself in his room. He sits in front of the spitting fire. He shakes from top to bottom. Head to toe. His skin feels like ice. Goosebumps cover his body and despite the roaring fire in the grate, cannot warm himself.

“Francis, damn it all to hell!” he explodes as he paces the room. He runs the entire afternoon over in his head, looking for a clue...but there was none. Not one. How was he to know he'd fallen in love with a ghost. Fallen in love with a ghost in the matter of one afternoon.

Hart had never been treated with such gentleness, such kindness in his life. Francis, ghost or not, had only thought of his welfare and comfort. There was no selfishness. No posing. It came naturally to him. His desire to please, to aide. To make sure he was safe from harm. Francis took care of him and made him feel safe.

“How could it have been the same bloody person?” Hart says out loud, now angry. “Francis, why didn't you tell me. I can help you if you'd let me.” he rants, raves. Finally, Hart sits in the wingback chair by the fire. Exhausted, he falls asleep.

His dreams haunt him. Dark and restless, his head shifts from side to side. A small moan escapes his lips as Sir Francis' face invades his brain, controls his dreams. The fire slowly dies to embers. The room grows cold, colder still. Hart's breath exhales in a cloud. From nowhere lips touch his lips and he is instantly awake.

“Francis!” he screams. “Francis, damn you... let me help you!” Francis refuses to appear to him. Hart grabs his coat and rushes from the room. Touched with maddening desire, he dashes down the stairs, rummages desperately in the steward's desk to find the flashlight. He then bounds out the door, down the northern path towards the forest.

Pitch dark, the forest sounds strange at night. The night plays eerie tricks on his eyes, with his ears. Hart tries to calm himself, his fear gaining control of his emotions. Enough of silliness. A life is at stake. He trudges his way to the hunting cabin. The darkness, the path unsure to him having only traveled it once before, slows his progress to a frustrating crawl. He gathers his courage and plunges forth, eventually reaching the door. He pounds on it, demanding entry. When no one answers he looks through the dirty window, into the darkness of the interior. There is no one there.

Frightened, realizing this is no longer a romantic dream or even a fairytale. He turns to walk back to the manor house. A Peregrine falcon flies down into his path. Startled Hart runs. His fear finally gaining the upper hand. He runs through the edge of the forest and out onto the moors. Heedless, he stumbles through the brush of heather that tangles his feet, tripping him up whenever possible, as if they had minds of their own. As if angered by the intrusion of this stranger.

His flashlight lost, he wanders aimlessly, his mind a mixture of fear and remorse. Love and hatred. In the distance he imagines his sees a pair of eyes that stare him down, that dare him to defy them. He gains some footing and runs. Runs for his life. Until he reaches the cliff. Until he reaches the cliff's edge, and stumbles over unable to halt his feet.

A damp mist covers Hart's face. Engulfs his falling body. He seems to fall in slow motion, feels it and when his feet touch down softly upon the ground, he is amazed.

“I told you the moors were a dangerous place,” Sir Francis states firmly. His body forms in front of Hart as if it were a cinematic trick. His face stern, but not angry.

“How...” flustered, Hart realizes before he finishes that it's a stupid question to ask. He simply flings his arms around Francis and kisses him. His fear dissipated.

Together they walk back to the hunting cabin. Inside the fire burns bright in the hearth. Candles illuminate the small room. Surprised, Hart nevertheless enters. Francis silently follows.

“Would you have believed me?” Francis says to Hart's back.

“No,” he replies without turning around. Francis reaches out to Hart, places his hands on his shoulders. Hart winces, his muscles tighten with fear, but then relax. He knows Francis would never hurt him. That in fact he had just saved his life.

“Talk to me Hart, say something,” he pleads with the American. Hart turns to face Francis. Tears stream down his face, but he smiles.

“Why are you still here?” he asks the man, the ghost he believes he's in love with.

“Guilt. Guilt keeps me here. I'm anchored to these moors, out of guilt. I couldn't save the love of my life from dying a soldier's death in the trenches of WWII. I couldn't follow him, help him. All I could do was wait and hope. Wait and pray.”

“But what happened?” he asks as he pulls Francis down onto the cot. Hart reaches up to touch Francis' face. Francis stops him with his own hand, gently. He brings it down to his lap, but doesn't release it and begins his story...

He was young, beautiful. His naked skin, so pale. White as alabaster, dusted with a light covering of black hair...across his well formed chest and down his stomach to the seat of his desire. You could see the blue of his veins just below the skin's surface.

He was the green grocer's son. And even though the family never had much money, always giving out more credit to the villagers than was good for business, he managed to dress well.

His wavy raven hair was an unruly mess. I suppose that's why he dressed as well as he could. To compensate for his hair. I found it utterly captivating, the way it had a life of its own. He tried to ignore it.

Unable to afford University fees and needed by his father to work at their store, his dream of a continued education ended, but his desire to learn only grew. Once I learned of his situation, I offered him the use of my library which he immediately accepted. Over the course of several months, we fell into a casual friendship. I found him to be very intelligent. His mind alive and not full of the silliness most young men suffer from. His eyes held a certain agelessness in them, as if he were wise beyond his years.

It was late in the evening, we were discussing modern poetry, or art...I can no longer remember what, it being so unimportant now. What I remember, what I can never forget...the kiss. Our first kiss. He looked up at me, his face so beautiful then he calmly stood, bent over the table and kissed me. It was an innocent kiss. Soft, full of sweetness and boyish innocence. Afterwards he was shy.

“Sebastian, what was that for?” I asked.

“Sir Francis, I...I'm sorry. I lost my head. I'll leave.”

“Sebastian. Answer my question, please,” I said and grabbed his arms so he couldn't escape.

“I, sir I have no excuse. I only meant to show my great esteem for you, your kindness...”

“And that's all?”

“What else is there?”

“Love, affection, desire?”

“I. I am at a loss, sir.”

“Are you really Sebastian?” I asked.

“Sir?”

“And if I kissed you back, what then?” I said and pulled him into my lap. I was sure he could feel my erection as he fell against me.

“I...I would kiss you again,” he said bravely. He eyes burned with passion.

So I kissed him. No chaste kiss. No young innocence. I crushed my mouth against his and he opened to me, to my assault on his chastity. I reached into his trousers, felt his hardness. He leaked over my fingers. I brought it to my lips. It tasted like honey. I spread the remaining fluid over his swollen lips and kissed him yet again. Then I opened his trousers and freed him.

Back in the present, Francis springs from the cot. Walks to the fireside table and pours a glass of claret from the bottle he'd left breathing. He drinks deeply, draining the glass. He pours another and brings it to me. I touch the rim of the glass to my lips, taste the wine, warmed slightly by its proximity to the fire. Dry with a sweet finish like raspberries and dark chocolate.

Francis stares into Hart's eyes, as Hart imagines he'd done with Sebastian. He is suddenly jealous, but he is not a young innocent and should know better. “Will you continue with your story?” he asks. “I want to help you if I can, but I need to understand what holds your here.”

Francis closes his eyes and continues.

I took him that night. There in the library before the roaring fire I took his manhood. I deflowered his youth and he loved it.

Naked before the fire I swallowed his enormous shaft. He moaned in pleasure as I held it deep within my throat. Massaging it, willing it to grow even larger. As it throbbed within me, I moved it in and out of my mouth. Up and down, up and down until he cried out my name. I withdrew it, and moved down to his orbs. I washed them with my spit. It ran between his legs, his crack until he was as moist as a woman. I probed with my fingers at first, then my tongue until he laid himself open to me. Legs spread wide, he offered himself to me with a whimper.

I pushed the head of my member into him, then held my place. He did not cry out in pain. He remained silent, but pulled my face to him. He kissed me. His lips brushed my lips every so lightly. So lightly it drove me mad with desire and I plunged the rest of my length into him. Tears fell from his eyes, and still he remained silent.

He wrapped his legs around my waist as an encouragement. An enticement. I began to wonder who was seducing whom and then I remembered it was he who had started the whole affair. Perhaps he wasn't as innocent as I'd first believed or was it just passion and lust that had taken him over. After a few moments inside him I didn't care.

“Oh Sebastian, my love,” I whispered into his ear as I thrust deep inside him. “Promise me we will never be parted.”

He replied by covering my face in kisses. His voice husky with desire, “I promise.”

It was at that moment that he shot his climax high into the air. His back arching. I dove into him one last time and emptied my life into him. This young man, this wonder, this love.

The door to the library locked, we slept in each others arms throughout the long night. Waking from time to time for kisses, for release. At dawn, the fire cold, spent he dressed and left. My heart clenched from his absence.

Our love affair quickly grew into a great romance, I deeded the hunting cabin to him so he would always have some place to stay away from his family. Have independence, privacy. We met there to make love, to live. He loved to cook for me. Entertain me. He kept a table by the fire so we were always warm. A bottle of red wine sat waiting for me. We ate simple meals. Bread, cheese, a bit of beef, rabbit. Veg from the manors' gardens. One of his mother's quilts dressed the single cot.

But deep inside me I worried about discovery. My station, my family, my life. What would happen if we were discovered? If our love would be uncovered? I now curse these thoughts. How could I have been so shallow, so callous with our love.

Sebastian seemed fearless, perhaps it was his youth. Nothing fazed him.. His father and mother, his family, the village gossips. His affection was boundless. His love all encompassing. I faltered. I was the one who dashed his hopes, his love against the cliffs of the moors. I tossed away our love out of fear and when I realized my mistake...it was too late. Too late to save us, too late to save Sebastian.

I cut him off. Cut him out of my life. Afraid of living my life with him. I rationalized it 'by thinking only of him'. Of freeing him yet again, by releasing him from our promise, so that he may marry, raise a family. Be a model of society. Freeing me in turn. Ah, yes...

I met him in the library, scene of our first romantic encounter. He greeted me with a smile and a kiss. I turned my face from him. I was hard, cold. Confused, he refused to accept what I told him. Unwilling to believe I could be so cruel. So careless with love.

“I don't feel that I'm being fair to you Sebastian. I fear that I will ruin you. You deserve the best of life. A family, a love that is respectful. One that is blessed.”

He fell to his knees, cried, begged me for forgiveness for whatever he'd done. When I could no longer stand it, when I had to leave to hide my tears, I rushed from the room. I informed the servants he was no longer welcome at the manor. I barred him.

I never saw him alive again.

Two weeks later he volunteered for the Scottish Guards. A year later, he died in the desert. A victim of 'The Desert Fox'. German General Rommel.

The night he died he came to me. I felt his presence before I saw him. The air became heavy. Oppressed. The room deadly silent. Dressed in his desert army uniform, his face bloodied beyond recognition, he stood at the end of my bed. The bed we had made love in so many times. He stood there silent, motionless. He reached out his arms to me. His uniform tattered. He walked through the bed until he touched my face.

Paralyzed with fear I recoiled from him. Wanted nothing to do with him, the man I had loved, the man I had tossed away in fear. Now, my only thought...escape. Desperate to escape. Mad with the desire to escape from him, from the room, from life. I ran, dressed only in nightclothes, from the room. I ran barefoot from the room, from the manor house and through the dark forest. I ran on faster and faster. Afraid he would follow. I ran, heedless of the tree branches that whipped my face, brought blood to the surface, scratched my eyes.

I ran towards the open moors, the freedom, the vastness. I ran breathless, desperate to escape him, to escape my guilt. The rocks cut my feet, now covered in scarlet. I felt nothing but cold. I stumbled off the path, darkness blocking my way. The pink blossoms of heather stuck to my wet and bloody feet. The shrubs tangled about my ankles. I lost my balance. I tumbled over and over. Unable to stop my body, the laws of physics had been set in motion. I suddenly felt my body flying, soaring. The night sky full of stars. The wind blew through me. And then I fell.

I looked down upon my inert body. Limbs askew at the bottom of the cliff. Pink heather blossoms scattered about me.

And so I wandered the Moors, longed for Sebastian and the love we fostered in the hunting cabin.

Francis lowers his head onto Hart's shoulder and cries. Hart pulls him to his body. Rocks him like a babe in his arms.

“Shh, you are safe here with me. I love you Francis. You are a kind man. A loving man. Whatever you have done...it will be forgiven.”

“How can you say that knowing what you now know about me?”

“Francis, you saved my life. Perhaps more than once. You fed me, gave me shelter when I was cold. Loved me...”

“You transfixed me Hart. You brought me from the depths of despair. You bewitched me. I should burn you at the stake,” he says and laughs. He presses his lips to Hart's and kisses him. Softly, innocently. But there is desire underneath that kiss.

“Have you ever told Sebastian that you're sorry for what you did?” Hart asks as he holds Francis' face in his hands.

“That wouldn't be enough. I have to pay for the horrible things I've done.”

“Francis, don't you think you've paid a high enough price. Do you think Sebastian would want you to suffer for over 60 years?”

“Sixty years?” he asks disbelieving.

“Yes Francis. You've been dead 60 years.” Francis stands, walks towards the fire. He tips the bottle of wine into a glass. He throws the empty bottle angrily into the fire. It shatters. He lifts the glass to his lips and drains it.

“Sixty years?” he asks.

“I'm sorry Francis, but yes.” Francis lays his head on the mantle and begins to sob. His shoulders bob up and down in agony. Hart rushes to his side, pulls him into his arms. “It's not too late Francis, I know it's not. I can feel it.”

“My dearest Hartford, I think it's always been too late for me.”

“No, I don't accept that Francis.”

“But it is the truth. I've been a coward.”

“Not with me,” Hart booms. “I believe in the best of you. I know you Sir Francis, Lord of Spaunton Manor.”

“Hart...”

“Call to him, Francis. If I can't have you...” Hart turns and walks away from the fire.

“Oh, don't say such things Hart. I care for you, sir. I do.”

“But you are promised to someone else...you're also dead, Francis.” Both men laugh for a second.

“Sebastian!” Hart calls out into the four corners of the hunting cabin. “Sebastian, I know you can hear me. I know you've been watching us. You are the Peregrine falcon that chased me down. I know it was you! I felt it!”

“Francis call to him, tell him you're sorry for hurting him!”

“I...”

“Do it! Or you'll be damned to roam these moors forever Francis, I know it and so do you!”

“Sebastian, I love you. I've always loved you,” Francis sobs. He falls to his knees in front of the fire. “I was a coward. And I am so very sorry I caused you hurt, harm. I never wanted you to go away, to go to war and die.” Francis falls into a sobbing heap in the cold floor of the cabin.

In the far corner a mist appears. Slowly it gains form. Hart notices it as it grows from the far dark corner of the room.

“Francis...”

Francis pricks up his ears. Raises his head. “Sebastian?” he asks.

“Francis. Help me...”

A form suddenly appears in the corner of the cabin. It is Sebastian, young, pale and beautiful.

“Francis?” he calls out.

“I'm here my love,” he says as he rushes to the far end of the room. Francis folds Sebastian into his arms and kisses him. Their mouths fuse together. Their passion sparks the dim room. Hart witnesses their bodies fusing momentarily, becoming one. And they disappear.

The room is suddenly empty. Hart exhales his pent up emotions, walks to the cot and pulls the quilt over his body.

In the morning he wakes to shouting. He jumps from the cot, the fire still raging in the hearth and flings open the door.

“Mr. Crane, Mr. Crane,” the Manor's steward yells out. “We were so worried. You've been gone for such a long time.”

Harts smiles. Turns his head towards the fireside table. A bouquet of heather stands in a vase. He pulls the quilt tight against his body as he walks out into the morning air. A Peregrine falcon calls overhead. A young fox scurries across his Wellingtons.

“Are you alright, Mr. Crane?” the nervous steward asks.

“Quite fine, but in need of a strong cup of tea and perhaps one of cook's fry-ups?”

“But of course, sir,” he replies. His guest becoming more Scottish as they speak.