The Welsh mountains are steeped in myths and legends and have captured the hearts of many locals and travellers and remain central to the myth of King Arthur. Surrounding lakes claim to hold the sword of Excalibur and the legendary Avalon, an island off the Llyn peninsular which is supposed to be the final resting place of King Arthur and Merlin. Yet, some myths and legends go back much, much further. Back to the darker times of mankind, and there remains a handful of people that still remember them.

One such legend relates the tale of Bethani; a legend that caught the eager eye of Angharad. It was a mere mention, a trickle of information, no more than a few paragraphs, yet it involved love and servitude to a great goddess.

Angharad started her research. She ordered books from the library and when they were not forthcoming started to reach further afield into the worlds of Celtic magic and the supernatural. She had found a few snippets of information, that created in her mind’s eye, the kind of woman that Bethani was and had become and it excited her to her very core. She dressed in clothing that was commensurate with those times, these days they call them Goths.

She studied hard at school, or at least that’s what her mother thought she was doing and when she confronted her about all the time she spent in her room she was surprised when Angharad told her that she was researching myths and legends. Her mother looked at her with concern before biting her lower lip.

“What myths and legends?” she had asked.

“Lots of them, but I’m trying to find out about the legend of Bethani.”

Her mother’s mouth opened and then closed quickly. She rested with her back against the doorframe of her daughter’s bedroom and yet she heard the enthusiasm in her daughter’s voice.

“Grandad knows all about that, apparently,” she said, before turning her concerned face away from her daughter. It wasn’t a fact that she had wanted to reveal and some memories were best kept hidden. Yet, for some reason, she couldn’t stop herself from doing so and once it was out of her mouth she felt curiously bitter with herself for doing so. She hoped, as much as any mother could hope, that Angharad would let it lie and forget about it.

ooOoo

Angharad knocked on the wooden door of a house that nestled under the giant mountain of Yr Wyddfa. It was more of a small cottage than a house but it was the place her Grandad chose to live out his latter days. He could have lived in luxury, by today’s standards, in either Betws-Y-Coed or Beddgelert and still be within a stone’s throw of the mountain he loved so much.

The paint-peeled door slowly opened. An old man appeared around the slit that formed and his croaky voice announced, “Yes. What do you want?”

“Grandad, it’s me Angharad. It’s been a while,” she announced with effervescent glee.

He knew the name and yet. A smile broke upon his face as he started to recognise his granddaughter. She entered the shack to see dusty cobwebs cling lifelessly to the ceiling and the corners of just about every room. Dust puffed out of the comfy chair that she sat on and her grandad brought her a glass of squash and a few biscuits on a plate. Her eyes were drawn to the sword that looked like Excalibur that had pride of place above the mantelpiece. The conversation was stunted at first; he hadn’t seen Angharad since she was eight and here she was telling him that she was in upper sixth school, studying for her advanced levels and seventeen years of age.  They talked about her, mostly, and he was amazed at how she had grown into a fine looking woman, though he did think the makeup was a bit on the dark side. Her purple lips were not the kind of colour that women wore in his day, but times change.

Neither of them seemed to notice the hands on the clock whirl around like time itself had stood still and Angharad’s curiosity got the better of her. There was a question that needed to be asked.

“Grandad…” she started, not knowing how to approach the subject and not understanding how an old man, her grandfather of all men, would know more than she could find out in books or the internet for that matter.

“…do you know anything about the myths and legends surrounding Bethani?”

Her grandad didn’t flinch at the mention of Bethani; staring openly into the fire that crackled in the open grate. Memories that he had not entertained in a while suddenly came flooding back to him. He found himself nodding before he smiled at her. He could see that her eyes were wide with excitement.  What had she read? How much did she know? What had her mother told her?

It made him curious but before he decided to tell her what he knew, he wanted to find out from her how much she knew. And so the conversation and exchange of views began. Her grandad entertained one last thought before deciding to tell her everything he knew. He found himself talking quickly as if reciting a mantra. Getting it out of his head in case his head changed its mind.

“Bethani is the essence of sexuality that resides in these mountains; a goddess of licentiousness, sexual freedom, a goddess of lust. It is thought that anyone who is taken under her wing will understand the basic needs of mankind. Everyone has their idea of why we are on this Earth, but Bethani made people understand that it all boils down to pleasure. Many have tried to become her, some have spent their life searching for her but few have succeeded. It is said that she has broken many hearts.

“It all started with Vortigern, a hated warlord that took refuge under the mountain of Yr Wyddfa after escaping his enemies. He built a castle that was never completed because every night it was destroyed by the giant Idris who arose from his chair, Cadair Idris, to destroy anyone and anything that took refuge under Yr Wyddfa, for he once was besotted with Bethani who rejected his advances in favour of humanity. During this unsettling time, his wife or concubine, I can’t remember which, became besotted with the mysteries that surrounded Yr Wyddfa and especially those relating to one spirit, in particular, Bethani; one that lured women into the realm of pleasure.”

Angharad never once took her eyes off her grandad. She became enthralled by his voice; his deep melodious accent related the story like it happened yesterday – like it was personal.  He glanced at the picture of his wife on the mantelpiece that had now curled up at the edges and turned yellow. It made him smile inwardly. He picked up a poker and thrust it into the fire; breaking apart the coagulated blocks of coal and bringing the fire back to life. Much needed warmth immediately spread throughout the room.

“Vortigern’s wife was said to have camped at the base of Glaslyn, facing Yr Wyddfa from which she summoned Bethani.”

Her grandad looked to the ceiling and sighed. His eyes closed as if to hide a tear that was to leak from the corner of his eye. The ache in his heart became intolerable and he suppressed the urge to cry out in front of his granddaughter.

“What happened, grandad?” Prompted Angharad, oblivious to the turmoil that was now eating away at her grandad’s soul.

“At midnight on the twenty-fifth of what is now our October, Vortigern’s wife demanded Bethani’s presence. She came to her and pleasured her by the lakeside and at precisely two in the morning, in our time, of course, Bethani took her to a world beyond worlds. Vortigern never recovered from the loss of his wife, though her body was never found you understand, and he swore that every time he looked into the horseshoe of Yr Wyddfa, he saw her smile as if entombed in sexual bliss.”

Angharad had noticed her nipples had become hard under her thin cotton top despite the roaring fire. She felt aroused, excited, and by her own granddad’s words.

“And that is why –“ added her grandad, “the mountain is called Yr Wyddfa and known as the ‘The Tomb’.”

“How do you know all this – stuff? Grandad.”

Angharad’s grandad looked away towards the door of the cottage as if wishing it would open and a nymphet dressed in gossamer silk and looking very much like his wife did on their wedding day would walk through and engulf him.

“I’m old, my dear, too old,” he replied.

At tea time, Angharad left her grandad’s cottage but vowed to return. There were more stories and adventures that she wanted to hear. And unbeknown to her, for her grandad, there would be more heartache.

ooOoo

Angharad once more knocked at her grandad’s cottage with her purple bag at her feet. It was precisely a week later, the twenty-fourth of October to be precise and she had arranged with her mother to stay the weekend at her granddad's. All she had to do now was convince her grandad to let her stay.

He was pleased to see her and yet his heart saddened at the thought of her staying the weekend. He knew why she was here, on this precise day, though her excuse of going for a walk in the mountains didn’t hide the fact that he was concerned.

At precisely seven o’clock, an hour after their main evening meal Angharad decided to put her plan into action. She laid the pre-prepared note on the table for her grandad to find once he had awoken from his afternoon nap. She quietly lifted the sword from its couplings above the mantelpiece, careful not to drop it and even more careful not to disturb the dust that had settled on it. When she reached the door, she picked up her pre-prepared rucksack with enough water and snacks to keep her going for the evening and exited the door of the cottage at Nant Cynnyd with the quietest click of the lock she could do. She made her way towards Yr Wyddfa.

It would be a short walk to Pen-Y-Pass and then she would take, what is known as the Pyg track, along the side of Yr Wyddfa, though she would have to cut back down to the base of the lake at Glasyn; a much shorter route than the miner’s track that winded between the lower lakes of Llyn Llydaw.

Angharad reached the base of Glaslyn three hours later. She was cold as she pulled the heavy duvet jacket around her. She ate some snacks and drank some water; wishing she had heated it or brought coffee with her instead. She stared intently at the mountains and tracks for movement but there would be no one in the mountains at this ungodly hour or at this time of the year. The night was as black as the deepest lake and lit only by the clouds that skitted across the sky like ghosts.

She waited patiently for midnight to approach. She looked up at the moon that had just risen above the peaks and watched as it poked its eye through the intervening clouds. The shine from the lake made everything look ethereal. For some reason, though she didn’t know why, she started to feel warm; warmer than normal in a down jacket at eleven-thirty at night. She started to prepare all that she needed to do and say. She recited from her notes, looked around at the wall of rock that surrounded her; trying to identify which part of the scenery she should address or whether that didn’t matter.

It never once dawned on her that this pilgrimage she embarked upon was foolish. She would wait patiently until the last minute before midnight before she announced her intentions to Yr Wyddfa. And then it dawned on her that she was embarking on a journey where the ending was uncertain. Would she see grandad again? Would she see her mother, her friends?

Angharad started to remove her clothing; first her boots, trousers and finally her duvet, jumper and top. All were folded neatly in a pile except her knickers which were dropped unceremoniously on top.  She unclipped her bra and allowed her ample bosoms to be engulfed by the mist that formed around her. Her bra joined its partner on top of the pile of neatly stacked clothes. And last but not least she unclipped her black hair and let it flow down around her breasts. Her nipples hardened. The cold engulfed her, invaded her body, clawed at her breasts and poked into crevices that were now moist with excitement. She looked around at the landscape with a voracious appetite for sex that was about to be unleashed.

Her toes curled at the thought of what she was about to embark upon. She looked at her breasts as they wobbled; mesmerised by the way the mist encased them as if the hands of the gods themselves were feeling her up. She stared into the face of Yr Wyddfa, desperate to see who the hands of mist belonged to. She picked up the sword and held it close to her bosom. The cold steel thrilled her. She opened her legs a little for stability and moaned loudly as the mists of time held her sex gently in its grasp.

The moment approached. Midnight was upon Angharad as she stood tall and erect and with confidence and authority in her voice announced…

“I summon you – Bethani.”

An icy wind swept down from the peak that was Yr Wyddfa and skirted across the lake with increasing speed; gathering the essence of the mountain on its way towards Angharad. Gusts swirled around her, touching her, prickling her skin with enticing touches.

“Make your presence known to me Bethani, so that I may join you.”

The intermittent moonshine from the lake caused her mound to shimmer as if it were covered in opalescent glitter. Her breasts reflected the light and heaved as she became bolder with every passing minute. She raised the sword upwards with both hands. The one single piece of adornment, a bronze Celtic rope bracelet, clancked against the hilt of the sword as she raised it high.

“I DEMAND YOUR PRESENCE,” she shouted as she brought the sword down quickly, piercing the ground with its tip, letting it reverberate in the ground before she raised her arms upwards and outwards; bearing her body and enticing Bethani with the pleasures that were bound within it.

Angharad’s breath left her body with force. Her legs seemed to be forced apart and her sex was held in a vice-like, yet cold grip. Her head flung backwards and her breasts were held tightly before being squeezed; her nipples rolled between bright red fingers of coloured mist.

Lights crackled above her and her gaze focused on the effigy that was forming before her. Angharad could feel pleasure seep from every pore of her body. Lust fuelled every thought in her mind.

The wind breathed. A soul formed.

“Who are you to summon – ME?”

Angharad’s mouth opened of its own accord but nothing came forth. She saw dark hair, large breasts and long legs. A voluptuous Amazonian woman formed before her; encroaching on her personal space until she was surrounded by her. Yes, surrounded was the right phrase.

Grandad looked through the window of his cottage at the flickering lights surrounding Yr Wyddfa. Lights that he had not seen in fifty years; lights that made him remember that time when…With his gaze lowered, he walked downstairs and picked up the picture of his wife Ffion from the mantelpiece.

“You won’t be alone much longer – my love,” he sobbed into the photo.

Angharad couldn’t explain what she was feeling, there were so many sensations happening all at the same time. She was being kissed, on the inside as much as the outside. Butterflies formed in the pit of her stomach or were they kisses from a world beyond worlds.  Her breasts were caressed gently making them engorged with need and lust. Her nipples, the pinnacles of life, grew hard and erect.

Suddenly, Angharad’s gaze was upon a woman being lifted upwards into nothingness; an out-of-body experience that showed women pleasuring her, using her body as an instrument, playing a tune with her sexuality that seemed to settle her soul. This was her. This was Angharad. This is what she was – is. Two women either side of her feasted on her breasts for what seemed like ages; constantly sucking on her flesh and her nipples; making them both bigger and harder. Another buried her face in her moistened mound and others kissed and licked the inside of her thighs, her bottom and her neck. Although she was looking at herself, she could feel all the sensations she was seeing.

Her eyes suddenly opened to find that she was laying on the ground, her legs, bent at the knees but wide and held by ropes of mist. Bethani slipped between her legs and kissed delicately at her folds. Hands caressed her breasts though they were not attached to the presence between her thighs. Nevertheless, the pleasure from both sources built inside her to tumultuous levels and was joined by a gentle probing of her anus.

Angharad’s insides were in turmoil. She could see the lust that was within Bethani’s eyes and knew she would be taken by her. Her mind was on the brink of an Earth-shattering orgasm and her body was being pleasured from so many sources that she couldn’t keep count of the number of times she was raised to the height of climax only for the bar to be raised even higher. She suddenly remembered the orgasm that her grandad had said would happen at precisely two in the morning on the twenty-fifth of October, the time when she would pass beyond her world and be taken by Bethani to become one of them. That time was now. She was ready.

Angharad wanted this so much. She couldn’t explain why – but she did. It was as if she wanted to feel whole. A part of nature, a part of Yr Wyddfa, a part of something much grander than the world she lived on. A supreme sexual being that epitomised pleasure. On the brink of orgasm, she quickly realised that pleasure is what this world was built for.

Angharad’s climax rose to its penultimate peak. She had been kept on the brink of orgasm since midnight, she had been teased and taunted with the ultimate release. The sky crackled, a low moan ripped through her senses like a dragon awakening from slumber. The wind suddenly swept backwards and up the sides of Yr Wyddfa, taking all the pleasure and lust with it. Suddenly, Bethani was being swept away from the golden chalice that she was pleasuring and while her tongue frantically extended as she withdrew, it was not enough for Angharad to fall over the cliff of climaxes.

“Nooooo….” Angharad let out a loud and painful cry into the cold night air as she panted heavily on the shores of Glaslyn.

She quickly rose to her feet, picked up the sword and repeated the chant; a second attempt at summoning Bethani to complete her unfinished business.

Angharad was left in a state of disarray. Something was wrong and she couldn’t understand why Bethani had rejected her? She suddenly felt cold, icy cold and she started to dress. Her knickers did little to soak the juices from her dripping pussy and her bra was no match for the strength of her nipples or the size that her breasts seemed to have grown to.

She did her best to try and understand why? But the answers were not forthcoming. With bitter disappointment resting heavily on her mind she made her way back down the mountain and made a beeline for the cottage.

She was there, she kept telling herself, Bethani was there, she wanted me, I was about to join them. Why?

ooOoo

At five-thirty in the morning, the cottage door creaked open and a dishevelled Angharad crept past the entrance. Her rucksack was quickly discarded, the sword placed just inside the door before heading up the staircase to the bedroom.

“You’re back late; did you have a nice walk?”

She quickly turned in the direction of the sound and saw her grandad in the chair next to the cold and dying embers of the fire. In his hand was the picture of his wife from the mantelpiece. Angharad looked at him before slowly moving to the chair opposite.

A puff of dust almost made her cough as she sat down. She shivered as she nestled into the chair. She looked into her grandad’s eyes and saw that an explanation was needed.

“I failed,” she said, eventually.

“Failed at what?” he asked.

“I was there grandad, I took your sword and I was there. I summoned her. Bethani is real. I saw her, I felt her. I was there.”

Angharad’s grandad nodded and sighed. “I know she’s real, but I’m so glad you are here with me and not with her.”

Angharad looked up into her grandad’s eyes and saw the tear that threatened to appear some time ago. She saw it meander down his cheek and collect at the side of his lips.

“What’s wrong, grandad?” she asked.

“Bethani took her from me, you know. Or rather you don’t know, but you do now.”

Angharad looked at the picture he was clutching tightly to his chest. She quickly joined him and hugged him close to her; not realising the anguish and hurt he must have gone through in relating his story to her almost a week past.

“When?” she asked.

“Two years after your mother was born,” he told her, “like you, she had a penchant for the unknown, she was very much like me in that respect.”

“Why didn’t she take me, grandad?” Angharad shook her head. “I wanted to go, I wanted to leave, why did she reject me?”

Her grandad shook his head.

“It was out of this world,” continued Angharad, “the sensations, the pleasure and then at the time you said, it was about to happen, I was about to be converted. Taken by Bethani. And then she left.”

Her grandad thought for a while, but it was only when he caught sight of the clock on the wall did a spark of realisation enter his mind.

“Did she leave? Or was she taken away from you?” he had asked.

Angharad thought for a while.

“Taken, I think. She tried to stay, but,” Angharad chose her words carefully so as not to embarrass her grandad; remembering the ever-lengthening tongue of mist that tried so desperately to maintain its friction with her clitoris and push her over the orgasmic cliff. “I think she was pulled from me, grandad.”

“At two o’clock?” he asked, an amused smile appeared on her grandad’s face.

“I guess so,” she nodded.

“At two, the clocks went back an hour,” he said matter-of-factly. “Maybe, just maybe Bethani is once and for all beyond our reach, my dear.”

Angharad looked down at her grandad in disbelief.

“You mean all of that was prevented by some fucked up moron fiddling with hypothetical time. Not even in real-time?”

“Ah! Now what is real-time,” he chided, “but yes, it seems that way.”

He let Angharad calm down a little before prompting her into action.

“Come on, go to bed and get some sleep, I think I’ll come for a walk with you tomorrow. There’s a place I want to visit before I get too old. I think you’ll like it.”