Music from Across the Water

By Steven Ogilvy

Illustrated by Theo Hartley

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Halfway between the edge of the water and the place where the meadow merges into forest, a stone house leans into the wind. The land rises from the lake to greet the sky, full of magical clouds that cast no shadows. My soul lives there, apart and away from our mundane world of shadows and fear.

The ruins of a nameless, lost civilization surround me – the stones of a tumbled wall wrestle with cedar roots, and moss blurs carved faces nestled between the trees. A tower stands on an island in the lake. Sometimes at night, if I look toward the tower but not straight at it, I see light glowing in one of the windows. Once, I heard a clear song in a language I couldn’t understand drifting across the water. The next day, I rowed out to the island but found the tower empty and silent. I didn’t hear the song again that day.

Inside my spirit house, the air glimmers with the song I heard the night before. Three enormous dogs drape themselves across the couch, books cover the walls, and the thick fur of a cave bear covers the floor.

Upstairs, my writing desk and laboratory workbench face a long window. Through the whorls of hand-blown glass in leaded panes, I can see the stone pier, a rowboat tied to an iron ring, waves on the water, megaloceros and mammoth grazing on the distant shore. The sun falls through those clouds, down into the valley beyond the lake, and up to the mountain peaks rising again beyond. I stack notebooks of every kind within reach, to suit my mood and the size of the pocket in whatever clothes I wear on a given day. I have a green notebook on a piece of twine for days too lovely for clothes. I don’t need ink or quill. I think, and my words appear.

In boxes and drawers, on windowsills and shelves, I keep the objects that gave me the power to conjure this place – pinecones, potsherds, an empty eagle’s egg, arrowheads and bones, the abandoned nest of a bower bird. Glass fishing floats hang from the ceiling to remind me of the sea beyond the mountains and the planets beyond the stars.

I conjured this place to seek solitude. As the war rages on the physical plane, my body enters a trance and I am transported here. It is a place where time flows differently, where weeks pass in a heartbeat and I am able to create the words and enact the sacred science that may someday bring an end to the conflict that has taken so many lives. Here in this place of peace, I can almost forget that the elder gods have abandoned us, or – worse, far far worse – taken up arms against us in their lust for worship and power. Elmshaven fell to the darkness last week, Birchwood just the night before. Hope is failing.

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One night, I snap awake and hear the song again, clearer and stronger than ever before. High voices harmonize. I throw the blankets and skins from my body and rise, taking care not to disturb the dogs arrayed by my side and at my feet. I pad down the wooden staircase and step to the front door. I open the door, step outside, and stand in the light of the full moon, rising directly above the tower on the island in the lake. I let my robe fall from my shoulders and pool around my feet. Standing naked in the moonlight, I raise my arms and begin to sing. It is a melody I have somehow always known, but the words emerge from my mouth in the language of the song from beyond the water. Even though I conjured this place with my words, these new words are not my mind’s own. And yet, mysteriously, my soul shapes my mouth to utter that unknown tongue.

As I sing, the light in the tower moves.

I step down from the porch onto the path that wends its way through the meadow and down to the lake. The light from the tower appears over the water, centered on the reflection of the moon above, a warm glow against the pale moonlight. I am dancing. My feet move of their own accord, two steps forward, one step back, then to the left, next to the right. And still I sing.

Suddenly, as I step forward, I am surrounded by creatures unlike any I’ve seen on the mortal plane. They are naiads, of course – I have read of them often. They are completely naked. No, not naked, nude, for there is no hint of shame or self-consciousness in their expressions as they stare at me with the same curiosity I feel toward them. Crowns of flowers adorn flowing hair, and droplets of water cling to moist skin glowing in torchlight. I start in alarm. Around us, standing stones have appeared from the earth, and between the stones, orbs of warm light hang in the air – the same light I saw in the tower.

One of the naiads – the tallest, with dark hair and almond eyes – extends a hand toward me. Without a word, we are dancing, our arms around each other, in turns breaking apart and rejoining, our naked bodies colliding gracefully. At the end of her outstretched arm, I spin, and find myself in the arms of another naiad, shorter and fairer, with breasts that press softly into my chest as we move together in the center of a spinning circle of bare flesh. And so I am passed from one naiad to another a dozen times. I realize I am fully erect, blood coursing through my body as the heat rises in me and the rhythmic music – where is the music coming from? – never ceases. I look down, stop dancing, and seek to cover my pulsing cock with my hands. Their pure beauty is overwhelming, and I am ashamed to sully it with my base desires.

They laugh. A ringing sound that echoes from the walls of the high valley surrounding the lake, the meadow, and my home. My shame deepens, and I long for my erection to subside. But no, their laughter was for my shame, not my desire. A naiad on each side grips my arms and pulls my hands aside. A third approaches from the circle, looking me in the eye with a glint and a smirk as she drops to her knees and begins stroking with her hands.

I am in ecstasy. The naiads on each side release me and rejoin the dance. Others step forward to stroke my hair, my shoulders, my back, my buttocks. I stand in the center of the circle as the dance continues around me, my pleasure mounting as the rhythm intensifies. The naiad before me keeps pace with the rhythm, up and down with her hands, until suddenly she places my cock between her ample breasts, rising and falling, rising and falling, her skin slick against my shaft. I can take no more. I fall to my knees and cup her face in my hands. She leans forward and we place our mouths on each other. After an eternity, I break away and gasp for air.

They laugh again, but this time I know their laughter rings with joy, not jest at my expense. The naiads fall to the ground around me. Furs and blankets have appeared beneath us, and the music softens, the light dims. The fair naiad I kissed lies down, propped on one elbow. A dark-skinned naiad crawls on all fours toward me and gently presses my shoulders to the ground. My head is cradled in the lap of the tall naiad who first took my hand in the dance. She strokes my hair as I stare up into her eyes.

Hands find my cock again, and I moan in delight. Two hands, then four. Two more hands cup and massage my balls. Breasts graze across my thighs and tongues flick my nipples. I look up and the other naiads are writhing around me in pairs, in threes and fours, seeking and giving pleasure amongst themselves. I lock eyes with a naiad lying between my legs, her face inches from my manhood. She smiles, leans forward, and places my cock between her lips. I cry out, the heat of her mouth a surprise in the night air.

She moves up and down, her head bobbing in time to the music that has never stopped. I’m almost there when she stops. The others near me hang back for a moment, while the naiads writhing in the circle around us pause in their mutual ministrations as well.

The fair, soft naiad with the gentle smile kicks a leg over me and sits astride my body, one hand on my chest, the other hand stroking my face. She guides my mouth to her breast and I suck at her erect nipple. I gasp for air again. Next, she reaches down and slides herself onto me. I am in her now, and she rides me, her hips rocking and her breasts bouncing in my face.

She rolls off, and I make to follow, but another naiad presents herself, her face pressed into a pillow and her ass toward me in the air. I enter her, in and out, over and over, rocking to the rhythm of the music.

I place my hands on her wide hips, and my thumb finds her bumhole. I make small circles, her moist skin acting almost like an unguent. My thumb slips in, and she cries out in pleasure. I’m gripping her inside and outside as I take her quim with my cock. I’m almost there.

From behind, a hand holds my chest, fingers squeezing one nipple. Long hair grazes my back, a kiss touches my neck, and a finger enters me. I buck forward in surprise, and the naiad before me slips to the ground. I’m astride her prone body now, my cock nestled within her broad backside. I slide inside her again.

But still I’m held in the grip of the creature behind me, that finger within me. Two flicks and I’m done. I explode, pumping and pumping as I come hard and long. I collapse onto her, my chest to her back, my face next to hers. She smiles warmly. I roll off onto my back, arms and legs spread to the sky. The naiads gather closer, hands finding space to knead sore muscles, rub calloused fingers, and caress my spent self.

As I begin drifting to sleep, exhausted by pleasure and bliss, they rise around me and rejoin their dance. Spinning, spinning… Their gyre a blur of motion, their flesh a whirl of light skin, dark skin, crowned by colorful flowers and fair hair, raven hair, red hair, all whirling in the night…

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I awake. The sun is shining outside, and I realize I must have dreamed. I can’t suppress the grin on my face as I look in the mirror. What a dream it was! As I fry some eggs and boil some oats for breakfast, I ponder the meaning of my dream. The song. The dance. The love. For yes, though no words passed between us, I begin to understand the music from across the water, the song I sang without knowing the words, and the acts of physical pleasure that made the experience complete.

“Yes yes, love is the answer,” I mutter to myself with a roll of my eyes. The long war has made me cynical. Still, I begin to hum the tune to myself as I munch my food. The air crackles. I put down my spoon, swallow my mouthful of oatmeal, and part my lips in wonder. The words return to my mind, and I can sing them again. Sparks dance from my fingertips, and I am amazed! I reach for my nearest notebook, fumbling to open it to the first blank page. I hum, and notes appear on the page. I sing, and words appear. I rush to sing the whole song, but quietly, terrified of the power I see sparking around me and from me. I sing the harmonies I remember and choral parts appear on the score.

When I feel the composition is nearly complete, I step to my front door and out onto the porch. But wait! There, in the meadow between my house and the water, stands the stone circle from my dreams. Beyond, in the lake, the island and its tower have disappeared! I stand in wonder and awe. Yes, this is a magical place conjured within my mind, but there are rules to this magic no less real than the forces propelling our planet around and around our star, or the bonds holding two kinds of air together to form water.

And yet, there stand the stones from my dream, and here I stand singing their song.

I walk down to the megaliths, stand in their center, and begin to sing with my full voice. A bright flash! Then, a thunderclap reverberates through the valley, rolling out over the water, across to the mountains, and back. I continue singing and clouds gather above, lightning breaking the lowering gloom. At the climax of the song, on a high note that feels like triumph, I spread my arms wide, shouting the final words in that secret language. Rain falls from the clouds, lightning flashes, and thunder rolls. As I hold the final note and then close my mouth, the rain stops and the clouds suddenly disappear. There is nothing left but silence and a deep blue sky, mirrored in the lake below.

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The song is complete. With it, we can overthrow the elder gods who wage war against us on the mortal plane. Far in the future, when this story is nothing more than a happy legend told by tavern hearths, the peoples of our world will come to call it the “Song of Love and Water.” With it, we will conjure torrents to sweep away the darkness.

With a thought, I awake in my humble chamber in the real world. In my hand, I hold my notebook with the sacred composition. In my hand, I hold our victory. I am ready. We are ready.

Ever since that moment, I have remained in this world, my spirit house by that lake no longer the place where my soul desires rest. There is love and pleasure enough here for all my lifetimes.

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Publisher’s Note

In the last months, many have contributed creative energy to otherworlderotic. Such is the natural process of creation: ideas discussed over beer turn into narratives, edits bring sharp relief to prose, reader feedback helps give focus and life to a vision. Truly, this project has never been the sole creation of just myself.

But this story marks an exciting first: the text is not my own, and it is appearing in first publication here, for otherworlderotic.

I hope you enjoy Music from Across the Water!

I certainly enjoyed illustrating it!

• Theo Hartley, for Hartley Publications

Afterward

Steven has been shining a bright light on the ideas and prose of otherworlderotic for some time now. Beyond leveraging his background as a published author to provide professional editing at a far below market rate, his passion for the characters and stories of otherworlderotic have produced substantive thematic contributions.

Thank you for the story, Steven! And thank you Patrons for providing the funding to purchase it!

<3 Theo

Music from Across the Water by Steven Ogilvy

Published by Hartley Publications LLC

© 2024 by Steven Ogilvy. All rights reserved. This story is published by Hartley Publications LLC under exclusive first serial rights. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Edition, 2/1/2024

For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address above.

Hartley Publications LLC does not necessarily endorse the views expressed in this story. Any references to real people, events, establishments, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity and are used fictitiously.