Upstream

There's a place in Spain where you can walk all day and never see another human being. Where your only companions are the snake gliding through the brush, the ibex clinging to the cliff, the eagle soaring overhead.

The sound of this place is the soft wind as it mourns an abandoned farmstead or a shrine to a long-dead pilgrim.

Iago Blas, obit. 1458.

The landscape is drawn in harsh contours, unsoftened by any thickness of the air. The moisture has been sucked out of it by a sun so greedy that it's leeched the colour from the rocks and plants.

It's a hard land, and lonely. The rocks beneath your feet are the very bones of the mountains. It's a bleak place, where the spirits of nature feel very close.

It was still early when I set out on this particular day. I'd spent the night at a small farm perched midway up a slope, with stone walls so thick I had to lean out of the window to get any signal on my phone. The full moon painted the fields below a glowing silver and softened the hard lines of the day.

I made my farewells to my landlady, responding to the words I recognised in her regular salvos of speech and nodding and smiling through the rest. Her husband's tractor stood at the edge of a tiny field, perched at an impossible angle on the slope, but the man himself was nowhere in sight. I tried to be polite and keep my gaze away from the valley of cleavage that was on display, but I promised myself to revisit the memory later.

Stuffing the lunch she'd prepared for me in my pack and waving one last time -- and enjoying the movement as she waved back -- I stepped onto a narrow path uphill. It led me over the crest, then down into a gorge. The birds that populated the farm and its fields soon fell silent in the morning's heat, and I left the small shrine of civilisation behind as I put one foot in front of the other, again and again and again, and let my mind wander.

Besides the occasional crunch of gravel under my feet and the low murmur of the stream further below, all I heard was silence. It was like a constant whisper in my ear, growing louder, somehow, as the sounds of the water also grew bolder. Pale yellow cliffs rose up on either side, three or four times my own height, trapping me and my small presence in the gorge with the running water.

By midmorning I'd reached the point where the path crossed the stream. Ancient stones, of a bluey-grey that seemed alien to these pale mountains, lay across the water, a smear of darkness in the sun-bleached landscape.

The stream had come awake with the climbing sun. It sang and chortled its way over its rocky bed, hemmed in by steep sides above and below me. Here and there a stunted tree or bush clung to the stone. Far off in the distance, a dark spot moved in lazy circles against the full blue of the sky. An eagle. For a while I watched it: king of the morning's warm air.

Perhaps watching that great bird fed a desire for adventure in me. A need to step off the path and find my own way, if only for a little while. Jealousy? Frustration at the shackles of the ordinary? A yearning to find something, somewhere, that was mine and mine alone?

Whatever it was, the idea of crossing this bridge, of following the trail from marker to marker, made me obstinate. Just for a short while I wasn't willing to be led by anyone or anything except my own feet.

And so I turned away from the bridge. The face of the cliff was steep, but not smooth, and I set first one foot, then the other, on the rocky slope and followed it upstream. Below me, the stream chuckled, either in encouragement or in amusement at my foolishness.

It was hard to disagree. The footing was uneven, with only an uncertain ridge between rock and ravine. More than once I had to steady myself suddenly when a stone slipped away beneath my shoe. For stretches, I moved sideways, trying to wrap my arms around the cliff face in a giant hug.

Below me the stream grew steadily louder, and nearer. Above, when I tore my gaze away from the water beneath, the sky was a strip of hard blue, with the sun peering anxiously over the gorge's edge. Once I spotted an eagle, the same one as before or another, I couldn't tell. I wondered whether it was there to guide me, or whether it was waiting for me to fall to my death.

Slowly, gradually, the angle of the slope became softer. The way forward rose steadily, with the stream alongside, and the sky came closer. Large rocks formed the bed of the gorge, and the water glided over them and danced in pools in between.

As the scene became more tranquil, the sun joined me in the gorge. Its light softened the sky and stroked the water, teasing it and playing with the shadows like it was tickling the stream and making it gurgle like a small child.

Eventually my way appeared blocked by a group of vast boulders. Their broad shoulders blocked the gorge from side to side, as if to prevent anyone from proceeding. The stream fell enticingly over them, laughing openly now. Challenging me to continue, daring me to find a way past the giants.

It wasn't easy, but I managed. I left my pack behind and hauled myself up, heaving and straining, until at last I lay gasping on the hard, hot stone. A foot from my face the stream slipped by innocently. Sweating, breathing heavily, I clambered to my knees and found myself in paradise.

Dappled sunlight stroked a shimmering black mirror. On three sides, pale rock formed a bowl, rising upwards, lush with vegetation: dark-leaved creepers with bright flowers that gave off a heady aroma in the warm air. Birds chattered among the leaves, boasting of their hiding places.

The pool was fed by a stream that splashed down from perhaps twice my height. Droplets sprang free, sparkling like diamonds before being lost below.

The water seemed to sleep here, soothed by the sun's caress before it began its long journey down the gorge and beyond.

After my hot and nervous trek, it was a scene to cool the soul. Realising how thirsty I was, and remembering that my flask was in the pack I'd left below, I leaned forward and scooped up a handful of water.

Can water smell sweet? This did. A clear freshness crept up my nostrils and cleared my mind. I took a sip. Then another.

Nothing I'd ever tasted matched the experience. Even now, I'm unable to describe it, except to say that it cooled and soothed both body and mind.

I closed my eyes and drank again. The sun shone red through my eyelids. My ears filled with birdsong, a hint of breeze in the creepers, and over it all the falling water before me and behind.

I sat there for a long time. The pains and niggles and worries of life seemed to fade into the distance, washed away by the pool's water. I knew they'd return, but for now, as long as I remained where I was, they were kept at bay.

At last, tempted by the thought of another drink, I opened my eyes. What I saw made me forget my thirst, forget everything but what was before me.

A woman's head had appeared above the surface of the pool, half a dozen yards away. Her eyes mirrored its gleaming black surface, and when they met mine it was as if I was falling into a deep, cool depth.

Wet black hair was plastered to her skull, framing a wide brow and a face that was both beautiful and strange. Those dark eyes dominated, set above high cheekbones separated by a straight nose. Full lips were curled in a smile that seemed to shift from seductive to shy to predatory without moving.

I couldn't have spoken if I'd known what to say. In the moment she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen -- the most beautiful sight to fill my eyes, ever. Without exaggeration, it was only when I felt an aching pain in my chest that I remembered to breathe.

The eyes were gazing at me in something between amusement and interest. How long we stood there I don't know. My breath returned, and I managed a smile, but neither of us spoke.

After an eternity she rose further from the water. Slowly, ever so slowly, so that I could follow every drop as it slid and slithered from the smooth skin of her neck, her shoulders, her chest. The sunlight, my ally now, made them gleam on her caramel nakedness like diamonds adorning the most expensive of gowns.

Anticipation rose within me as the swell of her breasts came into view. My breath caught again as I waited for them, as I fought the disbelief that this otherworldly woman would expose herself to me. Yet as more soft, taut flesh appeared from below the surface it seemed that was what was going to happen.

I felt myself swelling up in time with her. I didn't care. It felt unreal.

Slowly, suddenly, the pool relinquished its hold on her breasts and they were fully revealed. They were as perfect as her face. Firm, full, enticing, jutting forward from her chest as if they were straining at a leash. The water below and the sun above seemed to caress them, stroke them, squeeze them even. I felt a twitch in my fingers.

I was rock hard by now, and I managed to get my feet beneath me and stand. Her eyes followed me up, then they slid back down to where I knew my shaft was pressing against the material of my shorts.

Her smile turned predatory again, and she spoke.

Her voice was sunlight reflected in the stream rushing over rocks. It was the gentle breeze that blew ripples across the surface of the pool. It was the warm water on top of the cooler water beneath.

It danced with a rhythm that was as sexy as it was natural. Not the throbbing beat of Latin music, but the ebb and flow of the tides, the waxing and waning of the moon, the writhing of two bodies making love.

I didn't recognise the words -- not Spanish -- but her meaning was clear. "Come on in, the water's lovely."

Without stopping to ask myself what this beautiful woman could want with me -- or even why she was here in the first place, or where she came from -- I found myself fumbling at my clothes. I might have forgotten about my boots and socks if my shorts hadn't caught on them. As it was, I had to pull them all off in a tangled confusion, sitting on the sun-warmed stone with my cock burning my arm every time I brushed against it.

All this time my eyes didn't leave her face. She watched my every motion. She didn't rise any further from her pool. Everything but her upper arms, her breasts, neck and head was hidden by the sun-dappled water.

At last, although it can't have been more than half a minute, I was naked. Everything was gone: my clothes, my boots, but also my fancy hiking watch, the spare bootlace that I wore around my neck with my emergency whistle. I stepped into the water as naked as the day I was born.

It was cool and refreshing, rising up around my calves with my first step, and to midway up my thighs with my second. There I stopped, my cock hard and swollen and pointing up at the watching sun.

She moved closer and her hands came up, beckoning, trailing water like more sparkling diamonds. I took a hesitant step forward, then another, and she reached out to me.

On either wrist she wore a broad band, shaped like a shackle, of the same blue-green stone as the bridge I hadn't crossed. The bracelets seemed incongruous, out of place on her otherwise naked form, as alien as the bridge had felt in the gorge.

A shiver ran through me when the tips of her fingers reached my chest, then her palms. I continued forward, feeling a slight resistance before her arms slid aside and around my waist.

The water by this time was high enough that only the head of my cock was visible. The coolness was soothing rather than chilling, and my erection hadn't flagged for an instant.

Fingers glided across the skin of my back, to where my arse curved out, and then forward across my thighs. There was perhaps a foot separating our bodies, but as I lifted my leg to move closer her hands gave a warning squeeze, and I stopped.

Her eyes were on the shining, swollen head of my cock. Mine were on those perfect breasts, the feminine curve of her belly beneath, and below that the hint of a mound. Dark hairs stood upright, lifted by the water as if reaching for me.

My mouth didn't want to obey, but I forced it to speak. "What's your name?" I didn't expect her to understand me, but I knew I had to ask.

The large solemn eyes came up to meet mine again, and held them. There was understanding there -- as if she'd understand me in whatever language I spoke.

Her mouth opened, and a word came out like the stream flowing over the boulders below. "Laneana."

It was only one word, but behind it were layers and layers of images, sensations, memories.

A spring arising from bare rock, feeling its way over stone, down slopes, through pools, ever searching for the sea. Water rising, swelling, flowing over banks and bringing life to the land and its people. Drops of water sparkling in the sunlight as they fly up from a waterfall.

In each of these visions the voice of the water was Laneana's voice, and I realised that it was this voice that I'd followed upstream.

Did she draw me here deliberately? Or did I simply hear her song and follow my heart?

Whatever the case I didn't feel like an animal caught in a trap -- more like a treasure hunter with his reward, rather, or a parched throat quenched by a cool drink.

Perhaps she knew what was going on in my mind, because she smiled and reached up to stroke my cheek. A shiver ran through me, from the base of my skull all the way down my spine to between my legs. The water around my cock rippled in response, and she glanced down.

When she raised her eyes to me again I could see the hunger in them, sense it in her. Her lips parted, her tongue darted out to moisten them and then retreated. I wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

As if in response, she leaned nearer and closed her eyes. The heat from her body was a tangible thing, even before her nipples brushed across my chest. I found myself moving closer, closer, eyes shut, and then our lips touched.

Time slowed, marked only by the pounding of my heart in my chest. The world came down to the sensation of her lips on mine, firm but soft, slightly open, breath slow and hot. I was trembling, I noticed, and my own breath was coming short and shallow.

Then she laughed softly, her lips still touching mine, and time returned to normal. Her tongue was as cool as the water in her pond, just as soft and just as undeniable. It entered my mouth, and I came to life, seizing her in my arms and pulling her towards me. Our kiss became hard, fast, almost desperate, and I felt her fingers dig into my thighs, then drag upwards to my arse.

My hips surged towards hers, as if my cock was being drawn to her, and I almost lost control when it rubbed against her mound. Forcing the flames back down, I concentrated on kissing, on the feel of her skin under my fingers

She surged against me, pressing forward. Her legs came up around my waist as if she weighed nothing, or no more than the water of the pool. My hands under her arse held her easily, fingers squeezing that delightful flesh, searching and exploring.

It wasn't the most comfortable position, but I was willing to give it a try. In truth, it wasn't my decision. It was a matter between Laneana and my cock. I'd have been happy just holding her, kissing her, feeling those perfect breasts against my chest. I could have done that forever.

The pair of them had other ideas, though. Somehow I found myself on my back, shallow water lapping over my legs and against my sides as she straddled my hips. Above me, she looked down over her breasts. The sun was behind her, but somehow her face glowed, all except those dark eyes.

She reached one hand down between our bodies. Cool fingers glided across my burning shaft, exploring like my fingers had explored her arse a moment earlier. Then she pulled me upright, rubbing my head along the slick warmth of her pussy until it found her entrance.

Her eyes were locked on mine, her lips parted, her chest heaving. Then she pressed down.

Her heat was stimulating and comforting, like the warmth of the sun. She slid down in one smooth motion until our bodies met, hers enveloping mine. Her hands leaned on my chest, fingertips digging into my muscles, the stone bands around her wrists cold on my skin.

Slowly and deliberately she rose, then fell, then rose again. Water seemed to stream from her, perhaps from her wet hair, and her movements were like the rhythm of the tides. I held still, letting her use me, batter her lust against me.

I became aware that she was singing -- a soft, crooning sound that at first was hidden by the clatter of the falling water behind her. It became louder, and I thought I recognised a Celtic lilt -- Irish, or perhaps Welsh. It sounded as old as the mountains beneath us and the sky above, a song that was there when the world began and would be there when the sun faded to black.

Up and down she rode, up and down. I sensed from the clenching of her fingers when she came close to her climax, and she slowed, only to build up the pace again a few moments later.

On and on we went. Each time she let her climax approach a little closer, and each time she seemed more urgent to start again. Up and down, up and down, her song filling my ears and echoing around the little bowl. It blended with the sounds of the waterfall, the birdsong and wind in the creepers, the cry of the eagle far overhead.

It rang in my blood, coursed through my veins and nestled in my cock. It was building towards a climax, just like she was, and this time I knew she wouldn't hold back. My own orgasm had awoken, but her song and her steady rhythm held it in check, as if she was gripping my shaft too tight for me to explode.

And then everything reached its crescendo. The song, her movements, the sunlight overhead. Her rhythm broke, she fell forward onto my chest, and I seized her arse as we bucked against each other, both racing towards the finish in halting, jerky stabs.

I felt her lips searching for mine, and I turned my face until we were kissing. Her song had fallen silent, but I could still feel it inside me and echoing in the air. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, mine in grunts and whimpers. My head swelled up inside her as I reached the point of no return.

Then the wall broke, and my world exploded. I thrust my cock hard inside her, and she screamed against my mouth and shuddered. Stab after stab of ecstasy shot along my shaft, drawing strength from my arms and legs so that I jerked and spasmed, and on top of me she was doing the same, and together we rode the storm like its queen and king, joined by the white fire of our bodies, holding on to each other until it subsided and the world returned to normal.

After an eternity she slid off me. I wanted to reach out and hold her, pull her against me and never let her go, but my body was too weak. I had to watch as she rolled into the water like an otter, vanishing beneath the surface with barely a ripple.

I waited for her to resurface, but somehow I knew she wouldn't. Perhaps she did in the end, but my eyes fell shut and a blanket of weariness crept over me. Soothed by the scent of the blossoms in the warm air, the dappled sunlight and the gentle sounds of the pool, I fell into a deep, dark sleep.

I don't think I slept long. When I woke the sun was still high above the pool, and I didn't have a sense of much time having passed. I cast a wistful glance around, hoping to see some sign of Laneana, but I was alone. All trace of her had been washed away.

So I took my clothes and clambered down the tall boulders to where my pack still stood, with a towel inside. A few minutes later I began my trek back to where I'd left the track, following the lazy flight of the eagle overhead.

Looking back, sometimes I wonder whether it was a dream. But it wasn't. The memory doesn't fade or slip away. I recall every instance, every sensation, every thought I had.