Of course everyone and anyone with any sense in the town knew that the outer world was a place of terrifying evil and corruption. Only a fool would dare to venture into the untamed and chaotic mystery lands that existed beyond the towering walls that guarded both the sanity and security of the people of Selenor.

To the east of the city there existed a lush, green forest that was reputed to be haunted by cruel and malicious spirits. It was therefore named by the inhabitants of Selenor “The Spirit Woods”. From the Towers and rooftops of the town’s highest buildings during the evening hours the frightened, yet curious town folks, watched as spectral entities hovered above the dark woodlands.

These angelic ghosts swirled over the magical forest, appearing against the ebony-black night sky like shimmering fireflies and dancing rainbows. This severe beauty inflicted the hearts of the Selenorians with complete and absolute terror.

Our story concerns a young lad whose tragic destiny was met in both the town of Selenor and the Spirit Woods. Blackthorn was a sullen and brooding young man with a very dark and disturbed soul. The lad had been abandoned as a child, he being the offspring of a violent rape. His mother, not wishing to raise the demon child, chose instead to leave him in a heap of garbage. That way his destiny would be decided by the guardians of fate, and she could go on with her life having a clear conscience.

Fate did actually show the babe some mercy, for he was found by a group of ragged beggars who lifted the screaming infant from out of the stinking pile of refuse. Being the opportunists that they were, they took care of the child for a short period, hoping to raise the boy as a scavenger and thief.

The child was often cruelly beaten and raped by the wretched, lascivious bums who felt the need to satiate their sadistic, carnal appetites. At the age of three the toddler managed to escape from the twisted circle of debauchery. He crawled through a small crack in the city walls and then wandered into the welcoming arms of the Spirit Woods.

It was there that he found his true family in the night owls, wolves, and other nocturnal creatures. Blackthorn was given his name by the female personification of darkness herself who became his mother and fed the child the black milk of enchantment that spurted from her fair bosoms.

He grew into a pale, pallid, yet handsome lad with a lithe and delicate frame. His haunted eyes were turquoise and his raven-black tresses flowed past his waist in braids. During his youth he acquired a violaratta (a magical instrument that was like a cross between a violin, flute and guitar.) and from his ghostly mother he learned the ghastly and ominous darkwood melodies of the unseen realms.

One day at the hour of sunset Blackthorn looked around himself at the lovely emerald-green woodlands that had become his home. His eyes beheld the wildflowers that were illuminated beneath the fiery orange-red glow of the sun as it sank down over the side of the planet, and he looked up, watching with amusement at the squirrels above him chasing one another in the treetops. His ears heard the rustling of the wind through the spring foliage in harmony with the songbirds that piped and sang their evening rhapsodies.

“Although I am at peace,” thought Blackthorn, “I am lonely and am wishing for companionship. Perhaps I should enter into the city to meet others of my kind.” His memories of the city of Selenor were very dim and shadowy. Most of what he knew of the walled town was from what was whispered into his ear by Mother darkness who disliked the place greatly and warned her beloved son against visiting Selenor.

“You must have patience, my dear one, for there is much for you to explore and others for you to meet right here in the Spirit Woods.” whispered darkness softly to her beloved son. “The town of Selenor is a place of perversity, ignorance, and mutations. Do not visit there for you will only find rejection, prejudice and grief.”

But reacting like most youths, he was determined to visit the entered into the city by slipping through a gap that existed in the northwest corner of the gray and black stone barrier. He then observed the town of Selenor in awe and wonder, for the sight of human made structures were new to his eyes and appeared very strange to him.

The people of Selenor likewise looked upon Blackthorn with suspicion for in their eyes he appeared odd and misplaced. He was garbed in colored green and ebony suede clothing with beads and feathers braided into his hair. (very much unlike the plain conservative attire of the Selenorians). He had with him a tan, leather case that held his Violaratta and also his dream pouch which held his sacred nature amulets.

Blackthorn gazed upwards and beheld a marvelous cathedral with stone towers and radiant stained glass windows that sparkled in the sunlight. “The architecture I can appreciate (although the buildings are a bit too close together) but the scent of this place is most unbearable.” thought Blackthorn, “There seems to be something most foul and unnatural hovering about in this stagnant air.”

Blackthorn knew not the speech of the people of Selenor but only the language of universalism taught to him by the forest creatures and his mother Darkness. He decided that the best way to communicate with his surroundings would be to play the violaratta for surely music is universal, something to be understood by all creatures of the world.

He then stood upon a white marble monument in the town square and as the curious and somewhat apprehensive Selenorian folk gathered about, he brought forth the violaratta. The people gasped in awe at the sight of it, for it was unlike anything that they had ever beheld before.

What the Selenorian people saw appeared to be a large violin with double necks which had twelve strings pulled tightly across the twin fretboards. The strings were played with a bow while a crystal flute-like projection was blown through creating sounds similar to musical waterfalls and raindrops on a stormy night.

Blackthorn threw back his braided, black locks and began to play the mystical violaratta creating an orchestral symphony of decadence. He eloquently channeled the mysterious essence of wild and enchanted darkness in his melodies.

The woodland flowers, songbirds, and late evening thunderstorms soared through his rhapsodies as he moved the bow violently against the strings of the violaratta. The melodies were haunted and melancholy like a dark and lovely dream of forbidden paradise.

When he finished, he looked up and saw in the faces of the crowd, a look of perplexity, confusion, and horror. A stern-faced man adorned in silk and velvet garments, with a hoarse voice muttered a severe sounding command in his guttural language. The crowd then rushed forward and attacked Blackthorn before he had even a chance to set down his instrument.

As they dragged his body over to the town square whipping post and began scourging his pale back, he wondered what mistake he had made. Blackthorn had thought that he was giving to the people of Selenor a gift of magic and love, a reflection of the worlds inner darkness. They, it seemed, felt differently.

“We don’t take kindly to sorcery in this town!” exclaimed the stern faced theocrat who had instigated the whipping and was obviously the leader of the mob. “You have some nerve casting spells on us with that instrument of sin. Why your lucky we don’t hang you from the church steeple which is what you truly deserve!” snarled the theocrat.

Even though Blackthorn did not understand the language that was being spoken, he felt the energy of hatred and violence that the words carried.

“Whip the necromancer, make him bleed!” shouted the crowd in chorus, as the scarlet blood poured from the wicked gashes and welts on the lad’s back. Blackthorn was then roughly dragged forward and escorted to the southeast corner of the town where there existed a very ancient and forlorn graveyard. The cemetery obviously had been neglected for many years, for it was overrun by weeds and surrounded by a dilapidated wooden fence.

“There you are.” shouted the theocrat,“ Here you can play your instrument of evil all you want for nobody ever comes to this desolate place. It is haunted by the hosts of the damned and the spirits of the malevolent. You should be at home here.”

Blackthorn was devastated by the experience and was unable to eat, sleep or to even play the violaratta for some time. He made his home within an ancient black marble mausoleum and soon began to take on the appearance of a walking corpse. His emaciated figure became even more pallid than before and his eyes lost their youthful spark of hope and enthusiasm.

One evening, during the waxing moon, he became inspired by a whip-poor-will heard in the distance. Blackthorn was reminded of his early years in the Spirit Woods and took out his violaratta to play a song in reverence to the spirit of the night. He sat beneath a very Weeping willow tree and began to play.<

As he bowed the strings of the magical wood and crystal instrument, the wind began to blow, carrying with it the fragrance of black woodland spice and violet dreams. Blackthorn looked behind him and gone was the Weeping Willow tree and in it’s place stood a fair, sweet lady. She stood in her bare feet, tall and sensual, with ocean-blue eyes and silky-golden hair spilling down to her ankles, wearing a leaf patterned gown. She gazed deeply into his soul with compassion and empathy, her tears falling from her eyes like sparkling raindrops.

She spoke to him in the language of dreams. “My name is Willow,” whispered the lady penetrating his heart with her loving emotions. “Will you dance with me, my love, beneath the ebony, chaos sky, to the melody of the wind blustering in the trees?”

Blackthorn and Willow danced for an eternity around the weathered tombstones. They then embraced one another and gazed into each other’s eyes, exchanging with one another their hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Their lips met in sweet passion and Blackthorn experienced ecstasy for the first time in his lonely existence. He became intoxicated by her flowery breath and orchard perfume as they drank of each other’s love and laughter.

“Blackthorn,” whispered Willow erotically, “Come into me. I want you to be inside me forever. Enter into my house of bliss for it is your home, my love.”

Willow then pulled Blackthorn down with her onto the green earth. She spread apart her pale, naked legs and licked her full, red lips sensually. Blackthorn threw back his raven-black braided hair and looked up at the moon as he moved his frail body between Willow’s legs. To his shocked surprise, when he looked down again she was gone, and in her place stood the large Weeping Willow tree, it’s leaves whistling in the night breeze.

Her words came back to him, “Come into me. I want you inside of me forever. Enter into my house of bliss for it is your home, my love.”

An opaque oval of shimmering, purple light appeared upon the lower trunk of the Willow, an alluring doorway beckoning Blackthorn to enter within. He cautiously stepped in through the mysterious portal and so entered into the realm of Elysium.

The sky above was multicolored, as were the wildflowers and plumage of the songbirds that chirped and sang their songs of surrealistic dreams. The foliage of the surrounding trees was bright emerald-green, in fact everything in this hauntingly beatific world was more vivid, colorful, and intense than anything that Blackthorn had perceived in the “otherworld”.

And then came his fair brothers and sisters of the Rainbow Sun riding free and naked upon wild, winged zebras, magical unicorns and bronze dragons. “Welcome Blackthorn, to the inner heart realm of Weeping Willow.” It seemed that the lovely maiden Willow was everywhere; within the surrounding woodlands, in the spectral sky and even in the fair, sensual creatures that hailed him. He felt as if he had become one with the soul and spirit that he had previously perceived to be a woman of flesh and blood.

Blackthorn began to ride upon the sensual wave of ecstasy, swimming in an aqua-blue ocean of orgasmic rapture. The fairies that approached him were pale and delicate, with large, iridescent eyes, and long braided hair of various colors. Their most unique physical features were their bright, butterfly wings, each pair with it’s own special hue and pattern. They joyously held hands while dancing gracefully around scarlet, orange and yellow mushrooms, to the enchanted harmonies of enchantment.

The unicorns and dragons sang songs of friendship and paradise while the squirrel’s, raccoon’s and deer’s voices melted together into a gentle, background harmony. Blackthorn knew that he had found his place within the spirit of Weeping Willow for never before had he known such a sense of tranquillity, festivity, and belonging all at once.

“But I must return to my world to bid farewell to my mother darkness and to look upon the outer world for one last time.” exclaimed Blackthorn to his soul brothers and sisters. “Do not leave Blackthorn, for once you have found Elysium it is meant for you to stay and become one with the spirit of paradise.” said the beautiful fairies with concern in their voices.

“Do not fear my sweet lovers, for I promise you that I shall soon return to this world forever.” Then Blackthorn exited through the shimmering portal leading back to the world of his birth. He slowly opened his eyes after stepping through the doorway of dreams. The lady Willow was laying beneath him with her long, voluptuous thighs wrapped around his torso, as his hands caressed her firm pale breasts. She smiled up at him with blissful tranquility in her ocean-blue eyes.

“Come back to me soon, my love, for I shall be here in the cemetery awaiting your return with anticipation.” And Blackthorn reluctantly left the lady Willow as he marched off toward the city gates of Selenor. He was so exhilarated by the experience that he paid no mind to the jibes and taunting that he received by the town folk as he passed them by while meandering along his way down the cobblestone road that wound around Selenor. It took a long while to reach the city gates for they were located on the opposite side of the town.

When he reached the grey, spike-tipped gates surrounded by the cold stone walls of Selenor, he began to hear. The tolling of iron bells began which seemed to be signaling an ominous and momentous occurrence about to occur in the sleepy town of Selenor.

A premonition of dread crept through Blackthorn’s system giving him the unpleasant sensation of snakes slithering within his stomach. Every time the bell tolled his heart skipped a beat and he felt misery and despair closing in around him. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the location of the bell tower to witness what would surely be a horrifying revelation.

By the time that Blackthorn reached the green, grass mound that had been named “Execution Hill”, an angry and hostile mob had gathered. He approached a group of enthusiastic young lads asking them about the scenario that was taking place. “An evil witch was discovered laying naked in the old cemetery and now the perverted whore is about to be burned at the stake.” A group of well dressed merchants and parochial employees standing alongside the theocrat, were at the front of the crowd nearest to the place of execution.

They shouted in unison “May the hatred of the White god condemn the soul of this wretched harlot to eternal, torturous damnation.” The entire crowd began to scream “Praises be to the white god! Burn the witch!”

Blackthorn scrambled furiously to the front of the crowd but it was too late, for the pyre had been lit and the roaring flames had already begun to consume the lovely body of the woman who was his fair, lady Willow. “No!” screamed Blackthorn as he leapt forward throwing the guards out of his way and lunging towards the stake where his dear one had been chained. By the time he reached her there was only a charred and lifeless husk glowing crimson like a bloody sunset.

He looked at the faces of those that stood and watched the entire spectacle. They were all paranoid, wretched, ignorant people without love, respect or appreciation for beauty or spirituality.

He removed his violaratta from it’s case knowing what he must now do. He moved the bow viciously across the strings creating a sound of perfected violence. Then Blackthorn moved the crystal tube to his mouth and let the winds of change soar from out of his lungs, weaving a dark spell of vengeance upon the ignorant folk of Selenor.

The sinister yet beauteous harmony caused the ground to shake and the wind to howl. The sky above became as black as the abyss and bloody rain began to fall down upon the city. Then the terrified people finally were given a legitimate reason to be afraid, for their worst nightmares began to take shape before them. Each and every one of the pathetic humans fell down upon their knees as they lost control and became dominated by the hypnotic, melodious charm created by the violaratta.

The theocrat who had ordered Blackthorn’s whipping and had most likely instigated the burning of Willow fell to his knees and pleaded for mercy. Blackthorn gazed down at the groveling, pathetic creature with pity, but without mercy. The theocrat was the first to have his life extinguished.

The people began to tear, scratch and rip at their own bodies, unable to control their own movements. Their fingernails sliced through their skin reaching towards their vital organs.

The town became a river of scarlet blood as the folks began to die one by one in excruciating agony. The quivering masses of unrecognizable flesh fell upon the ground, now covered by crimson gore. In his present maniacal state, Blackthorn began to laugh uncontrollably like a wild jackal, even as the tears welled within his eyes. “Life is such a beauteous sickness,” he shouted with a wicked yet melancholic smile upon his face.

The entire adult population of Selenor died that day. Only the children were spared to go forth and follow the paths of their own destinies. Such is the fate of many. Obsessive paranoia often causes that which is feared the most to actually manifest.

Then as the orgiastic bloodbath ended, Blackthorn fell down before the charred remains of his sweet lover and wept salty tears of bitter regret for the loss of his long awaited paradise. He reached down into the pile of ashes, removing from it one willow branch which survived the blaze. He chose to keep it as a momento of his sacred willow sanctuary.

Blackthorn then traveled back to the place of his childhood, the Spirit Woods, where the night songs of enchantment could be heard in the wind as it whispered through the green foliage. “Mother of Darkness, you were right about the people of Selenor. I should have listened to your warnings, but now it is too late. My dreams have been vanquished by foolish, ignorant people who have not the ability to appreciate the beauty of darkness and the power of creativity.”

His heartfelt lamentations reverberated throughout the magical woodland realm, carrying a melancholy prayer to the Goddess of the night. “I am her, my dear one, to assist you in returning to your fair Weeping Willow. Will you sacrifice yourself for the love of the golden maiden, my dear one?”

“I offer my heart, soul and spirit to the Weeping Willow tree. It is my wish to become the rain that falls from the stormy sky that saturates the soil beneath the Willow, feeding it with all that I am.”

“Then so be it, my dear one,” whispered Mother Darkness. She then assisted Blackthorn in the creation of a powerful, magical drum made from the wood of the Weeping Willow branch. They together called upon the essence of the night and the nocturnal creatures of the forest to aid them in their magical labor. When the percussion instrument was completed, it was more than just a drum. It was the embodiment of Blackthorn’s soul entwined with the sorcery of the black earth. He carried it with him to the edge of the forest where the violet and aqua blue nocturnal butterflies danced in the night air. He then began to beat a steady rhythm channeling the sorrow and pain of his entire life experience.

The wild chaos magic of the drumming swirled around him like a mad serpent. Blackthorn rode upon the rhythm as if it were a fiery red dragon soaring past the gates of reality. His consciousness traveled through the dreamgate where he landed before a giant Weeping Willow tree glowing with the light of Heaven. The divine tree then began to slowly transfigure before his eyes so that he simultaneously beheld both the tree and his lovely, golden-haired Willow Goddess.

“Welcome back my dear one,” sang Willow in a haunted melody. “I told you that I would be waiting for you in the cemetery, but I have become your own personal cemetery, for now you belong to me, my love.”

She gathered up Blackthorn against her trunk, and after grasping him with her branches, lifted him up and held his figure before her mouth, licking her emerald green lips.

Blackthorn felt both bark and flesh against his skin as he whispered, “I wish to be a part of you for all of eternity.”

“You shall, my dear one, you shall.” sang Willow lovingly. She then devoured Blackthorn’s body, soul and spirit, savoring the sweet taste of his melancholy essence as his warm, salty blood trickled down her throat mingling with her green liquid sap.

Blackthorn then kept his promise by entering back into the soul of Weeping Willow, this time to stay forever.