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So did these hooves in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green, and was the holy lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?

The song echoed round my head as the miles of sand went past. Perhaps I had seen _Chariots of Fire_one too many times, and that explained the association. It was one of the favourites of our wannabe Anglophile school principal, along with quoting Kipling.

And did the countenance divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, among the dark satanic mills?

Dark and satanic was more like it. Our Principal hated me as much as he loved pretending to be an English gentleman. What he was instead required words that Blake would probably not use, in fact even De Sade would probably be insufficient. If only I could hate him for being wrong instead of right.

Hate

Now I had something better to make the miles pass. Better than poxy hymn tunes... Besides, it was way too slow, that song. Too slow to make my chest burn and my legs go all wobbly and...

Bring me my bow, of burning gold, bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: o clouds unfold, bring me my chariots of fire!

"No!!!"

I had to scream it out loud, even though it made the lithe cheetah going the opposite way detour so far around me he ended up splashing into the shallows and falling over.

Hate...

Ahh, so much better.

Hate... hate... hate... worthless piece of fucked up shit! Lowest piece of scum on Earth, so low the worms would not begin to eat your filthy rotten carcass if you did the world a favour and fucking topped yourself, you useless turd. You do not deserve to live, but you are too gutless to do the decent thing, you vomit-stained pus-ridden shithole, just go fucking kill yourself now, you worthless cunt...

Hate... hate... hate... hate hate hate hate hate hate hate...

There is a beautiful counter-intuitive moment in a long run. Beyond the point where your legs tell you to stop, and your chest burns like molten acid has been poured into every tiny air sac, and your head screams at you to stop. Blissful, tranquil silence. Epiphany... an almost trancelike state of grace with no pain, nothing at all really. The mind begins to wander into places unexpected and unbound by any mortal considerations, and there is nothing but the path ahead, and the grace of time stood still.

And in that grace, I felt precisely nothing.

So did these hooves in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green, and was the holy lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?

It seemed I was not to be free of Jerusalem, even here. I wondered why?

And did the countenance divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, among the dark satanic mills?

I look up to my left, just as the words ring out. My wolf, singing like an angel of course, even when singing of dark satanic mills. But just for me, as he sings the words, he makes like a stage vampire, and I can barely stop myself cracking up.

"Hey, watch out!"

I fell to the sand momentarily winded. The angry snarl was the least of my worries; I tasted blood in my muzzle, and my head rang like a bell with the aftermath of a head-on impact.

Too dazed to wonder too much, I lay on the sand, panting, my legs unaccountably unable to make me stand, and brought a hand up to my muzzle. Blood; red, thick, full of life.

Bring me my chariot of fire!

The figure nearby was panting too. He moaned a little then seemed to catch his breath. And then he laughed.

"Well well, little pony... wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

I knew the voice at last, now my head had stopped ringing. I hated that it stopped ringing. I didn't know his name, of course, I never did. It was a signal feature of his character that he had never deigned to tell me anyway. I liked it that way; no expectations.

"I guess you owe me... or are you going to pussy out?"

"No... no..."

A tiger, I remembered. With a bad body odour problem and a broken left incisor. Still, like I could care.

"Well... follow me then, pony, if you can stay on those hooves at least."

I whinnied and tossed my forelock, a rather pointless gesture of defiance, because I still got to my hooves and followed him across the sand. He was slow, the tiger, and I found I couldn't get my rhythm, or find the place beyond which all is quiet, and ordered and my brain stopped hammering in my skull with a litany of the damned. I shuffled instead, keeping a deferential two paces behind as he laboured across the soft sand until we found our destination - a rundown, broken old toilet block hidden from view by tea tree.

Once inside, I knew my role, of course. Shorts down, body pressed to the cement block wall, legs spread, muzzle plastered to the cold brickwork, eyes closed.

I heard him huck up a spitball and the unmistakable sound of his shorts coming down, then the soft squelching of a guy spitlubing his own hard cock. My eyes screwed tighter.

"Yeah, you love this, you worthless piece of shit, don't you..."

He was waiting for an answer, it seemed. Always liked an answer, this one, I remembered a little late. He slapped the back of my head, then my ass. I lifted my tail obligingly.

"Yes... Sir..."

He chuckled but seemed to have enough. Didn't need much, this tiger, for which I was thankful, and as crap as he was at running, his fucking was more than adequate for the task.

Pain... pain... pain...

Delicious, numbing, clear as crystal, like the pure light of midday.

"Yeah, still a tight fucking mare..."

I tuned his grunts and his heavy breath out and went with it, like running, enjoying the absence of feeling, physical or spiritual, as he rutted into my body like I was a blow up doll. He had it right, did the tiger; after all, that was all I was anymore.

So did these hooves in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green, and was the holy lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen?

"Yeah, fucking piece of shit, you can't get enough of this cock, can you, slut?"

And did the countenance divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, among the dark satanic mills?

"Here it comes... here it comes... yeah... yeah.... Fuck, yeah!"

He became uncoordinated in his orgasm, thrust, wait, thrust, wait, then the burn of his cum leaking from my hole when he pulled out and slapped my asscheek with his wilting cock. He wiped it off on my tail and gave me an almost affectionate pat.

"Fucking hot little mare, as always."

I lay my head against the wall with my eyes closed and let the cold of his embrace seep into me like anaesthetic, to wash away the feel of his jizz dripping between my legs. An apotheosis in refuse, I had almost become what I knew myself to be.

There was another sound now, a sniffing. I could smell bull, that unmistakable barn smell of it, laced with other scents, booze, ice. The goaty scent of a guy on the gear, and the scent of raw unwashed bull crotch.

A hand rested on my mane, stroking almost like a lover.

"Hot little number, aren't you... Did that tiger give you a good fucking?"

I grunted, uninterested. I was in the zone already.

He gripped my mane and twisted roughly, and I let out a whinny of pain.

"What?!"

"I said... did the tiger give you a good fucking, slut?"

"Yeah... better than you could, you cunt."

It was a mistake, of course. But mistakes were all I was good at.

He smashed my head into the wall, and I tasted blood in my muzzle. Then again, and my head swam. And then a searing pain in my ass when he took me to the hilt in one thrust and began to smash me into the wall, determined it seemed to embed me in the brickwork with his thrusts. And he pounded my head into them on each new stroke, harder and harder.

I smiled. The song had gone, along with anything but the pain. And then I knew not even that.

****

I woke, and was disappointed once I had come to enough to realise that was what had happened. But I was not where I expected, at least. I was on a sofa, on casual examination, under a blanket, and though I felt numb in places and hurt in places, I also felt warm and safe.

The temptation to bathe in that was a curse I managed to reject with a snarl.

"Ahh, you are awake! Now let me check those bandages a moment."

Still focussing my eyes, I felt the presence in the room. Sniffing caused my abused snout to ache, but I did it anyway. A bear, middle aged, with a slight scent of sherry.

"So, my boy, what is your story, I wonder?"

I could make him out in the low light now, and I took in his form piece by piece, as it was all my addled brain could manage. Casual shoes, sensible dark trousers, dark top, collar...

I had to laugh then. I had found myself a priest. Of all the fucked up chances.

"I don't think you would be interested, Father."

"Now I think you may be letting me make my own mind up on that, don't you, lad?"

He had a slight Irish brogue, and a voice like a song. It reminded me a little of Neil, my wolf, which made me angrier, but my head hurt too much to be angry yet.

"Whatever."

It was my favourite abnegation. Drove my mum mental, while she still gave a fuck. The priest seemed to take it in his stride.

"Good. Now, let me check your head there, horse. You look like you tried to run the Grand National and hit the first hurdle instead."

His paws were gentle, as he examined my aching scalp. I remembered now, what had gone before, and cringed a little at his touch, as well as the spreading pain in my ass. The damage there was probably beyond a bandage, I knew, but I would bear it as best I could.

"So, what were you doing out here at this time, if you don't mind me asking, horsey?"

"Running."

"Ahh, an athlete. I used to run myself, in the seminary. Middle distance, that sort of thing."

Now I was intrigued a little. "A bear?"

His chuckle was good natured, like him I guessed. "Aye. Not exactly built for it, unlike you lot, of course. But I enjoyed it. Do you?"

"No."

"So why do you do it, lad?"

"To feel nothing."

He made a clicking sound in his throat and patted down the bandage.

"Well, judging by your injuries when I found you in my rose bushes, you were doing a grand job of that, lad, without the running."

I sat up a moment as he fussed with the bedding. "Where the fuck am I?"

His smile was tired, but genuine. I tried not to like it.

"You are in the presbytery of my church, lad. St Mary Star of the Sea. I found you in my rosebushes, and I do not know where you came, from but I can guess. You would be surprised how many are washed up on my shores from that toilet block. Not many of them are athletes, though; well, not of the traditional athletic pursuits, anyway."

It hurt too much to sit up, I realised, so I lay back again and let the singsong words wash over me like a tide. It felt good.

He waited, did the bear. But he also didn't leave. I hoped he would, and I could slink out in time and back into the anonymous wastes, but for some reason, he seemed to give a shit.

Ahhh, God, save me from people who give a shit.

"So, lad. I should probably get you to a hospital, you know. You are probably concussed, and though I could get you to walk in here, I doubt you can walk out easily. And there are some injuries you have that were beyond my capacity to treat."

"I will be fine, thank you. Just leave me be."

He gave a small sigh, and stroked the feathering on my left arm. I recoiled like a spring. He didn't reach for me again though; at least he had some sense.

"You were singing."

I looked over at him, finally. He was still smiling, but it didn't seem to be condescending. More reassuring, or his best approximation of the same.

"Singing?"

"Aye. Bring me my chariot of fire!"

I groaned now, remembering a little. At least it was not from pain for once.

"Indeed, an interesting choice. You Protestants, so very sentimental. And so very unaware."

His tone of vague disappointment amused me. I even managed a slight smile, or as much as my aching muzzle could cope with.

"Really, Father. Somehow, I don't think my being an Anglican is the part of me you will most disapprove of..."

"Now lad, you are assuming. And assumptions are dangerous! Why, just as you assume Blake was making some sort of paean to the greatness of England, and run with that till you look even stupider than you did before..."

I gave him a look. "Oh yeah? So, my knowledge of Blake is all you have against me?"

He returned the look, with a wink. "Who said I have anything against you, lad? And if you let me finish, which I know is difficult for you denizens of the Internet age with your goldfish attention span, your knowledge of Blake is almost as poor as your knowledge of the Catholic Church."

"Oh, I think I know..."

"You know less than you think, colt. For one, you don't know what this is."

I looked at the symbol on his ring. A stylized star with three letters, I H S. I just shrugged.

"It means I am a Jesuit, colt. And this may come as a shock to you, but we are not entirely unaware of such things in the Society of Jesus. We have been dealing with it and living with it, in harmony even, for more centuries than this country has existed. And finding how to love the person... or the horse."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care. Oh, I know plenty of laiety who are about as tolerant as a suicide bomber, God pardon my language, and plenty of my Anglican brethren who are in the same category. I do not doubt you have experienced it. I only ask you don't expect it from me."

The pains came back as the conversation continued, but I let it ride. I would let the old bat talk himself to a standstill, if he would only let me alone at the end.

"It is a pity you do not know more of Blake. Now, he was an unconventional soul, in so many ways."

I favoured him with a frosty smile and reached for a glass of water beside the sofa. He went on undeterred.

"Men are admitted into Heaven not because they have curbed and govern'd their Passions or have No Passions but because they have Cultivated their Understandings. The Treasures of Heaven..."

"Seriously, I doubt I'm about to be granted the Treasures of Heaven."

He looked at me with a pursed frown and narrowed eyes. "Don't interrupt when I'm quoting Blake."

I was about to arc up when he suddenly burst into a fit of the giggles, and I found I couldn't help joining him a little. His hand was back, resting on my feathering, and I relaxed a little. He seemed to relax too.

"Ahh, yes. Blake would have made a good Jesuit, in some ways. An iconoclast, and a fierce intellect always seeking truth So, tell me, who is Neil?"

The sudden about face hit me like a tonne of bricks. I clenched my hand on the sofa, trying to breathe slowly.

"Why... why..."

"You were mumbling his name, in between singing the first three verses of Jerusalem. And asking for forgiveness." His voice was kindly, a study in compassion. I hated it. Hate.

"I don't want to be forgiven."

"You could have fooled me, lad..."

The sensation had been building since he mentioned the name, and it blossomed like a rose greeting the sun. I whinnied, a primal whinny of anger, and I swung. My fist collected his nose and he went down, and in spite of my injuries, I somehow ended up on my hooves, bending over to hit and hit.

"You fucking cunt! Why did you have to make me feel again? Why? Why, motherfucker? Answer me!"

He did not answer, of course, and I turned and bolted into the world, fleeing the terror of his perceptive mind smacking around inside the closed compartments of my own. Besides, I told myself, he was wrong. I did not want forgiveness, because I did not deserve it. All I wanted was an ending I was too gutless to procure.

"Why did you have to make me feel again?"

There was nobody to answer the question... well, except for a rather elderly buck walking his dog on the beach. But he seemed disinclined to stay, instead making a beeline for the car park. I watched him go, laughing like a maniac at his studied insistence on not looking at me until he was far enough away to appear safe. It appeared I had become the perfect repellant for the normal and the sane, except for that bear of course.

I found a seagull interested enough in me to let me talk a while, in spite of having no chips to give him.

"Maybe he was crazy, Mister Gull, or maybe I am."

"Caw!"

It flew away, obviously deciding I was not about to provide sustenance, about the time I walked into the ocean and let the waves wash over me like returning to the womb.

****

I look down at the wolf beneath my body, smiling in transported bliss at the shear rush of skin on skin, fur on fur, body on body. And he was humming, the stupid shit.

Hmmm hmm hmmm mmmmm.... Bring me my bow, of burning gold, bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: o clouds unfold....so hoss, when do I get my spear? The arrows of desire are nice and all...but this is what I'm really after...

I could never deny him anything. Especially that, not when he looked at me that way, and my chest felt like it did in a long run, like I was deep underwater and couldn't reach the surface. And it felt so fucking good...

I hit the surface, coughing and gasping. Trying to drown yourself is a futile exercise, it seemed, and all it did was make me feel more desolate than ever.

I managed to trudge to the sand, dripping everywhere like some mystic Kelpie. I even had seaweed in my mane.

It was night again, another day of futility had passed without end. I lay on the sand, looking at the stars, bright pinpoints of light so far away you could not comprehend the distance but could comprehend the beauty. That was what this felt like, in a way; so far, and yet so beautiful. And I could not take it any more.

"Forgiveness? What does that old cunt know about forgiveness."

With a sudden flash of decision, I looked over beyond the tea tree to the modest stone building with the cross. Maybe he was right, after all. And there was one foolproof way to show contrition.

The little house beside the church wasn't locked. I was strangely glad he wasn't in; it made it easier in a way. It took me a little while to decide on the how, though; until I got to the bathroom and made up my mind.

Water was comforting, soothing. And I knew a bit of that could help, ease the passage, in a way. I lay down in the half full bath, careful not to let it slosh too much as I didn't want to mess up the floor too bad, took the kitchen knife I palmed in my exploration, and carefully opened my wrists, while the red blood flowed like wine, and the pain, the delicious enfolding pain held me in it's bosom. There was a momentary debate in my head about whether I was supposed to cut right through the veins or half way... I seemed to remember something, but in the end I didn't think it mattered that much.

Then I slid beneath the surface with a sigh.

****

It took a little while for me to realise I wasn't dreaming. And then a little longer to realise the import of the fact I was conscious, or even semi conscious, at all.

Opening my eyes experimentally, I found I was in a room with the curtains drawn. Sunlight suffused the room with a vague glow, thanks to the effect of a pair of orange industrial-strength curtains blocking out most of the light. There was enough light though for me to see the figure in the chair beside my bed. He appeared to be sleeping, or maybe dozing, his head tilted onto his chest which rose and fell in a gentle relaxed rhythm.

I closed my eyes again and sighed.

"You know, colt, we have really got to stop meeting like this."

It really fucking hurt to laugh, but I couldn't help it.

"Of all the Priests in all the fucking gin joints in the world..."

"Oh, please!"

I gave him a mock scowl. "Don't interrupt me when I'm quoting Casablanca."

"Misquoting _Casablanca,_you heathen."

"Whatever."

He shook his head, but the smile was back, the same genuine one I remembered. And it made me feel suddenly vulnerable again. I kept the thoughts at bay, or tired to, by cataloguing my surroundings. Drip... check. Bandages... check.

"So I guess I fucked it up."

There was a slight clicking of disapproval. "Now, now, son. Enough of that."

"Neil always said I was no good at finishing things. Not like him."

The priest stirred a little, opened his muzzle a little, coughed, then seemed to get his bearings.

"Are you up to talking a bit, colt?"

I shrugged, and he smiled reassuringly, then looked from side to side.

"Well, if you do want to beat the Saints almighty out of me, at least I am already close to the emergency room this time."

He managed to make me grimace then, and I finally noticed the way his snout looked painfully swollen, not to mention the way he held his left arm. I noticed the splint on his wrist at the moment he pressed a finger to my muzzle.

"Shhh. Enough of that. But you can tell me about Neil... your lover, if I am not mistaken?"

Somehow, I found I could not deny him.

"We knew each other for years. Best friends in everything, inseparable. And then as I grew up, I realised... I wanted him as more than just a best mate."

The bear merely nodded, and gestured for me to go on.

"And I was terrified, but even more shocked when it turned out he felt the same. Sex with him was like... well, like coming home. I thought I had everything I wanted, but I was wrong."

"History tells us that is not part of the human condition, colt, but do go on."

"I wanted everyone to know he was mine, see. I am not much, Father; just a kid from a broken home they let in on a scholarship to show how socially fucking advanced they were. And he was everything I wanted to be - successful, smart, gorgeous. I wanted that; I wanted everyone to know."

"Hardly the worst sin I have known lad."

"I should have known better! I should have known..." I spat the words, with all the hate and bitterness I could muster.

"Go on." His voice was gentle, but firm.

"I arranged for his mates to find us together. I wanted us to be able to be together in the open. Instead, I broke us apart. His family... they were so angry, with me, and with him. And his friends... but worst of all, he was angry. He wouldn't see me. And before I could work out what to say to him, he had started going out with a popular girl at school, one everyone wanted, and told everyone I had got him drunk and forced him into it."

"I have seen it before, colt, I am sorry to say..."

"Well, I hadn't! It was like someone tore my heart out. But I thought he was happy now at least. He even got married."

"Ahh..."

"So why the fuck did the stupid fucking cunt top himself? Why? Answer me fucking that."

The bear was holding me now. And I realised I was crying.

"He had everything he wanted. I left him alone, and he went and did that. Fucking bastard."

"I'm sorry, colt."

"I wanted to hate him so much. But mostly, I hated myself. I finally got up the balls to do something about it after I beat the shit out of you, but it looks like I fucked that up as well. Looks like the only thing I'm good for is failure."

He was stroking my mane through my diatribe, but at the end he sat back and shook his head firmly.

"Really, horse, it appears you know nothing about failure, alongside your distressing lack of knowledge on Catholicism and Blake."

"Oh fucking really?"

The smile was back, a little lopsided. "See this?" he held out his crucifix. "The symbol of my religion. And my saviour, who was repudiated, tormented, condemned and nailed to a cross. Hardly something the politicians would call a triumph, you would think."

"Ha. You suggesting I should try crucifixion some day?"

"No, but I am suggesting you need to look deeper than the surface. Tell me, why were you humming Jerusalem, when I found you the first time?"

It took a few deep breaths before I could speak.

"It was his favourite. Our school principal made us sing it every assembly, and he was in the choir so he had to stand up on stage and sing it. Unlike most of us, he actually loved the hymn. But he would sing it for me; I would watch him, and he would make little gestures, little actions when I was watching. And we would joke about it when we were together.

"It was something for us, I guess. Some part of him that I got to share. And when... and when they buried him, his family told me I couldn't go to the funeral. I managed to sneak into the church anyway, and listened to the service, and they played that fucking hymn, and I lost it. His younger brother saw me, and he looked at me like I was so much garbage, and I thought, yeah, I am. I taught him how to ride a bike, and kick a footy, and now he wants me dead because of what I did to his brother. I failed him, I failed everyone. And I bolted."

"Do you remember the words of it, colt?"

I looked up a little surprised. "Yeah, of course. Can't seem to keep it out of my head. Well, most of it. I seem to have forgotten the last verse."

He smiled knowingly and patted my mane. Then he reached for the table beside my bed.

It was a book on Blake, old and leather bound with a musty smell to it.

"Page 106."

I read the words again, remembering.

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land

"You see, that's part of it too, lad. The part you missed. Its in the fighting, and the striving, and the hope, and not giving in. Blake knew it. In my religion, the failure wasn't the end, it was the beginning. And we are still building it, and getting it wrong, and trying again, every day. Seeking out the means to let love light the way.

"We each have our own Jerusalem, colt. Your wolf could sing it, but he couldn't live it. You can. Besides, you horses are tough to kill."

He rose and stretched.

"You can keep the book by the way."

"I cant, really..."

His fingers were on my muzzle again.

"It belonged to my stallion, and he gave it to me. I think you are the perfect one to take it from here. We met in the seminary, you see, and he wanted to leave the order and be together. And at the last minute, I could not; I wasn't as brave as he was. He drank himself into an early grave some years ago; I wonder often, but of course, that serves no purpose."

He paused at the door.

"I practice forgiveness in every part of my life. I almost manage it for myself. Don't make my mistake, colt.

"And now I think I should let you sleep."

****

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land

I look up again as the hymn ends. When he sings of the spear, I blush under my coat, remembering what we did with my spear just yesterday, the wild fervor in our bodies, matched I think by our hearts. My wolf, smiling, looks at me and winks, and the blush spreads and I know in my heart it will be ok. He will be annoyed at my little trick, but we want to be together, he and I. And I know that is all that matters. Love.