Dusk's purple splendor shadows the sky over the forest glen. Dim flickers of light herald the coming stars. Mighty and ancient trees ring the glade, rising high with their great canopy. A lone man stands at the open center of the glen. By the lat light of the dying day he examines his work.
Spread out in a space cleared of all plants, down to the bare rich earth; lay various pieces of shaped wood. All are placed carefully in the form of a man. Sturdy oak for the torso, smoothed, dense and strong. The limbs are supple pine, wrapped with pliant willow. The head is of rowan and the hair made with twigs and leaves of laurel. The hands of cedar, as are the feet. Even the phallus is represented, formed correctly using sweet maple.
Casting aside his cloak, the man now wears only a loin cloth. As the last light of day fails and is no more, the man begins to circle `round the prone wooden form. His voice lifts to the growing heavens in a chant that is throbbing and deep. There are no true words, merely sub- vocalizations and booming guttural utterances. His steps take on the stamping strides of near dance. His movements respond to a beat only he hears.
The man's hands flick toward the wood and powder showers down. With that contact, the wood smolders and begins to burn. Flames rise evenly, taking the shape pre-laid by his careful hands. The wood now glows and his circling dance quickens. The flames leap and whirl. From them, a red-gold body rises. The man comes to a stop facing his desire made in flame.
The glowing form is all he has ever dreamed and desired. The flickering flames show every detail that he had imagined. One last step remains and then he would be complete. The man takes a small dagger from his covering and wraps his left hand around the blade. Swiftly, he pulls it with his right. Blood seeps now from the clenched fist. Opening the hand, his waves it into the flames inches from him.
As the blood hits the wood, the flame form shimmers. It opens eyes that glitter. Muscles flex and the new made man awakens. A fierce smile comes and goes as he examines his creator. He runs wondering hands over his golden kin. Pleased with what he finds, leans forward. His creator is now totally still, awed with perfection's beauty. They stand within inches of each other, drinking in the sight of their joint desire.
The man can contain himself no longer and removes the last bit of cloth from his body. The desire made visible nods in approval. The man steps yet nearer and lifts his left hand up. The desire watches as the hand reaches the level of his lips and smiles. He leans forward and licks the bloody trail on the palm before him. His eyes watch his creator over the edge of the upturned hand.
The man feels the burn of the fire as it seals the cut. The pain is intense but somehow erotic. His brows crease though. The desire is fading. The color shifts toward orange and then flickers. The man looks down and realizes what is happening. The wood has burned down and now his desire will go with it. He looks back up, desperate keep his desire alive. Too late, he knows the folly of desire lost.
Only hot ash remains within moments. All of the careful work eaten away for only a brief token of time. The man looks at his palm and smiles once more. His desire left its own mark forever, sealed with intense passion's flame. The memory will be well served by his own hand.