April 14, 2026

Well, today was a red letter day in my get-well-soon saga. In the clinic’s visiting room, my orthopedic surgeon shook his head. This was three weeks ago.

“You can’t operate sooner?” I asked hopefully. This was bad news.

“No,” he replied. “Midsummer at the earliest. Sepsis caused your injury. We can’t take the risk of opening you up for at least four more months.”

I’ve been out of the hospital a while now, and have visited no few doctors since. The verdict is in. All the cartilage in my right knee is gone. To save me, they scraped it all out. The Xray shows bone on bone in there. When I move the knee, I sound like the Tin Woodman. I use a walker and it still hurts to hobble around.

“But I don’t have an infection now, do I?” I press the surgeon.

“No, your blood tests are clear.”

“Then why not sooner?”

“Sorry, Mr. Bodkin. We’ll schedule you for midsummer.”

So, to end this update: my new knee goes in July 20^th! Scheduled it just today. Three months after that, I’ll be walking again and back on the road by next fall. So once again, good people who continue to help me in my hour of need, thank you. I’m now taking bookings for The Odyssey, The Iliad: Book I, Tales of the Supernatural plus Golden Rule, my shows for elementary schools. Any dates after Oct. 25, 2026.

Visit my site for contact info and all the other shows. You’re always welcome to donate to support me during these off months.

I hope to hear from you.

Thanks,

Odds Bodkin

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PS: the grand illustrated edition of THE ROWAN CANTICLES is on the way. I haven’t been completely been sidelined by this misfortune. Here are a few of the latest illustrations.

If you prefer GoFundMe, here’s the link: https://www.gofundme.com/f/support-odds-bodkins-recovery-journey

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This is Harcto’s periapt, woven on the Dunes. More to come!

—Odds Bodkin

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The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXXIII

CHILD

When all is done, what’s left to say?

Metaphor’s sweet blush? She fades away.

Time’s opaque doors? Each one has shut

Upon its outcomes. Plots lie cut,

Just ribbons of what might have been,

Notes tossed into the garbage bin

Now brimming on the artist’s floor

--Each knowing that, forevermore,

Its twist won’t see the light of day.

The characters in this strange play?

They, too, of course, exit the fray,

Their souls now free to love or stray.

But not, of course, before their lines,

Their very last, seal their confines

And this long song through which we wend

Gives each one his, or her, just end.

Goodpelf, upon the third day’s noon,

Was named Protector of Peloon.

His leadership during the war

That wasn’t, still, had left its score

Upon the hearts and minds of those

Who’d seen it. On that day, he chose

To wed Big Bat. Beneath down fluff,

At last he touched her fragrant muff

Upon their happy wedding night,

Knew love in all its wild delight

And deemed it better than her food.

This kept her in a cosy mood.

For her part, he, now tall and lean,

Produced in Bat an urge to preen,

And put on rouge, and bathe each day,

The game of wifely love to play.

“He’ll ask you soon. Just watch. He will,”

She told Gudrunlod, who, to fill

Her off-hours brewed up simple tea.

Crone’s Heads were now a scarcity

Within the woods, their bluish hoods

Long withered as the neighborhoods

Of Peloon tasted autumn’s cool.

“What if he doesn’t?” “He’s no fool,”

Bat said. “He’s busy, as are you

With mending ships. He’s lots to do,

What with reclaiming equal worth

Of Mage gold to replace the dearth

Of his that you on weapons spent.”

And so their conversation went

As Devlin, busy with affairs,

Reclaimed his worth and probed through pairs

Of rings, pearl mirrors, golden tiles

And furs. “None of this reconciles

Me to the loss of memories

And many fam’ly histories

Held in those chests. I feel their loss,”

He said to Goodpelf by the fosse,

“Well, you saved people with their sale,”

Goodpelf replied, his coat of mail

At home by his and Batty’s bed.

No longer enemies, instead

The two spoke now of policies

They hoped would bury calumnies

Between the kingdoms of The Reach,

Since kings had vanished in the breach

Of Peloon’s war. Their armies, too.

Devlin suggested what to do:

Properly led, the fisherfolk,

Rid of their ancient feudal yoke,

Could unify, form trading leagues

And share the wealth, now that intrigues

Between their rulers held no threat.

King Devlin, knowing well the debt

He owed Peloon for giving birth

To his life’s love, knew, too, its worth

And swore to all that he would help.

The fish were back. They boiled the kelp

With handsome catches. All was well.

He listened, as a buoy’s bell

Rang on the tide, shook Goodpelf’s hand,

And left, thoughts turned to his own land.

The other thief had long since left,

Devlin reflected, plotting theft

Without the brains that once had made

It easy cows for gold to trade

And other mischief. Grodoo, right.

Another lone thief in the night,

Like Broodie, who had disappeared

Just like his army when the wyrd

Of giant Rowans shrank away.

The Old Green Lords had kept their prey,

It seemed. Next day, the lovers rode

That very slope, autumn-bestowed,

And saw no trace, just peaceful woods.

An oxcart, filled with Mages’ goods

And treasures, ambled just behind

The ox team, led by Devlin’s mind.

A few days hence, they passed South Stitch,

Now puddled like a pool of pitch

Against the lake. The fields, dry brown,

Lay unmown near the burned-out town.

Gudrunlod chose to let it go.

With villains punished, who’s to know

What next to do with anger? So,

They rode on slowly. “Well, my beau,

Where shall I live now that these things

Have come to pass?” He’d found three rings

And worried over which she’d think

The best and least. A bobolink,

Southbound as well, sang in the brakes.

“A man can make a few mistakes,

And still be worthy, right?” he asked.

With thoughts behind her green eyes masked

She turned to him. “I guess that’s true.”

“And if, let’s say, he chose to do

Something,” he faltered. “But the choice

In choosing wasn’t his . . .” His voice,

Nearly a whisper, died inside

His throat somewhere. “Well, I’d confide

In she whose choice it was,” said she.

“You would? Oh. Right. Gods. Marry me

Gudrunlod, will you? On my knee

And looking upward I should be,

I know, but, well, this horse is here.”

“That’s fine. So’s mine.” She willed a tear

Back up a tear duct. He produced

Three rings. “Who else have you seduced?”

She asked, bemused. “No one, I swear.

Just wasn’t sure which one you’d wear.

So, will you?” “Yes.” “You will?” “Of course.

It’s good as any place, a horse,

To be proposed to. So, let’s see.

Such lovely rings. I’ll wear all three.”

And soon, since they were now betrothed,

They found a glade where, once unclothed,

They took time off from riding home

To toss inside their gold-flecked foam.

That same day, Hillfolk in the Swale

Beheld a small cloud dropping hail

Onto the ground. A message grew:

Broodie is gone and all his crew.

His army’s dead. Take back the Tor.

The Norns will trouble you no more.

Devlin returns soon, with a Queen.

The Hillmen, once this they had seen,

Rejoiced at Broodie’s men’s demise

And all of them were quick to rise,

Shove codgers, wives and boys aside,

And take back Bruss’s Tor, astride

Its hilltop. Swalemen’s wives, now lost,

Bereft of menfolk, paid no cost

Other than servants to become,

Forswearing future rebeldom.

A few days later, past the rills,

Two wizards rode, scaling the Hills

Together t’ward King Devlin’s Tor,

Now visible. “Look, Rowans! More

Than ever, now, but rightly sized,

I see,” he smiled. He rhapsodized

About his home as they rode on,

Hoping she’d love this paragon

Of places, since she’d soon be Queen.

His heart soared as he rode between

The arch’s columns. Children ran

Alongside now, a caravan

Of Hillfolk, happy to be free.

“Thou shalt not harm a Rowan Tree,”

Thought Devlin. “Someday, I will teach

Our children this old truth. Some speech,

That one will be. Why, makes a tale

With which, someday, I will regale

Them all.” The next day, “Rowan-near,”

He gazed upon his Uncle’s bier,

Then had him lain to rest at last

Beneath the trees that were his past.

Gudrunlod watched his happiness,

And felt contented. All the mess

They’d made was cleansed now, all the years

Of priestly magic, all the fears

Of Demons leashed above the sea,

Of empty Mages and their spree

Of greed and torture––gone now, too.

Inside her, magic powers grew.

They were hers now, to wield with love,

So that this world, and that above,

Could merge among the living things

Around her. She wore all three rings

That winter as she walked the groves.

Her father’s spirit, with his troves

Of sea-change, wandered Peloon‘s dunes,

Eternally in search of tunes

Silya had sung when they had loved.

The day came, when, Gudrunlod, gloved

And gowned, found her own songs to sing.

As she wed Devlin in the Spring

Within the hilltop’s Rowan Ring

She felt the stirrings of a child

Within her, and her thoughts were mild.

Next to the Rowan King, a Queen

Had risen, too, from wyrds unseen

By all except those gracile trees.

As she and Devlin rose from knees,

Blooms burst forth from the Old Green Lords

And Nature sang its mighty chords

For all––the young, the old, the good,

And less so––in that Rowanwood.

THE END

THE ROWAN CANTICLES: A Tale Told in the Ancient Manner ©2025 by J.M. Bodkin aka Odds Bodkin. Words, book, narrations, characterizations and musical arrangements. All rights reserved.

On the Music:

The music for this audio has been adapted from royalty-free sources available online. To those myriad talented composers, Odds Bodkin offers his admiration and thanks. The musical bookends for each Canto were composed and performed by Mr. Bodkin.

Mr. Bodkin would like to thank Gavin Bodkin, Producer, for his assistance with Odds’ Substack generally. Gavin also created the logo for The Rowan Canticles and all the Canto page markers, as well as synchronizing this platform with Spotify.

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For other audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Thanks for your long-lived interest in my original epic. Next week, it concludes. In the words of a reader:

“And lucky for you, unlike Virgil you are alive to complete it and don't need to demand it being burned on your death bed! I can't imagine there are more than a handful of people in the world who have attempted to write an epic at that scale in this day and age. Astounding!”

---Michael McKilen

I’ve decided to send it to all of you, whether you’re a paid subscriber or not. It’s just too beautiful to miss.

Happy Summer,

Odds Bodkin

Read more

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Dear Subscribers,

With four Cantos to go, I’ve decided to slow the pace of publication to a bi-weekly schedule to focus on the scoring and fine details of the last Cantos. For those avid readers who have been keeping up with the story on a weekly basis, I hope you can think of this as “savoring the moment” 😊.

In addition, I’ve made a couple of changes to the way I’m offering the poem to subscribers. To support the effort to convert it to other formats, I’ll be offering free subscribers previews of the story. Paid subscribers, however, will have full access to the remaining Cantos—fully produced—on SubStack and on Spotify (coming soon!), and as we move to printed versions, will be offered discounted versions with additional perks.

I thank all of my readers who’ve been following Gudrunlod’s and Devlin’s adventure from the beginning. Keep your eyes open for CANTO XXIX-A VICTORY’S COST--which will be available next Thursday, May 8th, at the usual time.

If you’ve enjoyed The Rowan Canticles: A Tale Told in the Ancient Manner these last two years, please consider supporting your local American epic poet. And as always, May the Muse Be With You.

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In lieu of the regular Canto this week, I’ve published something special from the Odds Bodkin Archives - an interview with a fellow storyteller. I discuss the craft of storytelling and unveil some of my trade secrets. Check it out either on Spotify or listen here on Substack!

Listen to it on Spotify:

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Next Time: Canto XXIX

Devlin rides to Spinster’s Bend to find Gudrunod alive. All exult until the Norns of Warog appear in the sky. Gudrunlod’s spell has sundered the Gates and all hell is about to break loose.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXVIII

MY MOTHER’S GHOST

A mother’s love can lift great weight

From her trapped child. Gravity’s gate

Gives way, and strength beyond her limbs

Flows into her, until it brims

Past pain and thought and she her child

Pulls loose. True love is free and wild;

It cares not for itself at all.

Gudrunlod, pinned against the wall

Of Bat’s kitchen, could almost see

Her mother’s spirit painfully

Absorb the Mage’s deadly fire,

Those first three strikes. Yes, things were dire

For her lost child, Silya knew well.

Although her ghost might safely dwell

Forever, floating here and there

Through that sea town, she did not care.

Thrice struck, her soul was burned away.

She died twice––there and on the Bay.

That second, cresting the high pass,

Devlin sent force past sassafras,

Past oaks, through Rowans, down the slopes

Into the town to his love’s hopes

And fears as she, now terrified,

Watched as the ether rarified

Around the Dwarf. He spat and fumed

And floated there, his thoughts consumed

With killing her. And yet, he spoke.

“Well, here we are, my little moke.

How long have we foreseen this here?

We meet at last. What do I fear?

Not you, you paltry thing. No, spells!

Which, from your misbegotten cells

Will all of us reduce to Nil!”

“You lie.” “Oh, yes, I’m sure you thrill

Down in your small, misinformed soul

At the mere thought of casting whole

Legions of spells upon me. No!

You are a fool! Each spell’s a blow

Against our world! Unleash your hates?

You’ll burst the plates at Warog’s Gates!

The Norns will come! They’ll eat the earth!

They’ll ravish it for all it’s worth!

And all because Harcto’s mad switch

To lowly life spawned you, you bitch!”

As he said this, she felt crème light

Surge in her brain. Thrilled, bolt upright

She stood. Somehow Devlin was near!

Her mother’s shield had kept her clear

‘Til now, safe from the Mage’s strike.

She breathed and stared, assassin-like,

And aimed her hands straight at his chest.

Trapped there, his leash he tried to wrest

From in his solar plexus source

To hurl again. But in the course

Of doing so, hot boils arose

Across his neck and cheeks and nose.

He dropped, astounded, to the floor,

Face steaming. “Pray, what visitor,”

Gudrunlod asked, “destroys one’s walls

Instead of knocking?” “Feldro calls

The Overwhelm!” in fear-shocked shame

He cried. “My, my, we’ve got a name

As well,” she hissed and hurled a blast

Of ether-bending motes. They passed

Around the Dwarf and through his spell,

Disrupting with subatom swell

His desp’rate moves to halt the pain.

“You fool! You fool! Let me explain!”

He begged, hands up, stumbling away

Into the street. “If disarray

Destroys our chants, the Norns will come!”

“They’ve come before.” “But not their sum!

Not all of them! P’raps one or two . . .”

“Enough Norns to enable you

To kill my mother long ago,

You stinking little nuncio.”

Feldro the Dwarf Mage saw the crowd.

They stared at him, still awed, still cowed

By all the years he’d ruled the sea

And their small lives. Now, fearfully,

They peered inside Bat’s at some girl

Who’d overwhelmed the little churl.

The frightened Mage spoke mockingly

To them. “Oh, how pathetic’ly

You gawk. Well, gawk! It’s your last show!

For if I and my brethren go,

This world will teem with ev’ry woe

There is, and all the things you know

Will die with you! Best spare me, witch!”

At that moment, as if a switch

Of narrow flame had whipped her way,

Gudrunlod dodged. Inches away

From where she’d stood, a stealthy Leash

Had just attempted to affiche

Its forks into her eyes. Inside

The burning houses, all flames died.

She glared at him. “Why, look at you.

You wish to use your Leash? Then do.”

On Feldro’s chest, sparkles emerged

Around him. On all sides converged

Thick arcs of ice. Into a ball,

Hollow inside, they fused. The wall

Around him thickened. His hot Braid

Blew wildly from his chest. Afraid,

The people fled as, trapped inside,

The Dwarf Mage on his Leash then died

In thumping silence, fog and flame.

Gudrunlod murmured Silya’s name

As Feldro floated, upside down,

Knowing two deaths--to burn and drown.

Next Week: Canto XXIX

Devlin rides to Spinster’s Bend to find Gudrunod alive. All exult until the Norns of Warog appear in the sky. Gudrunlod’s spell has sundered the Gates.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXVII

BLOODY RILLS

“When of our true and chosen course

We finally are sure, recourse

To second measures should not do.

To work our spells upon the few

Rogue elements to whom our skill

Is useful, well, best not to kill

Time thinking. No, it’s best to act,

To jell our fictions into fact

So that the world around us knows

That we were here, and what we chose

To do, we did.” So Devlin thought,

As ducking under limbs, he sought

The montane heights, up through the trees,

The leaf scars healed across his knees,

Still at full gallop. Through the arch

He loved so well, he’d trailed the march

Of Broodie’s army. Past burned farms

And villages whose sons’ alarms

Had saved a sister here or there;

Past corpses, who all bore the stare

Of tortured innocents, safe lives

Destroyed; and stumbling, rape-worn wives

With husbands tied to whipping trees,

Who now felt raw with sex disease––

Each sight he saw broke Devlin’s heart.

Still, on he rode. The foul upstart

Who’d done all this, he soon would find,

And all his men. Hate churned his mind.

Gudrunlod’s town, South Stitch, was burned.

Since that first time, he’d not returned,

Not since he’d drunk down Crone’s Head tea

There, long ago, and first burst free

From his small mind, and first known love.

Now, his love suffered. Limbs above

His head flew past. His Rowan-Mind,

His Water-Knowing, both had mined

Their way beneath his deepest thoughts,

Creating tactics. Soon, onslaughts

Of spells such as had never been

Would carve vengeance into the sin

Foul Broodie’d done to this fair land.

Yes, Broodie, and the Mages. Bland

And harmless--just quaint fairy priests,

Just puerile, helpless little queests,

All singing savvy, spoiled songs--

He’d first thought them. But no, their wrongs

He’d learned about. How, ages past,

The Early Mages widely cast

The Demon Species from the world

Where they had roamed at will. Once hurled

Beyond time’s veil, beyond The Apse

Of Eighty-Nine, there’d been no lapse,

As, of pure Spirit, walls were built,

Etheric Gates whose mighty tilt

Across the stars kept Demons shut

Inside. Times had grown peaceful, but

As often happens when a creed

Inherited from times of need

Falls to the hands of lesser men,

Late Gatekeepers noted that when

Pure Will was leashed, the Norns obeyed,

And calmed the sea. Why not be paid,

Later ones reasoned, for such work?

And so, around their sea pool’s cirque,

They’d raised their Temple long ago.

Each passing year, they’d sold their show

Of force. All this Devlin had gleaned

As he against the Tree had leaned,

And flown the wide Devatic Spheres

Within its bloodstream. All frontiers

Between him and the Green Clad Host

Were gone. He was their willing ghost.

Skar pulled ahead and lagged behind

As Devlin rode. To all things blind

Save hope and vengeance, Devlin swept

Beneath leafed boughs as colors crept

Into them, autumn’s chilly kiss

Painting with metamorphosis

The mountains’ gateway to Peloon.

Though tired, his horse would crest it soon.

The road, much lower than the col

Where he’d been stymied, was a sprawl

Of bootprints, piss-mud, spit and crumbs.

They’d passed by recently, the bums

Broodie commanded, just last night,

It seemed. Dawn’s summit-hidden light,

An hour before, had filled the woods

Around him. Beds of Wizard Hoods,

––Last blooms to open of the year––

Like faded bluebells, cast a smear

Of pungent odors up his nose.

“Act now, Green Lords. Do what we chose,”

He said, inhaling sweet rot-smell

Sent by the flowers, as wild hell

Befell men on the road ahead.

Broodie would fall, his army dead

Behind him. Devlin crossed the crest.

There lay the sea. Days without rest.

Now this. Peloon lay far below,

Beneath blue skies. His right brain’s glow

Leapt outward to the distant town

As he, now swiftly riding down,

Beheld the spell he’d cast. Impaled

On Rowan boughs, each one assailed

By withe spears, the Swalemen hung.

Like horrid fruit the soldiers swung,

Pierced through the gut, some through the neck,

Each one the lolling, draining wreck

Of what was once a breathing soul.

Ditches of blood, filled from each hole

Within their bodies, ran the road

On either side. His horse bestrode

The littered scene. Garlands of gore

Hung down the slope. Just one more score

To settle now. There, on a horse,

Sat Broodie, fearful, his armed force

Skewered and useless. Ten last swains,

Swords drawn, sat with him. “Suzerains

Of this lone hillside,” Devlin thought

And spurred his steed. King Broodie, caught

In stunned suspension, fought the fear

That Mages, over gold, would shear

The hand that fed them. Such fell might

As instantly could cause this sight

Was staggering, beyond his ken.

He spied a rider coming. Then,

Old recognition’s sudden grip

Squeezed at his heart. The swordsmanship

Devlin possessed he’d heard reviewed

By Swalemen whom he’d interviewed,

Who’d been disarmed, then neatly scarred

By Devlin’s blade. The two had sparred

But once, when young, when near the Swale

Devlin had ventured. Broodie’s pale

Young gang had caught him there, sitting,

By a stream, alone, unwitting,

In reverie. Boys fought with sticks,

And Devlin, with his feints and tricks

Had dealt Broodie a stinging touch

Or two, until the others, much

Further from honor than from zeal,

Attacked him. Devlin’s swollen weal

Had lasted weeks, someone had said.

Now here he galloped past the dead,

The prince who’d left his uncle’s fief

To siege, starvation, shame and grief.

What was this Hillman doing here?

“Why have these trees not shoved a spear

Through you as well?” yelled Broodie, “Aye,

And my last swains?” “I’ll tell you why!”

Devlin called out, reigning his steed.

“I ordered them to not impede

My pleasure at the sanctity

Of ending you!” He swung his knee

And leapt down, pulling out his sword.

“Die now, you wretch!” The furies stored

In Catland’s heart roared back like flames.

“You ain’t done this! No! Mages’ games,

Are these! For gold! The cheatin’ toads!”

He spat. “Poor Emil ran the roads

On foot, didn’t he, with those fools?”

Laughed Devlin. “Once we scared the jewels

And gold out of him, that fine day.

‘Twas my gold, Broodie, anyway!”

The Swalefolk king slid from his steed

And drew his blade. Old folly, greed

And envy poured into his hand.

“Let’s kill ‘im, boys. We understand

At least how that’s done.” “Some command,”

Growled Devlin. “Spoken like a king.”

The swains ran out and formed a ring

Of swords around him. Suddenly,

Skarnagvidelf leapt from a tree

Onto the road and swung his points

Across three men, slashing the joints

That held their legs onto their hips.

So swiftly he had moved, their lips

Had not yet parted in a scream

Before three others, like a team

Of tumblers, flipped away in mists

Of blood. The last four pugilists,

Astonished by the strange brute’s strength,

Looked at each other down the length

Of their half circle, broke, then ran.

Heart pounding, Broodie saw each man

Whipped up by branches and impaled.

In dread, he turned, his soul assailed

By more fear than he’d ever known.

Devlin strode to him. “What you’ve sown,

You reap. Now lift your blade, you pig,”

The king said. Broodie took a swig

Of his own spit. “What is that thing?”

He gestured. “One who thought to bring

Our fight to fairness. It’s fair now.

So blade up, Catland. Let’s see how

You do alone.” Their crossed swords clanged,

As there, among an army hanged

By its own mischief, Devlin jabbed

Him, arms and chest, while Broodie grabbed

His shallow wounds. At each foul prick

His blood ran forth. Hands tired and slick,

His sword slipped loose. Now on his knees

He raged at life’s finalities

As Devlin, seeing enough of pain,

Thrust his longsword through Broodie’s brain

By way of Broodie’s open mouth.

It left his skull, the point thrust south.

Alive with bloody little rills,

It aimed straight for the Rowan Hills.

Next Week: Canto XXVIII

In Peloon, the Dwarf Mage attacks Gudrunlod. But Devlin is close by, and her powers return.

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CANTO XXVI

TRAPPED AND HELPLESS

As cataracts in rock-flung foam

Roll roughshod for their old deep home

Within the ancient, brooding sea,

So, too, the floods of history

Are not held back, well, not for long,

By what we think is right or wrong

In our brief lives. A culture’s creed

Will falter with alarming speed

When, all at once, change falls like rain

And dislocations don’t remain

Within their shorelines anymore.

Not knowing this, before the door

The Mage had sealed, Grodoo felt sure

That his reportage would assure

Him of rewards he couldn’t count,

So grand they’d be. ‘Twas paramount

The Dwarf should know the girl was here,

This early morn. He’d faced his fear

And talked his way into this hall

Of Norns. Who knew? It might enthrall

The Dwarf, this news he bore, and lead

To their alliance. Really, greed

Was not all that bad, right? Why not?

Why not propose that Grodoo, hot

With loyal purpose, serve the Mage

And help in some way set the stage

For him to triumph over fools

Who challenged Mages? Break the rules

As they had done, deserved they did

Whatever horrors stalked amid

His retributions. Best to side

With him at this point, for the tide

Would surely turn on Goodpelf’s crowd

Once she was dead. They’d all be cowed,

And sorry, too. And there he’d be,

Dispensing mercy, possibly.

He banged upon the spell-sealed door

And called, “I’ve found your magic whore,

Oh master! Down at Spinster’s Bend!

I know the place! She can’t defend

Her door against your power’s blast!

My spying’s true! She’s ours at last!”

A rumble, and the door replied

By swinging back. Alone inside,

The Dwarf Mage sat upon his throne

Down by the water. “Awkward drone,”

He muttered underneath his breath,

Then yelled up to him, “Horrid death

Awaits you, bumpkin, if you lie!”

“Oh, Master, I can certify

That I do not! Your loyal spy

Knows where she is. Why falsify,

When truth’s so easy? Spinster’s Bend,

West of the wharves. That’s where to send

Your mighty powers. All I ask . . .”

“Ask?” “ . . . is to be part of the task

Of running things, once all this ends,”

Grodoo explained. “The worm ascends,”

Chuckled the Dwarf, eyes glittering.

“Away then!” Quickly hovering

Up from his throne, legs lotus-crossed,

He flew at Grodoo. Cold, like frost,

Poured from him as he halted there,

A foot from Grodoo’s awestruck stare.

“You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re floatin,” stammered he.

“You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re right, apparently,

You idiot. You’ve not seen this,

I guess. Few have. No cowardice,

Now, as we leave.” Cold sparkles spun

Out from his solar plexus sun.

Grodoo felt himself pulled aloft

Above the pool, up toward some loft

Of buttress beams high in the dome

Above the Mages’ thrones. The gnome

Chuckled and sneered as Grodoo’s howls

Commenced and he, all shaking jowls

And kicking legs, flew with the Mage

Into what seemed a wooden cage,

Then through a shaft of blurring stone

To where there stood a lone, charred throne.

Next upward, tower high, they flew,

Until outside. Bright sunbeams strew

Across his eyes. Below, the fosse

Had calmed. A giant albatross

Winged out above the now-calm bay.

The sun was bright. “This is the day,”

He heard the Mage hiss and exult.

The sudden lack of storm tumult,

To which all folk had grown inured

In that sea town, had people lured

Out of their doors in awed surprise

That very moment. All their eyes

Looked upward. Many spied at once

The Mage’s flight. He held the dunce

As they descended from the bridge

And flew above the rooftops’ ridge.

Below, Grodoo spied men and ships.

An armored crowd surged at the slips.

Peloon’s wet skin was glistening.

“All right, my spy. I’m listening,”

The Dwarf rasped. “Which is Spinster’s Bend?”

“Oh, Mighty One, I’ll not pretend

I like this flyin’.” “Quiet, pup!

Now which one is it?” “So high up,”

Grodoo confessed, “it’s hard to tell.”

“To be so stupid must be hell,”

The Dwarf observed, oblivious

To all the angry, mutinous

Folk down below. They ricocheted

Through rooftops to the Promenade,

Peloon’s main vein, and landed there––

At least Grodoo––dumped from the air.

Three sailors burst forth from a door

With pikes and swords, followed by more.

Cursing at Grodoo and his liege,

They formed a circle, laying siege,

Then charged. “Weapons? Oh, what is this?”

The Dwarf Mage laughed. “Oh, I should piss

In fear!” At once, the sailors burned,

Flames bursting from them. Grodoo turned

As fiery blasts entered the house

From which they’d run. “Oh, someone douse

Those flames! How awful!” laughed the Mage.

Harsh screams of burning people’s rage

And horror burst out from the smoke

Within the home. “Pigs in a poke!”

The Dwarf Mage howled. “Roast pigs at that!”

All down the street, from hut and flat

And simple home, townsfolk emerged

With buckets, as the black smoke surged,

Urged on by roaring, popping flames.

“Stay where you are and play no games!”

The Mage hissed loudly. “Plenty more

Where that came from. Now, where’s the whore?”

He fumed at Grodoo. “I implore

You, Master . . .” “Oh shut up! Just walk!

I’m tired of all your constant talk!

Where is she?” “This way.” “Go then, go!”

Surrounded by the surly flow

Of citizens, all armed and wild,

Some shooing back inside their child,

The Dwarf Mage sneered and floated by,

Hunting the young and foolish Sly

Whom he had cornered finally.

This female magic, wantonly

Assailing what was pure and good,

Would soon, in its foul lustihood,

Be gone. And then the Gates would still

Again, he knew. The Leash of Will

Would rule once more. Capriciously,

He burned more houses, randomly

Inserting flames beneath their roofs.

“Just know these are but mild reproofs!”

He cackled, “Next to what befalls

This rancid town if duty calls

Me to cleanse all you fools away!”

Beneath him, on the stone pathway,

Between the cobbles, Rowan threads

Lifted up pairs of plumule heads.

“There, Master! See? In that house, there!”

Said Grodoo, pointing. Batty’s stare

Showed at the window, eyes alarmed

At all the sudden noise. “Becharmed

No longer, surly bitch!” the Mage

Slavered and laughed, then all his rage

Fell on the walls. First, clapboards peeled

And flew away as thick beams wheeled,

Blown off like sticks. Two women cowered

By a stove. Around them hovered

Bits of clove, yellow chamomile

And pots and pans. “The juvenile!

Where is she?” The Dwarf Mage was shocked

To see Bat and some old witch, pocked

With age. “You said she’s hiding here!”

“She is!” croaked Grodoo. “She’ll appear

From that old face. It’s her! I swear!

What hag wears ribbons in her hair?

Look close! It’s her! She’s in disguise!”

This insight seemed to tranquilize

The Dwarf a moment. Floating, still,

He reconnoitered. With what skill

Had this been done? He did not know.

It bothered him, this subtle show

Of Water Power. “Show yourself,

You nasty, stupid little elf,”

He muttered, “whoever you are.”

Gudrunlod pushed a floating jar

From near her face. Her wrinkles filled.

The blush of her young beauty stilled

The onlookers. The old ones gasped,

The ghost of Silya. Hood unclasped,

She showed a face from long ago

The Dwarf had killed, he’d thought. How? No!

The karcist dropped an inch or so

As recognition’s vertigo

Struck home. That face, soft as a fawn!

By Warog, this was Harcto’s spawn!

Those greenish eyes! A Mage’s child!

Abominations doubly piled

Upon themselves. It now made sense,

Her power’s awful virulence,

This girl that threatened all the world.

His hatred and his Leash unfurled.

“When will you women ever learn?”

He then prepared her soul to burn

As he her father’s once had done.

Gudrunlod felt she weighed a ton,

For lo, she found she could not run.

“Bat, get away!” she screamed, undone.

I cannot fight him! I will die!

Oh, Devlin, love, I’m just a Sly

Without the half I need to fight!

Where are you? Help me in my plight!

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The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Next Week: Canto XXVII

Devlin crests the mountains on his horse and beholds that his and the Rowan King’s spell, cast upon Broodie Catland’s army, has left only the upstart, alone and fearful on the road.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

CANTO XXV

GOODPELF’S WAR

“The vigilant protect what is

From what might be, lest they lose viz

And look away. Then, by designs,

The enemy sneaks past our lines.”

Goodpelf praised his small lookout team

On the clifftop. What was this scheme

For secret war that lay below?

From Delon’s archipelago,

A fleet had sailed into the lee

Of East Whale Point, strategic’ly

Invisible to Temple eyes,

Or anyone’s, save Goodpelf’s spies

Who, on patrol along the bight,

Had happened on them just that night.

Now, by dawn’s light, brought here in haste,

Goodpelf beheld ten ships. “Two-faced

King Delon is,” he said, face whipped

By Sea Rose pips and leaves. “He slipped

His men in here quite cleverly.

King Delon brought his guarantee

‘Gainst Brond and Ord, and us as well,

Though he knows not the metal hell

That waits him. Look! They’re hoisting sail!

Quick, back to town. We must not fail!”

Some miles away at Spinster’s Bend

Gudrunlod watched a dream’s sad end

Then stirred awake in Batty’s bed

Next to her cousin, whose soft head

Lay wrapped beneath a goose down mound.

Large as she was, without a sound

Bat slept each night, sharing her sheets,

While Goodpelf--amorous deceits

Filling his mind most ev’ry night--

Still took Gald’s room, well out of sight.

Gudrunlod rose and made some tea,

Wrinkled her face convincingly,

And peered outside. The sky, still gray,

Promised another rain-soaked day.

Goodpelf came running down the street

And ducked inside. “An Islesmen fleet

Is coming here!” he yelled, eyes wild.

“We need your magic now, my child!”

“I don’t dare use it. You know why,”

She answered. “Not ‘til Devlin’s by

My side.” “Great Gods, then we must fight.

Where’s Bat?” “Asleep.” “Stay out of sight

And lock the doors!” He pulled his sword

And breastplate from beneath a board,

Loose in the floor, then fit it back.

“Men from this street will bivouac

Inside their doors, you to protect.”

Gudrunlod stared around, abject,

And slumped down slowly to a chair,

Tugging at ribbons in her hair.

“I’m sorry, Goodpelf. I have failed.”

“Not yet, my lass,” Goodpelf exhaled.

“Your gold has purchased us this chance

To fight for you and Bat.” A glance

Outside revealed men running by.

“The town’s awake and I must fly,”

He groaned, fears strong; “Tell Bat I’d die

For her.” “I’ll wake her.” “No, her sleep

Is one place peaceful she should keep

A little longer.” Out he went.

Her thoughts to Devlin she had sent,

Day in, day out, but no reply

Had come. Now this. What sort of Sly

Was she? Pathetic. Scared. Alone.

That’s what she was. A little crone,

Afraid to move. What if the Dwarf

Heard the commotion on the wharf?

What if those armies just outside

Peloon’s weak borders chose to ride

And take the town? They’d kill the men

With ease. Three armies, fighting then,

With fishermen untrained in war?

Gudrunlod’s gaze sank to the floor.

Goodpelf and Dol raced for the quays,

Surrounded by the townsmen, knees

And chests awkwardly armored, helms

Loose at their ears. The oaks and elms,

Cut for their pikes, now rose again

Above their throng. No regimen

Had they for fighting, only guts

And pain and longing. Down the ruts

Where cobbles moved, they ran as one,

Pouring their homespun garrison

Onto the wharves, none noticing

The Temple’s main doors whispering

And closing shut. None would have cared.

There, sailing for their slips, swords bared,

Were Delon’s hated pirate clans.

They hung from riggings, barbicans

Of upright weapons on their decks.

Delon’s mast lookouts craned their necks

And pointed. “Armed men on the shore!”

“What men are those?” His man-o-war

Rode smooth beneath King Delon’s boots.

He swore an oath. What foul cahoots

Was this? The Land Kings’ men had left,

His spies had sworn. Peloon, bereft

Of all defense, save one mad Mage,

Was his to take, he’d thought. Engage

An unarmed town of fishermen?

That should have worked, or would have, when

No soldiers stood there in a mass

And challenged all his men to pass

Their steely death. Damnation! Heads

Would roll for this! Which dunderheads

These spies were, he’d find out, but now,

What should he do? “Turn ‘round this scow!”

He yelled in fury, seething red.

His inept spies were good as dead.

Already, though, he’d been observed.

Even as his attack fleet swerved

Off from the wharves and sailed for home,

King Brond and Ord’s spies, freed to roam

Peloon, witnessed this strange event.

Westward and east, each rider went,

To rouse his army. Weapons raised,

Some fishermen had just dispraised

A king! Such hubris could not stand!

The time had come to crush this land.

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The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Next Week: Canto XXVI

When Grodoo reveals Gudrunlod’s whereabouts to the Dwarf Mage, they fly to Spinster’s Bend. Tearing away the front of Batty’s house, the Dwarf sees only Batty and a crone, standing in the destroyed kitchen. Defiant and helpless, Gudrunlod reveals herself.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXIV

DIVINERS’ TOOLS

“Diviners’ tools all sorts can be.

Entrails will work, leaves in our tea,

Bunched yarrow stalks, bones, candle flames,

The tarot’s grainy, smoked-glass chess,

A palmist’s line, a gypsy’s guess.

Yet which of these propitious games

Does more to dig up augury

Than what our minds can fairly see

In white light? Which? Besides, to know

Too far ahead where we will go,

Whom we will love, our fortune’s gains,

And all the rest, prevents no rains

From falling on us in the end.”

Gudunlod peered at Spinster’s Bend

And watched raindrops the size of pearls

Throw splashing crowns into the swirls

Of gutter water at her feet.

Midday’s wan light, in half-defeat,

Fought on through clouds so low they snagged

Peloon’s stone chimneys. “They have dragged

The weapons all around the town,

By now,” she went on, a slight frown

Of concentration on her face

As she imagined ev’ry place

Goodpelf and all the men might hide

Her purchases. With apron tied,

Bat joined her at the alley door

And sighed, “I’m weary of this war

Already, and it ain’t begun.

Been so long since we’ve seen the sun,

I can’t remember when it was.”

Bat absently plucked off some fuzz

From her old woolen shawl and flicked

It off into the rain. “We’ve tricked

Them all this far, I guess. That’s good.”

“It is, dear Bat. And well we should,

Considering your man’s control

Of things.” “That’s kind.” “No, in the whole

Of this, Goodpelf’s intelligence

Has bolstered the self-confidence

Of all your neighbors. Never free

Will any of them ever be

Until they’ve fought and rid their sea

Of Mages.” Bat leaned thoughtfully

Against the door and dared to dream:

“After they’s gone and their regime

Is over, what about the fish?”

“One will appear on ev’ry dish

Of ev’ry child here in Peloon.

For once they’re gone, well, pretty soon

After, I’d think, the seas will still.

Fish will return.” “You think they will?”

“I do. What’s more, your men will learn

To fish without the Demonsburn above the water.”

Batty heaved a careworn sigh. “I’m hard bereaved

‘Bout Galdie dyin’ like he did.”

She forced a smile. “He made his bid

For you though, didn’t he, that day

You came to town, remember? Way

Out of his depth, he was with girls,

But still he tried. And you, with curls

And ribbons! Thought you was a whore.”

“A princess, he said, and what’s more . . .”

“Not him,” Bat laughed. “I thought you was.

You know, well, I suppose because

You was so pretty, but him so . . .”

Bat coughed back tears. “See, long ago,

I knew your mother as a child.

Silya, I’ll tell ye, she was wild

In her own way. Guess I was six,

Or so, back then. She shook the bricks

‘Round here all right, that stormy morn

She dragged your Pa in. Hells-a-born!

A Mage! All bloody ‘round his skin

And seemin’ dead. She dragged him in

Right through this door. Look down there, see?”

Bat gestured left. It made a T,

The alley did, crossed by the strand,

Past which the sea tore at the sand

And struck the wall, dousing some posts

Where banners flapped. “The sea makes ghosts.

But Silya saved him. Just like you

Might save us all from what they’ll do.

Like she saved him from what he was.”

As storytelling often does,

It eased Bat’s heart, Gudrunlod knew,

And so she said, “I love when you

Speak of those days. Go on, Bat, please.

Please, tell me more.” By slow degrees,

Bat turned her gaze off from the waves

Flooding the strand and sighed. “Been slaves

Forever in this town. ‘Tween kings

And Mages and the Norns, few things

Are left for us. Well, fam’lies, yes,

If they survive. More to oppress,

The more children we have. That’s how

They look at us. All right then, now,

A Mage decides to marry here.

At first, most people thinks it’s queer,

But then they sees that this man’s good.

He loves his wife. Does what he should.

Goes faring out and catches fish

As good as any man could wish

And talks to people like they’s worth

Somethin’. And then, just ‘for your birth,

The wizards injure him somehow.

I never learned. Caused quite a row,

Though, when it happened, ‘mongst our kin.

Then you was born. He’d grown quite thin

By then.” “What was my mother like?”

Gudrunlod asked. “Fey, faery-like,

You know?” Bat answered. “All the swains

Was after her. But she had brains,

She did, and kept much to herself.

I think she thought she was an elf

‘Stead of a girl. Your father, though,

He caught her fancy. Mistletoe

Was shootin’ arrows ‘bove those two

From that first day. Looked just like you,

Aunt Silya did. Same face. Same hair.

I babysat you lots.” Bat’s stare

Into the rain softened. She turned.

“Did you know that? First time I learned

To change a diaper, ‘twas your poops.”

She laughed and gazed along the stoops

Of houses, misted in the rain.

Gudrunlod’s eyes welled up with pain.

She fought them back, but out spilled tears.

“Forgive me.” “No, no. All those years.

Must’ve been hard without your mum.”

“It was . . . it was . . . most . . . wearisome,”

Gudrunlod answered, forcing down

Her sadness; “Yes. When Mages drown

The only one you’ll ever have,

Time is an ineffective salve,

No matter how much you apply.

And now I’m helpless, as a Sly,

Until my Devlin frees himself

From his strange wyrd.” A narrow shelf

Inside the door held her clove tea.

She sipped it contemplatively,

And heaved a weary sigh. “Weeks now

Have passed away. And I wonder how

I’ll ever do this, if he’s dead

Or something.” Big Bat shook her head.

“Don’t say such things. He’ll be along.”

“I’ve done my best to remain strong,

I have, dear Bat. I sailed away.

I gave the gold. To my dismay,

Look––he’s not here. He should have been

Long since! And now, I’m trapped within

Conditions I did not intend.”

“Well, ain’t we all?” answered her friend,

Smiling the way a mother would

Who knew her daughter’s novicehood

Before the world’s uncertainties;

“It’s all a lot of mysteries,

I think, though you’d know better more than me

‘Bout them, I’d wager, probably,”

Bat went on. “So, we’ve got to wait.

I’ve waited all my life for Fate

To bring a man into my life.

A man who’d want me for his wife.

I’d given up on all of that,

When there, dressed in that stupid hat,

I find him, standin’ at my door

One day. So, p’raps there’s just one more,

Or two, or three days left to wait

For you. But you’re in such a state

You just can’t see it clearly yet.

The mind great worries can beget

Without much prodding, this I know.

So don’t you worry, now. He’ll show.”

The cousins stood there, door ajar,

And knew then that they’d come quite far

In knowing whom the other was.

For when love grows, that’s how it does.

Next Week: Canto XV

As the Kings bring war to Peloon, Goodpelf and the fishmen gather their hidden weapons for the fight. Powerless to cast spells, Gudrunlod fears the worst.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXIII

IN THE HEART OF THE ROWAN KING

Below the deepest realms of mind,

Down past the dreams we can’t recall,

Beyond all instincts, past the soul’s

Remembrances, even past death,

And on into the sparkling breath

The void releases as it trolls

For incarnation, floats a small

But robust opening. Entwined

Beyond the wormway at its end

Are capillary mouths which bend

Into the deva of each plant

Of any sort, where, germinant

And proud, those devas spill their bands

Of lighted structures through thin strands

Of earthly stuff, mining the sun,

Cleaving at water, ‘til they’re done

And trees have risen, flowers grown,

And grasses rippling wealds have sown.

Beyond that wormway, Mah-Ling’s chant

Had brought the aged hierophant

Up to the Rowan Deva’s frieze

Of ornate, carven energies.

At this threshold, she’d pushed and pried

For two days now. To get inside

Was all that she could think to do,

To find and free him. Devlin’s true

And finest self, with all his strength,

Raised Rowans now, the breadth and length

Of half the world, it felt to her.

She was his sole deliverer,

She knew. Lost time was pouring past

Mah-Ling: a torrent, thick and fast.

It frightened her. The girl would die

Unless Devlin were free to fly

To her before the Dwarf’s Braid did.

For only through their wild, young bid

To shake apart the Law of One,

And all the Mages jettison,

Could some great labor be attained,

Some potent change, long foreordained,

Which she half-sensed, off in the weft

Of stranded futures. Thus, she’d left

The Labyrinths, driven by fear

And love and worry. Always near,

The periapt Gudrunlod left

Was pouched and necklaced in the cleft

Of her great breasts, two spinning cirques,

Woven to one. All Mah-Ling’s works

Fed on suggestion. Overt acts

Of force and matter––raising tracts

Of trees, for instance––fell beyond

Her lore’s soft powers to respond.

Soft powers, though she wished today

They weren’t. She’d burst this Tree’s display

Of energies asunder now.

Alas, she did not know quite how

To do it here, by chantings borne

Past all those portals, self-foresworn

To free her student from the grasp

Of this old wight. She touched the clasp

That held her necklace, popped it clear,

Then tossed and watched it disappear

Into the deva’s complex shield.

She saw it, moments later, yield

To clearness. In its waffling field,

Devlin stood splayed, brain revealed

And pulsing, growing blood-red roots,

Which rose to limbs. These bent to shoots

That curled beneath his feet’s bare soles

And wove up through him, punching holes,

As, in and out of him, they grew.

He’d grown transparent, pale of hue.

Somewhere the rushing, hissing sound

Of rootlings, harrowing the ground,

Began to echo. Mah-Ling tore

The membrane’s wet interior

And floated to him cautiously.

“Devlin Groundman, thy colloquy

With plants hath ended. Thou must bring

Thy knowledge homeward.” Shivering,

He struggled to form words. The Sly

Spoke to the Deva, now nearby,

Aware. “Free him. Let his’try’s flood

Be loosed. Returneth thou his blood

To him. Surely, past thine own rede

Thou hast grown lately. Surely, greed

Hath no place in thy plan for things,

Since love driveth the Rowan Kings.”

She waited for what then might be.

Back in the world, the red-lit Tree,

Surrounded by the Ogres, changed.

Mah-Ling’s great body, still arranged

As she had left it days ago,

Stirred once and breathed. The indigo

Of her deep eyes began to show

As she awakened. Just below

And to her right, the Devlin-burl

Shed bark and leaves. The fetal curl

Of pale green man-flesh flexed its wrists,

As blood, bright red in curling twists,

Spread visibly beneath the skin

Of his cold arms, incarnadine

And marbled. Mazed, Skar hushed the crowd,

Not daring words to speak aloud

As his long vigil for his friend

Drew closer, he hoped, to its end.

“Touch him not ‘til he stands alone,”

Mah-Ling spoke, “lest sinew and bone

Somewhere remain as leaf and limb.”

Skarnagvidelf sat next to him

And watched intently as the blush

Of warm, good life kept up its rush

Down Devlin’s greenish, naked flesh.

Mah-Ling abandoned the last mesh

Of dreams lying draped across her chants,

And rose. “Findeth this boy some pants,”

She sighed as Devlin deeply breathed,

Then yawned. Above, the Tree stood, wreathed

In gold and green. “Thy curse be done.

Thy fatelight fadeth in the sun.

Of dark wyrd thou art free, young king!”

Intoned the Ogress queen, Mah-Ling.

“Awake! The world demandeth thee!”

Skar watched as, imperceptibly,

A slit formed between eye and lid.

Beneath the lashes, deeply hid,

Something looked out and grew alarmed

At its own movement. Things were harmed

By too much movement, were they not?

Cool, rooted things that moved grew rot

That weakened their strong hearts of wood,

And that was bad. Or was it good?

Rot ended things––Time’s withered branch.

Time past, he’d felt the need to stanch

His bleeding sap, once meant to lift

Upward––his breathing leaves’ old gift––

Then drained and useless. Hadn’t he?

But now, no longer. Quizzic’ly

He pondered his identities,

Until a rush of memories

Released itself in Devlin’s brain.

“Great Gods, how long have I here lain?”

He asked of Mah-Ling, seeing Skar,

Whilst sensing at his jugular

The pulsing of his erstwhile blood

As it propelled a flushing rud

Across his face. “A good fortnight,

I fear,” said Skar. In mem’ry’s sight,

Devlin beheld himself that night,

Walking toward the Rowan wight.

Two weeks elapsed. “Gudrunlod, where

Is she?” he asked, pulling his hair

From off his face and trying to stand.

He wobbled, reaching out his hand

For help. But Mah-Ling shook her head.

Skar backed away. “They feel like lead,

My legs.” “Yes, well, thy lady sailed

For weapons. First, though, she prevailed

Upon me, thee to seek,” replied

Skarnagvidelf. A soft kilt, pied

And bright, was handed Devlin’s way.

He wrapped himself up straightaway.

“Sailed where? With whom?” “The rebels. Men.”

“What rebels?” “Peloon’s. Nine or ten

Of them. Tooketh she all the gold

Thou stoleth. And from his stronghold,

In force hath Broodie Catland marched

Off northward, ten days hence.” Eye arched

Upward, Devlin beheld the Tree

He once had felled. To bended knee

He sank, nodding in silent trust,

Then rose and turned. “Know more, I must,

Before I ride.” “Then knoweth this,”

Mah-Ling boomed low, “thy chrysalis

Hath opened. Wait not long to fly,

Mage King, for Time, it runneth by

Like frightened lemmings bound for death.

The Demon-legion thundereth

At its old prison’s weakened Gates.

No longer can I see the Fates

Within my Loom. Turneth away,

They do, from ‘round the girl. Some fray

Is loosed upon her in Peloon.”

“It’s best then that I get there soon,”

Said Devlin, whistling for his horse,

Still nibbling, looking in the gorse

For softer herbs among the Ring

Of Old Green Lords. “One other thing,”

Skar added what he’d just recalled,

“The Dwarf hast thy good friend, Big Gald,

A’murdered, sadly. This thy Sly

Hath told me, Devlin.” A brief cry

Erupted, raw, from Devlin’s lungs.

“Though I’ve climbed many, still more rungs

On heartbreak’s ladder do appear,”

He cried out coldly, dark eyes clear.

“Toof’s hut, does it still stand somewhere

Within this Rowanwold? Repair

Myself I must. My clothes. My sword.”

“Devlin, ‘tis now a shaded ford

That rippleth past its woodbound spot,

And yet, it standeth.” “Then let’s not

Waste time here,” Devlin answered. “Queen?”

He walked to Mah-Ling. “Yes, I’ve seen

The Kingdom of Devatic Light.

I roamed it with this ancient wight,

From whom you now have rescued me.

Fear not our consanguinity.

Both serve you now forevermore.”

Like warm waves tumbling on a shore,

Mah-Ling embraced him. “Devlin Child,”

She sighed, “be gone.” Her bosom piled

Upon him as he hugged her back,

As best he could. “Show me that shack,”

He said to Skar, while pulling free.

“Six days hard riding I foresee

At least, for me to reach the sea.”

With that he leapt up nakedly

And jigged his horse. Skarnagvidelf,

Gaining the wold, hoisted himself

Into the boughs and off they sped.

The Ogress Queen, shaking her head,

Swung up into her Howdah’s throne

And sat back, weary to the bone.

The drums of war thrummed loud across

The ether, harbingers of loss

So great, they forced that ancient being,

Mah-Ling, who foresaw ev’rything,

To shut her aching inner eye

‘Gainst glimpsing who might live or die.

Next Week: Canto XIV

As the storms lash Peloon, Gudrunlod and Batty stare out at the rain and talk. Gudrunlod has no idea of Devlin’s fate; no word has reached her yet. Still helpless to use her powers without his return, she doesn’t know Grodoo the spy has seen her face revealed.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Firstly, I’m honored and pleased that you have either stuck with me from the beginning, or have recently joined those who read The Rowan Canticles. I doubt you know this, but recording and scoring each Canto is intense labor, fun, yes, but time-consuming, and I’m lucky to have time to stay ahead of each post. Usually, I’m just a week or so ahead, so even as you read and listen to the post I’ve just published, please think of me as I’m here in New Hampshire, crafting away at next week’s Canto.

Only eight Cantos remain out of ninety-three, so I’ll be drawing the story to a close in mid-May. I published my first episode in July 2023, so let’s say I’ve been at this for 85 consecutive weeks, minus one Christmas break.

As I near the end of my tale, I’ve been thinking of opening up a chat with all of you. An evening we set aside to answer questions you may have about the work, lines or scenes that stuck with you, anything you’d like to ask or comment upon. What you think the story means. What I think it means. Crafting the lines and characters. Where all those rhymes came from. The Finnish epic that got me into writing a poem like this in the first place. Things like that.

The only thing I won’t mention is how the story ends.

So please, contact me through Substack. Let me know if you’d like to do this chat, and we’ll set it up. Personally, I’d love to.

Happy Spring,

Odds Bodkin

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The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXII

DEADLY KNOWLEDGE

The winner of life’s race is love.

In second place, we find respect.

Acceptance runs a distant third.

Near last, being paid attention to

By others struggles by. Construe

These glamours wrongly, crass, absurd

And graceless actions soon collect

Around us, threatening to shove

Us up into the shallow mind

Where ego’s sequins make us blind

With their cheap glare. Dead last and spent,

However, runs abandonment.

Freshly abandoned, Grodoo hid

Inside a warehouse, dark amid

The shadowed crates and lobster traps

Piled near him. All his life’s mishaps

He’d always reshaped into feats

Of daring thievery. Defeats

Were simply opportunities

To hone his craft. Profundities

Did not occur to him. And so,

He felt no spirit vertigo

While peering through the warehouse cracks,

Across dark docks and torchlit backs,

As Dol’s and Goodpelf’s fisherfops

Unloaded crates with sturdy tops,

Well-nailed, bearing insignia

Of unknown lands. Insomnia

Had dragged his brain to madness’ edge

For weeks. Yet still, there’d been no wedge

Shoved between him and his new job:

Keeping a close eye on the mob,

Including that king rat himself,

His former friend, that ass, Goodpelf.

No, Grodoo’s newest work drew coin

From facts only he could purloin

And relay clearly. Brond and Ord

And all their troops could ill afford

To miss the pulse of Peloon’s war

Against itself. The Mages’ corps

Of house servants was unequipped

To fight a townsfolk deeply gripped

By hopeless anger, that was clear.

Better to keep the armies near,

The kings reasoned, but not bivouacked

Within the town. If men attacked

The Temple once again, they’d be

In easy, quick proximity

And thus could crush the unarmed fools

In short order, preserve the rules,

And bide time ‘til the Dwarf had passed

Beyond his madness, though this last

Contingency might not unfold

At all, they worried. Not so bold

Were any of The Reach’s kings

To challenge him. He’d spew forth things

Into the world they feared and loathed.

And so they waited, patience clothed

In spying, with a few platoons

Watching the bridges and Peloon’s

Sad population. Spying was,

Of course, Grodoo’s domain, because

Although the townsfolk saw the lout,

No one had killed him yet. This clout

Was his, quite unbeknownst to him,

Because of Goodpelf’s word. A grim

And savage view the townsfolk took

Of Grodoo, truly. In his nook,

He watched them now, unloading crates,

Delighted that these sailors’ fates

Were in his hands. Goodpelf’s new friends.

He hated all of them. The trends

He’d noticed lately, he’d report.

How ships had sailed, returned to port,

All empty, save this Clover here.

How now it chose to reappear,

Full two weeks later, laden low

With what? Not fish. Stowed safe below,

These crates held cargo he’d not seen

Before. He wondered where they’d been,

These men, Goodpelf and some old witch

Who’d hugged and talked to Bat, the bitch,

Then joined her walking. Strange, indeed.

Intelligence that Brond might need,

And Ord as well. Crates full of what?

He felt a thrill down in his gut.

Now here was knowledge worth a price,

A goodly sum––Grodoo’s advice

To kings. Let Goodpelf have his pies

And bed. He’d pay for all his lies.

No, not the good ones meant for fools

They’d told for many years, with tools

They’d used to pry unwitting minds

Wide open. No. The other kinds

Of lies. The ones about his wit,

Being called “dear dolt”—that hypocrite.

Goodpelf’s fault, yes, but Grodoo’s? No.

Who was the dolt now? Soon, he’d show

Him, Grodoo would. Should he report?

Or first perhaps, even extort

A little something from these folk?

Let drop some hint, some offhand joke

About crates with strange marks? Why not?

Might double-up the pay he got

For all his skulkings. Quiet pay.

Pay me this gold, I’ll wait a day

Or two before the word gets out.

Right. That would do it. Why not flout

His findings, right in Goodpelf’s face?

No, better not. They might replace

What’s in those crates with stones or dirt,

Thusly forewarned. Besides, to flirt

So close with danger might attract

Attention which, to counteract

Might not be easy. Well, he’d wait

A day or so, just circulate,

Just see what else he could observe

Before reporting. Right. Preserve

His options for a day or so,

That’s what he’d do. He turned to go.

Loud gusts rattled the warehouse wall,

More remnants of the evening’s squall,

As Grodoo creaked the door ajar.

Lord, Peloon’s men have sailed afar

To smuggle something into town.

A spy’s report fit for a crown,

Such words would be. Now, which king first?

Thusly, Grodoo his vengeance nursed,

As silently, always discrete,

He edged on down the wet, dark street.

Now who, he wondered, had she been,

That wizened fishmarm, spry and thin,

Who’d hugged Bat on the torchlit dock?

By Warog, must be three o’clock

Or so by now, he thought. Quite late

For anyone to stand and wait

For ship arrivals. Good to know

Just who she was. His silk chapeau

He straightened as he tiptoed down

The windy street, heading downtown

To Spinster’s Bend. The roar of spume

That gusted down the boat-filled flume,

Churning between each facing quay,

Rumbled and hissed, as in the scree

Of wind and roof tiles drumming rain,

Grodoo glimpsed quickly through the pane

Of Batty’s window what he’d hoped

Would be there. In the dark he groped,

Flat to the wall, to edge his eye

Around enough to let him spy

Upon the women. There they were,

Both sipping at some clear liqueur

From little glasses, talking fast.

Then Grodoo leapt back, stunned, aghast,

And fell into a growling gust,

Unsure if he his eyes could trust:

For from that hag’s visage, concealed,

A young girl’s face had been revealed!

Yes, striking beauty--for one keen

And blazing moment--he had seen,

Framed in the firelight. Magic’s mark,

He realized, stumbling through the dark

To new conclusions. Was this she?

The missing girl? Posthumously

Reborn to life again? Could be.

Could be why all this strange ennui

Had filled the town lately. A witch,

Yes, truly she must be, to switch

From dead to living. Devlin’s girl.

Devlin, who’d set the Dwarf awhirl

With madness that day, months ago.

Or else this girl, incognito,

Had done it, not him. Girl filth spreads

Upon the ether. Maidenheads

And madness! Could that be what this

Was all about? Some magic Miss,

Uprooting from the status quo

Some law determined long ago?

What price then, might the Dwarf Mage pay

To know her whereabouts? Waylay

Her on a walk through town one day?

A goodly price. An exposé

Of Goodpelf’s and the witch’s scheme,

If scheme it was, was like a dream

To lonely Grodoo, trudging by,

The morrow’s earnings piling high

Within his thoughts. The mistral’s cry

Howled from the Nornish, angry sky

And urged him homeward through the dark

Where, safe and dry, he lit a spark

And built a fire to warm his room.

He worried, though. Could he assume

That after all this time, the Mage

Would see him? Was that hermitage

Still open to the likes of him?

He’d gone mad in the interim,

The people said. That rasping voice,

Those coalish eyes. Here was the choice,

Then, to be made. Forget the guilt,

Get rich, then run. Or else, just wilt,

Stay poor and friendless. Spy no more.

Grodoo stared at the grease-gleamed floor

As if the answer waited there.

Then, slouching slowly in his chair

He drifted off to fitful sleep,

Unsure which promises to keep.

Next Week: Canto XXIII

With her chants, Mah-Ling penetrates the powerful devatic shield of the Rowan King and discovers Devlin’s soul, trapped within. It is his power that the Rowan King has been using to raise the giant forests.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XXI

WAITING

A bad dance partner, waiting is.

It draws up close and breathes a fizz,

Distasteful slightly, in our face,

Insisting that we dance with it,

While all the while, across the floor,

Anticipation fills the door

And looks so splendid standing there,

Prepared to take our boredom’s place.

Gudrunlod waited each long day

And watched the hours float castaway

Before her. Still, what else to do?

She walked the deck, tied back her hair,

And longed for Devlin’s kiss and touch,

Heartsick with worry. Inasmuch

As he was gone and she was here,

An inadvertent buccaneer,

She found her moments hectoring.

At last, she took to lecturing

Dol’s sailors on the subtle points

Of being a woman, counterpoints

To their assumptions artfully

Composed, while winds howled stormily

Above. Only Goodpelf knew who

She truly was. She kept her moue

Bewrinkled, cackling like a witch,

All for the fun of watching which

Among the crew her crone disguise

Bothered the most. To scandalize

Sailors was a fine rarity.

For once, she lived of beauty free,

And found it good. Five days and nights

Of sailing brought them to The Bights,

Their fjord-walls rising into mists.

Her ship of revolutionists

Found gentler winds, small settlements

And sheltered ships with armaments

Aboard, the rumors proving true.

She quelled her urge to boss the crew

As she beheld swords, shields and bows.

“Now this is what Bat’s Goodpelf knows

The best,” she thought, “trading off gold

For things.” In three days, they’d been sold

Crossbows and quarrels, boarding pikes,

Armor, short halberds sharp with spikes,

Sabres, thick cutlasses, mail shirts

And more. “With this, their just deserts

The Mages of Peloon will get,”

Dol called, shutting the hold; “Who’ll bet

Against our chances now? Those troops

We’ll drive out, too!” Outbursts of whoops

And vengeful cries mixed with the cranks

Of sails upraised. “You have our thanks,

Old Mother.” Dol had tried to pry

Identity from her, and why,

With all her gold, she’d been so kind.

“Let’s say I have an ax to grind

With certain Mages,” she had said.

“The more of them who end up dead,

The better will my gold be spent.”

Accepting this, the sailors bent

To action, hoving Clover south

To Lamprey Bight’s wide, windy mouth.

Beyond the massifs’ giant walls,

The Reach itself, still flailed by squalls,

Loomed gray and brooding. Far away,

Across the winds and waves and spray,

Past Peloon and the Temple’s spire,

Past montane heights, South Stitch’s shire,

Beyond the woodmeres and the lakes,

Past Hillmen, cursing their mistakes

While trudging through the stinking fens

Of Broodie’s Swale, past specimens

Of giant Rowans on the downs,

Then past a rise and through the crowns

Of Old Green Lords Skarnavidelf

Still sat with Devlin. By himself

he’d waited, too, for any word.

His groundman friend still sepulchred

In wood and leaves, sloughing the rains

In stillness. Skar had taken pains

To keep his banter hopeful. Still,

Fatigued and faint, he sounded shrill,

He thought sadly. Four days ago,

He’d heard a clamor down below

And swung off to where dust in clouds

Was rising. Hiding in dense shrouds

Of leaves, he’d watched a column pass

Between the trees and then amass

In ranks out on the open fields.

The clang and glint of swords and shields,

And one man, clumsy on a steed,

Suggested war had been decreed

By Broodie Catland. T’ward the north,

The army, winding back and forth

Against the distance, marched away.

This worried Skar, as well. What fray

Did they intend? Ev’ry stout man

From ev’ry branch of Broodie’s clan,

It looked like, marched to death and war.

He’d swung to Devlin, feeling more

Bereft than ever. Mah-Ling’s scouts

Had said to wait. He had his doubts

That from this burl a friend would rise

And walk again to claim the prize

Of life. Skar worried if Mah-Ling

Could quell this wyrd. A whinnying,

Off past the Ring, captured his ear.

He turned and saw a horse appear,

Devlin’s fine steed, left since the night

At Toof’s to wander out of sight,

Lost in the Rowans. Skar was pleased.

At least the Horse Gods were appeased.

Perhaps the Trees would follow on

When his great Queen some colophon,

Some brilliant end to this dire curse,

Conceived. Beyond Skar’s ken––like verse

And its manipulations were––

Magic still was. The ether’s whirr

Had never through his senses shone,

And so he’d hunted, thought, and flown

The trees, learned young to love his friends

And keep his word. “Ah, to what ends

Have I been led in all of this?”

He wondered. Yes, he’d been amiss

In sending Devlin to this fate.

He found it hard to concentrate

On chanting to this mandrake root.

It made a paltry substitute

For his young groundman, spilling wit.

His horse still wore bridle and bit.

Somehow, he knew Devlin was here.

The beast was waiting, that was clear,

For something. So, the days dragged by,

Four more, until at sunset, high-

Pitched chantings from the wold he heard.

Relieved, he rose and waved, assured

And happy, for Mah-ling drew nigh

At last. Beyond the Ring, tree high,

He watched the first bearer appear,

Clamped to a bough, working to steer

A lanyard’s heavy hemp around

A trunk. A second muscle-bound

And massive Ogre joined the first,

Wrestling more rope. A twirling burst

Of whistles rang out from the wood

As others––doing what they could

To haul a burden slung between

Their moving corps, this yet unseen––

Approached. The Swinging Howdah, borne

By twenty Ogres, much toil-worn,

Like some upended spider, crept

The trees on hempen legs. Upswept

And taut, the ropes dropped down to beams

Of teak, attached at bolted seams

To others, in a cube-like frame.

Inside reclined Mah-Ling. The dame

Slowly but surely glided through

The trees, suspended by her crew.

Attended by a retinue

Of courtly Ogres, into view

She swung, lit at the forest’s edge.

Skarnagvidelf traversed the sedge

And stood there silent, bowing low.

“Thou art adept at groundwalk. So,

Canst thou teach me?” she asked of Skar.

“Perhaps. The Tree riseth not far

From here, oh Queen,” her son replied.

Upon her grapplers’ points, she tried

To walk, but couldn’t. Crawling back

Into her ride, she sat. No lack

Of groaning effort on Skar’s part,

The dragging took. With all his heart,

He hauled the Howdah’s heavy frame

Across the grass. Whistling acclaim,

Loud hoots and smiles greeted his feat.

Brushing the Green Lords’ woody feet,

He dragged Mah-Ling into the Ring.

“There sleepeth he,” she said, “poor thing.

Quickly to work shalt this Sly go.”

She sang up life chants, soft and low,

But not to Devlin, lying there.

Instead, she spun them through the air,

Hoping to smite the Rowan King

Himself with spells of reckoning.

Next Week: Canto XXII

Grodoo, now spying for the invading kings, watches as a strange cargo is unloaded from The Clover in the dead of night. He spies an old hag with Bat, and later peers into their kitchen window. He sees Gudrunlod drop her disguise and realizes he can now go to the Dwarf Mage with astounding and valuable news.

For audio stories with music for adults and kids, visit my download shop!

Share

Subscribe now

The Rowan Canticles is an epic rhyme about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey. I’ve used character voices and music to bring it to life. The old school language can be dense, but I hope it’s fun. It fits the nature of the fantasy.

You’ll find ninety plus Cantos in all, thirty or so contained in each of the three long Canticles.

If you are just discovering this work, it’s much more enjoyable if you start at the beginning.

^{https://oddsbodkin.substack.com/p/the-rowan-canticles}

Happy listening and reading!

— Odds Bodkin

Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!

Rowan Canticles Glossary

3.41MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

CANTO XX

LOST TRIBUTE

Spite seldom dies, it just cocoons.

Hid by politeness’ thin, weak strands,

Wrapped grudgingly around its will,

It frowns and hides there, still alive,

Awaiting errors to contrive

Some pretense for its wings to fill.

Soon metamorphosis expands

It into angry shabaroons

Who run the streets with vengeful blades.

Broodie turned purple––deeper shades

Of rage swelling his twisted lips––

As Emil begged. The King took sips

That swelled to gulps. “You left the gold,”

He said, voice empty and controlled.

For five days now, that self-control

Had worried thin, as every knoll

Had grown big Rowans overnight.

What was this? Hell, his people’s fright

At this was worse than his. Then more

Had risen at the river’s shore

That ev’ning. Mages’ work, he’d thought,

Reminding him that he was caught

In tribute’s trap. Now Emil shows

At last, telling a lie that grows.

“’Twas that or life itself, I swear!”

Pled Emil, scratching back his hair.

“The Mages done it to us bad,”

He hurried on. “Great Gods! They had

These knives of ice! A crawlin’ sheet!

Right Osborn?” Terrified to meet

King Broodie without Osborn there,

Emil had brought him. “Ev’rywhere

We looked, we seen ‘em, chief. He’s right.”

“You ran back here. Put up no fight.”

“‘Twas strange, like all these cursed trees,

All sproutin’ up like some disease,”

Appended Osborn. Broodie rose,

Jigged up his sword to Emil’s nose

And stopped it, just shy of the tip.

Osborn moved back. “Not one small rip,”

King Broodie growled, “parry or thrust?

Just left it all there in the dust

Twelve days ago?” “’Twas Mages, boss!”

“’Twas Mages’ who doubled my loss

Since now it’s theirs yet they can claim

They waited but it never came!”

Roared Broodie, slashing Emil’s head

From off his shoulders. “All are dead!”

He howled about him. “All that crew!”

He stared at Osborn. “That means you,

You pound of meat!” He ran him through

And watched him sink. “Here’s what we do!”

King Broodie bellowed, as the blood

Of kin and friend mixed with the mud

They’d tracked in. “Get the army up!

That midget Mage will drain my cup

But once! Tribute and trees be damned!

I’ll cut his throat myself!” He slammed

His boot at Osborn on his knees,

Not dead quite yet, his eyes round pleas

For mercy. Out slid Broodie’s blade.

The upstart King, his eyes a shade

Of menace such as none had known,

Sat roughly back in Bruss’ old throne

And stared at Emil’s draining head.

“Get me a stinkin’ thoroughbred!”

He howled. “At dawn the King will ride!”

Osborn rattled a breath and died.

“And get these dead men out the door!

Believe me, there’ll be plenty more!”

King Broodie snarled and swigged his ale,

Chewing his cheek, now gray and pale.

“Magic be damned! I’ll have that gold,”

He muttered, feeling ages old.

As he spat fury at the floor,

He fired his heart for awful war.

Next Week: Canto XXI

Anchored aboard The Clover in a faraway fjord, Gudrunlod watches Goodpelf buy weapons for the fisherfolk. Meanwhile, Skarnavidelf watches Broodie’s army march off to war with the Mages. Skar gratefully greets Mah-Ling, who arrives at the Tree on a swinging howdah. She begins to chant to raise Devlin from his woody grave.

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