THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canticle I - Canto II - Girl
A Tale Told in the Ancient Manner
The Rowan Canticles is an epic poem written in doggerel tetrameter. In other words, although each line squeezes in eight syllables and rhymes with others nearby, like Shakespeare I’ve used enjambment (one line spilling over into the next) here and there, especially in dialog sections. Mostly, though, I’ve striven for iambic tetrameter, which makes for a nice rhythm. You’ll notice that couplets, quatrains and other rhyme schemes refresh with each long Canticle. The old school language of The Rowan Canticles can be dense, but hey, it’s fun and it fits the fantasy.
Each week I will post a fresh Canto here at Substack, adding to the story. You’ll find ninety-nine Cantos in all contained in the three Canticles. The work is 13,000 lines long, about the length of Homer’s The Odyssey.
I hope you enjoy it!
Odds Bodkin
Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!
CANTO II
GIRL
Few fortunes come to those who choose
To stay secure, afraid to lose
The safety of familiar things.
For though uncertainty’s strange wings
Convey us into mystery,
They set us down unerringly
Much closer to our destiny,
Whatever that may fin’lly be.
Now Devlin, stopping there to chat,
Unmindful of this caveat,
Would much rather have been at home,
Gnawing black bread and honey-comb
Whilst downing ales, yet here he was,
Doing what ev’ry young man does
When girls appear. With telltale hair
Aflutter in the swirling air,
This lovely frigate in a sea
Of swelling blooms sailed fulsomely
From isles of pink to isles of blue,
Ignoring him. Now, hitherto,
Devlin had had his share of girls,
Bar wenches mostly. All his whirls
Had been in bushes or in barns
And none had touched the distant tarns
Of his emotions. Something ‘bout
This maiden’s bearing made the lout
Within him cautious, so he called:
“Why is it that you’re so enthralled
With flowers, lady? They just die
Right quickly.” “No, not if you dry
Them,” she replied then, looking up
For the first time. “If beauty’s cup
Can e’er be filled to brimming’s lip,
Then Nature’s made this flower ship
To sail right over that sweet edge,”
Thought Devlin, dropping to the sedge
That grew along the cattle fence.
He summoned all the eloquence
That he possessed and took a breath.
“Though pretty, they’re not moist in death,”
He said. “Is not their petals’ wet
What makes them soft? One can’t forget
That fact.” “With herbs, their potency
Is not reduced,” she smiled sweetly,
“When they are dried. In fact, they last
Much longer that way, in contrast
To this discussion.” Off she walked
Into the meadow. Devlin stalked
Off after her, once past the fence
He’d leapt. “I offer no offense
Against your herb-craft’s firm redoubt,”
He purred. “Then leave now or I’ll shout
And bring the townsfolk,” she replied,
“And claim you hurt me.” “You’d have lied.”
“And you’d be in the South Stitch stocks
And wish you weren’t.” She liked his locks,
The way they hung down jauntily.
“Then helpless, either way, I’d be,”
He answered, “for I’m helpless now.”
“How’s that?” “Well, I got lost somehow
Yet found myself here, in this place,
Helpless before your lovely face.”
The girl fell silent, picked some herbs
And gazed out at the town’s suburbs.
“South Stitch, you say. That’s this town’s name?”
He asked to change the subject’s claim
Upon them. “Yes. You say you’re lost?”
“I am. I’m learning now the cost
Of chopping down a Rowan tree.”
The girl looked at him owlishly.
“A magic Rowan from the south?”
“The Rowan Hills.” She bent her mouth
Into a thoughtful, pursed display,
Then said, “And it has yet to slay
You? That’s obscure.” “You know of them?”
“My father does. So, this mayhem
You caused was your own doing, boy?”
“I didn’t think it would destroy
My life. It killed my best friend, too.”
Thus, they pursued their interview,
He, posing as a common man,
She, fiddling with a talisman
That lay atop her bosom’s cleft.
Squinting, they talked, as, to their left,
The stippled lake flashed silver spoons
Off rippled wavelets carved like runes
By sculpting winds, fate-winds derived
From brooding clouds, clouds which contrived
The sunset's rose to frame in gold,
Beneath which, lost in talk, they strolled.
Continue to Canto III →
Wherein Gudrunlod (pronounced “goo-droon-lawd”) takes Devlin to her father Harcto, a stigmata performer working the South Stitch marketplace.
Tosses a coin to the bard.
Have an ale
You work too hard.