THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canticle I - Canto IV - Crone's Head Tea

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

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

Rowan Canticles Glossary

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CANTO IV

CRONE’S HEAD TEA

Like wild young horses, lovers are.

Free of the bridle’s shackle-bar,                                           

At first, they meet. Untamed, they balk,                      

That is until their pillow talk

At trysts eases their panting plight

And they the bit of mating bite.

It’s then, harnessed by nights inflamed

With love, they tend their stalls, now tamed,

Behave themselves, ache when apart

And snap the reins on each one’s heart.

       Devlin had no such thoughts as he

Shadowed the girl who, airily,

Walked through the chantmongers and thieves,             

The harlots wiping off their sleeves,                               

The nodding sots with pockets out,                             

The insect worshippers, devout

And bitten badly on the face,

And all the folk who, in that place,

Festooned the alley near her door.                               

      “Some places one should not explore,”              

She said, then from between the creased

Warmth of her bodiced breasts, capriced                     

A key and spun it in the lock.                                        

“There is no need,” she said, “to knock.

For no one’s here, save you and me.”

      “An enviable life, that key

Must live,” smiled Devlin in reply.

She entered in a linen sigh

And said, “Depends on what life is,

I guess. And if it’s hers or his.”

He wasn’t sure just what she meant

By that. Felt like admonishment.

For what? Flirtation? Why then bring

Him to her door? “Your bandying                                 

Of words makes me think I’ll move on,”

He muled. She listened, whereupon,

After surveying her kitchen’s floor,

She turned. “Be sure to shut the door

On your way out. But, there’s no need.

Your stomach rumbles. I can feed

You. Still, go, if you truly must.

A roasted goose will do, I trust?”

      “A roasted goose will do indeed,”

He nodded, willing to concede

That he was hungry and alone

And unsure why this strange moonstone                         

Before him, whom he barely knew,                                

Tugged at him so. “Good. First I’ll brew

Some special tea, a wildish sort,

Which, when imbibed, will soon transport                       

You past yourself. I drink it strong.”

      “A good ale and I get along

Quite well,” he said, “But, oh, Gods, tea?

Won’t touch the stuff.” Amusedly,

Gudrunlod stoked the sleeping coals

And swung the kettle in. “Our souls,

You know,” she said, “are buried deep.

They try to speak when we’re asleep

And mind dissolves. Their language––dream.”

      “That’s nice. I love a good moonbeam

Myself,” he chuckled. “Laugh for now,”

She smoothly warned, “You’ll disavow

Your glib response, once you’ve been served.

I’ll not indulge, though. Quite unnerved

One can become from Crone’s Head Tea,                                  

The herb that frees forth fantasy.”

      “’Tis just a flower.” “Oh, ‘tis more                        

Than that, believe me. Let me pour

You some. There. I’ll go catch a goose,”

Gudrunlod laughed. Sunset’s diffuse

And rosy light dimmed gradually

As storm clouds pushed forebodingly

Above the town. The girl stepped out.

Devlin yawned as the teapot’s spout

Puffed languidly. He drained his mug.

This wasn’t bad. He felt quite smug.

Shelter, a fire, a girl and food

He’d found. Damn lucky. A calm mood

Descended on him. All his woes

Seemed far away as in repose,

He put his feet up. Just then, rain,

First pattering the windowpane,

Began to growl across the roof,

As if it offered gruff reproof                                            

For what he’d done. Like twisting whips,

Roof runnels spouted drumming drips

Which coiled in splashes, wild, confused.

      “Like worlds they fall,” he darkly mused, 

"Or lives like mine, transparent, small,

Trapped inside some clear, tremb’ling wall

One cannot see, until it breaks.”

Loud lightning flashed. Roof drips, now snakes,

Hissed down as waves of Crone’s Head-mind

Floated his thinking, unconfined,

Away in all directions, ‘til

An emptiness rushed in to fill

Him, hurting, lancing at his heart

As if he’d played some cheap bit part

In life. Then, suddenly, the door

Burst inward, spitting gusts of spoor.                          

      There stood an aged, horrid bride,

Shrunk-apple faced and hollow-eyed,

Her crone’s cracked teeth, like needles, bared.              

Feet dropping to the floor, he stared.                            

She clung to something, tightly bound

In swaddlings, which she spun around.                          

A baby dropped into her grip.                                       

Her vein-swelled hands began to rip

It into pieces, which she ate.

Devlin, poised to asphyxiate,

Fell off his chair. He couldn’t move.

Paralysis had cut a groove

Straight down his backbone. Then the crone

Fell on the floor, commenced to moan,

And gently birthed, becoming young,

The babe again. Sweetly, she swung

A milking breast around to feed.

He stood. The table swayed. Knock-kneed,

He tried to back away, but slipped

And tripped again. His shirtsleeve ripped.

And then, the mother’s newborn wailed,

A sound so grating, Devlin quailed:                                

A high-pitched, bird-like sqwawk or screech           

It was. And then, past his mind’s reach,

Long feathers sprouted from its face

And limbs, as, still in her embrace,

It flopped its two wings down, now dead.

Gudrunlod’s goose, exhibited,

Hung in her hand, there by the door.

      “I think you see a good deal more

Than me. The Crone’s Head dream works here,

I’d guess,” she smiled. “Please, do not fear,

But tell me, boy, what did you see?

For from your face, you saw not me.

Look, here’s the goose, though not yet plucked.

Forgive me, for in here I ducked

To wring its neck. Rain fills the air

Outside.” Devlin crept to his chair,

Sat down, relieved, then raked his hair

From off his face, wont to compare                             

Realities. She plucked the goose,

Then hung it, headless, in a noose

By its two feet. “The Crone’s Head works

Like pebbles splashing, causing cirques         

Upon the water of the mind.

It opens eyes hitherto blind

To what your Rowan truly knows––

A Water-Knowing. Where it goes,

It sees more than a trav’ler’s eyes.”

So spoke Gudrunlod, fair and wise.

But Devlin's thoughts were far away

As stared he at the goose-blood tray.

It slowly filled beneath the bird,

And though at first, it seemed absurd,

A pounding froth of crimson spray

Hissed past his petal-sails’ array

As he, riding a Crone’s Head Cap,

Grown large, sailed through some distant gap

While sparkles rose, borne by the gale

And crowned him, as some fairy-tale

Might tell, with royal, wind-cast light.

Thus, did the Blood Sea King sail, tight

Through Straits of Witness, eyes on peaks,

Past Caves of Madness, in which shrieks

Resounded, shrieks of blind worm-things,

All fat and swollen, strapped by rings

Of pinching gold, bechained to thralls,

Who flensed their blubber; past rock walls

Whose crescent, blackened armatures                         

Eclipsed the long pink curvatures

Of beaches, their sands congruent

With waves and rocks. The firmament                       

Exploded then; red suns and moons                             

Fell in that sea, lifting typhoons,

Before which scurried that Sea King.

His sails each folded like a wing

As his strange craft, fading to clear,

Became a voice close at his ear:

      "You seem by goose blood much enthralled,”

She whispered. Devlin, quite appalled

At her strong tea, looked up to see

Her smiling there insouciantly.                                    

“The fowl hangs drained. So, too, the sky,

For look, the rain has ceased to fly.

Soon now, my sire shall creak the door,

My aged father, home once more.

Roast goose in gravy, p’raps some wine,

That’s all he’ll want. Though in decline,

He knows how curses alter Fate

And may well help you extricate

Yourself from this one, if you’re . . . sweet

To me.” Reluctant to entreat

Much more of anything from her,

Devlin assumed that to confer

With her old man might make things worse.

Indeed, he knew the Rowan’s curse

Was on his head, yet magic’s cure

Seemed more contagion, immature

As his soul was. Of darkened hue,

Like truths he’d rather not think true,

Like felons better left in cells,

Like demons better kept in hells,

All magic seemed and always had

To Devlin. Wizardry was bad,

‘Twas obvious. “Your drugging tea,”

He muttered, rising warily,

“Has lost its charm. Though not insane,

 Something’s still wrong inside my brain,

And since I’ve got an appetite,

I’ll go devour a bit of night.”

Gudrunlod, shocked, watched Devlin turn.

She felt her cheeks flush red and burn.

Perhaps she'd brewed the tea too weak?

Where did he find this will to speak?

To speak, to stand, and even walk

And offer her this surly talk?

Of all the Crone’s Head’s rare bleak gifts,

The strongest was to open rifts

Where thought met action. Who was he?

No fellow had fought off her tea

Before. “Devlin, before you go,”

She tried, but he just bellowed, “No!”

He stared right through her, shut the door,

Then disappeared, alone once more.

Continue to Canto V →

Devlin, who has fled Gudrunlod’s kitchen after she serves him hallucinogenic tea, recovers by a fountain. Meanwhile, across town, Harcto is worried to hear that his daughter is now infatuated with the doomed youth.

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