THE ROWAN CANTICLES - 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
Don’t forget to download the companion Glossary below for definitions of archaic words to smooth your read!
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.
Well said, Joseph. Yes, the scene depicts Devlin's encounter with the "devouring mother" archetype as it surfaces in him during his hallucinations. In this case, it shows his unfounded fear of Gudrunlod. Unconsciously, he's already fallen in love with her, and that frightens him. For more, see:
https://www.google.com/search?q=cannibal+mother+archetype&sca_esv=559711199&biw=1366&bih=752&ei=YVnnZL-DJp-T0PEPpLupEA&ved=0ahUKEwj_t-fcsfWAAxWfCTQIHaRdCgIQ4dUDCBA&uact=5&oq=cannibal+mother+archetype&gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiGWNhbm5pYmFsIG1vdGhlciBhcmNoZXR5cGVI9xBQyQJYyQJwAXgBkAEAmAGvAaABrwGqAQMwLjG4AQPIAQD4AQHCAgoQABhHGNYEGLAD4gMEGAAgQYgGAZAGCA&sclient=gws-wiz-serp
This week again, the tale is told
of women fair and warriors bold
of this tale, we hear the crone's head
At least we didn't read it before we went to bed.