The Rowan Canticles is an epic poem written in doggerel tetrameter. In other words, although each line contains eight syllables and rhymes with other lines 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 V
NEW KING
The victor in an unjust war
Is like a dog who guards a bone.
Though deaths, like fleas, swarm in the gore
He licks, he can’t leave it alone
And hates his victims all the more
For their indulgence in defeat.
The more for mercy they implore,
The more his guilt turns them to meat,
Or fleas, or chains, or vengeful mange,
To things he craves, to things he fears.
Thusly did Broodie view his change
From churl to king, as the frontiers
Of Swale and Rowan Hills were switched:
King Bruss expelled, his fortress starved,
The Hillfolk all Demon-bewitched––
Events by Broodie Catland carved
Into the flesh of time and space.
A week had passed since King Bruss' keep
Had opened like a dead man's face,
Exhaling souls too tired to weep,
Who, with their king, had trudged downhill,
A ragged throng of young and old.
"They's hardly worth the time to kill,"
Broodie had mused. "Besides, the mold
The Demons planted in their lungs
And ears and joints is growin' still.
It ate their brains and balls and bungs
For days up on their stinkin' hill."
He'd watched them pass dead, bloated steeds,
Once proud mounts who with hamstrings cut
Had tripped and died amidst the weeds––
A sight that tore each Hillman's gut,
He knew, as much as old Slode's work.
The Demon had most helpful proved
In Broodie's war. Drawn from the murk
By hireling Mages, Slode improved
All evils that he touched, it seemed.
His specialty was childhood ills.
At Slode's vile touch, well-water teemed
With dysentery's horrid chills,
While humours, foul with polio
And pox, poured from him as he passed.
Ultimately, this olio
Of fever-horrors was the last
Of straws. It broke King Bruss’s will.
Men he'd let die, but children, no.
To save them, Bruss had left his hill.
Broodie had felt the urge to crow.
Instead, conditions he had set:
All Hillmen must their kingdom leave,
Horseless; nor could they oxen get
From off their farms, nor could they grieve
Or bury loved ones "Rowan-near,"
As was their custom, Broodie knew.
He'd watched their column disappear
Into the swamps where nothing grew.
He and his warriors had turned,
The Dunks, The Corlieus, The Lades,
And all the dead Hillmen had burned
In one big pyre, the flames like blades
All stabbing upward at soft night.
"Allies we is, then, evermore!"
He toasted in the grim firelight.
Unmoved, his guest glanced t'ward a door
From which Broodie's men lugged five chests,
Heavy with gold. "Count on our aid,"
His guest replied. "Those bold requests
You made of us, boldly repaid,
Impressed us all. It was a test,
Of sorts, for us as well, you see.
Could just we three, at your behest,
Conduct the magic properly?
Or would the Eldest Demon spread
His plagues among your men as well?"
At this, King Broodie's face blanched red.
His feelings plunged from fair to fell.
How dare this Dwarf risk his men's health?
This pompous wart of wizardflesh?
He hated Mages and their wealth.
Still, much too clever to enmesh
Himself in insults with the three
––He'd rest easier once they’d gone;
Their power scared him terribly––
King Broodie piled fresh lies upon
His old ones, forcing forth a smile:
"A princely jest! Results speak clear!
You say for you it was a trial?
Still, my men live. Your gold sits here,
Awaiting your safe journey home.
So, all's well as it ends, I say."
"Indeed, all's well," replied the gnome.
"Our carriage leaves at break of day."
King Broodie turned and faced the flames,
Then caught a thought and turned to ask:
"Now that we's done with Demon games,
They goes back, don't they? ‘Tis your task
To make sure Norns don't reappear."
The Dwarf's eyes glittered craftily.
"Yes, well, you see, they've once been here
And, well, now an affinity,
Of sorts, they feel ‘tween there and here.
The road's been traveled, as it were.
But, worry not! You need not fear.
We'll make sure visits don't recur.
It will take spellwork, once a year.
Spellwork, which, of course, has its price."
These soft words cleaved to Broodie's ear
And squeezed him like a velvet vice.
He felt them clamp around his dreams,
Fresh dreams, new dreams, from tribute free.
Amid his curse-worn, inner screams,
His fury swelled. He spoke calmly:
"Rightly, the payment you deserve
You shall receive from me and mine.
‘Tis in our interest to preserve
Our trust," he lied smoothly, vulpine.
He knew well this was not the time
To instigate a test of wills.
Instead, he danced truth's pantomime,
This new king of the Rowan Hills.
Next Week: CANTO VI
Grodoo and Goodpelf, the two thieves, broke ever since Devlin stole their gold, have decided to become professional flatterers. Encountering the Mages’ coach as it returns from the Rowan Hills, they attempt to flatter the Dwarf Mage.