THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canticle I - Canto V - Smitten
A Tale Told in the Ancient Manner
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
SMITTEN
Past sense and mem’ry, well below
Instinct, but near it, an outflow
Of ancient expectations gleams.
These well-worn pictures, nascent schemes
Convincing us that we should live,
Find love at some point, learn to give,
Do work, renew the species, dance,
And other things life’s stunning chance
Affords, implore us through our dreams
––Whose archetypes suggest extremes
Our forebears lived––to wiggle loose
From where we swing, caught in the noose
Of passive living’s dull routine.
Confused, Devlin had never seen
Such elementals. In his crown,
Strange heavens opened, pouring down
Deep singing voices. Rainbow stairs,
Emerging out of everywheres
He sensed, but could not see, revealed
Advancing orbs which hung, concealed
Above black depths, a breathing void
That fell forever. Crystalloid,
His heart of hearts turned in wan light,
Assuring him that he, despite
His worldly birth, eternal stood,
And always had, and always would,
Even as Rowans, sown in rings,
Laughed at the lives of human kings
And hemmed him in. Lost in his doubt,
He stumbled to a fountain’s spout
And shoved his head in. Splashes, cold,
Brought back the world, a story told
To his five senses, fighting hard
To win his mind back, trued, unmarred
By predatory sophistry
And visions loosed by Crone’s Head Tea.
"I understand now," Devlin thought,
"All things are color, simply caught
A moment, as we slowly see
Them hover there imploringly.
Pure frozen color makes the world."
He groaned and, like a baby, curled
Against the fountain’s polished cold.
Eventually, sleep took hold.
As even great floods drain in time,
So all that’s left is fertile grime,
So, too, did Devlin’s drowning mind
Return to landscapes he would find
Familiar, had he been awake.
An appetite will overtake
The deepest sleep though, so he groaned
And sat up, just at dawn. Sore-boned,
He thought how Rowans spread at will,
Their sacral claims on field and hill.
There, they engorged the heads of grain
And vine-grown beans, coaxing the rain.
To boast a Rowan on one's land
Was much like gold, held in one's hand.
Since childhood, Devlin had been taught,
As through those groves he'd run and fought,
Thou shalt not harm a Rowan Tree––
The rule of tribe and family.
This edict in his head he heard,
His uncle's voice, each tone and word.
A law unthinkable to break,
His unforgivable mistake.
A cloud moved past, in air adrift,
Like life's own restless, passing gift.
Its shadow rippled past the roofs,
Then down mud alleys, pocked by hoofs,
Until, across a door it passed
Wherein sat two souls, breaking fast
On scones in goose grease, eggs and tea.
"How many fish swim in the sea?"
Old Harcto queried of his child.
"Why wish you this one, trapped, so wild?
He thrashes in an unseen net,
This burly boy you've barely met.
A vengeful Rowan must be feared.
Each place he goes, he drags its wyrd.
His cage travels with him, daughter.
Its bars say he's marked for slaughter.”
Gudrunlod listened to his speech
And sprinkled crumbs of dried, ground leech
Upon her fluffed and beaten eggs,
Tilted her teacup to the dregs,
Then fixed left eye upon her sire
And softly spoke, as smoke hides fire:
"Your treatment of his chances shifts,
Father. Full well I know your gifts,
Yet wonder, do you use them now,
Or else to wishful thinking bow?
Six days now, since that stump he fled.
Six days now, cursed, but still not dead!
From Crone’s Head dreams he rose and spoke
As if I'd served him milk with yolk!
You know as I the Crone Head's strength.
That one I chose for girth and length,
Puissance of hue, black purple blue.
Strong men do live, but I've known few
Who swig such tea as I can brew
Then walk forth in an hour or two."
The SkinMage belched and tasted grease.
He wondered when this talk would cease.
Yet, she was right. No sense to lie.
Who was this youth who would not die?
Harcto's child was his subsistence.
Worries clung to her insistence
On his aid to this tree killer
Who, if he should trick and will her
Off somewhere and she left town,
Would leave him lonely, an old clown
Left to himself to grill his scones
To keep lean flesh on aged bones.
"His Fate's a rag at Warog’s Gates.
It flutters there with loves and hates,"
He muttered, donning robes of red,
Then sandals, moving to his bed.
"The biggest club no cloud can break.
The strongest oaf no Mage will make.
Sad truth, for he a Mage must be
To fight this calculating tree.”
Old Harcto rose and turned to go.
"Well, I can teach him what I know!
You’ve told me tales of Warog’s Gates!
Not all are trapped within their fates!"
Gundrunlod snapped, her heart gone cold,
As Harcto sighed, heart sad and old.
She was eighteen, a woman now.
Men eyed her always. Some would bow,
Others would wink or purse a kiss
In hopes she’d trade one. None could miss,
However, her disdain for fools.
Devlin, though? He had warmed her jewels
In one brief visit, that she knew.
Men she had wanted? There’d been few
Until he’d shown up, dirty, lean
And handsome past all men she’d seen.
Who was he, really? Some lord’s son?
He spoke that way. It had been fun,
Watching him watch her fish the key
And bend over to brew the tea.
Yes, she was smitten, now, it seemed,
A thing of which she’d always dreamed.
Continue to Canto VI →
Wherein Devlin overhears two con men, Goodpelf and Grodoo, toasting their latest larceny in a bar. That night, he follows them and steals their ill-gotten gold, leaving them hog-tied.
"What a bonus," said he
As he gazed at the Rowan Tree
"Twice in a seven day,"
he continued, ajoyed by the extra play.