THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto VI- Flatterers and Spies
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 VI
FLATTERERS AND SPIES
"Flattery's warm and clinquant mesh,
When tossed on king and drudge alike,
Elicits ego from the flesh,
In which case, both look more alike,"
Tooted Goodpelf, that nasty knave,
To Grodoo, huffing at his side.
"Indeed, Grodoo, the heart's enclave
When stroked, clam-like, will open wide.
That's why our skill at heaping lies
Will make us rich. That’s all 'twill take!"
Grodoo shooed off the cloud of flies
Aswarm in his head's oily wake
And thought how Goodpelf's latest scheme
––To flatter princes for a fee––
Might just fulfill his secret dream
Of getting paid for poetry.
"Oh, Prince Bugboo, thy bulbous nose,
‘Tis like a boar's rump, seen up close,"
Intoned he as his false smile froze.
"Bad rhyme that time. Quite otiose
And inexact, Grodoo, dear dolt.
Why, 'nose' and 'close' sport diff'rent tails!”
Declaimed Goodpelf. "Ears will revolt
If you neglect such fine details."
"Bad poetry don't get the stocks,
Do it?" asked Grodoo, memories
Of angry farm folk hefting rocks
Still fresh. "Hell, no. The warranties
Of princely verse bode no such trials,"
Goodpelf, in lofty tones, replied.
Dust clouds the two had watched for miles
Revealed a coach whose chargers plied
The mottled road with strutting shanks.
"A princely set of hooves, I'd say,"
Goodpelf admired. "Quick! To the banks
Of good luck's road! Hey, you there! Hey!"
He bellowed at the occupants.
"Master Flatterers, we! Small fee!"
The coachman squinched a snotty glance.
His reigns snapped perfunctorily.
He passed the hopeful reprobates,
When, suddenly, an arm poked out.
The fine coach stopped. "God bless the Fates!"
Goodpelf observed, then danced about
The ditch. The team of horses shied.
The fine coach rolled back through its dust.
A blue-robed head poked from inside.
"A Master what? Hear this, I must,"
The bemused man, seated with two,
Remarked. "Well, speak then. Flatter me."
Grodoo watched Goodpelf's eyebrow screw
Up for the lie. "Undoubtedly
Your coach makes of this road and field
An earthen ring––your coach its gem,
Aglitter, full of lights revealed,
Who are yourselves, of course . . . ahem . . ."
He looked about and showed his teeth,
". . . right?" A patter of applause
And chuckles squeaked the springs beneath
The cab. "It gives me weighty pause
So vast a compliment to form
As that which, in the fertile womb
Of my moist mind, now groweth warm,"
Goodpelf went on, much like a groom
Wedded to metaphor's sweet blush,
"Save that your lordship's kingdom's name
I know not. Hence, my thoughts, though lush,
Lack espaliers on which to flame."
"My, my,” a voice scratched from inside,
A thready, narrow, potent rasp.
"You do lie well, and should take pride
That such conceits lie in your grasp.”
"Lies? No, Great Sir. Expanded truth,"
Lied Goodpelf, frightened by the voice.
Afraid they might think him uncouth,
He wondered ‘bout his fee. The choice
To ask for it, or not, now came.
Yet, something in that reptile's nest
Of morbid tones made him feel tame
And small and cautious. Not to test
This one was wise. Let him pass by
Without largess of gold or praise.
Best let this sleeping danger lie.
But then, his eyes locked on a gaze
Of depthless ambiguity
That made sly Goodpelf's thick skin crawl.
"A verbal perspicacity
Can useful prove in one so tall.
So prove yourself. Lie fully, do.
Flatter me well, though I be small."
Goodpelf felt his mind go askew,
For that voice—yes, it did enthrall
And frighten him––came from an elf,
A wizened hunchback, grinning wide,
Whose eyes probed through his very self
And left him shaken, small inside.
"Come, come. One large and glib as you
Should find kind words for one like me."
Grodoo, unnerved, stared at his true
And only friend, then faithfully
Came to his aid: "He's speechless, see?
The highest compliment of all.
For words are but a useless plea
Before so great a seneschal."
"Indeed? The other speaks as well,"
The Dwarf's eyes glittered. "Have your fee.
I'm flattered to a fare-thee-well."
From a pouch pocket near his knee
The Dwarf drew forth a fat gold piece
And flipped it through the breezeless calm.
It landed in the lengthy crease
Of lifeline curved down Goodpelf's palm.
He closed his fist, bowed low, eyes raised.
"Care you for this in quantity?"
"Indeed! Indeed! Your soul be praised!"
"Can you observe in secrecy
Without fools knowing that you watch?"
"Lord," Goodpelf winked, temerity
Newly discovered, "to debauch
A fool of diddled privacy?
That’s joy incumbent in our hearts."
The Dwarf looked thoughtful. “Climb in, please.
There's much to know for your new parts.
Plus, we must settle on your fees."
"Our services lie at your feet,"
Goodpelf replied and nudged his friend.
The Dwarf patted the carriage seat
And off they went around the bend.
Next Week: CANTO VII
Gudrunlod returns to the abandoned marsh cottage where she was born. It’s just as her parents left it.