THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXIII - Edge of Death
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 XXIII
EDGE OF DEATH
Deep admiration, love's respect,
Like warm things made of gold, reflect
A luster forged in rarity––
The prize of life's best alchemy.
Yet, if loved others prove untrue,
Then anger, love's black residue,
Bakes hard against our hearts instead,
Burns off the gold and leaves dull lead.
Amid the smell of fish and rum,
As if the skin of some dark drum
Stretched taut between their huddled eyes,
Five drunkards pounded out their lies
In crescendos of bravado:
"Run 'im through!" "Aye, right!" "Stoccado!"
"Nay, nay! His spells would thwart your thrust!
He'd hurl you seaward with a gust!"
"He don't got gusts no more, they say.
Not since they took his soul away."
"You reckon that? Pass me a bite."
"I seen that thing. The snake of light."
"We all seen it. Flew overhead."
"They say it nearly left 'im dead."
"Not dead enough. The curse lingers.
Who was it, Dood, lost three fingers,
Just last moon?" "'Twas. Poor Dood." "Aye, 'twas."
"Bad luck. I asks you, why? Because
Long as that pellin' freak stays here,
We sailors all must fish in fear!
The Mages hate him and the bitch,
High mighty, weddin' 'bove her stitch
In life. She's guilty, much as him!"
"I've found me sails harder to trim."
"You, too? I think he's cursed me catch."
"The peller?" "Aye. Lured off the batch
To where he's nettin'. Warog's Truth."
Thus, in the tavern's dimmest booth,
Five hearts, hardened by fear and drinks,
Plotted against the hated jinx
While near the roof, in blackened wind,
Foul Nembagrog listened and grinned.
A fortnight ate off half the moon.
November, chasing lark and loon,
Brindled gray the mourning weather,
Chilling sea and sky together.
This spawned dense fogs as soaking squalls
Beat waves against old Peloon’s walls.
Miles out, shoal islands curved waves
That rushed and slapped in grotto caves.
Then, spilling out, troughs gutting crests,
Those waves, like gasping, heaving breasts
Made of the sea an anguished thing.
Still, sailors sailed, the net's rope ring
Grinding ‘round each hover's capstan.
Clouds so low they grazed each mast ran
Past in soaked chiaroscuro.
"Please, my love, act not the hero,"
Silya implored, green eyes, gray shawl
Near blending with a lightless pall
That closed between them and the barc.
"You'll reach the shoal isles before dark,"
Harcto replied, resolve unmoved.
"If I a fool tonight am proved
Then wrong I'll be. Still, you'll be safe.
You and our wailing little waif,"
He smiled. Gudrunlod, wrapped and snug,
Opened her arms, wishing to hug
Her distant father, who demurred.
Instead, confiding and assured,
He whispered details of escape
To Silya, who, hair drawn from nape
Better to hear his troubled mind,
Thought to herself of how unkind
Fate was, twisting in its dark poke
Like some tasteless, insulting joke.
A mob, they'd been warned, from the town
Would march tonight to burn them down,
To drive her and her family
Into the mountains or the sea.
Young Cousin Galdie, eight years old,
Had run to tell them––as he'd told––
Unseen by the bad elements,
Out of the town, past stile and fence,
To warn the outcasts to beware
That like fog danger filled the air.
"The drinkin' men, Ma Bretta tells,
Will come at nightfall through the dells!"
He'd gasped out, standing in their door.
"Most folks, afraid they is. What's more
They says ‘tis willed by Warog's Gates!"
"Divine rapprochement seals our fates,"
Harcto had smirked, eyes narrowed thin.
"The scum at last becomes a skin.
Well then, so be it. Let them come."
At that, he had withdrawn a sum
And pressed it into Galdie's palm.
"Your uncle?" "Aye?" "He'll have no qualm
At shipping these two in his barc
Out to the shoal isles before dark.
Give Clol this gold, it to arrange.
We'll meet him when today's tides change."
Silya had balked. "Why should we go?
I know these cowards. Some tableaux
They make, all hulking, loud and dim!
All small of mind and great of limb!
I'll not run from them. I refuse."
"Silya, my love, to disabuse
You of your fury, I'll not try,"
Harcto had answered, softly sly.
“’Tis Gudrunlod I worry for.
I know your courage, and, what's more,
Your temper, too. They mix not well.
Combine the two and poof! The smell
Of danger hangs about our child.
Would you risk her as you wax wild?"
His reasons, sounding so sincere,
Fluttered like owls at Silya's ear.
Soon, they landed with precision
On her branches of decision.
Harcto's words bent down her thinking
To reflection, as if drinking
Courage of a deeper flavor.
"Then, my love, relief we'll savor
When this proves but a waste of fears
And no mob at our marsh appears,"
He’d finished, seeing Clol had come.
"A debt, brave cousin! Keep it mum,
Their whereabouts out on the isles."
"Aye, Harcto, done." No flash of smiles
Had passed between, circumstances
Being such that, fraught with chances
Taken edgewise in a hurry,
Their hearts, though brave, felt the flurry
Time makes as precious seconds fly.
"I think, then, I'll not say good-bye,
Since I'll be with you soon enough,"
Silya had said, as much to slough
Away the hooks of nagging doubt
As hopeful confidence to flout.
They kissed, Gudrunlod pressed between,
Then, like sad players, left the scene:
Mother and babe upon the waves;
Father, homeward to drive off knaves.
Continue to Canto XXIV →
Wherein Harcto finishes his confession about how Gudrunlod lived and her mother died.