THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXIX - Absinthe and Evil
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 XXIX
ABSINTHE AND EVIL
The blood of youth full quickened flows,
A sap that runs from head to toes.
Deeds seem done, but for the doing;
Love seems won, but for the wooing;
And wrong's midnight with right's midday
Are seldom dusked with shades of gray.
With bumping sword athwart his thigh,
Devlin strode up the arcing sky.
The cut-stone steps beneath his feet
Foretold a plunge if brisk retreat
Were forced upon him at climb's end.
He thought of Gald, his newest friend.
Such incessant admonitions!
Tales of fishy, dark perditions,
Of dungeons where the crash of waves
Drowned out the wails of hapless slaves
And rats, like lice, swarmed thick and fast
As blood was served with each repast.
"A king or fool, which am I, then?
Fool to believe such fish tales, when,
With superstitious certitude
They're whispered by the multitude.
All servants masters denigrate
Behind their backs, yet then placate
Them when their lordly faces turn.
So, this advice, I think I'll spurn."
He breathed deep as he banged the gate,
Then leaned upon his sword to wait.
Into the tall portcullis hinged,
Its iron by the salt air tinged,
The ancient gate stood locked by chains
Wrapped snakelike down it, rusty stains
Mottling their hard, twisting bellies.
"Not much good for forceful sallies,
I daresay. Mages make no fights,
At least not here. I guess those heights
Are meant to awe the fisherfolk.
Well, as doors go, this one's a joke."
With that, he pounded all the more.
"A trav'ler stands here at your door!"
He yelled up at the oriels.
"’Tis impolite, whoever dwells
Within to keep me waiting thus!
My name is Devlin, heir to Bruss,
Lord King of all the Rowan Hills!
So come forth to your windowsills!
An audience I wish at once,
For I am he who magic hunts!"
His stentor's voice rang tower high,
While, far below, shocked passersby
Covered their heads and ran in dread,
As if he banged on them instead.
Then, suddenly, a grinding wail,
Like dragons cloaked in rusting mail,
Began to scrape out stonish sound.
It rumbled deep from underground.
Steel fangs shoved from a stony jaw
And yawned wide, like some monster's maw.
Up with them rose the useless gate,
An ornament of rivet-plate,
Baring an uncontested door
Of wind-sheened timbers, ten by four.
Fist raised to drum the wooden skin,
Devlin stepped close to press his win,
But, on his stroke, the door flung wide.
Surprised, he stumbled right inside.
"What trickery is this? Who dares?"
He roared, scrambling up onto stairs
Which led up from the vestibule.
Out jabbed his longblade, thin and cruel.
He swept it at the emptiness.
"For pratfalls do you seek redress?"
Chuckled a smallish, wizened voice.
"To fight or feast, yours is the choice."
"Where hide you, imp? Behind which stone?
Your welcome makes me feel alone,"
Barked Devlin, trading tit for tat.
"A wit of sorts! Imagine that.
Well, Biglegs, sheath your nasty blade
If it for magic you would trade.
Raw sword points find no purpose here."
He saw the speaker then appear:
A dwarf in greasy livery
With goblets for delivery
Balanced upon a marble tray.
"You're lucky you I do not slay,
Brief man," growled Devlin, much displeased
At by a servant being teased.
"I'll no more words with you exchange.
Stand off! I have no love of mange
Or scrofula grown on your hump.
Where did you hide and just now jump
That you from nowhere did congeal?"
"Ah, Master Biglegs, why reveal
A hiding place that always serves?
This way. Up here. Please, spare my nerves.
Your sword point tickles my behind.
To me it always has been kind,
So poke it not, it holds no wine,
And though half-grown, large sir, ‘tis mine,"
He mumbled on and half-waddled,
Adding, "Ah, these Mages, coddled
With these sparkling, stiff libations
Once their magic incantations
Fade off to echoes at the Pool."
"What pool?" Devlin had dodged a stool
And leaned to hear the hunchback's words.
"A swordsman, sword about him girds.
Yes. Thank you. Keep it in its sheath.
Mages, well, those who dwell beneath
This roof, at least, or so I've heard,
Control the Demons that they've lured
From Warog with a piglet, skewered
With onions and a pound of curd."
"How now? Is magic this way made?"
"Oh, yes. Like any other trade
It boasts its practices and tools.
Such preparations follow rules
Of course, and most particular."
Small windows, thin, lenticular,
Admitted sunlight to the gloom
As they passed through a vaulted room,
Empty except for one charred throne
That stood illumined, black, alone,
In pressing beams of morning gleam.
"Suspicious, pigs and onions seem
To me," groused Devlin, following.
“This dwarf is he who's wallowing
In steaming muds of ignorance.
I'll lose him when I get the chance.
Shortfellow! Slow your badger's pace!
Ouch! Damn that sconce! Near ripped my face!"
The foreshort man slowed not a whit.
He skirted past a stone-lined pit
From which echoed, deep down, a wave,
As if the sea, trapped in a grave,
Were thrashing at its captors' feet.
"Watch you your steps, Biglegs, or meet
Your journey's end before it starts.
Your garb says you're not from these parts.
Might I inquire then, whence you came?"
"No, you may not, by Warog's name,
And if you me a Mage don't show
I'll dice you with a backhand blow
And roast you with your pigs and cheese!"
"My, my. Bile makes a fetid breeze.
Patience is Time's only pillow.
Elsewise, ‘tis a rock, young fellow,
Placed there to bang your head upon.
Take you this light. Our sunlight's gone."
The dwarf slowed at an entryway.
Inside the tunnel, moss and clay
Competed on its motley walls.
"Hold high that light! Avoid pratfalls,"
He sniggered in the greenish light.
Devlin felt a frisson of fright
As he saw what it was he held.
Such things weren't known where he had dwelled:
A bulb of glass, in metal strips,
That made a handhold ribbed with grips.
Inside, a floating horror stared,
With fangs like needles, curved and bared.
Its mouth gaped wide, lipless and grim.
In his round bulb, he watched it swim
As from its pale and glossy skin
There shone green light, cold as its grin.
"Great Gods! What foul chimera this?"
Gasped Devlin, breath shrunk to a hiss.
"Be not afraid, biglegged clod.
Perhaps it is a trifle odd,
This boggy fish. An ugly sight.
Still, don't complain. It gives off light,"
Answered the dwarf from just ahead
As past a bolt he ducked his head.
“The Mages urge them from the deep
Where day is night and drowned men sleep,"
He purred, as if he there had swum.
Miffed, Devlin followed, chilled and glum,
Off kilter on the sloping ooze.
“Only a fool, no king, would choose
To trust a half-wise, half-grown imp
Who carries drink and sports a limp,”
He thought, his sword hand at his hilt.
Slime slicked the tunnel’s filthy silt.
Beneath his feet passed rot and salt
Until a sound made Devlin halt.
"Hush! Listen! There! Music I hear!"
"Sharp ears, blunt brain. No edge, no fear,"
In cryptic commentary sighed
His churlish, disrespectful guide.
They walked up to a bolted door.
"Now, put the fishlight on the floor
And hold this tray. Pray, spill no drops.
This door is where our chitchat stops."
Before Devlin summoned a “nay,”
Instinctively he took the tray.
The door swung wide. Light struck his eyes.
They ached. Then, to his great surprise
He felt himself nudged onto tiles
Which gleamed like children's pearly smiles.
Five blue-robed men gave him quick winks.
The door swung shut. He held their drinks,
It seemed. The babbling dwarf was gone.
"Please, please, do not feel put upon,
Dear boy, just bring the absinthe here,"
Clucked one, harp resting at his ear,
"And do be careful not to spill."
“Serve you yourself your bubbling swill,”
Devlin heard his own mind retort.
Instead, though, all he did was snort
Inaudibly, his second thought:
That if these men held what he sought,
To hurl their drinks against the wall
Might not accomplish much at all.
And so he served them, one by one.
"The sixth one is for you, my son,"
The spokesman added, rising up
To toast life and its brimming cup.
"To him who mysteries does seek!
Provided he survives the week!"
At this laughter poked soft, yet hard,
At Devlin, who, still on his guard,
Just stood there, trying to understand,
An absinthe goblet in his hand.
Continue to Canto XXX →
Unimpressed by the finery within the Temple of the Ocean Mages, Devlin nevertheless visits for some days. The Dwarf who admitted him as a servant arrives finely dressed, speaking of a vow Devlin must take in order to become a Mage.
With this Canto, CANTICLE I, written in couplets, concludes. Next week CANTICLE II continues the tale in quatrains.