THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXV - Last Secret
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 XXV
LAST SECRET
Old anger at things unexplained,
Like some bitter curmudgeon, chained
And unable to die 'til freed,
Will for truth's freedom rarely plead.
Instead, silenced by its own pride,
Old anger squats and spits inside
Its bleak and chilly prison cell,
Cursing the woe it cannot quell.
Only when frank truth turns the key,
And frees it unexpectedly,
Can it, lying back in deep relief,
Die softly in its bed of grief.
Upon the dunes, gasping for breath,
Harcto described his Silya’s death:
How Nembagrog had forced his choice
And overheard his inner voice,
And how the Demon he reviled
Then killed his wife, but spared his child.
As Harcto ended his grim tale,
Gudrunlod feared her heart would fail,
As up it beat, then right, then left,
Then in, until, of blood bereft,
It just felt empty, dry and numb.
For minutes, she just sat there, dumb,
Unable a response to find
To all those visions in her mind.
An ember hissed. A seagull keened,
Then landed. With its beak it preened
A wing, then prodded at the sand.
"An arid place where sea meets land,"
Gudrunlod spoke, half unawares.
"Then that explains the fishmarm's stares.
And why I lived. And why she died.
P’raps I’d feel better if you'd lied."
Harcto looked up with broken eyes.
"No, no! Not so, Papa! Despise
Me for the things I say tonight,"
Gudrunlod stammered, sad, contrite,
As, suddenly, the gull took flight
And wheeled out t'ward the beach. The night
Had brought a stillness to the Bay.
The old man coughed and looked away.
"I do not blame you for your choice,"
She whispered in a tender voice,
Then rose and tugged his blanket snug.
Her father grunted with a shrug
And stared out at the stars, now clear.
His daughter did not see the tear
That at his canthus swelled, then rolled
Down past his life, his tale now told.
She pulled her hood up to her head
And walked off down a path that led
Into the dune grass, stiff and still.
Alone at last, she wept her fill
At her life’s tale, such as it was.
At dawn, light lit the crystal fuzz
Atop the grass crowns, waving now.
Brushing the sand from off her brow,
She noticed that she'd slept right through
The chilly night. Hood damp with dew,
She drew it back and slowly stood.
Her legs felt cramped, like tingling wood.
She walked to where her father lay.
"Beloved Papa, sleep half the day
If you so wish," murmured the maid.
Then, suddenly, she felt afraid
For Devlin. There, beside her sire,
Placed carefully beyond the fire,
A beach grass periapt she saw––
A strangely woven thing of straw.
But unlike others that she'd seen,
This periapt, half brown, half green,
Was woven in a crisscross thatch
Of vortices, a perfect match,
Each flowing from its opposite.
Quite overwhelmed, she stared at it.
It broke the Law of Unity––
That each sigil, one thing must be
And one alone, else it must fail.
What children had not heard this tale?
That all Creation rose from One:
One Source, One Eye, One Moon, One Sun,
One Mover Who all things spoke forth.
From west to south, from east to north,
All Mages invoked Unity.
To doubt this truth was blasphemy.
"Papa! Wake up! What is this thing?"
She hissed at him, about it to fling
It off into the dunes. Instead,
She saw his face. His eyes had bled.
His skin was pale. His breath had fled
Off with his spirit. Seeing him dead,
She leapt backwards, fought for control,
Mumbled a sending for his soul,
Then saw, looming, her adult years,
And not that strong, collapsed in tears.
She talked to him for hours on end,
Forgiving, scolding, in a blend
Of blamings and apologies,
Until, positioned on her knees,
She dug the six feet with her hands
And buried him, there in the sands,
Down in the grit so moist and cool.
How little he weighed, a frail fool
Who'd sat on mats and entertained
Day in, day out, with what remained
Of his withered water powers,
While she, happy, picking flowers,
Had from a child to woman grown.
At first menses, he'd even shown
Her how a drypad she could weave.
He'd offered it. Turning to leave
He’d smiled and praised her for her change.
One's life one cannot rearrange,
She thought. All this part now is done.
Smoothing his grave, she faced the sun
And to the oxcart walked and stood.
The air was calm. The day was good.
Below, the sea town murmured faint.
She heard bay bells make gentle plaint
Against the stillness of the world.
And so, deftly, her reins uncurled,
She snapped the oxen to a trudge
––Both sleepy, they were loth to budge––
And ambled downward to the sea
In search of her lost family.
Continue to Canto XXVI →
The tale returns to Devlin who unbeknownst to Gudrunlod has already arrived in the seatown of Peloon. While hunting with Big Gald, his sailor friend, Devlin decides he must learn magic to thwart his Rowan curse. Why not visit the Mages in the Temple and learn from them? Don’t go, Gald cautions.