THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXVII - Unguarded Home
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 XXVII
UNGUARDED HOME
“Old spite, ‘tis solid as a rock.
It teeters, an unruly block
Of misery, perched overhead,
About to fall. It wants us dead,
But stymied first, becursed and shamed
For things we’ve not done, falsely blamed.
Once in our hearts, its barbs probe deep
And hook our dream-flesh as we sleep!”
A chief named Broodie, far away,
Swore loudly. It was plotting-day.
"First steal off horses. That's the move.
Let 'em on foot their manhood prove.
'Twas horses beat us, not the sword.
'Twas what our dead fathers ignored."
Broodie Catland skived scrolls of wax,
Dreaming of flesh on Hillmen's backs.
His dirk he pointed at the eyes
Of men devouring wild pig pies.
Stabbing hard into the table,
He finished his tongue-worn fable:
"The Rowan Hills, they once was ours!
Before the Hillmen's stone towers
Robbed us of our rightful holdings!
Witness, blokes, your own wives' scoldings
When your brat offspring misbehave:
'Hillmen will come and dig your grave!'
They scold, as if to bruit disgrace
Upon our history and race."
Affirmed by grumbles, nods and thumps,
He fitfully uprooted lumps
Of terraced wax-pools, hardened there
Beneath the candle's one-eyed stare.
"Add to that fact, we was betrayed!
That’s how into their hands we played!
No better fighters live than we!
Who here will not agree with me?"
Hist'ries told by those defeated
Oft leave bitter truths deleted.
Such mem'ry serves a sweetened dish,
Well-cooked by time, well-spiced by wish.
The Swalefolk, near the Rowan Hills,
Blamed all their self-inflicted ills
Upon their diligent neighbors,
Who, by dint of wits and labors
Themselves had tamed the upland heights,
Driven out wereboars, wyrms and wights
And cut fields from the hillside lees
Whilst sparing all the Rowan trees.
This law most irked the Swalefolk Clans.
They chafed at Devlin’s people’s bans
On cutting down the woody weeds
Within the borders of their deeds.
"Say what and who; aye, that's the mark!
What ain’t stole, stab deep in the dark.
Poke eyes, or leave 'em hamstrung lame!
No horse shall live that we'll not maim!
Then comes the magic, paid with gold
As Demons help us! Aye, that’s bold!”
So plotted Broodie, ‘til hours late,
Stabbing at wax, thoughts lost in hate.
Devlin, of course, he hated most.
But he was gone--a princely ghost.
Continue to Canto XXVIII →
King Bruss, Devlin’s uncle, looks down from his walls upon the siege ranks of Broodie Catland’s army. In Devlin’s absence, the Rowan Hills has been attacked not only by men, but by Warog’s invisible demons.