THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXVIII - Besieged
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 XXVIII
BESIEGED
What springs forth from a root of blue
Into penumbra's gaseous flue,
Past a bright width, though hottest not,
To a brush tip, where, flowing hot,
It lifts up from its dancing flare
Into a rush of heated air?
Before him, such a one did lean
As up a spiral stair, unseen,
Devlin’s old, weary uncle trudged.
Groaning against a door, he nudged,
Then stepped outside beneath the stars
To battlements, their truncate bars
His refuge and his prison both.
"How those Swalefolk, so mired in sloth,
Could siege me in this pile of rocks,
I can't account. Upon them, pox.
May swamp slime fevers rot you all
Who camp beneath my fortress wall!"
Into night's gulf he spat his bile
In pointless, fearful fury, while
Below, encamped, Broodie’s legions
Paid for Warog's fiercest regions
Death to sow among his towers.
Klyzermast, a Norn whose powers
Erupted skin, was sowing weals.
Prince Slode –– around whom tiny squeals
Of stillborns, rent and stuffed on spikes,
In mists of grief, darted like shrikes
In weeping clouds about his head ––
Was Prince of Child Killers. How dread
Slode was. He ruled those empty hearts.
Others came, too: Norns whose cruel parts
In war's sideshows––filth and disease––
Allowed them grief from hearts to squeeze
Like blood from stones, when none was left.
Ascaria’s huge vulva cleft
Hid pockets meant for cowards' souls.
At her twelve breasts suckled foul voles
That dropped like fruit as new ones grew
And fell into her onan spew.
These rodents, birthing from her den,
Returned to cowards' lives as men.
Goltha, a Demon shaped of mud,
Covered in rot the bursting bud
To make crops fail and famine bring.
To such evils the Clans did sing.
Had Bruss known that his epithet
No aid from fevers would beget
Because the Swalefolk he despised
Had Warog’s Norns monopolized,
He might have feared them deeper still,
Swearing there on his stony hill.
Magicians, he'd had none for years.
His Rowans stood the stead of seers
And sigil makers. "None allowed,"
Had been his proclamation, vowed
Before his people in the Groves.
"Our Rowans are our treasure troves!
Protectors, too! Yes, wealth and peace
They'll trade us for their woodland lease.
Plow simple detours past their beds.
Let furrows wind, like broidered threads
Across our hills' green garments. Thus
No need for Mages troubling us
With intercessions bought and sold!
Instead, good Rowans, lithe and bold,
Will us with Nature-magic bless."
Full fifteen years, free of duress,
Those words, upright like spears had stood,
And he, unchallenged with them, good
At war and governance, had reigned.
Yet now life's tapestry looked stained,
Unraveled, as he neared its end.
Defeat he could not comprehend.
Fear of it gnawed his guts away.
But no such signs could he betray
To his good people, looks confused
More deeply as each day abused
Them, holed up in his stronghold's gates.
They feared for farms and children's fates.
Devlin was gone, whither none knew.
Their horses were a meager few.
The rest lay dead or useless, lamed
By Broodie Catland, who'd proclaimed
His guilt in vile exultation
From the siege-ranks of his nation.
The future's aspect leaden seemed.
Below Bruss’ walls, the war fires gleamed.
The aging monarch heaved a sigh,
And stifled thus the urge to cry.
Continue to Canto XXIX →
Unaware of events back home in the Rowan Hills, as Devlin pursues magic powers to free himself of the Rowan’s curse, he enters the Temple of the Mages to learn what they know. A witty, churlish dwarf admits him through a strange door.