THE ROWAN CANTICLES - Canto XXX - Dwarf Mage
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 XXX
DWARF MAGE
A vacuum, they say, won't exist
Too long, for Nature will insist
It shrink its priv'ledged nothingness
To something. Similar redress
She seeks when loving is denied.
For if men, in ascetic pride,
Have so their spirits rarefied
That human love they've shoved aside,
Oft rush in lusts for other things:
For power, drink, and studded rings,
For vain, obtuse magnificence,
Negating their beneficence.
With such men, Devlin found himself,
He mused, awash in gilded pelf,
Among gewgaws, bejeweled and fine,
And chalices, bubbling rare wine
Near busts and torques and tapestries
Depicting demons on their knees
Before the power of some robe
And leash of light. His thoughts to probe
They'd done their best, incessantly.
How came he to accompany
Big Gald, that oafish fisher fop?
What lies about them did he drop?
And whence the powers of these trees
Devlin described? Was it some tease
Or magic to be reckoned with?
Each local hamlet has its myth
They said, in isolation dreamt.
Such child-beliefs are small, unkempt
Affairs, they went on to explain
In voices filled with cool disdain.
Adding interrogatories,
They urged him relate his stories,
This forceful young barbarian.
Meanwhile their tower's clarion
Rang undisputed, far and wide.
Devlin disliked what they implied,
Yet kept his umbrage in his gut.
What did they think? He owned some hut
With curs and sqwawkhens out the door?
His uncle's buttressed, mighty tor
Was built as strong as this rock pile,
He muttered, rooting at a tile
Of solid gold near the piss urn
He'd just learned that hour to discern
From the wash pot in his room.
They'd both been empty when a groom
Had led him in. How should he know?
T’was nothing but a fancy show.
Yet forceful magic, yes, had they,
Most potent. Yes, to calm a bay
From storm to stillness was a feat
With which no Rowan could compete.
What did they do? Just make things grow.
They stopped no storms, melted no snow.
This magic learned, he might just thwart
That vengeful Tree, then back to court.
On his way home, the girl he'd see.
Give her his Crone’s Heads for her tea.
Gudrunlod. Yes, a haunting name.
But yoked to that old coot. A shame
It was, he thought. Oh, what a prize,
That maid with moonlit clouds for eyes!
A sudden rap tapped on the door.
He leapt up, brushing clean the floor
With feet, as he the urn replaced.
"Enter!" he called, masking his haste.
In walked the Dwarf he first had met,
But now attired in blue and jet.
The greasy livery was gone.
Instead, a golden, jeweled baton
Cast bluish rays up at his chin.
"Master Biglegs! May I come in?"
He grinned, feigning an impish voice.
"Ho, dwarf. Yes. Do I have a choice?"
"Partly." “Where came you by those togs?"
"Fate's Wheel, young man, has many cogs
Which aren't apparent at first glance."
"A Mage you are then? In short pants?"
Poked Devlin disrespectfully.
"Truth rises unexpectedly
Into even the dimmest minds,
For look, I see in yours it finds
Itself," the Dwarf snapped, unamused.
"Forgive me, please. This mind’s confused
By your display of finery.
I thought you ran the winery,"
Devlin laughed back, meaning no harm.
"You bowl me over with your charm,
Young clod. Your manners match your nails.
Found you the wash bowl 'mongst those pails?"
At that Devlin blushed red and quit.
"You may lack height, but you've got wit,
Aye, dwarfish Mage, that I'll admit.
I guess on me you'll sharpen it,
Should we continue at this game.
Therefore, I yield you your demesne,
Such as it is, here in this place.
What light is that there, on your face?"
"'That’s unimportant, here and now.
What is important is your Vow,
Young friend. I trust you've had good rest."
"A vow? What vow? I'm but a guest."
"The Vow begins your magic’s quest,
Ensuring that your work is blessed."
"A vow to whom?" "That we'll explain."
"Well, when?" "Oh, soon. Pray, don't complain,
Devlin. Yes, may I call you so?"
"’Tis no great thing my name to know."
"Devlin it is, then. Shall we go?"
"I promise nothing, vows or no."
"Agreed, agreed. You're no one's fool.
Now choice awaits you at the Pool."
This marks the end of Canticle I
Continue to Canticle II →
Author Odds Bodkin introduces CANTICLE II of THE ROWAN CANTICLES: A TALE TOLD IN THE ANCIENT MANNER, wherein he modulates his verse from couplets to quatrains.