~Continued, at a later date..~
That's why I learned to read and write. There were more than a few among the ones that dishonoured my tribe who practiced the skill, finding it aided them in their dealings with townships, cities, merchants. In my homeland I lived not only with the weight of oppression but that ill-formed cloud called doom that overhung hill and meadow, that cried sand like an hourglass. Decades had passed, I only knew of my mother and a few others who hated our enemies with a fierceness undimmed by time. Most had traded their suffering, along with their honour for the comfort and ease cooperation gave them. They are no longer of our tribe. Those that could not live under the yoke of a master had long ago fallen on a foe's sword - or their own. My granduncle was such a man.
And what then - was I to do so, too? He tore the chords of his harp rather than hear it played near a prisoner's hearth, surrounded not by freemen but by slaves! Should I have let my enemies rip the soul strands from my chest, and bleed out into the land I loved, and let my flesh be ground into it by the boots of the oppressors above me, who would soon erect their huts over it?
Why did my mother's sister pass the harp to me, when I first drew blood?*
*Among my people, when a youth comes of age, he makes his first kill in the hunt to symbolize his passage into adulthood. Girls pass into adulthood by the same ritual, but into womanhood upon their first cycle, which is precedent. Once a "woman"; though, she may chose not to partake in the hunt if she is soon to marry.
The minstrel boy to the war has gone
in the ranks of death you will find him.
His father's sword he hath girded on
and his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of Song!" cried the warrior bard,
"tho' all the world betrays thee -
"One sword at least thy right shall guard
"One faithful harp shall praise thee."
The minstrel fell but the foeman's chain
could not bring that proud soul under.
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again
for he tore its chords asunder.
And said, "no chains shall sully thee!
"Thou soul of love, and brav'ry!
"Thy songs were made for the pure and free -
"They shall ne'er sound in slavery."
[Thomas Moore]
~The following song is scribed on a page its own, with no title and no date.~
The blood bled out his hands and he said,
‘I can feel the pale wind’s rising –
Lifting, rising, a soul and a wing,
O’er this land, and it says to me,
Thy soul shall ne’er fail.’
The blood bled out his ears and he said,
‘I can hear the bells’ song calling –
Tolling, calling, the clarion of spring,
O’er the land, and it says to me,
Thy strength shall ne’er fall.’
The blood bled out his eyes and he said,
‘I can see the lost before me –
Weeping, longing, her tears the streams,
Across this land, and she says to me,
Thy love shall ne’er falter.’
The blood bled out his heart and he cried –
‘It is now my chains are dropping!
Now break my bonds, my fetters loose,
My one true flight, now, here, in death,
Where slavery won’t find me.’
War Band Returning
Thin ribbon of the road lies before me,
Thin ribbon of the road in the ice-tipped rain.
Bright circle of the hearth lies before me, before me,
Bright circle of the hearth and sun again, again.
My kin at my side and the moon is full risen,
My kin at my side and we ride through the day.
Thou blue wisps of cloud and thou clear sky behind us,
And the white stars thou guide us, thou lighten our way.
Slow-flowing river runs with me,
Slow-flowing river by the wind-raked hill.
Willowy ashes toss leaves that run with me,
Willowy ashes’ leaves in the new wind.
My kin at my side and the moon is full risen,
My kin at my side and we ride through the day.
Thou blue wisps of cloud and thou clear sky behind us,
And the white stars thou guide us, thou lighten our way.
[FONT="]Long grey grasses sweep past me,[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] Long grey grasses ripple like waves.[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] Curlews and plovers fly past me, past me,[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] And reach home before me always, always.[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] [/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] My kin at my side and the moon is full risen,[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] My kin at my side and we ride through the day.[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] Thou blue wisps of cloud and thou clear sky behind us,[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="] And the white stars thou guide us, thou lighten our way.[/FONT][/COLOR]
[FONT="]
*This was an oft-sung song amongst my people, when returning home from battle. Of course, when you've lost the war on your own lands, there is no place to come home to.
[/FONT][/COLOR]
I shared camp with a forest gnome traveler, only days before my arrival in the town of Hlint. While he did not leave me his name, he left me with a song, one well-known he said amongst his people. It stirs me to the bone. When I sing it, I change the nominals to my own faith, and I shall scribe it here such. Perhaps he shan't mind.
The wind is blowing, blowing over the grass.
It shakes the willow catkins; the leaves shine silver.
Where are you going, wind? Far, far away
Over the hills, over the edge of the world.
Take me with you, wind, high over the sky.
I will go with you, I will be wolf-of-the-wind,
Into the sky, the feathery sky and the wolf.
The stream is running, running over the gravel,
Through the brooklime, the kingcups, the blue and gold of spring.
Where are you going, stream? Far, far away
Beyond the heather, sliding away all night.
Take me with you, stream, away in the starlight.
I will go with you, I will be wolf-of-the-stream,
Down through the water, the green water and the wolf.
In autumn the leaves come blowing, yellow and brown.
They rustle in the ditches, they tug and hang on the hedge.
Where are you going, leaves? Far, far away
Into the earth we go, with the rain and the berries.
Take me, leaves, O take me on your dark journey.
I will go with you, I will be wolf-of-the-leaves,
In the deep places of the earth, the earth and the wolf.
Folian lies in the evening sky. The clouds are red about him.
I am here, Lord Folian, I am running through the grass.
O take me with you, dropping behind the woods,
Far away, to the heart of light, the silence.
For I am ready to give you my breath, my life,
The shining circle of the sun, the sun and the wolf.
[Adapted, from Richard Adams]
Ah Sataida, what have I done?
Is there more freedom in these lands, than in any? A man sits wet by a smouldering fire, his hair plastered about his face. Drops of rain, and flakes of charred scale drip back into the flames. He’s managed to catch one fish.
He sits alone, the sound of ogres rustling behind him. He is cold, and he shrugs fear from his shoulders like a clammy hand. A vision of himself, roasting slowly in place of the fish over an ogre’s hearth, warms itself at his side. Sometimes, the sky is so dark he cannot even see the stars.
What is a man without the stars to guide him?
Crows brought the message, of bodies in the vale
Lay heaped and lay unheeded, by the hemlock, ash and kale.
And the hills they roll away, each barren slope enfolds the next
On and on and without end, they whisper songs of loneliness.
It’s here the wind that will not cease,
And here the land where thrushes cry,
Where mists churn ‘round the rocky heath,
And darkling clouds obscure the sky.
The rocks lie hazard, black and grey, craggy teeth o’ the very land
Like gnarled gravestones here they stand, unnamed, uncut by any hand.
No pyres to light our dead the way – these scattered stones there only lay,
And on and on the slopes still stray, they ebb and flow and ebb away.
We sit in huts, on wind-washed hills,
Amongst the shadows of the vale
And crows that circle o’erhead
And we’ve no flames to guard our dead
By hemlock, white oak, ash and kale.