Day 100 - A New Beginning

During a springtime long ago, my friend Finneas and I, and the knight Cymru, and my stout and strong-hearted brother Kaial left on a journey that would take us across strange and dangerous lands, spanning valleys and hills I still long for.  The hard path tired our legs and backs, drove welts across our faces and furrows across our brows.  We never ceased being weary of our journey, yet we were emboldened by the many threats offered by the boundless land, creatures and forces as diverse in nature as can be imagined by anyone who has not ventured beyond the fields and woods of our homeland.  The feral demon, Dghom Ulfr, the various and terrible denizens of the Outland, the broad-winged and untamed birds of the Great Moors - all of these creatures are forever etched in my memory, a carved monument about which all future events in my life shall circle.  I left my home, innocent, and excited about the prospect of adventure.  I return, having lost some of my friends, having found many others; but I return home, forever changed, and a stranger to all who once knew me.

99 Unfinished Perhaps

98 They Live Among Us

97 Apparition

96 If Life Had Meaning

95 Geologic Fusion

94 Respite

93 Night Visions

92 The Cube Unplugged no.3

91 One More Goodnight

90 CityLife

89 Another Point of View

Inspired by Julia Davies asemic ramblings

88 Unsettled at Pismo Beach

87 Butterfly Composition

86 The Hood

 

Inspired by Kelli Newton Costa NYC photo

85 Sometimes There's Just No Way Out

84 Invasion

83 Steeple

82 Cave of the Black Dog Part VI - Conclusion

* Wodan's Wilde Jagd (Hunt) by F.W. Heine (1882)

Conclusion

The wind cries softly in the field,

Zephyrs wafting among the long grass.

All who I have known encircle me,

Their lips form many words,

And the sounds imprint upon my ears,

But my friends are all strangers,

And have little to tell me.

This is a place I have journeyed

Many times before, and to which

I will return. Maybe then,

Maybe next time

The words will speak to me.

Drums in the distance,

Howls in the distance,

Fields laid flat by the wind,

Sun blocked by grey,

Sun blocked by blackness

Sun blocked by waters drip

From the high walls of my home

The horn of the Hunter blares in the void

The horn of the Hunter calls the hounds

The horn of the Hunter calls for judgment

“What is your song, Surface man?”

And in my voice I hear,

“The wide waters call to me,

Every current, every ripple,

The ocean’s azure cast,

The seas caressing song

Carving the fisherman’s tale,

Remembering harvests from recent times,

Remembering harvests from ancient times

Remembering the blood and bone of ancestors.”

But the Black Hunter slams down his axe,

Splinters the table before me,

Sound echoing among the hollow chasms

Flame cascading from the grim haft

And the fire crackles from broken wood

And ice crackles in the depths

And the Black Dog’s eyes flare

And the Black Hunter commands

To know the Truth that I carry.

The Hunter passes his hand over his axe,

And commands  again

To hear my song.

His companions fade into darkness

“What is your song?” he cries.

“What is the chant that names you?”

“It is the song of the Black Dog,

“It is the song long lost,

It is the forgotten promise

By which so much has been lost.

It is the beating drum,

The snap of branch,

The breaking wave.

It is broken hope.

It is the forgotten promise,

My soul undone,

The aching gnaw.

It is the place where I return,

Where I rest my fate.”

And the Hunter’s axe –

By right of the Hunt

Strikes deep within my bosom,

Shattering bone and flesh –

My life is lost,

And will soon be forgot.

81 Cave of the Black Dog Part V

Part V

In the nave of the village church,

Metallic snap echoes as

The iron-laden doors shut.

Latches secure the Chapel’s etched glass,

Offerings at the altar,

Prayers at the altar

Chanting at the altar.

None will stop the Howl,

None will slake the thirst of Wind and Wave.

While in my granite cell

I look up, scenes of  Hell

Upon the roof,

When I look down,

An oaken chair,

Where my hands had been, I find black claws

Clutching at the curled arms.

Before me, a great Fire-stone, flames

Echoing from its center.

And across from me, a slender wisp

Rises from her own seat,

Encouraging the fire.

Chains curl behind me and to my side,

Spirits play in the smoke before me;

Feeding the Incineratus, Hideous

Shapes with mouths agape -

Many I have known.

Whose fault

Winds snapped the mast

Whose fault

Waves breaching the seawall

Whose fault

Red Eyes in Storm Clouds

Mea culpa

Mea culpa

Mea culpa

Shape envelops the wisp,

Substance to the dream,

Her flesh turns tight.

Her flesh turns grey,

Eyes of slate

Set upon a bony platter -

Shadow darkening across her figure.

The Black Dog sits beside her

Now a beast without eyes,

A slavering maw exhaling death.

Its sniff, a shivering hiss,

Its paws, pressing the air from my lungs,

Its teeth, like fire-shards, burrow into my flesh.

I think upon much that is lost,

And watch dimly as the blood

Pulses from my body.

I see her again,

And she has my mother’s face.

Black axes splinter the bold doors

Of the Village Church,

Hunters and dogs seeking

Victims who

Had sought victims themselves.

Promises to be kept

Promises to be kept

The Wild Hunt touches all.

I see her as she looked to me

When I was but a child

Then

Darkness is all.

80 (Not Billie's) Venice Beach

Thanks Billie for the inspiring Venice Beach Canals series.

79 Cave of the Black Dog Part IV

Part IV

* A straunge and terrible wunder
 from the cover of a pamphlet published by Abraham Fleming in 1577

The Beast hungers today

Before the open Cave,

Its fiery eyes a beacon in the mist,

Overlooking the rime-smeared moors.

Astride their ebon ponies.

Shadow  hunters  aim bows of black ash

Toward the sea.

One huntsman sounds his curved horn,

Its sound awakes the Fae of this place

Its sound gives voice to the Vortices

To the Ley Lines that span the sawgrasses,

And a Tempest roars onto the coast

Its booty a sea-farer’s bane

And I am once again beset by dream.

The drums are heavy, like cold wet sand to my ears;

The skins wrap around my heart as they resound,

My chest compressed by the weight.

I do not know the shades here,

but they are my captors.

We walk in silence across a sconce-lit chamber ,

And approach a door.

Black it is, as ebon-laced night,

No moon, no star.

A chant not heard by men

Opens the door, and beyond

An emerald chamber reveals

A  single blackwood table, and two chairs.

A locked wooden chest, rimmed

By tarnished brass trim illumines the room.

Two rounded handles,

Shaped like serpent’s tails, each join a dragon’s

Head where the coils meet at the base.

I know this chest, and I turn away.

But then I hear the howl of the Black Dog

Whipping with the wind far above.

I understand -

“It is the first of many. Do what you must.”

Oh, but I remember this box.

A key is pressed into my hand,

And I think of Life’s many keys,

Drums, a howl and chant -

Not always found, not always used.

But my hand, a disembodied organ

Drums, a howl and chant -

Reaches for the padlock.

An eerie flash of light, and the lid

Glides open. Remove the cloth,

Drums, a howl and chant -

I must remove the cloth.  I lift

Drums, a howl and chant -

The linen, uncovering the chest’s content.

Within, the head of my father stares

His eyes, wide open, and his mouth seems to move

Drums, a howl and chant -

“Why have you done this to me?

Cracking timber and the frost whip of brine-edged wind

Assail me, and I suck up a hurting breath.

“Father, you betrayed me”, I shout.

“Yes, I have imprisoned

You within, for this is the nature of things”.

Drums, drums, drums.

78 Cave of the Black Dog Part III

Part III

And shelves of books – these too I remember.

But the book covers were torn, the pages

Filled with scrawl from another place.

The moon often glowed upon the shelves, as if to point

To the answers held there.

But the light burned, and I closed the shutters.

Knowledge, ever dangerous, and in any event,

Unattainable.

Where I lie today, I am aware of life,

Separate and strong, eyes closed

But watching me.

I am in his house now, I live

By his permission. Sometimes,

I forget how this came to pass –

How it is that I have come

From my house to this. And then,

The eyes open, ever slightly

And the cave turns crimson.

I know this place, it is the cave

Of the Black Dog. His breath

Spreads an icy mist, his eyes a cold flame.

He is watching me. Sometimes,

The silhouette of the four-footed

One appears briefly, his double-pawed

Legs padding across his den.

He knows my lament, better than I,

His cold mist, wet across my face

Pricks me into being, slices through the

Dim consciousness that binds me.

I remember a box, given to me as a child

And opened when I became a man.

A shattering light blinded me then,

But too late; my thoughts had been

Safely harbored in one place, now

Scattered, and the eerie dread

Fell upon me like broken timber,

What then, when left alone,

Could I do but count the burning stars,

And position them one by one

Meticulously across the sky.

I remember too, watching the shadows cross

My sleeping-chamber. Though I closed

My eyes, still I felt the movement,

The subtle shift as shades rippled

Across my resting place.

No one worried that the door was left wide open.

I saw it all, I see it still. In the pine grove

Beyond the threshold, her shrouded body cupped

For His grey fingers to wrap around her.

I cried out to her, as I cry out to her still,

Although she had nothing left to say.

Who has left open the door? I cried.

Who let  in the cool, light springtime air –

A terrible lie in the face of the wet earth

That will soon cover us all?

Couldn’t they see the ruby eyes in the marsh grass,

The probing paw, the fangs that gleamed in the moonlight?

I will not be able to shut that door again.

77 The Bard's Lament

I'm taking a day's break from continuing the "Cave of the Black Dog", and offer this piece, inspired by Susan Ersinghaus Measures of the Week: Sunday

Of course, you must imagine the playing of a lute at Keppler's Inn, a roomful of patrons drinking ale and tossing coppers about. Oh, and of course, the bard, and his lilting voice...

Once a man from the country I come from

A tale of a dragon he told;

Of a priest from the church in the town,

Who warned the village of a message he found;

O townsfolk, I've beheld the sign of the dragon,

Painted with pain and its wails,

My fate in god's hand has been written,

But it is for the church that I fear,

For our god no dragon of darkness reveres.

And late in the evening the wails came,

And late in the night came the flame,

The dragon had come and had taken,

The Church's chalice of jewels and gold.

And loud the laments of the high priest,

The church's great treasure he lost;

Fear not, for we love you our preacher,

And our god must be given his due.

A month passed, and then yet another,

And a gift did the townspeople make

Of a chalice of jewels and gold

To their priest and their church and their god.

And late in the evening the wails came,

And late in the night came the flame,

The dragon had come and had taken,

The Church's chalice of jewels and gold

And loud the laments of the high priest,

The church's great treasure he lost;

Fear not, for we love you our preacher,

and our god must be given his due.

A month passed, and then yet another,

And a gift did the townspeople make

Of a chalice of jewels and gold

To their priest and their church and their god.

Now did the man who told me this tale,

Keep watch over chalice and church

Each evening in the low pews he waited,

For the beast to make himself known.

And before sunrise early one morning,

The doors to the church they did open,

And the church priest did close them behind.

The teller of this tale did keep hidden,

To watch what began to unfold.  A chain

By a wall it was hidden, and the priest

With ardor and fervor he pulled.

And the altar did shake and did swivel,

And to the teller revealed,

A stairway below to a hallway,

An underground for most blessed of plans;

And next did the priest take the chalice

The chalice of jewels and gold.

And minutes did pass by like hours,

When the tale-teller did now behold,

The priest returning to the altar with fire,

and with fire the altar did burn.

No chalice of gold and of jewels,

Had this priest to the altar restored,

But twice he pulled on the great chain,

And to its place the altar returned.

And late in the evening the wails

And late in the night came the flame,

The priest had come and had taken,

The Church's chalice of jewels and gold.

And loud the laments of the dragon,

The church's treasure he lost;

Fear not, for we love you our preacher,

and our god must be given his due.