A Bard Out of Time and Other Poems

  Part 2

  It happened in a village inn,

  late one stormy night;

  He’d taken refuge from the rain

  until the morning light;

  While he slept—despite the gloom—

  a thief amid the dark

  crept silently into his room

  and stole his trusty harp!

  In the morning when he woke up

  and saw his harp was gone,

  he searched the room in panic—

  nothing else was gone!

  Just the harp, his trusted harp,

  his livelihood and love;

  He fled the room—and came up short—

  the hallway was abuzz

  with soft refrains he recognized:

  His harp was being played!

  A muffled but familiar voice

  sang in bold refrains!

  He took a breath and made his way

  to the common room;

  He paused amid the entryway

  and joined in the song!

  I’m about to sing a ballad

  of two brothers tied by blood;

  One I knew for but a moment—

  He was fair and pure and good!

  His mentor smiled and kept plucking

  without missing any beat;

  He approached him, strongly singing,

  as he pulled up a second seat!

  The betrayal of his brother

  struck him down to beggars’ clothes;

  All he had in his possession

  was his sword and broken bow;

  He was cursed to poorest stature

  and condemned to live in fear;

  For his brother, trusted brother,

  could not bear to have him near.

  It was brought on by a woman

  whom they both had loved so dear;

  So they battled for her beauty

  and replay it once a year.

  A bitter wedge had grown between them;

  Their arms were crossed again;

  Combined with two long-silent voices,

  full of anger, full of pain.

  Thrust and parry, flash and flurry,

  dodge the weapons’ deadly blows;

  From the battle’s hurry-scurry,

  I observed enough to know:

  Answers seldom come through violence,

  though the problem might seemed solved;

  Anger boils in its essence,

  stewing ‘til it has evolved

  into something vile, vicious,

  well beyond our firm control;

  When we’ve paid the worst of prices,

  one too costly to behold!

  It’s a sad and sordid story,

  one that never seems to end,

  when a brother must be buried

  by another he called friend.

  As they battled on in silence,

  faces masks of hate-filled glare,

  Brilliant, deadly, sword-blade dances

  of two men whose skills compare.

  Neither seems to be the better;

  Every parry meets a thrust;

  When exhausted, they give quarter—

  as they knew they surely must!

  Once a year in humble splendor,

  the beggar and the lordling fight;

  Neither one will be the victor,

  for the curse is strung too tight;

  In the center of attention

  as the tears of sorrow flow;

  I have seen that weeping beggar

  watch his lordling brother go

  to a quiet narrow valley

  where his brother lay in vain

  in a ghostly mausoleum

  with the lordling’s tortured name.

  That was where the beggar’s curse was;

  That is where my mentor went;

  That is where he strung these verses

  for that beggar and his kin!

  A few more dainty, soft refrains;

  His mentor stilled the harp;

  He nodded briskly: “We meet again,

  my not-so-humble bard!”

  “Indeed, my friend” his quick response,

  “and I heard you were dead!”

  His mentor shifted in his stance,

  “I nearly was,” he said.

  The crowd was small, impatient,

  and called out for more song;

  They paused in their reunion

  to sing a second one:

  This song was born in ruins

  overgrown by knotted pine

  that tangled up the memories

  and twisted up the rhymes;

  Those woods were borne of angry men

  whose eyes have long-since closed;

  Their ears will never hear again;

  They’ve been too-long exposed;

  Their skin has crawled from flesh and bone

  and fed the plants around;

  Their limbs will never stand alone,

  will never dance around;

  The muscles that were once so trim

  are trimmer, now, indeed;

  They fed the roots their nutrients

  and sated growing seed;

  The trees are dank and strangely warped,

  as if in anguished pain;

  The vines that drape like fetters worn,

  resemble tarnished chains;

  The undergrowth is rich with rot,

  and fungus thrives therein;

  Their presence tells of things forgot

  and years that lie between’

  But if you listen for the wind

  on days too still to break,

  You may perchance to hear the men

  if they should deem to speak;

  You’ll hear the cries of horrid death

  in these, their graven woods;

  With every leaf, their passing breath

  is fully understood;

  The trees reflect their mad repose;

  The rot reflects their mind;

  But who are they? No one knows,

  these soldiers left behind.

  His mentor shifted melodies

  without the slightest pause,

  a strident tone with urgency—

  a little dangerous—

  He did not know the ballad;

  He could not sing the words;

  His mentor winked and then began

  amid the eerie chords:

  The land that I was walking through

  was lush with greenery;

  It surrounded me with pleasantness

  and lovely scenery;

  The trees were set in careful groves

  with glens at every turn;

  The flowers were like beauty froze

  within the misty morn.

  The streams were full of burbled words

  and fish that leapt about;

  The birds were singing brilliantly

  with liveliness throughout;

  It seemed the chatter of the squirrels

  was more than simple sound—

  Until they all were hushed at once,

  and silence gathered round.

  I stopped and looked with keenest eye

  and saw but not a thing;

  I stood as still as death, itself—

  I stood there listening—

  The silence seemed to be complete

  until a twig was snapped;

  I caught a whiff of horse-like sweat

  and glanced a hunter’s cap.

  The head appeared above a bush,

  as did the bow he held;

  The arrow, knocked, was aimed at me;

  I was standing still.

  The sound of branches parting

  resounded in my ears;

  Others moved in from behind,

  and still I felt no fear;

  If they had meant to cut me down,

  I would have died by then;

  I waited for their leader’s words

  before I spo
ke to him;

  The voice behind me was a full

  and rumpled baritone;

  It was the kind a lover has

  that makes the women moan;

  “Who is this?” he asked the air

  and prodded me with spear;

  “A little man is in our woods?

  What is he doing here?

  “Perhaps he is in need of work—

  a target for our game?

  Tell me, human, who are you?

  What is your little name?”

  I spoke my name in centaur tongue

  and bade them all good meet;

  I told them I was just a bard

  in search of challenging.

  A silence fell upon the wood;

  the arrows all were dropped;

  Their leader circled to the front—

  There he chose to stop.

  He pondered me with intellect;

  He slowly bowed down low;

  “Good met, fair bard, and welcome

  to the centaur home.”

  The pleasantries were traded well;

  Apologies, forgot;

  And soon I found myself a guest

  in that centaur’s hut.

  It is a custom in their land

  that bards are given rest;

  On the morrow, with the dawn,

  they may attempt the test.

  First a song is played for him,

  then he plays for them;

  The last one to run out of song

  will be the one to win;

  The prize is known by many bards,

  but few have ever won;

  It is a silver, magic harp

  that never loses tone;

  The centaurs charge a healthy sum

  from every challenger,

  but if the bard should be the one

  to sing with greater splendor;

  He may keep the magic harp

  and use it as his own,

  but when he dies it is returned,

  since it is but a loan.

  To ensure its safe-keeping,

  the centaurs give the bard

  some twenty members of their pack

  to be his honor guard.

  We started playing at the dawn,

  and songs were sung all day;

  By midnight neither one had won,

  and sleep was still to wait!

  The centaurs reveled through the night

  as we played on and on;

  For several days, it went like this,

  until the seventh dawn;

  Exhausted, both in body

  and repertoire of song,

  The centaur played his final tune,

  and I played my last one;

  The centaur laid his harp aside

  and bowed with deep respect;

  The magic harp would soon be mine—

  if I had one song left!

  I searched my mind with utmost care,

  but nothing could I find:

  The challenge could not be complete—

  the challenge was a tie!

  Even though I did not win,

  the centaurs honored me;

  They kept the magic harp, of course,

  but gave me back the fee.

  A dozen centaurs rode with me,

  as escort and as guard,

  for sixteen days I was, to them,

  The Master Bard of Bards!

  It wasn’t ‘til they were long gone

  that I could sadly smile;

  I could have sung them one more song

  about Lord Pedi Fyle—

  But that was not my purpose;

  I did not want the harp;

  The purpose was the challenging:

  It was its own reward!

  His mentor let the music fade

  and handed him the harp;

  “A song, my friend, a fair exchange,

  as is the wont of bards.

  “Sing for me a ballad!

  Sing for me a tale!

  The last we’ll play upon this day—

  Make sure you choose it well!”

  He took the harp and strummed a chord;

  A friendly melody;

  He knew his mentor hadn’t heard

  The song he chose to play:

  There is a village that’s purported

  to exist in wasted lands,

  a lush oasis that’s supported

  by a god’s most kindly hand;

  In this seldom spoken legend,

  there is hinted many times

  of a relic that’s been hidden

  in the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme.

  It is there that I have dreamed of

  finding glory, fame, and song,

  and I searched out other legends

  speaking of that relic’s home!

  Such as Roland’s Yodeled Ballads—

  True, they are a bit obscure—

  There I found the key I needed,

  in his convoluted verse!

  Next, I gathered my equipment,

  stowed some loaves of travel-bread,

  and started on my fateful quest

  filled with hope, full of dread!

  I won’t describe the paths I traveled

  to that relic’s sacred home,

  and I’ll skip the tawdry battles

  that I struggled through alone.

  Silence, endless, free from people

  can be treasure for a few,

  But my need to be with others

  grew and grew, grew and grew—

  Until at last, my lonely roaming

  in that desert’s wretched heat,

  left me dizzy with confusion,

  without water, no food to eat;

  I passed into a blessed darkness,

  succumbed to sleep’s embrace,

  knowing that I would not waken.

  The blinding sun upon my face.

  But, of course, I did awaken—

  How much later, I don’t know—

  Above me was a wondrous maiden,

  smothered in the sunlight’s glow;

  That maiden saved me, nursed me,

  brought me back to healthy state;

  Then she acted as my guide

  and led me to that sacred place.

  I was in the lush oasis

  that I’d hunted for so long,

  searching for that sacred relic

  mentioned in the legend’s song!

  The maiden led me through her village

  to the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme,

  but she did not follow after,

  did not go into the tomb.

  I approached with cautious footsteps,

  wary eyes, and gentle hands;

  The legend spoke of dangers, secrets,

  pitfalls that would slay a man!

  Only he who was deemed worthy

  could approach the relic’s home;

  If he was found to be unworthy,

  all he’d find would be his tomb!

  Every time there was a pitfall—

  Every time that danger came—

  I avoided being wounded;

  I avoided being lamed!

  Then I found a hidden trapdoor

  with a passageway beneath;

  I drop so softly to the floor—

  stirring up the scent of death!

  The passage ended in the distance

  at a silver-plated door,

  I heard voices, lots of voices,

  overlapping, muddled words!

  Quiet whispers, quickly spoken,

  fell upon my well-trained ear;

  Words of warning were betokened

  of a doom awaiting there!

  Heedless of the garbled warning

  from these voices merged as one,

  Shrugging off my indecision,

  I stepped forward; I moved on.

  As I crept up to the doorway—

  It opened magically!

  Light erupted in
the passageway,

  nearly blinding me!

  My eyes adjusted quickly;

  This is what I saw:

  A thing of utmost beauty:

  A gem-encrusted harp!

  The voices called harmonically;

  Their welcome most robust;

  They called to me, joyously,

  “Come and join us!”

  I took a step inside the room—

  Their chorus rose in pitch!

  I held my hand out for the harp—

  How could I resist?

  But as I reached out for the harp

  to touch its magic strings,

  the echoes of a long-dead bard

  said these words to me:

  “The price of glory that you seek

  will weather down your soul;

  It is not meant for human hands:

  Take flight, my son, and go!”

  I knew that voice from long ago—

  It taught me how to sing—

  It was my father’s gentle tone

  reaching out to me!

  It broke the rapture of the harp;

  I dropped my reaching hand;

  The clamor of the other bards

  renewed their brisk demand!

  “Come! Come! Come, my friend!

  Join us in here!

  Play! Play! Pluck a strand

  for all of us to hear!”

  How alluring was this relic?

  A moment more, I would be lost!

  But slavery to that instrument

  was far too great a cost!

  I turned and fled that dreadful place

  before I could succumb,

  despite that relics’ urgent pleas

  to join Chosen Rhyme!

  His voice fell silent;

  His music carried on;

  The urgency was spent;

  The song continued on:

  The maiden who had saved me

  could not believe her eyes;

  No one ever had returned;

  No others had survived!

  I did not tarry with her;

  I did not tell my tale;

  I had to flee that harp’s allure

  before I was compelled

  to return and touch the harp,

  to rescind my soul,

  to join all those other bards

  under its control.

  My father left when I was nine

  upon a foolish quest:

  He sought the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme,

  and there he failed the test.

  But through his failure, I was saved:

  The harp did not snare me.

  Through his failure, I was saved:

  I roam the world still free.

  With this ballad, I honor him:

  I had gone upon my quest

  to find the Tomb of Chosen Rhyme

  to bring to him success!

  Instead, I found my father—

  a tortured, troubled soul—

  captured by that relic,

  under its control.

  I had no way to free him;

  I had to leave him there;

  But I can warn the other bards

  to stay away from there!

  He played a few more cautious notes;

  He set the harp aside;

  His mentor clasped his shoulder;

  He had no tears to cry.

  The crowd, though small, regaled them well,

  with coin and gratitude;

  The innkeeper provided them

  with wine and ample food;

  An hour later, they found themselves

  strolling down the road.

  “It is time,” his mentor told him,

  “for the meeting of the bards.”

  “What is that?” he asked his mentor.

  “Where will it take place?”

  “I cannot tell you where we gather

  for the great exchange;

  “I must take you to the meeting

  of the Master Bards;

  Only those who have a patron

  get to play their harps.”

  They travelled down the secret paths

  that led them to a lake,

  and rowed out to a tiny isle,

  where they had to wait.

  A dozen Master Bards were there;

  Four more yet to come;

  Not a ballad had been shared;

  No songs had yet been sung;

  The sharing would come later,

  when the time had come,

  and he would take the center

  to prove that he belonged;

  His songs would be inspected;

  His play would be critiqued;

  The Master Bards would test him

  before they would bequeath

  the title of a Master Bard,

  accept him as their own.

  Then would start the steady trade

  of all their new-spun songs!