The following poems find their birth within my mind- that mind, of course, belonging to the great Tereshi Liani. That said, before I show their form I must first set the stage on when and where and why and how these poems rooted in my mind.
My tale begins at dawn, an early winter sun arises from its grave of stars. I dreamt of ancients playing band, a concert of electric lights, and I within the center stage. My singing and my dance did good to rile those within my audiénce, but when the lights of ancients shone upon my eyes and stirred my rest I found myself within a pen of pigs where heaven’s orb gave brightest light to filter through the barnside shutters and elicit grim response within my fervored mind. These fervors, though, to my dismay, did not remain. I found my feet and stood. Mud and shit did shluck itself right off my weary body, as my newfound audience did snort and squeel in laughter at my pain. I faced one down, the mother pig, and brought a finger to her snout.
“Now listen here, you snivelling swine, you’ll quiet your noisy kids. My head is throbbing from last night---I can’t remember what I did! I need to think, but squeels and shouts from little oinkers do not ease this task.”
The mother pig, with rueful eyes, did snort and look away. I felt quite safe to say that she did not appreciate my presence in her home. In my defense, while I cannot recall the prior night, I do not think, in any case, that I might choose this shitty place to be my willing bed. That, I figured, then must be my first clue in this case. I must have been with others and they must have played a prank!
Well, I only hoped that I’d not wound up in a different town. It wouldn’t be the first time that a bender took me far and wide, but in my present circumstances I could not afford to wander lest I miss my scheduled stay within the city of Raturs.
It then occurred to me that I might be, not just alone, but dispossessed of all my personal effects. In a rush I glanced around and found my bag placed well up high. My horse was nowhere to be seen, but that was probably for best. It seemed the terror that had terrorized this trembling troubadour was kind, at least, to poetry (if not to its creator).
My hopes restored, I grabbed my bag and fled this place. What greeted me beyond this shitty veil was fading stars of night, as sun dispelled their light, a ranch, and farmland stretched unto the edges of the world. “Shit,” quoth I, then further said: “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
It’s safe to say that I was not referring to the matter clung to me. In saving grace I did then hear the sound of trickling water. I spun my head, my eyes then saw a gently flowing river. A house and family lay beyond, a wooden bridge to cross the gap. I knew I’d need to speak with them if any answers wished to show. But even so, that former wish was soon eclipsed by needs to wash my dirtied form: and thus did I, the Poet of the Realm, walk fast and silent from those simple peasants.
Within the river, quite far down, I washed my naked body. My clothes, right now, were scrubbed and drying on a rock. The water bit right at my flesh, quite chill in early winter. I grabbed the soap from out my bag and scrubbed myself from top to toe.
My mind did wander as the rote of cleaning cleared my head. My fears abated with the thought that even if I turned up late, the city of Raturs would still be waiting and my client still would take me. My eccentricities and drunken wanderings are hardly rumor, and even so, just who would turn away the servant of the king? My reputation might just take a hit, but even so my station was secure. I was the Poet of the Realm, there was no further left to go. The only moment that would pose a threat was when the good king died. I knew the Princess Reese did not respect my oddities, and yet I simply had to hope the head that held the crown would stay upright until the night that I could find a remedy to fix my troubles with good Reese.
And while one part within my consciousness traversed the path of politics, another found the path that took her to my clientele who so did seek my services. The man himself, the head of house, made clear his ancient taste. He longed for tales of heroes past, the dramas of the sorcerers that lived and died and yet did not ascend. Those tales which do not fit the canon of the Book, and yet still hold both tragedy and comedy in ways beyond those stuffy, worn out teachings.
This, of course, was no great challenge to the Poet of the Realm—within my bag lay dozens of poems I’d written over months of travel. I’d stopped from town to town and poured through local libraries in search of long forgotten pasts, to dig up histories that could be formed into a tale. Even so, the head of house was not the only man I had to please. With him alone this trip would be a triviality, but with the whole entire family my song would need be crafted with the utmost care. It helped, of course, that I had served this man before. Since that time, I’ve known just what they all prefer.
The wife was quite reserved in everything she did. Whatever she would want, my words to please would only work to make her anxious. It seemed to me a simple nod would be sufficiént: I might begin a song or two with praises for the sorcerer and then, of course, the wife. (After all, I could not rightly tell of women sorcerers. My client was a man and wished to hear his manly tales.)
The son was militarily inclined: a man who’d faced the nomads on the fields of battle. He’d spoken many times of longing for the tales of war that bring to him the glory days. To none’s surprise, sorcerer of war was perfect for this task, and so I set my mind to find an invocation made to match.
Recall, oh Trienpholis, sorcerer
of war: the bloody fields of Carcingon,
the day you met your end, the night your soul
was splayed across the stars. Recall, oh stars,
oh gods above, the rage that swept across
the earth, the rage that sought the heavens’ gates.
Recall, oh earth, oh lands of strife, this tale
that tells of war, that tells of tragedy;
deliver unto me this song that I
might see and sing his noble life to praise
his reaching grasp that reachéd for the stars.
And so it was that then and thus, upon
this day that you foretold…
Foretold? Foretold, I say? Foretold, torefold? So I foretold that moment there those words were meaningless! I scooped my hands and ran them through my hair and trembled in the chill. That former stanza flowed quite well, but certainly not the next. It seemed to me this chilly, cleanly river-bath was no fit place to dream up war, and so, I moved my thoughts along and dwelled upon the final member of the family.
The daughter had the touch of desperate romantics. Her tastes were something undiscovered, but her lusty gaze that dwelled upon me did not go unnoticed. Two eyes did live within her skull: the one that held the King in frame and one that held the Lover. These tales had plenty moments where I could yet draw upon the romance latent in the scene. I’d need to set my mind and write within lasciviousness. And more than this, its dreamy eye would need to gaze upon both man and woman. This, of course, was quite alright, if only for the fact that I would need to oggle men as reference for my writings. As to women, I could always use myself if I did not upon another with a stately form.
These thoughts abound, I dunked my head beneath the water and rose up a freezing mess. The shock did little to dispel the pain that hangéd over me, and yet within my shivering state I called a scene to memory: the sorcerer of fire, gazing down across the banks of Terephon, a river much like this, and spying there to see a woman as she bathes within the cold. And with this mote of inspiration, there I gazed upon my own nude bodice, hoping to compose a verse.
The night had wrought a famished state within
the sorcerer of fire. When he felt
the Lover’s hunger kindle in his chest
he sought out solace far beyond
the city’s walls, with countryside and stars
that lit the silver-green of grass with orange
and yellow hues. There down the hill on which
he stood a solemn stream redoubled past
a lone pear tree that blooméd white with one
small branch bent low by gentle hands. A pluck
was heard, and then the wood snapped back into
its upright place. Then from beneath its eaves
a woman stepped out to the water, dipped
her slender frame within. The sorcerer
was held in place by pride and lust that tugged
him in directions twain. This water nymph
began her bath, yet unaware that flames
up high did burn, entrancéd by her form.
Her skin that prickled like the stars, her hair
that tumbled down, across her back. The chill
that overtook her supple form and gave
a firmness to her breasts. The soft-pink glowing
horizon sky that touched her nipples with
the heaven’s blessing.
…Or something along those lines? It had been some time since I’d last made erotica. Beyond just this, the cold and wet had seeped into my bones. My muscles called for me to leave, and so, I did, and jotted down these verses here for later readings and revision.
Dried and dressed I worked my way back toward those farmers, who, in shady looks and glance askance, did seem to recognize my cleanly form. So brightening my face against the ugly light of day I said to them, “Hello, dear folk, I seem to find myself some place I do not know. You have a lovely farm, but I do truly have to go. If you could point me where I need, then I would soon be out your hair. And also, if you might just know the place where I could find my horse then I would thank you greatly.”
The husband, of the Bull, then said to me, “I have no fucking clue where your horse is, and you’re right you’ll get out of here. I hope you enjoyed the pigshit bath, stupid Traveler bitch.”
“Ah,” I said, “I see you hold no love for mine, so I will really be quite quick. My travels ‘cross this lovely land are taking me unto-”
“No love for your kind?” The wife said, “We’ve no love for you. Showin’ up here with your little friends, settin’ the pigs loose. We had to run around all night to clean up your mess, miss. Those two you were with, they’re lucky they got out. We’d’ve thrown ‘em in the shit with you.”
“And stop yapping so much,” the husband said, before I got a word in elsewise, “You talk like a faggot.”
“A poet!” I said, my rage inflamed, “My words reveal the sharpest mind! It takes a genius like myself to speak in iambs and nothing else!”
“So like a faggot.”
I stumbled back, his quick assault had crushed my rage into a point. A smith of words, as I was, had only one real choice.
“Earth to earth and dust to dust: recall
oh man, oh child of stars, your eldest form,
and know. The ground you tread was once your home,
And once again your home is so. Oh earth
to earth, oh dust to dust, the truth revealed;
the falsity of life dispelled: and end.”
When first I spoke his shouts and protests showed the ire plain upon his face, but as mine darkened only further still, and as a light began to gather ‘round, his anger turned to fear. He stumbled back and I stepped forth, outreaching out my left hand. I grasped his arm, the spell was cast, and light condensed into his form. With this his breath soon fled his lips and life, to him, was lost.
…Or rather this is what the wife had thought, as evidenced by how she rushed up over to his side and clutched his sleeping form. “Rathus! Rathus, are you okay?! Can you hear me?!”
“He’s dead,” I lied, “And if you do not wish to join him then you ought to speak. Just where upon this star-forsaken earth is the city of Raturs?”
“East!” She cried between her sobs, “Go east! If you- if you follow the river upstream you’ll hit the town of Pethra! They can tell you where to go from there!”
“Good,” I said, “And must I say, I thank you for your help. And just to be quite certain still, you did not see my horse?”
“Your friends!” She said, “They rode off on it, and I just assumed it was theirs! And they went upstream too, so I’m sure they’re in Pethra!”
“I see, I see, I thank you so. And now, before I go, I just must ask you one last thing. I know you know where hunters lie, just waiting for a game like me. I can spare your husband’s life, if only you now swear to speak no words of this to anyone.”
“I swear it!” She said, “I swear it! Just don’t kill ‘im, please!”
Pleaséd by her earnest cry, I placed my hand and said some words. They really did not mean a thing, and yet they soothed her fraying nerves. “With that,” I then proclaimed, “His life is spared, but if a hunter hears a peep from you or yours or friends or more, his death will be immediate.”
“I thank ye, oh I thank ye noble witch for sparing him. We didn’t mean to cross ya, if we’d know just what you were, then…”
“Of course, of course,” I said to her, “The bridges crossed are still unburnt. Just heed my words with fear and awe. He’ll wake in some few hours. Find a place for him to rest and all will turn out well.”
With this now said, I went to walk the riverside and follow it upstream. I thanked the Witch and thanked the stars and pondered what I’d done. Two ‘friends’ of mine who boldly stole my horse and left me stranded in the shit, yet fled up to the town where I was set to tread… Coincidence? Or was it planned? As I walked, the lasting lights of night did fade, and with it my connection to the stars was lost. No spells or tricks could help me now, until the following night. So with my wits I went on forth, prepared to solve these mysteries.
To Be Continued
