The Coldest Heart of All (Part II)

Well, here a day after Valentine's, comes the part two and conclusion of our tale. (For those of you just joining us, drop by HERE to read part one. I think you'll like it. (Or, at least, I hope so...?))

                                                Thus it was for many night-cloaked days.

                                                Once a time she bore to him trays

                                                Laden with fare and water that eased

                                                All his hurt. Not long it was that the wounds that seized

                                                His battered body slowly mended.

                                                And the fire kept, though to its flame she never tended.

                                                Nor, though her steps he saw and doings he heard,

                                                Unto him did she ever utter a word.

                                                To him her silence seemed wrought in pain,

                                                As though she knew of naught but that domain.

                                                At last he asked: ‘Why movest thou so, as one who sleeps,

                                                Or one who oft lonely sits and weeps?’

                                                She turned upon him silver eyes,

                                                Like starlight seen through clouded skies.

                                                “The answer to thy query I need not to show,

                                                For ‘tis something thyself in truth doth know.

                                                Why went you and your company out at all?

                                                Was it not at the summoning and the call

                                                Of thy greedy hearts that, seeking praise,

                                                Lost thee in the wild as a fool that strays?

                                                Thou would have done well to keep thy house. But there!

                                                There lies all thy heart and all thy care.

                                                Is it not vain to rise and vain to sleep?

                                                Vain thy mind and body to keep?

                                                Is it not vain to name aught as foul or fair?

                                                Is it not vain to harbor a single care?

                                                Life to death, not life to life, is the way of all.

                                                Are not all these things in the end to thy gall?”

                                                “But what of life?” said he aghast.

                                                “How canst thou discount that which has not yet passed?

                                                True, all mortals are mortal indeed.

                                                But for this thou would loose thy bonds and be freed?

                                                Death cometh swiftly, but while it be at bay

                                                Should one not enjoy the sunrise of a dawning day?

                                                Should one not share in the joy of a song?

                                                Or even a smile to bear along?

                                                Ah! To know faithful comrades to see one through.

                                                To know love, blissed love, tried and true.”

                                                Suddenly he fell silent, and she was still.

                                                For a time naught stirred in that house on the hill

                                                Save the fire that flared and fanned.

Soft as a whisper she out-stretched her hand,

                                                Seeming to wish his cheek to clasp.

                                                But when his palm found hers in soft caress a gasp

                                                Escaped her lips, and back she drew.

                                                Within her something stirred anew.

                                                A feeling slow yet overpowering wormed

                                                It’s way deeply, and there it burned.

                                                Again she rose and again she fled,

                                                Again left him lying upon the bed.

                                                Still more time passed, and more strength he gained.

                                                And he nurtured a new thought, and himself ordained

                                                To be a light within her darkened world.

                                                Visions new and sights that swirled

                                                He caused to dance before her silver eyes,

                                                For he spoke of all that under heaven lies.

                                                Of the Springtide sun that shone with glee,

                                                And of the white breakers of the boundless sea.

                                                He spoke of the glades of endless flowers,

                                                And mist of the valleys after gentle showers.

                                                But most of all he spoke of men, whose hearts

                                                Were not always so easily read as jottings in charts.

                                                Yea, there were those who would destroy without cease,

                                                But others there were also; seekers of peace.

                                                “But what availeth all this,” she said at last,

                                                “If, when all is spoken and done and passed,

                                                Death awaits like a clinging net?”

                                                He answered: “Death awaits, and none forget.

                                                Life is as a passing mist and dew.

                                                Yet all things in it may seem bright and new

                                                If hearts walk together to bear on and through.

                                                If instead of being lived by one, it is shared in love by two.”

                                                To this she made no reply.

                                                The day came at last, by and by,

                                                That his wounds and weariness was healed.

                                                With humbled heart at her feet he kneeled.

                                                “Behold,” he said, “here is thy due,

                                                The costly jewel that I swore to you.”

                                                But when she reached out to take his band

                                                He a-sudden clutched her pale hand,

                                                And, looking into her silver eyes, declared:

                                                “Many ways and many evils have I betimes fared,

                                                And I perceive my suffering has been small to thine.

                                                Therefore, do not shirk to accept this that was mine,

                                                But I beg thee to accept yet more.

                                                But for you I would have passed through death’s black door.

                                                Little and small my offering may seem for its part,

                                                Though it is the greatest thing I can give: My heart.”

                                                She gazed on him and indeed it seemed

                                                That in her eyes there boiled and steamed

                                                A fierce desire, but this time true.

                                                She looked on him with sight anew.

                                                His tender words, his warming soul,

                                                Warm as a glinting ember coal,

                                                Had reached down deep and taken hold

                                                Had wrought a wonder in her heart of cold.

                                                Yet the availing of this was due to him only in part,

                                                This wonder that worked within her heart.

                                                The fire that had burned e’er since he came,

                                                The glittering, fanning, dancing flame,

                                                Had wrought on her also. And slow as a coming tide,

                                                Had thawed the chill that lay inside.

                                                Therefore, she marveled at the warmth that spread in her,

                                                The coming of Spring to her forced Winter.

                                                She took in her grasp his trembling hand,

                                                Pressing thither his silver-golden band.

                                                Then she touched his cheek in unbridled embrace,

                                                As tears of delight bathed his shining face.

                                                Now fate is a thing most strange indeed,

                                                For it both caters to want and ignores need.

                                                It is kinder than joy, the master of bliss,

                                                And it is crueler than death’s blackened kiss.

                                                Scarcely had she caressed his cheek

                                                Than the support of his strengthened knees grew weak.

                                                He quivered once, then down he fell,

                                                Lifeless as a withered, hollow shell.

                                                Death had locked him in its hold

                                                From the instant he had touched her couch of cold.

                                                And even as she stared in silent grief

                                                At the man death had stolen as a thief,

                                                She felt within her a subtle pain,

                                                And her own strength began to wane.

                                                A moment later she lay at his side,

                                                Lifeless as the sand washed by the tide.

                                                For death was assured to her the moment he came

                                                And bid her rouse a warming flame.

                                                For the power to weather such things had been lost

                                                To she who had hemmed herself in with frost.

                                                And there they two lay for evermore,

                                                Corpses behind a frozen door.

                                                For none found them, and even now none know

                                                Whither lies that house, moon-cloaked with snow.

                                                And thusly runs this tale of woe,

                                                A story that a self-tortured heart did know,

                                                When she gave of her love long ago

                                                On an endless night of whiting glow.

Keep Strong!

The Coldest Heart of All (Part 1)

Greetings, everyone.

   So, those who know me (the number of which I hope is growing *ahem*) will know that I quite like good poetry. I am, of course, partial to the olden style of it, such things as the beauties scattered throughout the Lord of the Rings novels, some of the works of Robert Frost, and the Lays of Beleriand (a special favorite!). I am also partial to rhyming verse. I mean really; if one is going to work so hard at a language as complicated as English, one may as well exercise the full use of it. In the long labors of my own writing, and the numerous talks I've had with other writers and poets, I've come to realize that good rhyming verse, really good rhyming verse, is often much harder to produce than non-rhyming verse. In a way, you set bonds about the realm of your creativity, because you must establish a discernible flow and keep to it, you cannot continuously use the same ending words line after line, and what's more, it is often the case that the last word in a line that you really wish to jot down simply doesn't flow with the last word in the line above it! But in my humble opinion, there are few things as rewarding as sitting back and reading over a well crafted rhyming poem. It lifts the mind when read silently, and lightens the tongue when read aloud.

   I have decided to share a rhyming poem of mine with you all today. I am going to split it into two parts (did I mention that I am also a fan of lengthy poems that tell stories? Epics, some call them, but I rarely use the term.). Unlike others I've shared in the past this one does have a title. Now, beware, it's a bit long, but I put a lot of work into it, and it rhymes! (How about that?) Hope you all enjoy.

The Coldest Heart of All

                                                Hear now a tale of woe.

                                                A story that a heart quite old did know

                                                When she gave of her love long ago

                                                On an endless night of moon-swathed snow.

                                                A house there was upon a hill,

                                                Which sheltered a woman most strangely ill

                                                Who warmed by a fire of ice and snow

                                                In a land that was, so long ago.

                                                Enchantment she wove about her domain

                                                To fend off sunlight, wind and rain,

                                                To stay the beasts, and to keep a chill

                                                Within this house upon a hill.

                                                A chill that suffered no warmth of breath,

                                                A chill that promised naught but death

                                                To those shrouded beneath its folds. And so,

                                                We shall hear what tale from long ago.

                                                Enchantment the more this woman had,

                                                For though in mortal form she was clad

                                                She ensnared age, the decay of years,

                                                And locked it in a bottle of silver tears.

                                                And though all seasons might come and go

                                                Neither dim nor failing durst her eyes grow.

                                                Neither bent of back nor gray of hair,

                                                But tall and slender; cold and fair.

                                                Fair as a hilltop crowned with rain;

                                                Fair as white mist in a darkened plain;

                                                Fair as a stream of calming flow,

                                                But colder than the coldest night may grow.

                                                Now on a night she gathered food for meat

                                                She heard, as it were, the sound of faltering feet

                                                And, turning about, she beheld a form,

                                                Stumbling upon her hill where was no thing warm.

                                                ‘Twas a man, haggard, grim, and worn;

                                                In his eyes a look most forlorn.

                                                Scarce a moment later he staggered and fell,

                                                As though smitten by a sudden, crippling spell.

                                                Then she arose and went to his side.

                                                ‘How came ye here?’ she asked. ‘By tide

                                                Of magic? Enchantment’s grace?

                                                Whither came ye from your own place?’

                                                In her words was neither anger nor scorn,

                                                But rather likened to a murmur borne

                                                On a wind that drifts without a care.

                                                A wind that warmth may never share.

                                                His eyes uplifted. He beheld her face.

                                                ‘By magic?’ said he. ‘Enchantment’s grace?

                                                Nay. But cut off from my company have I been,

                                                By a storm that ravaged, but was not seen.

                                                Many days have I wondered, seeking aid,

                                                Stumbling ‘neath the trees whose casting shade

                                                Has hemmed me in. My hope was lost and I was ill,

                                                Yet from afar I descried this house and hill.

                                                And with the last of my strength up I strode,

                                                Seeing no path or walking road.

                                                And help, most truly, I would now ask of thee,

                                                For death has sought, and is seeking for me.’

                                                ‘And death shall find you,’ she, answering, said.

                                                ‘Even here, where thou layest thine head.’

                                                ‘Those words are cruel. Cruel indeed.

                                                To withhold help from one in need.’

                                                ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘to those who know

                                                Whither to walk and where never to go.

                                                For none venture here and none return,

                                                Though for warmth and day they may ever yearn.’

                                                ‘In truth I tell you,’ he bestirringly said,

                                                ‘That when first my eyes opened, I thought myself dead.

                                                For I looked on a sight of beauty unbound,

                                                A loveliness most profound.

                                                But your heart is cold and without regret.

                                                This is not the aid I thought to have met.’

                                                ‘Perhaps, perchance, but your thoughts are not mine.

                                                Little good will it do thee to beg and pine.’

                                                ‘A barter then, a covenant true,

                                                An unfaltering oath shall I swear to you.’

                                                Then reaching weakly to his breast,

                                                As though it were some enfolding nest,

                                                He drew out with care a band of gold

                                                That flared to silver in his hold.

                                                ‘Lo! My greatest treasure ever won,

                                                Gained in battle under scorching sun.

                                                To thee I offer it in return

                                                For the help I asked that you did spurn.’

                                                As she looked upon his band of shifting hue

                                                The desire to possess it swiftly grew.

                                                For many things could she do with silver-gold.

                                                ‘If in truth you make me an offer so bold

                                                Then enter now my delicate home.

                                                Fear no longer in pain to roam.’

                                                Into her abode she led him by hand,

                                                Her eyes ever lighting upon his band,

                                                And there she tended him in his pain,

                                                She who had nigh afore been his bane.

                                                She laid him upon a couch of cold,

                                                But he cried: ‘Nay! Even now the hold

                                                Of death draws nigh.

                                                Do not chill my blood with beguiling ply.’

                                                ‘How then shall I warm you, o weakling dire?’

                                                ‘Bestir a flame. Rouse a fire.’

                                                At this bidding she drew swiftly back.

                                                ‘That alone of the arts I lack.’

                                                ‘I doubt not that such a thing would be lost

                                                To she who hems herself in with frost.

                                                But I cannot weather such clinging freeze.

                                                I shall keep my band you think to seize

                                                If you will not hearken to me in any wise.

                                                I shall bear it beyond the boundless skies.’

                                                But lust overcame her wavering.

                                                The lust for so small and precious a thing.

                                                And with commanding voice but head bowed low

                                                She bid her fire of ice and snow

                                                Become a flame. And a reddened flame indeed up-started,

                                                And from it the chill swiftly departed.

                                                His limbs were heated, his blood was warmed.

                                                But in her there arose and a-sudden stormed

                                                An agony burning, and with it a dread.

                                                And, raising herself, the room she fled

                                                And afterwards returned not, save to visit his bed

                                                To soothe his wounds and provide water and bread.

Keep Strong!

A Poem For Your Pleasure

Right. So, I've been trying to decide what to post for you guys this month, and while I have decided to do a Batman/Superman post, it's not ready yet. Sorry. But (there's that word again) I do have something else for you to sink your mind into for a bit. As some of you may know, I do garner some enjoyment from sharing my work with you, and I do try to drop some of it here and there so as to give you a look at some of the other tales and whatnot that I work on when I get the time. The time has come to do that again!

   The following poem is one that I wrote a while ago, but didn't share because, well, I didn't want to.    Okay, not exactly. In truth, though I like it, I don't consider it to be one of my best works (don't get any ideas though; I'm not saying it's rubbish!), and I don't want to share stuff with you guys that is below caliber. I reread it recently, and I've decided that it's suitable to share. Huzzah! Now, mind you, it is a little lengthy (I've decided to go ahead and post the whole thing at once instead of break it up into two parts as I've done before), but it tells a full short-story. So it's not just a bunch of rhyming that doesn't go anywhere. (I'd never do that to you!) Anywho, I've rambled long enough so, without further ado, here it is!

(Oh, one more thing; it has no title. If any of you have any suggestions, feel free.)

There was once a house upon a lane

Which, to all who looked, appeared quite plain

But within had many secrets dark.

So to this tale I bid you hark.

A wandering fellow who dared to dare,

And enter into that secret lair

Once took his luck and tried his fate

And entered through that house’s gate.

At noon’s height he entered in

But when the door shut behind, it was dark within

And soft scuttlings, as from unseen spies,

He heard beyond the reach of his eyes.

Yet forward he went, refusing to be cowed,

And entered the dining room, where it seemed a cloud

Had settled. But it was not so,

For there sat five, silent figures in a row.

Four men there were with faces forlorn,

And at their head sat a woman with eyes of scorn.

But the stranger at once felt sick and trembled,

For he could see right through the bodies of the folk assembled.

Their faces grey, their raiment white,

Shifted and shuddered before his sight.

And he perceived that these were no mortals true

But phantoms arrayed. Three and two.

Then at once the woman looked his way

And in her eyes arose a spark of play,

And from her chair she gave a gesture.

A wordless command from a silent specter.

At once the four men sprang each from his seat

And came at the stranger, never once touching their feet

Upon the ground. Their teeth turned fangs, their nails turned claws,

And hideous cries leapt from their maws.

Then the fellow gave a cry of his own

And ran back the way he had come alone.

But now the house revealed its will. The way out of that secret lair

Was gone. Instead now a stair

A stair was before the fleeing man.

And up it went to an unknown span.

But with things so fell and swift behind

He took hold of the banister and began his climb.

Four flights up he fled the wights

Till he discerned the presence of flickering lights,

And, coming to the door from which they glowed,

Dared to enter another secret abode.

Nine candles lit a dusty room,

Attempting to resist a clinging gloom.

But waiting not, he shut himself inside

Seeking respite and a refuge to abide.

At a whispering voice he spun around

And saw a maid-child sitting on the ground.

In one hand she held a written note,

And in the other the quill with which she wrote.

“You escaped,” she said without looking his way.

“Others would have been caught at once from they

Who chased you up the stair.”

“What place is this?” he asked. “What lair

Lies truly at the heart of this shrouded house?”

At that she stood, ruffling a velvet blouse.

“If you truly wish that answer to know

Then come with me. We shall walk below.

And as for your mistrust, written from eye to eye,

I swear to you to tell only a single lie.”

Then waiting not for an answer given

She walked over to a space wherein the wall was riven

A little cleft. Her little hand she stuck inside

And forthwith a hidden door opened wide.

It opened to blackness, and he shrunk back.

Said she, “If you will not dare to trek this track

Your life will be delivered to the ghouls outside.

For they cannot enter this room only as long as I abide.”

Then forward she went and was lost to sight.

And he followed after, being governed by fright.

His eyes were useless in that lightless hall,

And his ears heard almost no sound at all.

Yet one thing he did hear, if only so fleet,

And that was the sound of her walking feet. 

Just before him she walked, but no comfort gave

In that lightless place like a closing grave.

Down they went for an unknown span,

A silent girl and a wavering man.

Suddenly, her voice came like falling stones.

“Should your life be in danger, you may use my bones.”

Before he could venture to ask of her why,

He gasped and released a shouting cry.

The ground beneath him had disappeared,

And down he fell and blindly veered

Toward an end unseen.

The end came soon, and the pain was keen

As he struck a patch of sandy ground

And discerned a new and dreadful sound.

A growling rose all around

And looking up he saw many a slavering hound.

Their hide was black, their eyes flamed red,

And gleamed in torches overhead.

To his hands and knees he softly rose.

But the hounds at once began to circle and close

About him. As despair took him, all alone,

He felt his hand brush against a bone.

Glancing toward it to see what the hounds had torn

He saw the velvet blouse that his guide had worn.

Beside it sat a pile of bones and a skull

That glared at him with sockets dull.

Now he realized her grim meaning.

Up he snatched her bones as the hounds, now springing,

Rushed upon him with bays of death,

And filled the air with the stench of their breath.

At once he threw them, bone by bone,

And heard the hounds’ baying change in tone.

From him they turned with greedy yaps,

And fought over those bones as dogs will over scraps.

But as he was about to cast the skull it cried,

“No! You will need me. Now circle wide

Around the hounds while they tear my bones,

To a door that will lead away from their growls and groans.”

Quelling the fear that flamed inside,

He did as she bade him, and circled wide

Till he came to a door of blackened glass,

And there he halted, despairing to pass.

But the skull he held in his trembling hand

At once spoke a hissing command

And the door opened silently.

And through it he went, speeding to flee.

Up now they went, the skull and he.

First two flights, then another three.

Then suddenly she bade him stop,

Though no sign was there that they had reached a top.

“Toss me ahead, then follow behind.

For in the gloom before us you will again be blind.”

Then gladly he cast that skull away.

But himself hung back. Loathing to go or stay.

She called to him in his uncertainty,

And a moment later, most innocently,

The maid-child that he had before seen

Came near to him with dark eyes keen.

He drew back from her, his own eyes wide.

“Truly,” said he, “hidden inside

This house’s walls are many a devilish host.

And you are among them. Why do you help me, ghost?”

The child looked upon him. “The answer,” she smiles,

“Is that I am the wandering spirit who beguiles.

I have no power but what is given to me

By desperate men who seek to flee

From the many horrors of this haunted abode.

From you I now have all the power that I was owed.

For every time you heeded my command

Your life was given little by little to my hand.

Now you are mine. And that, I fear,

Will be worse than all else you faced in here.”

“But the lie!” he stammered, his heart going cold.

“The one lie that you ought to have told,

Where was it?” From ear to ear her grin now burst.

“The lie was the thing I said second to first,

When I bade you follow me to escape the ghouls.

You could have fought off those wispy fools.

But fear had such a hold on you

That it seemed wise to do all I bade you do.

“The hounds as well you could have defeated.

Had you challenged them they would have retreated.

But far better it was, thought you in your dread,

To use the bones of one already dead.

Had you only stood firm and quelled your fear,

A way to escape would have made itself clear.”

And so saying, no longer a child she seemed.

Claws she had, and sudden fangs gleamed

Beneath a now skinless face.

A leering skull now took its place.

Then upon him the creature leapt without a word,

And his cries and screams went on unheard.

And if ever you pass by that house,

Wherein lurks the ghost-child in the velvet blouse,

You will know it by the half-imagined sound

Of a young girl’s laughter underground.

Keep Strong!