As Cleefis sails beyond the western rim
And friendly firelight graces sleepy homes
Should any wish to hear a tale of woe
I bid thee come and heed my counsel grave
And hearken to the portent of the witch;
For though her rancid breath has long been spent
Her words shall never cease their wanderings through
The hearts and minds of meditative men.
If ye would mar this night’s serenity
With baleful curses of a prophetess,
With beauty doomed to crumble into dust,
And with a mother’s agonizing wails,
Then be attentive to my doleful words
And from them learn a firmly rooted truth:
That wheresoever evil thought abides,
Destruction also lurks there, unbeknownst
To all, and poised to deal its penalty
In present age or in the age to come.

I.

Forgotten in the central Hills of Moons,
A village nestled in a verdant vale
Where fertile earth was mulled and moistened by
The softly, warmly rolling Honey Stream.
With garnet grains the riverbed was laced
Bespeaking larger treasures of like ilk
Which underneath the sparkling schisted ground
Encrusted hidden hollows dark and old.
But infinitely dearer to the men
Who wielded chisels in that rocky land
Were massive outcrops of eclandimex
That littered such a fortunate terrain
Like heads of monsters thrust above the ground.
Eclandimex, thou stately queen of stones,
Thy dappled hues transform the works of man
From buildings into glorious monuments,
From pillars into arms of elegance,
From statues into festivals of life.
The transient structures raised by mortal men
Become extensions of the eternal Mind
Who placed that rock within the nascent hills
So long before the first of giants walked.
Why came thou to that village set apart
From all the rest, in such abundant wise?
For never was this gift of nature worked
By hand of truly gifted craftsman, till
To Dagar village came the ghastly crone.

With shreds of mottled gray her head was draped,
Here torn, there burnt, in sundry lengths it hung
Like cobwebs from a lamp or stairway rail
In some abandoned castle;  or like grass,
When dead and tattered, drooping o’er a stream
Which once was high, and left the floating strands
To hang and dry upon the willow branch.
Behind this hairy veil her wrinkled face
Contorted was, for voices plagued her mind
And told her things meant not for mortal ears.
In riddles or in cryptic speech it came,
This arcane knowledge from the world below,
Until she held the future in her gaze,
And knew the coming of each drought and storm,
The birth and death of every king and slave,
And when the sun would rise and set no more.
Though men have always craved this gift of sight,
Believing it would heal their earthly ills,
Bestow upon them power unrestrained,
Or even bring them happiness in life,
It gave her only madness, for the voice
Screamed in her head throughout the dreadful nights
In dreams which left her not when dawn arrived,
But haunted with excruciating din.
To peaceful Dagar village once she came,
And all the people, knowing of her gift,
Entreated her to tell them of their deaths:
“How soon?” and “Shall there be much pain?”
They promised riches to her if she would
But tell them of their children’s future lives
Or let them know how crops would fare next year.
But she refused, and with a gurgling whine
She said “My words are not mine own to give;
I may not speak but that which I am bade.”
Directly to the castle of the king
She made her way, with eerie muttering moans,
To Dagar’s throne where Berolm proudly sat
And ruled his subjects few with honest hand.

Two sons had he, young handsome princes both.
The first, whose mother did not live to nurse
The babe, but died upon the midwife’s lap,
Was Bolm, a strong and clever, healthy man,
The pride of Dagar, worthy of his place
As Berolm’s heir.  But Berolm wed again,
To one whose beauty did surpass that of
His former wife, although he loved her less.
She bore him Holm, a thinner, weaker youth,
Who made up for his lack of strength and health
With such artistic inspiration as
Has ne’er been found in man before or since.
His mother, ignorant of this, grew harsh,
And through the years convinced herself and him
That he would never be of any worth
As would his stronger, older brother Bolm.

The seeress staggered down the corridor,
Her eye fixed on the dais and its chair
Whereon sat Berolm, queasy as no king
Is wont to be, when no foe nears his lands
And no rebellious whispers can be heard
In any corner of his modest realm.
Was she an army, that he should so quake
When feebly she approached him?  Or a duke,
Who, jealous of his brother’s throne, was come
To wrest it from him?  Nay, this hag was but
A hag, a shriveled woman, powerless
To cause his body harm, it seemed, and yet
He shrank from her as from a poisoned cup.
King Berolm knew this ancient prophetess
And knew she was more powerful than he,
For his decrees and orders were upheld
By force of arms, without which they would fall,
Since laws without enforcement are not laws
If given from the mouths of mortal kings.
But every word which passed between the lips
Of that disheveled creature came to pass,
Regardless of the wills or wishes of
Her king and all his armed and loyal men.
So, wise was he to fear her toothless mouth,
Which might foretell the downfall of the realm,
Or an untimely death for him that night,
Or any of a thousand other ills.

Without a bow she stood before the king
And waited not for him to bid her speak,
For no authority did she concede
But that which dwelt within her frenzied head.
And Berolm did not interrupt, but sat
And listened closely to the beldam’s words
For knew he well that she would not repeat.
So, raising up her gaunt and crooked frame,
Her eyes ablaze with fiendish ecstasy,
She screeched as if in pain, then stiffly spoke:
‘O king of Dagar, fortune smiles at thee
This morn, though she may frown ere this day dies.
Of thy two princes Destiny chose one
To dwell forever in the memory
Of every future man and woman who
Are born into this sure and doughty race;
For in this land of pride in sculptured stone
And skilful shapers of eclandimex,
Thy favored son shall rise above the rest.
His arm hath been imbued with mastery,
His mind with visions of perfected art,
That truly have not been before disclosed
To any mortal creature in the past,
And likewise shall not in the future be,
Though toward such standard men may strive and strain.
Yea, citizens shall swoon and weep each day
That one of his creations is unveiled.
Yea, fellow sculptors shall with shortened breath
Caress the faultless features of his art.
Yea, lords and ladies shall be stricken dumb
At sight of his majestic city built.
Yea, even kings shall bow before his work
To trembling knee, and shake astounded heads.
But just as this star shines and that one falls,
Thine other son shall perish in his youth
And be forgotten as the passing tides.’
So spake the witch, and with a mournful sigh,
She then collapsed upon the wooden floor,
Exhausted by the ruthless force within.

II.

O, whence came vice that in the heart of man
Persists, and wherefore doth it not depart?
Although the people of the Hills of Moons
Have dwelt there several thousand years,
And every generation hath produced
Its lot of thoughtful and discerning souls,
So many times like deaf men have they turned
From every moral teaching of the Wise,
Who firmly state the Truth together with
The sagest men of every time and place.
Instead, the masses, like the lemmings, plunge
And to their own destruction cast themselves.

When Nast– King Berolm’s second wife– was told
The late prognostication of the crone,
She rent her hair and beat her breast and womb
And through her teeming tears she moaned these words
Unto the servants in her private room:
‘Accursed belly, thou betrayest me!
For thou didst bear my son nine months for nought
But mockery and pain, and then to die.
My Holm, dear boy, a battered slave to Fate,
I wish– it would have been no worse for thee–
That barrenness had found me long ago,
Before my womb received thy father’s seed;
That seed of evil, source of all my pain,
And soon to be the reason for my grief.’
But one of her attending maidens rose
And stayed the wretched mother’s flailing arms.
Above the sobs she gave encouragement,
Caressing her dear mistress as she spoke.
‘Since thou hast always let me bare my thoughts
To thee, can I refrain when bruises form
Upon thy guiltless skin by thine own hand?
Was woman’s body built to bear such blows?
Now I beseech thee, rest thine angry fists
And fear thou not these phantoms– they are false!
A life can not be safer than thy son’s,
Within this palace, sheltered from all ill.
Perhaps it is thy stepson Bolm who shall
Depart this world so soon, yea, ere his youth
Abandoneth his bold and winsome face.
Are not those mines wherein he worketh now
The very shade of Death itself?  I wot
Of many women who have lost a son,
Or father, husband, brother, in the shafts
Where Bolm doth daily tarry with his friends.
Though prince he be, who needeth not to sweat
Nor strain his body to be fed and clothed,
He daily risketh his own life for nought.
So be thou comforted, my mistress, then,
And trust that thy son Holm shall reap rewards
Which thou hast never dared to wish for him.’
When Nast had heard these words she dried her eyes
And meditated on them for a while.
As rot arises from the ground and drains
The goodness from the fruit that feels its touch
An evil thought ascended soon and dwelt
Within her head until it won her soul.
‘I must have time alone to walk and think,’
She said at once, and ordered for her cloak.
‘Remain ye here till my return, for air
and time shall surely quench my fiery fears.
I shall but wander for an hour or two
Along the lonely paths just east of here.’

And so she made her way with haste, but by
A route most indirect, unto the mine
Wherein her stepson Bolm was sure to be.
So deep within she heard the hammers ring
That she was confident she could complete
Her work without an interruption. Then
She took an axe from underneath her cloak
And ran inside the torchlit corridor.
For hours she hewed and felled the wooden posts
And beams which held the ceiling rock aloft.
Beginning from as far as she dared go
within the hill, Nast slowly outwards worked.
The timbers fell by dozens as her axe
Swung madly at their bases.  Finally
She heard the sound of moving earth and fled.

III.

So oft malignant schemes run counter to
The expectations of the strategist,
Although they be most cleverly designed.
The smallest evil, like a tiny flame,
Defies control and grows into a blaze;
And he whose wicked wish it was to burn
Another, to his horror burns himself.

The darkest hour of night it was, and Nast
Was deep in restful slumber in her bed,
When, unbeknownst to all, her chamber door
In silence drifted open, and a form
Appeared and slowly plodded to her side.
The ugly hag it was, whose head bent down
Until her foul bedraggled hair did touch
The unsuspecting lady’s very cheek.
To wakefulness she started with a gasp,
And saw the grizzly visage of the witch
Above, those spectral eyes so near her own.
And from the bowels of the trembling queen
A scream erupted, till a bony hand lashed out
And squeezed the woman’s throat.  And then behold–
The cracked and blackened lips began to move.
‘What is a man if he accursed be?
Thou mayest think that thou hast conquered all
Who might have overcome thine only son.
Thou mayest think that Dagar shall become
The glory of these rock-encrusted Hills.
Thou mayest think that Holm shall be the name
Engraved on stone to last throughout the age.
Thou mayest think thyself and him secure
And destined for a life of wealth and fame.
Though Bolm is slain, these blessings shall not be;
Thy wickedness has withered them to dust,
And nought but curses flourish in their place.
Yea, curses! Nought but curses!’  But Nast swung
Her fist and knocked the sickening creature down.
‘No longer shall I listen to thy whines!’
She cried, withdrawing from beneath her bed
A dagger.  Pouncing on the cringing crone
She plunged it to its hilt between her ribs.
The hands of Nast were steeped in inky blood.
‘It matters not,’ the witch’s whisper came.
‘I wot that thou wouldst slay me on this night.’
One shiver, and her shoulders slumped in death.

‘In self-defense she slew the sorceress,
Who sought to stab her as she soundly slept.’
And thus the word was spread– the hag was dead,
And Nast the queen was lauded for the act.
As each year passed she grew more confident,
The worries fading slowly from her mind.
Then Nast began to think that she had fought
A war against eternal laws, and won.
One day she laughed, and mocked and taunted Fate:
‘What is a curse, if I a woman be?’

King Berolm’s birthday was a grand affair,
Attended by the realm’s most prominent
And influential persons, and by those
Beyond the borders of his land who wished
To celebrate the sixty years this king
Had lived.  The splendrous gifts they brought to him
Lay in a heap within the banquet hall;
King Berolm after dinner took his seat
Upon the wooden throne and then received
The presents from his charitable guests.
When colored wrappings all were torn away
And Berolm’s many gifts were strewn about,
His one remaining son appeared and knelt
Before his father.  ‘If it be thy will,
With chisel I have made a gift for thee.’
Good Berolm smiled and nodded to the youth,
And bade the servants bring before them all
The trinket that his son had kindly carved.
The sound of rolling wheels perplexed the king,
And even more the sight of straining men
Who, towing ropes, did haul a massive thing
Into the royal banquet hall.  A cloth
Was draped upon the object as it moved
And slowly stopped before the curious host.
Then Holm with ceremony ambled forth
And quickly drew the sheet away– and lo!
The king himself fell to his knees, and gasps
Exploded from the guests like mighty gusts.
A throne it was, and of eclandimex.
Near thrice as high as Berolm’s wooden seat,
Its dappled panels were engraved with scenes
Which celebrated Berolm’s golden reign.
The eyes which chanced to glance at this relief
Were held as if by spell and drawn within
The time and place which was engraven there.
The royal guests forgot propriety
And strove to see more closely and to lay
Their fingers on the wondrous work of stone.
Then Berolm sat, but quickly rose again
And gazed upon the seat– no cushion there
Was found, although it seemed as soft as wool;
For Holm had fit it to his father’s form
Unto perfection.  Then the king approached
His son, and held his hands, and softly spoke:
‘Dear Holm, celestial inspiration dwells
Within thy head, and sacred skilfulness
Resides within these slender hands of thine.
I wonder how thou hid such talent from
Thy very father for these twenty years,
But hide it nevermore;  a prophecy
Revealed to me the wondrous deeds that thou
Shalt soon perform.  And thus I charge thee go,
My son, avail thyself of all my gold,
And with it make this modest village great
With thy creative expertise.  The realm
Is thine to mold and fashion with thy hands.
My architects and builders shall be there
To carry out thine every order.  And,
Upon the cornerstones engrave thy name;
Immortalize the memory of him
Who authored Dagar’s metamorphosis.’

The palace was the first to swell and glow
Beneath the enchanting sculpting hand of Holm.
Eclandimex soon graced the sides of roads
In curbs and lampposts;  statues garnished squares;
The gray and silver tones of stone bedecked
The village;  giant towers on the hills
Ascended over Berolm’s kingdom fair
Pronouncing proudly Dagar’s rise.  The fall
Of hammers could be heard throughout the day,
As people thronged the streets to watch the work.
A decade saw the village grow to town
And then to city: vibrant, graceful, rich.
The land exalted Holm;  his praise was sung
For leagues beyond the reaches of the realm.

The dark descent of Dagar’s winter night
Befell and bled the land of light and warmth.
The prince still labored in a lofty hall
By oil light, as Nast his mother came
And raised her arms in triumph overhead.
‘To death be gnawing fear and trembling heart!
For we have vanquished them forever now!
My Holm, we are the conquerors of Fate
And stalwart drivers of our destiny.
The realm is built, thy name engraven is
On wall and stone, and on the minds of men.
The deed is done, the prince and city made.
O ghastly witch, what shalt thou do to me
Tomorrow?  Slay me, if thou canst from death,
It matters not, a smile would grace my lips!’
Her son then paused from work and wondered what
Could be the meaning of his mother’s speech.
A chilling draught extinguished all the lamps
Most suddenly, and thunder broke the night.
A grumble cracked the floor, a rumble tore
The land from deep below and high above.
A shrieking blackness shrouded Dagar then;
It ripped the stone;  it crumbled rock to dust.
The ceiling fell with violence and crushed
The noble head of Holm.  His mother smashed
The door and fled into the screaming night.
Upon her bloody knees she fell and stared
As quaking hills ejected broken stone,
As Berolm’s palace into pieces rent,
As Holm’s engraven artistry was wrecked,
As Dagar fell to rubble at her feet.

IV.

The ‘Fist of Isk’ was what the people dubbed
The raging storm of that destructive night.
Though not a single block of stone was left
Atop another in King Berolm’s realm,
No injury or death befell a man,
No woman, child, or even beast was scratched
Excepting Berolm’s only son, and wife.
Astrologers and seers gave the king
A reason for the ruin of the realm.
‘Thy son’s unearthly talent was,’ they said,
‘Secured for him by dark and vicious means.
We know not why and how this came to be,
But surely Dagar shall not rise again.’
When Holm was found beneath the toppled hall
They buried him in haste, lest wrath again
Be vented from above because of him.
The name of Holm was neither said nor writ,
For fear, from that day onward.  As for Nast,
Some tattered clothing, hair, and blood were found
Next to the crumpled hall where Holm had died.
The village did forget her o’er the years
As Berolm wed again and bore an heir,
But those who either lived or worked or walked
Within the densely wooded western hills
Were sure that she who oft was seen or heard
Among the brambles or upon a crag,
Was Nast.  They said she often beat herself
And left her bloodstains on the rocks and trees.
They said she groveled naked in the dust,
Infested with the worms that were her meals.
They said her ghastly eyes unblinking were,
And that she wandered sleepless through the dark.
They said they glimpsed her form on stormy nights
And barred their doors and shutters from the view.
And to the village, if the wind was right,
Her elegy did sometimes seem to drift.
An agonizing wail.  The name of Holm.

~anonymous, Rukko

 

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This work, Dagar Trūn, was originally orally transmitted and eventually written in Hab-data, the language of the stone giants of the Hills of the Moons. The origin of this version was a Tonel translation of precisely the same length and meter as the original (441 lines of blank verse) on a yard-wide coarse yellow pine scroll typical of Rukko. The scroll was signed with the following brief note:

“Translated from Hab-data anonymously.”
~Fit Rūn-kik, Scribe of Rukko.

The date beneath the signature corresponds to FLC 2388, suggesting to more than a few stone giants and human scholars alike that Tharashna was the translator.

 

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Featured image:  Stylized imitation of the frontispiece to the Tonel translation of Dagar Trūn. The original is anonymous but commonly attributed to Fyrn Rixwyrtet, Clear River Valley, FLC 2388.