Art is the supreme sensual pleasure

[malleus-incertum]

Neverending Quest

I brood about things that might have been, All the while dreaming of the things that could be.

It’s the maddening Janus curse I was born with Never satisfied, curiosity fomenting insatiable restlessness

That goddamn green light on the dock my unexorcised personal demon.

Yet, all my lost expeditions—love gained and lost— all those perilous passages to places where life’s map screams, “there be dragons;”

Without all those quixotic quests, how would I have discovered you?

[malleus-incertum]

String Theory

Perchance once in a Lifetime [if lucky],

One encounters a fabulous Being called Soul-Mate;

Ocean, Orientation, and Oldness apart.

Weep not, this Reality is but one of myriad

In the Concatenation of Shadows and Simulacrums

Spawned in myriad daughter universes--

Places where you and I are united.

Still, I must weep bitter tears for this Self that never met that Other

[malleus-incertum]

[malleus-incertum]

[malleus-incertum]

A New Tale [Teil fünf. Where it is told of a strange song in the forest; also being a response to FFF#123]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Those that remained paid little heed to the tail-turners who slunk away in the night. For lo, as Arne had foretold, it was here in the deeps of the forest that the coveted white trees rose, numerous as fireflies on a sultry midsummer evening. Then was the armamentarium of the woodsmen fully loosed; men gleefully fell to the hacking, sawing, hewing, and stripping of the trees with a battle-lust rivalling that of noble warriors sung of by the praise-smiths in Gêth. The wolf of wounds bit deep into white bark, battle-metal flashed, iron chains girdled, the steel talons seized, shiny adzes scraped; all clanked their symphony, punctuated by the timpani of trees crashing to the floor of the forest. As long as there was light shining unclouded from heaven’s candle did the men labor. And it was only when Arne noticed the ship of night sailing low in the sanctuary of the hawk did he blow thrice on his great horn, the signal to lay down arms.

There in the deeps of the tree-squirrel’s playground, sky’s black cloak speedily coddled the children of the axe. And the men of Arne lit fires, and shadows rose and leaped fantastically away. In the wide clearing of the axe, the men camped, and rejoiced to see stars appearing one by one, in the vault of heaven. This night they ate of their provisions and the horn-vessels overflowed with the fruits of the vine and the pollen eater.

The feasting and merrymaking were that of men well-pleased with a good days’ work, prompting the telling of tales. Exploits of the chase, of monstrous fish fought and sometimes caught from the silvery Ohnn—dubious tales common to wielders of steel of every cut of cloth—were told, retold, and embroidered, much to the amusement of the woodsmen. The night wind was cool upon the tree-warriors' necks, and the camp-fire was warm in their faces, and after some time, silence had settled among them.

As the sorrow of branches waned, and the deep ebony of night kissed the earth, there wafted to the ears of somnolent men the sound of a woman’s song, sung in loneliness on the distant precipice-altars looming far away, their peaks just visible over the tops of the tall rulers of the forest. Beautiful and haunting was that tune, though none—even the eldest of woodsmen [and he was old enough to have learned songs in languages most had forgotten]—even that graybeard could not say what the words meant. The words faded to melody, then to a keening that woke even those in the dreamworld of ale-slumber. Sharp-eyed foresters stared into the living palisade circumscribing them but could spy nothing. The wailing stopped. Unseen were the tools of poetry chanting direful sounds. Which was more unnerving—the ominous chanting or its abrupt cessation, followed by preternatural silence—each man of the saw kept to himself.

Arne posted a sentry with a great double-headed axe just beyond the glow of the firelight. Some threw down bedrolls near the man; most of the others gathered around the center of the clearing, hastening the death of the woodpile as they fed the devourer of every tree to surfeit.

[malleus-incertum]

Pars quattuor of a New Tale [wherein the company reaches the forest; and, on entering, what they encounter. Being also an entry to @flashfictionfridayofficial FFF122 Not Alone

[......continued from part 3]

@flashfictionfridayofficial FFF122 Not Alone

After several days the men had marched so far that they could hear no sounds from the town nor even the river Arne had sung about. Indeed, even the evening aureate fires of shepherds in the fields, tending their flocks, that the caravan passed from time-to-time, had faded dimmer than even the faintest stars in the vault of heaven as the company moved further North. The prolific river birch which once lorded its domain right down against the mellifluous Ohnn’s banks yielded to pleasant rural spaces, then wilder areas of scrub, for assiduous and vigorous had been the clearing of those fecund trees over the centuries since proud Gêth’s humble beginnings.

Often, now, they passed great oaks, solitary brooding giants, sentinels who had seen all manner of creatures come and go under their massive boughs. If the trees had ever beheld a spectacle such as that of Arne and his company, only those oaks knew; and their silence was that of the grave.

Now, at last one evening they had come to the threshold of the Gray forest: tree trunks stood like those massive stone columns in a Greek temple whence the Olympians of old received the tribute of mortals. They who had never been outside of timber-girthed Gêth quailed with trepidation; seeing this, Arne raised his great axe and urged his men to remember the worthy quest with which they be charged, shouting: “Tomorrow, men, to the trees, and thence our reward!” Then they all shook their axes, their adzes, knives, hooks—whatever implement they were masters of--and waved them high in the firelight, declaring war on the trees.

Nothing in the somber forest stirred or made any sound.

Uneasy was the slumber of those far from river-washed Gêth that night. For when the ebony night descended full in its mystery on the porch of the Gray forest, the campfires gave the arching trees a demoniac, leering look. A bloated reddish moon floated up out of the trees. Rising like a phantom, the night-wind sighed, passing between tree trunks, whispering and waking forest beasts, carrying penumbral birds afield to menace timorous things.

Upon this night-wind, the dreams of Arne’s men were troubled and fled South to high-walled Gêth.

All the next morning they marched, and all the evening, marking the sporadic white birch encountered for cutting; and all knew they were nearing now the deeps of the forest. For the deeps of the forest were all unknown to most of that company from water-blessed Gêth, but not unknown to those tales of dread that folk tell at evening to their friends, in the comfort and the safety of their hearths, or in the white vaulted hall of Gerard. Then night appeared with an enormous ashen moon. And the men of faraway Gêth slept. Sometimes they woke, and went to sleep again; and those that stayed awake for long and listened heard heavy two-footed creatures pad through the night on paws.

Before the dawn, as soon as it was light enough to see the path, those whose curiosity was surrogate for courage began to slip away, and went back by bands through the forest. When darkness fell, they did not stop to sleep, but continued their flight straightaway until they came to lamp-lit Gêth and added there by the tales they told to the terror of the forest. None could say or describe the terror, but all agreed they were not alone.

[malleus-incertum]

A New Tale, part the third [the company departs; a song is sung]

It was a misty dawn that saw the company of woodsmen, carpenters, teamsters, cooks [and the jacks-of-all trades yearning to see what lie beyond the birch-girdled town of Gêth], assembled near the North gate of the town. And, indeed, accustomed as townsfolk were to assemblages of watercraft, never had the good townsmen and women seen such an overland equipage. The accouterments of the woodsmen glittered in the rising sun; double-headed axes, saws with teeth a dragon might envy, clanking iron chains, grappling hooks with tridentate talons, men with huge planes, razor-edged adzes, knives and wedges too; wagons groaned under bales of fodder, barrels of pickled food; wineskins too, filled to the bursting were cunningly lashed to every conceivable stave. The men were dressed in green, russet, gray, and some even in the black sealskins common among the rivermen. The axe men wore heavy leather gauntlets, their gleaming axes hoisted aloft as they cheered one another to the great adventure. With the braying, snorting accompaniment of the draft animals, Arne hoisted the stirrup cup and toasted them good fortune. With the cup passed and drained, they marched out of the gate into the sunlight, and Arne the woodsman was before them singing.

Sinuous Ohnn wends ever on, Down from Her Home on Mountain Springs. To fishing towns and far beyond The Vision of mere mortal Things.

Her Course pursued by Skiff and Scow, Yet none have tamed Her ancient Ways. Her silver Soil frail Ships do plow, Down to the end of Days

Pursuing Her with Oar and Sail, Until She weds with Ocean’s Spray, Where many Storms and Currents rale, And wither then? Bards cannot say.

Of course, this is but a fragment of the much longer song about the river, but it is all that remains for me to tell. And, far back in history of all the poets had it been written, and none alive could remember who had written the song or, indeed, how it had come to be written. Some said that a man had wandered out of the Gray forest, stricken of sight, and that the song was his fevered death-dream. He dreamed of a hexe there, walking alone on cold mountain paths, through coniferous corridors amidst trees numerous beyond counting. She was dreadfully beautiful, though for threescore centuries had that witch walked those perilous paths and precipices. As she walked, she sang the song taught her by the sea, shedding tears of loneliness from eyes—one gray, one ice blue—inviting pleasure and death. When she sings, fountains spring from the earth; when she cries there are terrible storms on the waters; when she is angry, direwolves from the wealds go into the towns of the fisherfolk and the wise keep safe behind bolted doors by fiery hearths. When she combs her hair—and some have it black, while some say nay, it was flaxen—when she combs her hair storms fall silent and peace reigns over river, forest, and plains. She reclines along the banks of the Ohnn, warming herself in the sun after bathing, and some say even, that the water and the witch are but one and the same.

[malleus-incertum]

Pars secunda of a New Tale [wherein it is revealed the plan of Gerard and Arne]

But this talk of the woodsman and the talk of a white tower was idle prattle in their ears. They from the lands under the eaves of the great weald had no need of adventures, perils, or the tempting of things better left undisturbed and unknown. They were ever at war with hunger. Far from the watery Ohnn, a long drought or the freezes of winter were to them pitched battles. Well-fed, they were more concerned with returning to their byres and cruck houses. Being presently at truce with hunger, stars lit the sky as the simple folk lay themselves down and dreamed.

The woodsman had little time for idle dreams, even less for sleep; for lo, earlier that very morn-day of feasting had his lord Gerard called for Arne and declared: “there are many things to be planned and counsels taken, and provender gathered. Upon what day will you start for the Gray forest, and how many men and beasts are required?”

Arne had smiled inwardly, for he knew the lord was trying him. And indeed, Arne had forethought this very request and had answered: “I start on the morrow, at first good light, with a score of my best axe men, teams of drivers with carts and oxen, strong chain, rope and grapples, and ten men, highly skilled in adz-work. The steward of your house even now readies grain for the animals and victuals and drink for the men.”

And Gerard had smiled thereat, for he well knew the man’s mettle. “Bring the trees and you will be rewarded handsomely.”

Little then dreamed the woodsman of the reward he was soon to enjoy.

[malleus-incertum]

A New Tale[Being part the first of a serialization]

I had gotten an e-mail from an old friend. In it he, quoted a line, without attribution: “…then the gift of Ouroboros was bestowed and sweet forgetfulness washed and renewed him.”

This is a tale about that gift.

Along the broad river plain a race of men had, over uncounted years, built a sprawling, wooden warren of birch, hewn from the trees that grew in untamed fecundity along the banks of the River Ohnn. They say that the hall of the Lord was a vaulted, pale splendor, built entirely from the fabled white birch which grew far from the littoral, hidden in the deeps of the Gray forest. And they say, too, that the Lord’s woodsmen spoke of queer sounds and glimpses of strange animals which might be seen while in search of the white trees. And, when the Lord proclaimed feasting, when great and small gathered under the soaring white rafters, it was then that the talk of the forest’s peculiarities was most heard. And it was first murmured amongst the benches of the low, where, mingled with the fisherfolk and boatmen, might be found those of the sheepfold and the uplands, they who but rarely came to the riverbank, they who lived under the shadows of the great forest. Food, wine, music, and cozy shelter in plenty were to be had in the Lord’s hall; therein also were seated the freemen of Gêth, for so-called was the town that clustered round the Lord’s high, white house, then serendipitously stretched downriver along the Ohnn’s sinuous, plashy flanks.

If old songs can be trusted, it was a marvelous hall.

Now, it came to pass during one such feasting that Arne, head woodsman of the lord, was telling a group of shepherds of the strange and parlous encounters that befell he and his men. For it was this Arne’s duty, at his Lord’s wont, to travel into the Gray forest in search of the rare white trees. The lord of Gêth—one account has his name as Gerard; others say it Gerald—this lord of Gêth was young man of some thirty summers. Exulting in his youth, it was his desire to build a white tower in the center of Gêth from which he might gaze down upon the length and breadth of his riverine dominion. And this was not Gerard’s ambition only. For, his father, and his greatfather before him had had the same longing. And, though Gêth be blessed with fishes, wonderful red clay for the potter’s wheel, timber, fruitful soil, and an abundance of clear, clean water, granite and dragonstone were more precious even than the gold and sparkling gems the river Ohnn grudgingly offered. And though the pottery, and the wine, the skill of the rivermen, and the lapidary work of Gêth’s artisans were legendary, their monumental building was merely, and sadly, plebian. Vainly the current lord’s forbears sought substance upon which to build them up their tower; parsimonious were the lands surrounding Gêth. And so it was that in Gerard’s thirtieth year, the long labors and often fruitless quests of his ancestors had yielded them stone for a foundation of 60 quirth in height. And now the earth would yield no more.

Now you can guess why the woodsman was telling all who would hear of his adventures in the Gray forest. For, upon his head had fallen his lord’s command to fell enough of the white trees to rear the tower to the wanted height. A full five-score and ten quirth was the height the great architect and mathematician Hamals had calculated. And this Hamals was a wise and learned man, so you can be sure his calculations were sound. For the innumerate, I will tell the number. A full 50 quirth of the white birch was wanted; Arne had determined this would require a harvest of some three hundred and fourteen white birch trees. With that number, the tower might be pushed to the sky—the work of the carpenters—the gift of the pale trees, rooted in the stone foundation Gerard’s sires had builded. So vertiginous the height of the watchtower, Hamals warned clouds might drift in and out of that lofty perch; already, the potters and artists of Gêth were making plans to adorn the roof of that pale aerie with mosaic and fresco; too, glaziers were devising clever ways to shut out the clouds with leaded glass while allowing their lord an untrammeled view of the panoply below.

[end of part the first]

[malleus-incertum]

Ode to All Hallows Eve #1

In vespertine Hours when Shadows grow

Worry and dread even the Brave will know.

Armed with Vestas and Candles from the Bee

Souls sally forth from cozy Hearths to see,

Phantasms and macabre if Tales are believed.

Dare take my Hand and come thither with me?

Parlous indeed is the Path we two tread--

“Turn back ye Fools, there be Dragons ahead!”

No matter the risk, forgetting my pride

All is forgiven with you at my side.

But, wait! do you see?! [a banshee descried]!

Flickering flame lights what senses deny!

Tho’ Gramarye opened, bane Spells unleashed,

The warmth of your Hand—my courage increased.

The iron Gate of Hell, its Maw gapes wide,

Legions of Evil loosed on wild Moonride;

Our Circle of Light gives nowhere to hide!

If Death be our Fate, ‘twill be by your side.

Out of black Velvet a hideous Face,

Our Minds overwhelmed, our Hearts start to race.

What dark desires, this sepulchral Fiend,

Leering and jeering—bedighted….blue-jeaned?

“What are you dressed as?” its cackling keening

“Tom Sawyer, Becky? Well, Happy Halloween!”

[malleus-incertum]

Cold Reality

[the following autobiographical? tale being a response to @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #121]

An old VW bug driving at speed through a cornfield is an experience, to my way of thinking, one of the greatest my twenty something self could experience. I attribute my euphoria’s genesis to the many action adventure shows—mostly on TV—I was weaned on. Perhaps it was The Hunter, where bounty hunter Steve McQueen, driving a cumbersome Massey-Ferguson harvester, chases a pair of gleeful fugitives driving a Firebird [the ubiquitous, preferred car of all that era’s action/adventure flicks] through a field of grain.

No matter, the wellspring of improbable car chases through bucolic brambles, muddy morasses, and other off-road, vegetative obstacles is a well-worn trope in the genre. The experience is visceral—all the senses seduced to fever pitch by the jolting; stalks angrily thwapping the flanks of the car; the scent of dust and spent cornstalks in my nostrils; imagination soaring, catalyzed by the blood lust of sheer power unbridled. Surely this was how it felt to drive Pharaoh’s chariot, running down ancient enemies; a mounted knight a-horse armored destrier, charging through the foe’s ranks: the berserker frenzy was palpable, innate, and understood.

The exhilaration was soon spent, as all such experiences, springing as they do from primordial instincts fueled by adrenaline, are transitory, and exhausting. It is well and good that they are so; attempts to maintain such a state is ultimately destructive, diminishing transcendental to mundane at the expense of addiction that cannot be sated.

Having decisively trampled the minions of maize, I dismounted at the bluffs overlooking the river, where a knot of fellow berserkers was to be seen around a bonfire. No doubt they too were celebrating the victory over the wild; the victor’s drinking horns—in this case the horns were aluminum cans—overflowing and in every hand. I joined the fray, and never had the fruit of the barleycorn tasted as sweet.

There came a time when, filled with golden ambrosia, I decided to survey the magnificent expanse of La Belle Riviere, spread out lo those hundreds of feet below—sinuous, sleek, seductive. A susurration was in my ears, beckoning me come close…closer, and see. I followed the whispered suggestion without hesitation, until I stood at the very edge of the precipice.

Silver light from a gibbous moon sparkled on the ebony water. No barge traffic or pleasure craft marred that black mirror, and the tranquility of the water was in sharp contrast to the roistering frolic behind me. The night was deliciously warm, a serotinal evening of perfection and pleasure.

The insouciant cocoon of sensual delight wrapped around me was transitory, as lo! Xanadu’s pleasure dome came crashing down. The innocuous butte, that pleasant promontory from which I peered into the black mirror below suddenly reared minatory, then perfidious, as the ground beneath my feet collapsed, tumbling in a vertiginous cascade to the placid mirror below. Gravity and fear were my bane companions, the slow-motion start of the plunge marked by ambisinister attempts to grab at anything of substance.

One final flail remaining ere the plunge to the abyss. I worried that my impact might roil that perfect silver and black mirror for others. Concurrent with the flail, a metallic cupric taste was in my mouth, the taste of utter fear, fitting on this night of things primordial.

I was falling arcing back, back into the black velvet of the night, constellations rolling overhead, and I felt something hard and rough, yet warm and reassuring, in my hands. Then blackness.

It was impossible for a body to be cold on that perfect summer evening, so I knew that I must be in the arms of the Valkyrie, being borne to whatever Valhalla a twenty-two-year-old man acting on impulsive desires was destined to inhabit. I remembered Achilles’ loathing of the underworld and hoped wherever I was wouldn’t be quite as bad as the Hades of the Greeks.

I opened my eyes, not sure what fresh Hell to expect [thanks, DP]. My clenched fists were cold, as was every part of my body, cold as the stars still overhead. As distant as they were was the tinny, incessant sound in my ears. It grew more strident and louder. I rolled my head in the direction of the source and saw my friend Tom standing next to me. I was stretched out near the fire, and for the life [for it was becoming apparent with each passing moment I was, indeed, alive] of me, I couldn’t understand why I was so cold.

“S, you fuckin’ idiot, what the hell were you trying to do there?”

I must be alive, I could hear him talking. “Dunno, I was just looking down at the river when the ground gave way and I was falling. I don’t recall much after that…”

“You were lucky, man. I happened to see you over there. Drunk and standing on the edge of a cliff ain’t too smart. When you fell, I ran, and just as you grabbed a branch growing out of the cliff, I was able to grab your arm. You hit your head and were out cold. We thought you were dead for a minute. You’re lucky.”

And so, I was. What had started out as a romanticized adventure—in my mind anyway—dissolved into what it really was. A drive through a cornfield to a party, resulting, as these things sometimes do, in a near-miss with the real consequences of adventure. But then again, isn’t that what makes life worth living?

And, these many years later, I like to think that escaping Charon before he got me across Acheron and Styx made me savor Life just that much more. Now pardon me, I see a windmill over there……

[malleus-incertum]

Elegiac Essay

All this Talk of Goodbye

Makes me sad and cry.

Until the ultimate Time draws Nigh

All Elegies, albeit elegant, I deny.

……and why?

Lyric-wrought Image usurps Mind’s-eye,

Imagined Shadow, dimly descried.

Though Bodies fail and Flesh subsides,

Imagination’s eternal Truth yet flies.

“That is not dead which can eternal lie,”

O, what grand Adventure awaits when even Death dies?

[malleus-incertum]

The greater Horror

Not Death—the cruel Knowledge

We are forgotten

[malleus-incertum]

Leap the Elk and Little Princess Cottongrass

https://wonderlit.com/leap-the-elk-and-little-princess-cottongrass/

[malleus-incertum]

“And then she lay on a little green patch in the midst of the gloomy thick wood”.

[malleus-incertum]

Yonder Hills

In bygone Days of Yore

Yonder Hills would beckon,

To trod where none had gone before

An irresistible Urge, I’d reckon.

Far from safe, parochial Haunts,

Away from prying Eyes,

Viewing all of Nature’s Flaunts

At every Turn, Surprise.

Odysseus’ Siren Song in our Ears redounds

The Lure and Thrill of the Unknown

Curiosity ‘tis true, knows no bounds

In the unending search for Carcassonne

From Camelot’s questing Heroes

All clad in scaly Mail,

To Gatsby’s longing, loving Throes

Green lighted yet doomed to fail.

Oft’ is the bitter Truth, at Journey’s End revealed:

Joy is found in the Search, the having less doth yield.

[malleus-incertum]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[malleus-incertum]

Yonder Hills

In bygone Days of Yore

Yonder Hills would beckon,

To trod where none had gone before

An irresistible Urge, I’d reckon.

Far from safe, parochial Haunts,

Away from prying Eyes,

Viewing all of Nature’s Flaunts

At every Turn, Surprise.

Odysseus’ Siren Song in our Ears redounds

The Lure and Thrill of the Unknown

Curiosity ‘tis true, knows no bounds

In the unending search for Carcassonne

From Camelot’s questing Heroes

All clad in scaly Mail,

To Gatsby’s longing, loving Throes

Green lighted yet doomed to fail.

Oft’ is the bitter Truth, at Journey’s End revealed:

Joy is found in the Search, the having less doth yield.