The Swallowed
A deep bank Opaque and solid yet untouchable Stretches out over the plain. Hiding within, Two-score warriors Wearing bows and fur Eyes alit waiting Watching Straining For a sound of the snuffling pig Or rabbit, Oryx or deer.
Arrows not yet notched These hunters -farmers- Know nothing else But the silken vapour surrounding everything. The sun has not burnt off the frost in years. Sun has forsaken them. It does not heed their cries. The people hunger And eat they must Forcing these bright marks Armed and determined To be swallowed By grey danger.
The whiteness that creeps and rushes, Swirls, misleads and conceals. They have wandered for miles, More than the fog itself ever dared Yet still, they are covered in it’s sticky grasp.
A movement Over there! Quickly ready the bows. Life expectancy too short Not to take every opportunity. The front scouts stumble down a sharp decline But the arrow strikes true, The Bowman focused in on potential food A single squark Cut short by whistled arrow; A Raven’s death. Bitter disappointment. As if the key to a foreign land, The fog thins in front of them And rising from the ground large stones appear Like dull teeth. What god must have committed These megaliths cease their slumber And stand tall? Under a weak light they still glitter like a reflection of the sun.
Half in wonder Half in fear The troupe crosses. Noting the bank and the ditch the scouts fell upon. Foreboding and set to guard. Not a welcome, but a trap For whatever is or was within. In their soundless dampened swathe, The fourty have forgotten their words But even with eloquence, The Stones demand a reverence That speech could not guarantee.
With hushed looks They venture in. Swarm the circle and breathe their wonder Such a marvel requires its due. They leave all they can spare. Rabbits feet, and charms of bone and broken pins (the gods appreciate a gift well used) Buried at central points.
As quick as they came The explorers melt away. Thinking of home With a fear they have forgot the way. What direction, all spilling white Do they take? What path brings comfort and family? They know not any more. The fog stole all.
Yet still they slink Away from the fog’s-eye ring Over the chalk white bank One by one they stole Until the Bowman. Picks up his unfortunate prize Intent on retrieving the instrument That caused the corvid’s demise. Absentminded, He tugs and crosses the boundary also. Mindless of the shadows lengthening Behind him where there had been light.
In less time it would take to shout Or warn, People shadows resolve Where they had not been minutes before Within the circle. As the Bowman’s foot touches down On the highest point So do the arrows rain. You cannot take from the stones, Only give. That is the way of things. That is their silent demand. And so he does. The company scatter. All intent on home-finding in different directions. Mourning their abandoned mate And their own swift departure. So The Bowman Lies sprawled. Back riddled With ghostly arrows. Dead before he hits The bottom of the ditch That will swallow him. Surrounded by the fog That swallowed them all. Slowly unseeing Thin tendrils As his mind goes cold So his view clears through the vapour like a lens. Outside the slick fingers of the damp Fog’s bounds Layers on the centuries: Abandoned carriages in snow, sick fear and frozen limbs; Soldiers on horseback, parade ground and target practice; He sees the lights of the cars blinding like the fire’s heart; Metallic beasts fly overhead like nightmarish birds; The sky weeps as if the dawn comes too early where the light pollution sticks to the edges. This he sees.
His fellows never make it home. The fog keeps its secrets well. It will never tell How the past and current converge Separated barely Behind a light-reflecting Earth-kisser of a cloud. Awaiting one glassy eye To peel back the layers And claim deathless witness.