To you I cry, oh dark and dismal lord
On this, the eve of which I do depart
To cross through burning sand and frozen fjord
A journey dawned despondent from the start
But still I press and still I hope that soon
As stars above and stars below do shine
Your grace, my lord, bestowed and fears are strewn
Upon the earth while eager dreams align
If long await or fast distressed I lie
In dark and dread, forsworn, my faith deceived
To you, my lord, through frozen fjord I pry
Your grip from mind and dreams you left bereaved
To you I cry, though heart and soul begone
From chest and mind, my faith I find, withdrawn
The men were awash in deep despair as dying screams and thunderous explosions sang out around them. The sinister symphony of war traced in their minds images of their own imminent demise, and the faint comfort of their thus-far prolonged destruction was quickly waning.
Every minute, according to Captain Morren's reckoning, a stray arrow would find its way into the temporarily undiscovered, makeshift bunker the small platoon had fashioned out of debris and collapsed war machines. The brittle, wooden walls were often enough to shield the broken warriors, but each had to position themselves in such a way as to avoid the gaps and cracks, least the dwindling numbers dwindled further.
The captain couldn't help but recall the earlier days of the war, days when he couldn't find a sad or disgruntled face amongst his men no matter how far or long he had searched. Truly, he could have afforded to search far and long in those days, for then his platoon was hundreds of men strong. Now only a handful of soldiers sat before his eyes, and not a single one appeared happy or hopeful. Not a single one had any reason to appear happy or hopeful, the captain knew.
He and his men were initially part of a larger company, though where the other squads had gone to now the captain could not say. In an attempt to flank the enemy and decisively win an integral battle, the captain had convinced his peers to deter from their commanding officer's orders.
Unfortunately, the enemy was well prepared for such maneuvers, aided in part by what the captain believed to be faulty intelligence. As far as the captain knew, only he and the men before him survived the skirmish.
“You,” the captain said, gesturing towards a man solemnly handling a lute. His face was painted with dirt and blood, and for a second the captain wondered if music could come from such a broken soul. “Play us a tune, will you?” His voice was gruff and lacked any enthusiasm. He did not intend to rile his men, for far past was time for inspiration.
Almost as if to disprove the captain's earlier judgments, the musician began to play the oddest of tunes given the predicament:
“Today we march, today we fight, Today we tread to spread the light, Today with hope, today with pride, Today embark, the dark denied,
Today we fight and rightly then, Tomorrow I see my love again.”
The lyrical dissonance the song created almost caused the captain to burst out in laughter. Waiting for the song's second verse, which oddly had not yet been played, the captain turned his head towards the lutanist.
The faint laughter welling within the captain died along with the young musician, his heart pierced with an arrow, blood pooling over the lute to which he lifelessly clung. As enemy shouts replaced the lovely tune hanging in the ashy air, the captained unsheathed his exhausted sword and laughed anyway.
It is upon this bleak Wednesday night that I have taken pen to paper for the first time in far too long a while with a simple, noble goal. This is a letter - nay! This is a warning - a cautionary tale, perhaps - to all who partake in that which is unholy by laws of reason and rationale; those who, day after day, commit a sin of unfathomable incontinence and dare shake fist at fate with equally unfathomable hubris.
* * * * *
“Do you not see it?” I asked him, “do you not see what foul a creature, what abominable thing you become with each indulgence? Once you let flow the vilest of vicious concoctions - the wretched, wicked brew you have come to call friend as old friends become foe - you cease to embody a humanly form!” At this he scoffed and began to walk away.
“Contortions and convulsions need not submit during this impure transformation!” I yelled to him, “it works its magic quite well without their aid!” Again, he scoffed and continued his flight from my words - his flight from the truth! How easy it would have been to of rid the world of this evil then and there with his back turned, almost as if he - if it! - was asking to be saved…to be cleansed…
“Before beholder with smoke and mirror, or perhaps with slight of hand you don the demon’s mantle and slither away into the night to perform your evil deeds.” It was at this, this sentence I had stated so calmly and coldly, that he stopped, his interest somewhat peaked.
“I follow you from time to time,” I continued, speaking with breath as heavy as conscience “though the darkness is more akin to you than I, and it often warns you of my hunt.” To this he scoffed not, and a twisted look of deviously crafted bewilderment came upon his face. With a sly grin he simply replied: “I have no idea of what you say, good sir.” With that, he left the room.
But as I had so foolishly confessed not moments before (this I say in sad retrospect), I proceeded to follow him outside and around a corner and into a nearby alleyway. Dark as the gate of hell - for my memory it may have been! - I crept into the brick-enclosed corridor, ever vigilant, for I knew this creature well. I knew what it was capable of.
“I see you there, poised and ready to strike!” I said, jabbing my lantern towards the blackest of corners. Nothing.
“Around each corner you wait; you wait for me and me alone. You wait in secrecy and shadow, jowls eager for my flesh!” Again, I shined my light into yet another corner. Again, nothing.
“I may sound mad to you now, but hear the truth in my words! Under its spell you cannot recall these horrible nights. Please, friend, the day runs quick. Reveal yourself before it is too late!” A rustling ringing - a calamitous cacophony strung from the harps of hell - came from behind a copse of trashcans and scattered cardboard boxes strewn not far from where I was ever vigilantly standing.
Tentatively - ever so tentatively - I began motioning towards the noise. I raised my lantern defensively, though I know not why. This creature was not beset by light; it was no mere creation of wives’ tales and myth. But defensively I raised my lantern none the less, moving ever so tentatively towards the disturbance.
And oh! nearly my heart skipped not one but two beats, for out sprung a feline like no other I had ever seen. Maliciously mangy to its very core, this cat most surely was a thing of evil; a pet or familiar of the demon itself! I reached into the folds under my jacket and produced a pistol. Mercifully I relieved the poor creature from further servitude to such a terribly tragic, horribly harrowing fate. After disposing of the feline’s body in one of the very trashcans it so surprisingly appeared from only moments ago, I put my weapon away and began to turn back towards the familiar light of a streetlamp; towards home.
But there he stood! There it stood! A sinister silhouette preventing my flight; I took a step back, and peered into the expanding, previously unexamined alleyway behind me. It ended at a solid, straight, brick wall. The wall blocked all escape and, with that, all hope as well.
Before me he carried not a knife nor any other earthly weapon, for he was no longer of the earth. He was of the underworld - a demon - and I dared as to only guess which circle it is he called his hellish home.
Perhaps the second, I thought then in the infinite pocket of time known as fear, for he could never seem to control the demon’s urges when not in this ghastly form. He regularly ravaged *****s with eager eyes and threw inhibitions into the flames this very demon crawls out of every night. He embraced those which he would shun once daylight comes, once he regained a trace of dignity. “Tell me, demon, is your heart weary of ill-tempered tempest? Are you the friend of Achilles?” No response came. Only the heavy breathing of a demon’s seething breath.
Within that infinite pocket of time known as fear, I began to suppose, upon further reflection, that it could have been the third circle. Yes, yes! I could see it so plainly then: upon his back he lie, frozen and under the gaze of six watchful eyes. “Your corrupt cravings have bought you only pain and sorrow, haven’t they oh demon of demons? Every day, whilst you return to slumber and grant pittance to the poor soul you embody, you return to the third circle of hell. I am right, aren’t I?” The beastly breathing continued.
No. No, I could see the folly of my guesses then, and truly they were but guesses. I had not entered the maw of madness without a lantern and a pistol, after all; surely I was capable of far more than mere stabs in the dark. I required logic to defeat the illogical; reason to defeat the unreasonable; rationale to defeat the irrational.
The demon flinched not at my previous theories; they could not have been correct. The second circle was not for him. Its leathery wings - foul creations they were - would grant him shelter from the piercing winds; he would laugh and scoff at such a punishment, just as it had scoffed earlier to my pleas. The second circle would not nearly have been enough.
Likewise, his blood was far colder than any hail or freezing rain the powers of the third circle could conjure. Such a punishment would not have been fitting for a demon of his stature. No, the third would not have done either, I reasoned; “The third is not cold enough, is it?” I genuinely questioned - merely mumbled - almost unknowingly to myself. At this the breathing paused.
Not cold enough! The ninth circle! The last circle! “The final circle of hell is your home, isn’t it, demon?” The rhythm remained disturbed.
“You spend your days entrenched up to neck in frost and fright. Oh, please demon, please tell me I am right.” The rhythm remained disturbed.
“Tell me, oh great demon, how is Caina this time of year?” I said, “I am told Cocytus is ripe for ice fishing!” At this even I could not choke back a smile. The demon roared its head back; a loathsome laugh at my futile jibes.
Though I could not read its mind, I can tell you now of what the demon was thinking: Here, I, such a simple mortal, dared to challenge and insult - insult! - a demon of the ninth circle, whilst myself trapped in the gates of hell. Truly I was done for, if not for the demon’s sluggish, spiteful, loathsome laugh.
Within the infinite pocket of time known as fear, I produced my faithful pistol. Before the demon could react - before it could comprehend its fate - I had plunged a bullet into its brain, ceasing its tyranny upon this earth once and for all. Not so much as a moment’s thought preceded my actions nor had they conceded to the after. My work had been done as quickly as that.
But what perturbed me most - what led to writing this now - was what the demon left upon its face. A smile! A sullen smile. A smile of victory. A smile of deceit. Why did this demon smile? It had lost. I had won. Why did this demon smile even in death? Through the long walk home, back through the gates of hell, I pondered why - I wondered how - this demon could be smiling. As the sun broke the horizon, it dawned on me.
Local lore tells of a madman, a killer, who preys on the drunken and helpless - the sunken and hapless - young men who dare to journey home alone at night. When he is done with their bodies he discards of them into a river. Upon a tree he draws a foul face; a spiteful smile - a taunting, vile, tainted smile. I saw it then, within my mind, at the gates of hell! Painted on this demon’s face a sullen smile as if on a tree. Am I any different than he? Between us is there a we or am I just me?
To you I cry, oh dark and dismal lord
On this, the eve of which I do depart
To cross through burning sand and frozen fjord
A journey dawned despondent from the start
But still I press and still I hope that soon
As stars above and stars below do shine
Your grace, my lord, bestowed and fears are strewn
Upon the earth while eager dreams align
If long await or fast distressed I lie
In dark and dread, forsworn, my faith deceived
To you, my lord, through frozen fjord I pry
Your grip from mind and dreams you left bereaved
To you I cry, though heart and soul begone
From chest and mind, my faith I find, withdrawn
The men were awash in deep despair as dying screams and thunderous explosions sang out around them. The sinister symphony of war traced in their minds images of their own imminent demise, and the faint comfort of their thus-far prolonged destruction was quickly waning.
Every minute, according to Captain Morren's reckoning, a stray arrow would find its way into the temporarily undiscovered, makeshift bunker the small platoon had fashioned out of debris and collapsed war machines. The brittle, wooden walls were often enough to shield the broken warriors, but each had to position themselves in such a way as to avoid the gaps and cracks, least the dwindling numbers dwindled further.
The captain couldn't help but recall the earlier days of the war, days when he couldn't find a sad or disgruntled face amongst his men no matter how far or long he had searched. Truly, he could have afforded to search far and long in those days, for then his platoon was hundreds of men strong. Now only a handful of soldiers sat before his eyes, and not a single one appeared happy or hopeful. Not a single one had any reason to appear happy or hopeful, the captain knew.
He and his men were initially part of a larger company, though where the other squads had gone to now the captain could not say. In an attempt to flank the enemy and decisively win an integral battle, the captain had convinced his peers to deter from their commanding officer's orders.
Unfortunately, the enemy was well prepared for such maneuvers, aided in part by what the captain believed to be faulty intelligence. As far as the captain knew, only he and the men before him survived the skirmish.
“You,” the captain said, gesturing towards a man solemnly handling a lute. His face was painted with dirt and blood, and for a second the captain wondered if music could come from such a broken soul. “Play us a tune, will you?” His voice was gruff and lacked any enthusiasm. He did not intend to rile his men, for far past was time for inspiration.
Almost as if to disprove the captain's earlier judgments, the musician began to play the oddest of tunes given the predicament:
“Today we march, today we fight,
Today we tread to spread the light,
Today with hope, today with pride,
Today embark, the dark denied,
Today we fight and rightly then,
Tomorrow I see my love again.”
The lyrical dissonance the song created almost caused the captain to burst out in laughter. Waiting for the song's second verse, which oddly had not yet been played, the captain turned his head towards the lutanist.
The faint laughter welling within the captain died along with the young musician, his heart pierced with an arrow, blood pooling over the lute to which he lifelessly clung. As enemy shouts replaced the lovely tune hanging in the ashy air, the captained unsheathed his exhausted sword and laughed anyway.
It is upon this bleak Wednesday night that I have taken pen to paper for the first time in far too long a while with a simple, noble goal. This is a letter - nay! This is a warning - a cautionary tale, perhaps - to all who partake in that which is unholy by laws of reason and rationale; those who, day after day, commit a sin of unfathomable incontinence and dare shake fist at fate with equally unfathomable hubris.
* * * * *
“Do you not see it?” I asked him, “do you not see what foul a creature, what abominable thing you become with each indulgence? Once you let flow the vilest of vicious concoctions - the wretched, wicked brew you have come to call friend as old friends become foe - you cease to embody a humanly form!” At this he scoffed and began to walk away.
“Contortions and convulsions need not submit during this impure transformation!” I yelled to him, “it works its magic quite well without their aid!” Again, he scoffed and continued his flight from my words - his flight from the truth! How easy it would have been to of rid the world of this evil then and there with his back turned, almost as if he - if it! - was asking to be saved…to be cleansed…
“Before beholder with smoke and mirror, or perhaps with slight of hand you don the demon’s mantle and slither away into the night to perform your evil deeds.” It was at this, this sentence I had stated so calmly and coldly, that he stopped, his interest somewhat peaked.
“I follow you from time to time,” I continued, speaking with breath as heavy as conscience “though the darkness is more akin to you than I, and it often warns you of my hunt.” To this he scoffed not, and a twisted look of deviously crafted bewilderment came upon his face. With a sly grin he simply replied: “I have no idea of what you say, good sir.” With that, he left the room.
But as I had so foolishly confessed not moments before (this I say in sad retrospect), I proceeded to follow him outside and around a corner and into a nearby alleyway. Dark as the gate of hell - for my memory it may have been! - I crept into the brick-enclosed corridor, ever vigilant, for I knew this creature well. I knew what it was capable of.
“I see you there, poised and ready to strike!” I said, jabbing my lantern towards the blackest of corners. Nothing.
“Around each corner you wait; you wait for me and me alone. You wait in secrecy and shadow, jowls eager for my flesh!” Again, I shined my light into yet another corner. Again, nothing.
“I may sound mad to you now, but hear the truth in my words! Under its spell you cannot recall these horrible nights. Please, friend, the day runs quick. Reveal yourself before it is too late!” A rustling ringing - a calamitous cacophony strung from the harps of hell - came from behind a copse of trashcans and scattered cardboard boxes strewn not far from where I was ever vigilantly standing.
Tentatively - ever so tentatively - I began motioning towards the noise. I raised my lantern defensively, though I know not why. This creature was not beset by light; it was no mere creation of wives’ tales and myth. But defensively I raised my lantern none the less, moving ever so tentatively towards the disturbance.
And oh! nearly my heart skipped not one but two beats, for out sprung a feline like no other I had ever seen. Maliciously mangy to its very core, this cat most surely was a thing of evil; a pet or familiar of the demon itself! I reached into the folds under my jacket and produced a pistol. Mercifully I relieved the poor creature from further servitude to such a terribly tragic, horribly harrowing fate. After disposing of the feline’s body in one of the very trashcans it so surprisingly appeared from only moments ago, I put my weapon away and began to turn back towards the familiar light of a streetlamp; towards home.
But there he stood! There it stood! A sinister silhouette preventing my flight; I took a step back, and peered into the expanding, previously unexamined alleyway behind me. It ended at a solid, straight, brick wall. The wall blocked all escape and, with that, all hope as well.
Before me he carried not a knife nor any other earthly weapon, for he was no longer of the earth. He was of the underworld - a demon - and I dared as to only guess which circle it is he called his hellish home.
Perhaps the second, I thought then in the infinite pocket of time known as fear, for he could never seem to control the demon’s urges when not in this ghastly form. He regularly ravaged *****s with eager eyes and threw inhibitions into the flames this very demon crawls out of every night. He embraced those which he would shun once daylight comes, once he regained a trace of dignity. “Tell me, demon, is your heart weary of ill-tempered tempest? Are you the friend of Achilles?” No response came. Only the heavy breathing of a demon’s seething breath.
Within that infinite pocket of time known as fear, I began to suppose, upon further reflection, that it could have been the third circle. Yes, yes! I could see it so plainly then: upon his back he lie, frozen and under the gaze of six watchful eyes. “Your corrupt cravings have bought you only pain and sorrow, haven’t they oh demon of demons? Every day, whilst you return to slumber and grant pittance to the poor soul you embody, you return to the third circle of hell. I am right, aren’t I?” The beastly breathing continued.
No. No, I could see the folly of my guesses then, and truly they were but guesses. I had not entered the maw of madness without a lantern and a pistol, after all; surely I was capable of far more than mere stabs in the dark. I required logic to defeat the illogical; reason to defeat the unreasonable; rationale to defeat the irrational.
The demon flinched not at my previous theories; they could not have been correct. The second circle was not for him. Its leathery wings - foul creations they were - would grant him shelter from the piercing winds; he would laugh and scoff at such a punishment, just as it had scoffed earlier to my pleas. The second circle would not nearly have been enough.
Likewise, his blood was far colder than any hail or freezing rain the powers of the third circle could conjure. Such a punishment would not have been fitting for a demon of his stature. No, the third would not have done either, I reasoned; “The third is not cold enough, is it?” I genuinely questioned - merely mumbled - almost unknowingly to myself. At this the breathing paused.
Not cold enough! The ninth circle! The last circle! “The final circle of hell is your home, isn’t it, demon?” The rhythm remained disturbed.
“You spend your days entrenched up to neck in frost and fright. Oh, please demon, please tell me I am right.” The rhythm remained disturbed.
“Tell me, oh great demon, how is Caina this time of year?” I said, “I am told Cocytus is ripe for ice fishing!” At this even I could not choke back a smile. The demon roared its head back; a loathsome laugh at my futile jibes.
Though I could not read its mind, I can tell you now of what the demon was thinking: Here, I, such a simple mortal, dared to challenge and insult - insult! - a demon of the ninth circle, whilst myself trapped in the gates of hell. Truly I was done for, if not for the demon’s sluggish, spiteful, loathsome laugh.
Within the infinite pocket of time known as fear, I produced my faithful pistol. Before the demon could react - before it could comprehend its fate - I had plunged a bullet into its brain, ceasing its tyranny upon this earth once and for all. Not so much as a moment’s thought preceded my actions nor had they conceded to the after. My work had been done as quickly as that.
But what perturbed me most - what led to writing this now - was what the demon left upon its face. A smile! A sullen smile. A smile of victory. A smile of deceit. Why did this demon smile? It had lost. I had won. Why did this demon smile even in death? Through the long walk home, back through the gates of hell, I pondered why - I wondered how - this demon could be smiling. As the sun broke the horizon, it dawned on me.
Local lore tells of a madman, a killer, who preys on the drunken and helpless - the sunken and hapless - young men who dare to journey home alone at night. When he is done with their bodies he discards of them into a river. Upon a tree he draws a foul face; a spiteful smile - a taunting, vile, tainted smile. I saw it then, within my mind, at the gates of hell! Painted on this demon’s face a sullen smile as if on a tree. Am I any different than he? Between us is there a we or am I just me?
Open ended; broken handed
I take pen to paper
To shed wool over eager eyes
Broken under; torn asunder
Your hopes to uncover
The shepherd's shears amongst the lies
Rainbows of a child's delight,
Roses of red and white,
Intentions of the Titans' might,
Clouds along dawn's new light
Youthful hearts and two lovers shy,
Sands of time passing by,
The might of man we must deny,
Though you will not know why
This shepherd's words decipher not
Notions worthy of valued thought