{"sf1_id":1716344,"sf2_id":"Vm2PDj1x","title":"Ragnarok - IX","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":2168,"posted_at":"2021-05-09T17:40:00.000Z","tags":["Epic","Iambic pentameter","Poetry","blank verse"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1716344-ragnarok-ix","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/Vm2PDj1x","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/6a/06/6a06286b-1f24-45e6-bad2-bbe2d8a7f511","description":"#10 of Ragnarok\n\nShane is introduced to some of the inhabitants of this world, the Witchfolk, and hears disquieting rumors which leave him unsure.","content":"Somewhere dusk was settling. The air\n\nWas stirring gently as one sleep deprived\n\nWhose body yearns so much to dream that it\n\nRebels, and tries to slumber standing up\n\nWhenever and wherever mind and will\n\nRelax their vigilance. It moved the grass\n\nUpon the hills as tides roll through the weed\n\nIn rocky coastal crevices, then sank\n\nSo grass and leaves grew still, then with a start\n\nIt woke again to glide across the plain.\n\nSomewhere sun was setting. All the air\n\nWas turning gold translucent, like the film\n\nOf antique movies all in shades of brown\n\nAs if shot through a lens of topaz carved.\n\nSomewhere night was coming. Ere it came,\n\nVarr knew they would need shelter, lest the ash\n\nDestroyers, overcome so easily\n\nIn daylight, should upon them chance at night\n\nWith strength and stealth and cunning multiplied\n\nBy darkness, as a sponge with water swollen.\n\nHe was only a moment's time away\n\nFrom speaking, when the refugees they led\n\nAll stopped at some sign silent. One of them--\n\nA beldame matronly--had raised her hand\n\nAnd all the folk watched her as soldiers do\n\nWhen all their orders are but half pronounced.\n\nShe stood not to her full height, but she stooped\n\nAs if with long attention on some craft,\n\nOr if with weight around her shoulders hung\n\nAs if she carried iron ingots strung\n\nBeneath her many shawls and petticoats\n\nInstead of only beads of colored glass.\n\nHer gown was patterned like a circus tent\n\nInverted or rotated in fragments\n\nSo that the bands of color twisted round\n\nInto a geometric tangle. In\n\nHer auburn hair, she wore a feather tucked\n\nBehind her ear, and chains and braided charms.\u0026nbsp;\n\nShe nodded at a boy and girl. \"Go fetch,\"\n\nShe said, \"a willow switch, no longer than\n\nThe space between your finger and your thumb,\n\nPeel back the bark, and then fill full your bowl\n\nAt yonder stream. Come swiftly back to me,\n\nAnd go with wariness. Do not assume\n\nThat champions like these grow on the trees.\"\n\nVarr looked askance, but Shane laughed and he said,\n\n\"Caution is good. A guard is better. I\n\nWill go with you, children, and watch your task.\n\nThose that would offer harm must go through me.\"\n\n\"Go then!\" the lady said, and smiled. They passed\n\nThrough screens of tangled brush that by degrees\n\nConcealed the pilgrim band, so that they saw\n\nDecreasing fragments of the scene they left\n\nEclipsed by autumn-fading yellowed green.\n\nDown underneath a canopy of brush\n\nBetween two almost-cliffs that it had carved\n\nWith weight of water and slow years from clay\n\nSo that a careless touch could smash the work\n\nOf ages, lay a secret stream. The sky\n\nThat showed above between the treetops shone\n\nIn perfect congruence. It reflected\n\nThe shape of waters that reflected hue\n\nFrom it, except where willow fronds,\n\nStill clinging to their summer stoplight green\n\nWhere the long leaves had their roots in the bough,\n\nTrailed down into the ripples. There the boy\n\nHis pocketknife between his teeth, scrambled\n\nOnto the listing trunk and disappeared\n\nAmong the leaves. The girl regarded Shane\n\nWith solemn curiosity as she\n\nImmersed one corner of a wooden bowl,\n\nWith bluebells and with oak leaves painted, in\n\nThe stream, like one who stoops to pan for gold\n\nIn pantomime or some ceremony\n\nUnconscious. Shane returned her look, like one\n\nAddressed in tongues he does not know, and she\n\nAsked him, \"Are you not cold? The autumn air\n\nCannot be kind to one so lightly dressed.\n\nMy grandmother, who sent us, can lend you\n\nA cloak or tunic, an you need but ask.\"\n\nShane blinked. \"I am not cold. I had not thought\n\nUpon the weather. I do feel coolness\n\nUpon the air, like scent of distant rain,\n\nBut I can feel no chill from it,\" he said.\n\n\"I had forgot,\" the girl replied, her bowl\n\nNow brimming full, \"that you would be of those\n\nWho have gone through your graves to arrive here.\n\nPerhaps the cold cannot sting you, or numb\n\nThe corners of your face as it does me.\"\n\nThe boxer said in puzzlement, \"Then you,\n\nYou are not dead, as I was told I was?\n\nYou live yet, and came to this place alive?\n\nDo you then know a way one could return?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Doubt not that you have died, warrior,\n\nThough whether you are dead I cannot say.\n\nMy grandmother told me how such as you\n\nWill wake amnesiac to wander here,\n\nWill like the angels neither breed nor age,\n\nWill wait like plasters until battle comes,\n\nAnd how could they do thus, had they not died?\n\nBut once she foretold one like you, I think,\n\nWho will salvation be from sulfur dread,\n\nAnd if it was you, you need worry not.\n\nFor you death works two ways, if but you choose.\"\n\nAnd more she might have said, as earnestly\n\nAnd casually as one remarks upon\n\nThe possibility that it will rain\n\nHad not the boy dropped from the rustling leaves,\n\nA bare twig in his hand, and scowled at her.\n\n\"Heed not my sister, sir,\" he sulked, \"she speaks\n\nThings not for ears of outsiders. They wait\n\nFor us, and night waits not for them.\n\nWe may have miles to go before we sleep.\"\n\nSo they returned: the boxer sore confused\n\nAt his demise discussed so casually,\n\nA willow twig bare to the green-white wood\n\nClutched in one fist, the girl abashed, the boy\n\nFrightened and angry at he told not what\n\nSo that he would not suffer his sister\n\nShould help him bear the bowl up the steep bank\n\nThough nigh it came to spilling more than once.\n\nThe lady took the bowl with thanks. She raised\n\nThe green wand to her lips, and whispered low\n\nSomething sibilant and warm sounding: though\n\nShane did not catch the words, the murmur felt\n\nLike spring and budding leaves. She set the twig,\n\nNow leaking sticky sap, to float upon\n\nThe trembling water's surface. As all watched,\n\nIt swung round slowly; first clockwise, then back,\n\nThen back again, as does a compass waved\n\nSuddenly round that gropes for north again.\n\nThen it was still, quivering, like the coils\n\nThat burn electric vibrations within\n\nThe antique heater your grandmother had.\n\nThe lady smiled, though suddenly she seemed\n\nBoth tired and out of breath. \"Yonder,\" she said,\n\n\"Not far beyond these hills our haven lies.\n\nYonder our beds tonight. Yonder safety.\n\nLet all make haste, before the day is gone!\"\n\nThe refugees as one hoisted their packs\n\nAnd set off where the wand had pointed, save\n\nThe boy who cut it. First he went to help\n\nThe lady, who seemed now to need a prop\n\nAnd followed on his arm as on a cane.\n\nShane stood dumbfounded, mind incapable\n\nOf swallowing what eyes reported. Though\n\nHe had strange things seen, none had been so plain\n\nAnd obviously otherworldly yet.\n\nVarr shook him by the shoulder. \"Brother, wake!\n\nWe must not fall behind. The night is nigh.\n\nIf come the Soot again, these folk will need\n\nYour fist more than they did this morning! Come!\"\n\nShane shook his head, as does a dog who gains\n\nThe shore and shakes the water from his ears,\n\nAnd cried incredulous, \"What are these folk?\n\nWho know how we are dead, yet have not died?\n\nWho speak of secrets and who whisper sooth?\n\nWho complicated wonders work as if\n\nIt were no remarkable than to\n\nSweep up the dusty floor or boil an egg?\"\n\nThey followed rearmost in the failing light,\n\nAnd as they made their way, Varr thus explained:\n\n\"These are the Witchfolk. Ever were they here.\n\nBefore the first of us awoke, they dwelt\n\nAmidst the forest fastness, in the glades,\n\nDeep in the mazy thickets where the paths\n\nShift when you are not looking, to confuse\n\nAnd deflect the chance visitor. No more\n\nThan half a month together they would stay\n\nIn the same place, but ever on the move\n\nThey would through copses steal in twilight's cloak\n\nTo yet another secret haunt. They take\n\nNot kindly toward strangers. Not well known\n\nTheir hospitality was. Those who strayed\n\nThe wrong way on patrol might disappear\n\nTo surface several seasons later on\n\nWith three days growth of hair upon their cheek\n\nAnd memories no firmer than a dream.\n\nBut now, it seems we're good for more than sport.\n\nFor now, I guess, they have another foe\n\nMore hated and more puissant against\n\nTheir charms and half-fogs. If they ask our help,\n\nI willingly will give: I hate their foes\n\nMore than they fear their foes, more than they scorned\n\nThose whom they tricked, more than I love my pride.\n\nBut I will not entrust my life or hate\n\nTo such as these, who hide behind dead leaves,\n\nWho fight with shadows and illusioncraft,\n\nWhose very nature is to run away.\n\nI trust not such. If you count worth my word,\n\nDo likewise, brother.\" Shane frowned, and he said,\n\n\"I would I could be as aloof as you,\n\nBut something they let slip, that sounded like\n\nThe echo of the answers to my dreams,\n\nAnd I must know the whole of that, at least,\n\nOr call myself a coward. I do fear\n\nThat I could be afraid of what I learn.\"\n\nSaid Varr, \"I know this much: they cannot lie\n\nOutright. Whatever answers the witchfolk\n\nMay give you grudgingly, they will contain\n\nSome truth, if not too much. Ask boldly, then,\n\nBut what you hear, interpret cautiously.\"\n\nYet there their conference ended, for they came\n\nTo a hill crowned with boulders, laid the one\n\nSo close against the other that they formed\n\nA natural battlement about the top.\n\nWithin the circle towered three great pines\n\nWhose boughs and darksome needles gently trailed\n\nUpon the rock tops. In the only gap\n\nThere stood a stunted sapling of the three\n\nThat towered overhead and stole the light\n\nWith gnarled roots to crevices clinging\n\nAnd knotted trunk, and slender sprigs for boughs.\n\nWithin, the cleft was carpeted in brown\n\nSoft pins long fallen on the mossy stone\n\nFrom which the rich aroma of decay,\n\nOf tannin, and new soil slowly arose.\n\nThe weary people filed within, relief\n\nUpon their faces written. Shane and Varr\n\nLooked backward for pursuit, but nothing stirred\n\nUpon the evening-soaked shadowy knolls\n\nSave grass wind-animated and the glint\n\nOf fireflies illuminating for\n\nAnother night of watchmanship. At last\n\nThe lady spoke, \"Good warriors, go within.\n\nIt would be poor repayment for your might\n\nTo leave you locked without throughout the night.\"\n\nThey shared a puzzled glanced, but stepped across\n\nThe line of rock gates and dwarf pine, then turned\n\nIn time to see the lady reach within\n\nHer draping sleeve and fumble there, as does\n\nA raccoon at the waterside, that gropes\n\nFor crayfish in the mud and catches them\n\nBy feel. She drew a slip of paper, brown\n\nWith age and entropy. Inscribed upon\n\nThe nether side were sigils serpentine,\n\nAnd tangled glyphs, and runes forgotten long.\n\nA moment only it was visible,\n\nYet at the sight Shane felt his breath go cold\n\nAnd come with much effort, as if his lungs\n\nWere shrunk by half, or the air were thickened\n\nTo the consistency of wet concrete.\n\nHis balance told him that he stood upon\n\nA surface slowly tilting, and he felt\n\nHimself drift forward, though he did not move\n\nAs does a man in fever when he sleeps\n\nAnd feels his mattress forget gravity.\n\nThe moment passed. Shane stumbled standing still.\n\nVarr's gasp for breath told that he too had felt\n\nThe radiated flash the runes had shone.\n\nThe lady smiled sadly at them. \"These signs,\"\n\nShe said, \"Are those of death and burial.\n\nOf all the paths beyond the living world.\n\nOf cairn and pyre, of barrow and lichyard.\n\nThe dead cannot pass by where this is set,\n\nNo more than can the water flow uphill\n\nThough they be brave souls bodiless, or else\n\nCorpses of the dishonored, lacking souls.\n\nThus must our ash marauders wait outside\n\nWhile we lie safe and soft this night. Affix,\"\n\nShe told the boy, who only with her stood\n\nOutside the ring of stones, \"This paper here\n\nUpon the sun-starved bark, then come inside.\n\nTo wait much longer is nigh suicide.\"\n\nSo saying she passed by, and went within.\n\nShane raised a hand, but could not bring it near\n\nThe place the ward was set, but he again\n\nFelt faint and breathless, as if he were pulled\n\nUnwilling from himself, as some have said\n\nThey witnessed their forms lying in white light\n\nIn hospitals or ambulances, ere\n\nThe doctor's magery returned their souls\n\nInto their bodies. \"I think you were right,\"\n\nHe said to Varr, \"She truly spoke the truth.\n\nWe cannot pass this ward.\" Then Varr replied,\n\n\"That means, at least, you know that you are dead.\"\n\nHe said no more, but turned and left Shane there\n\nTo watch the last light vanish from the plain.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Ragnarok","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1715906-ragnarok-viii.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1716817-ragnarok-x.json"}}