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The world was younger then. The sun shone more brightly, As all good men gathered in the harvest, Before the first chill of Autumn, Heralded in the colding days, When seas froze over. How many of us set off, when We travelled the roads together, Each bringing with us a gift – A gift to bestow on Mankind In the days when the world was young. We travelled light, our needs were few. We had no need of food or shelter. And we covered ourselves In the simplest fashion: All but one. Marchmain, he was called. He was the colourful one. With his bright yellow stockings And his jerkin red or orange, A cloak of scarlet hung jauntily Over his slender shoulders. But his eyes stay with me always: A smoky violet hue with thick black lashes. And around his eyes the crinkles, Telltale signs of merriment on the way. He sounded on the brink of laughter, And it was he who turned the harsh word Into a well-known jest, with a turn Of his head or a verse of a song. There was always a song. The sound of music and laughter, Drew him to the place that night. Many miles we travelled Music and merriment could end the day. The room: a cavern, dark and smoky, Candles in the corners the light from the fires. In a corner we threw our gear, And cast ourselves on the benches, While one of us called for some ale. Young she was, and dark, yet shapely, Her gown cut low, her head held high. “How may I serve you, my young lovely?” As she placed herself astride, our Marchmain, He caught her round the waist, And swung them both upwards as he gained his feet. “You’re but a maid and a pretty one too,” Laughed the cheery Marchmain, With the girl in his arms “A maid no longer, to Hell with thee!” She reached to her waist Where hung a scabbard unseen, unexpected. A deft flick of the wrist and the blade sang out Deep into the throat of that merry man. Purple was the blood that burst out then In a warm in a dark red cloud. We each received our share of his lifeblood Each frozen in horror, rooted to the ground. The maid sprang from the stricken man And fled like an unholy spirit, Never to be seen again. Laughter was gone from us. Many times over The world we travelled Still with our gifts For the bright young world. But the gifts that we had Were not worth all the travel. Or the heartache and loss All the friends called away. Slowly, but slowly our numbers diminished Some stayed in the world of men, To live among them and learn their customs. To marry their women and father their young. One or two met the same fate as Marchmain. Innocent and full of good intention They went to their deaths like lambs to the slaughter. A few there were who abandoned the cause And left the world for good, Returning whence they came. It lies with me to bestow my gift As I have always done down the ages. Not many smile and wave, When they see me approach. There are those who say I do not exist. I walk where I please and my gift goes with me, Sometimes an unwelcome gift, cursed with its passing Sometimes a longed for gift, slow in its calling. I have acquired different names on my travels. But all of them mean the same. All men know their time on earth is brief. And it is my gift to man to ease their burden. |
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