Circular Tales

This excerpt is from a story called The Wezeer and the Sapphire. The aged wezeer, or more conventionally, vizier, on a quest to recover a stolen jewel, has found himself in India where he has been brought before a great maharaja. The maharaja embarks on a series of tales in order to make a point that he is uncertain of. The tales are told in the manner of The Arabian Nights, in which stories are nested in a group, first working their way in, and then back out.



Al-Maharajan’s eyes swept the Divan, seizing the attention of all present. When the murmuring died down he once again addressed the anxious Wezeer. “Does it not seem to you that the situation is much like that in The Tale of the Camel and the Sand Flea?”

“O King of the Age,” said the Wezeer. “What tale would that be?”

Al-Maharajan answered as follows:—

The Tale of the Camel and the Sand Flea

Once, in the land of the Kafirs, there was a camel who had grown so weary of the daily toil that plagued his life that he escaped from his master and set out across the mountains and the desert to find the land of his birth. It was his intention, when he arrived there, to comfort himself in the green oases that he remembered from his childhood, and to spend the rest of his days in idleness and contentment.

On a particular morning, as he was traveling through a wilderness of sand and scrub, a sparrow came and perched on his back to rest its wings. The camel felt the weight of the bird and called out, “What’s this!”

“A traveler,” came the answer.

This incensed the camel, since he had not escaped and endured the hardships of his journey to be used in such a manner. “And why should I give passage to you?” the camel asked. “I am no beast of burden. Make your own way across this wilderness, as I make mine.”

So the sparrow flew off, cursing the camel for his rudeness.

A short while later a botfly, weary from struggling against the desert wind, settled onto the camel’s neck. The camel shuddered when he felt the weight and called out, “What's this, another traveler!”

“For just a short ways,” the botfly replied, “Until I have my strength back.”

The camel bristled at this. “Do you take me for some beast of burden. I'm no such thing. Make your own way as I make mine.” Then he snapped his tail and spat.

The botfly, offended by such an uncourteous welcome, took off back into the wind.

Before the camel had gone much farther a sand flea jumped onto his leg. When the camel felt the weight of the flea his temper flared. “You there!” he cried. “Looking for a free ride too, I suppose?”

“If you don’t object,” said the sand flea.

“Indeed I do object!” said the camel. “I am no beast of burden. Make your own way, as I make mine.”

But the sand flea merely laughed. “If you are no beast of burden, then why do you carry this great hump on your back? It would seem to me that you are both suited and accustomed to burdens.”

At this the camel stopped and planted his feet in the sand. “That’s it,” he said, “Not another step till you get off.” Then he shook himself from head to tail while he bellowed out the most horrible sounds that wind and throat could ever produce. But the sand flea dug his own feet into the camel’s hide and didn’t budge. And when the camel had finished with his fit of rage, the sand flea nipped him with his jaws and said, “Hut-hut! walk on!”

That was the final straw. Sooner than concede to a new master the camel would destroy himself and all the world along with him. He roared to the heavens, calling down fire and lightening. He commanded the earth to open, the hills to tumble, the sands to swallow him up. And when none of these things came to pass he began to toss his head, rolling his neck in a great circle, faster and faster until the sky and the ground and all the desert around him were nothing but a smear of blue and brown. And faster still, he spun his head until he felt his neck stretching out like taffy, and each of the joints from his head to his shoulders popped like a tent flap snapping in the wind.

"You'll break your own neck if you keep that up," said the sand flea.

"Indeed I will," said the camel gasping for breath, “and here I’ll lie till the wind blows the hide off my bones and the sun burns them white as ash, so you might as well get off and start walking now!” and he spun his head even faster.

“Now just a moment,” said the sand flea. “While I can appreciate your determination, I think you’re missing a point here.”

“Wh-what p-point?” asked the camel, his tongue fluttering like a bird caught in a whirlwind.

“The p-point, ignorant camel, is that death will negate your victory, and I’ll be no worse off than I was before you came along.”

“Th-then g-g-get off!”

“I probably will after you’ve killed yourself, and then won’t you look a fool, lying dead here in the middle of nowhere, and for no good reason at all. If I were you I’d consider the lesson of The Spider and the Melon.”

The Camel stopped spinning his head and turned his neck, which was now somewhat longer than usual and as kinked and limp as an old rope. He twisted it around until he was looking right at the spot on his haunch where the sand flea had bit him. “And what would that lesson be?” he asked.

So the sand flea answered as follows:—

The Tale of the Spider and the Melon

Once, long ago, in an oasis on the edge of the great Nefud, a spider crept out from under a log to set about his business of snaring flies. The spider spun his web neatly between a stone and a twig, then waited for a hapless fly to become entangled. The morning passed without result, and the spider’s patience was strained by the long hours of fruitless waiting. In the afternoon several flies came and hovered nearby, but they eyed him suspiciously and not a single one flew near the web. This destroyed his patience completely, and the spider began to pace and grumble to himself about the futility of life’s efforts.

Nearby there was a melon lying on the ground. It had grown overripe, and as it baked and sweated in the hot sun the flies swarmed around it in a frenzy of delight. After a while a bird came and, seeing all those flies gorging themselves and getting drunk on the fermenting juice that bled from the rind, the bird began eating them. When the bird noticed the spider looking out from its web, and saw the hunger in his eyes he said, “What a shame you have to wait for the flies to come to you. You should look more like a melon and less like a spider.”

As he watched the bird eat his fill the spider thought, “What this bird says is true. And perhaps there’s a way.” So after the bird had flown off, the spider went to the edge of the pool and began drinking water. He drank and drank, and soon his body began to swell. At first it swelled to the size of a berry, and the spider felt as if he would burst. But it was a melon, not a berry, that shaped his goal, and so he continued drinking until he was the size of a plum. Good, he thought, a bit more and I’ll have flies all over me.

He forced even more water into his mouth and down his gullet, feeling himself growing bigger and rounder with every gulp. At last he raised his head and let himself roll backward so that he could take a measure of his size. It was magnificent. But when he tried to move around he found that he had made himself so large that his legs were of no use at all. His belly was fully the size of a small melon, and the rest of him merely stuck out of the top like a frayed stem. As the flies came and began buzzing around, he was helpless to do anything more than watch.

At this point the bird returned. “Well, well,” he said. “This is a fine dinner you’ve rounded up for me.” And with that the bird began picking the flies off the spider’s body and eating them. The spider was enraged, and he shouted and cursed the bird. But the bird laughed and went on eating. When he’d finished with the flies he honed the point of his beak on a stone and said to the spider, “My thanks for that, and now I think I’ll see if this rare melon tastes as delicious as it looks.”

At the sight of the razor-sharp beak aimed like a dagger at his stomach the spider’s wrath gave out to despair. “Oh have mercy,” he pleaded. “It was at your own suggestion that I did this. And now you’d take advantage of my helplessness? Please, I beg of you.”

“Covet not life, for death is unavoidable,” said the bird as he looked for just the right spot to make the plunge. “If you’d been content to remain a spider, instead of becoming a melon, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Why should I spare you the consequence of your own foolishness?”

“If the price of foolishness is death, then who shall learn wisdom?” cried the spider. “For do you not know The Story of The Penguin and the Burgoo Chef.”

“I do not,” said the bird. “But at your bidding I would hear it.”

So the spider answered as follows:—

The Tale of the Penguin and the Burgoo Chef

One morning in a land far away, beyond the Al-Hind and beyond the Al-Sind, far across a great sea that marks the end of the regions known to men, a penguin sat on an ice floe enjoying the faint warmth of the dim antarctic sun. It was uncommon there for the sun to show itself at all, for the penguin’s home was the birthplace of storms, where all the world’s tempests arise before journeying off to their destinations.

Because the storms have so far to travel they rise up with monumental fury. An afternoon shower on the shores of the Bosporus would have to begin its life as a typhoon to propel itself for such a distance and still have enough drops of rain to water the gardens and fill the cisterns. And the great monsoons that wash the plains of Al–Hind are borne of such rage between sea and sky that Heaven itself echoes with the crash of thunder, the roar of wind, and the angelic houris cover their gentle eyes in dread.

Living in such a place it was no surprise to the penguin when his brief gleam of sunshine was eclipsed by a mountain of black cloud that towered up before him like an evil Gennee spewing from a bottle. But that morning the penguin was in a dreamy mood. His dream was of the sun, of its light and its warmth. Did it shine more brightly in other lands? he wondered. Perhaps it did. “Take me with you,” he said to the storm. “I would see these other lands.” With that the storm snatched him off the ice and hurled him into its thunderhead.

For days the storm carried the penguin as it blew across the sea and over the mountains and the plains, until finally its force was spent. Then, as it wrung its last drop of water from its last wisp of cloud, the storm set him down in the land of the sun…

The story of The Penguin and the Burgoo Chef was continued up to the point where the perfidious Burgoo Chef has deceived the penguin into believing that a cauldron filled with water is actually a hole in the desert leading to the sea beneeth. The penguin dives in, discovers that he is actually there as an ingredient, and beseeches the burgoo chef to show compassion by comparing the situation to the story of Abu-Murrah and the Seven Kumquats. A story which, of course, the Burgoo Chef has never heard.

And so it went, from within one unresolved story to the next, until the Wezeer began to wonder how the Sultan would ever be able to work his way back to establish whatever point he was trying to make. From Abu-Murrah and the Seven Kumquats it went to Abu-Murrah telling the story of The Oryx and the Flounder. The flounder telling the story of The ’Efreet and the Tortoise. And so on through The Barnacle and the Woodpecker, The Virgin and the Lizard, Maaroof the Harness Mender, Baba Mustafa and The Wonderful Bung, The Hyena and the Kadi, The Hippogriff in the Tallow Vat, The Eunuch and the Gennee. But then, at the point in the story of The Eunuch and the Gennee where Al-Maharajan, speaking now in the voice of a hippogriff imitating a gennee says to the lovesick eunuch: “Why should I use my powers to aid you in deceiving your rightful master?”

And the eunuch replies, again in the voice of the hippogriff, which was actually meant to be the voice of the Kadi imitating the hippogriff who is now imitating the constrained voice of the eunuch, who says: “To restore what was unjustly taken from me. After all, is this not as in the story of The Wezeer and the Sapphire?”

This was unexpected. The Wezeer listened in amazement as his own story was told right up to the point of that very moment. And then Al-Maharajan, still speaking in the voice of the eunuch, who was now imitating both the Wezeer and Al-Maharajan himself, embarked on the story’s conclusion, in which the wise Sultan said:

“May it not be so that the path you take to the verge of death will lead to an outcome commensurate with the course of your actions?” And plucking the stone from off his turban he held it to the light. “What I took to be a flawless gem has an imperfection that was invisible to me until this moment. My pleasure is diminished by this discovery, and so I offer it to you that it may console your master for his loss.” And handing the sapphire to the Wezeer he said, “Such devotion is deserving of reward, and I am certain your master will compensate you well for all that you have endured. But if you would choose to remain here, I would grant you a home and pension to live on for the rest of your days. The jewel would be delivered to your master by my own guards, and your obligation would be fulfilled.” But the Wezeer declined. “My honor decrees that I be duly discharged from one master before I may serve another,” he said. “Grateful as I am, it is my duty to return.” And when the Wezeer was strong enough to travel he was given a ship and men and returned to his country.”

Here the ellipsis of the stories had reached its apogee, and the Sultan began to work his way back. As the sapphire had been restored to it’s rightful owner, so the eunuch’s parts were restored and his love for the harem slave consummated, thus serving as an example to the heartbroken Hippogriff pining away in the tallow vat, which in turn provided a lesson in perseverance for the Kadi to use in attempting to reform the Hyena, thereby giving Baba Mustafa a moral precedent for… .

But it was here, right at this point, that the Wezeer spoke up.



And it is at this point that the longer story resumes.

R.F.

The Wendigo

From the collection, Polyadirondackon, a tribute to my favorite campfire gothic, and to memories of nights at camp when I was too frightened to sleep.

  THE WENDIGO


Let scenes of gruesome death unfold
In tales of terror, grim and old,
   Repeated as they first were heard —
   Hushed voices darkly spinning words
To make a camper’s blood run cold.

But none more dread by campfire glow
Than of the fearsome Wendigo —
   Ravenous fiend of the Frozen North,
   From ancient wilderness set forth,
Soaring where the North Winds blow.

As tall as trees, a heart of ice,
With crushing fangs in a jaw like a vice.
   Frost-glazed horns to crown my head,
   And claws like scimitars to shred,
Then slash and sever, carve and slice.

As on my victims I proceed
With every ghastly, brutal deed,
   Until my hunger for fresh meat,
   With living flesh is made complete.
Then on your wretched souls I feed.

For when your precious blood’s all bled,
And then you think you’re safely dead,
   Your spirit’s still held in my power,
   To savor and by bits devour,
While horror frays the final thread.

So have a care to what I’ll spy
When far above your camp I fly.
   For should I catch a fleeting sight
   Of that which stirs my appetite,
I’ll linger in the trees close-by.

Then silently I stalk and claim
Those snot-nose brats that just complain,
   The loudmouth punks; the dimwit fools
   Who disobey the counselor’s rules,
And all who dare to speak my name.

There’s not a one that’s lived to tell
How his feet were dragged through the coals of Hell,
   His body flung to the frozen sky,
   As he screamed in pain and begged to die,
Till like a meteor he fell.

To those who think I won’t pursue
A camper hidden from my view,
   Then in your tent feel safe and sound,
   As nighttime draws its curtain ’round,
And tell yourself the tales aren’t true —

But don’t think I won’t come
                                                 for
                                                        you.

R.F.

The Selchie (story)

[The setting for this story, taken from a longer work, is the steerage deck of an immigrant ship on it’s way from Liverpool to Boston in the year 1843. The passengers are mostly Irish and Highland Scots. During the day a dolphin had been seen off the bow, and was mistaken by someone for a seal. Later, this led to a discussion of seals and their ability to appear in different forms. This is a tradition in both Scotland and Ireland, and there are lots stories in the genre. There are songs, perhaps the most familiar is The Great [Grey] Selchie of Sule Skerrie, a Child Ballad recorded by Joan Baez, Ewan MacColl, Solas, and others. There is also a film, The Secret of Roan Inish, by John Sayles. Many of these follow similar patterns and include the basic elements that I have used here. My object was not to redefine or reinvent the selchie story, just to tell one. The term, Selchie, by the way, is Scottish dialect and so is never actually used in this story related by an Irish schoolmaster. I use Selchie for the title because it is more familiar than the Irish Rón or Roan.]


THE SELCHIE



‘A thing very much like this happened near Dungeagan in Kerry, where I come from. It was in my time, and some of you may remember, or you might have heard about it. Some twenty or so years back, maybe twenty-two or three, there was a young man named Peadar McCafferty, who I knew myself as he lived nearby and was a fisherman. And it was Peadar’s wife, Aileen, who was Diarmid Kelsaw’s daughter and who was such a charmer, as anyone would tell you. A pretty girl, which it pleased her to be a blessing for her looks, and always with a smile to make anyone feel better for the sight of it. And didn’t she die, with them hardly wed a year or more? So for all of the joy she brought, it was a sharp sorrow that was left behind.

‘For Peadar McCafferty the loss was the end of all things to come, so nothing that lay ahead seemed even worth the trouble of getting to. Nights he kept alone at his house and was poor company for any who might come to visit, all sighs and laments about the turf too wet to burn, the nights too damp for sleep, and more complaints for every part of him than old Job in the dessert. Mornings he would go and wander down onto the strand and take his curragh off into the bay. There he would row out till he was past from sight, then return in the evening with nothing more to show for the time spent than if he’d been laying about like a duck on the waves.

‘Now I would say, if there’s any who don’t know, that past the reach of our bay there are several small islands. Skelligs they are called, great stony crags that rise up from the water to fearful heights. There once were monks there with stone huts and chapels, but that was long ago, and longer still, before the monks, the skelligs were called Tech Duinn—that is to say, the House of Death, because in the pagan days it was the Lord of Death who was called Duinn. And then it was said that upon these islands were all of the spirits of all of the dead of Ireland—although there is no one would believe such a thing today, and the fishermen will tell you that the ghostly sounds drifting across the water like the howling of departed souls, are nothing more but the cries of seals that live there among the rocks.

‘Now, there were some people who thought that Peadar had grown so deep in sorrow and bitterness that it had ruined his faith in God’s creed, and that he had turned to taking comfort in ancient things which can have no truth beyond the stories that tell of them. And it was the opinion of those who believed this that Peadar McCafferty was going to Tech Duinn to find his wife there among the dead. Myself, I believe this may have been true. At least at the first. That like the king Eochaid of old, who himself was nine years digging into the fairy hill of Bri Leith to claim back his beautiful wife, Peadar would find no peace without he restored his Aileen from the shadow land of spirits. But then, when a mind is bewildered from grief, might it find one thing to be no more hopeless than another, and so set its course to undo the cause of its sorrow?

‘Some of the fishermen when they were working near the skelligs would see him there, and they said that he would be drifting close in on the rocks. And it was Liam McCullers who told me that once he’d seen him throwing fish over the side. Holding them out, he said, and dropping them one by one, so intent upon what he was doing that he took no notice of being watched. Now, it is no way for a man who makes his living from the sea to be putting back whatever he’s taken out. There would be no more sense in that than there would be profit. And this same Liam McCullers, who kept his own curragh drawn up in the same cove as Peadar, it was his daughter, Annie, says to him one day: “Here’s a fine young man, and for having no one to look after him is wandering straight to ruin.” And haven’t we all seen that happen? Or known of such a thing? So who could say that Annie McCullers wasn’t right about that!

‘Some evenings after, Annie goes to Peadar McCafferty’s house and tells him she’s there to clean things up a bit and see to it that he has a decent meal in him. Which she does. And having done, she goes back another evening for the same. And then several more. So there’s talk, of course. And wouldn’t there be, after all? But there was kindness in it, and people said that even if Peadar didn’t look much happier drifting out on the waves each day with no more intention than an empty bottle on the tide, at least he was being attended by a suitable woman. So, they said, there was a chance his life would go on and likely end up no worse than most.

‘Now Annie’s visits went on for some while, and it all seemed to be going about as anyone would have expected. Until one time, when she’s at the door and set to be about her cooking and cleaning, it’s Peadar comes out and says to her that he won’t be needing her that day. Or the next, for that matter, as he’s brought his new bride there and that she’ll be looking after things from now on. Well, you could have blown Annie down with a breath. “Peadar,” she says. “You never told me nothing about a bride, and I would have been grateful if you had. For haven’t I been lookin’ after you with that in mind for myself?” And Peadar, he says, “I’m sorry for that, Annie, and that much is the truth. But it come up sudden, you see, and there was nothing I could do and still call myself an honest man.”

‘“Then who would it be?” asks Annie. And Peadar has nothing to say, so she looks past him through the door. And there tending to the pot that hangs over the turf burning in the hearth, what does she see but a pretty young girl who doesn’t look up at all. And not a word from her, now, but she smiles and looks to what she’s stirring at in the pot.

‘“Well, I guess that’ll do then,” says Annie. And off she goes back to her father’s house. But she thinks there’s something awfully peculiar that’s going on. It was no girl from the village she saw, that was certain. And pretty as she was, there was something odd about her look. She was small, and she was very dark about her face and hair, the way a Gypsy might be, or a Spaniard from things she’d heard. But what troubled her the most was that Peadar McCafferty had never seemed to her as the kind to hold secrets or to go off courting Spanish Ladies. So she thought that her judgment must have been very poor to let herself be so deceived.

‘Now time goes by for six or seven months, and what was going on was all the mystery to most of us. There was a feeling, you see, that Peadar had done very poorly by Annie McCullers. And as we all knew Annie from the day she was borne, and Peadar as well, there was intimation that the blame lay all on the dark stranger. That she must have used her foreign ways to take an unfair advantage. So with people thinking how everyone would be better off if she had never shown her face, there was no one felt disposed to go and make her feel welcome. The girl herself never strayed far from the house, so it was for Peadar to do the marketing and other business, and he was close-lipped when he was about it. But those who passed by the house knew from the sight of the wash-line when a child had arrived. And that was expected, of course, from what Annie had said—and from what everyone would have assumed even if she hadn’t. But it was the fact of it that put fresh life back into the matter.

‘It was Liam McCullers himself who at last paid them a visit. Out of charity he said, and later had an awful row with his daughter when she found out where he’d been. “It’s treachery I’d call it,” she told him. “After him making a fool of your own blood while performing sins for which God will hurl him into hell!” And Liam didn’t have an answer to satisfy her on that, but only said that he had known Peadar McCafferty too many years to think he had been deliberate in doing any harm. And if there was fault with the girl, then what had it brought her but to live an outcast among strangers? Then he told his daughter how the dark girl had taken the child and gone straight up to the loft without a word from her. And that he and Peadar had sat on the bench by the fire in the silence of things wanting to be said. And they listened to the peat burning and the wind blowing, but from up above in the loft he heard the girl weeping from behind the bed curtain. Now Liam didn’t want to seem to meddle, but neither did he want to pretend as if he didn’t hear, or seem to be coldhearted if he did. So he brought himself to ask if the child was unwell. With that it seemed that Peadar would commence to weeping himself. “The boy is in health.” he had said. “But my wife has so great a sorrow over missing her home that it has taken all the comfort from our lives.”

‘Now, Annie remained at crosses with her father for what he had done. But she took a mean satisfaction from knowing that Peadar’s life was not a happy one. It was no better than he deserved, she thought, and she said as much to anyone who would listen. And then, just to be certain that he was truly as miserable as he ought to be, she took to prying around a bit. So, one day Annie is down at the strand looking after her father’s nets when she sees Peadar heading out to do his marketing. And what should be there drawn up on the sand but Peadar’s curragh, still upright and set to go out again. Well, Annie starts nosing about just to see if Peadar’s gear was neglected and his own nets rotting from the damp. Which they were not. And so she’s thinking she might be within her rights to cut a hole or two in the tarred skin that covers the boat’s frame, when she spies a package there wrapped up in an oilcloth and tied with a string. “Now what would this be?” she wonders. Then she lifts it out and takes off the string to have a peep inside. And what does she find there? A seal skin. She opens it out, and it’s the softest most beautiful she’s ever laid her eyes on. The color of a bay horse, and the fur has such a sheen that it seems to glow in the sun with light like an amber jewel. And she sets her cheek against it and it feels as warm as if it were alive. “This is a skin would fetch a price,” she thinks, “So why is it hid away in the bottom of his boat?” And she considers the matter till the notion comes on her that Peadar McCafferty is saving it to make a gift to some woman. Could be his wife, she thought, and he’s saving it for some occasion. Or could it be for some other Gypsy he’s courting on the side? This, she thought, was likely, since he had shown his unfaithful nature as clear as any traitor could.

‘There seemed to be only one thing for her to do. She would take the skin to Peadar’s wife. If it had been meant for her there would be little harm done. And if it were meant for another, it would be the most suitable way to spoil his plan.

‘So on the next day, when Peadar was off at marketing, she went to his house where she knocked and rattled at the door until at last the dark girl came out to stop the commotion that had woke the child and set it crying. She stood there with the child on her hip and had a frightened look on her face, since no one had ever come before when she was alone. So Annie steps in with the package. “I’ve been a poor neighbor,” she says, “and for that I’m sorry and have come to make amends.” The girl strokes the child, who won’t cease with the crying, and she tries very hard to smile, but she says nothing—and in truth there’s neither she nor Liam ever once heard the girl say as much as a word.

‘Now, Annie sees that the girl has no intent of setting the child down, so she lays the package on the table and begins unfolding it for her. “It’s a fine skin,” she says. “And I hope you will take some pleasure from it.” Well, the girl sees the skin and she lets out a cry like she had been struck. Then she puts the child on the table and snatches up the skin as if it were the treasure of all the world. She holds it against herself, then she rubs her face through the fur, and presses it firm across her lips to hold back the sounds that are choking inside of her. When the girl looks up again, and when Annie sees the tears running from her wide dark eyes, she gets uneasy. “Well,” she says, “I guess that will do then. And I hope that I will be seeing you again before too long. Perhaps you’ll pay us a call.” And she leaves the house thinking that something very queer had just occurred. And indeed it had, as you are about to see.

‘On that very same night Peadar McCafferty comes by to Liam’s house. He has brought with him the child. “This is my son,” he says to them. “His name is Otkell,” he says. Which is not one bit an Irish name, or even a Christian one for all that I know. But he looked to be a fine healthy boy. Then he asks Liam and Annie, have they seen anything of his wife, or know anything of where she might be. Now Annie can tell without asking that something wrong has happened, and that it is likely to have something to do with what had occurred earlier on. And she says nothing, but from the look and the manner of her it’s clear to Peadar that she’s keeping something back. So he asks her straight out if she knows anything about a seal skin that was in his curragh. And Annie says she knows nothing at all about any such thing, and why should he be asking her, and what would that have to do with the whereabouts of his wife anyway? So Peadar takes the child and goes, and Annie works it out to herself that the girl has taken the skin to sell so that she might buy her passage back to wherever it is she came from in the first place, which again is not one bit less than what Peadar deserves.

‘For the next days Peadar was no more himself than he had been after his first wife had died. But now there was the child. So each morning he would take the child with him when he went out in his curragh. And the two of them would drift there far off in the bay until it grew dark, and sometimes longer if there were a moon to show some light. And the fishermen who would come within sight of them would report the strangest things. That Peadar, they said, would be drifting there talking to the waves. Or holding up the child and calling out like he were summoning the spirits or beseeching the Lord to draw near. But strangest of all, Rory Sean Eoghain, while rowing up on the far side of the skelligs, saw them there and the child entirely in the water, with Peadar lifting him out like he were a fish that had been caught in his net. And who could imagine why a man would do such a cruel dangerous thing, and the boy being no more than a babe?

‘Of course the child took sick from all of the cold and wet, and with no proper milk to feed him with or a mother to look after him, it’s a wonder he didn’t die right off. But Peadar tended to the child as best he could. And it’s to his credit that he spent many days without leaving it alone, but stayed in the house to keep the fire hot and to look after the wee thing. It was then, for those days that Peadar remained indoors, that Liam noticed there was a seal had come into the cove and was plying about in a troubled way. It was back and forth along the shore, and sometimes even up on the land, but would hurry itself back to the water if anyone approached. Then it would lay off aways, upright in the water, giving a harsh look to whoever had disturbed it. Then, all through the night, the seal would commence to crying and wailing so that there was no comfort or rest for anyone within the sound of it. Nor would there be, for as you may know, the cry of the seal is so like the keening of a young girl sobbing from grief that it will put your heart across you to hear the sound of it.

‘Now to have a seal lingering about is an unfortunate thing for more than just the bawling at night. It takes whatever fish it can catch, and not only for its meals, but kills as many for no more than the sport of it. This is a serious matter that would call for measures. But among the fishermen there’s quite a few have a feeling about the harming of seals. That it is an unlucky thing to do. And some will tell you that the seals are themselves an enchanted folk, like the fairies, and will have revenge for any wrongs that are done to them. But Liam McCullers had killed more than a few seals in his life, and up until then he suffered none the worse. So on one morning, after being troubled all night long with the mournful sounds, he steps out and sees this seal well up on the strand with a mackerel so big that it would have brought half the price of a days catch. “This is enough of this,” he says. He grabs his fowling gun from the house, and before the seal can lumber its way back to the water, he shoots it through the heart. The seal gives out a shriek, turns to him with a startled look, then drops just where the waves are at the line of the tide. Liam goes over to make sure that it’s dead, and looking at the creature it strikes him how the skin is finer than any he’s ever seen, without the blots and speckles that you see on most, and of a rich dark color. It would fetch a price to more than make up for the stolen fish. So then and there he sets about to take the skin. With his knife he makes a slit from the throat right down to the vent, then he slides his hand inside to open it up and draw off the blood before it can stain the fur. But what he feels in there is not at all the veins and flesh of a seal, so he pulls the skin back, and there within is it not the breast of a young woman, pierced through by the gunshot and still pouring out blood. At the sight of this a horror takes hold on him. He covers his eyes from the sight, then he drops his knife and he runs for the village so fast that the wind at his back could not keep up.

‘There in the village he makes such commotion about blood and murder that he needed to be sat down and his furor quenched with pints of porter before any sense could be got from him at all. Now, there was on that day a priest who had been called out to perform the extreme unction for Diarmid Cleerey — who recovered and lived on seven years more. And the priest heard what Liam said, and he decided the matter should be looked into, although himself, he thought it most likely to be the production of a frightful delirium brought on by intemperance, which Liam denied, as he was never one to take more than his senses could command. So the priest, along with several others, including myself, went with Liam back to the beach to sort out what had happened. There we found the seal, just as Liam had said, lying at the edge of the tide and partway in the water now, with a plume of crimson drifting out from where it had bled. We pulled the creature up onto the dry sand, and after we had looked it over carefully we began to cut away the skin, pulling it back to either side as we went. And as the skin came away we saw, as clear as anything, first the face and then the body of a young woman. And Liam gazed at us amazed and asked: “Is it true that we all see what we’re looking at?” And we said that it was true, but who could she be? And Liam said that it was Peadar McCafferty’s young wife! And here she was with her eyes looking dead on the lot of us. Liam cries out to God that he’s done a murder, and he begs for the priest to make intercession for his soul. But the priest says that there’s been no murder here. And Liam cries out to the priest, “Father, I have shot this girl and killed her myself! And with my own hand I have cut into her flesh!” And the priest says to him again that he has not done murder. “This is no woman,” says the priest, “Nor is it any other of God’s creatures that were fashioned by His hand.” And so someone asked the priest if we had not better pray for it then? And the priest says, “Pray for yourselves, but not for that abomination.” Then he tells us in no uncertain terms that there is not one single word in all the bible anywhere about seals turning themselves into ladies, or any such thing, and that we should all thank God for having no more to do with it. Then he tells us to cover it over, as it wasn’t decent to look on even in death. So we folded the skin back over and wrapped it all in a tarpaulin. Then the priest had us weight it down with stones and to take it far out into the deep water.

‘It was the priest himself who went to Peadar on that day and told him what had happened. And the Father preached to him about matrimony with beasts and demons being a sin that the Lord despised, and that any man who had done such a thing might have a great deal to answer for on Judgment Day. And he said that he would pray for Peadar’s soul, but that the soul of the child, if it had one at all, was in jeopardy for want baptism, which he himself would not perform under the circumstance. He offered then to refer the matter to the Monsignor, but Peadar sent him away.

‘A short time later Peadar went to the McCullers’. He was harsh with his words, and he told Annie how giving that skin to his wife was the cruelest thing that could ever have been done. “For all the love she bore in her heart for me and for our child,” he said, “in her soul there was only pain. Those who are borne of the sea must return to the sea, as whatever god it was that fashioned her kind had bound her fate. And there could be no power in all the world could keep her here except that her skin had been hidden away. Not one time did she ever ask me where it was, or go to seek it out. But to see it there before her eyes, there could be no choice for her. She could no more choose than change the blood in her veins.” Then he said to Liam that even if he wouldn’t blame him entirely for his wife’s death, as he’d meant no harm, it was a harm that came of it that was too grievous to forgive. And poor Liam would have taken more comfort of one forgiving word from Peadar than all the absolution from all the priests in the world. So he swears that never again would he harm a seal, even at peril of his own life. Peadar says that he should do no less, and he leaves with no words more comforting than that.

‘On the day after, Peadar took the boy to the McCullers and asked Annie to look after him while he went off. Which she couldn’t say no. Then he went out in his curragh, far out past the skelligs to where the clouds rolling off the sea grazed on the water, and there he vanished, and neither him nor the boat was ever seen again.’

Sounds of astonishment rose from among the listeners, then a woman spoke out. ‘And what was it become of the child?’ she asked.

‘Why, as anyone will tell you, Annie McCullers raised him up, and did as good a job of it as any mother might. And when he was grown he took to the fishing like his father had done. And like his father, he put to sea one day and never came back.’

‘And do you believe, then, that he had taken after his true mother and was one of the seal folk himself?’ someone asked.

‘Who can say that. Isn’t there many a fisherman never returns from the sea? And isn’t there many a good reason for it?’

An old woman said something in Irish, then crossed herself, pulled her shawl closely around her shoulders and clutched the two ends below her chin.

‘So you do recall it, Grandmother?’

The old woman looked up at the schoolmaster like she was making a confession. ‘It was my own Michael, God rest his soul, was there with you and saw it when she were cut open.’

‘Yes, I remember him there. And did Michael tell you about the eyes, then?’

‘Ay, he did, he did. And I would that he hadn’t, for it troubled me awful to hear it.’

‘And so it might, as it troubled us who saw ourselves. You see, the body we cut from the skin of the seal was hardly different from any ordinary mortal—except for the hands and feet, that is, which appeared to have grown of a part with the fins. But her face was as much the face of a young woman as you would ever look upon. Or so you would say, until you saw the eyes. Now, some of you, if you live by the sea, will know how it is that all of the affections that can proceed from a look are to be seen in the eyes of a seal. If it is anger or fear, sorrow or joy, you see it as plain as you would with any person. And this is because, of all creatures, their eyes are the most alike to our own. And yet they are not, for they are the eyes of a beast. And though they can glint with laughter, and in grief or pain shed tears no different from our own, they have a darkness in them that is too deep for us to know. They have a softness too gentle for the lives we live, and a longing too fierce for our modesty. But most disturbing of all, we see there a sadness so great that we could never touch without it breaking our hearts. Those were the eyes that were looking on us from the face of the girl. And even though death had clouded and froze them staring into the empty sky, who was there that saw it and could blame Peadar McCafferty if she had been leading him into the jaws of hell. If the spark of life had lit those eyes again, for even a moment, what man was there that she could not have led?

On the Road to Osaka

For Emily's kindergarten class.
The study theme was Japan.











            ON THE ROAD TO OSAKA


On the road to Osaka, at the start of the day,
Some children set out to walk the whole way.

    But the road to Osaka is winding and long,
    So to keep themselves happy they made up a song.

A song of the road and the things they passed by,
Of the beasts in the fields, and the birds in the sky.

They sang of the people they saw on the road.
What’s better than singing to lighten your load?

    But the road to Osaka is winding and long,
    And they needed a story to fill up their song.

They were watching a woman harvesting grain,
When down from the sky flew a snowy white crane.

Then a fox ran out and chased it away.
But was that enough story to fill up their day?

    For the road to Osaka is winding and long.
    And they needed to make it an interesting song.

So the fox was a prince who was under a spell
That was cast by an ogre who lived in a well.

A horrible ogre, known through the land
As the meanest old ogre in all of Japan.

And the crane was his servant, sent there to spy,
And the woman they saw was a ghost standing by.

A mysterious ghost standing there in the wheat,
Which is hard for a ghost, since a ghost has no feet.

    But the road to Osaka is winding and long,
    And they needed some action to spice up their song.

So the fox told the ghost, “Please go if you dare,
To find that old ogre and give him a scare.

“Then tell him that if he won’t take back his curse,
You’ll scare him again, and you’ll scare him much worse.”

The ghost rose up and followed the crane
Across the green fields that covered the plain.

And when she came to the ogre’s deep well,
She moaned and she shrieked and she clanged like a bell.

The ogre came up, as mad as a boar.
He looked at the ghost and he let out a roar.

He showed her his claws, he rolled his big eye,
And he frightened that ghost back up to the sky.

Then the crane said, “This was the work of the fox,
Who’s hiding right now in that pile of rocks.”

The ogre said, “He’ll wish he’d never been found,
Because now I’m going to send out my hound!”

His hound was the fattest you ever did see,
A tanuki dog called Sho-Jo-Ji.

That stomped like a wrestler, sumo style,
Showing sharp pointy teeth in a wide greedy smile.

And it sang out the song of tanukis gone wrong,
While it beat on its belly like a big brass gong:
             Pon’— po’ko, Pon’ no pon’!

Then round in a ring through the ripening crops,
It chased and it snapped at the tail of the fox.

And the ogre, he laughed to see such a sight,
But now what can we do to set it all right?

    For the road to Osaka is winding and long,
    But we can’t have a song where it all comes out wrong.

So along comes a priest with a long wooden staff,
A bright yellow robe, and a bright cheerful laugh.

To the ogre he says, with words wise and true,
“Casting spells on a prince is a dumb thing to do.

“Just being a ogre is surely enough,
To show the whole world that you’re dangerous and tough.

“But you won’t be admired or win much respect,
If all that you do is what people expect.

“Though, wouldn’t the world think it wonderfully strange,
If an ogre should do something nice for a change?”

“That’s so,” said the ogre, “For it’s known of my clan,
That we never once turned a fox to a man.”

Then he spoke a powerful magic command,
And in place of the fox, a young prince did stand.

Said the prince to the hound, “That was quite an ordeal!
Now lets go to my castle and have a nice meal.”

And off they did go, while the crane and the priest
Told the ogre that he was a most noble beast.

Said the priest, “Fine Monster, I bid you good day.”
With a bow and a blessing he went on his way.

Then the ogre said, “Crane, if you would agree,
Come down in the well and join me for tea.”

So it all come out right, though the timing was tight,
For the gate to Osaka had just come in sight.

    And the road to Osaka was winding and long,
    But it came to an end at the end of their song.


R.F.

Birdsill's Dreadful Poem

This verse narrative is from a novel that deals, in part, with the California Gold Rush. The character, Birdsill, is a frontier aesthete who fancies himself somewhat of a poet.









… from back in the saloon he could hear Birdsill reciting a dreadful poem.


Birdsill’s Dreadful Poem

In the days of the rush, when the fortunes were flush
     For the few who’d been dealt the good hand;
When the dealer was Luck, and the cards were the muck,
     The gravel, the water, the sand.
And the gold it was there, but who knew just where?
     So you’d wager your immortal soul
For to stake out a site that would pan out just right,
     Then you’d pay off the Devil his toll.

But The Devil’s own game ends in fire and flame,
     So I thought it a wiser pursuit
If I staked out my claim with a scoundrel named Blane,
     A malign and malodorous brute.
He was rotten with sin and sodden with gin,
     Half crazy and three-quarters blind.
And to parcel my grub with that sordid old scrub,
     People thought that I'd clean lost my mind.

But although it was true that his virtues were few,
     That his mind was benumbed and inert,
That he cared not for art, nor affairs of the heart,
     The old dog had a passion for dirt.
Like the grease on a cog or the scum on a bog,
     Like the dust on the rain-parched plains,
Dirt clung to his skin and it worked its way in
     Till it flowed with the blood in his veins.

And it gave him the way, as the prospectors say,
     The way of a crafty old hound.
For one sniff with his nose would exactly disclose
     Whatever lay under the ground.
It was flesh of his flesh, whether ancient or fresh,
     If the diggings were new or were old.
With the mineral domain he was one and the same,
     Yes, old Blane had a nose for the gold.

So we worked at our claim, till we wore ourselves lame,
     While the gold piled up in a trove.
Though for all that we gained there was more that remained,
     So like demons we pushed and we drove.
Until one day old Blane doubled over in pain,
     And he said, “This is it, lad, I'm through.
It's brimstone I smell, and I'm straight off for Hell,
     Where I know that I’ll get what’s my due.

“ I have had me some fun, but for things that I done
     I am bound now to sizzle and roast.
’Course I’ve known all along how it’s where I belong… ”
     Then he grimaced and gave up the ghost.
Well, I dug a hole deep, where the night crawlers creep,
     And I laid in his poor mortal coil.
So that there it might lie, like a pig in a sty,
     All blissfully covered in soil.

And I whispered a prayer o’er the corpse lying there:
     That no matter how loathsome he seemed,
He must surely repent of a life so misspent,
     And his soul could be finally redeemed.
Then I gathered the gains of our months of hard pains,
     A trove in an old burlap sack.
And I shouldered the load, and I took to the road,
     And I swore that I'd never look back.

Then the future seemed bright, until one fateful night,
     As I lay in a half-dreaming doze,
Going on with myself how I'd spend all my wealth,
     Something stirred, and at once my blood froze.
From the darkness all round came the sinister sound
     Of footsteps that slowly encroached,
Then the scent of a breath tinged with soil and death,
     And I knew that some horror approached.

Just then the pale moon cast a glow through the gloom
     Where it lit with its lifeless shine,
The face of a fiend that had never been cleaned!
     With its eyes red as… iodine.
And I knew it was Blane, though it must sound insane,
     For he lay in the ground stiff and cold.
And I cringed from the ghost, as it drew itself close,
     Then it said, “I’ve come for the gold.”

“B-but Blane!” I cried out, in a terrified shout,
     “To the dead gold can have no avail!”
And he said, “That ain’t so. Ah, but would you know.”
     Then he told me his miserable tale:
“On my trip down to Hell things all started out well,
     Till a river come straight cross the road,
Where a ferryman’s there with live snakes in his hair,
     And a face like an old horny toad.

“First he give me a grin and he says, ‘Climb on in,
     And a coin if you can for my fee.’
Then he gets a good whiff — the snakes all go stiff,
     And he gags like he’d swallered a bee.
With a nautical blast he shouts out, ‘Avast!’
     Then while smacking his oar to my head,
He proceeds to profess I’m a foul stinking mess
     And a living disgrace to the dead.

“Then he says, in his time he’s seen men black with grime,
     And smelled stench that would sicken a goat,
But for fee or for free, no one filthy as me
     Has ever set foot in his boat.
Not for penny nor pence would he bear such offense,
     And he laid the condition down cold.
Not to take me on board, not on any accord,
     Not for less than a sack full of gold!

“And what else could I do, but to come here to you
     For the gold that will pay me my way.
So go fetch out that sack, and I’ll make my way back,
     Or I’ll haunt you till your dying day!”
Now think, if you will, of the nightmarish chill,
     As you gaze at the living dead:
At a corpse with a smell too horrible for Hell
     Standing there at the foot of your bed.

And though deathly afraid, a choice must be made:
     If that treasure would be mine to hold,
Then the ghost of old Blane, and the smell would remain.
     So hell, I gave him the gold.
Now the years have passed by, and I struggle and try,
     But my fortune has never come right.
And I’ve lived evermore all alone and dirt-poor,
     But at least I’ve slept soundly at night.

Though remembering the time when a treasure was mine,
     It does seem so ironic and cruel,
How the whole lot was lost for the traveling cost
     Of a hopelessly hell-bent old fool.
Then I think of the legions in Heaven's fair regions,
     Though their chance of salvation was slim,
But with cash and contrition, bought out of Perdition,
     While Blane went and bought his way in.

R.F.

The Emu

This was written for my wife Emily's students.
The study theme for the school was Australia.
















                                 THE EMU


A time long past in the Far Beyond,
  The sky stretched over the dried out land.
There without river, lake or pond:
  A waterless world of dust and sand.

Where the stars’ faint light shared the night
  With the hovering aurora’s blush,
But the noonday sun, so furiously bright,
  Withered the forests and shriveled the brush.

The shrubs and bushes as dry as dead,
  And trees no more than stumps in the ground.
But though life hung by a slender thread,
  The animals were still around.

   The Goanna Lizard, the Wallaby,
   Bandicoot and Kowari,
   The spiny Echidna, the spotted Quoll,
   Wombat, Numbat, Marsupial Mole.
   The Kangaroo, Walleroo, and Potoroo;
   And the Bunyip, some say, lived there, too.

   And over them all the Emu flew,
   On mighty wings in a sky of blue.
   With a tail that flowed like a royal robe
   Of fluttering feathers that shimmered and glowed.
   To those below who saw his flight,
   This was the World’s most glorious sight.

And in that time, so long ago,
  When on the land that was their home,
Not a thing could live or grow
  In earth as parched as an oven stone.

The older animals had maintained,
  That taking history, overall,
It was not long since last it rained,
  For it had never rained at all.

Whatever water had been found,
  Left from when the world was new,
Had baked out of the scorching ground;
  Vanished, never to renew.

   And far above as the sun rose high,
   The Emu soared through the clear blue sky
   On wings so wide that the shadow cast,
   Was a sweep of darkness that slowly passed.
   And they thought themselves blessed, though perhaps not wise,
   Who lived in the land where the Emu flies.

But love of home can’t alter fate,
  And theirs they knew would be the worst,
If they should choose to stay and wait,
  Until they all had died from thirst.

Still, they thought, there’s risk in haste
  To leave the land where they had grown.
Who knew what dangers that they faced
  In setting out for parts unknown?

And might whatever land they found
  Be worse than this, the land they know?
For where, in all the world around
  Was any better place to go?

   While far aloft the Emu soars,
   The length and breadth of Australia’s shores.
   And past the southern shore he sees,
   A realm of storms and roaring seas,
   Where the sun was pale and rarely broke
   Through clouds as dark as brush fire smoke.

He turned his eyes from that fearful shore,
  Since powerful storms were things to dread.
Other coasts were to explore,
  So far off to the north he sped.

Where off that shore he spied a land
  Of misted mountains clothed in green.
Where hills rose lush from the wave washed sands,
  And water flowed in sparkling streams.

The sight inspired hope, despite
  The course it bound him to pursue,
And next time that he rose in flight
  He’d pass beyond the world he knew.

For time had come for things to change
  From what had been since long ago,
And though it seemed unsure and strange,
  He clearly saw which way to go.

   Then in the twilight dim and soft,
   Returning from his day aloft,
   The Emu came to gently drop
   Down to the crest of Uluru Rock,
   Where in his hidden nest he’d stay,
   Unseen until the break of day.

Next day at dawn the beasts all met
  Below the Rock’s tall palisade.
Their destination still unset,
  They’d come to seek the Emu’s aid.

Who else might know a far off land
  Where they could go and safely stay?
But would a bird so high and grand
  Descend to guide them on their way?

They wondered, looking at the height
  Where the Emu slumbered in his lair,
Did he even know their plight?
  Or if he did, then would he care?

   And then they saw the Emu rise
   Into the Outback’s empty skies.
   And as it looked to those below,
   His wings were flames in the sunrise glow.
   His tail a streaming comet’s plume,
   As bright and red as the gum tree’s bloom.

They saw him climbing steep and high,
  Up through the morning’s fiery light,
And as he climbed he gave a cry:
  A trumpet call, resounding bright.

The sound bespoke a pure delight
  That thrilled the heart, but brought to mind:
A spirit launched in boundless flight
  Would leave the world’s concerns behind.

They might as well attempt to talk,
  To the towering cliff that rose close by.
The dawn flushed face of the glowing rock
  Was no less likely to reply.

And so, they thought, we’re on our own,
  To make our way as best we might.
But could we bear to leave our home
  Before we’ve seen just one last flight?

   While the Emu soaring high above
   The bleak and dried-up world they loved,
   Veered from the north, to come about
   And set his course straight to the south.
   Then once again his cry rang out:
   A warrior’s exulting shout.

Toward that realm of tempest’s clash
  He flew until the sun went down.
Then saw ahead the lightning flash,
  And heard the rumbling thunder sound.

He plunged into the storm’s dark tower,
  Where Nature’s fury looms unchained,
Then beat his wings with all his power
  To take command and drive the rain.

But in a rage the storm replies,
  And with a savage howling din,
That echoed through the southern skies,
  Let loose the blasting polar wind.

It blew from over and below
  Until the bird was wrapped about
In a cyclone swirl of feathers and snow,
  That froze within and lashed without.

   And all that night the Emu fought,
   To drive the raging storm he’d caught.
   And careless of the damage done,
   He thrashed his wings till he had won.
   Then by the lightning’s livid glow,
   He saw his land appear below.

It seemed like weeks the rain poured down,
  In torrents from the slate gray sky.
It soaked and slaked the thirsty ground
  Till on the day the clouds ran dry.

And when the burning sun came out,
  To boil the storm’s last drops to steam,
The soggy Emu looked about,
  Then spread his weary wings to preen.

But seeing feathers crushed and torn,
  The Emu found, to his dismay,
He’d thrashed so hard to drive the storm,
  His wings were all but worn away.

   So on the land the Emu walked,
   So weary from the battle fought,
   He hardly noticed how his legs
   Were stripped as bare as wooden pegs,
   Or how his tail, of such renown,
   Had been completely whittled down.

And as he walked, the crust of mud
  Was baking in the sun’s fierce heat,
Until all traces of the flood
  Had vanished from beneath his feet.

Then like the sweeping tide of war
  The sun dried up and scorched the land,
Until it looked just as before:
  A waterless world of dust and sand.

And, so it seemed, his daring scheme
  To make this land as lush and green
As off the northern shore he’d seen,
  Was no more than a wishful dream.

   The Emu went on with his walk,
   The long way back to Uluru Rock,
   And while his thoughts ran to the night
   Of his exhausting final flight,
   A pleasant sound came to his ear
   Of water bubbling, sweet and clear.

Before him ran a trickling stream,
  A sight that certainly inferred
That something’s on behind the scene,
  And wondering what, a thought occurred:

To flee the sun, its natural foe,
  Perhaps the rain had chose to drain
Into the porous rock below,
  Then, here and there, seep back again.

He saw the stream run on and flow
  Into a billabong, and there
Upon the bank, as white as snow,
  A tea tree bloomed in the scented air.

   And so the water, safe and sound,
   Was percolating underground.
   Less than he’d hoped, but who could say
   The price had been to great to pay?
   The land was saved. Of that, no doubt.
   So right, she’ll be, when all sorts out.

New life sprang up where water ran,
  And as the dying land renewed,
The animals gave up their plan
  To bid their cherished home adieu.

It still was harsh, and mostly dry,
  Conditions that they’d come to see
As things on which they could rely,
  And just the way it ought to be.

But while their world seemed near all right,
  One matter had them still concerned:
How after that last morning’s flight,
  The Emu never had returned.

   The Kangaroo, the Wallaby,
   Koala Bear and Kowari,
   The Wombat, Numbat and spotted Quoll,
   The Bandicoot and Marsupial Mole,
   Walleroo, Potoroo, and all the other Outback crew,
   Wondered where he’d gotten to.

Though round about there had been talk
  Of a raggedy beast with a curious stare,
Gazing up at Uluru Rock
  As if he had some business there.

They said he looked a bit absurd,
  A walking shrubbery, more or less,
And whether he was feathered or furred,
  Was more than anyone could guess.

But a stranger’s welcome, that’s the rule,
  So all agreed to be polite;
To not say something rude or cruel,
  And reckon him in his own right.

   The stranger took it all as fair,
   And even did his best to share
   The hope they knew would always last,
   And keep the dream as years went past:
   To hear at dawn a joyous cry,
   Then once more see the Emu fly!



R.F.

Owl Dreams of His Dinner

From the collection Polyadirondackon,
poems inspired by or relating to the
Adirondack Mountains.















From the National Audubon Society:

Barred Owl

Average Height: 16-24 inches

Average Weight:  1 1/2-2 pounds

Wingspan:  3-4 feet

Call:  The most common sound of the Barred Owl is
"hoo HOO hoo hoo, hoo HOO hoo hooaaahhhhh."
This is often interpreted as "Who-cooks-for-you--
who-cooks-for-you-all?"

Diet:  The diet of Barred Owls consists mostly of mice…


OWL DREAMS OF HIS DINNER
(A somewhat protracted lament)

Perhaps if they were simmered in a broth,
Or cooked with leeks and mushrooms in a stew,
But swallowed whole and raw? Must I, though loath,
Consume my food in manner so undue?

The fault is not the mouse, with all respect,
The mouse is the most excellent of prey.
But the mode of preparation should reflect
The qualities that are an owl’s, per se.

For Nature, after critical review
Of all She’d done in all the world’s domains,
Accomplished absolute perfection through
This melding of attractiveness and brains.

Our wisdom is so well acknowledged that
To speak of owls as wise is a cliché.
Our senses match the eagle and the bat.
Our looks exceed them both far and away.

And yet I dine with less bon appétit
Than a common cat, whose palate is so far
Indifferent to the taste of uncooked meat,
He thinks it fine to feed on Mouse Tartare.

Or worse, a brute reptilian crocodile,
Some swamp-bred rodent squirming in his grasp,
He gulps and slops it down Sashimi Style—
Is that appealing? Really…, need I ask?

Though I fare little better, which is why
It’s all the World’s great pity and a waste,
That faced with such a paltry diet, I
Should be a bird of such discerning taste.

What tragedy to never more than dream
Of mice prepared with elegance and class:
Sautéd with truffles, smothered in rich cream,
Glazed with buttered brandy—under glass.

Though, times I’m almost willing to allow
My appetite might supersede my pride,
And condescend to some more humble chow:
Like ground and grilled, or even chicken-fried.

But think of this: Mouse Wellington.
Or à la mode D'Avignon.
Or Mouse Ragout, or Cordon Bleu;
Mouse Tempura, Mouse Fondue.
Savory mincemice baked in pies.
Mouse Supreme, or Mouse Surprise.

Enough…!

It’s nothing more than madness to pursue
Such visions my imagination brings.
By nature there are things I cannot do,
As perfection does not mean to be all things.

I can’t manage in the kitchen, so to speak.
Why, what would be a more preposterous thing
Than trying to hold a saucepan in my beak
While stirring the ingredients with my wing.

And so, you see, that lacking certain parts
Required for preparing a repast,
The practice of the culinary arts
Lies beyond an owl’s non-dexterous grasp.

But then, was I created incomplete?
To muddle through with beak and wing and claw,
Without the means for cooking what I eat:
To not have hands might seem a crucial flaw.

And true, from what I’ve seen in this locale,
Those hatchet men who trespass on my lands,
Do fancy they’re more perfect than an owl.
But where’s perfection in a pair of hands?

For based on observation, so it seems,
They’re high-and-mighty hooligans and fools,
Who chop down trees and foul the lakes and streams:
Those hands, indeed, the very Devil’s tools.

I’d want a great long spoon ere I should sup
With them that think they’re better made than me,
Not that I would wish to seem stuck-up,
But who could digest such brash effrontery?

I’d see them tumble into Hell’s black maw,
And stew till Judgment Day in their own juice.
But then I toss a mouse down, extra raw,
And think: Some might be put to worthwhile use.

For whatever their capacity allows
To lie within their limited purview,
The proper way of serving up the mouse
Is something that one might be trained to do.

It’s not beyond the realm of rational thought,
That with patience and the will to see it through,
A meager human being could be taught
The way to cook for me.

                                      Who cooks for you?



R.F.