The Poet's Tales

I the poet sat within the gates of the holy palace, beside the Queen's Pool atop the sacred hill of Orusen. It was the Gray Hour, the Poet's Hour, when the marbled streets of Sencankarr are silent, and Myth stirs again. Then the Soul of the City walks abroad and makes companions of the dreams of men. Ever and anon some of those dreams, coming from hearts that in waking had hated the green earth and the one who made it, waft upward to God, or aspire to walk among the old places of the earth. Still others, the dreams of men who by day loved only the grind of trade and the building of new storehouses, seek the company of poets, and tell to them strange mysteries in old voices denied to their waking lips.

These things I heard of the dreams who walked abroad -- and others that I could not write down, for Day was coming, and I feared him, because he is no friend of dreams or poets.

First I heard from the dream of a man who had been a merchant in his youth, and he had the story from the North Wind:

"The Cheyth is not the greatest nor the mightiest of rivers, but it is the oldest and by reason of its cold and of its age, its wrath is greatest when aroused. The flood which flow through it come down from the great glaciers of the North, where men say a sea is frozen until the hour of judgment. And ever and anon, some of these waters break free, seeking to do harm to men before their day. But these the Cheyth welcomes and guides to the Inland Sea, for they are wrathful waters and very old, and suit his disposition well."

"And it was on the banks of the Cheyth that men built the city called Kyronkarr, which was said to be the greatest of the cities in the North. And in the wide plains between the craggy mountains of the South, men talked of Kyronkarr. And in the very West where once the Traen people did sail masterfully in their tall ships, rumors of Kyronkarr were known. And in the East, where the Koth-or fight with the great fire drakes upon the blasted earth, songs were sung of Kyronkarr -- the greatest city of the North.

"So a time came when Kyronkarr boasted of herself, and raised herself up in her pride, and said: 'Now I am a great city, and who can know my founding, or who is now living that first beheld my foundations of marble? All these are gone to dust, but white-walled Kyronkarr stands forever.'

"And she was very proud. But certain merchants coming to her gates looked upon them and wept. And when certain of those who stood by asked them why they wept, they said that it was for the beauty of their homeland, and their native city, which so far outstripped Kyronkarr as the heavens do the earth (which indeed all native cities needs must). Then those who stood by asked the merchants of what city they came. And the merchants answered: 'Sencankarr, of the white towers, and its roofs of blue Waterstone gleaming as the sun rises over the tomb of Sencan upon the sacred hill of Orusen.'

"But the city of Kyronkarr was very wroth, since her glory exceeded not that of Sencan's city. Now there have been in every city since the world's beginning certain fellows which hear only the city's dark thoughts. So it was in Kyronkarr.

"And ere long these fellows, hearing only the black thoughts of Kyronkarr's heart and taking no account of the prudence or wisdom of the great city, fell upon the merchants of a night as they slept in their beds. Now the merchants had stopped in a public house of the city, and they had eaten of its bread and of its salt. Then the robbers took the bodies of the merchants and cast them into the Cheyth, that by it they might be carried into the wide sea, and none might know of their treachery.

"Then was the Cheyth angry, for he is a hard river, and not given to over-kindness. And he rose up in wrath against the city.

"And Kyronkarr said to him: 'Why are you raised up in wrath, oh my brother, and why do you no longer let the little ships sail to and fro from my docks, taking the news of my majesty to the world?'

"And the Cheyth said: 'Because of thy blood-guiltiness, oh sister. For sons of they darker thoughts have shed innocent blood, and for a covering of their crime and thine they have polluted my waters -- I, who am the eldest of rivers. The men whom they killed I have given burial, that they may lay in peace among the river-weeds till the ending of the world. But always they will cry to me for vengeance until I have unseated thee, and made thee a desolation and a by-word among the cities of the earth.'

"And the city Kyronkarr said: 'Be not very wrathful, oh my brother, nor destroy me who am the greatest of cities in the North. Neither cast down my high turrets nor my white pillars, nor my sacred minarets. These my wicked children you may destroy, but let somewhat of my glory remain for a marvel in later days.'

"So the Cheyth had pity on her -- but not overmuch, for he is an old river - and said: 'Upon these thy children will I then have wrath. But your walls and your pillars and your sacred minarets will remain as a warning and a horror for the nations until the overthrowing of the world. None of the children of men shall ever walk through they streets. But my children, the Gull and the Cormorant and the Gray-crested Heron, these shall roost in thy proud turrets and nest upon thy walls.'

"So the city wept.

"The Cheyth overflowed his banks and surrounded the city, cutting it off from the dry land on all sides. He would not let the little ships come and go, nor would he let any bring succor to the city. Nor would he let his children, the sea-fowl and the mighty Salmon (who is sacred to him) come near the city, lest the men of Kyronkarr should catch them with their nets or kill them with their spears, and eat and live.

"And Kyronkarr, that  great city, wept and said: 'Brother, my children are starving.'

"But the Cheyth said: 'Even as they slew with the sword those who ate of their bread and of their salt, so I also will slay them with hunger until all of the bread and salt within thy walls is devoured, and women will slay their own children for fear of the hunger.'

And the dream of the man who had been a merchant in his youth told me that he had been to Kyronkarr, and found the city desolate save for the Gull and the Cormorant and the Gray-crested Heron who roosted there. But the great gates of Kyronkarr still weep for her children.

Another dream I heard from the soul of a man who had been a poet in his youth, but afterwards had gone to court and become a minister of the exchequer. This was the song I had from him:

There was a poet of the North
Who loved the Northern clime.
He loved its dells of stately firs,
The craggy hills that climb.

His songs were songs of soaring heights
And plunging, shattered stones
And blowing winds from glacial plains
And silent, deathly colds.

There was a poet of the South
Who loved the Southern plains.
She loved the rushing Southern winds,
The sudden-storming rains.

Her songs were songs of riding,
Of stallions running free,
And honest pitch-beamed river boats
A-poling down to sea.

Now those poets met one fateful day
Between their homelands dear,
In the middle-heartland of the world
Where North and South draw near.

And they loved each other greatly
As only poets can --
That is to say that she loved him
As a woman loves a man.

"Come to the sun-warmed South with me,"
Quoth the poet of the South,
"And we will dance when the boatmen sing
At the Feast of the River-Mouth.

"And we will ride before the Sun
As he comes behind the Dawn,
And wends his way across the sky
As through the ages long."

But the Northern poet only wept
And hung his head and sighed.
"I do not love your sunny plains,"
The Northern poet cried.

"For I must sing the silent songs
I hear on mountainsides.
Which come to me on wafting winds
From where the echoes die.

"But come with me into the North
Where tall the fir trees grow
Upon the granite, lofty peaks,
All-gray, and crowned with snow."

But the Poet of the South would not,
But only smiled tears
To think of him alone, and cold,
Throughout the passing years.

"I could not see the sky," she said,
"For all your evergreens.
Nor could I hear the boatmen chant,
A-poling for the sea.

"But if upon some chilly morn
A happy thought you seize,
Then send me by your skaldic art
Some sombre Northern breeze.

"And if ere you feel sunshine warm
Or taste the morning dew,
Then taste in joy, my Northern love
For I have thought of you."

Other stories I had too, from the dreams of men who had not glorified their Maker with their waking hours. But I could not write them down, for the sun was coming, and I feared him.