This week a lengthy episode based on the poetry of Walter De La Mare.
Previously I was sending out one poem a week, because the written notes usually contain a monster, which takes a great deal of time to stat up. The problem is that it makes tiny little podcast episodes. In future I’ll be putting out longer episodes, and just blowing out the backlog of creature statistics.
First, a girl under a hedge ward, from the section based on folktale characters.
The Supper
A wolf he pricks with eyes of fire
Across the night’s o’ercrusted snows.
Seeking his prey,
He pads his way
Where Jane benighted goes,
Where Jane benighted goes.
He curdles the bleak air with ire,
Ruffling his hoary raiment through,
And lo! he sees
Beneath the trees
Where Jane’s light footsteps go,
Where Jane’s light footsteps go.
No hound peals thus in wicked joy,
He snaps his muzzle in the snows,
His five-clawed feet
Do scamper fleet
Where Jane’s bright lanthorn shows,
Where Jane’s bright lanthorn shows.
Now his greed’s green doth gaze unseen
On a pure face of wilding rose,
Her amber eyes
In fear’s surprise
Watch largely as she goes,
Watch largely as she goes.
Salt wells his hunger in his jaws,
His lust it revels to and fro,
Yet small beneath
A soft voice saith,
“Jane shall in safety go,
Jane shall in safety go.”
He lurched as if a fiery lash
Had scourged his hide, and through and through
His furious eyes
O’erscanned the skies,
But nearer dared not go,
But nearer dared not go.
He reared like wild Bucephalus,
His fangs like spears in him uprose,
Even to the town
Jane’s flitting gown
He grins on as she goes,
He grins on as she goes.
In fierce lament he howls amain,
He scampers, marvelling in his throes
What brought him there
To sup on air,
While Jane unharmèd goes,
While Jane unharmèd goes.
A brief song of the faerie host.
The Horn
Hark! is that a horn I hear,
In cloudland winding sweet—
And bell-like clash of bridle-rein,
And silver-shod light feet?
Is it the elfin laughter
Of fairies riding faint and high,
Beneath the branches of the moon,
Straying through the starry sky?
Is it in the globèd dew
Such sweet melodies may fall?
Wood and valley—all are still,
Hushed the shepherd’s call.
The Little Salamander
When I go free,
I think ’twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody—nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.
The “hair” mentioned above is asbestos, which was thought of as salamander hair. There are vague records of garments made of asbestos which were laundered back to white by hanging them in the centre of hot flames. It seems like the sort of thing House Flambeau would do.
In the last poem, we see a basic switch used by illusionists in the order and, in this case, by faeries. By the time you look, the trick has already been done.
Dame Hickory
“Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here’s sticks for your fire,
Furze-twigs, and oak-twigs,
And beech-twigs, and briar!”
But when old Dame Hickory came for to see,
She found ’twas the voice of the False Faerie.
“Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here’s meat for your broth,
Goose-flesh, and hare’s flesh,
And pig’s trotters both!”
But when old Dame Hickory came for to see,
She found ’twas the voice of the False Faerie.
“Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here’s a wolf at your door,
His teeth grinning white,
And his tongue wagging sore!”
“Nay!” said Dame Hickory, “ye False Faerie!
But a wolf ’twas indeed, and famished was he.
“Dame Hickory, Dame Hickory,
Here’s buds for your tomb,
Bramble, and lavender,
And rosemary bloom!”
“Wh-s-st!” said Dame Hickory, “ye False Faerie,
Ye cry like a wolf, ye do, and trouble poor me.”
Games From Folktales 