What
evils had the land
Not
suffered since
Her
apostasy?
First
came the terrible wars
Without
end, and in their train
Followed
disease, death,
And
misery.
Then
the cities
Like
a plague of boils
Appeared,
stark and squalid
In
the countryside,
As
places of refuge
For
the war-hounded.
But
when the poison mist
Was
released to gain
The
upper hand,
More
like prison houses
They
afterwards became.
Food
was so scarce
That
all the carcasses
Of
bird and beast and man
That
could be gathered
Were
ground together
Into
a powder
And
boiled to make
A
noxious broth,
Which,
though it kept
The
body alive,
It
ravaged the soul and mind.
Nor
did the mist
Depart
entirely,
But
hung in the air,
A
turgid yellow-brown,
So
that even a sunray
Became
a rare
Commodity.
Yet
not every place
Was
thus afflicted.
In
one poor village
Many
miles away,
Hidden
in a valley,
Life
continued on
In
a quiet way,
Peaceful
and serene.
For
long before,
One
family had gone
To
the martyr’s shrine
To
receive their
Yearly
blessing from the priest.
But
he, his heart
Foreboding
Evil
tidings
To
come, sent them home
With
one of the fruits
Of
the Four Trees,
And
bade them to keep it
Safely
in their home
Till
word should come
To
them what ought
Be
done with it.
So
there it stayed,
In
a corner
Of
their little cottage,
All
warm and white,
In
a little silver box,
Still
gleaming with the light
Its
forebear once shed.
And
because of the presence
Of
this fruit, the village
Was
blessed: The poison mist
Came
not near; goats and ducks
Gave
them milk and meat;
And
the earth gave them
Corn
and greens to eat.
Many
years passed
For
the family
Who
kept the sacred seed.
Their
children begat children;
Then
there were great grandchildren;
Who
in turn raised up
A
bairn-team of their own.
And
so it was
In
the time of these
Last
born that God,
In
pity for the world
He
had made, sent an angel
To
the young father
Of
the cottage, saying
That
he should plant
The
fruit in the center
Of
the village.
Kneeling
before his holy guest,
He
gave his assent.
With
a few quick words
He
told his neighbors
What
was to be done,
And
all gave him leave and watched,
Waiting
to see what this
Would
mean for the world.
And
lo! No sooner
Was
the soil spread o’er
The
flesh of the fruit
Than
a full-grown tree
Sprang
up, shining as brightly
As
its kindred had.
But
because it shone
So
brilliantly,
It
smote the eyes
Of
the warring peoples
Far
away, so accustomed
To
darkness had they become.
And
being in
Their
sickened state,
They
flew into a rage.
Forgetting
their bitterness
One
towards another,
They
united at last,
But
to do a greater evil
Than
what they had done
Heretofore:
Extinguish
the light
That
tortured them so.
Onward
in their caravans
They
came, armed with weapons
And
contraptions of war.
When
they reached the village,
A
defense was mounted,
But
they were no match
For
the beastly men,
Goaded
by their
Hatred
of the light.
And
several village men
Were
slaughtered
Ere
the battle ended.
Withstanders
subdued,
The
army turned
Their
attention
To
the radiant Tree.
Their
eyes could not
Look
straight upon it.
Withal,
they took up
Their
blades and other battlements
And
rushed towards it.
With
blow after blow
They
beat upon it,
The
holy Tree,
Doing
little harm,
For
its bark was harder
Than
the strongest
Of
their armor.
But
at last one mighty stroke
Broke
ope a wound
In
the sturdy bough,
And
a little stream
Of
sweetest myrrh
Did
issue from it.
The
God of all,
Seeing
this grievous thing,
Thundered
from Heaven,
‘Enough!’ And he called forth
His
martyr from deep
Within
the earth.
And
without delay
The
earth opened,
And
Ezmo the martyr,
Now
whole and hale,
Rose
out from the ground.
His
countenance
Was
like unto
That
of the Tree,
Only
brighter,
So
that the marauders,
Overwhelmed
by the voice,
And
the light, and the wondrous
Rising
of the martyr,
Became
still at last.
Ezmo,
knowing
Their
condition,
Offered
to them
Healing
of soul and body,
If
they would accept it.
And
all, weary within
Of
evil, did accept.
And
Ezmo, taking
Of
the myrrh that flowed
From
the Tree, marked each one
With
it, regenerating
The
whole man and uniting
Each
to the Holy God.
Then
verily
They
all in one accord
Destroyed
their blades
And
ev’ry machine devised
For
war as things defiled,
And
tore down their cities.
Then
trees were grown,
And
seed was sown
In
their dominion
In
abundance not seen
In
generations many.
And
the light of the Tree
Became
for them
A
blessing and not a curse.
Yet
for Ezmo,
There
was more to do.
He
went to those
Who
fell in battle,
And
laid his hands
Upon
them, returning life
To
their bodies,
Giving
them back
To
their families.
Then
he sought out
The
young father
Of
the cottage,
One
of those valiant
Men
of the battle,
Who
had lately
Guarded
the seed
Of
the Tree,
And
finding him,
Anointed
him
With
the myrrh of the Tree,
Proclaiming
him
And
his offspring after him
Kings
forever of the land.
And
his brother
With
his sons he likewise
Consecrated
as priests
Of
God unendingly.
These
acts done, the martyr
Placed
his hands upon the Tree,
Praying
earnestly to God,
And
the myrrh ceased its flowing,
And
its wound was healed.
However,
when the time
Came
to anoint
A
new king or priest,
A
little cleft
Would
open in the Tree,
Giving
sacred myrrh
For
the holy occasion.
For
seven weeks after
That
astonishing day,
Ezmo
walked to and fro
Across
the land,
Teaching
and
Comforting
those he met,
At
the end of which
Was
the day foremarked
For
him to leave the world.
And
one last time
Ezmo
blessed in person
The
people and the land.
And
rising a little way
Into
the sky,
He
disappeared
From
mortal eye,
Leaving
all in the tender
Watchcare
of the Tree,
The
priests, and the king.
Now
a fairer age
Had
dawned upon
The
people of the land.
But
the heart of man
May
lean toward evil
Or
toward good.
How
long will this
Blessèd
age remain?
None
can venture
A
word to say.
--
Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England,
South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð,
unworthy though we are!
Anathema to the Union!
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