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Tuesday, July 16, 2019

‘The Shadow-Fiends’


Afar off in the woods
A little hamlet stood
Of kindly-hearted folk,
Not so noteworthy
In acts good or bad,
But merely made their way
In the world steadily,
Working day by day
And remembering
God and neighbor.

But as the years went by,
They became more worldly-wise.
They still offered
The yearly sacrifice
Of the best of their labors
At the altar
Of the Thunder God,
The mighty ruler
In the heavens above,
And bowed to the Great Ones
In the Hall of the Blessèd
Nearby, caring for their tombs
And for their bodies,
And sharing together
The Meal of Friendship,
Forgiving past sins
And renewing old ties.

Yet they did not walk
The Circle of Penance
Beforehand for cleansing,
But made an easy road
To walk or ride a beast
To the holy place.
The daily prayers
And other rites
Also went unused,
As time in field and forge,
At lively dance hall
Or quiet story-teller’s home,
Filled their fleeting days.

But their forgetfulness
Of God had an effect
Unknown to them,
Weakened their bond with Him,
And the protection
Of His power ebbed.
And then of a night
A rift did open,
Black and foul and smoking,
And through it came
The shadow-fiends,
Floating along
By their two jagged wings,
Bodies short and fat
Like a spider’s,
Skin black and scaly like a snake’s,
Arms and legs spindly thin,
Hands and feet all like -
Three claws apiece,
Two afore and one aback,
The oval head,
Sometimes more than one,
With its sev’ral eyes
And little mouth
Filled with razor fangs.

They have no care
For one another
But go one by one
Alone throughout a land
Seeking what they might despoil.
And here they did the same,
Moving slowly
Through the hamlet
In their frozen malice.
Whatever living being
Came into their presence
Met with death or madness,
And plants withered
At their icy touch.

The village folk
Now hastened to the holy grounds,
A haven from harm,
And asked the lore master
What might be done
To overcome the dreadful foe.
Quoth he, Leofwin,
‘The Old Ones say
That a sword imbued
With heaven’s power
Must strike the doorway
Of the demons to close it.’
‘And will you do this deed?’
‘I will,’ answered he.

Chose now they did,
The elders wise,
A warrior-band
Leofwin to guard
On the fearsome quest:
Alfgar, Athelric, Edsig -
Sword masters without peer.
The four best blades
They gathered from the hoard
Dedicated
At the yearly
Sacrifices
As gifts to God:
Four large claymores
With double edges
And two-handled hilts;
Shining steel above,
Glittering grip below,
Inlaid with sparkling stones.

To bless the blades
And consecrate themselves,
They walked the Circle of Penance,
And then Leofwin
At the altar
Placed the swords upon it,
And, saying the words of power,
A lightning bolt
Shot down from the sky
And entered the four weapons.
A glowing fiend-bane
Each now held in his hands,
Radiating
A warm blue-white light,
Throbbing with the power
Of Thor Himself.

Scouts had found the fiend-cave
And the dark doorway.
The four hurried thus-ward,
The blades ringing
In the wind as they ran
And as the Three
Did deadly battle
With the shadow-fiends
Along the way.

At the mouth of the cave,
Alfgar, Athelric, and Edsig
Bade Leofwin
To wait until they should
Clear the path for him
To the rift inside.
He hid; he waited;
His breath was baited.
But no one came.
Suddenly he heard
A breathing not his own
And felt its icy coldness
On his very neck.
He whirled and faced
The bulging, soul-devouring eyes.
It flung its claws at him
And cut into his chest.
Leofwin, unused to battle,
Fell dazed to the ground.
But the singing
Of his blade revived him,
And the next swing
Of its claws cost it an arm.
Out came a low, rough roar
And a stench of putrid gore,
But he kept a fixèd gaze.
Its frantic lunge
Was met with a final blow
Of Leofwin’s blade,
Which hewed the creature in two
But shattered the fiend-bane,
Leaving a hilt in his hands.

Waiting was through;
He darted for the cavern.
Inside a horrible sight:
Wrack of slaughtered bodies,
Many fiends mangled
And dismembered.
But among them, alas,
Lay his three friends,
Asleep after heroic deeds.
He mourned them
A moment only,
For duty would not
Allow it longer.
The sword of Edsig,
Smeared with black, stinking blood,
But still glowing, giving light,
Was near at hand.
He grasped it quickly,
Ran further down.
Then he saw it,
The gaping tear.
He hurled a blow
With all his might
At the evil gate,
And power from the sword
Burst forth, sealing the door,
And then splintered and raced
Across the countryside,
Annihilating
The remaining shadow-fiends.

Three days of quiet;
The people came forth
To see if the tidings
Were good or ill.
The scouts crept back warily
To the fiend-cave,
Finding the doorway closed
But their friends dead.
Leofwin, too,
For the power unleashed
Was too much for man to bear.

The villagers bore the bodies
Solemnly to the
House of the Blessèd,
Where each was entombed.
Every year on the night
Of their battle,
The villagers
Honor their acts of valor.
And every year
The lore master
Would warn the folk
Against slackness
Toward the Thunder God,
Lest evil overrun
Their land again.

--

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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