Now, though, to reintroduce myself to the blog-o-sphere, I will return to one of my other projects: Women in Myth. To follow is a long piece called, "The Nixie of the Mill-pond" which is an adaptation of an old folk tale, and embellished with semi-historical nonsense. It is possible that this is not its final form, but in the meantime... enjoy. Did I mention it's long...
The Nixie of the Mill-pond
Twas
during the in-between times
Ere Christ had risen to glory
Before the fall of druid lore.
Twas a time when Rome still flourished
When mighty Jupiter still reigned
From that high Capitoline hill.
In a quiet Gallic village,
Much ignored by Roman power
A miller still minded the stone;
Minded as his father before.
For him, twas a time of plenty,
When his name stood for quality
And he lived in peace with the land.
Then came to the village,a man
Whose passionate voice spoke to them
Of one savior, one Lord God.
The miller took to heart this speech
And renounced his olden beliefs,
Forsaking all that he once hailed.
No longer to the mill-spirit
Did he offer the first turnings
And against the wishes of his wife,
Did not the hearth’s fair candles light.
Yet his wife who’d long been barren
Conceived soon after the Lord came,
And the miller offered much thanks
That God should give him this bounty.
Yet, now all the house spirits
No longer granted their favours.
The mill-spirit no longer ground,
And the roads brought none to grind
Til the miller’s riches dwindled
And he, alone, the mill retained.
His work no longer brought him joy,
And nights were filled with restless sleep
At the thought of the poverty
Inflicted 'pon his unborn babe.
One morning, when the dreams again
Kept him tossing throughout the night,
He rose before the sun awoke
To ponder, with slow steps, why fate
Had cursed him this given life.
It was a fine autumn morning,
The trees dressed in yellow and orange,
Turned gold as dawn brought forth the sun.
The miller sat in that beauty,
Swaddled by the arms of Nature,
Ere Christ had risen to glory
Before the fall of druid lore.
Twas a time when Rome still flourished
When mighty Jupiter still reigned
From that high Capitoline hill.
In a quiet Gallic village,
Much ignored by Roman power
A miller still minded the stone;
Minded as his father before.
For him, twas a time of plenty,
When his name stood for quality
And he lived in peace with the land.
Then came to the village,a man
Whose passionate voice spoke to them
Of one savior, one Lord God.
The miller took to heart this speech
And renounced his olden beliefs,
Forsaking all that he once hailed.
No longer to the mill-spirit
Did he offer the first turnings
And against the wishes of his wife,
Did not the hearth’s fair candles light.
Yet his wife who’d long been barren
Conceived soon after the Lord came,
And the miller offered much thanks
That God should give him this bounty.
Yet, now all the house spirits
No longer granted their favours.
The mill-spirit no longer ground,
And the roads brought none to grind
Til the miller’s riches dwindled
And he, alone, the mill retained.
His work no longer brought him joy,
And nights were filled with restless sleep
At the thought of the poverty
Inflicted 'pon his unborn babe.
One morning, when the dreams again
Kept him tossing throughout the night,
He rose before the sun awoke
To ponder, with slow steps, why fate
Had cursed him this given life.
It was a fine autumn morning,
The trees dressed in yellow and orange,
Turned gold as dawn brought forth the sun.
The miller sat in that beauty,
Swaddled by the arms of Nature,
Denying
to open his heart.
But
as he by the mill-pond wept,
He heard a soft splash of water,
And turned his down-cast eye to see.
There at lapping ripple’s center
Arose a naked woman’s form;
With alabaster hands she wrung
The mill-water from blue tinged hair,
And he could not help but to stare
As the water ran down her breast.
With slow, sensuous steps she tread
‘Cross the surface to the miller
And she asked with the brook’s own sound
What ails the master of the land.
The miller’s own feet wished to run,
But her algae eyes enthralled him
And, though he knew her a nixie,
He gave forth to her all his woes.
She bade him to worry no more,
As she stroked the line of his chin.
She promised him wealth and glory,
If he would but give unto her
That which had just been born within.
Knowing his child was not yet due,
And though unsure what else had been born,
He gave to the nixie his word.
She sealed their bargain with a kiss,
And sank back to her mill-pond home.
The miller, now in spirits fair,
Took easy step back to his home,
But as he neared his cabin’s door,
He heard the wale of new born babe,
And felt his heart plummet once more:
Twas his own child who had been born.
He prayed to God for a way out,
But knew in his heart what he’d done
Was against the god he prayed to.
With woeful steps he met his son,
While his shaking voice spread the news
Of bargains rich of sorrows hue.
Now the mill-spirit ground again,
Returned quality to the name
And the coffers grew full once more,
As the spirits retook their home.
But still he slept uneasily
And strived to deny his promise
To deliver to her his son.
He greatly feared the mill-pond now,
Feared with each passing woe filled step
That the nixie would claim her prize.
Yet never did the nixie rise,
And as the boy came to his own,
The miller warned his son of her,
And apprenticed him far away
Where the nixie could never go.
And there beneath a huntsman's eye
The boy learned of things long denied
By the ghost of his father’s faith.
He learned of every spirit
That dwelt within land and mill-stone;
Of spirits who in trees reside
And creatures who’re of spirit kind.
When well he had learned all these things
And a skilléd hunter become,
The lord took him into service
And gave him free reign of the land.
And so it was till May-Day came
When the boy, who was now a man
Came to celebrate with the town.
There among the ladies dancing,
Who round and round the may-pole ran
Spied he the tavern keep’s daughter,
The most beautiful in the land –
And she, true-hearted maid, saw him,
And the wooer became the wooed.
So there among ribbons and wreaths,
Beneath the oaken boughs were wed;
He heard a soft splash of water,
And turned his down-cast eye to see.
There at lapping ripple’s center
Arose a naked woman’s form;
With alabaster hands she wrung
The mill-water from blue tinged hair,
And he could not help but to stare
As the water ran down her breast.
With slow, sensuous steps she tread
‘Cross the surface to the miller
And she asked with the brook’s own sound
What ails the master of the land.
The miller’s own feet wished to run,
But her algae eyes enthralled him
And, though he knew her a nixie,
He gave forth to her all his woes.
She bade him to worry no more,
As she stroked the line of his chin.
She promised him wealth and glory,
If he would but give unto her
That which had just been born within.
Knowing his child was not yet due,
And though unsure what else had been born,
He gave to the nixie his word.
She sealed their bargain with a kiss,
And sank back to her mill-pond home.
The miller, now in spirits fair,
Took easy step back to his home,
But as he neared his cabin’s door,
He heard the wale of new born babe,
And felt his heart plummet once more:
Twas his own child who had been born.
He prayed to God for a way out,
But knew in his heart what he’d done
Was against the god he prayed to.
With woeful steps he met his son,
While his shaking voice spread the news
Of bargains rich of sorrows hue.
Now the mill-spirit ground again,
Returned quality to the name
And the coffers grew full once more,
As the spirits retook their home.
But still he slept uneasily
And strived to deny his promise
To deliver to her his son.
He greatly feared the mill-pond now,
Feared with each passing woe filled step
That the nixie would claim her prize.
Yet never did the nixie rise,
And as the boy came to his own,
The miller warned his son of her,
And apprenticed him far away
Where the nixie could never go.
And there beneath a huntsman's eye
The boy learned of things long denied
By the ghost of his father’s faith.
He learned of every spirit
That dwelt within land and mill-stone;
Of spirits who in trees reside
And creatures who’re of spirit kind.
When well he had learned all these things
And a skilléd hunter become,
The lord took him into service
And gave him free reign of the land.
And so it was till May-Day came
When the boy, who was now a man
Came to celebrate with the town.
There among the ladies dancing,
Who round and round the may-pole ran
Spied he the tavern keep’s daughter,
The most beautiful in the land –
And she, true-hearted maid, saw him,
And the wooer became the wooed.
So there among ribbons and wreaths,
Beneath the oaken boughs were wed;
Pagan
rights in new Christian land.
The lord, a good man, gave them
A little house where they could live –
And did for many happy years.
Til one day in verdant spring,
He tracked far a fleet-footed roe.
The huntsman left the shady trees
And crossed the high windblown meadows
To the lands of mill-father’s home.
When at last he had slain the beast
In lands familiar – unknown
And had disemboweled the roe,
He knelt down by the mill-pond’s edge
To rinse her blood from fresh stained hands.
But as his hands the waters met,
The ripples of the pond parted ,
And there the nixie’s face arose.
She took the huntsman’s face in hand;
Gave him the fullest of kisses
And pulled him down into her home.
Ev’ning came, and he returned not,
Yet the his wife worried not o’er it,
For oft the hunt kept him afield.
But as the days past, her fear grew
Til knew beneath the waning moon
What fate had surely befallen.
And though the lord sent riders,
The wife knew well where he’d be found:
The lord, a good man, gave them
A little house where they could live –
And did for many happy years.
Til one day in verdant spring,
He tracked far a fleet-footed roe.
The huntsman left the shady trees
And crossed the high windblown meadows
To the lands of mill-father’s home.
When at last he had slain the beast
In lands familiar – unknown
And had disemboweled the roe,
He knelt down by the mill-pond’s edge
To rinse her blood from fresh stained hands.
But as his hands the waters met,
The ripples of the pond parted ,
And there the nixie’s face arose.
She took the huntsman’s face in hand;
Gave him the fullest of kisses
And pulled him down into her home.
Ev’ning came, and he returned not,
Yet the his wife worried not o’er it,
For oft the hunt kept him afield.
But as the days past, her fear grew
Til knew beneath the waning moon
What fate had surely befallen.
And though the lord sent riders,
The wife knew well where he’d be found:
Far
away at mill-father's home.
Most empty lay the mill-house now,
The miller, never satisfied,
Had long removed himself away
Where he could enjoy the nixie’s gold,
And where he’d never again see
The cold waters of nixie’s home.
Well did she know where mill-pond lay;
Well did she know the huntsman’s bane,
And hastened there with fearful step
Where the lord ne’er believed to go.
As she neared the mill pond, there arose
The woeful scent of rotting roe,
The cawing of scavenger crow.
Most empty lay the mill-house now,
The miller, never satisfied,
Had long removed himself away
Where he could enjoy the nixie’s gold,
And where he’d never again see
The cold waters of nixie’s home.
Well did she know where mill-pond lay;
Well did she know the huntsman’s bane,
And hastened there with fearful step
Where the lord ne’er believed to go.
As she neared the mill pond, there arose
The woeful scent of rotting roe,
The cawing of scavenger crow.
At
first she feared the worst of it,
Til found the disemboweled remains,
But any doubt of his sad fate
Fled when found his pouch in the shade.
She called out to her love in vain,
Begged the nix’ from water’s edge
Yet heard naught but still water’s no.
How then with a venomous tongue
She railed and reviled the nixie,
For she knew not how to rescue
Her lover from the nixie’s hands.
Yet she knew not what else to do,
And as the evening drew a close,
The maiden, tired and still alone
Laid down ‘pon a pillow of green
And past the waxing crescent moon
Onward to sleep and restless dreams.
Yet dreams to fair visions became,
As the Goddess moon did reach down
To assist the true-hearted maid.
In her dreaming mind there arose
A tall and sharp sided mountain
Whose briar-bandied paths she climbed.
Wind battered and bleeding of feet
She climbed until she reached the moon,
And there beneath the open skies,
‘Neath the boughs of an ancient oak,
Was nestled a lonely cottage.
Before the open door there stood
An ancient crone with moonlight’s hair
Who beckoned for the wife to come.
But as the maid began to move,
The yellow light of vernal dawn
Piercéd the moonlight Mother’s dream,
And woke the huntsman’s maiden
At the edge of nixie’s door.
The memory was real as dream
And she knew whence called the mountain
Til found the disemboweled remains,
But any doubt of his sad fate
Fled when found his pouch in the shade.
She called out to her love in vain,
Begged the nix’ from water’s edge
Yet heard naught but still water’s no.
How then with a venomous tongue
She railed and reviled the nixie,
For she knew not how to rescue
Her lover from the nixie’s hands.
Yet she knew not what else to do,
And as the evening drew a close,
The maiden, tired and still alone
Laid down ‘pon a pillow of green
And past the waxing crescent moon
Onward to sleep and restless dreams.
Yet dreams to fair visions became,
As the Goddess moon did reach down
To assist the true-hearted maid.
In her dreaming mind there arose
A tall and sharp sided mountain
Whose briar-bandied paths she climbed.
Wind battered and bleeding of feet
She climbed until she reached the moon,
And there beneath the open skies,
‘Neath the boughs of an ancient oak,
Was nestled a lonely cottage.
Before the open door there stood
An ancient crone with moonlight’s hair
Who beckoned for the wife to come.
But as the maid began to move,
The yellow light of vernal dawn
Piercéd the moonlight Mother’s dream,
And woke the huntsman’s maiden
At the edge of nixie’s door.
The memory was real as dream
And she knew whence called the mountain
And
who called that fairy hill home.
Twas
a secret place much removed;
A
sacred mount in druid lore,
Long defiled by good Christian hands.
Yet the maid, as her huntsman lord,
Still believed in the gods of Gaul
And made fast to follow the dream
To beg the aid of druids old.
And so she climbed as dream foretold,
Lashed by the hard, wind-blown rains
And scratched by the brambles and thorns,
Til she stood at last on that hill,
Long defiled by good Christian hands.
Yet the maid, as her huntsman lord,
Still believed in the gods of Gaul
And made fast to follow the dream
To beg the aid of druids old.
And so she climbed as dream foretold,
Lashed by the hard, wind-blown rains
And scratched by the brambles and thorns,
Til she stood at last on that hill,
Above
the clouds in star lit dell.
And there, as dream foretold, she stood,
The wizened face of ancient crone,
Oak maiden, ‘neath oaken home.
The druid mother beckoned on,
Her kind face inquired what ill
Had led the maid unto her door.
The huntsman’s wife did quick retell
What woe had struck huntsman and maid,
Cursing the miller’s ill made choice
That long ago promised the nix’
The life of the huntsman for gold.
The crone listened unto her woe
Ere promising Goddess’ aid.
She handed the wife a gold comb
And spoke to bide til full moon night,
Then to mill-pond go and comb,
Her own dark locks in the Maiden’s name,
Clothed alone in the moon’s own light.
Commanded then when such was done
To set the comb by the mill-pond’s edge
And attend to what would unfold.
With tearful thanks for the old crone,
The huntsman’s bold wife returned home
To abide the weeks til true night come.
When the weeks past and full moon came,
The wife was found as druid told,
Naked in the light of the moon.
There she in Maiden Goddess name
Combed her long, dark and sober hair
And laid the golden comb by the shore.
Scarcely had she set it down
When a wave rose and took the comb
Deep down into the nixie’s home.
Yet as the golden comb there sank,
The water’s parted as arose
The huntsman’s head from below.
The wife had barely spoke his name
Ere the nixie rose to reclaim
The prize time long denied her.
Clothéd only in water’s hue,
The nixie scornfully displayed
To taunt the wife with flesh’s sight
Ere she with parted lips betook
To kiss the huntsman’s own in full,
To sink once more through nixie door.
The wife did in hatred revile,
In words loathsome and thoughts most foul
Til ire spent, disappointment reigned.
In tears she rose to dreams
And found again the goddess crone
Who beckoned her again to come.
When sun again the moon o’ertook,
The wife again did journey make
To find the cottage ‘neath the oak.
The huntsman’s wife did crone retell
How the nixie had taunted her
Again the crone spoke soothing words,
And did further instruction give.
So once more did she the moon watch
Til it returned to full once more.
The wife unto the mill-pond came
Clothed once more in the moon’s pale light;
She brought a golden flute to bear,
And to the Mother Goddess played
A love filled and most mournful air.
When all was done as accorded,
She laid the flute at nixie door
And watched as it was born away.
Then, as before, ripples parted
And huntsman from the depths arose.
But the nixie again caught him
Ere he was but half emerged,
Much unto the wife’s heartfelt woe.
Again the nixie broached the door,
More lewdly ‘round the huntsman twined
To incite the wife’s jealous ire.
With all the arts of sex and kin,
Pulled the huntsman below ‘gain.
In hate the maid cursed the waters
And the nixie who made them home.
And when at last she passed to sleep,
The moon once more took maiden’s dreams
Unto that verdant mountain glen.
As before, so too now she came
Unto the crone who called there home,
And again her dream broke with dawn.
She followed once more the vision;
Through rain and brambles she mounted;
She scaled the crags and pitchéd walls
Til found once again the druid crone.
With venomous hatred she told
The bold manner of the nixie
And he whom she still kept within.
The druid answered her once more,
Told her the deed was nearly done
And gave the final means to end.
The cycle of the moon returned
And the wife once more naked stood
At the edge of the nixie’s home.
Armed now with a golden spindle,
The huntsman’s wife spun flax to thread
In the name of the Goddess Crone.
She spun til the spindle was full
Than laid it as all else before,
There at the mill-pond’s sandy shore.
No sooner than she set it there
Than a wave carried it below;
But as it passed through nixie door
A geyser upward huntsman bore
Into the arms of his fair wife.
They had not time for word or breath
As the nixie rose up to war.
The huntsman took his wife by hand
And naked across the fields ran.
The whole pond and feeding stream
Turned a flooding wall of water
Chasing the wife and her huntsman
Across the wide and open plain.
There in the water’s leading edge
Could see the anger twisted face
Of the nix’ who such torrent raged.
Knowing imminent death drew near,
The maid called ‘pon Goddess moon
To aid them ‘gainst the nixie’s lore.
No sooner than the water found,
Than she was changed into a toad
And the huntsman a frog’s shape bore
Whence the nixie could not drown them.
They all obstacles avoided
Til the nixie in her rage tore
And carried, with sister’s aid,
The huntsman and his devout wife
And there, as dream foretold, she stood,
The wizened face of ancient crone,
Oak maiden, ‘neath oaken home.
The druid mother beckoned on,
Her kind face inquired what ill
Had led the maid unto her door.
The huntsman’s wife did quick retell
What woe had struck huntsman and maid,
Cursing the miller’s ill made choice
That long ago promised the nix’
The life of the huntsman for gold.
The crone listened unto her woe
Ere promising Goddess’ aid.
She handed the wife a gold comb
And spoke to bide til full moon night,
Then to mill-pond go and comb,
Her own dark locks in the Maiden’s name,
Clothed alone in the moon’s own light.
Commanded then when such was done
To set the comb by the mill-pond’s edge
And attend to what would unfold.
With tearful thanks for the old crone,
The huntsman’s bold wife returned home
To abide the weeks til true night come.
When the weeks past and full moon came,
The wife was found as druid told,
Naked in the light of the moon.
There she in Maiden Goddess name
Combed her long, dark and sober hair
And laid the golden comb by the shore.
Scarcely had she set it down
When a wave rose and took the comb
Deep down into the nixie’s home.
Yet as the golden comb there sank,
The water’s parted as arose
The huntsman’s head from below.
The wife had barely spoke his name
Ere the nixie rose to reclaim
The prize time long denied her.
Clothéd only in water’s hue,
The nixie scornfully displayed
To taunt the wife with flesh’s sight
Ere she with parted lips betook
To kiss the huntsman’s own in full,
To sink once more through nixie door.
The wife did in hatred revile,
In words loathsome and thoughts most foul
Til ire spent, disappointment reigned.
In tears she rose to dreams
And found again the goddess crone
Who beckoned her again to come.
When sun again the moon o’ertook,
The wife again did journey make
To find the cottage ‘neath the oak.
The huntsman’s wife did crone retell
How the nixie had taunted her
Again the crone spoke soothing words,
And did further instruction give.
So once more did she the moon watch
Til it returned to full once more.
The wife unto the mill-pond came
Clothed once more in the moon’s pale light;
She brought a golden flute to bear,
And to the Mother Goddess played
A love filled and most mournful air.
When all was done as accorded,
She laid the flute at nixie door
And watched as it was born away.
Then, as before, ripples parted
And huntsman from the depths arose.
But the nixie again caught him
Ere he was but half emerged,
Much unto the wife’s heartfelt woe.
Again the nixie broached the door,
More lewdly ‘round the huntsman twined
To incite the wife’s jealous ire.
With all the arts of sex and kin,
Pulled the huntsman below ‘gain.
In hate the maid cursed the waters
And the nixie who made them home.
And when at last she passed to sleep,
The moon once more took maiden’s dreams
Unto that verdant mountain glen.
As before, so too now she came
Unto the crone who called there home,
And again her dream broke with dawn.
She followed once more the vision;
Through rain and brambles she mounted;
She scaled the crags and pitchéd walls
Til found once again the druid crone.
With venomous hatred she told
The bold manner of the nixie
And he whom she still kept within.
The druid answered her once more,
Told her the deed was nearly done
And gave the final means to end.
The cycle of the moon returned
And the wife once more naked stood
At the edge of the nixie’s home.
Armed now with a golden spindle,
The huntsman’s wife spun flax to thread
In the name of the Goddess Crone.
She spun til the spindle was full
Than laid it as all else before,
There at the mill-pond’s sandy shore.
No sooner than she set it there
Than a wave carried it below;
But as it passed through nixie door
A geyser upward huntsman bore
Into the arms of his fair wife.
They had not time for word or breath
As the nixie rose up to war.
The huntsman took his wife by hand
And naked across the fields ran.
The whole pond and feeding stream
Turned a flooding wall of water
Chasing the wife and her huntsman
Across the wide and open plain.
There in the water’s leading edge
Could see the anger twisted face
Of the nix’ who such torrent raged.
Knowing imminent death drew near,
The maid called ‘pon Goddess moon
To aid them ‘gainst the nixie’s lore.
No sooner than the water found,
Than she was changed into a toad
And the huntsman a frog’s shape bore
Whence the nixie could not drown them.
They all obstacles avoided
Til the nixie in her rage tore
And carried, with sister’s aid,
The huntsman and his devout wife
As
far apart, away as could.
When the water’s had receded
And were ‘pon dry land again,
They regained their human form
Where none knew their language or lord.
The maiden came ‘pon a cottage
Where a shepherd and his wife dwelt,
Whilst the shepherd was far afield.
The shepherd’s wife took the maiden in
And covered her in her own clothes,
When the water’s had receded
And were ‘pon dry land again,
They regained their human form
Where none knew their language or lord.
The maiden came ‘pon a cottage
Where a shepherd and his wife dwelt,
Whilst the shepherd was far afield.
The shepherd’s wife took the maiden in
And covered her in her own clothes,
They
took pity upon the maid.
And the shepherd whose flock had grown
Showed her the manner of his trade
And left her half the flock to tend.
Erstwhile, the huntsman wandered far,
Surviving and searching the land
For his wife from whom was parted.
Many months past to no avail,
Til he, bereft of language
Likewise found work as a shepherd.
Many high mountains lay between
And many deep valleys cut through
The flocks of lost huntsman and wife.
The star’s procession went around
And the years ‘tween them grew in number
And though they learned tongue and culture,
The new land held for them no joy.
Yet that which had freed the huntsman
Had linked them one to the other;
The spindle given by the crone
Spun now time instead of flax
To pull them together once more..
One spring, as the trees were budding
And the grasses shed the last snow,
That golden thread drew them at last
To meet ‘cross a lonely meadow.
And yet, they knew not the other;
Their greetings born new land’s culture,
Their words spoken in foreign tongue,
Yet; though one knew not the other,
The sadness they in silence bore
Was a welcome comfort to share.
They, an unspoken concord made
To drive their flocks and meet again
In that meadow which brought comfort
And made each feel as if at home.
They often sat in warm silence,
Ate quiet meals beside low fires
And watched, memory filled, the moon.
The huntsman whittled as they sat,
His thoughts lost and long unspoken,
While the wife mended their worn clothes.
One evening as the full moon rose,
The huntsman finished his carving,
A simple countryman’s wood flute.
The wife, as was local custom,
Kept her long and dark hair hidden
Beneath bonnet and tied by bows,.
But this night, as the white moon rose,
She let her hidden dark locks down
To comb them with a silver comb.
Now this the huntsman’s mem’ry stirred;
He finished tuning what had carved,
And began to play a sad air,
As had once been played out for him.
Even as he began to play,
The comb stopped mid-stroke though her hair
And mem’ries tears began to flow
For this lay she herself once played.
The huntsman played ev’ry measure
Ere lowered the flute from his lips.
His eyes gazed in wonder at her,
And she, as the last note faded,
Turned, likewise, her eyes upon him.
They knew, soon as their gazes met,
That the Goddess thought forgotten,
Had brought them together once more.
Neither had forgotten their love,
And there, below Goddess’ light
Lay again as husband, as wife,
And the rest is but after-glow.
And the shepherd whose flock had grown
Showed her the manner of his trade
And left her half the flock to tend.
Erstwhile, the huntsman wandered far,
Surviving and searching the land
For his wife from whom was parted.
Many months past to no avail,
Til he, bereft of language
Likewise found work as a shepherd.
Many high mountains lay between
And many deep valleys cut through
The flocks of lost huntsman and wife.
The star’s procession went around
And the years ‘tween them grew in number
And though they learned tongue and culture,
The new land held for them no joy.
Yet that which had freed the huntsman
Had linked them one to the other;
The spindle given by the crone
Spun now time instead of flax
To pull them together once more..
One spring, as the trees were budding
And the grasses shed the last snow,
That golden thread drew them at last
To meet ‘cross a lonely meadow.
And yet, they knew not the other;
Their greetings born new land’s culture,
Their words spoken in foreign tongue,
Yet; though one knew not the other,
The sadness they in silence bore
Was a welcome comfort to share.
They, an unspoken concord made
To drive their flocks and meet again
In that meadow which brought comfort
And made each feel as if at home.
They often sat in warm silence,
Ate quiet meals beside low fires
And watched, memory filled, the moon.
The huntsman whittled as they sat,
His thoughts lost and long unspoken,
While the wife mended their worn clothes.
One evening as the full moon rose,
The huntsman finished his carving,
A simple countryman’s wood flute.
The wife, as was local custom,
Kept her long and dark hair hidden
Beneath bonnet and tied by bows,.
But this night, as the white moon rose,
She let her hidden dark locks down
To comb them with a silver comb.
Now this the huntsman’s mem’ry stirred;
He finished tuning what had carved,
And began to play a sad air,
As had once been played out for him.
Even as he began to play,
The comb stopped mid-stroke though her hair
And mem’ries tears began to flow
For this lay she herself once played.
The huntsman played ev’ry measure
Ere lowered the flute from his lips.
His eyes gazed in wonder at her,
And she, as the last note faded,
Turned, likewise, her eyes upon him.
They knew, soon as their gazes met,
That the Goddess thought forgotten,
Had brought them together once more.
Neither had forgotten their love,
And there, below Goddess’ light
Lay again as husband, as wife,
And the rest is but after-glow.
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