Canto Two ~ It is dawn of the morning following.

Battle has ended, but the storm has not. Amidst the destruction common to combat's aftermath, a squeak of wagon wheels heralds the entrance of a small band. Three strange individuals, as unlike each other as three could be, come seeking those who yet remain alive upon the field.

A great, lame war steed limps in the fore bearing a colonel in service to the victors. It was perhaps golden in color at one time, though the rain makes it difficult to tell. The man is of remarkable height. Astride an even larger, brackish colored horse that pulls the cart is a short, grey, shriveled witch of undetermined species. On foot nearby dances a slender, naked boy caked in filth. It is he who lifts the living upon the cart, for that is its purpose.

As they debate who is worthy of assistance, the Colonel dismounts and seeks something that troubles him. A young girl’s corpse has drawn him here for reasons he does not fully understand, but as his entire race he responds unhesitatingly to instinct. Tenderly, he closes her eyes and ponders the injustice in such a death, but also considers that his responsibilities to what he perceives as a tragic world denies him the right and privilege to such heartfelt emotions. Then surprisingly, the old warrior discovers a child, yet living and covered in the mud of the rain swept battlefield. Morosely saddened, he leaves the baby upon his mother’s breast to die in relative peace. Puzzled momentarily by the young girl’s startling beauty and the inexplicably lingering scent of roses, he scolds himself and returns to the angry task of war to which he is bound.

Stalling behind the Colonel, the witch looks to the girl for decidedly different reasons. An opportunist, she seeks an explanation to the black magic she senses near. Casting a spell upon the girl to cause the corpse to speak, the witch poses questions. The mother, suddenly returned to a semblance of life, is frightened and understandably reticent. However, with persistence and a few kind words from the old hag, she’s made to offer some of what she knows.

The witch is well known throughout the land and recognized by the dead girl. She reveals that a Demon has seemingly possessed her son. More importantly, she warns, it is a Demon the witch has long feared and apparently it is informed of the witch’s true name~ a very dangerous thing to possess.

The spell may be performed only once. When it is gone, no other information shall be gleaned. Taking the child, the old, grey witch leaves knowing her life has been upset. She had been prepared to trap and use the Demon as she has others before, but when learning the Demon’s name knew there would be small chance of that. An Arch Angel of Hell, his power dwarfs that of hers.

As the spirit of the young girl rejoins the frightened shades walking the battle field, she notes to herself that she has neglected to mention the nature of her son to the witch.

Canto Two

The white sun blisters clouds on high.
From far below they hide the sky.

Near black as night, storm covers all.
The living crawl beneath the pall
of pitch that roil the Heavens wide 5
as mighty waves of deep sea tide.

Though morn has come to Timmons Field
the thunderheads, as if to shield
war weary men to whom the light
of early day is cruelly bright, 10
pour rain to wash the passive dead
of darkened blood no longer red.

Those here that live, who seem but few,
search slow and halting o’er the stew
of flesh and blood with little hope, 15
their eyes downcast in dreary mope.

Look here at friend who yesterday
had helped to keep dark fears away.
Or hewn apart, his face not seen,
one could not tell if friend he’d been. 20

More oft it was than it was not,
but limb was found by those who sought
to gather up a comrade lost.
Scarce little else was found by most.

A flatbed wagon with large wheels 25
lifts loud and falls with squeaks and squeals.
The depth of puddles past its hubs
stops not the noise of axle rubs.
The weight upon its central plank,
in spite of how it rose and sank, 30
lay still as if death were the cause
and which of course, in truth, it was.

Astride the beast that burdens pull
sits aged crone with baskets full
of noxious vapors clouding grey. 35
Those left behind are hers to say.

Quite small and bent she was and worn.
No effort wasted hiding scorn.
The gold and wood that cap her teeth
hold sharpened points much like a sheath. 40
‘Neath overhanging brow her eyes,
perceptively seek hidden prize
she knows is here, close by in waste~
black magic strong enough to taste.

What prize it is she does not know, 45
but close enow and it will show.
Her wide, flat nose smells thru the rain
the living, dead and back again.
Those lifted then upon the cart
are only those with beating heart. 50

Her choosing ‘twixt the dead or not
brings some away, the rest to rot.
All soldiers of the host thus knew,
best not to cross her else he rue
that time upon the field in dreams
yet still alive though dead he seems. 55

Loose hanging from her mouth there bounced
a longish stick with which she trounced
the naked boy who walks beside
and raises those she chose to ride.

Some ways ahead on war torn horse, 60
that limps along a rugged course,
a Colonel of the host askance,
looks carefully upon the chance
that one of use to him might lay
alive, but not within the way 65
of witch’s lurching, noisome search,
so oft ignored high on her perch.

“Here boy,” he calls. “Come quick to me.
This one you’ll take. He breathes I see.”

The boy leaps quick, his task to do, 70
but quicker still the hag leaves new
a blistering welt upon his back
where over time their numbers stack.

She shakes her head. It rattles grim
of beads and rocks and old jewels dim. 75
The witch’s boy comes crouched for show
and back within her range of blow.

The howl of wind and rain is loud
as if ‘twere rant of frenzied crowd,
but when the steel eyed man of war 80
speaks intimate it cleaves the roar.

“Foul witch, you’d best hear what I say.
Should this man die, my wrath this day
will fall upon you hard and cold.
Gundhag be wary. Be not bold.” 85

With eyes that shrink to contemplate,
she hisses low... and makes him wait.
He does not turn, but lifts his head
and imperceptively, the dread
creeps wickedly about her face. 90
Then jarring horse to hurry pace
she sends the whelp off quicker still
not forcing grudge, well met, of will.

From measure taken of the man
enough in past her cunning can 95
(‘tis true she knows) serve needs and wants.
No sense to rub him raw with taunts.

The Colonel drops down from his mount.
He sweeps his gaze as if to count.
A cloak of war eight feet in length, 100
night black and thick with woven strength,
lay ‘pon his shoulders tightly wound~
not long enough to reach the ground.

For moments holding taut his breath,
here seeking something strange in death, 105
a query puts to quickened sense.
His instinct grasps an ill intense.

A heartbeat more he’ll know as well.
All puzzles bared he will compel.
Not waiting for his mind to learn, 110
with weary eyes that anger burn,
his way he turns on toward the goal
that calls past sense to touch his soul.

He kneels beside a woman’s prone
and staring corpse that lies alone. 115

How dare he feel that justice torn
from such as this cannot be borne.
How so when more he takes from those
whom he himself has found and chose
to level just and righteous law 120
with Kingdom’s just and righteous claw?

His kindness genuine, her eyes
are covered soft. Then muffled cries
waft upward toward him thru the din
of pounding rain. A sound so thin 125
that at the first he thinks perhaps,
he hears the girl ‘tween thunderclaps.

But then beneath a coat of mud
and gurgling up a brownish sud,
a babe face down in drowning waste 130
he finds immersed in clay like paste.
It clings as mail to its bare skin.
With steel gloved hands he lays it in
its mother’s rags which he has dup
to offer child one chance to sup. 135

This gift will be his only one
for child who will not see the sun.
Here at the least he dies at breast
of one who cared. Death take the rest.

He’s slain so many, many more. 140
This is but son of carriage whore.

Yet even in the rain, the morn
finds light to grace her fair face torn.
A beauty in her eyes not missed
and closed he sees the sun has kissed 145
the pale, cold stone of lifeless cheek.
A scent of rose here in the reek?
Absurd, he thinks. Illusion cruel.
Move on thru this bleak, stagnant pool.

In crags worn deep upon his face 150
a sadness forms that has no place
upon his battlefield at dawn.
It rests a moment and is gone.

He stands to wrap about his cloak.
The fires of anger he will stoke 155
‘til warm he is amidst this rain
and ready to deal death again.

The Colonel leaves and further dwells
on those he drags from private hells.
He mounts his horse, they limp ahead 160
and search for life in mounting dead.

The naked boy with sly, cool glance,
regards the hag and waits his chance.
Then strips the shirt off man he lifts.
He’ll swipe the shoes when man’s weight shifts. 165

The sing song warble come from witch
skids low and growls as bouncer’s bitch.

“You lies him gentle horrid boy.
Just leaves he clean! He no damn toy!”

The hag slides off the massive horse. 170
Her hand delves down to find the source
of putrid fumes in basket small.
A coal brings forth. And then~ Her Call.
A sharp, pained, histling wiss she’s found
will move the brat more rapid round. 175

The wounded man he lays with care,
though leaves his head turned round to stare.
He bounds to her and mimes a fall
while dancing off to serve the call.

He stops before he’ll reach her side, 180
tics head to right and with a glide,
squats in his place behind her arm
to weave there as if under charm.

“Be’s quiek boy. Try stuff you sound.”
She lowers smoking coal to ground 185
and grumbles low in dog like growl.
Somewhere off distant aardwolves howl.
She hears and bears her fangs in snarl.
If fear or joy expressed, the gnarl
encompassed on her face won’t tell. 190
Too many lines there traced pell mell.

While hobbling to the woman’s corse,
she plucks a black hair from the horse.
Then blowing it and smoke away,
limps onward toward her old and grey. 195

She squats as well near babe and hears
its suckling noise. She sees the tears
beneath the filth as black as sin,
emblazoned as if from within.

Again a growl~ perhaps of fear. 200
Or dread chance find in dismal year.

With longish stick she dares a poke,
but waves the hand held ward of smoke.
A quick shy back and then a grin.
Held high the coal begins to spin. 205
Quite slow at first on flattened palm.
Then fast. She fights to keep her calm.

The pungent fumes sink slowly down
and settle thick on blanching crown.
A moment longer she will wait 210
to blow the smoke and tempt her fate.
She holds her breath, both nostrils tight
and now her eyes are wide and bright.

Abruptly the cadaver’s eyes
are opened bright and to the skies. 215
The lolling boy lets go a gasp.
The witch spits back a whispered rasp
that works to move him back a pace.
Then focused on the woman’s face,
she draws herself to height full wrought 220
and voices question cold and taut.

“Who is he girl? I sees you see.”
“My son,” she sighs. “Now, let us be.”
The hag returns a scoffing bark.
“I knowis that. Sing more, dead lark.” 225

Though death betrays expression none,
her eyes and voice speak for her son.
“What do you here? What dream is this?
Black arts! Take not our final kiss.”

The hag thinks fast~ sweet words or curse? 230
“Poo pah. Not do. He needs to nurse.
Tell hag where from and she will care.
Be’s rude, hag leaves him dead and bare!”

“Begone!” She cries. “Leave us alone.
Leave him and me as cold as stone.” 235

Coal sizzles in her hand and burns.
She scowls and to the waif then turns.
“We take the brat. Keep safe. Not die!
Gundhag will know who is and why.”

Imperious with longish stick 240
she deals the boy a nasty lick
and points him to the suckling babe.
He’s not quite sure if choice he’s made~
to take the child or take the pain,
but quick and hard hag once again 245
makes up his mind. He sneaks and slows
with eyes closed tight as if he knows
protective dam may watch him crawl
and come to steal away her all.

He makes the snatch and hefts it high, 250
but jumps as he hears dead thing sigh.

“Ooo, foo. There now. The boy be mine.
Tell all, peelyah~ I kill… be fine.”

Though eyes are cold and dead she cries.
They see the hag and knows she lies. 255
Naught said by her will move crone’s heart
to pity for her son and part
from life his soul if there is gain
to reap here in the pouring rain.

She knows Gundhag. The witch knows not 260
of her or what has been her lot.
The depth of charms she’d put to use
were naught to what aids hag’s abuse
to wield in need thru efforts small,
but unperceived, the mystic call 265
Gundhag’s employed has brandished niche
where ministrations of the witch
can grant to innocence the might
in death she named in life, The Sight.

The hag is always heartless, cruel, 270
yet ne’er before she’s seemed the fool.
What strictures cursed fate will grant
in death shall have not power scant
to keep her from her baby’s soul~
not wrinkled crone or lump of coal. 275

“Tell now from whence his papa come!”
She squeals aloud, bares fang and gum.
“You tell me who and quick dead one.”
With malice none she sighs, “My son!”
“This nowhere goes. I take. You see. 280
Gundhag make strong. He does for me.”

Her necromantic wail of woes
engulfs the field in anguished throes.

In tandem boy and hag alert
look out to see what on the skirt 285
of field in sight had heard her moan.
Impatient hiss becomes a groan.

“This take too long. We cannot stay.
Wrap baby snug. We gones away.”

She cries in grief before she begs. 290
“Please leave this sorrow in its dregs.”

Upon the cart the child is laid.
“With tragedy will Fate be paid.
On you this evil act be borne.
Remember this~ I did thee warn! 295
Not only you shall suffer though.
Mankind as well, more than you know.”

“If evil wields who be he then?”
“Not who, but what. Not if, but when.”

The smoke begins to dissipate, 300
her queries soon will be too late.
Quick now, the witch makes one more try.
“Gundhag knows danger. She is sly.
She sees and feels the guilt in you,
but evil is to girl not due. 305
Let go this task to hag and see
how to the Heavens blameless be.”

Conviction now at last adust,
no choice she feels there is but trust.
Too great the woe for her to bide. 310
“Within my son does Demon hide.”

With barking call the crone kneels down.
Now close she gathers smoke to crown.
With spell so nearly gone she slips
an ear to faintly speaking lips. 315

“Now wench.” She says in anxious pain.
“This thing me does not does again.
If evil thing there be to catch,
it find Gundhag will be its match.”

So close now she can’t stop the shake. 320
In child the Demon’s hers to wake.
She knows near all and knows some traps.
She wrings the stick so hard it snaps.

“Its name now girl. Its names to me.
Just say the name I let you be.” 325

A whisper faint in soft release.
She’ll tell her though it brings no peace.
It matters not. Why halt this Doom?
That child should die must she assume?
Her trust in God she’d fain renew. 330
His will she shall in faith pursue.

“Stay close to me. Your spell grows weak.
But moments more and I’ll not speak.
‘Tis true I know the Demon’s name
and fear His cold, torturous flame. 335
In Hell he worries much with strife
those souls he worried much in life.
Gundhag beware. He comes amain.
A Hellish Lord. Angel of Pain.
Gundhag He knows your name. ‘Tis true. 340
He knows you! ‘Tis Childéan Kew.”

And with those whispered words she’s still.
Naught left of magic bolstered will.
The smoke is gone. She speaks no more.
Her eyes drift soft, the soul’s last door. 345
From hand of hag the coal, now spent,
to ashes wet its power's sent.
Gundhag knows nothing of its fall.
Her eyes stare blank as at some call.
Then slowly turns her ancient head 350
to baby lying on the bed
of wagon standing in the rain
and once more hears~ “Angel of Pain”.

Might this be so? Would girl beguile?
Too many things to reconcile. 355
If offered choice she’d skip this one.
His kind is best seen on the run.
Of course she’s blamed if take her leave.
True, loss of her might not bereave
those of her ilk who want her dead. 360
“O fooz, be wrong to flee this dread.”

Her inner dialog is fear.
Most moods tend toward the cavalier.
At any rate this all is moot.
As always she’ll play fast and cute 365
with whosoever calls her bluff.
Of wondering she’s had enough.
If He it is whom girl has said
then she’s already worse than dead.
Though she now holds the host of Kew, 370
the parasite will have her too.
Small hope she has of trapping Him.
To bind and use is far more slim.

But if she is to save erelong
what’s left of soul from Kew’s sharp prong 375
then that’s precisely what she’ll do.
Succeed or fail, when this is thru,
her soul may not be all her own
“and none to blame, but this old crone.”

Gundhag climbs lightly on the back 380
of burden beast and finds her track.
The twice slain mother quickly fades.
Her tattered soul rejoins the shades
of battle dead wand’ring the field.
All strangely fearful as they yield 385
and keep their distance woebegone.
She wonders if the hag anon
will realize before too late.
Before the Demon from Hell’s Gate
can tell her that he’s not the one 390
who’ll burn her soul~ for that’s her son.