GHOST GAL: The Wild Hunt (19 page)

It was a tree — he caught a bough

And scrambled up it, saved.

Saved for the moment, as he thought,

He pressed against the bark:

The hell-hounds missed the thing they sought,

They quartered in the dark.

They panted underneath the tree,

They quartered to the call;

The hunter cried: "Yoi doit, go see!"

His death-horn blew a fall.

Now up, now down, the hell-hounds went

With soft feet padding wide;

They tried, but could not hit the scent,

However hard they tried.

When presently the horn was blown,

The hounds were called away;

The hoof-beats glittered on the stone

And trotted on the brae.

The saint gat strength, but with it came

A horror of his fear,

Anguish at having failed, and shame,

And sense of judgment near:

Anguish at having left his charge

And having failed his trust,

At having flung his sword and targe

To save his body's dust.

He clambered down the saving tree.

"I am unclean !" he cried.

"Christ died upon a tree for me,

I used a tree to hide.

"The hell-hounds bayed about the cross,

And tore his clothes apart;

But Christ was gold, and I am dross,

And mud is in my heart."

He stood in anguish in the field;

A little wind blew by,

The dead leaves dropped, the great stars wheeled

Their squadrons in the sky.

"Lord, I will try again," he said,

"Though all hell's devils tear.

This time I will not be afraid,

And what is sent I'll dare."

He set his face against the slope

Until he topped the brae;

Courage had healed his fear, and hope

Had put his shame away.

And then, far-off, a quest-note ran,

A feathering hound replied:

The hounds still drew the night for man

Along that countryside.

Then one by one the hell-hounds spoke,

And still the horn made cheer;

Then the full devil-chorus woke

To fill the saint with fear.

He knew that they were after him

To hunt him till he fell;

He turned and fled into the dim,

And after him came hell.

Over the stony wold he went,

Through thorns and over quags;

The bloodhounds cried upon the scent,

They ran like rutting stags.

And when the saint looked round, he saw

Red eyes intently strained,

The bright teeth in the grinning jaw,

And running shapes that gained.

Uphill, downhill, with failing breath,

He ran to save his skin,

Like one who knocked the door of death,

Yet dared not enter in.

Then water gurgled in the night,

Dark water lay in front,

The saint saw bubbles running bright;

The huntsman cheered his hunt.

The saint leaped far into the stream

And struggled to the shore.

The hunt died like an evil dream,

A strange land lay before.

He waded to a glittering land,

With brighter light than ours;

The water ran on silver sand

By yellow water-flowers.

The fishes nosed the stream to rings

As petals floated by,

The apples were like orbs of kings

Against a glow of sky.

On cool and steady stalks of green

The outland flowers grew.

The ghost-flower, silver like a queen,

The queen-flower streakt with blue.

The king-flower, crimson on his stalk,

With frettings in his crown;

The peace-flower, purple, from the chalk,

The flower that loves the down.

Lilies like thoughts, roses like words,

In the sweet brain of June;

he bees there, like the stock-dove birds,

Breathed all the air with croon.

Purple and golden hung the plums;

Like slaves bowed down with gems

The peach-trees were ; sweet-scented gums

Oozed clammy from their stems.

And birds of every land were there,

Like flowers that sang and flew;

All beauty that makes singing fair

That sunny garden knew.

For all together sang with throats

So tuned, that the intense

Colour and odour pearled the notes

And passed into the sense.

And as the saint drew near, he heard

The birds talk, each to each,

The fire-bird to the glory-bird.

He understood their speech.

One said: "The saint was terrified

Because the hunters came"

Another said: "The bloodhounds cried,

And all their eyes were flame."

Another said: "No shame to him,

For mortal men are blind:

They cannot see beyond the grim

Into the peace behind."

Another sang: "They cannot know,

Unless we give the clue,

The power that waits in them below

The things they are and do. - "

Another sang: "They never guess

That deep within them stand

Courage and peace and loveliness,

Wisdom and skill of hand."

Another sang: "Sing, brothers ! come,

Make beauty in the air !

The saint is shamed with martyrdom

Beyond his strength to bear.

"Sing, brothers ! every bird that flies !"

They stretcht their throats to sing,

With the sweetness known in Paradise

When the bells of heaven ring.

"Open the doors, good saint!" they cried,

Pass deeper to your soul;

There is a spirit in your side

That hell cannot control.

"Open the doors to let him in,

That beauty with the sword;

The hounds are silly shapes of sin,

They shrivel at a word.

"Come, saint!" and as they sang, the air

Shone with the shapes of flame,

Bird after bright bird glittered there,

Crying aloud they came.

A rush of brightness and delight,

White as the snow in drift,

The fire-bird and the glory-bright,

Most beautiful, most swift.

Sweeping aloft to show the way,

And singing as they flew,

Many and glittering as the spray

When windy seas are blue.

So cheerily they rushed, so strong

Their sweep was through the flowers,

The saint was swept into their song

And gloried in their powers.

He sang, and leaped into the stream,

And struggled to the shore;

The garden faded like a dream.

A darkness lay before.

Darkness with glimmery light forlorn

And quavering hounds in quest,

A huntsman blowing on a horn,

And lost things not at rest.

He saw the huntsman's hood show black

Against the greying east;

He heard him hollo to the pack

And horn them to the feast.

He heard the bloodhounds come to cry

And settle to the scent;

The black horse made the hoof-casts fly.

The sparks flashed up the bent.

The saint stood still until they came

Baying to ring him round:

A horse whose flecking foam was flame,

And hound on yelling hound.

And jaws that dripped with bitter fire

Snarled at the saint to tear.

Pilled hell-hounds, balder than the geier,

Leaped round him everywhere.

St. Withiel let the hell-hounds rave.

He cried: "Now, in this place,

Climb down, you huntsman of the grave,

And let me see your face.

"Climb down, you huntsman out of hell

And show me what you are.

The judge has stricken on the bell,

Now answer at the bar."

The baying of the hounds fell still,

Their jaws' salt fire died.

The wind of morning struck in chill

Along that countryside.

The blackness of the horse was shrunk,

His sides seemed ribbed and old.

The rider, hooded like a monk,

Was trembling with the cold.

The rider bowed as though with pain;

Then clambered down and stood,

The thin thing that the frightened brain

Had fed with living blood.

"Show me. What are you?" said the saint.

A hollow murmur spoke.

"This, Lord," it said; a hand moved faint

And drew aside the cloak.

A Woman Death that palsy shook

Stood sick and dwindling there;

Her fingers were a bony crook,

And blood was on her hair.

"Stretch out your hands and sign the Cross!"

Was all St. Withiel said.

The bloodhounds moaned upon the moss,

The Woman Death obeyed.

Whimpering with pain, she made the sign.

"Go, devil-hag," said he,

"Beyond all help of bread and wine,

Beyond all land and sea,

Into the ice, into the snow,

Where Death himself is stark!

Out, with your hounds about you, go,

And perish in the dark!"

They dwindled as the mist that fades

At coming of the sun;

Like rags of stuff that fire abrades

They withered and were done.

The cock, that scares the ghost from earth,

Crowed as they dwindled down;

The red sun, happy in his girth,

Strode up above the town.

Sweetly above the sunny wold

The bells of churches rang;

The sheep-bells clinked within the fold,

And the larks went up and sang;

Sang for the setting free of men

From devils that destroyed;

The lark, the robin, and the wren,

They joyed and over-joyed.

The chats, that harbour in the whin,

Their little sweet throats swelled,

The blackbird and the thrush joined in,

The missel-thrush excelled.

Till round the saint the singing made

A beauty in the air,

An ecstasy that cannot fade

But is for ever there.

From his secret lair in the wilds of Bethlehem, Georgia, Bobby Nash writes a little bit of everything including novels, comic books, short prose, graphic novels, screenplays, media tie-ins, and more. Bobby has worked for a variety of publishers including IDW, Sequential Pulp, Dark Horse, Moonstone, Avatar Press, Radio Archives, Airship 27, Pro Se Press, Raven's Head Press, BEN Books, and more.