Firetail

Varou: Vargr

A text version of the poem can be found below the illustrated pages.

  

Vargr

 

The Sun, she fled the sky when I was born.

Ill-begat, by Fenrir 'pon his dam.

I left a stinking stain across the morn.

'Tis true, the very worst of wolves I am.

 

'Mongst my litter-mates I was the runt.

Bit and bullied, ever last to feed.

Left to stumble on behind the hunt.

First to cringe and cower, and to bleed.

 

So I grew. Not fast, or hard, or strong.

A weakling in a fight, and sloth at running.

Limping, scarred, and broken-fanged, and wrong,

But O! Forsooth I had my share of cunning.

 

My siblings, they were none too quick of thought,

Whilst I was sharp and sly and cruel and vile.

I watched them, snapping, snarling as they fought,

And learned to take my share by means of guile.

 

Whate'er they did, I always did the worse,

And day by savage day they came to fear me.

I learned to twist my tongue to make a curse,

Raising blisters if they dared draw near me.

 

'Til came the day when I did something bad.

So bad that I shall spare you, and not tell.

'Pon that day they realised I was mad,

And made their plan to cast me down to Hel.

 

They broke my bones, and hauled me to a cave.

Our mother wove a hex, therein to bind me,

Then wrenched the rock down, sealing up my grave,

In gravest hope that none should ever find me.

 

As there I lay, upon my shatter'd back,

Howling out my pain with none to hark,

An odour came a-snaking up a crack,

That brought a ruined whimper in the dark.

 

I heard her grating voice inside my head.

(Or was it in the cave? I could not tell.)

“Cease your whines. Be glad you are not dead.”

Then all I knew was that infernal smell.

 

She taught me much as I lay in my tomb.

Her darkest secrets were to me laid bare.

I lay there listening, breathing in her fume.

An age passed, and my tomb became my lair.

 

Then light came lancing in to stab my eyes;

Miners seeking flint had broached the cave.

Finding me they shrank back in surprise,

Then gather'd in and dragged me from my grave.

 

Rude these men, and weak, a-feared of death,

Slow of wit, and barely more than beasts.

I bathed them in the foulness of my breath,

Until, corrupted, they became my priests.

 

I showed them how to carve a cursing rune,

And with it, burn and blister, and to kill.

I taught them how to snag and snare the Moon,

And drag him wrenched and swollen to their will.

 

Then at last I bid them bind their clan,

And twist them to knot of rage and dread.

Of how to force the wolf inside the man,

'Til all his kinder urges have been bled.

 

I am Lugvann, Fenrir's grimmest get.

I am Vargr, Thursr's deepest shame.

There's worse in me, fell depths I've not plumbed yet.

Shudder then, when e'er you hear my name.

Russell's Curio Corner #6

Well, election time is almost here.  As an American I can say with some authority that our 2,567th favorite pastime (positioned just behind the annual tradition of reading horoscopes found on the 1982 newspaper that your mom used to protect your Christmas ornaments while in storage) would most likely be voting.  And since I am currently residing across the pond I am lucky enough to get the opportunity to vote early through the medium of postal ballot.  Since sending my absentee ballot to my friendly polling locale, the election is definitely on my old crunchy peanut bar (Yank slang for "brain").  I've been looking into forecasts and portendses and estimations of voting populaces and I must say that one little nugget of statistical statistics has me, dare I say, alarmed!  The percentage of monsters registered to vote is remarkably low.  Remarkably low indeed!  So remarkable that I am forced to remark!  O!

Given this remarkable lack of figures I have been forced to adopt the position that there are a host of people out there who must not be aware that they are in fact monsters (how else could you explain the re-election of George II; or support for Todd Akin).  So, I've taken the initiative and have corralled several of the worlds leading teraspsychologists to painstakingly compile a survey that I think will help a great many of you step out of the darkness of self-unawareness and into the light of un-self-unawarenss.  So, if you would be so kind, here are the cognitive apples from my learned friends' herculean efforts.  Good luck. 

Varou: The Squall

A full text version can be found at the bottom of the illustrated pages.

Varou

The Squall

Far from the care of the sheltering shore,

From a currach a man cast his lines.

The fish were quick rising, the man was intent,

So that tardy he noticed the signs that a squall did approach,

With a belly of black, and the ice of the North in its teeth.

It stabbed down with claws that bedazzled his sight,

And snarled as he cowered beneath.

The squall then it hurled forth a punishing rain,

That bruised him & drenched him & chilled him.

He cried with dismay as it bore him away,

For he knew it would sport ere it killed him.

The squall screamed its taunts in his half-deafened ears,

As it pummelled him far out to sea;

"Thence you are bound for the foulest of fates,

For the Doom Of The Deep waits for thee."

"Your currach shall founder by rain & by wave,

To be claimed by the clamouring swell,

Where the grindylows wait with their cold, snagging claws,

To drag you swift-down into Hel."

"Think you that death shall await as release?

O tiny man you are mistaken!

For then you shall taste of the Grindylow Kiss,

As into the depths you are taken."

"Lungs seared to bursting & blind in the dark,

The Grindylow Kiss shall preserve you.

In exquisite terror, an instant from death,

A black foetid breath shall conserve you."

"So snatch your last shallow & shivering gasps;

At the Kelp-Fields ere long we arrive,

Where Old Mother Grindylow marshals her shoal;

O such torments that hag shall contrive!"

The fisherman lay in the hurtling craft,

Curled up in a shuddering ball.

He prayed to his gods with a last thread of hope,

And endured the spite of the squall.

Then he cocked up his head in confused disbelief,

For a howl he had clearly just heard.

'Twas the howl of a wolf,

But surely at sea to hear such a sound was absurd!

Again came the howl. The man clutched at his head,

Feeling sure he was rendered insane,

Then shrank back with eyes wide,

As the prow of a longship did pierce through the curtain of rain.

A huge craft she was, and pitched unto black.

Her oars they did bristle like spines.

Her prow was becarved as a sleek winged stag,

With antlers of brightly gilt tines.

The end of a rope was thrown down to the man;

To grasp it he loud was exhorted.

"Come aboard fellow mariner! I bid you make haste!

Ere long we shall have the squall thwarted."

"Heave away!" a voice boomed as they hauled him aboard.

"Let us put to a race with this squall.

Heed not its screeching & bend to your oars;

Full-soon we shall feast at my hall."

The trembling who-man was laid down to rest,

'Neath an awning stretched out in the stern.

He fought with the weakness that plucked at his limbs;

With the fever he felt start to burn.

He dragged him to sitting & gazed at the crew,

Each pulling full-hard at his oar.

In the sear of the lightning he saw they were huge,

Their heads like to bears, and to boar.

A heavy-tusked crewman did come to the who-man,

With bread & thick stew & with ale.

He coaxed him to sup as the squall fell to aft,

And the captain howled out for the sail.

"What is the name of this longship good tar?"

He asked as he spooned up the stew.

"She is the Peryton" came the reply,

"And that is our captain, Varou."

The tusker did point to the Peryton's prow,

Where a long-muzzled giant did stand.

"Wolven Varou, the Cur Of The Waves,

And we are his beastly-faced band."

'Neath a cloud-tattered moon, before spume-spattered gusts,

The Peryton clove to her port.

Her brass-thwarted keel did sunder the swell,

As she ran with her sail snapped taut.

Ere long loomed their landfall; the Isle of Guernr,

Of which Wolven Varou was the lord.

They slipped to the jetty & sent out the ropes;

So thus was the Peryton moored.

The who-man, the crew & Varou did alight,

Then made they high-spirited track.

Howling & mirthful went Wolven Varou,

And all of his beast-headed pack.

The hall of Varou was a sight to behold,

All carven with knotwork & rune.

Set over the door was a great glowing stone,

That was like to a full-bellied moon.

The great hearth was kindled, the braziers lit.

The benches & boards were laid long.

The door was full-shut 'pon the chill of the night,

And merriment spread through the throng.

Varou howled for ale; a tun was rolled forth,

Which he broached with a punch of his fist.

When his warriors' flagons were foaming & charged,

He sought for the man in their midst.

"Ah, there is our guest." spake Wolven Varou,

As he lounged with a goblet in hand.

"We must raise him a toast!" quoth he with a grin,

And the man was exhorted to stand.

"Come my Bears & my Boar! Raise your cups to this who-man.

He comes to us salted yet fresh.

Then despatch him full-swift, and prepare him for roasting,

The sooner to feast 'pon his flesh."

"But why?" cried the who-man. "My rescue you made!

As an equal you saw fit to treat me.

What has changed from the kindness you showed 'pon the sea,

That now you would so choose to eat me?"

"Out 'pon the main we are mariners all.

'Pon shore we are most, you are least.

'Pon sea you were comrade, a brother afloat.

'Pon shore you are Meat For The Beast."