The Thread Upon the Loom, IV

IV.

His final words still dinned upon my ear
When I awoke; and, starting to my feet, I found
The sexton’s wizened face before my own.
His glance was keen and searching, and
He quickly asked, “You dreamt?”
Not waiting for reply, he drew
Away the matted grass from where I’d slept,
Uncovering a stone whose weathered stain
Told of an age far older than the church.
Strange marks were writ upon it, and the scene
Some ancient hand had carved upon its face
Was that which Mab had carved upon my mind—
The Viking band upon the bloody hill,
The Saxon horde before their iron front.
The clouds and ground were woven cords upon
A loom which framed the sky, their threads the weft
The warriors stood upon, unknown to them.
The cords were crossed and crossed until the eye
No longer traced the intertwinings, lost
In awe at perfect order there arranged.

The sexton stooped and ran his fingers o’er
The petroglyphs—“The runes,” he murmured low,
“The runes record the last harangue that on
This fatal hill Jarl Aelfgar gave unto
His death-bound men in exhortation fey.
Come close and look here in this corner, see
This man who shrinks away from coming death?
Of eighty, one did fly, and lived enslaved
Among the Saxons, until a kindly thane
Gave him his freedom. To this hill straightway
He came, and built a hut below, where now
The church is standing here. A hut he built,
And farmed the land, yet heavy on his heart
He bore the burden of the blood-oath that
He broke, and with his fevered eyes he saw
Upon the hill the spear-gashed bodies of
His noble friends, though buried at their death.
Their sun-bleached skulls in mirthless scorn
His mind imagined grinning o’er his head.

This man was doomed by fate to be a fool,
Yet fear and cowardice his will embraced,
For fate remains unknown until it comes;
His shame remained and burned his wretched soul.
He carved this stone in memory and told
The story to his son, born unto him
In slavery. The tale was told from son
To son, each one a distant father to
My father—each within this churchyard’s bounds
Was buried—so shall I be at my death.”

He paused, his eyes transfixing mine: “And you?”
He asked. “The threads are woven in their place
And yours has brought you here: you dreamt the dream,
I know—your eyes betray—and now remains
Your choice. Your part is writ, the thread drawn tight,
But Time will keep his secret counsels close,
Permitting not the future to be told.
Each thread is purposed by the Weaver, placed
Upon the loom in perfect order, but
Not knowing future fate, is left to choose
And then must taste the fruit its choices bear.”