The Prodigal Thane

Introduction

Literary Introduction

The Epic: The epic poem has been a major literary genre in the Western tradition since Western literature has existed. From the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh and the Greek Iliad and Odyssey to the Roman Aeneid, the French Song of Roland, the Old English Beowulf, the American Song of Hiawatha, and the Modern English Idylls of the King, various cultures are represented across millenia of writing.
But a common thread underlies these, binding them into their common genre: the epic is a lofty, majestic piece, broad of scope and deep in plot, dedicated to exalting the heroic. It tells the tale of the rise and fall of peoples in exalted language glorifying the major actors in the story. Usually a sense of destiny plays a strong part in the characterization in order to ram home the purpose of each character and the importance of the plot to the flow of history.

The Old English Poetic Style: Most epics are highly structured, in keeping with the elevated status of their subject matter and thus the lofty style appropriate to telling the story. However, the nature of the structure varies largely by cultural poetic convention. The Old English epic, like most Old English poetry, relied chiefly on alliteration, heavy rhythm, and the caesura for its basic structure, and on word-play, especially kennings, for embellishment. Despite the natural pause placed in the middle of the line (the caesura), the alliteration of at least three syllables per line, distributed to phrases on both sides of the pause, unifies the line and gives it its basic structure.

Introduction to The Prodigal Thane

The Prodigal Thane is not a traditional epic; it is impossible to fit a grand scope into 150 lines. On the other hand, it deals with the ultimate plan of history, which is normally too grand a scope for any one poem. Attempting to solve this dual dilemma, I used the life of one very unheroic man and his conversion as a microcosm to discuss God's destiny for His people, the Church, and the world, with Christ as the hero. Whether I succeed I shall leave to the reader to decide. I did, however, maintain the Old English poetic form, relying on rhythmic alliteration, parallelism, the caesura, and word-play.



The Prodigal Thane

Upon a cloudy eve of Christmas, when King Ethelred was throned,
A thane from hall to home was stumbling, hasting with unsteady step.
From the board of bright feasts and great war-tales, he bore himself
As a wind-blown ship on waves, the wassail sloshing stem to stern
Within his bloated belly. His brain was burning,
His eyes entranced by tracing patterned webs of intrigue
Spun by a new nobility, rich in wealth, not in houses poor,
But in spirit. And spoke he shamefully to a passing woman,
This warden unworthy of the name, not wielding as he ought
The shield defending the defenseless, feckless instead

Of duty. Death him terrified,
The thought of striking swords him struck as if
The swords themselves were striking. A sweat appeared,
Breaking out upon his brow, if e'er his bread-keeper called him
Out to serve his battle-service, this strife not suiting him.
The cup his close companion, the cunning truth-revealer
Oft upon his tongue, the tingling grape-blood
Often stained his mouth and sometimes dripped upon his hands;
To revel with this his friend, and folly to pursue
He would prefer to following his lord, or fitting out his men.

With clouded mind he climbed into his bed, the curtains sealing darkness in their depths.
Safe from light he lay, in layered folds encumbered.
But seized with struggling horrors, sins returned upon his head,
His falling into deepened sleep a drowning deep.
He descended into depths, the dragging bottom weeds
Around his head were wrapped, wretched man beneath a sea of dreams.
He shrieked a shrill curse, a screamed knowledge of his impending doom.
Then beside his sweaty couch, there stood a man of light;
An Angel of Emmanuel, Elohim Most High,
Stood beside the struggling man as there he lay,

Hurling curses into his couch against the King of Heaven.
The spirit's visage familiar, a face the thane had seen before
When on his armored knee he bowed before his lord:
His earthly earl, the bearer of a higher sword,
The ring-giver, given rings by greater hands.
But it was altered, aweful now in godly majesty.
The once-gold hair was white, yet wise, not wizened, was his face;
The dark eyes were dreadful, in dire distress the man upon the bed
Gazed into glaring pate-windows to grasp what lay within.
His eyes amazed by majesty, the man would writhe,

By light sore lashed, when love in darkness was his wont.
He saw this Being there, beside his bed,
And in outraged awe, he anguished cried
“Woe is me, a man of unclean lips, that much has done
Against the God of my lord; to gain this sight I am undone.”
In terror tried to flee, but tied down by his guilt
He wept and wailed; his weeping pierced the night.
Then spake the spirit; He spoke from Holy Writ
Of dreadful days to come, and dark winds of war—
The sword-gatherings soon to come; the spear-forests growing fast.

“Upon a day of wrath the King shall come again, His coming heralded by thunderclouds
And rumblings in the reddened sky. His righteousness in burning wreaths
Shall smoke, consuming all; the sin of man a tinder before a burning blaze.
The King of Heaven and of Hell; the High King of all between,
Shall with an iron rod bear rule. The ruthless nations shall bow and tremble,
Kings once cruel now cringe in fear—with care they'd built their cities
But neglected to grant unto their Lord the glory for which He'd raised them up.
Then gathered there with Gog, their god themselves,
They'll gaze upon the coming storm, in grim despair,
Their doom upon their heads descending.

Whence comest this conquering ruler? His crown was promised to Him in eternity,
This Son of David, Son of Jesse, Son of Man upon the throne of David
Eternal to rule, to reign over the sons of men.
God of God, man of man; granted was His throne by God the Father.
Where have gone the men of great houses? Gone their horses, gone their armies.
Where have fell rulers fallen? Before their Lord;
In judgment on unfaithfulness, He felled the pillars of their temples
Like trees of oak-groves; they trembled before His terrible wrath.
The mountains of their high places melt like wax
Before the fiery breath of God, the fire consuming

The arrows that they aimed; His armies overriding theirs.
The whirlwind whipped upon them, the wondrous chariot of God
O'errode their ranks; they reddened all his garments as the winepress.
These faithless had sworn their fealty; were fain to be His thanes,
Yet in His absence, in enjoyment spent His goods,
Unfaithful stewards of his fiefs, and feckless of their duty.
Thus returning, in righteous rage
He struck them down and set their souls free from their bone-cages.
But whence this warlike host, that with the King forth marches?
Whence this war-band, this marching host of swords?

Whence their gloried songs of grace? If God in rage hath crushed
Rebellious thanes, and brought deserved doom upon their heads?
I saw this same valley, a still and quiet vale
A thousand years before, thick-filled with bones.
Hewn into pieces, hacked in battles,
Dead and dried after days in the sun,
Clean-picked by crowding vultures, climbed upon by creeping worms,
Food for fearsome wolves; a fulsome pile outside Jerusalem,
The City of the Sovereign Lord, Mercy-seat.
A prophet was placed there—upon a hill where he could see

The ruin of his raging people, the wreckage of a prideful nation.
And seeing, mourned the men here lying; moaning for the slain.
As standing still he was, God's Spirit spoke
Unto him, saying 'Son of man, speak unto these bones,
That they may thrive again; these dead in sins shall live.'
Thus spake he, as the spirit moved him,
And flesh did fill their forms; their shape again
Of living men, their ligaments on bone,
And skin did clothe their glist'ning flesh.
Yet life did not yet lift their limbs; they lay there silent.

'Son of man,' the Spirit spake again,
'Unto the whisp'ring wind, this word speak:
“Come, bring breath unto these bones, bear life into their lungs.”
Thus speak, O Son of man; and see My hand perform this thing.'
He asked not why, but spoke: the air was agitated,
The four winds sweeping fast into the valley,
And up the bodies stood in vast array; an army called
From out their gruesome graves; their God in grace
Forth-called them from their crypts. Their bone-beds
Now are empty, their tarnished armor bright again.

But whence these men? Were they not other rebels?
Had they not likewise sinned thus; were these not thanes unfaithful, too?
They were. But when He looked upon the world,
The middle-earth midst heav'n and hell,
And knew that never did man think of Him,
Only thinking evil of his Lord, then He thought
To manifest His mercy. To man He would become true man
And bear within His body the punishment due to them.
And promised He the Patriarch, the ancient Nation-father, Abraham,
To bear a people, born of grace, to bless the nations.

Through the prophets then, this was shown to be
A nation made of every tribe and tongue, a nation under heaven.
The Christ would come and call them to Himself.
And so He did; and dying, harrowed Hell,
The souls of Israel from the fire-pit saving,
Showing them from Sheol, and sheltering them
Beneath His winsome wings. Wide His grace in that day was.
Not for the sinner's sake, in sooth, but for His name's
Which, wandering, they'd profaned amongst the wasted nations;
Mistrusting His truth in promise, the tyrant captors

Made a mock of the people and their God, but mocking stilled
When the people's enemies were overthrown—the arm of Heaven's Guardian
O'erthrew them in a running sea of red blood; the rescued people
Straight through it strode, as standing on dry ground.
Humbled then, they hailed their King; called Him King of Heaven, Earth, and Hell,
Above Whom none bore higher crown; always had He been, yet now they owned Him so.
Raised up by Him for His righteous glory, now they raise His name in honor.
Though they died the death of sin, He died with them and with Him raised them--
And thou with them art, sleeping, buried; thou in water covered,
Baptised in brooding horror of deserved wrath, yet by the water and the blood redeemed.

For His glory, by His might, His enemies He's conquered;
For His glory, by His grace, His people's hearts He has as well;
For His glory, by His might, His people's enemies He's conquered,
Death and grave have lost dominion, driven into hell;
The curse you called upon yourself, your King upon Him bore,
Your name is written with the righteous, writ in blood;
Your sinful self, slain within His body on the tree.
In dire dread you saw your sins; in dread mercy they are covered,
And He has called you holy, hailed you righteous:
And where are thine accusers? Wake thou sinner, sin no more.”

The Thread Upon the Loom, pt. III

III.

Behold this flood before us, friends, that fills the plain
And threatens death by overwhelming waves of men!
Behold the helms that gleam with fearsome rays
Reflected from the glowing eyes that glint beneath!
Behold the ash-poles tipped with iron tongues—
Tongues that thirst to lick the blood of fallen foes!
Their spears and swords upraised, and hatred writ upon
Their faces—no mercy there—death is in their eyes!
Behold the dragon banner that before us proudly flies
And taunts us with his flaming gilded visage fell!
The grim clouds lower grey and veil the heavens,
Sending hail upon our heads. Breast the windy waves of rain
Like our ships upon the sea, or the petrel in the gale—
The fiercer that the rain strikes, firmer set your face against it;
When grim skies glower, grin a grim defiance.

Now turn and gaze upon each other, at these men
With whom you have fought and bled and died;
Turn and look upon our crimson banner, bathed in blood
Of fallen friends and foes, with the black death-bird upon it flying.
See his cousins circle above in raucous ranks;
Behold the ravens, hear their rasping cries:
Welcome, harbingers of death! Thy beaks have torn the
Fallen bodies of our fellows and shall feast on ours today—
We hope not for life. It is enough that in our death
You feed on us as well and join us to our friends.
The valkyries ride among the wheeling flock
To take us to the hall of Odin when we have breathed
Our last. Welcome! We are but few, and they are great,
But hope we yet to feed thee well.

Behold our band together! Like a well-wrought sword
Forged by Thor’s great hammer, of the iron men of Denmark;
Hammered on the battle's anvil,
Tempered in the swirling, scarlet spray of blood,
One body and one edge we show; we hold or we shatter.
If one flees, he is as a splinter which was
Never melded in the molten metal, and is foreign to the iron.
Sparks may fly, but we hold or break as one.
He who wishes may thus flee; we shall not stop him,
But the one who flees shall save his life, and also lose,
For in that day, the bond of blood is broken, and he dies.

How many years have we lived as one, friends?
Ten, and twice as many times have our sea-birds
With the dragon prows flown us upon the waters.
Leaving the long halls upon the Northern cliffs,
We wandered to the land of Saxons, to burn halls and gather gold.
Some would stay behind; their wives bade them,
And their families grew; perhaps they now are jarls
Or even kings, descended from the gods of Asgard.
Perhaps they play at games, and honor Tyr—
I think the greater honor for that god is on the battleground,
And likewise men; to make the games of war
In halls or in the kin-strife brings no glory
And empties manhood of its strength.

Ten times now, as the sun’s rays rose
And festivities to Frey for spring began,
Ten times did we gather and arm ourselves for raids.
We cleaned our helms, which covered naught in winter, only carried mead,
We sanded them until they shone with gleaming fierceness.
Then we sharpened spears and swords, and our great axes,
To cleave more yielding trunks than wood.
Blood-thirsty from their wait, our weapons
Hummed as on the forge they hardened once again.
Then our chain-shirts we donned, linked rings
To hold the thrusting spears from our heart’s home.
We girded on our swords, and grasped our ashen spears;
Upon our shoulders hoisted linden shields
Marked with runes to boast of our brave exploits,
And on them pranced painted bears and wolves,
The beasts we strive to match in strength.
And finally our helms, with fierce carvings and beasts upon them,
Flew upon our heads to ward from them the striking steel.

Ten times now, with our armor all aboard our ships,
Did we spread our sails and catch the wind to draw us
To the Saxon’s shore. Ten times now have we sighted land
And roved up quiet rivers to disembark and seize upon
An unsuspecting hall. Then wandered inland, through the hart’s home,
Among the oaks and ashes, cousins of our ashen spears,
Over fells and moors, in search of towns to plunder.
We found them, and fell with fury on all we met.
Great wealth we found: ten times came with empty hands,
Nine did we return with fewer hands, but full.
Nine times, as the leaves turned brown,
Did we return to our waiting ships
And set our sails and oars for home.
Our scything prows cut swathes in the water-field,
And left a gleaming wake behind, in promise
Of our return by the same road.
Then our sea-dragons stretched their wings
And flew until they reached our fjords.
There we furled our sails, our ships
Nestling in their lairs with folded wings.
Nine times did we return burdened with cups and helms,
And golden rings to decorate our hands,
And shields to hang upon our walls,
Mutely speaking of our deeds to all who visited.

We passed the winter at our boards,
Drinking mead within our halls and telling of our battles;
Skalds heard the tales and repeated them in song—
So did we feast in winter. The cold north wind
Blew from the mountains and, howling,
Drove the wolves unto our door, their gasping growls
Reminding us of battle and rousing us to war
Against them, to drive these foul demons
Back into their forest home. Then we tired of this
And gladly waited spring, and when
The flowers and green gave word
That Frey had come again, we sailed forth.

Now in the eighth spring, the country all inflamed
Rose in anger against us and all our fellow raiders—
We hold this not against them; all must fight.
We fought with them in battle, and the slain filled many fields.
The swords had great play then; they bit each other
In the air, then tore the flesh of fated men,
Sating their thirst for flowing blood.
Our spears released the breath of many
Who gladly would have kept it in its prison.
The axes fed the ravens and sang as they split
Life from body. Fell deeds were done.

Dost thou remember the ford in Sussex?
How Thurstan stood struggling against a Saxon band?
In our sleep, the Saxons stole upon us
And alone he held them off, like Odin on Ygddrasill
Was hung upon a tree nine days
And pierced by spears to reach the runes, so did this son of Thor
Stand like a river-stone, and held the Saxon spears
At bay; finally they fled in terror at his iron axe,
And he stood still. The stream began to ebb,
And with it, did his life. We carved a stone
With runes and raised it at that ford for him.
I know not why his thread was cut, and not our own;
I know not why he did not live; he wished that raid
To be his last, and end his roving days to stay at home with Freda.
Many, I think, would lengthen that cord if so they could:
The Saxons felled beneath him would, as well.
But they cannot, nor can we: our time is told.

Fate weaves weird patterns in her web;
I know not why we stand upon this hill,
Or why another Norseman sits safe in peace at home,
But simply that our destiny has wrought
Infallibly our steps to bring us here,
And our doomed part to play is to play that doom to death.
We have no hope of winning; before the sun
Will set behind the hill, our bodies pierced will lie
Beneath the banner, and the ravens on our flesh will feed.
The wolves will join them, the valkyries swoop,
Taking those they choose and no others.
Yet that we have no hope of living matters not:
Yea, still the struggle’s worth the fighting,
For rest content that all our deeds fulfill
What has been written for the world
And bring it ever closer to its foretold end.
Before this blood-bound band of fated men I stand, and here appeal:
Come death and Hel, or else Valhalla, hold ye fast and fight!