CANTO III
To kiss the shambling harlequin
Of destiny, ‘tis best to sin
A little; otherwise, like sheep,
We’re herded into pens to sleep
The death of the incurious--
Convinced of creeds whose spurious
And ancient doctrines keep us there,
Too docile, really, to despair
Of our condition. Thus the girl,
Known as Gudrunlod, a fine pearl
Of eighteen years, took Asmo back
To her old father. He, a hack
Of sorts, a Skinmage, earned his keep
By chanting ‘til his blood would creep
Out of his back in sundry shapes--
Stigmata in the form of apes
And dragons, wheels in wheels, strange signs—
All subject to his frank designs
‘Pon making money. This blood art
The thaumaturge made ‘pon a cart
Built like a stage parked in the square,
Attracting crowds who’d stop to stare,
Applaud in wonder, then drop coins
Into his hat. As Fate enjoins
The bold to act, with herbals bagged,
Gudrunlod showed him what she’d dragged
Into their lives—a hulking lout
Who stood there armed and peering ‘bout
The place, with horse and sword. “Old One,”
She whispered, “See what I have done?
I’ve brought us a fine quandary:
A youth, engulfed in heresy,
Who trembles in his mighty frame.
With Rowan-dread his mind’s aflame.
Look ‘pon him with your second sight
And tell me of his auric light.
I fancy him, yet fear some wyrd
Hangs ‘bout him still. Or has it cleared?”
That karcist, once with demons leagued,
Lifted his rheumy eyes, fatigued
And old, and gazed at Asmo’s form.
Like leaves on trees bent in a storm,
A darkling, incandescent swarm
Of fatelights, bent in dendriform
Displays, swirled ‘bout his auric sheath.
The old magician ground his teeth,
For there, too, ‘gainst a black background,
A Rowan-wyrd revolved, profound
And heavy, as if dark shoots hung
And snapped like fly-trap futures strung
Along the path of Asmo’s life.
“Daughter,” he whispered, “I see strife
And woe attending this one’s tale.
My precious loinfruit, though he’s hale
Today, he dies an unknown way.”
Missing his whispered resumé
--Masked as it was by market din--
Asmo, distracted, peered within
Gudrunlod’s herb bag, which he held.
He’d thought it strange, how strong it smelled.
Clumped Bluets, tiny gold-filled skies,
Lay next to sheaves of Maidens’ Lies
And Mungwort leaves, their streamlet veins
Bound stemward though small counterpanes
Of red-green. He saw Crone’s Heads, too--
White bonnets set atop dark blue
Florets. He found it worrisome
That he, typic’lly quarrelsome
And loud, now stood here timidly
And gazed at flowers. Peevishly,
He raised his eyes to search for brawls
Amidst the market’s carts and stalls,
Or p’raps some bully, loud and tall,
Whom he might match in brawn and gall.
No luck. He stood there, beetle-browed,
Until she pulled him from the crowd.
