A tallowed man beknown by all,

Ensues his maiden, brisk and brawl

Announced to all, she hides and flays

Her fate foretold and bawled in ways

She sought and searched, resents to see

A common flaw inscribed, it’s plea

“ A commoner”, gilded quotes surround

As fate, the man of claves unbound

His grasp on her, consumes her slow

Her fate ordained to mask it so

The Many Marvels troll and trail

Unknown she strides her subtle frail.

Every time a child is born, fate encounters it in its home and foretells its future. He is a man of no face, no countenance, and no gleam. He wears a satin weave of string drapes, they flourish his winter trench coat. The top straps are gilded with an obsidian hue of charcoal. They disperse as mandrakes embezzling the forest floor. Pinpricked on his drawstring waist was a marble pendant, crested around the ridges inscribed a script of Latin, “ Hic jacet ornatum pertinens Lira”. He never spoke or adjourned the pertinence of it, however folk people were well acknowledged to remember the stories of the past. They postured the most reverent stories in torrents to the village children, regardless of how many times they narrated them it was always well to recall.

“ Now then, thei’r lovers when I was a li’l feller jus like you’s, they wou’ld always be together, all th’time. She was the most pre’iest lady too, no one knew how ‘r where they met, just that we was all sure they’r gon’ get married and live furever. I remember me’ mum dressin’ us all up to atten’ the weddin’, marevlous it was too. Every’un dancing and frivellin’ the drinks, the couple too said their vows and I can see m’mum at the back cryin bout wen I was gon do the same thin and get married.” “But Bill, why can’t we see her anymore around here?”, asked one of the little church children who discerned to know the full remembrance, most of them knew Bill’s way of waffling till he forgot the story and could only remember it hours later.

“ Well dunt interrupt me fe’lla I’m getin’ to that part soon enough. It soo happened that wun day, they was to go for an outtin’ in the brook fores’. They had all they’r playthings packe’d and ready. I remember see’in the delightful good’ies inside on me’ way to school. It wus a nuzzle of honey cakes, and wax tapers for the nigh’, and gilded apples an a drizzle of honeysuckle all ‘ver was a spite of cherry wine… an there was a brand of orange blossoms, wi’th- ”. “ Bill!”, exclaimed the fostered children, all huddled in a cluster under the Linen tree with, just the lantern to keep the dark aflame. “ Righ righ’, there was a mistle of food’s in it, all ever’one assumed they was gon’ go to the marsh cabin in the woods, lovely lil’ place it was too.” The marsh cabin really was, hop-tendrils and thistles of buds were flayed across the wreath of snowdrops and orchids, marooned in the amble daylight. Thymes of windflowers espied across the window panes, dressing the sill of all the stools as a beaming casket of flowerbeds. The cornices below the roof were sculptured to mask the brim tales of goblins and fairy elves, they ported sheaths of dried apricots and tangerines and marmalade. All the summer festive fruits relished their yarned cotton clothes, silk was trodden so often in those carvings, the lovers adored the sight of it and could not think of a better place to be.

They slowly unraveled the tarnished foods that lay beneath the basket. A chiffon-cloth was floored upon the pinegrass. Larch trees stood aloft their pink tufts and tassels, their trimmed oak surrounded the forest, bearing their autumn leaves. She placed the apple jam beside a tinsel of nuts and oat seeds, they lay dispersed among the wood-sorrel ferns, all of which were broad and blandly small to be a forest plant. Yet they stood in their most prime rarity as they were only planted the summer before. Amongst the many embellishments that stood, they lay asunder a hawthorn tree. Its bough was at its prime old age and unable to bear another distasteful winter.

“ ‘N old branch of one o’ the trees they wer’ under fell’ on the lov’ly lady’s head, she frett’d about so that the nice ch’rry wine s’ttin next to her broke inta’million pieces. One o’ them pierced her ‘eart since she was layin’ on ‘er back from faintin’. The poor maiden’ wis of ‘er las’ second’s of dyin’. Her lov’r saw death approachin’ right by the riverbank an’ he ran to it befor’ it reached her.”

“ Death can’t be a person Bill, if so he wouldn’t come once in your life to take it away. No one’s that cruel…are they?”, one of the younger foster children asked with implored query.

“ Oh ye’ then how cum’ Santa Claus comes onl’ ‘nce a year to giv’me my hamper o’ lil goodies then’, n’ I nev’r go’ one ever since I was 9 ‘r so I think. Or’ I dun’t remember ev’r gettin’ ‘un actually, maybe-”,

 “ Bill!”

“ Righ well’, point is, life was’ jus’ a gift jus’ like my’ christmas basket, I didn’t deser’v havin’ it r’ I didn’t work hard to get’it. Someone else could’a gotten it but it was a wonderful thin’ to happen to me though’. So who’s sayin’ it can’t be takin’ then if we nev’r earned it?”, replied Bill in his meager tone as he always spoke that way to the children. “ Oh no I’m sure I deserve a’ Christmas baske’ bill I got a ten in my quiz today at school”, little Fel spoke highly as he had never received a tenner before.

 “ A tenner Fel, that’s capital! ”, Bill exalted, aware of the many strains a child was reigned to face at school. 

“ Back’n the story, he asked death for a bargn’. He kn’w the turmoil of havin’ a job as his mus’ be tiresome, so he said he’d swap his life for hers n’ be death himself. Death though’ fr’ a while n’ finally agreed, n’ so she liv’d but they nev’r saw each other again sinc’ if he would touch ‘er she’d cripple into fragments in front’a him”.

The man lived on as Fate. Provoked to find a maiden some evening morrow day.

“ And spite his sought for maiden’s gleam

One day, his pendant’s gilded beam

Was flourished forth, a young child born

Foretold she repented, days forlorn

Refused she thought that Fate was wrong

And till this day, its brawl was strong

As one of Many Marvels hymn

The world as wistful place of rhyme.

Ding-dong ding-dong, her life goes on. 

October 13, 2020 04:34

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RBE | Illustration — We made a writing app for you | 2023-02

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