Saturday, September 23, 2006

one of my old 'tales of the lad' series. done in the old southern tradition, meant to be read in the evening.

He sat beneath the willow bush, gnawin on the soft things sproutin in all manner of greenly composition. Quick clever fingers findin the crawlies 'n the young'uns. Snatch, shake, shake then the tastin of the glory of the livin. Waitin, he was, for the callin.

'N the callin came, yes, lawdy, yes. It came all strong. It came all fierce. It came when ole ma sun was quittin her evil ways. When the evenin winds wrought up their darkliness. 'N he knew the answers, all. Knew the prayerful things that set the ways to glory. For he was bound, he was, to know that song.

He was but a shadow, shape-shiftin, dancin his movin dance. Feet spryin over leaves in his witch-fell way. Twistin 'n spinnin like the hungry smoke. Spittin torment 'n sayin pain. Breathin up some madness for winter sleepers. Til a chuckle 'n a chortle caught 'im up. Broke the spellin that wrought the call.

For t'were his granny bright, his granny all load up with her granny ways. With her baskets strong, 'n filled, they were, with berries sharply sweet. With butter breads 'n honey just aready for the soppin.

But there's come a wrongness into the world. Casted on the meadow, on the playin brook. Growin where the laddy sleeps. Givin strongness to the sly, 'n a hunger too.

A hard 'n bitter wind came a'dryin out the soft. Turnin dust 'n turmoil in the fields, desolation to the goodly places. Seepin poison in'ta berry bright, 'n in'ta laddy ways.

Now granny hears the bees no more, nor tastes the spring's own milk. Nor breaks the spellin of the call. And none can say where sits the laddy, agnawin.


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