Forgotten Ground Regained
The Worm in the Wood
"But, forasmuch as it was on this wise that they possessed them of the country, it hathbeen only by an injustice that they have taken tribute thereof. For nought that is taken by forceand violence can be justly possessed by him that did the violence." -- Geoffrey of Monmouth, History of the Kings of Britain, IX.16
And so as he yede, he saw and hearkened by the moonlight, how the pillers and robberswere come into the field, to pill and to rob many a full noble knight of brooches, and beads, ofmany a good ring, and of many a rich jewel; and who that were not dead all out, there they slewthem for their harness and their riches."
-- Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte D'Arthur, XXI.4
This poem was originally published in Star*Line, May/June 2001.
As so it lies, spoilage for ravens and robbers,the Alpha and Omega, I, who speak to ravens,ken of them tales both of future and past, knowto this it comes, always. I, who now through ravens' eyessee Lucan bending, lips whisper to Arthurthat, wounded, he must be moved;Bedivere, butler to him in more noble times,bowing as well, lifting in his arms that king,Lucan from this labor also expiring. I,through ravens' ears hearing also the king's requestsee, too, how greed's grasp even now causesloyal Sir Bedivere's hand to hesitate,holding the sword too long, seeing its hilt sparklebejeweled beneath the moon, twice instead hiding itbefore returning it to the lake whence it came --even here, at Death's side, loyalties divided:just as Sir Gawain's must for his lost brothersupplant the kinship he owes noble Launcelot;Launcelot in his turn trysting with king's wife,love for lust trading; King Arthur for his part thustearing his kingdom -- Oh, it was not Mordred's fault --I, who through ravens' eyes foresee the futureknow, yes, that some will blame him -- butthis playing out Fate's game was no whit more histhan the doing of Morrigan-named king's half-sister,the Lady le Fay, for all that blood may join us,she through her dead father, her learning of death-lore;I through ravens'-speaking, carrion-formed kinship toFea and Macha, she of "Macha's acorn crop,"enemies' heads piled in empty-eyed windrows, tovenomous Nemon, to Badb of the battle-crycrow-formed and banshee-voiced -- all of these bean-sidhe,the women of fairy-mounds, even Queen Morgan herselfat the end of it -- so taking Arthur, too,to appled-island vales; but not their blameeither.
Nor was it even mine, instrument though thatI willingly was, I who have seen the past as well,that of my people, who lived here before Celts came,those of the mainland who called themselves "Soldiers' Sons"they in turn conquered by ravening Romans,they themselves also by Saxons and Angles --even the name of the island thus stolen --then Arthur, at last, in blood the land reconquering:land that was never his. I and the othersso biding in shadows as blood upon blood soakedan earth once green, peace-formed, ofdappled sunlight on leaves, fair winds on flowered-fields, meadows grass-mounded for cattle to feast on --this field that I and my carrion-fed sistersnow pick through as robbers, and not rightful owners --thus we, the worm in the wood ever waitingto sting where chance offers, watched as Arthur's city rose.Dwelt we in forest then, blue-woaded, tattoo-disguisedso as to blend with dark, watching the blood well upeven in games -- the "tournaments" as these newconquerors called their sport -- more so in war-making,blood upon blood always to earth returning,blood upon blood to pay. And so we waited.Some of us now, too, to seek work as scullion-maidswithin the kitchens and larders of Camelot,to be set there by Sir Kay to scrub pots cleanas he, as seneschal, so doled out dutiesfor us the most menial; others to dress the hairof noble ladies, enduring their pinchestheir pique-filled, spiteful slaps; others, the men of us,to work in stables -- thus, always, our time staying --thus learning where chinks lay, where lay their weaknesses,scryed we their secrets. Learned we of ladies, too,not content to let the men alone spill life, soattired they themselves all in single colors --rather had us dress them, we who worked as their maidsotherwise fading to invisibility, we the unnoticedsave when we were needed; which suited our purpose --thus decked out, they made delight that they as loverswould take none but he who in battle-clash killed three,so claiming by this ruse to save their chastity.So causing more blood to soak the gore-laden ground;the ground that was not theirs.
This ravens told me,or this, perhaps, I had seen, I who toiled alsoin Camelot's pantries, poisoning not the foodbut rather minds of men, filling their thoughts with fame,far-ranging quests to try: Gawain perhaps the mostnoble, once, of them all, now to test axe-strokesagainst a lord, forest green -- one of our kind,you see -- there to be found wanting, even if so slightlyas to be scarcely (as we were scarcely, oh we made sureof that!) if at all noticed; others to crave a cupthat sinners could not seek (and who of them were notsinners, at least, in blood?); others for women's love.Thus for idleness depleted the court of its most doughty,itself its enemy, scattering loyalties,sending its life-blood forth, serving no purposethough no doubt most well-meant, most nobly intentioned,save spilling more blood en route -- on way to nowhere;while elsewhere the land's peasants labored just as we,who within Camelot's marbled walls took the tasksnobody else desired; we did the drudge work,yet careful to bide our time; I in the kitchenwho found me a cow's horn, who whittled it, tapering,into a bow -- a tiny arc, barely two hands' spansfrom point to point, yet powerful -- who strung itwith my own hair. And hid it in my cloak's hem.While outside others toiled, waiting as we did,who gained no gifts as a king's noble knights might,those who were of the court, or, through noble birth --stealers of their own lands, just as this king was,in that way, perhaps, kindred -- came to seek entryand, so, shared in his largess: others, as I say,those left without, of the land, we who were here before,we gained no favor but rather in forests skulked,fields labored, kitchens toiled, bedchambers laid outand swept indiscretions out with other secrets,on our selves, you understand, thus supportedthe glory of Camelot, yet gained nought from it.We, the little folk, the aborigines -- whose land it wasthey took -- bided us, so, our time;whispered we with ravens, Morrigan, Nimue -- sheof the Moon's brightness -- Vivien, Ana, Badb,Nemon and Macha. . . .
We the worm in the wood.
And nought that is taken by force and violencecan be justly owned by the one who conquered it --Mordred was just a tool. While on that last morning,Mordred himself facing, fourteen knights with him,Arthur with his fourteen, both hosts arrayed behind,every man watchful as king and knight parley, eachwaiting the other's first hostile wavering,swords sheathed by agreement -- I, I in the grass waitingnow took my little bow. Now took I alsoa needle I borrowed from some lady's bedroom,fixed into an arrow, and creeping, unseen,I shot --
stinging one's ankle, of which side I do not know,one of the knights alone, but he, confusingthat prick for an adder, a poisoned snake at his feet,so drew his sword out. . . . So started the battle.And so now, by nightfall, a hundred thousand laid deadupon the down, Mordred and Arthur at it with each other,one slain as well, one wounded, soon to die also --thus Camelot ended. And after, I who see with ravens' eyes wandering,thus later I visited Glastonbury in guise of a servantand saw with my own eyes the stone with its carving, ofHic jacet Arthurus Rex, quondam Rex que futurus,and, later still, still disguised, visited Almesbury,to which the queen had come to pray there as a nun,and whence came Launcelot seeing her there but once,taking the robe himself; and in these both resortswhere those within might have reason to wish me harm,everyone saw me -- Yet not a one noticed.
Copyright © James Dorr, 2001
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