Fires - Book 3: The Hare, and Other Tales

by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

THE DANCING SEAL

When we were building Skua Light--

The first men who had lived a night

Upon that deep-sea Isle--

As soon as chisel touched the stone,

The friendly seals would come ashore;

And sit and watch us all the while,

As though they'd not seen men before;

And so, poor beasts, had never known

Men had the heart to do them harm.

They'd little cause to feel alarm

With us, for we were glad to find

Some friendliness in that strange sea;

Only too pleased to let them be

And sit as long as they'd a mind

To watch us: for their eyes were kind

Like women's eyes, it seemed to me.

So, hour on hour, they sat: I think

They liked to hear the chisels' clink:

And when the boy sang loud and clear,

They scrambled closer in to hear;

And if he whistled sweet and shrill,

The queer beasts shuffled nearer still:

But every sleek and sheeny skin

Was mad to hear his violin.

When, work all over for the day,

He'd take his fiddle down and play

His merry tunes beside the sea,

Their eyes grew brighter and more bright,

And burned and twinkled merrily:

And as I watched them one still night,

And saw their eager sparkling eyes,

I felt those lively seals would rise

Some shiny night ere he could know,

And dance about him, heel and toe,

Unto the fiddle's heady tune.

And at the rising of the moon,

Half-daft, I took my stand before

A young seal lying on the shore;

And called on her to dance with me.

And it seemed hardly strange when she

Stood up before me suddenly,

And shed her black and sheeny skin;

And smiled, all eager to begin...

And I was dancing, heel and toe,

With a young maiden white as snow,

Unto a crazy violin.

We danced beneath the dancing moon,

All night, beside the dancing sea,

With tripping toes and skipping heels:

And all about us friendly seals

Like Christian folk were dancing reels

Unto the fiddle's endless tune

That kept on spinning merrily

As though it never meant to stop.

And never once the snow-white maid

A moment stayed

To take a breath,

Though I was fit to drop:

And while those wild eyes challenged me,

I knew as well as well could be

I must keep step with that young girl,

Though we should dance to death.

Then with a skirl

The fiddle broke:

The moon went out:

The sea stopped dead:

And, in a twinkling, all the rout

Of dancing folk had fled...

And in the chill bleak dawn I woke

Upon the naked rock, alone.

They've brought me far from Skua Isle...

I laugh to think they do not know

That as, all day, I chip the stone,

Among my fellows here inland,

I smell the sea-wrack on the shore...

And see her snowy-tossing hand,

And meet again her merry smile...

And dream I'm dancing all the while,

I'm dancing ever, heel and toe,

With a seal-maiden, white as snow,

On that moonshiny Island-strand,

For ever and for evermore.

THE SLAG

Among bleak hills of mounded slag they walked,

'Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag

O'er-burdened by the belching smoke, and lie

Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank,

Till both felt youth within them fail and flag--

Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag

A fluttering moment through the murky sky

Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank

Again beneath the iron bell close-bound--

And it was all that they could do to drag

Themselves along, 'neath that dead-weight of smoke,

Over the cinder-blasted, barren ground.

Though fitfully and fretfully she talked,

He never turned his eyes to her, or spoke:

And as he slouched with her along the track

That skirted a stupendous, lowering mound,

With listless eyes, and o'er-strained sinews slack,

She bit a petted, puckered lip, and frowned

To think she ever should be walking out

With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout,

As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag.

And, all on edge, o'erwrought by the crampt day

Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine,

It seemed to her a girl of seventeen

Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking--

Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking

Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay--

Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag

Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim,

Till all her eager youth should waste away.

Yet, even as she looked askance at him--

Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed--

She dimly knew of depths she could not sound

In this strong lover, silent at her side:

And, once again, her heart was touched with pride

To think that he was hers, this strapping lad--

Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad...

His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied--

And hers alone, and more than all she had

In all the world to her ... and yet, so grave!

If he would only shew that he was glad

To be with her--a gleam, a spark of fire,

A spurt of flame to shoot into the night,

A moment through the murky heavens to wave

An eager beacon of enkindling light

In answer to her young heart's quick desire!

Yet, though he walked with dreaming eyes agaze,

As, deep within a mound of slag, a core

Of unseen fire may smoulder many days,

Till suddenly the whole heap glow ablaze,

That seemed, but now, dead cinder, grey and cold,

Life smouldered in his heart. The fire he fed

Day-long in the tall furnace just ahead

From that frail gallery slung against the sky

Had burned through all his being, till the ore

Glowed in him. Though no surface-stream of gold

Quick-molten slag of speech was his to spill

Unceasingly, the burning metal still

Seethed in him, from the broken furnace-side

To burst at any moment in a tide

Of white-hot molten iron o'er the mould...

But still he spoke no word as they strolled on

Into the early-gathering Winter night:

And, as she watched the leaping furnace-light,

She had no thought of smouldering fires unseen...

The daylong clattering whirr of her machine

Hummed in her ears again--the straining thread

And stabbing needle starting through her head--

Until the last dull gleam of day was gone...

When, all at once, upon the right,

A crackling crash, a blinding flare...

A shower of cinders through the air...

A grind of blocks of slag aslide...

And, far above them, in the night,

The looming heap had opened wide

About a fiery, gaping pit...

And, startled and aghast at it,

With clasping hands they stood astare,

And gazed upon the awful glare:

And, as she felt him clutch her hand,

She seemed to know her heart's desire,

For evermore with him to stand

In that enkindling blaze of fire...

When, suddenly, he left her side;

And started scrambling up the heap:

And, looking up, with stifled cry,

She saw, against the glowing sky,

Almost upon the pit's red brink,

A little lad, stock-still with fright

Before the blazing pit of dread

Agape before him in the night,

Where, playing castles on the height

Since noon, he'd fallen, spent, asleep

And dreaming he was home in bed...

With brain afire, too strained to think,

She watched her lover climb and leap

From jag to jag

Of broken slag...

And still he only seemed to creep...

She felt that he would never reach

That little lad, though he should climb

Until the very end of time...

And, as she looked, the burning breach

Gaped suddenly more wide...

The slag again began to slide,

And crash into the pit,

Until the dazed lad's feet

Stood on the edge of it.

She saw him reel and fall...

And thought him done for ... then

Her lover, brave and tall,

Against the glare and heat,

A very fire-bright god of men!

He stooped ... and now she knew the lad

Was safe with Robert, after all.

And while she watched, a throng of folk

Attracted by the crash and flare,

Had gathered round, though no one spoke

But all stood terror-stricken there,

With lifted eyes and indrawn breath,

Until the lad was snatched from death

Upon the very pit's edge, when,

As Robert picked him up, and turned,

A sigh ran through the crowd; and fear

Gave place to joy, as cheer on cheer

Sang through the kindled air...

But still she never uttered word,

As though she neither saw nor heard;

Till as, at last, her lad drew near,

She saw him bend with tender care

Over the sobbing child who lay

Safe in his arms, and hug him tight

Against his breast--his brow alight

With eager, loving eyes that burned

In his transfigured face aflame...

And even when the parents came

It almost seemed that he was loth

To yield them up their little son;

As though the lad were his by right

Of rescue, from the pit's edge won.

Then, as his eyes met hers, she felt

An answering thrill of tenderness

Run, quickening, through her breast; and both

Stood quivering there, with envious eyes,

And stricken with a strange distress,

As quickly homeward through the night

The happy parents bore their boy...

And then, about her reeling bright,

The whole night seemed to her to melt

In one fierce, fiery flood of joy.

DEVIL'S EDGE

All night I lay on Devil's Edge,

Along an overhanging ledge

Between the sky and sea:

And as I rested 'waiting sleep,

The windless sky and soundless deep

In one dim, blue infinity

Of starry peace encompassed me.

And I remembered, drowsily,

How 'mid the hills last night I 'd lain

Beside a singing moorland burn;

And waked at dawn, to feel the rain

Fall on my face, as on the fern

That drooped about my heather-bed:

And how by noon the wind had blown

The last grey shred from out the sky,

And blew my homespun jacket dry,

As I stood on the topmost stone

That crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head,

And caught a gleam of far-off sea;

And heard the wind sing in the bent

Like those far waters calling me:

When, my heart answering to the call,

I followed down the seaward stream,

By silent pool and singing fall;

Till with a quiet, keen content,

I watched the sun, a crimson ball,

Shoot through grey seas a fiery gleam,

Then sink in opal deeps from sight.

And with the coming on of night,

The wind had dropped: and as I lay,

Retracing all the happy day,

And gazing long and dreamily

Across the dim, unsounding sea,

Over the far horizon came

A sudden sail of amber flame;

And soon the new moon rode on high

Through cloudless deeps of crystal sky.

Too holy seemed the night for sleep:

And yet, I must have slept, it seems;

For, suddenly, I woke to hear

A strange voice singing, shrill and clear,

Down in a gully black and deep

That cleft the beetling crag in twain.

It seemed the very voice of dreams

That drive hag-ridden souls in fear

Through echoing, unearthly vales,

To plunge in black, slow-crawling streams,

Seeking to drown that cry, in vain...

Or some sea creature's voice that wails

Through blind, white banks of fog unlifting

To God-forgotten sailors drifting

Rudderless to death...

And as I heard,

Though no wind stirred,

An icy breath

Was in my hair...

And clutched my heart with cold despair...

But, as the wild song died away,

There came a faltering break

That shivered to a sobbing fall;

And seemed half-human, after all...

And yet, what foot could find a track

In that deep gully, sheer and black...

And singing wildly in the night!

So, wondering I lay awake,

Until the coming of the light

Brought day's familiar presence back.

Down by the harbour-mouth that day,

A fisher told the tale to me.

Three months before, while out at sea,

Young Philip Burn was lost, though how,

None knew, and none would ever know.

The boat becalmed at noonday lay...

And not a ripple on the sea...

And Philip standing in the bow,

When his six comrades went below

To sleep away an hour or so,

Dog-tired with working day and night,

While he kept watch ... and not a sound

They heard, until, at set of sun

They woke; and coming up, they found

The deck was empty, Philip gone...

Yet not another boat in sight...

And not a ripple on the sea.

How he had vanished, none could tell.

They only knew the lad was dead

They'd left but now, alive and well...

And he, poor fellow, newly-wed...

And when they broke the news to her,

She spoke no word to anyone:

But sat all day, and would not stir--

Just staring, staring in the fire,

With eyes that never seemed to tire;

Until, at last, the day was done,

And darkness came; when she would rise,

And seek the door with queer, wild eyes;

And wander singing all the night

Unearthly songs beside the sea:

But always the first blink of light

Would find her back at her own door.

'Twas Winter when I came once more

To that old village by the shore:

And as, at night, I climbed the street,

I heard a singing, low and sweet,

Within a cottage near at hand:

And I was glad awhile to stand

And listen by the glowing pane:

And as I hearkened, that sweet strain

Brought back the night when I had lain

Awake on Devil's Edge...

And now I knew the voice again,

So different, free of pain and fear--

Its terror turned to tenderness--

And yet the same voice none the less,

Though singing now so true and clear

And drawing nigh the window-ledge,

I watched the mother sing to rest

The baby snuggling to her breast.

THE LILAC TREE

"I planted her the lilac tree

Upon our wedding day:

But, when the time of blossom came,

With her dead babe she lay...

And, as I stood beside the bed,

The scent of lilac filled the room:

And always when I smell the bloom,

I think upon the dead."

He spoke: and, speaking, sauntered on,

The young girl by his side:

And then they talked no more of death,

But only of the happy things

That burst their buds, and spread their wings,

And break in song at Whitsuntide,

That burst to bloom at Whitsuntide,

And bring the summer in a breath.

And, as they talked, the young girl's life

Broke into bloom and song;

And, one with all the happy things

That burst their buds, and spread their wings,

Her very blood was singing,

And at her pulses ringing;

Life tingled through her, sweet and strong,

From secret sources springing:

And, all at once, a quickening strife

Of hopes and fears was in her heart,

Where only wondering joy had been;

And, kindling with a sudden light,

Her eyes had sight

Of things unseen:

And, in a flash, a woman grown,

With pangs of knowledge, fierce and keen,

She knew strange things unknown.

A year went by: at Whitsuntide,

He brought her home, a bride.

He planted her no lilac tree

Upon their wedding day:

And strange distress came over her,

As on the bed she lay:

For as he stood beside the bed,

The scent of lilac filled the room.

Her heart knew well he smelt the bloom,

And thought upon the dead.

Yet, she was glad to be his wife:

And when the blossom-time was past,

Her days no more were overcast;

And deep she drank of life:

And, thronged with happy household cares,

Her busy days went pleasantly:

Her foot was light upon the stairs;

And every room rang merrily,

And merrily, and merrily,

With song and mirth, for unto her

His heart seemed hers, and hers alone:

Until new dreams began to stir

Her wondering breast with bliss unknown

Of some new miracle to be:

And, though she moved more quietly,

And seldom sang, yet, happily,

From happy dawn to happy night

The mother's eyes shone bright.

But, as her time drew near,

Her heart was filled with fear:

And when the lilac burst to bloom,

And brought the Summer in a breath,

A presence seemed to fill the room,

And fill her heart with death:

And, as her husband lay asleep,

Beside her, on the bed,

Into her breast the thought would creep

That he was dreaming of the dead.

And all the mother's heart in her

Was mad with mother-jealousy

Of that sweet scented lilac tree;

And, blind with savage ecstasy,

Night after night she lay,

Until the blink of day,

With staring eyes and wild,

Half-crazy, lest the lilac tree

Should come betwixt him and his child.

By day, her mother-tenderness

Was turned to brooding bitterness,

Whene'er she looked upon the bloom:

And, if she slept at all at night,

Her heart would waken in affright

To smell the lilac in the gloom:

And, when it rained, it seemed to her,

The fresh keen scent was bitterer:

Though, when the blaze of morning came,

And flooded all the room,

The perfume burnt her heart like flame.

As, in the dark,

One night she lay,

A dark thought shot

Through her hot heart:

And, from a spark

Of smouldering wrong,

Hate burst to fire.

Now, quaking cold,

Now, quivering hot,

With breath indrawn,

Through time untold,

She 'waited dawn

That lagged too long

For her desire.

And when, at last, at break of day,

Her husband rose, and went his way

About his daily toil,

She, too, arose, and dressed,

With frenzy in her breast;

And stole downstairs, and took a spade,

And digged about the lilac roots,

And laid them bare of soil:

Then, with a jagged blade,

She hacked and slashed the naked roots--

She hacked and slashed with frantic hand,

Until the lilac scarce might stand;

And then again the soil she laid

About the bleeding roots--

(It seemed to her, the sap ran red

About the writhing roots!)

But, now her heart was eased of strife,

Since she had sapped the lilac's life;

And, frenzy-spent, she dropped the knife:

Then, dizzily she crept to bed,

And lay all day as one nigh dead.

That night a sudden storm awoke,

And struck the slumbering earth to life:

And, as the heavens in thunder broke,

She lay exulting in the strife

Of flash and peal,

And gust and rain;

For now, she thought: the lightning-stroke

Will lay the lilac low;

And he need never know

How I ... and then, again,

Her heart went cold with dread,

As she remembered that the knife

Still lay beneath the lilac tree...

A blinding flash,

A lull, a crash,

A rattling peal...

And suddenly,

She felt her senses reel:

And, crying out: "The knife! The knife!"

Her pangs were on her...

Dawn was red,

When she awoke upon the bed

To life--and knew her babe was dead.

She rose: and cried out fearfully:

"The lilac tree! The lilac tree!"

Then fell back in a swoon.

But, when she waked again at noon,

And looked upon her sleeping child;

And laid her hand upon its head,

No more the mother's heart was wild,

For hate and fear were dead;

And all her brooding bitterness

Broke into tears of tenderness.

And, not a word the father said

About the lilac, lying dead.

A week went by, and Whitsuntide

Came round: and, as she lay,

And looked upon the newborn day,

Her husband, lying by her side,

Spoke to her very tenderly:

"Wife, 'tis again our wedding day,

And we will plant a lilac tree

In memory of the babe that died."

They planted a white lilac tree

Upon their wedding day:

And, when the time of blossom came,

With kindly hearts they lay.

The sunlight streamed upon the bed:

The scent of lilac filled the room:

And, as they smelt the breathing bloom,

They thought upon the dead.

THE OLD MAN

The boat put in at dead of night;

And, when I reached the house, 'twas sleeping dark.

I knew my gentlest tap would be a spark

To set my home alight:

My mother ever listening in her sleep

For my returning step, would leap

Awake with welcome; and my father's eyes

Would twinkle merrily to greet me;

And my young sister would run down to meet me

With sleepy sweet surprise.

And yet, awhile, I lingered

Upon the threshold, listening;

And watched the cold stars glistening,

And seemed to hear the deep

Calm breathing of the house asleep--

In easy sleep, so deep, I almost feared to break it;

And, even as I fingered

The knocker, loth to wake it,

Like some uncanny inkling

Of news from otherwhere,

I felt a cold breath in my hair,

As though, with chin upon my shoulder,

One waited hard, upon my heel,

With pricking eyes of steel,

Though well I knew that not a soul was there.

Until, at last, grown bolder,

I rapped; and in a twinkling,

The house was all afire

With welcome in the night:

First, in my mother's room, a light;

And then, her foot upon the stair;

A bolt shot back; a candle's flare:

A happy cry; and to her breast

She hugged her heart's desire:

And hushed her fears to rest.

Then, shivering in the keen night air,

My sleepy sister, laughing came;

And drew us in: and stirred to flame

The smouldering kitchen-fire; and set

The kettle on the kindling red:

And, as I watched the homely blaze,

And thought of wandering days

With sharp regret;

I missed my father: then I heard

How he was still a-bed;

And had been ailing, for a day or so;

But, now was waking, if I'd go...

My foot already on the stair,

In answer to my mother's word

I turned; and saw in dull amaze,

Behind her, as she stood all unaware,

An old man sitting in my father's chair.

A strange old man ... yet, as I looked at him,

Before my eyes, a dim

Remembrance seemed to swim

Of some old man, who'd lurked about the boat,

While we were still at sea;

And who had crouched beside me, at the oar,

As we had rowed ashore;

Though, at the time, I'd taken little note,

I felt I'd seen that strange old man before:

But, how he'd come to follow me,

Unknown...

And to be sitting there...

Then I recalled the cold breath in my hair,

When I had stood, alone,

Before the bolted door.

And now my mother, wondering sore

To see me stare and stare,

So strangely, at an empty chair,

Turned, too; and saw the old man there.

And as she turned, he slowly raised

His drooping head;

And looked upon her with her husband's eyes.

She stood, a moment, dazed;

And watched him slowly rise,

As though to come to her:

Then, with a cry, she sped

Upstairs, ere I could stir.

Still dazed, I let her go, alone:

I heard her footstep overhead:

I heard her drop beside the bed,

With low forsaken moan.

Yet, I could only stare and stare

Upon my father's empty chair.