The Count of Byle
An Adult Fairytale
This is a fable of
time long gone
A brief story and a
simple song
About people of a
distant place
Who knew of things
that we’ve long misplaced.
They were not
distracted, as are we
And let their faith
choose their destiny.
Listen closely to this
distant song,
To a little tale of
right and wrong.
A tale based not on
what we may see
But how dreams become
reality.
Spring’s leafy green
vale of summer lace
Edged shadows across
her hopeful face.
Her blouse clung tightly
across her breasts
She prayed it was the
White Knight’s caress,
Her savior, in her
fantasy's dreams.
Locked in a castle of
stone and beams
Her vision was free,
yet all the while,
A captive of the Lucas
of Byle.
The evil Count Byle in
a country called Bakes
Where the women are
all cats and men are snakes.
Filled with the most
dreadful perverts, cruel and vile,
The worst of these was
the awful Count of Byle.
Offering sweets to
lure them into his grasp,
Instead of sweets,
they got the sting of an asp.
Oh how they suffered
from his torturous games
As painfully he turned
Bakes’ virgins to dames.
She had outwitted him,
or so the story goes
Pointing out the
window toward where the river flows
And speaking calmly,
she said with a warning look,
“Count of Byle, see
with thy wicked eyes yonder brook?”
“Aye,” said the jackal
“for it I was surely named.”
“Quite so Count,” said
the maiden, still speaking the same
“Look ye on its
distant bank in a full moon’s light
And you will see my
savior, the shiny White Knight.”
At this the ogre
laughed and howled until he cried
Choking and sputtering
with mirth he said…you lie!
“Nay most fearsome
Count” spake our lady of the brave
(Now she would say
almost anything that might save
Her from the dreaded
unfeeling Count of Byle)
So she curtsied and
said with a becoming smile,
“Are you a wagering
beast or just a lecher?”
“Come here winch!”
said the Count, reaching out to catch her.
“State your wager
virgin, before you’re deflowered,”
His wheezing fogged
the air that his breath had soured.
Quickly now our
trembling child began to speak
”Are these the
mountains of purity you seek?”
So saying, she lowered
the front of her gown
Revealing two
beautiful breasts, firm and round
Each capped by a
mouthpiece of delicate rose
As shyly she stood in
a candlelit pose.
“Or an untouched
meadow your heart’s desire?”
And without pause, she
disrobed by the fire.
The silk of her
petticoats lay at her feet
Like a cloud sent to
honor this winsome treat.
The Count, who was
certainly not so naive
Was stone in his boots
at the sight of this Eve.
Between her silken
mounds, so smooth, proud and vain
A deep valley gave way
to a velvet plain
Spreading gently past
a tiny angel’s kiss
It rose tenderly
toward a forest of mist…
A forest of scented
and beautiful flowers
With un-tasted
delights and magical powers.
Framing this sweet
dish, on which no man had dined
Were lushly tapered
columns as yet unclimbed.
Gasping for breath now
spake the cruelest Lord
Removing his mail,
setting down his sword
“One thousand and one
orchards have I picked
And many a rose petal
have I licked
But I swear by Satan
until just now
I’d not seen a field
worthy of a plow;
Never seen mountains a
challenge to climb;
Or savored a grape
that was ripe for wine.”
“Sweet Lord,” cried
out our shivering flower
“Have you forgot your
promise this hour?”
“Promise? You got none
from the master of guile,
Promises are for
fools, not the Count of Byle.”
“A wager” he laughed,
while climbing out of his suit
”We’ll wager after
I’ve tasted your fruit.”
“Wait my lord,” cried
our maiden now alarmed,
“A wager to enhance
love, not to harm.”
“Enhance? How could a
wager enhance thee?”
“If you will gamble,
true prince, you will see.
Isn’t victory hard won
field by street
More savory than
accepting defeat?
And doesn’t the wheat
you've planted and sheaved
Make richer bread than
the loaf that is thieved?
If won, my breasts
shall taste of persimmons…
Plundered they will
taste bitter like lemons.
You long to run your
plow deep in my field
And place furrows in
an earth that yields
And yearns for your
manly seed to swallow
As your masterful plow
thrusts and wallows.
But if your plow rapes
and rips this field
It will find a land
that will never yield.
Your plow will dull
itself on rocks and stumps
Because the soil will
be of clods and clumps.
Your seed will of need
be sown by your hand
And not a single drop
will fall on land.”
Thus spoken, she laid
on the fur by the fire
To await the choice of
the country squire.
“My God, you have
confused me, you virgin bitch
You lay on the hearth
without shame or a stitch
And ask me to wager
when I want to plow
Sweetly speaking of
games at a time like now!
What you say is true,
I must surely admit
Tis better to be given
than to submit.
Oh, be done with it
now, speak your wager's terms
While this spark of
decency within me burns.”
“Count, the plowman’s
passion is in your eyes
If won fairly, you
will plant t’ween my thighs.
Or, if by fortune’s
bad fate you should lose
The tiller of my
garden I shall choose.”
So saying, our humble
lass now arose
While carefully
gathering up her clothes
And in the soft light
of the waning fire
She spoke of her
tender heart’s desire.
“Black Prince, you who
are so awful and cruel
You called the vision
of my love a fool.
You say there will be
no shiny White Knight
Who rides so swiftly
by a full moon’s light
Champion of tender
maidens like me
In the vile clutches
of those like thee.
I, a scared and humble
village virgin
Will wager you, the
Count, my very skin
That in three nights,
when the moon's at its peak,
The shiny White Knight
of whom I now speak
Will raise his long
lance in yonder pasture
And with a manly voice
so strong and sure
Will challenge you for
the right to my fruit
And beckon you to
joust in a steel suit.
From my window high up
in the tower
I’ll toss a key and a
scented flower
And whichever knight
has the better fate
Shall open the lock to
my garden’s gate.”
“Ah you foolish girl,
you silly maid
Tis but an empty wager
made
And I shall surely
take you to bed
To feel the twang of
your maidenhead.
For there will be no
knight, black or white
Who will appear in a
full moon’s light
To keep you from
becoming my mate.
But, my word is
pledged and I must wait
While I listen to the night
bird's tunes
Through three lonely
nights of waxing moons.
Fasting, my appetite
shall grow great
For the taste of you
upon my plate.
The scent of your
charms shall fill the air
As the stallion of
Byle mounts his mare
So, there is no need
for the flower
You’ll toss with your
key from the tower.”
"Count, the
flower is not for my bed
It’s for your grave as
you shall be dead.
For when the moon
shows its fullest face
You shall be crushed
by my savior’s mace.
Goodbye cruel Prince,
goodbye, not goodnight,
soon we'll both meet
the shiny White Knight."
Now having spoken with
such simple grace,
Our maid picked up her
chemise trimmed with lace
And strode as
disdainfully as she could
Through the huge tower
door of brass and wood.
Up through a dark tunnel
of crumbling stones
Paved with sorrow,
tears, skulls and other bones,
The screams of
prisoners who rant and rave
Greeted the steps of
the bravest of brave.
Ghost like wraiths
disfigured and defiled
By the sadistic
creature the Count of Byle
Accompanied our sweet
maid into Hell
As she climbed the
steps to her tiny cell.
The keeper of the
tower had no nose,
A leper was he in his
filthy clothes.
The ancient door
groaned as he swung it shut
He chanted this unto
his master’s slut
“Virgin, virgin, so
very sweet,
Carrots and cabbage on
the meat,
Pray to God for a
little while
You’ll soon be with
the awful Byle.”
He cackled and
shuffled off down the hall
To eat and sleep in
some hole in the wall.
The First Night…
Sounds of scurrying
rats now in shadows deep,
Tubercular snores rose
from the castle's keep.
There was only an
arrow slot in the stone
Through which the
light from a waxing moon shone.
She shivered and wept
in her simple chemise,
And knelt to pray for her eventual release.
At the sound of her
whispered voice as she spoke
The rats stopped
moving and the sleepers awoke.
No one could recall in
the Country called Bakes,
When they had heard a
prayer that wasn’t a fake
Or wasn’t a plea by a
richly gowned priest
For peasants to starve
for the celibate’s feast.
But this was a sweet
psalm, carried on the breeze
That blew away the
clouds, while rippling the leaves.
It warmed the freezing
prisoners on their mats
And cooled the
feverish souls who lay on slats.
The maid's song of love
that forever will last,
A song about the
future, free from the past.
A love song from one
fragile human being
To the ruler of life,
the Father Supreme.
“Dear, sweet Lord on
your golden throne in the sky,
You are the fish that
swim and the birds that fly.
The spirit of those
who walk and those who crawl
Mighty Savior, you are
the Master of all.
The sweet water, fresh
air, and the fertile land
Are all blessings for
us from thy gracious hand.
Even Satan hiding in
his darkest Hell
Cowers in awful fear of
your mighty spell.
Volcanoes fume and
roar while lightning flashes
Your violent frown
creates the thunder clashes.
The snail, and the
worm, and the lowliest sow,
Even women who wash
and the men who plow,
You hear the king and
the littlest infant
Dear Lord none to you
are insignificant.
The devil surely lives
solely by your grace
So that any man might
choose his rightful place.
Sweet Lord, you are
all knowing, the source of light
Scourge of wrong, and
champion of what is right.
I pray you will hear
this frightened maiden’s plea
And save the suffering
who abide with me.
Take pity on these
cripples bound in their chains
Heal their bleeding
wounds, relieve their searing pains.
It matters not how
these wretches may have sinned,
Lord they have surely paid
twice and paid again.
Oh Greatest Prince all
creations of thine own
Must surely deserve
more than just skin and bone.
You loved these your
children once upon a time
I pray you will love
them again, Lord divine.
Let Mercy shine in
heaven and be thy name
I plead with you now
have mercy on the lame.
The angels sing of
forgiveness as thy speech
Then I pray you will
forgive those who beseech.
If compassion is truly
thy cornerstone
Be compassionate for
those who are alone.
Have Gabriel blow his
mighty horn, loud and clear
Calling a host of
angels from far and near.
Draw back powerful
bows with arrows of might
And hurl flaming
spears through the darkest night.
Break down the doors
and crush the stones of these walls
Rip up the floors and
shatter these darkened halls.”
Hear your children; hear their cries,
Hear their pleas Lord, hear their sighs,
Feel their pain Lord, feel their tears,
Feel their misery, feel their fears.
Please dear Lord, pray set them
free.
Deliver them unto thee
Pushing its fragile
point through the awful night
This tiny human voice,
full of truth and light
Was quickly joined by
a soft, despairing wail
As dead hearts, began
to beat within the jail.
Voices silenced by
long years of starvation
Rumbled slowly aloft
in supplication.
Cracked lips now,
painfully, formed sound into words
Which later, it was
claimed, had been clearly heard
Throughout the sad
land of the Country called Bakes,
By the sleeping birds
and the frogs in the lakes;
Heard by the evil
scourge of the far reaching land
It rode the gentle
waves and lapped at the sand.
Hundreds of drowning
voices cried in the night
Clinging to a slender
ray of hope and light.
Hundreds of parched
and blistered throats prayed as one
Through the night sky
in search of the father's son.
"Lord of mercy, Lord of power
Spare the virgin in the tower.
Pray lord of hope, our lord of love
Send thy shiny Knight from above."
The
Second Night…
The table was laden
with fruit and meat
Wine from the
lowlands, both dry and sweet.
The fire, laid with
the greatest of care
Flickering it danced
in the devil’s stare.
Byle had not moved for
a very long time
Un-tasted the meat,
un-savored the wine.
Trans-like he sat
staring through the fires smoke
While in his head, the
prison voices spoke.
"Lord of mercy, Lord of power
Spare the virgin in the tower.
Pray lord of hope, our lord of love
Send thy shiny Knight from above."
Now, as he glowered in
his marble hall
The dark shroud ore
his memory did fall
And he saw far back to
days long since gone
When he was known to
all as Lion Song.
Lion Song, a knight of
chivalrous pride
Riding with honor at
his liege-lord’s side.
King Longsword the
conqueror of Glade
Ruler of Chillam, and
Master of Slade.
Lion Song, Strong Bow,
Great Axe, Eagle of Lent
Four famous knights by
their liege- lord were sent
To lay a claim to a
country called Bakes
In the land known as
the Necklace of Lakes.
Each Knight, with an
army ten thousand strong
Set-off on a journey
sixty leagues long.
Forty thousand men
were sent to the East
In the name of King
Longsword and his priests.
Each army was served
by five thousand slaves
Who pulled on the land
and rowed on the waves.
The column of march
was twenty miles long
At the fore, the
powerful Lion Song
The bravest of knights
in Longsword’s domain;
So named, because as a
boy he had slain
A lion with only his
brawn and hands
Becoming a legend
throughout the lands.
The fairest daughter
of his lord was there
A beautiful maiden
with coal black hair.
The favorite of
Longsword and his court
Her voice was like a
lark with lips like port.
Pledged in matrimony
by the great Lord
Upon defeat of the
vile Bakesman’s horde.
That victorious night
was drawing near
Lion Song would
vanquish his master’s fear
Securing the realm's
borders in the south
Tasting victory from
the maiden’s mouth.
Surrounded by the
Bakemen's heads on stakes
He'd dance with her
'neath the Necklace of Lakes.
She’d bathe in rose
water and other scents
While priests raped
the Bakes women in their tents.
Now his men stood in
silent rows
Mounted knights in
front of those with bows.
Waiting the dawn on a
sloping hill
Sensing the foe in the
morning’s chill.
Across the valley,
among the woods
The Bakes-men waited
'neath their green hoods.
Slowly, the darkness of night gave way
And a slate-like dawn
began the day.
Without word, they
began to descend
Onto the field, toward
an unknown end.
On a nearby hill,
high-up and secure
The raven-haired
princess, warm and demure
Sat in a chair
overlooking the scene
Attended by servants
sent by the Queen.
For her, there was
only one warrior there
The Song of the Lion,
so brave and fair
And soon he would
loosen her brocade gown
The Lion would purr
‘neath the eiderdown.
He would come to her
with blood on his lance
With his body hot from
his killing trance.
She knew that today he
would kill for her…
Her loins, like the
army, began to stir.
The fight began with a
deathly shower
Archers on both sides
unleashed their power.
Into the fray rode the
leonine knight
On a huge black
stallion, snorting with fright.
Lion Song held up high
his gleaming sword
Thousands cried the
name of their famous Lord.
Swiftly now fell the
black knights awful blade
And many heads in
hoods rolled in the glade.
Two of thousands that
would fall on that day
As blood from both
sides stained the slippery clay.
Strong Axe’s steed
reared up and then was gored
By a Bakes-soldier
with a hungry sword.
Crashing to the
ground, he was quickly slain
By attacking Bakesmen
who fell like rain.
The death of Strong
Axe weakened the left flank
And the Bakes-men
poured through rank upon rank.
The breach, unnoticed
by the Knight in black,
And soon there were
Bakes-men in front and back.
Lion’s Song and his
men were surrounded,
Around them the hooves
of the foe pounded.
The Bakes-men now
taunted as they reeled
Closing the circle on
the bloody field.
The Eagle of Lent and
Strong Bow and men
Were holding their own
at the valley’s end,
Unaware of the threat
to Lion’s Song
They held the flank,
but, alas, not for long.
Lion’s Song was true
to his knightly name
Fought like a lion
with fire in his mane.
His fury was great and
his sword was strong.
Hundreds of Bakes-men
found his reach was long.
Longsword’s vassals
fought bravely to the man,
Each stood his ground
and there were none who ran.
Just when the hostiles
press was at its peak
The fate of the
valiant was indeed bleak.
Now came a fearful
scream violent and shrill.
Every warrior stopped
and turned toward the hill
Where the Bakesmen’s
leader in blood red mail
Charged the girl he
was about to impale.
Bare naked she ran as
fast as she could
Toward her savior
surrounded in the wood.
The red Bakesman chief
rode up from the rear
And severed her head,
just below the ear.
Her headless body
continued to run
And the Bakesman
laughed at his gruesome fun.
Now one of the
Bakesmen stuck in a lance
And they passed her
around, each with a chance.
Oxblood, the cowardly
Bakes country knight
flung her head at
Lion’s Song; challenged a fight;
It landed hard beneath
her savior's horse.
Slowly dismounting, he
knelt in remorse.
He picked up the girls
once beautiful head
And he cradled it
gently as it bled.
He removed his helmet;
flung it aside
Dropping his shield
where many had died
As thousands watched,
he brushed away a tear
And tenderly kissed
his princess so dear.
From beneath his
stained armor he withdrew
A large silken scarf
of silver and blue.
Ever so gently, he
wrapped up his bride,
And with each fold, a
large part of him died.
He bore his bride to
the edge of the glade
Where many had died by
his awful blade.
He placed her head in
the bough of a tree
A gruesome reminder
for all to see.
Slowly, oh so slowly
he turned around,
Throughout the valley
there wasn’t a sound.
Resolutely he marched,
men fell away,
Knowing the knights
would determine the day.
He picked up his sword
and turned toward the tree,
Kissed the bloody
blade, and dropped to his knee.
In a voice that
strangely covered the land
Made this solemn
pledge by which he was damned.
“I now renounce
everything that man calls good,
My oath, my King, and
all for which I’ve stood.
There can be no savior
here or beyond.
From this day forward
there are no more bonds.
Surely it is now plain
for all to see
There is no God, no
place for me to flee.
I will now reside in
Hell’s hereafter
Filled with the devils
horrible laughter.
What was good has now
been taken from me
Empty eyes resting
there in yonder tree.
Never again shall I be
fair and good
And never shall I
stand for what I stood.
Hear me now, all you
wretched befouled fools
I have now become the
cruelest of cruel.
Let no man near me
unless he seeks death
I shall wither all as
the dragon’s breath.
I vow that from this
day forever on
For every righteous
thought within me drawn
One hundred souls will
be put to the flame
Parents and their
children to end the name.
From now on in every
Bakes country mile
I shall be known as
the cruel Count of Byle.
On his face was a
cruel contorted grin,
All could see he was
not what he had been.
He raised up his sword
and let out a laugh
The men fell away to
widen the path.
Oxblood suddenly
spurred his mighty steed
Unimpressed by this
awful poseur’s creed.
Aiming his lance, he
drove for the Counts chest,
But the Count at his
worst, was at his best.
Splitting Oxbloods
lance with a mighty blow
While grabbing the
horse’s throat from below.
The frightened horse
struggled in vain to rear
But collapsed and
perished instead from fear.
Oxblood leapt to the
ground with his iron mace
And struck a mighty
blow at the Byle’s face.
Short of its mark, it
ripped off the Counts ear,
The Byle laughed, now
incapable of fear.
His sword swung a
mighty arc swift and true
And sliced the
murderess knight clean in two.
Dissatisfied with such
easy revenge
Byle the Butcher went
on a cutting binge.
He quartered the
former knight of the land
and chopped him to
pieces the size of sand.
Still angry he ordered
the captured slain.
In a village at the
end of a lane
He lined up the women
who’d not escaped
By night, all were
dead after being raped.
There was a sad
stillness in the air
As the sun set on this
valley of despair.
The victorious Count
stood in knee-deep mud
Staring intently
across a field of blood
At his princess
resting sadly in the tree.
He fell to his knees,
but he wanted to flee
When he saw the silken
shroud fall away.
There seemed to be
something she wanted to say.
He felt, rather than
heard, her whispered rebuke,
As he fell to the
ground and began to puke.
From that day on, he
knew he was cursed
by Satan himself, or
something worse.
The bile of his guts
fell on the earth
Sacrament to the
devil’s rebirth.
He bestirred himself
from this whorish thought
And cursed the virgin
captive who had brought
The memory of someone
long since gone,
That gullible ass once
called Lion’s Song.
He spat into the dying
fire and swore
Soon, a pretty virgin
she’d be no more.
Meanwhile In A Village
Nearby…
The men who make war
do not make the tools,
They are made by
craftsmen following rules
Who nightly sleep in
comfort in their beds
While the tools they
make are severing heads.
Beyond the stony,
barren, land of Bakes,
Across the hills, past
the Necklace of Lakes
Lay the county
Glofast, all gold and green,
Abundant with hills,
streams and lakes serene.
Small villages sit
under ancient oaks,
Now peopled by gentle,
earth-working folks.
The hamlet of Redhill
was much the same
Using the ore from the
hill in its name.
Big John, a smithy of
great renown,
Labored in the center
of the town.
His head was shiny as
bronze plate,
Eyebrows the only hair
on his pate.
His huge neck was like
his shoulders
Rippled and knotted
molten boulders.
His arms had the
strength of steel bars,
Pocked and blistered
with angry red scars
From sparks born on
the bellows breath,
As he forged his
utensils of death.
As he hammered and
shaped steel to mace,
A song emerged from
his sweat soaked face...
"Tis better to make
than it is to take
Tis better to pray
than it is to slay
Tis better to sew
than to pull a bow
Tis better to smile
than to meet the Byle."
Warriors, kings,
posers, and mighty fools
Came to order John’s
deadliest tools.
Many Counts and Dukes,
Soldiers, and Knights
Set aside their
vainglorious rites
Waiting delivery of
steel shrouds,
Then jousting before
the festive crowds.
For he was the master
of this game
with a helper Nimrod,
who was lame.
Together, they labored
‘neath the oak
Sweaty work under a
leafy cloak.
One at the bellows,
feeding the fire,
One shaping steel from
ingot to wire.
Wire was heated, then
shaped and bent,
To chain mail… the
attacker's lament.
Horses prancing down
the village lane
The clatter of hooves
a deadly rain
Bearing warriors with
swords and shield
Attended by servants
in the field.
Some were in a
terrible hurry
Placing an order off
they'd scurry
To a violent destiny
or worse
Rushing off as if
chased by a curse.
Others came to rest
and camped nearby
Frolicking under an
azure sky.
John showed no favor
to those who came,
Highborn or scoundrel,
they were the same.
Asked how in good
faith he could provide
Talents and skills for
both of the sides,
Eyes flickering in the
forge's light
He'd grumble,
"There ain't no black nor white,
Justice or injustice,
right or wrong,
Just different tunes
to the same song."
He'd slam his sledge
on the white hot ore
As if to acclaim there
ain't no more!
His shop was full of
dull witted nerds
Who pumped the billows
and shoveled turds.
Poor farmers sons,
sent to learn a skill
From the master smithy
at Redhill.
Treating them kindly,
more than most would,
As he tried to teach
them what he could.
Expected less of them
than they gave,
Never cursed at them
or called them knaves.
The work was hard, the
hours were long,
Six days a week
starting before dawn.
Resting on the
Sabbath, per the book,
A village maid was
brought in to cook.
Beyond the awful
Castle named for Byle
lived a patient knight
who'd waited awhile
For a suit of armor
ordered last fall
For use in a joust
outside his Great Hall.
John had agreed to
deliver the suit
And was anxious to
avoid a dispute.
Finished and shined,
with not a hint of dust,
Coated with goose
grease to stop any rust
It gleamed and
reflected the Smithy's fire
A great work of pride
for all to admire.
"Come Nimrod,
now’s the time, make haste with thee
Put on this beautiful
suit carefully
For you must ride on
that tired gray ass
Through the darkened
forest quietly past
Castle Byle, in the
middle of the night
And take this suit to
the long waiting knight.
If yee ride quietly
past the Byle’s keep
You will have no fear
as he'll be asleep."
Being lame and
somewhat slow of thought,
Nimrod became
extremely distraught.
"Please master
send me not in harm's way
Byle the butcher will
have his say
And kill your servant
to steal the suit
Just for some fun and
a little loot."
"Please calm
yourself you simple lad
Byle the Butcher is
not so mad
To stay awake each
night with the hope
That some donkey,
ridden by some dope
Will pass by his Keep
during the night
Shaking and wailing
with blinding fright
So he might steal the
helmet and sword
That was ordered by a
near-by lord."
Nimrod was lanky, all
joints and knees
With legs longer than
the old donkey's.
Pushing hard they
squeezed his knobby frame
Into the steel suit
while he exclaimed,
"My dear God
protect me now, I pray
Ride with me
throughout this awful day
Still this ass as we
pass in the night
The castle ruled by
the awful knight."
"Hush now there's
really nothing to fear
Just do as I say and
you'll be clear
Of the castle in the
dark of night
All will be well, and
all will be right.
Fear not about your
imagined threat
For you shall have
only one regret
If the suit is harmed
in any way
It is to me that
you'll surely pay."
The old donkey started
down the lane
Toward the sun now
beginning to wane.
Darkness fell, Nimrod
shivered in fear
Of the evil prince
he'd soon be near.
By the beautiful
Necklace of Lakes
The moon arose giving
him the shakes.
"Lord, please I
pray dim this moon so bright
So I can pass by
unseen this night.
No matter what my
master John say,
Grave danger lurks all
along this way."
The Third Night…
Magnificent, golden
autumn leaves
Gently quaked in the
cool evening breeze.
The sun set ore the
Necklace of Lakes;
The farmers set down
their hoes and rakes;
The butcher scrubbed
clean his bloodied block;
The shepherd gently
settled his flock.
Forest bunnies
scurried for their home,
Owls, snakes and frogs
now began to roam.
Life was at once
ebbing and flowing,
Animals were coming
and going
And each of God’s
creatures, except for man
Carried out its part
in this divine plan.
Carefully, all
creatures of the light
Gave way to the
creatures of night.
The eternal mystery of
evening
Made music for coming
and leaving.
Accompanying this
magical, song
There came a voice
t’was both sweet and strong
The virgin's pure
voice in the tower
Praising the lord for
such an hour.
Through a tiny slot in
the cold stone
She witnessed proof
she was not alone.
Her voice sang a
welcome to the night
And gently bid
farewell to the light.
Her joyful song now
covered the wood
And each living thing
stopped where it stood.
The leper cackling all
the day long
Was stunned by this
unexpected song.
Suddenly the hope of
what might be
pierced his hard
flinty soul easily.
Fresh welts from the
awful Byle’s rope
Ceased painful
throbbing when they felt hope.
Spirits once crushed
by the Knight in Black
Began, slowly, to
fight their way back.
And soon joy and love
replaced despair
All who heard, save
one, became aware
The day was dying, but
not the source
The day and the night
were on their course
Each would lead and
each follow in turn
The night would cool
and the sun would burn.
The living would die
and be reborn,
As the night is
conquered by the morn.
Her hope caressed the
weak and the strong
Their spirits soared
on the virgin's song.
"There is a time
for all of God's beings.
A time for running and
flying with wings.
There is a time for
joy and hope and love
A time for the turtle,
and for the dove.
The day is special
because of the dark
The cry of the vulture
sweetens the lark.
Harsh winters create
the sweetness of springs,
There is a time for
all of the Lords things.
A balance too grand to
comprehend
We know not when it
began or will end
This the grandest
journey of them all
Where those who have
risen will quickly fall.
Let me learn, my sweet
Lord, from every day
That your children may
soon be on their way
Toward the glowing
horizon you have drawn
Over which the
faithful shall burst as dawn.”
“Treason!” shouted
Byle before too long
"I’ve heard
enough of this virgin’s song.”
He felt the hope
seeping through the stone
Now he knew that she
was not alone.
He smashed the
half-empty jug of ale
As the prisoners began
to wail.
“Bring her to me that
defiant whore”
He yelled loudly
through the dungeon door.
“Fetch me hot pitch
and a cat-o-nine,
I’ll have my way with
her then I’ll dine
I’ll make short work
of this pretty maid
And put an end to this
strange charade.”
He stomped across the
garbage-strewn floor
One eye always on the
dungeon’s door
As if he feared a
sudden attack
When the rusty iron
bolt slid back.
The massive door now
began to move,
He heard the hinges
screech in their grooves.
The leper shuffled out
of the black
Head drooping from the
hunch in his back.
He pushed the door
through its complete arc
As the maid stepped
slowly from the dark.
Her hair flowing over
her chemise
A garment made of the
crudest fleece,
Her bare tiny feet
cold on the stone
As she stepped into
the devil’s home.
Her clear eyes were
the bluest of blue
Her gaze was steady,
so strong and true
Unblinking engaged the
lord in black.
Angrily he started to
attack.
He raised his arm
letting go his whip
Snapping it tore her
gown with its tip.
Recoiling his lash he
cried, “You bitch,
I shall disrobe you
now, stitch by stitch!”
Crack went the whip
lashing out again
Ripping her gown not
touching her skin.
Once more he drew back
the oiled thong
The poor dungeon smock
did not last long.
Soon, our maiden stood
totally bare
To the gaze of Byle’s
satanic stare.
Dropping the whip on the
cold stone floor
The virgin quaked by
the dungeon’s door.
A cruel, broken tooth
excuse of a smile
Crossed the hard face
of the Count of Byle.
"Now my lassie
you and I shall see
Which of us is
stronger, you or me.
You came into my
castle and prayed,
What good has it done,
my pretty maid.
You are a virgin, just
as you were,
So soft and so tender,
sweet and pure
Standing naked with
clothes in a pile
Soon to be gored by
the Count of Byle."
She was desperate to
show no fear
And spoke as her
tormentor drew near.
“The situation does
seem the same
Except for one thing,
might I explain?”
“What’s to explain?
You should beg instead
For soon you will join
me in my bed.”
He caressed her
tresses, smooth and long
While groping at his
pants leather thong.
She twisted to face
him, still in his grip,
She drew in her breath
for she dare not slip.
"Master of Byle,
awful scourge of the land
Prepare yourself for
war, withdraw your hand!
As foretold, 'this is
the night of your doom!"
The Byle laughed
looking at the empty room.
“Doom? You are alone
in this my great hall
Who will save you from
your imminent fall?"
"Look through
yonder window and you shall see
The shiny White Knight
who has come for me.
Unhand my hair Count
and put back your plow
Your final time has
come, and it is now!"
No sooner had our
sweet maiden spoke
Than the sound of hooves the silence broke.
Releasing his grip on the maids hair
He yelled loudly through the cold night air
"What noise is this… some trick you have
made”?
He pulled up his pants and threw back the shade.
She had no doubt nor a glimmer of fear
That beyond the hall her savior was here.
She knew from the vision deep in her heart
The White Knight would breech the castle's
rampart.
She knew every detail of horse and knight
His armor was shiny. His horse was white.
"By god, you wicked witch,” laughed the
black Count,
Turned from the window, calling for his mount.
"Your faith is foolish as you shall soon
see
No boy and donkey is a match for me.
When I return, having slain your 'white knight'
We shall end this game much to my delight."
So saying, he strode out the chamber door
Calling for his leather shirt and no more.
"I need not armor, sword, shield, or a mace
Just my lance and my mare shall rid this place
Of a frightened boy on a half dead ass
Who’s keeping me from such a tender lass."
Our maid grabbed her gown, to the window raced
Her heart filled with joy at God's abundant
grace
Saw with the faith in her heart, and not her
eyes
The White Knight shining brightly in the moon's
rise.
Every detail was as clear as if by day
He was perfection sent to take her away.
Oh, it is so true that we only see
What we choose to make as our destiny.
We all unknowingly follow our dreams
Our vision shines bright in the silver beams
In the forecourt of the Byle's darkened lair
Waited his groom with the Counts lance and mare.
The horse's eyes wide with fear and delight
She knew her master was ready to fight.
In one swift move, the Count grabbed his sharp
lance
Swung up on the mount now starting to prance.
"Whoa kindred friend and my most valiant
steed
T’will be very short work tonight indeed.
Beyond the bridge no great challenger be
For a steed like you or warrior like me."
The inky black warhorse pranced on the stone
Snorting and hissing, would not be postponed.
The steed and the prince now fused into one
The evilest dark force under the sun.
"Drop the bridge!" he snarled,
spurring the mare,
Sparks crackled from hooves in the cold night
air.
He lowered his lance and shot out the gate
Unaware he charged an uncertain fate.
Was it the ill temper of the old ass
Or God that did not allow him to pass?
The faithful will see the Lord's hand at work,
No matter, Nimrod was going berserk.
The old grey ass refused to move an inch
Begged at and yelled at, he would not flinch.
Nimrod flung up his arms over his head
He knew by all that’s right, he’d soon be dead.
Now bearing down on this dim wit in white
The Byle thrust his lance with all of his might.
The gleaming tip struck the newly forged plate
A grand blow to seal the rescuer's fate.
Metal to metal, when it’s keenly aimed,
Is meant to kill or at least it will maim,
Metal to goose grease is different indeed,
Byle slipped by Nimrod with amazing speed.
Unchecked the surprised steed lunged quickly
past
The scared crippled boy from county Glofast.
Smoothly the lance slid off his greasy cloak
Buried instead into an ancient oak.
The chargers speed left no time to react
The lance drilled deep into the oak then
cracked…
It cracked in half and it cracked like thunder
The splintered lance drove deep and under
The thin leather shirt of the boastful knight
Impaling the villain without a fight.
The shattered shaft split the Counts mighty
chest
Crushing his flinty heart and all the rest.
With eyes wide open the Byle rode the shaft
Now a victim of his own evil craft.
Near the forest, on the edge of a glade
Died the Count on the end of his own blade.
All the leaves on the oak on which he died
Fell in a shower all twisted and dried.
The bark smoldered, cracked, and then caught
fire
Skyward exploded an evil pyre.
Nimrod was sure he'd been sent to hell.
He was sure this night would not end well.
He did not pray, nor scream, plead nor shout
He’d knew he'd die 'neath the Byle's redoubt.
He felt the mighty lance strike his chest
A visceral blow, it was the Byle's best.
He was certain it delivered death
As the glancing blow blew out his breath.
His fear was great, he started to swoon
The lance slid off the fainting poltroon.
He became aware of smoke and fire.
Certain was he his fate was dire
He could not open his shuttered eyes
To see the source of the painful cries.
He could feel and hear the awful fire,
But also an angels singing choir
“It’s purgatory!” he cried aloud,
“I’m betwixt and between” he avowed.
“I'll wander in this sad nether-land
Forever, from my destiny banned.”
Amid the fractured Count's frantic screams,
Like a brief glimpse of a distant dream,
Came a soft whisper blown on the wind,
Faintly it came, and then gone again.
Then there sounded an awful thunder.
The earth around him split asunder.
His eyes sprang open and looked to where
The impaled Byle, and his snorting mare
Were being sucked by the belching split
Into the devils own steaming pit.
The fist of God hurled through the night
And the dark was conquered by the light.
A careless squirrel, two hundred years past
Dropped a small acorn while raiding its stash.
The nut grew into the mightiest oak
On which the evil Count Byle’s lance was broke.
How often it is that these acts so small
Profoundly affect the lives of us all.
There is no small act, no whisper, no tear
That cannot but wobble our fragile sphere.
A vision is a most powerful force
Setting the stage, determining the course.
It was her vision high in the tower
Unleashing its incredible power.
From out of the inky black cloud of death
Again came a song, as light as a breath.
Was it angels calling him through his fear?
(angels and maidens were hovering near).
Nimrod looked around in search of
the song
Just in time to see the master of
wrong
Sucked into hell, while thrashing
and crying
The devil laughing, and angels
sighing.
Just as the smoke and fire began to
crest
The song of the maiden, was made
manifest
By a silk scarf drifting through the
dark smoke
The scarf from when the Count's
heart was once broke
When he was the honorable Lionsong
Defender of right and slayer of
wrong.
The scarf carried as a secret prayer
With the hidden hope that someday,
somewhere
The cruel pledge made on a field of
gore
Would now be repented for evermore.
It matters not how wicked one may be
(the Count was the worst we will
ever see)
There often lies very deeply hidden
Desires that may go for long
unbidden
Until the end, when the reaper is
near,
When regret, doubt and shame, but
mostly fear,
Peel back the layers and layers of
sin
For a glimpse of what might or could
have been
A vision carried through the final
gates
A pain that serves as the ultimate fate.
The scarf drifted down through the awful haze
Now watched by Nimrod with a fearful gaze.
The angels' sweet song grew louder and bright
The scarf shimmering in the eerie light.
His dread slowly began to disappear
As the angels' voices caressed his
ear.
The scarf, was guided by the angels hymn
Straight into the hand of Nimrod the Dim.
Grasping the scarf,
there came a flash of light
And the towers voice became clear and bright.
"Praise be to the Lord, worship him above
He sent my savior, my only true love.
Faith is fiction unless put to the test,
Tonight my Lord and Knight were at their
best".
A thousand angels arose from the smoke
Singing loudly; the prisoners awoke.
Voices whose cries… grown pitifully weak
Grew strong when wakened from a dreadful sleep.
Stone once scarred by hearts in impotent rage
Crumbled and splintered, like sets on a stage.
Nimrod in the center was strangely calm
The unguent of faith absorbed like a balm.
The lights that, for him, had never shown bright
Began to glow, now swallowing the night.
Now his awkward frame grew supple and strong
And his straw-like hair grew silky and long.
The old ass too, felt the changes all round
And dug his hooves into the sacred ground.
Fearful of change, he attempted to bray,
Whinnied instead, to his complete dismay.
The voice from the tower rang pure and sweet
The shiny White Knight turned his steed to meet
The captive maiden who had clearly seen
this instant in time in her vision's dream.
Their eyes meeting now and locking as one
The night gave away to the morning sun.
Throughout the kingdom that had suffered so
Evil was conquered by their love's warm glow.
A hymn arose from all the living things
Church bells, long silenced, now began to ring.
Thousands of angels under a blue sky
Sang hosannas to the faithful who try.
There, in the castle long ruled by the night
The sweet maiden met her shiny White Knight.
What a lesson this story might teach
Were I ever called upon to preach.
Evilness and goodness, black and white
Are clearly defined within our sight.
Life is a journey seen in the mind
This surely is true for all mankind.
We choose to see what we want to be
And daily we dream our destiny.
Author:
John M. Schwartz
Copyright 1/1/99
P: 1-317-966-2189
