Le Morte D'Arthur - Myths, Legends and Fantastical Tales

I found these two books in an Antiquarian bookstore in Austin Tx. 12th Street Books it is called. Published in 1903. To me these are amazing. Over 100 years old. King Arthur is by far one of the most endearing fantasies of all times. I daresay most everyone in Europe and the continental U.S. knows of King Arthur and who isn't enchanted by Merlin?

This is a book I found at a garage sale for $3.00. It is one of a trilogy. It is one my favorite Arthurian series, I am currently re-reading this series, as I do every fall/winter. The Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell. When I sit down to read, I am taken back to dark age Britain where my friend Derfel Cadarn, Derfel the Mighty is telling me about the deeds and misdeeds of his Lord. King Arthur. I have read these books many times. They still hold my attention. They still draw me in and evoke emotion. It is the legend that draws me. It is Arthur.

On my desk sits this little pewter figurine.

This is the Lady of the Lake holding that sword of legend, Excalibur!

How does a legend such as this remain? There are many legends and myths, but Arthur's lives on. Why? I believe it is because of the ideals that Arthur stands for. We innately want those ideals in our lives. At least, I believe most of us do. In the movie Excalibur when Arthur tells Lancelot "You are what is best in men." That, I believe, is what we want said of us by a person who holds those same ideals.

What legends, myths, or stories draw you in, take you to another world and evoke emotion for you? 

Today

Earth tones greet you as soon as you roll up and the Sabine river slithers about its course just down the hill, reaching out and taking in the unwilling, covering it, soaking it, changing it forever. Tree leaves cascade in the wind as birds caracole around the place. Slow is what it seems like it should be.

Today, I get the privilege of working at the compost pile. Rain is forecasted all day. Thirteen tornados have ravaged Texas today. Yet, each time I come here, I feel at peace, it is a low-stress environment. I feel at home among the trees. They call to me. There is nothing better than a tree. Oak being my favorite, for it is a noble tree and strong.

Where do you feel at peace and at home the most?

Here is what it looks like out my window.

The Mystery

As Samhain (Halloween, All Saints Day, All Souls Day) has passed and we are now in the darker, colder time of year, I like to take time and reflect on things. Fall and winter are, beyond a doubt, my favorite time of year. I have to ask you this because it is this way for me. Have you ever sat outside on a clear, cold, winter night and gazed up at the stars, the twinkling jewels that decorate our night sky and felt the wonderment and get this excited knot in the pit of your stomach at the mystery of what was up “there”? Have you ever walked in the woods past the hour of midnight, when the moon is full and frost sparkles on the ground? It will give you that same excited feeling. The Mystery. I cherish that feeling. For the past 36 years I lived in a rural area and have experienced it many times. If you have never done that, you should! What are you waiting for?

The Celts believed that the veil between the living and the dead blurred on Samhain and got so thin that it would break and that spirits and the dead would cross over into our realm. What led them to this belief? The mystery of death surely so, or at least that is my opinion. There are others more knowledgeable on that subject than myself.

I love to wonder what it would be like to live in the time of the Celts. Sure, it was a brutal time period. War was always a threat. Your life expectancy was short. But there was still mystery, because the world, in regards to man as a cognitive being, was still relatively new. Can you imagine what it was like to witness the Northern Lights during the time of the Celts and Vikings? Surely the Gods were putting on a display of power, or some other supernatural phenomenon was happening. Imagine the mystery those people felt looking up at the stars and the moon. It was also a time when we believed that magic existed. And we still want magic to exist.

I believe this is why fantasy books and fantasy based video games are so popular. It gives us that sense of mystery. Do we not love the unexplained, the unknown?

 
The Unknown beckons us.
Will you answer the call?

P.S. There are some songs that give me that feeling that the unknown beckons. I will link them below.

Lunar Sanctum by Kamelot - I love the haunting nature of this song.

Samhain Night by Loreena McKennitt - Her voice just soothes my soul. This is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.

All Souls Night by Loreena McKennitt - I am starting to see a pattern here. What can I say? She is awesome and this song is wonderfully haunting and lilting.

What things bring you that sense of the unknown? That sense of mystery that leaves you with an excited knot in the pit of your stomach?

The Druid

“We must wake them, Sire,” whispered the Advisor.

“No. Their time-sleep is not yet over. To disturb them is to bring their wrath." The King rubbed his bearded chin, his eyes bloodshot and downcast.

“The Dark Army presses us on all sides, we will be dead before their sleep is through. Lord, we must chance their wrath to save our land.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“Sire? The Book says during times of great distress we may disturb their time-sleep.”

The King grimaced, “Those rituals have not been performed in an age, is there a Druid still alive that can? Does the Book say how?”

“Yes Lord, old Michel can perform the proper rites.”

The King guffawed, “That demented old man? How old is he? He must be near a century. He disturbs me, roaming about mumbling nonsense to himself.”

The Advisor pushed, “Shall I summon him, Lord?”

“Sobeit. Yes, summon the old man, get the Book, we will meet in the hall, where they slumber.”

***

“Dragon.” cried out a villager.

Black leathery wings billowed over the dwellings across the river from the castle. The Dark Army had invaded, and now there were menacing dragons. Thatch roofs were burning; livestock now smoldered and little more than ash was all that remained of many of the villagers. There were six of them, black foreboding scars searing the blue sky.

Lord Sluagh sat on his great steed surveying the carnage. He had besieged this land before, to no avail, their army had repelled him. But that was then, now he had more troops and six dragons. He smiled as he looked down from the hillside. The tide had turned his direction. This kingdom would kneel, as the others had. He would unite the land in a way never before accomplished, one land, one king. His time to reign had come.

***

Michel stood in the Hall of the Gods, his hands trembling, he mumbled to an imaginary person, someone he called ‘Willow’.

“The ritual old man. Can you do it?”

“Oh, what? Yes, why yes, of course, just have Willow hold the Book please, so I can read from it.”

“This is pointless,” the King spewed, sitting in his royal chair.

The King’s Advisor took the Book from the pedestal and held it for the old man to read.

“Thank you, Willow. You’ve always been a good lad.”

Eyes among the court rolled at the old man’s confusion. A youth entered the building with a bundle, set it down by Michel, bowed to the King and left.

The Advisor looked at the sleeping titans on their thrones. They looked like statues if one did not know better. Along the stone wall, he saw three hammers resting on their prongs, the heads as big as boulders. The titans themselves were enormous. The hammers, though; even as a child the Advisor admired them. He recalled their names, taught to him by his father. Mawlr, Dinistriwr, and Dryllwyr. Named after the Gods that wielded them.
Leather laced the thick wooden handles followed by intricate weaving designs on the hafts, snaking their way on to the heads, never-ending, eternal loops. Each one with its own design, each with its own unique shape. They spoke of power and of barbarity, yet they were artful with a strange beauty about them.

The Advisor shook his head, brought out of his thoughts by old Michel.

“Willow. Fetch that bundle lad.”

The Advisor looked around, handed the Book to the person closest to him and picked up the bundle, “Here, sir,” he replied.

The old man looked down, “Yes, thank you, lad, now empty it.”

The Advisor opened the leather bag and emptied the contents on the ground. Various objects spilled out, some old bones, some small wooden logs, mistletoe, straw, and a cow skull. The old man went to work assembling the assorted items. When he had finished a small effigy stood, a crude thing, but the old Druid seemed to believe it would do the trick.

“Willow, be a good lad and fetch me a firebrand.”

The Advisor walked to a brazier, picked up some tongs and brought out a coal.

“Yes lad, good, good, now set the thing ablaze.”

The Advisor glanced at the King, the King nodded. The coal went down, the effigy blazed up.

“The Book, Willow.”

The Advisor retrieved the Book and once again held it before the old man to read. Michel chanted in a language no one in the room had ever heard. The effigy blazed higher, the flames changed color, fluctuating between red, blue and green.

The old man chanted faster and faster.

The flames blazed white, consuming the effigy.

Michel continued to wail his incantation, arms outstretched, head tilted back, his long gray hair stringing behind him.

All eyes affixed on the titans, still sleeping.

It appeared as if stone melted as color washed into the titans faces. Their eyes fluttered opened. Three voices reverberated in the great hall, harmonious, and resonating with authority.

“Who awakens us before our sleep is over?” the voices demanded in unison.

The King stood, and faced them. The stone vanished away as color spilled down the titans bodies.

The crowd gasped in astonishment.

“I commanded the Druid to perform the ritual, my Lords,” replied the King on bended knee before the Gods.

They stood, towering above all in their great hall, “Why have you disturbed our sleep, Feldrick ap ßinduan, King of The Land?” The Gods sounded dismayed.

The King went to both knees and fell prostrate before them. “The Dark Army presses us, our land is besieged. My Lords. We are the keepers of your Faith, the stewards of your Knowledge, should we perish, your Knowledge would pass from The Land.”

“We see no offerings before our feet, no banners proclaiming our goodness. We see nothing from you King Feldrick, where is your faith? Why should we stretch forth our hand and save this Land?” spoke one of the titans, stepping forward.

“Malwr. Brother, do not be harsh,” replied one of the Gods placing his large hand on Malwr's shoulder, “I have no use for this man, this king, but The Land, yes, we are the protectors of this land.”

“As you wish, Dryllwyr.” Malwr exclaimed. “We require a sacrifice. Your life O King for the lives of your people, the salvation of your land. What say you?”

The crowd moaned; the King stood, trembling, “I accept your generous offer.--” the King started.

“No.” came a voice from behind them. Michel came forward and stood between the Gods and the King. “Take me, Lords, I am old, and wish not to remain here, welcome me to your Eternal Halls.”

The Advisor’s eyes went wide, and he cried out, “No. You must not.”

Michel looked back, “Willow. Lad? The time has come. Not to worry, all will be fine, it will be fine, lad.”

The King glanced back to his Advisor.

Dinistriwr spoke, “Why you, Druid? Why would you take the place of this King?”

Michel looked around and spoke, his words as quiet as leaves falling in autumn, “My time is over, my Lords. I am weary and tired. I seek your Hall, your ancient eternal dwelling for my kind, the hall of my fathers, my brothers, all who have gone on before me. Our land needs a king. This man before you is a good and just king, I beg you not to take him from The Land.”

The Gods looked at one another and nodded in agreement, “We accept your offer, Druid.”

The King’s Advisor stepped between Michel and the Gods, “Father, what have you done?” he whispered.

Michel embraced him, “Oh Willow, my lad, I love you son. Do not mourn me, I go to the great Eternal Hall. It is a precious gift.”

The King spoke up, “I am the King. It is my life that should be forfeit, not this poor soul.” He looked up at the towering giants before him, “Take me.”

“To reject the Druid’s sacrifice is to dishonor him, step aside and live another day King Feldrick,” spoke Malwr.

The old Druid patted the king's shoulder, “Let me be Feldrick, I am ready.”

The King's jaw tightened as slow humble tears rolled down his cheeks.

Michel looked up to the Gods, “I am ready.”

The Advisor wept, “No, father, no...”

“I’ll watch over you, Willow my lad,” said the Druid.

“Come, Michel, Druid of The Land, We welcome you to the Eternal Hall. Great shall your place be among your kin.”

The old Druid smiled peacefully as his body crumpled to the floor.

“The Druid has paid the price,” exclaimed Malwr. He extended his hand toward his hammer, the other two followed suit. Three hammers lifted into the air by an unseen force, then snapped into their owner's hands.

“My brothers,” said Dinistriwr, “We go to war.”

***

The sky turned dark and threatening. Lightning arced in the ominous sky, tracing the clouds, six dragons turned to powdery ash as wicked bolts ravaged their bodies. Lord Sluagh trembled in his saddle as black residue rained slowly down upon him.

by Michael S Wigington

(Artwork by http://caiomm.deviantart.com/)

The Dawn Riders

Sound the alarm, sound the alarm

On the horizon, an on-coming storm

With the Sun the Dawn Riders approach

Black bandit masked and billowing cloaks

Their sabers are sharp, make no mistake

Sound the alarm and close the gate

Black stallions of nightmare standing sixteen and two

The Dawn Riders raid for your bounty and loot

Sound the alarm, do toll the bell

The bastards ascend straight out of hell

The Dawn Riders are coming, The Dawn Riders are here

Hide if you can amongst the chaos and fear

Thunder and lightning pound through the gate

The Dawn Riders arrive, the hour is late

Blades flash in the sun, with red they gleam

Razor-edged horror, followed by screams

The dust settles to fading shouts and calls

Hoofbeats in the distance as tears like rain, fall

The Dawn Riders came, leaving torment behind

The Dawn Riders came, taking all they could find

-Michael S Wigington

The Celt

In a time when the world was new

And morning glory is licked with Beltane’s dew

Earth and Oak savor the Sun in early day

As nymphs in Sacred Groves dance and play

He follows her giving chase, she laughs, darts away

Green eyes follow fair skin as she promenades

Under mistletoe the lovers greet

Mortal desire pangs as their eyes meet

Lips meld and passion flames

Two hearts unite with need untamed

Honey drips as the pestle churns

On the forest floor a bed of ferns

Magical eyes watch him sleep

As a soft kiss graces his slumbering cheek

Leaving him there in cool morning breeze

She frolics and disappears into the trees

-Michael S. Wigington

Chronos

Rush hour they call it

Then why does it move so slow

Have you got any to spare they say

As if you could save it, like grasping oil with your hand

When is this, what is that, as if there is any control 

When you need it most, there isn’t any 

And when dread is upon your soul it crawls by never moving forward

You are wasting it they say, as if you had it stored

How do you spend it they ask, as if it was yours to coin 

A gift they say but who gave it

A new day they say but who determined that

Who set it into motion and made devices that track

Tiny increments they measure and chunks they call by name 

A drop in the bucket to the universe, an eternity to man just the same 

The expanse knows it not, nor the deer of the field or the fowl of the air 

Only man, and he treasures it

As if it was his to keep, and when it’s run out

We moan, we cry and we weep, not for them

No, but for us, we know it is our turn next

For no one controls it as it moves forward

Yet it stands still for the eternal ones 

Captured in stone or bronze they remain 

No effect it has seemingly so, but one day they too shall fall

For it is the master of everything and of nothing

It has no real name, only what man has deemed it 

His feeble attempt to measure it can never count that high 

It never stops

It never ends

Chronos, the unseen...

-Michael S Wigington

Chapter 1 - The Map

“Go to sleep Boon.” Warren said in a harsh whisper.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I have to know.”

“You have to know what?”

“What’s out there.”

“What’s out where?”

“You know, out there?” the boy waved his hand around in front of him, “The world? What’s out there?”

“Well, what’s out there can kill you.”

“Well, you’re stupid.”

“Go...to...sleep...Boon,” Warren said enunciating each word. His little brother had a way of grinding on him as no one else could.

Boon rolled over and clasped a parchment in his small hands as his cheeks wetted with tears. He looked up at the stars that bedecked the night sky. “Where are you?” he whispered to the dark. His eyes grew heavy and sleep took over.

The fire was mere coals by morning. Warren stoked them and piled on the small twigs he had rounded up earlier. Tendrils of white smoke rose and burned his brown eyes as the tinder caught on. He put the dried branches on top of the twigs and raked a hand through his dark hair. Flames licked up the dead wood and blazed high. He glanced at Boon; his little brother. Only the rising and falling of his small ribcage gave any sign that the boy was alive. He smiled and shook his head. Such big dreams from such a small boy. He pondered at their differences. March wind; that is how he described his brother.

Their mother told them to spend one night, Boon had insisted on two. Warren did not mind; he loved the forest and preferred the trees to the village. The cramped cottage they called home smelled of the soured cheese their mother pressed and sold. It was good to be away for a spell.

The morning catch lay gutted and cleaned on top of his canvas bag. Warren constructed a small spit and ran the fish through with the pointed sticks he carved and set them to cook. The trout would make a fine breakfast compared to the plain oats they had the morning before. The fire popped and hissed as the fish cooked.

Boon stirred and moaned something about a horse. Warren chuckled. The small boy’s blue eyes fluttered open; he stretched and yawned. Throwing his cover aside, he rolled up to his feet, his blond hair tousled and sticking up.

“Is that breakfast?” he asked, inhaling deep and licking his lips.

“Sure is.”

“You went fishing without me?” Boon said, disappointment in his voice.

“You were asleep, sorry.”

Boon shrugged, smiled and sat down by the fire. A limb snapped in the distance. The boy turned and looked towards the sound, dismissed it and gazed back at the fire.

“Is it ready?” he stared with anticipation at the roasting fish.

“Soon, don’t worry.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Warren passed his little brother the skin, uncorking it as the youngster grasped it. Mother gave them two skins of small beer; they had finished one already.

“Just a sip, it is all we have left,” Warren instructed.

The boy took a gulp and handed the skin back. Warren swigged some himself and corked the container.

Another limb snapped, this time it sounded closer.

Boon shaded his eyes, scanning the area where the sound came from; his brow wrinkled. “I think something is over there,” he pointed to where the sound came from.

“It’s a squirrel Boon; here have your fish,” Warren said handing the boy a stick with a trout skewered on it, steaming and dripping. Flesh flaked off the bone tender and juicy as Boon bit in.

The two boys relaxed as they stared at the bones they had thrown on the fire.

Warren passed Boon the skin, “Save a little for the trip back home.”

A loud crunching noise again alerted the boy’s attention to the forest. They had set up camp in the clearing they found near the stream. Two men now stood in the glade.

“Well, well, well, looky what we have here Merk; two youngsters. Are we out all alone boys?”

Warren jumped up and put himself between the two men and Boon. “Our father is with us,” he lied, “he will be back any time now.”

“Oh, is that so lad?” Merk replied.

“What’s in the pack?” nodded the one with the graying beard and pocked face.

“And what do you have to eat?” the man who spoke, Merk, had one glassy brown eye. The other was almost solid white with a small dark spot. His eyelid came down halfway over his bad eye and greasy brown hair hung lank at the top of his shoulders, giving him a garish look. The raggedness of their clothes gave away that they were deserters, brigands, or worse.

Fear rose inside Warren, “Nothing, our breakfast is done, see for yourself.” Warren backed up pushing Boon behind him. “Run Boon, run home, tell momma to get the sheriff.”

“What? No. I won’t, I won’t leave,” the boy cried.

Warren gritted his teeth, “Boon this is no time for arguing, just do as I tell you for once in your life.”

The men stepped closer, Warren backed up again pushing his brother behind him.

“Then I guess we’ll have to carve you boys up and have our own breakfast,” said Merk as he brandished a roach-belly knife.

Warren trembled as he watched the man pretend to clean his fingernails. “Boon,” he whispered, “please run, please for once just do as I tell you and run as fast as you can.”

“You take the little one Merk; the lanky one is mine.”

Merk eased closer.

“Boon,” Warren said shoving the boy backward, “run.”

The small boy broke away from his older brother, but he did not run towards home. He bolted towards Merk.

“Dammit, Boon.” Warren shouted as he tried to grab his brother’s arm.

The men laughed as Boon approached. “We got a little brawler here.” said Merk

Warren was right behind his brother, desperate to catch him. The boy darted like a rabbit, his little legs churning, his face wrinkled with determination. He neared Merk and reared back his right leg. He kicked the man in the shin. Warren smiled despite the situation. His little brother, the stubborn fighter. Warren could beat the boy blue and Boon never gave up. The kick did little damage. Merk laughed and picked the small boy up in his arms bringing him close to his face.

“Well, aren’t you just full of yourself. I got you now you little piss.” Merk exclaimed.

Warren came skidding to a stop in front of the men, “Let him go.” He brought out his own knife. A small blade he used to skin small animals and gut fish. Boon’s legs kicked back and forth, as Merk held him off the ground. The other man eyed Warren as he stepped closer.

“Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.” Boon cried, his small fist beating on Merk’s arms and accomplishing nothing.

Warren changed his stance, lower and legs wider apart as the other man began to size him up.

“Let’s gut the little one first, and then we can deal with long-shanks here.”

Tears fell down Boon’s face and Warren knew they were not tears of sadness. Anger. Whenever Boon got angry he cried.

“Let me go.” he screamed at Merk, his face red, veins popping out of his neck as his head trembled and his legs dangled. Seeing no other alternative, he grabbed hunks of greasy hair on each side of Merk’s head and pulled his face close. The two met eyeball to eyeball.

Merk laughed, “What are you going to do now?”

Boon opened his mouth wide and bit Merk hard on the nose. The man screamed and dropped his knife as he shoved Boon away from him. He let go of the boy, but Boon clenched his teeth and brought flesh with him as his weight came falling down. Blood poured from Merk’s nose as he cried out. Boon spat out the ruined cartilage, scrambled up to his feet, and punched Merk as hard as he could muster right between the legs. The man groaned and sank to his knees.

“Little bastard.” he wailed.

The boys made no easy prey. Merk's partner charged for the dropped knife and met Warren’s foot in his face as he crouched down to grasps the fallen weapon. He grunted and rolled to the side. Warren pounced on him and sank his small knife into the brigand’s shoulder as hard as he could. The man cried out and clutched at the knife trying to pull it out.

“Run now Boon, damn you, listen to me.”

Boon hooted a victory shout, threw his arms in the air with delight and took off towards the cottage. Warren followed leaving the two men writhing on the ground.

* * *

The sheriff eyed the two boys as he slid Warren’s blood stained knife across the table where they sat with their mother. “Here is your knife son; couldn’t find a trace of the two men you described. I know them both though. Merk and Wicked John. Two brigands known in these parts. They must have gotten run off from the last place they holed up. I will check with the nearest healer; John needs some attention by the looks of your knife. You boys are lucky to have escaped them unharmed.”

“It was Boon,” Warren said in a low voice, shame covering him like a blanket. “It should have been me, but it was Boon that showed courage.”

“You did the right thing, Warren,” the sheriff nodded, “you put yourself between your brother and harm and that is brave.”

"Until these brigands are caught, you two are staying home,” mother exclaimed, exasperation in her voice as she slapped the table. Tired and worn out from the day’s incident. She wrung her hands through her stained apron over and over. A year of raising them on her own took its toll.

***

Warren sat on the edge of the bed that he and his little brother shared. The cottage was small, warm, and home. He took a bite of cheese and chewed while he glanced down at the yellow block in his hands. There has to be more than this. Duty, it felt like an anvil tied to his neck. Since father left, it was his duty to take care of their mother and Boon.

He worked at the small spit of land his father left behind while mother milked cows for milk, butter and cheese. They paid their taxes and had money left over, but it was harder now. He wondered about his father, why did he leave? Rejection hit him like a hammer. His little brother sat down beside him on the bed. Warren tousled his hair, took another bite of cheese and stared at the wall.

“Warren,” the small boy tugged at his sleeve.

“What is it, Boon?” Warren said looking down.

Boon spread a piece of parchment across his lap, “I traced this the night papa went away. Can we go find him?”

Warren glanced at the map; the old used parchment traced in Boon’s crude hand. The former lines still showed despite the evident scraping, making the map confusing. There was no mistaking the words, even traced by a child. Mouth of the Demon. He took the map from his brother and gave it a harder look. He only recognized the port town. Myrmidon Landing. Father had taken him there on a few occasions. A place of traders, pirates, and villainous scum like the men that attacked Boon and himself.

Father conducted business with a man there the few times Warren had accompanied him. He never knew what they purchased. He saw father hand the man a small scroll and when they returned, they found the wagon loaded and covered. He asked father the first time what was underneath the canvas.

“Just you never mind, boy,” father said, “this will see us through winter.”

Excitement crept into his voice. “Boon -- this map? You traced it from where? Does papa know you have it?”

Boon frowned and looked down at the floor, “They were arguing and went outside.”

“Who was arguing? Father and mother?”

“No, papa and the man.”

“Man? What man?” The answers were like pulling teeth. Warren gripped his brother by the shoulders, “What man?”

“I don’t know,” whined Boon. “They were in the barn and the yelling woke me up, I went out to see.”

“Papa and this man. What did he look like?”

“I couldn’t see his face, it was dark outside. I snuck in while they talked. I saw the map on the table beside the lantern.”

How do I not know about this already? Sometimes Boon amazes me. Warren cocked his head sideways and let go of his brother. “They were arguing about this map?” He asked.

“Maybe...” Boon shrugged and shook his head. “Papa said the man had agreed to take him there and the man said ‘Bugger, I’ll be dead before I go to the Mouth of the Demon,’” the boy repeated in a falsetto booming voice. “What is the Mouth of the Demon Warren? Can we go there? We will find papa, I know it, Warren, I know we will. We can bring him home and momma will be just right again.” Big pleading eyes looked up at Warren. A grin played across the boy’s face, “Please Warren.”

“We can’t go there Boon, we just can’t. We have no money and momma would never let us go anyway, especially not after today.” Warren exclaimed.

Boon’s face fell and his shoulders slumped.

“So you snuck back into the house and got the parchment and quill and traced the map while papa and the man argued?” How could he have managed this?

Boon shook his head again, “No, I took the map and brought it inside. I traced as quick as I could Warren, I didn’t want papa angry with me. I snuck it back to the barn while papa and the man argued some more. They never saw me.”

Warren patted his little brother on the back, “it’s fine Boon, you did good, as always.”

Boon’s blue eyes sparkled at the compliment, his smile revealing his small white teeth.

The boy laughed, “We showed them didn’t we Warren? They’ll not mess with us again.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed Boon,” Warren interjected. “But yes we showed them. Did you see Merk’s face when you popped him in the bollocks?”

Boon wiggled his eyebrows up and down and giggled. “Yeeeeeaaah,” he retorted.

They laughed in unison at the moment, it was funny now. Warren put his arm around his little brother’s neck and pulled him close. “We’ll always have each other, won’t we Warren?”

“Yes brother, we will,” Warren handed Boon the left-over cheese and mussed the boy’s hair again, “Come on, we got work to do.”

* * *

Boon looked up towards the sky and let the rain hit his face. It helped to hide his tears.

“Momma would have loved today. Good for the garden she would say.”

Warren nodded, his face grim, shovel in hand, “She would have had us inside churning butter or pressing cheese.”

“Rather that than here, brother.” Boon replied as he shoveled more dirt. It made a hollow thump as it landed. His blond hair hung scraggy down his back and his good clothes, as momma had called them, were soaked as well. Today he didn’t care. Everyone was gone and the ceremony over. “Do you think she will like it here?”

“She will; those trees over there,” Warren pointed, “they flower in the spring real pretty, she’ll love that.”

Boon bowed his head, “I cannot believe she is gone brother.”

“I know me either. She is our mother and I could not stand to let someone else bury her Boon. Please forgive my insistence that we do it.”

“It is my honor as her son to do this last thing for her.” Boon replied as tears welled in his eyes.

Each shovel of dirt brought with it the finality that mother was gone from this world.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder hands resting on shovels as they viewed their mother’s grave.

“She loved us.” Warren said in a soft voice.

Boon handed his shovel to Warren and walked over to the stone they had picked out for her. He bent down, gripped the stone at the corners with his hands and hoisted it up to his waist. He carried the rock and placed it at the head of his mother’s grave. The marker came down with a splash and a thud. Boon moved it back and forth until satisfied with how it looked. He nodded to his brother.

“Mother would be cross at you for doing that in your fancy shirt.”

“This is the last time I am going to wear it; she’ll forgive me.”

“I found a buyer for the farm.”

“Willing to give our asking price?”

“Yeah, it’s Old Dimitri, he has wanted the place for ages.”

“I guess that’s it then,” Boon replied staring at the ground.

“We move on and start anew brother, we make our own destiny.”

Boon smiled and slapped his brother on the back and put a thick arm over Warren’s shoulder. “I know of captain that needs a couple of good hands.

Warren laughed and shook his head, “I should have known…”

Chapter 2 coming soon!

Adventure...

The giant laughed and scoffed, is this the best they could send?
Cowards all of them, I’ll crush him!
The boy undaunted, unafraid, with steely gaze.
One motion, fluid, practiced, leather meets stone in a whirlwind of muscle and faith.
A grey flash, a thud, and cry of sudden pain.
The redwood came crashing to the earth that day.
Never to shout again.

The eagle screamed and dove, turning this way and that, agile in the sky.
Dodging flak, talons at the ready, hell unleashed, a spray of fire.
The enemy, no time to dodge or evade, gone in a burst of dragon flame.
Winged steel and man, merged into one, called Spitfire.
Raptor of sky.

Darkness encroaching as quiet lions padded on, stealthy and unseen.
A small gurgle here, a soft moan there, a heavy thump.
A maw of loose wire, allowing access.
The predators enter taking by surprise.
Eyes open quickly then fade, red covers the floor as paint spilt from a bucket.
Target acquired and dispatched.
Mission accomplished....

It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.....

The Serenade

Humming along strumming along
Dancing and prancing as the melody fills the air
Smiling and laughing
Sending notes as high as the eagle soars
And bellowing like a bear
Alas! A prisoner is he!
To her
Those eyes
Around her once he goes, twice
And thrice
Rewarded with cold and a mocking glare
A different chord he hits 
And strums a fine tune
The goddess he worships with words
Crafty as a blacksmith
Smooth as the rose petal
His lips poured forth the water
The flower of her soul did drink
Softer is her countenance 
Ah yes she did blink
Now blushing her once pale face now pink 
She smiles and the world stops 
It is just she and him
Time eludes and stays away
Is it real or just a whim….
Kissing her hand he leaves her
Smiling and dancing away
He has enthralled her!
He was the hunter not the prey….

-by Michael S Wigington

Ode To The Dragonslayer

Behold the Dragonslayer

Standing stoic and all alone
Facing a fearless monster
That would chill most men to the bone

His sword held high, shield in hand 
On which is written all the names
Of the hundreds of innocent victims
Lost into the Valley of the Slain

Ode to you Dragonslayer
The mightiest of men
Ode to you Dragonslayer
Avenge our kith and kin!

This is revenge make no mistake
O serpent of the sky
The Dragonslayer is here today
One of you shall die

On this day you went to far
On a lass you tried to feast
Till the dragonslayer
Stepped between the girl and beast

Ode to you Dragonslayer
The mightiest of men
Ode to you Dragonslayer
Avenge our kith and kin!

It was his only daughter
You vile creature of hell
And on this day he has vowed
You'll hear that tolling bell

You snatched him in your iron claws
His armor, like the man, was true
You could not crush him
With your steely grip and powerful sinew

Ode to you Dragonslayer
The mightiest of men
Ode to you Dragonslayer
Avenge our kith and kin!

And so you tried to roast him
With a powerful snort of flame
His shield held fast, the magic true
And you heard the cries of the slain

The cries of those you have taken
The cries of those who lust
To see your body broken
Your bones as dry as dust

Ode to you Dragonslayer
The mightiest of men
Ode to you Dragonslayer
Avenge our kith and kin!

With those cries ringing in your ears
You let forth a bellowing roar
The Dragonslayer, seizing the moment
Thrust forward with his sword

Into your chest the blade slid deep
Passing scale and bone the same
Until at last it found your heart
Avenging all of those who were slain

Ode to you Dragonslayer
The mightiest of men
Ode to you Dragonslayer
You have avenged our kith and kin!

Michael S. Wigington

What Mortals They Dare....

You can't wait to see what mortals they dare
Only to speak about in whispers of the dark

You're on the way that anxious have lost
Threatened by sanity
Reason laughs with vanity

Fiery moon in the sky
You can't wait to face it
Your heart is racing

Edguy - The Realms of Baba Yaga

I grew up on tales of King Arthur, King David, Hercules, Audie Murphy and other heroes. In regards to heroic deeds and tales of those who dare to take up the mantle of hero and walk that lonely path, I have never grown weary of hearing such tales. So much so that I now wish to put heroic deeds in writing myself. It is an homage of sorts. I loved Beowulf in school when others disdained that epic read. Homer's Illiad and Odyssey is another great read. I spent days enthralled by The Scarlet Pimpernel. The list can go on and on.

The world needs heroes. We need to see the heights to which we can attain and a hero gives us that.

The inspiration for the title of this blog, as you can see, comes from that song by one of my favorite bands. Edguy! If you like rock/metal check them out.