– A Short Story in Rhyme

I climbed a mountain puffing steam,

And came upon a sparkling stream.

Through glades of chestnuts flowed the creek,

A silver road, a shining streak.

I praised love’s likeness in my locket,

Stuffing chestnuts in my pocket.

The sun danced twinkling on the gravel;

I lay down, weary from my travel.

I dreamed quite clearly, Elven castles,

Banners brandished, waving tassels.

In layered dust of Faerie gold.

No footprints of their passing told.

The silence ruled, its depth not right,

No crickets hum, no birds aflight.

The chimneys drifted trails of smoke.

The drawbridge down, of home it spoke.

The mystery was at once inviting,

No stench of trolls, no goblins fighting.

I entered, felt a welcomed guest.

To solve the riddle, that’s the quest.

The courtyards paved, the stables clean,

No signs of scuffles could be seen.

On blacksmith’s tools, there was no rust.

I wandered, scuffing Faerie dust.

In halls of marble, hearths were tended.

Linens washed and bleached and mended.

The Elven Kingdom’s throne of jade,

Was lit up bright, not cast in shade.

In kitchens vast, the smells enticed,

Of mutton, spitted, tender, spiced.

In goblets gemmed, the wine was chilled,

With steaming bread, the baskets filled.

I thanked aloud, my absent host,

And, drained the goblet with a toast.

And, soon enough, my lunch was done,

At the oaken table set for one.

In beds of down I laid to rest;

And, wondered how to pass the test.

What magic would unlock the door?

What happened then? I wasn’t sure.

With twilight came the sound of bells,

Not harsh, but tinkling, weaving spells.

On tiptoes I pursued the sounds.

They led outside the castle grounds.

In a peaceful glen, in failing light,

I saw the most amazing sight.

A million, zillion Faerie folk,

Had gathered round a tree and spoke.

Their graceful forms of light in flight,

Appeared youthful bright and slight.

The tree, though dead, was quite impressive!

A chestnut ancient, tall and massive.

The tree was whom they spoke to dearly.

The tiny forms now lit it clearly.

While mesmerized by crooning bands,

I felt the touch of Faerie hands.

Amid the throng they had me brought.

They whispered, “Purpose?” in my thought.

I filled them in on all the best,

And, answered questions for the rest.

But, when I asked what had befallen,

They wept and shed their dust as pollen.

A tale they told me of the Elves,

Of lasting souls, yet shapeless selves.

It seemed the Elfin Nation grew,

As She had limbed and leafed and drew.

Each Elfkin lasted hale until,

The chestnut died and sap was nil.

But, Tree had lived alas so late,

The Elven folk forgot their fate.

In utter peace, of woe no need,

They never gathered any seed.

One Spring as icy Winter broke,

The ancient Tree had never woke.

Soon Elfin bodies disappeared.

Their spirits roamed the land unfeared.

But, now the Tree’s demise was near;

It’s sleeping years at end, I fear.

With no new acorns to be found,

The Faeries fast were losing ground.

They came and tended Her at night,

While seeking acorns in the light.

In years of searching, perils fraught,

The loyal Faeries had found naught.

Muted, stricken dumb with wonder,

I showed them pockets full of plunder.

Their cries of glee, they shook the glen.

Delightful voices singing then.

They started work with such elation,

I clapped in sheer anticipation.

With songs the sod now rose and fell,

To dig a mighty earthen well.

Soon eight cratered mounds of brown,

Had surrounded throne and crown.

From hill to hill the Faeries led,

And placed a chestnut in each bed.

As Faerie dust was cast unscant,

They toned a most entrancing chant.

In groups of dancing lacy light,

The Faeries honored life in flight.

A Faerie cluster hugged and wept,

Their tears to urge each seed that slept.

Unto each mound, which numbered eight,

Faeries bestowed a gift so great.

Then their light dwindled, magic spent,

They laid on air and formed a tent,

For me to lay beneath and rest,

Amazed at how I’d passed the test.

At Dawn the marvels could be seen,

Eight tender shoots of utter green.

Beside each stood one, lithe and tall,

Eight boys and girls of age, in all.

Their faces wiser than their age,

They dressed in velvet, moss and sage.

With tapered ears and eyes and brows,

They smiled and offered us their bows.

With each new leaf, an Elfkin grew.

With each they cheered, the happy crew.

In fortnight’s time, as Summer trailed,

There stood eight mighty chestnuts, veiled.

The Elves, intelligent and tender,

Lived their lives in utter splendor.

With friends and purpose now secure,

I stayed and stayed, such was the lure.

But, coming days had found me bleaker,

Hair turned gray, my vision weaker.

The wondrous Lark, the Elfin Mage,

Had seen how quickly I would age.

When Faeries acted in their need,

They sped up Time to grow each seed.

But, magic only touched the land,

Which held my form and chestnut stand.

My only hope was now to waken,

Leave this dream my soul had taken.

Herbs and lore did Lark apply,

To set me free, to help me fly.

And, once did he almost succeed,

To send me back, my spirit freed.

I caught a glimpse of a sleeping form,

All huddled through a raging storm.

The hair was long and white and thinned,

Its tendrils blowing in the wind.

The body was a husk in rags,

Held fast in place by thorny snags.

The days and nights the sky did churn,

In hasty moments, each would turn.

The leaves upon the aging trees,

Grew green, then gold, then fell by breeze.

Then while I watched my form did crumble,

Bleaching bones began to tumble.

Speeding back to whence I’d came,

I hovered near my failing frame.

The room was filled with Elves and Faeries,

Watching Death had hushed their queries.

The fairer folk were never mortal.

Age was waste, laid at Death’s portal.

In Lark’s eyes were tears aglisten.

I touched his soul, and bade him, “Listen.”

For eventhough my body failed,

I wandered free, no longer jailed.

And so it was, it came to pass,

That I stayed on, while lacking mass.

My body’s death, the sacrifice,

Was Elven freedom’s final price.

This price I paid, I’ve never rued,

As knowledge, joy and love accrued.

And Elf and Faerie seek the seed,

Which flesh and limbs for me can breed.

The spell of speed has now run out,

With my birthplace hale and stout.

And if my choices you debate,

Know, nothing turns the hands of Fate.

But, should you pass a mountain river,

Find bleaching bones that send a shiver,

Look for a locket, filigreed,

And, tell my love I’ll never need.

Marjan Farzaad 12/31/1995