Status: Rough draft, some errors
The Death-Charmer
The death-charmer
The word, most dark and tumultuous, spread through towns and graveyards, the limbs of a fearfully expected disease, one without any remedy: the death-charmer had arrived. Windows and minds alike were shyly opened, breaths held, candles blown. The poet, it was said, arrived in a heavy black chariot, each stone passed made dark and sombre, the sight of the black caravan an augury of gloom. He was never to be seen but after dusk, when bones creaked in their graves; only then was it time for him to begin his enchanting ritual. The poet was known for weaving together the most beautiful of words for the most morbid of all subjects: he sung of death, but a song so beautiful hearts, alive and dead, were moved by the force behind each verse, leaving souls bare and raw and struck upon by the spaces left by commas and periods. The director of this wicked orchestra himself wore a black veil around his face, dead flowers in his hair, and most violent shades of morbidity in his head, enough to enamour everyone who listened. His musings of death were such, and his words so enthralling, not a single person could be missed in his nightly strolls through the vast, dark valleys of demise. For, is there not a deep, hidden place in every person’s head that quietly muses about these very subjects? ’Tis a lonely place, indeed, seldom talked about, but isn’t it always there, quietly gnawing at our insides, waiting until the time is right to plant a seed and wrap its vines around each person’s thought? But these individual musings are but a single drop, and at the poet’s mouth they became full-grown waves, a symphony, splashing and stealthily driving the nail deeper in the deep hole created by their presence, for the words that poured out were embellished in his mind, praised with macabre jewellery and then sung out to the world. The bright ember of expectation for his arrival burned through towns, his act a most loved one. The dead and the living were anything but different in the consummation of his act, their ecstasy intertwined against every law that held their positions in place.
But, hidden between the verses, deep where no person could hope to find it, a deceiving bone in the skeleton, was a secret as dark as the poet’s words; when gold laces flooded the streets and the poet’s public had picked up their souls and thrust out their masks instead, he went back to his chariot, retrieved a black wooden chest, and went out to seek a dark basement with no access to light. When found, he proceeded to unveil the secret, the very substance of its works. The chest opened to reveal 19 rotten, putrefied cadavers, those of the creatures which must sustain their life with death, and spend the entirety of their lives seeking it, beckoning it, praying for it to make its appearance closely: vultures. Killed by his own hand, when a feather from his own hand he plucked he turned it into a quill and only then could the ghoulish words flow, filling entire pages. The role of the poet was limited but to that of a vessel, and so the truth was revealed: his words were never his own, but taken from the very essence of the birds of prey he slaughtered. And time caressed his days, stopped his nights, saw him take more death and let it out once more, pass it through his sewers and expel it, each time becoming more putrid and grotesque. On a certain fleck in time, in a certain town, he found himself wallowing in desperation, for he could not find another vulture, and was expected to make an appearance in the after-hours. Anxiously he searched during the torturous daylight, ridding himself of his theatricalities and strolling through the fields, but death, it seemed, was, for once, avoiding an encounter with life. As he recited his condolences for himself and let his tragedy slip through his eyes, they settled in a crystalline sighting posing on a Hawthorne tree. ’Twas a bird, but one with a different instrumentality from the one normally heard by his ears. The bluest hours of the sea seemed to have reflected its waves upon his wings, the softest of melodies pierced through his beak, washing any sorrow that previously had resided in the poet’s heart. His eyes shined and filled with tears as the melodies spoke to him about melancholy, beauty and love, and wildflowers growing in the rockiest of mountains. The poet spent the whole day listening to the bluebird’s song, and when the bluest hour between dusk and night came, he snapped his neck and smiled.
The poet was late that day. The people were gathered, hushed in the cold, anticipation creeping through their heads, a vibrating tension skating through their senses. Still, not a single foot stepped out of place, nor did a mouth dare open. The momentum of their desire seemed to build up, a wave eager to break on the shore, stretching out to invade the coast. After the ghosts had stopped dancing on their hour and wishes were not heard anymore, the distant sound of wheels on the stones of the streets let itself be heard, and a cautious joy lit the hushed faces for the anxiously awaited arrival. The chariot stopped at their feet, and the poet stepped out. The air around him seemed to have changed; a lightness now seemed to fill the cracks between his aura and the townspeople’s anticipation, a softness, not there before, always somewhere. Each step he took soothed the stones, not a weight but a welcome presence to them. The metamorphosis did not go unnoticed by the wanting eyes, but filled their embers with a tentatively curious fuel, the smoke of their uncertainness getting denser with each passing moment. When at last the centre was taken, the vessel removed the veil that covered his visage, uncovering a formation of newly ended life intertwining with his locks, the petals swimming in his shoulders, a never-before-seen tapestry of timid colours peeking from their hiding places, seeking, hiding and seeking. The poet’s chest shook with feverish desire, his thunderclouds vibrating with static, as the ground riveted around him and the air hushed. At last, the gate opened, and the townspeople closed their eyes, their thorns itching to finally taste fresh air. But the tide was no longer whisking them in a graveyard waltz, the poet’s tongue no longer tasted spirits and ashes, the sweet relief never came. An eye peeked out and found another, surprise their subject, necks were turned and heads were raised. For now, the most beautiful of springs rushed out from previously dry lips; out came the softest of shades of dawn, and the kindest of smells; out grew the wildflowers and the stars, moon dust flecked his eyelashes and words wove in and out of constellations in a hurried pace, the most graceful words filled every inch of the verses flowing out. For hours, the poet preached of oceans and mountains and hearts of longing and desire, he filled the minutes with dreams, levitated and climbed on the hearts of the townspeople and spoke of the colours he found there, tasted the very core of a raincloud, and he sung, and he sung until the light which he sung about crept unto the people’s backs.
The townspeople, in uttermost disappointment and horrification, locked their thorns in place again, turned their backs to the poet, and let his name, his chariot and his flowers slip through their minds and into the sewers, never to be spoken of again.
But, hidden between the verses, deep where no person could hope to find it, a deceiving bone in the skeleton, was a secret as dark as the poet’s words; when gold laces flooded the streets and the poet’s public had picked up their souls and thrust out their masks instead, he went back to his chariot, retrieved a black wooden chest, and went out to seek a dark basement with no access to light. When found, he proceeded to unveil the secret, the very substance of its works. The chest opened to reveal 19 rotten, putrefied cadavers, those of the creatures which must sustain their life with death, and spend the entirety of their lives seeking it, beckoning it, praying for it to make its appearance closely: vultures. Killed by his own hand, when a feather from his own hand he plucked he turned it into a quill and only then could the ghoulish words flow, filling entire pages. The role of the poet was limited but to that of a vessel, and so the truth was revealed: his words were never his own, but taken from the very essence of the birds of prey he slaughtered. And time caressed his days, stopped his nights, saw him take more death and let it out once more, pass it through his sewers and expel it, each time becoming more putrid and grotesque. On a certain fleck in time, in a certain town, he found himself wallowing in desperation, for he could not find another vulture, and was expected to make an appearance in the after-hours. Anxiously he searched during the torturous daylight, ridding himself of his theatricalities and strolling through the fields, but death, it seemed, was, for once, avoiding an encounter with life. As he recited his condolences for himself and let his tragedy slip through his eyes, they settled in a crystalline sighting posing on a Hawthorne tree. ’Twas a bird, but one with a different instrumentality from the one normally heard by his ears. The bluest hours of the sea seemed to have reflected its waves upon his wings, the softest of melodies pierced through his beak, washing any sorrow that previously had resided in the poet’s heart. His eyes shined and filled with tears as the melodies spoke to him about melancholy, beauty and love, and wildflowers growing in the rockiest of mountains. The poet spent the whole day listening to the bluebird’s song, and when the bluest hour between dusk and night came, he snapped his neck and smiled.
The poet was late that day. The people were gathered, hushed in the cold, anticipation creeping through their heads, a vibrating tension skating through their senses. Still, not a single foot stepped out of place, nor did a mouth dare open. The momentum of their desire seemed to build up, a wave eager to break on the shore, stretching out to invade the coast. After the ghosts had stopped dancing on their hour and wishes were not heard anymore, the distant sound of wheels on the stones of the streets let itself be heard, and a cautious joy lit the hushed faces for the anxiously awaited arrival. The chariot stopped at their feet, and the poet stepped out. The air around him seemed to have changed; a lightness now seemed to fill the cracks between his aura and the townspeople’s anticipation, a softness, not there before, always somewhere. Each step he took soothed the stones, not a weight but a welcome presence to them. The metamorphosis did not go unnoticed by the wanting eyes, but filled their embers with a tentatively curious fuel, the smoke of their uncertainness getting denser with each passing moment. When at last the centre was taken, the vessel removed the veil that covered his visage, uncovering a formation of newly ended life intertwining with his locks, the petals swimming in his shoulders, a never-before-seen tapestry of timid colours peeking from their hiding places, seeking, hiding and seeking. The poet’s chest shook with feverish desire, his thunderclouds vibrating with static, as the ground riveted around him and the air hushed. At last, the gate opened, and the townspeople closed their eyes, their thorns itching to finally taste fresh air. But the tide was no longer whisking them in a graveyard waltz, the poet’s tongue no longer tasted spirits and ashes, the sweet relief never came. An eye peeked out and found another, surprise their subject, necks were turned and heads were raised. For now, the most beautiful of springs rushed out from previously dry lips; out came the softest of shades of dawn, and the kindest of smells; out grew the wildflowers and the stars, moon dust flecked his eyelashes and words wove in and out of constellations in a hurried pace, the most graceful words filled every inch of the verses flowing out. For hours, the poet preached of oceans and mountains and hearts of longing and desire, he filled the minutes with dreams, levitated and climbed on the hearts of the townspeople and spoke of the colours he found there, tasted the very core of a raincloud, and he sung, and he sung until the light which he sung about crept unto the people’s backs.
The townspeople, in uttermost disappointment and horrification, locked their thorns in place again, turned their backs to the poet, and let his name, his chariot and his flowers slip through their minds and into the sewers, never to be spoken of again.