The Book of Van den Braak

I stared at the book on the table

Where it lay on the weathered oak,

The cover so black and tarnished,

Tanned in leather through coils of smoke,

Its ancient layers had long been carved

As petals of some grim flower,

Where an evil mildew spread its mould

From the walls of that ancient tower.

 

The book was set like an altar piece

In that ancient, flagstoned hall,

Catching the feeble rays of light

Through cracks in the old stone wall,

I hastened to look away, but yet

It gripped me in its glare,

Like some old German Grimoire...

Though no title page was there!

 

I reached for the cover and opened it,

The leather creaked with age,

As it formed with its rotting petals

Into a rose around the page,

The smell of the mildew wafted up

And the chill was damp and stark,

There was nothing but evil in that tower,

In the book of Van den Braak.

 

I leant right over the book and saw

A woodcut of a lane,

The trees were grim in their winter coats

As the snow gave way to rain,

The mud was thick on the barren leaves

That were mulched from the Autumn's fall,

And I felt it squelch right under my feet

As the wind howled round the hall!

 

The tower was gone, I stood outside

In the rain and the brooding dark,

Walking along a windswept lane

In the book of Van den Braak,

I saw the light of a cottage there,

Set back in among the trees,

And a woman wailed on the painted step,

My own, my dear Louise!

 

I ran towards her, through a stream

That babbled beside the lane,

Louise was crying and wailing there,

She muttered: 'I'm not to blame!'

I must have seemed like a phantom there,

I waved, but she couldn't see,

She said, 'you shouldn't have killed him,

I just asked you to set me free!'

 

A man ran out from the cottage door,

His coat was covered in blood,

He ran his hands through his tangled hair

And fell, to kneel in the mud.

He took her into his arms and cried,

She clung, and called him Mark,

And then when he turned, I saw his face,

I knew him - Van den Braak!

 

I must have been quite invisible

In the pages of that book,

Or they were a couple of phantoms

Making love as I stood and shook,

I walked around to the cottage door

And peered in out of the rain,

I lay stone dead on the hearthstone there,

A bullet lodged in my brain.

 

In shock I turned, I saw the tower,

I ran with all my might,

Back to the Norman Keep and Moat,

Back through the surly night,

The eyes of demons had followed me

From high in the trees of the park,

But I was ready for come-what-may

At the hands of Van den Braak!

 

Then suddenly, I was in the tower,

Leaning over the book,

When Van den Braak called out that he

Was ready to take a look,

I'd brought the book with the tenants' rents

Of those that lived in the park,

But I stabbed him high in the rib cage there,

And cut his throat in the dark!

 

I went to his German Grimoire

Fell once more through the open page,

Went looking for my Louise, by now

In the white hot throes of rage,

She sat and wailed on the painted step

And muttered there in the dark...

'I didn't ask you to kill the man,

Just free me from Van den Braak!'

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[spiritwind]

How do you weave such magic worlds so real your reader feels he is there? I love this cautionary tale from the Master Storyteller! You are so stunning in your poetic arts and casting of spells. A hundred out of a hundred is such a paltry score~this needs at least a thousand out of a thousand!

[Enid Blake]

Very dark! Great tale, I enjoyed the magic weaving through it ;)

[David Scott]

How quickly men will sell their souls for the hope of a ladies favor.

[J.P. Bristow]

seriously...you are amoung my new fav's...I am disappointed that I had not found you sooner...but better late than never...wonderful write!

[Valentine]

David, your poetry tales are so consuming I hate for them to end..Like always you have a ending I did not expect..You are so bless with talent Mate..God bless and I am still praying for the two of you to heal up quickly..love and God bless..Kathie

[R J Askew]

Saturday night...few glasses of wine in me. Prodige, 'Firestarter' on the iPod.
My wife's 50th last week ... I said I'd turn the masses of flowers into a pot purrie, but it's become a rotting mildewed slab of decay.
Your poem plunges me into the evil underbelly of Europe and of my own mind. I think it was the woodcut and the trees in their winter coats. I even got an image of a hunched up Hitler handing out medals to teens in Berlin in 1945. Not a great place or time to be a teen. I thought the first two stanza's masterful in their way the led me into the surreality that followed. We get all anxious about what the more lurid hollywood directors churn out, but they are as nothing to history, 'Like some old German Grimoire' is capable of. So I am in a very dark place. But I am British so can cope. In fact the man doing the stabbing I see as a sterling Scotch commando in a sleeveless leather jerkin.

[Lena M. P.]

I missed reading your words David. You never disappoint. Excellent story as always. Hope all is going well with you.

[Ferg]

Classic Paget! I love how your mind works!! Great to see you posting again after your March hiatus hell. Glad you are back in the writing groove :)