Part 9

That long dark tale did make us pale

(Just like the man foretold),

For from its source throughout its course

Our blood was running cold.

 

With all its might fear held us tight,

That no one made to stir.

We merely sat and goggled at

The bright-eyed Mariner.

 

‘I fear you, Ancient Mariner,’

Said Colin soft but clear,

‘I fear your eye which glitters still

Within the dimness here.’

 

‘Indeed we fear you ever so,’

The captain’s voice was frail,

‘But sir, you’ve told your tale, now go!

Be gone, you loon, you quail!’

 

‘Had I Free Will, good gentlemen,’

The Mariner went on,

‘I would have reassured ye all

That now I would have gone.

 

Yet none, alas, abounds in me,

And ’tis for ye the same.

We’re merely puppets bound by strings

In Fate’s o’ertaking game.’

‘Thou errest, cretin, that’s a lie!’

Indeed Free Will abounds in all.

We all can choose to live or die;

We all can choose to rise or fall.’

 

‘Then tell me, E, why V had pick’d

That very day to fight

When never had ye fought at all

At who was wrong or right?

 

’Twas fate, ’twas fate, it all was fate,

There never was Free Will.

Whene’er it seems that choice abounds,

’Tis Fate’s prophetic quill.’

 

‘O now you’ve turned my fear to wrath!’

Said Colin scornfully,

‘Of course Free Will exists, you fart!

Ask anyone you see!’

 

‘Then liveth ev’ryone in lies,’

The Mariner intoned,

‘For ev’ry life endureth strife,

Which proves they all are owned

 

By Fate and He, our dearest Lord,

Who rules the heavens high;

Who placeth strife in ev’ry life,

Who chooseth when we die.’

 

‘Enough of all this nonsense talk,’

Orion’s voice grew stern,

‘’Tis merely by coincidence

That strife gives life a turn.’

 

‘Orion, there be not an ounce

Of nonsense forming me.

And thus once more I tell ye true

Our lives were never free.

 

We all were born through written words,

And that’s how we shall die.

Those words shall rust, and then in dust

Forever will we lie.

Ye all may think thy tales thine own,

Yet no! ’Twas never so.

They all were branch’d off something else

Which spark’d the way they flow.

 

Especially the captain’s tale

About the western sea.

Ay, Silereen, so few be thine,

For thou art branch’d off me.’

 

‘Your tongue is forked, your reason flawed,

Your twinkling eye askew.

I breathe, I feel, thus deem it odd

To have been branched off you!’

 

‘You’re nothing but lies that will never prevail!

It’s a fact none are branched off another man’s tale!’

‘And stop all this fate talk! Enough is enough!

It’s by our own doings that goings get rough!’

 

‘I pray ye, gentlemen, try not

My patience, lest ye see

How much a sight of fearful fright

I can in earnest be.

 

I never lie. My words speak true.

No lies take root in me.

And thus compose thyselves and hear

What I am telling ye.

 

One writes thy long, enchanting tales,

As one is writing mine.

’Twixt ink and page we slowly age,

’Twixt ink and page we shine.

 

And all our scribes write ev’ry day

From dawn to evenfall,

At which time Fate emends these texts,

And, while God watcheth all,

 

Would simply couple that with this

To seal our given fates,

And makes some off of others branch,

Which brought about thy states.

And thus believe it young Eskares,

Believe it Silereen.

Though strange ’tis true, for even now

One writes this dismal scene.’

 

‘I will not stand for anymore!’

Snapped Colin red with rage,

‘I’m me! We’re we! Not someone’s words

That flow across a page!’

 

‘It’s all a lie! You can’t deny

Free Will does not exist!

It’s clear Free Will we carry still,

So why do you persist-"’

 

‘Enough! Enough! I never lie!’

The Mariner grew stern,

‘O Music Man! Trent, thou as well!

Ye make my anger burn.

 

Ye all may make attempts to flee,

Yet truths shall follow ye,

And by surprise shall ope thine eyes,

And make ye truly see.

 

And one of these alarming truths

I now am telling ye:

How ev’ry life is owned by Fate;

How no one e’er was free.’

 

‘You cannot prove it! Thus we’re free!’

The captain, rising, roared,

‘That’s it! I’ll make your bright eye see!’

And then he drew his sword.

 

‘Withdraw thy sword, good Silereen,

I will not fight with thee!

For I am frail and sure to fail,

’Twill be the death of me.

 

And also, sir, I bear no sword

To aid me in the fight.

But since I kill’d that bird I knew

That fighting ne'er is right.

Thus, Captain, pray, compose thyself

The same for all of ye.

My patience only goes so far,

Then death-pale would ye be.

 

If proof is what ye ask me for,

Then I shall show ye all

The proof ye need to know this truth

Is far from being tall.

 

Withdraw thy swords and sit back down,

And, pray, do not inflame.

For lo, behold there sits a scribe,

Who bears a famous name.’

 

He gestured right. We turned despite

The fact we doubted more,

And there in view was one we knew

Had not been there before.

 

This man was clad like those who had

Lived centuries ago:

His clothes were quite ornate and tight,

His hair hung fairly low.

 

His focused stare looked down to where

His hand, which held a quill,

Was fluidly and lucidly

Composing words to fill

 

A scroll despite the fact the light

Was dim and made sight weak.

And, still with eyes upon his prize,

The man began to speak:

 

‘For who would bear the whips and scorns of time

To merely wrong the world by spreading ills?

’Tis he who is a thorn amidst my rhyme,

For being one who poisons ears for thrills.

For who would dare become a man of stone,

And howl such hurtful words towards the sky?

To him no life is dear except his own,

And thus cares not when those around him die.

For who would e’er allow ambition rise,

And fail to rid his garden of vile weeds?

He gulls and hoaxes, blinding many eyes,

And further blights his garden with his deeds.

Although we live in times of tears and lies,

So shall write Shakespeare ’til the day he dies.’

 

‘Now who is this odd-looking man?’

The baffled Colin said,

‘He’s such a clown and, just like you,

No sense flows through his head.’

 

‘Come, surely thou hast heard of him,’

The Mariner replied,

‘’Tis Shakespeare, sir, the noted bard,

Whose soul hath never died.’

 

‘It matters not! Unknown or known,

The man is still as mad as thee!

But raveth he of men of stone,

Whilst thou dost stress lives ne’er were free!’

 

‘I will not have us start again!

Be calm! The lot of ye!

’Tis not yet done, I still have more

To prove no life be free.

 

Ah! On the dot! Pray, turn around,

Behold! More proof doth near.

Ye soon shall see that there will be

More trunks and scribes in here.’

 

With noisy squeaks and rusty creaks,

The door once more flew wide,

And heel to toe, as though a show,

A group advanced inside.

 

The leading three dressed handsomely

In clothes their time requested:

Their shirts were quite pristine and white,

Their jackets double-breasted.

 

It seemed all those more modern clothes

Changed Shakespeare’s fashion thrills.

For, what is more, these three men bore

Black pens instead of quills.

 

Without despair next came a pair

In parkas furred and brown.

They seemed to glide with ev’ry stride,

And both their hoods were down.

 

The first looked strong to lug along

His big and heavy pack.

A cap, light red, adorned his head,

And bore the Union Jack.

 

The second one was needing sun,

For pale he seemed to be.

Yet walking there he had the air

Of one from Tennessee.

 

Then came a man whose fingers ran

Along his pen with care.

His suit looked new all striped and blue,

His pipe’s smoke stained the air.

 

Then, crossed and vexed, a pair came next,

And we all gaped to see

 One thoroughly resemble E

(The other, then, must V).

 

So elegant, an elephant

Came after in a blink,

And held with care with pleasant flair

A clover soft and pink.

 

The last, no doubt, was grey throughout:

His suit, his beard, his hair.

His glasses gleamed though dim lights beamed,

His pen he thrilled to bear.

 

Without a sound they stood around

The bright-eyed mariner,

Who spoke once more, and just before

We had the chance to stir:

 

‘These give the proof ye need to know

That all I’ve said prevails.

Here are thy trunks with all the scribes

Who wrote their mystic tales.’

 

‘That’s it! Enough! You’ve gone too far!

My anger burns like fire!

Be gone and take your band of freaks,

Or things will be more dire!’

 

‘And so I shall through Fate’s command,

Thou Music Man, for know

I’ve done what I had come to do,

Thus Fate will let me go.

 

And so I now shall take my leave,

Adieu, remember me.

For, gentlemen, much wiser men

Ye all are now to be.’

 

For one last time, as white as rime,

His bright eye’s glimmer shone.

Then in a blur the Mariner,

With all his group, was gone.

-EDP