Wesle's Tale Read online

WESLE'S TALE

  Alfred D. Byrd

  Copyright 2011 Alfred D. Byrd

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  An earlier version of "Wesle's Tale" appeared in Starward Bound, 1990

  WESLE'S TALE

  An Epic of UFO's in Anglo-Saxon Times

  LISTEN and learn, my ladies and lords,

  As I herald heroes in a happier time,

  In an age when England still owned her freedom,

  Ere the Normans' noose had netted our necks.

  Peace had appeared, for the pitiless Vikings,

  Who, raiding for rapine, had ravaged our lands,

  Had been hastened homeward by a host of our heroes;

  And feasts for our warriors, rewarding their fierceness,

  Were happily held in our halls and homesteads.

  In that month, on the moors, a manor was brightened

  By the flare of torches and the flames of ovens

  As a warlord returned from the tumult of weapons

  Was going to be given the guerdon of triumph:

  To marry a maiden, the manor-lord's daughter.

  A priest was present to pray for the nuptials,

  And a bard had been summoned to season the banquet

  With the strains that he strummed from the strings of his harp,

  And a no one named Wesle -- "the Weakling, some named him --

  The manor-lord's nephew, though the knowledge was muffled,

  Sat at the supper and sighed for his cousin,

  For Bright, who would be the battle-lord's bride.

  Wesle was wan while wassail went on.

  He'd gazed at the girl of golden braids,

  With the hue of the heavens held in her eyes,

  With silent yearning for sorrow-filled years,

  For a nephew who knew no name for his father

  Could hardly hope for the hall's chief prize.

  Now, even his eyes would ache for her absence

  Once, wed to the warrior, she went from the hall

  Rising, the manor-lord raised his mead-cup.

  "May God be good to those gathered!" he shouted.

  "Let's guzzle, my guests, to the gallant Bearheart,

  The worthy warrior who's won our fair Bright."

  They howled their rejoicing as they joined in sharing

  The custom of wassail; even Wesle kept it,

  Though the bite of the brew seemed as bitter as brine;

  Then Bearheart the Bold bowed to the holder

  And, smirking with smugness, smiled at the maid.

  "How goodly a gain is this gift of my host!

  I've waded through warfare to win such a payment,

  For Bright as my bride will brighten my glory."

  At the manor-lord's bidding, the bard made merry

  With a fitting song for the festive supper.

  Harp in his hands, he rehashed the tale

  Of Beowulf's boldness in battle with monsters.

  To grapple with Grendel would have gratified Wesle

  If winning had brought him fair Bright as wife,

  But only too early came the end of the song,

  When the priest would stand to establish with prayer

  The bonds that would bind mighty Bearheart to Bright.

  Wesle was weeping, wanting some wonder

  To release his love from her lordly captor,

  But the priest began his prayer regardless

  Of the woeful one' wishes. Wild was the howling

  In his hopeless heart at the hateful devotions,

  And he happened to hear a howling outdoors

  That answered his own: the awful outcry

  Of beasts in dismay. The baying of mongrels,

  The neighing of horses, the honking of geese,

  And the lowing of cattle lifted the hairs

  On the necks of feasters. The nuptials faltered.

  A ghostly glare, a glimmering starlight,

  Shone through the windows, shuttered for winter.

  A blue-tinged blaze, blinding in brilliance,

  Sailed in unsettling silence and slowness,

  A baleful menace, above the manor,

  And seemed to settle somewhere beyond it.

  "What magic has met us?" the manor-lord asked.

  "What is this witchfire, and why has it come here?

  Does its shining foreshadow the shape of disaster?"

  He looked at the priest. "We pray that your learning

  Will give us guidance as we go to our fate."

  Shaking his head, the holy man shot back,

  "My lord, I'm lacking in lore that will help you.

  The books of the wise may not bear on this working.

  This deed of darkness, I deem, means more

  To our friend the harpist" -- with a frown, he beheld him --

  "So come! Earn your keep! I call on your training

  To draw mist from the meaning. Magic's a bard's trade!"

  The bard looked about, battered with glances;

  Then he cleared his throat. "I claim that this threat

  Is none of my sending. I'd never deceive you.

  I've little learning in the lore of lightning.

  No, my good priest, our need is for prowess

  Of a fearless fighter to fathom this wonder.

  We must hold to hope in that hero, Bearheart."

  The eyes of all aimed their glances

  At the face of the fighter. His forehead was pale.

  "A warrior's work," he warily said,

  "Is hardly to hasten to howling of beasts

  Or to look at lights that alarm the dumb brutes.

  Send out this servant" -- he signed at Wesle --

  "To tame this tumult and tell us its cause."

  Bright was rising, unbridling her wrath.

  She spoke with spirit a speech in sharp words.

  "How mighty the men who make up this household!

  How bold their wielding these walls as their buckler!

  To the woe unworldly that waits in the dark,

  They'd shove out a shaveling to show their contempt."

  She'd have sped more words to spur them to movement,

  But the term from her tongue that told them his worth

  Had stung the stableboy. He stood, defiant.

  "You're wrong, my fair cousin!" he called to correct her.

  "Our warlord is wise in the words he's chosen.

  Tonight, we have no need for a hero.

  I'll sally to silence the sounds of our cattle,

  A work unworthy of a warrior's notice;

  Then our feast may follow a fairer path.

  These words were rewarded by Wesle's beloved

  With a lilt of laughter for her lowly kinsman.

  Fired by her favor, he fared with boldness,

  Yet the feats he'd fancied faded to fear

  As his pride sought prayer on approach to the doorway.

  Regretting grand words he'd greeted Bright with,

  He urged the door open. Outward, it swung,

  Smiting the wood of the wall with a smack.

  He opened his eyes on an awesome landscape:

  A moonlit moor, mantled with mist

  That wavered and burned with beams like witchfire

  That shot from a source concealed on his left.

  Boards rubbed his back as he bore himself crabwise

  To the side of the hall that hid what he sought;

  Then he snaked out an eye like a snail's on its stalk

  To cast a glance at the cause of the glow.

  It struck him speechless as he strained his wits

  To mark in his mind the magic b
efore him;

  Then the marvel's movement made him seek safety.

  He stopped not a second till he stood in the sight

  Of the fearful feasters he'd fared to enlighten.

  His friends were mirrors of the fright that had moved him.

  His tongue-tied terror told them the worst.

  "What magic met you?" the manor-lord asked him.

  By your face's paleness, a phantom of power!"

  "Neither spook nor spirit," responded Bearheart,

  "Was the shade that shook him. His shadow by moonlight,

  Beheld by his dread, drove the lad hither."

  The taunt freed his tongue. He told what he'd seen

  In words he feared would fail to convince.

  "Neither shade nor shadow, but the shield of a giant,

  Gleaming with glory, I glimpsed with awe.

  Lengthwise, it lay along the moor,

  As wide as this hall, as high as these walls,

  And legs below it lifted it up.

  The beams from its boss bathed it in brilliance

  And filled the fog with the fire of their burning,

  Yet much more mighty was the marvel that followed.

  As I watched and waited, I witnessed a sight

  That showed the shield as a shelter for menfolk.

  A doorway gaped, a gangplank came down,

  And out of the light that lit up the inside

  Came figures of folk whose faces were masked

  By egg-shaped helmets. Their armor was silver --"

  "Your words are wild, young Wesle," said Bearheart.

  "Men call you 'the Weakling,' but 'Witless' becomes you."

  "My wits didn't wander," said Wesle in anger.

  "You can trust my witness; my words are true.

  If you doubt me, Bearheart, I bid you to deeds.

  Look for yourself! You'll see I've not lied."

  The lady's laughter rang loud in men's ears.

  "It seems the 'servant,': she said, "has a heart

  More fit for this faring than the fighter of Vikings."

  Bearheart the Bold bore her taunt ill.

  His face grew crimson as he cried in fury,

  "They're reckless who rant and rail at a swordsman

  Who defended their freedom from foes in the fray.

  Let them do likewise, long in the battle,

  If they list to belittle their lives' protector!

  I take no terror from the