I stand upon the mountain’s height And watch the starry skies. Darkened fields and points of light Are all that meet my eyes. Beneath my feet the stones stand strong, Though deaf, and dumb, and blind. I cannot see beyond my hands, And black is all behind. The wind – such wind! – near knocks me down And I cry out in fright, “I do not know if You are there, or if I am alone, But this I know – that I am here, Crying on the stone.” The wind blows cold and I grow old, The stars won’t sing for me. They stay up there in Heaven’s air. And I am left to be. But what am I? Why must I cry, These bitter rolling sobs? Loud as the wind, that enters in And echoes in my soul – Cold as the stones that form my home, And I am deaf, like them. A touch I feel upon my hand I look and see two eyes. A face like mine, with nose and ears And lips and chin like mine! And shoulders square, with arms – full, strong – And hands that reach for mine. “Now come, small one,” he says to me, “and stand upon my back.” With old gray hands I do obey, Though youthful they become. Upon the touch of that dear one My age is melt away. And youthful strength does fill my arms, And back, and feet, and legs. Til I behold before my eyes The stars come down to me. And reaching up I catch in hand A rope – which now I climb. But there below I see the one Still bending ‘neath my load. And age, and time, and illness too Seem laden on his back. “Come up!” I call, “Go on!” He says And I must leave him there. I climb and climb the starry strand For days, and months, and years. And I forget the man below – Who gladly took my tears – Til I recall, once in a while, That face – those arms – my fears. And new tears fall like drops of rain, For him, my humble friend. Then light! Light! Light! Before my eyes! Bright wide, and silver lined! A splendid hall above it all, The wind, the stones, the rain. And stars here sing – like wind, yet sweet, And each is lovely, fair. But still I weep, and still I cry, For him who sits below. “Why weep you so?” the stars do ask, “Do you not like our song?” Through tears I tell them of my friend, Who brought me to this place. “Oh! Oh!” One cries, a little child, “Come, come, oh come at once!” She leads me through the crystal halls Her hand, sweet, strong, in mine. Up, up, we climb, bright stairs this time, And opens she a door. “My friend!” I hear, and know at once, the name is meant for me. And looking up I see the one Who died – below – for me.
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Far off the path of most travelers there is a town known to the locals as Bandylocks. The odd name is due to the funny little river flowing through it - called the River Bandy, for the water bends and turns around every hill forming endless loops and bows. The town of Bandylocks nestles itself comfortably over several of those loops, and bridges of every sort link the two shores together. One could - if so inclined - trace the expansion of the town by the architecture of its bridges. Far more intriguing than the bridges, however, are the folks who inhabit the little frontier town. Dreams draw folks to Bandylocks, dreams of gold, adventure, and discovery, for Bandylocks sits on the edge of a great wild. Tall and treacherous mountains stand far to the west. Touching their feet is a great rolling wood, unmapped and strange. The River Bandy runs parallel to the mountains, flowing south to the shore. The town was founded first by prospectors panning for gold and shopkeepers peddling pans. Of the two, the shopkeepers became wealthier by far, but the love of gold kept adventurous souls returning to the river, never willing to abandon their prize. One such gold-hunter was a man by the name of Bartholomew T. Baker, known simply as “Baker” to those who cared to know him - a small crowd at best, but Baker preferred it that way. No one asked him for favors, no one expected anything of him, and no one missed him when he vanished for days on end into the sprawling woods between Bandylocks and the mountains. Yet Baker’s name is etched into the history of Bandylocks, and there is not a soul in town unfamiliar with the legend of Bartholomew T. Baker and the Great Beast of Bandylocks. --- It was a cold and frosty day in late October, and the whole wood of Bandylocks glowed with Autumn light. Baker, tasting the wind and feeling one last tug of adventure before winter, filled his packs with dried meat, warm clothes, a pick, and a pan. For months he had hiked through those seemingly endless woods, searching and searching for gold dust and the promise of the riches and comfort it would bring. Yet for months and months only wisps and specks of that dream turned up in his pan, enough to urge him on in his greed, but never enough to satisfy it. With an early and treacherous winter threatening, he set off into the wood hoping beyond hope to at last find the source of that elusive fairy dust. It was cold, impossibly cold. Baker’s breath turned to white mist in front of him and fell to the ground as fresh snow. Frozen leaves crunched under his heavy boots. Still he marched on, hour after hour, mile after mile. The numbing frost set into his fingers, slowly turning them bright red and blue. He muttered something foul under his breath and blew on his hands. His eyes stared down into the stream alongside him. A speck of gold caught his attention. He laughed greedily to himself, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The cold bit into his fingers, and he at last lit a fire. His greed forbade him to rest any longer than necessary to warm his numb hands. He could already see the gold, flashing and glittering in his pan. As his fingers warmed he looked up and up river, and there, far ahead, the water crashed and roared in a spectacular waterfall. He looked up the cliff, up and up, until it faded into a black wall of night. Warm and ready, he doused the flame and hiked up hill to the base of the waterfall. There, shining in the starlight, a thick layer of golden sand coated the floor of the pool at the crashing base of the fall. In maddened disbelief Baker laughed a loud greedy laugh full of pride and joy. He reached down to the pool, thrust his hand into the water, and brought up a shimmering handful of golden dust, heavy and glowing. Again Baker laughed in his wicked joy, thinking of the wondrous things his gold would buy; houses made of oak and silver, fine clothes of silk and fur, sprawling land, rich food, strong horses, and great splendid carriages to parade him about the city. He would be a prince - even a king! A branch cracked behind him. He stuffed his handful of gold into a greasy pocket and turned to face the wood. “Stay back!” He shouted, pulling his pick from his belt. “I was 'ere first! It’s mine by right!" No answer came from the woods. Baker lifted his pick, waving it slowly. His heart raced, his nick shivered in the cold, but nothing appeared. Baker, nervous fear shaking his hands, walked forward, closer to the trees. There came a great hiss in front of him. A shadow moved. The paralysis of fear overcame him. His feet felt made of lead. He could see no clear shape, no outline or even eyes, but suddenly an overwhelming fear gripped him, howled in his ears, and tore at his frightened little heart. He ran. Something followed. Trees and branches cracked behind him under the weight of some terrible creature. Each snap and hiss pushed him harder and harder, faster and faster. Something sharp - a terrible claw - slashed his left leg. He cried out in pain and flung himself forward. On either side of him the trees began to give way for grass and bushes. The torchlights of town shone in the distance, and he aimed directly for them. The noise of pursuit stopped, but still he ran on and on, until the torchlight grew into the streetlights of Bandylocks. Unwilling to sit outside he flung himself into the little saloon. A lamp still flickered inside. The barkeeper, Derrick Thornton, was the only one inside, sweeping up the remnants of several broken bottles. “Baker,” Thornton often recalls, “Was covered in cuts and breathing like he’d never tasted air before. His left leg was bleeding all over my floor.” The barkeep spent the rest of the night mending Baker’s leg and listening to the story of some great beast and a magical golden lake. The next morning Baker, limping but determined, bought Thornton’s rifle for a small handful of gold and set off again towards the woods, still babbling about a waterfall of pure gold and a monster larger than the trees. He was never seen again, but his legend lives on, bringing strangers of all sorts to the little town of Bandylocks. Some come looking for his gold, some his monster, and some come to make a profit from the rest. As for Bartholomew T. Baker, some say they have seen him out in those haunted woods with a handful of dripping gold and a rifle always at the ready. The End. |
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