xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 1

The morning of the day we left,
 the day I left you, this new Kingdom,
what we built by chance & will &
 want, I woke still deep night
tangled up, in three dreams, each
 the kind that forgets all else whilst living.

In the first, I watch the slave boy
 fall asleep new new light, waiting
his new master, war over. Him gathered
 like the travel bags with the whisper-pink
cockatoo, the golden chamber pot,
 gaudy strand of Empire coins around his neck.

Holds a half-eaten orange vaguely in
 his boney hands. Someone threw an
old cloak over him, missing his bare toes.
 The bird peers curiously into the
empty chamber pot, considers the orange.

In the second, I am very old, tired &
 spry both, painting in my studio,
every hour of the day. Moods of sun &
 sky through my window as important
to me as the wear of my brushes,
 mix of my paints.

The brushes I’ve used & no more.
The ones I use now.
Those yet to come.
Those I will never hold.

The canvas before me will outlast me,
 in barn or museum.

All this work. These many years.
What more? What else?
I’m falling with the light.
Till we rise again.

Wild near waking from this one but
 a cool wifely hand, & a calming breath
of a word, & I am on a ship.

My ship? Some ship? And you have
 no face right now. Just a ruffled
blue bonnet & a salmon-pink dress.
 Just an orange held lightly in your hand.

Long black stockings & black leather shoes.
 Dark bangs, & there’s a live & trembling
thing in your dress’s pocket.

The way you float, not quite faced, bob
 just above your seat, rocking lightly
on sea air, & the water slowly filling
 this ship arrives.

Letting the orange roll off your fingers,
 you lift up higher, & drift from me now.

Wake, nearly claw out of these dreams,
 though I know not who you are,
who you several figure
s are?

Vaguely tongue among my teeth,
 especially the one whose cavity
I awled for her safe passage. She’s
 long not there. When did I lose you?
When we brothers rode into this land?

I’d travelled with you so many years,
 & even after I found my brothers
you remained. Rarer signalling me
 with your cackling noises, but when
a danger near we missed, when a sight
 not to be neglected in these strange
White Woods. The time you urged me
 to lead us up an unassuming ridge,
& on a mile along. Toward night, tired, long
 past usual time for meal & rest.

Up a steep hill to a top-patch barely
 to fit us all. I sat. We all did.
“Let’s watch.” Dusk became night &
 the stars would not stop thicking
their numbers. Dreamwalker looked
 at me & laughed. Francisco wondered
if we watched sea or sky, whose brush?

Then the stars altered. The whole sky did.
 White lights on black canvas became
black on white. And back & forth.
 A pattern. It was music. She hmmm’d
in my jaw & I followed, & the others
 did too. We hmmm’d with the pattern
of the sky, it hmmm’d with us, all night.

They knew of you, knew of your kind,
 though learning of you in my jaw
fascinated them. Young Odom showed
 me a treasured coin purse of his own, said
she, one of her kind, lived sometimes
 in this purse.

“Not always?”
Head down. “No. They come & go.”

Another night, camped in Woods far
 from all others, again between one
clue of the Tangled Gate & another,
 something in our campfire dinner
talk delighted you & you cackled
 merrily from my jaw.

Roddy, or Asoyadonna, joined in,
 big bright cackles. Soon the rest.
Unlike my friend in the secret
 skies above our boat, I shared you
with them. We travelled together,
 we lived this itinerant life to learn
how to protect you. Your kind in
 these beautiful White Woods, &
what of good men & women there were
 in this world.

Was it you led us, let me, back to
 these old homelands of mine? I wonder.
After long silence, you began to direct me
 with some frequency again, like old,
like when I was a fleeing youth from here.

Sleepless, taking overnight watch to sit & think,
 I am joined by Dreamwalker who listens
as intently to my jaw as I do.

“To where?”
“I never know for sure.”
He looks at me steady. “We arrive soon.”

Not long after we were sat upon by
 the highwaymen that ruled these
lands. They moved slowly, guts not
 tight, sword-play sloppy. We formed
our circle & the foolishly moved in
 rather then cutting us down from a
distance. Discovering us not the likes of
 fat coachmen & terrified travelers,
their taste for fight wore out quick.

* * * * * *

xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 2

By morning, they’d realized we wouldn’t
 kill them, nor release them to more
marauding in this area. Defeated,
 they sought our forgiveness, even friendship.
Promised a camp of good food &
 willing girls to compensate our troubles.

Herding a couple of dozen cowardly men
 back home was something we’d done
before. What was different? What I saw
 by daylight on their heads. Black & white braids.
We’d come to my old homeland. These aging
 villains were those who had long ruled
these lands. But years settled in,
 they were slow, lazy.

I told Dreamwalker. He knew more
 of my youth than the rest.

“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”

I still didn’t know until the moment
I saw your terrified turquose eyes.

Then I knew why my little friend had
 brought us here. I was home. I could
free these lands. I freed you, my little
 friend, & you brought me back here
when I was ready.

And then your turquoise eyes.

We stayed for a few days. It wasn’t
 hard to see how people were living
a kind of long despair here. We began
 to repair tents, boats, fishing nets.
The subdued knights of the road kept
 away. Watching, grumbling. Waiting.

Dreamwalker was discontent. “Is that
 all her reason for bringing us here?”
“It’s not enough?”
“No. She knows of your quest, our quest.
 She would not tangle your heart like
this with old woes.”

But nothing. No cackles, nothing. I listened.
I helped put up structures in place
 of old tents.

I sat in your company many hours.
Your turquoise eyes dreamed me every night.
This was the bonding Aunt had warned of.

I didn’t know how to prove Dreamwalker right.
Nobody knew where the old women had
 gone to.
“Were they real?” you asked softly.
“They sent me off into the world.”
“Do they matter?”
Softly, “Deidre, they do.”

She says nothing, & for awhile I am
 distracted by a threat from the
highwaymen we’d displaced.

The lead one called me out. Longest
 black & white braid, fattest paunch.
We stood facing each other.

“You left her long ago. Why return?”
“A promise I would.”
“Not to your brothers? They’re long gone.”
“My brothers array me.”
His smile a drunken leer. “We brought you
 here to share our bounty, & then move on.”

Unsettled, I returned to my tent.
 We couldn’t stay, & we couldn’t leave
those men to do what they did.

It was Roddy came up with the answer.
“We can’t stay. Neither can they.”
I nodded. It was quick. Before a
 clumsy bloody tussle on their part,
we had them blindfolded & hands bound,
 walked by sword-point the miles
back to our boat, travelled several
 days by sea to what Roddy told me
was a green, hospitable island, uninhabited.
 My homeland finally free.

What should have made easier our going
 made it twice harder. These good
people, & others when word travelled
 of our disposing their rough lords,
called for a crown on my head,
 a union of disparate lands. And Deidre
turquoise-eyed queen. My brothers
 like noblemen to my court.

When Roddy & Odom back, we six
 betook ourselves on a long ride,
said to survey our lands, plan
 more settlements.

Again, together, a campfire,
 six sets of eyes & no more.

“Tell me.”
“Tell, my King?”
“Tell me.”
Francisco laughed. Not meanly, but still.
“Say it.”
“While I wait for our journey to resume,
 I discover ragged girls in that camp
who wish to make pretty things.
 Learn how. I could teach them
in many ways, but I don’t.” Stops.
 Stares me down. “Waiting for you.
So tell me. Do I gather myself up
 a froth of painting pretties, share
them around with the rest of you,
 or do we ride on?”

I look around. They are tired.
 They wait my word. I am theirs,
choicelessly. Even before you, Deidre.
I promise them an answer, ask their
 patience. They nod. Someone laughs.
Mushroom tea & a bonfire big enough
 to sing & shout by.

We ride back to camp in a few days
 & there is news I’d stopped waiting
for. Dreamwalker tells me.

“The old women.”
“What about them?”
“They’re returned. They’re to see you.”

* * * * * *

xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 3

I still feel your cool hand on my face,
 salving me from moaning dreams,
even as I lie here alone.

You were why they came back, why
 they saw me. You agreed to let me go,
let us leave our Kingdom for the Island.

I didn’t know. Dreamwalker told me where
 to find their camp, offered to come
along, unsurprised I shook my head no.

I walk through my new kinsmen, smiling
 at me, building, building, hope rousing
them before dawn, driving their tasks.

Say nothing, though notice, as often,
 the grim look of Deidre’s eldest brother,
reckons he would have felled the
 biggest knight one day not far, &
braided his own hair, taken over.

Eventually the brown hills & up to
 the White Woods, of course, & the hmmm
Dreamwalker taught me to find them.

I wish my Creature friends were around
 right now, but they keep away from
disruptive times of men. And departures
 like mine to come.

Their camp is a canvas igloo,
 round, stove-piped for heat. The three
of them sit in front, big kettle over
 a big fire. Cackling & clicking amongst
each other. I think of my little friend,
 wonder anew the connection.

See me & cry me over! “Sit, sit,
 our King, let us feed you, let us look
at you!” Clucking like a gaggle of
night-witch grannies.

I find a large stone to pull near
 the fire & set on.

“I’m nobody’s King.”
They cackle & click. Soft, webby, ancient
 shawls. Faces cragged, bodies decrepit,
eyes fierce & mocking.

“Where have you been?”
“Why have you returned?”
“She brought me here.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone. I thought—”
“What?” their voices braid in & around
 me, sometimes more than three,
  sometimes one.

I think of Creatures. Their small faces.
 Open, fearful, trusting, affectionate.

Talk. “I thought she brought me home
 to liberate my homeland. And to find
you. Your clues to the Island.”

I sip the craggy mug of tea in my
 hands, doubt not the witchliness
of all the.

“What have you learned, our King?”
“Learned?”
“Since you left. Since we sent you
 with one of her into the world.”

I feel them nearer, the light of
 the White Woods softer, murkier.
  I choose to trust all of this.

“I’ve learned men are powerful & often
 cruel, punishing the world for their own
mortalities. Would, if ’twere possible, transmute the green
 & the very blood of this world to medicine,
& immortalize their violent, lonely hearts.”

They cackle delightedly & embrace me
 like soft covers of smoke.

“I thought it was men you sent me out
 to discover how to save. It wasn’t.
It was the world beset with men.”

They cackle wildly & seem to scatter
 into tiny little things that crawled
over me. Tickling . . . me?

I laugh. Crookedly, clumsily, but I do.
 They laugh with me, hundreds of
little black & white pandy bears. I’ve seen
 these before but something more
here. They are powerful. They are . . .
 tending me.

Ticking becomes soft caress, little
 kisses, nips at my old wounds &
long sadnesses alike. Each released to air
 finally of its long, old poison, & tucked back
within me. I can’t say what this all
 is, but I grow stronger, clearer, gentler.

I am beat & breath & deed & word
 to serve this great world, hard world,
cruel world, sweet subtle world,
 world of men, world containing me
& all, worlds upon worlds.

We lie together in their canvas igloo,
 one a woman’s form, one a man’s,
one shifting from tree to rock to Creature,
 insect, fish, bird, shifting to show me
how easy, how various, how alike.

I open my eyes. I hope my hands.
I spread my legs & release my loins.
I keep laughing & laughing as we all do,
 as we cum like first sun in a
  new universe, new light on all.

Falling with this light.
Falling with this new light.

I wake alone, untrammeled clearing.
I feel old wounds distantly now, curious,
 memories without fangs.

Blessed be! Creaturs of the Woods
 approach, sniffing & uncertainly,
but my arms wide open, my heart,
 clear, happy. White Bunny takes my lap
as her own. Nuzzling me close are several
 pretty little giraffes, a few bears of
different sizes. Many more.

What’s more, a gift. I know where
 the Island is, the Tangled Gate,
the Cave of the Beast. It is time.

You were why, Deidre, my only love.
You were why. As I parted my
 little friends that morning,
soft, clean, clear, my hunger to know
 fed after so long, I still thought
I could return to you, build our
 Kingdom, save the world & enjoy
its fruits.

You were already fallen sick.
You would soon be gone.

* * * * * *

xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 4

I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

When I returned from the White Woods,
 I bore my new gift with heavy delight.
I believed my little friend had made it so,
 returning me to this old homeland,
able now to liberate it, & eventually
 to find those old women again, learn
finally the long-elusive route to the Island.

Yet I didn’t say to any at first. I hesitated
 with no reason. Was that really why
she had brought me back here? Why doubt?
 Why now?

It wasn’t you, Deidre, my love, for
 I planned to return to you after.
Nor you, my brothers, for our bond
 felt immutable.

Was it doubt that there was an Island?
Such a mystical thing as a Tangled Gate?

My years had greyed me some, strands
 Deidre would stroke & smile over.
Her youth yearned something in my age,
 the illusion that years bring knowing.
Years simply bring years, a loss of that
 constant gaze to the horizon, the stars,
the touch of unknown plants & animals,
 the need to shade full-eyed wonder
from every face one meets.

I walked through the camp all morning,
 saying little, my smile enough to approve
& encourage these good people. Their homes
 enlarged, now they’ve devoted hours to
our new community hall. A rough
 wooden structure, with a long dining
table running its length. Already we
 at there many nights, talked over our days
of building & fishing. Our happy days together.

My brothers told stories of our travels.
 Entreated, not to boast. Most of the men
admired, felt impelled to make this
 community’s life a worthy arrival
for us. The women eyed us, & tittered,
 & wondered how long my rumored rules
would hold with Deidre at my side.

Eventually, returned to my tent,
 now several rooms, bigger than ought.
To lay myself in her arms, breathe slower,
 forget awhile.

Her coughing foremost. A hurtful cough,
 deep & dry. Force without expulsion,
without relief. She looked healthy
 to me, light pink in her cheeks,
scrawny from years of depravation but
 not more so. I made sure she fed full.

“What ails you, love?”
“Nothing. Change of seasons, warmer
 days. Sleep with me awhile?”

She didn’t ask where I’d been, since
 I would tell in a quiet, thoughtful hour.
But those hours came & went. Her cough
 stayed, no better, no worse.

It was Dreamwalker who caught me up
 eventually. He’d let me be awhile,
but he knew something. I’d long depended
  upon him this.

He found me sitting alone in the community
 hall. Leaned his hekk stick against
the rough wall & came up to me
 where I sat. He embraced me, long
& deep. The medicine of touch, of love’s
 familiar privileged touch.

“You found them?”
“Yes.”
“They showed you the way?”
“Yes.”
“And yet?”
Silence.

“We don’t have to go.”
“It was never a choice.”
“I know.”

He walked back over & fetched his hekk
 stick. Didn’t leave. Liked to lean on it,
to think better. Like some scratch a dog’s
 head.

“Tonight? We’ll talk?”
Nod.
Eventually he left, but I didn’t. And
 nobody came before they did. His doing.

They trailed in with the day’s work &
 words about them. Always boats & equipment
& dwellings to repair. Everything building up.

But this was us. We six brothers.
Someone brought our maps, long folded away.
They didn’t range around the room as
 usual when we talked. We sat close,
huddled. Quiet.

The biggest map open, one we’d made
 along our travels. The ink newest
from these coastal lands.

I pointed to an open stretch of water.
An area of sea we’d never sailed.
No land spoken of there by any we’d ever
 met.

Walked my fingers from where our
 boat lay at anchor, deep, deep into this
vastless stretch of sea.

“There.”
Silence.
“In the morning.” Dreamwalker’s voice,
 not my own.
“How do we land on water?”
“It will be there.” Again, his voice.
“How will we know?”’

A fury lit from deep within me. The hungry years.
She wasn’t getting better.
What had she done?

My fist on the table. My brothers flinched.
“It’s there. It’s what we seek.
Guarded, but we will be let in.”

I got up, turned from them, & walked out.
 Left them, the map. Didn’t need it.

The morning I wild from the three
 dreams, & you are not abed.
I remain still, matching in my thoughts
 the paltry might of one man’s intent
against a world he came into unbidden,
 & will not be long departed before
all trace of his prints are effaced.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

* * * * * *

xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 5

A first day of something, an arrival,
 a new face, strange music, sheen
in the memory, like bits of starlight
 fell upon your hand in a deep
night Woods. Departure too, ending
 of something, especially sudden,
every moment to the last weighted
 awkwardly in the heart’s grasp.

I knew we were going. My intent
 signaled at our meeting, my brothers
would divide amongst them the readying,
 some to the packing of clothes & gear,
some to the stores aboard our boat,
 its sails & weapons & storage.

Usually Dreamwalker & I left to figure
 routes, dangers, what the next place
might tell us, how we would acquire it.
 The rest preferred busyness to thinking,
the former less about hope & despair.
 We endured by this complement.

Not even Dreamwalker as I walked
 from our tent. No Deidre either.
I knew her cough would wake her
 early, & often she would before
light betake herself to the seaside
 not far from camp.

Walked to there, among emaciated
 hills, scrawny brown fields. One last
climb, & there it was. The Wide Wide Sea.
 Where my brothers & I had lived
so many of our days, where my beloved
 Deidre had come from.

Especially in our early days,
 she would wake me before light
to go sit with her by the water.
 Whether it took the sudden waking to the
wide open upon me turquoise eyes
 I knew would not shut again soon,
or a playful hand or wet lick
 upon my cock, we’d dress in little
& scuttle out of camp. A small cove.

Unfindable by day, because the tide
 would suck it flat, she somehow
knew the mornings when countless
 liquid fingers would shape it for us
to coze in, our bear-covered brown
 blanket upon us. Hmmming with
the now-whispering, now yowling Sea.

Entwined to our fingers, we’d lisen,
 we’d hmmm, we’d close our eyes &
let the salty air tend our creaks
 & worries. The Sea before us would
seep & sing into the Sea in our veins.
 She would be returned there, with me,
as was otherwise impossible.

“The old women found me,” she
 began suddenly, after several of
these early visits. Points not far
 from our cove. “There. ‘Lips puckering
like a fish’s,’ they said. They tended
 me, raised me up, till my brothers’
family claimed me.” Tells me no more
 for many visits.

Then one morning, my cum still staining
 her sharp smiling teeth, bit of blood too,
she says: “They told me I wasn’t from
 the Sea originally. They said I’d fallen
from the sky, from the stars, &
 lived deep deep below for years,
a hundred, a thousand.”

“Were you a Sea nymph they found
 choking upon the shore?”
She only twines me tighter.

Fewer pre-dawn trysts for me. Her cough
 took her away alone more often.
But for that night not long ago.

“One day my debt of thanks will be
 paid to them, my King. I hope
we are both doddering old. One day
 they might return me to the Sea
for their stranger reasons.”

I convulse suddenly but her finger
 on my lips, her smiling turquoise
eyes hush me. “Like you, my love.
 Like the Island & Tangled Gate
you seek.”

It’s not early light or before, &
 I do not think I will find our cove,
yet I do. She’d sat her, I see her
 footprints in the sand. Specks
of blood? I cannot know.

Then I reck how her footprints
 do not lead back to our camp.
Only onward. I follow the impressions
 of her small bare feet, the small toes,
shapely ankles I’d often kissed,
 vowing in my laughing lover’s foolery
to taste every inch of her surface.

Passing morning but no hint of sun
 in the overcast grey. The tide
swishes ever in, now a gentle
 wave, now a muscular one. Nears
her prints inch by inch, & I can
 see too that she was walking
ever closer, mulling, deciding?

Till she is standing, was standing,
 facing the water, her so-long home.
The old women’s pledge to keep?
 Yet another thing. She has drawn
in the sand a large set of prints,
 somehow contorted to impress
these cleanly next to hers. Water
 ever nearing now.

I remove my boots & step in.
 They fit as though my own feet had
rendered them. Now I stand
 next to her. I look out to the
Wide Wide Sea. Close my eyes & reach
 my hand to hers. It is cool,
as it was this morning against
 my crazed dreaming’s cheek.

My eyes shut, I hmmm a long time,
 braiding remembrance of hers
with mine, the water drinking
 up to my ankles, my calves.
Would likely have let it consume
 me too like seeming did her, but a
faint tug, another, now stronger.
 I will not be let to drown in this parting.
Its awkward weight already upon me.

* * * * * *

xiii. Leaves the Kingdom, Part 6

It was years, centuries, a thousand
 thousand miles from the last day
when I found myself arcing like an
 impossibly high wave back, back
toward that departure day.

You brought me an orange. Like I could
 love you, cherish your gifts, gestures,
touches. Like you weren’t raw girl-meat
 tender to your young bones, beneath me,
above me, snarling I’d consume you
 for all I’d lost, all to be no more.

You dressed as I wished, your hair in
 braids never made of them before,
ruffled blue bonnet low on your brow,
 black stockings, black leather shoes,
oh the salmon pink dress with not
 a scrap of underwear beneath.

Was I fucking back over time? Was
 your body my starcraft? I chewed
through your covering, pocked your
 perfect skin with my nails & fangs.
Fucked your bare cunt like a tight
 pink chamber pot for my raw waste,
fucked your sweet ass like something
 trembling within to be released,
like the whisper-pink cockatoo waited
 to burst membranes & fly free.

I hadn’t told you about the orange.
 How it followed me out of
that dream, followed me in one way
 & another all the years since that
morning.

You took my hard & sloppy cummings
 alike, from a raw lonely want the poets
& fools call love. Wore the braids,
 the blue bonnet, repaired the dress
of my rentings, cleaned off my cum,
 because another’s honest embrace,
or any embrace, tis all cuts down
 the raising winds of mortality.

Your orange I kept in my private temple.
 Where I fucked you privately, where
I recked my raising winds privately,
 freely, no embrace to divert.

Lights extinguished, statues of sacred
 figures obscured to rightly meagerness,
I held this orange & remembered
 you, your taste, the Gate so close to
this Castle & yet mute as ever to my wishes
 & questions, I held your orange &
began to hmmm as I had not quite
 done since the morning she let me,
hours before my ship & brothers left for
 this Island, that Cave, that Gate.

Open my eyes. Your footprints, the ones
 you made for me, that I stand in,
all gone. I began to walk, I began to run,
 from the shore of the Wide Wide Sea,
faster & faster, to the brown hills leading
 up to the White Woods. Hmmming
my way to those old women, my fists
 my intention.

They were gone, like never were.
 Canvas igloo, soup kettle, nothing.
A clearing never touched by men.
 The hmmm crackled & left my lips &
was gone. I stood there forever.
 I stand here still. I stand on this
beach still. I recline on this night’s hill
 still, watching the blinking sky
with my laughing brothers. Cackling
 with my little friend this night, &
this one, & this one.

Leave another piece of me, slowly
 return to camp. Legs moving,
heart missing. Time to leave this Kingdom.

The community hall is filled & I’m told
 of visitors come seeking refuge
from a distant war, continuous persecution.

They call me King, all these good
 kinsmen, but I sit at the long table
as the rest. Next to Deirdre’s brother
 whose smile cools me on the warmest
day. I nod the visitors to sit across
 the table, tell their stories.

They are Travellers, like my brother-
 sister Asoyadonna, & I wish she was
here to seal their welcome. A ragged
 group, about twenty in all, mostly
thin-cheeked men, a few downcast women.

I sit. I listen. Their Village destroyed,
 their flight, their losses. A few more,
feeble old & slow young, kept safe in
 a cave nearby in the White Woods.

I wonder uselessly: had they seen
 my old women? Say nothing. Nod.
Nod again. Listen less. Nod. Nod again.

Deidre’s brother questions them in
 my stead. Nods. Listens. His green eyes
holds them close, his hands lay open
 before him on the thick table top.
He warms the air between our two
 sides of the table. The air shares
among us. I realize something.

They will all be OK. We have to go.
 She’s gone. I have to find her.

They will stay with us. We will feed
 them strong, mend their clothes,
medicine their hearts. Should their
 pursuers venture this far, we will
defend to the last.

For now, pull out the old tents.
Bring them to the Sea to clean, splash,
 maybe laugh.
A big fire tonight, soup, stew, bread.
Sleep. The kind those in flight from
 their burnt homes never glimpse.

Other days, nights, their secret
 ways of living shared. Their songs,
their magicks. I nod. I listen.
 This will compensate our going.
The decision is made, easily, &
 I walk alone to my tent.

I find my old travel knapsack,
 pack it about as full as when
I arrived here. Not keeping all this,
 not letting it go either.

A nightfall to wait. A note to leave.
 No promises of return, but neither
denials of fealty to all here.

I sit on our bed, Deidre, till the
 light retreats, till it is gone.
Wait a prompting, wait some stall.
 The ship waits. My brothers wait.
They don’t know of Deidre, of the new
 arrivals. They wait me.

The voices of returned bathers, cleaned,
 happier, of meal-making, of a night
for happy bonding, & I stand. Someone
 will come to fetch me, fetch Deidre.
Ask of my brothers. Shoulder my
 knapsack. Behind our bed a hidden
flap, door quickly out of camp,
 if needed.

I look back now, tonight, as I didn’t
 allow myself then. The boat was
an hour’s lope away. Was I leaving to find
 you? Or save the world? Did I yet serve
this world with my beat & breath
 & deed & word? What would tug me back
next time I entered the water?

* * * * * *
xix. Blue Suitcase (Dreamwalker)

I do not believe it was just a container,
 that only what within it mattered.
I do not believe the blue suitcase
 itself was not of real consequence.
I believe the one called the Architect
 sent this suitcase back through time
in an effort to save human history itself.
 Alter its destructive course. Help us help him.

We were back on our ship. We six,
 long-time brothers, again navigating
the Wide Wide Sea, free of land,
 free of how land binds men to a place,
a sense of possession, laws to guard this
 possession, weapons to defend these laws.

“No man owns the Sea, no more than
 he can keep & cage & name his dreams,”
I observed to Asoyadonna that first day out.
 We’re relaxed against the deck railing,
her auburn hair billowing about her.
 She smiles me quietly. “My Aunt
would say the world lets us loose to play
 awhile, & what we return to her
with isn’t in our hands.”

Everyone kept needless busy that first day,
 mending fixed things, ordering
sorted shelves, studying maps empty
 of land. Eating little at dinner &
retiring too early each to his long-held
 cabin. None trespassed each other’s
by chance, so I lay quietly in my bunk,
 rooting my mind like an old attic,
for hours, wondering if anything in it
 to help us. Fell asleep, like often,
to the flutter of birds, singing, chuckling,
 in their midst a girl with such long,
tangling hair.

Next day, now far out to Sea,
 something loosed from me, the air
sweeter to breathe, easier. No land!
 Our first full day beyond land,
its sinking grasp! Roddy & Odom were
 who spied the dolphins beside us,
made to leap & ride them, laughing failed.

Dusk found all six of us arrayed
 on deck, our supper a good one,
our tankards filling directly from
 the barrel Francisco had rolled
up from below.

A dusk properly enjoyed with quiet
 & attention. A moon waxing to light
our needed cheer. Everyone an old story
 or rousing song. The King his usual
riddle none of us had ever solved.

“Cease the tide by cursing the moon?
Crush the drum heads, men will pound
 their stones twice harder!
Bind a woman’s fire & she will lay
 Dreaming coming stars!” Everyone laughs.
None as ever an answer.

You retired first of us all. Didn’t look
 tired. A glint that did not tell sleep’s
lure. I wondered, nodded with the rest,
 drank on. Roddy & I last at it,
as often. His talk of the White Woods,
 his shacks, leather bucket, friend
with the red whiskers. His heart
 willing owned by those places & years.

“Yet you left.”
“Did & didn’t. Did.”
I nod. There’s nothing else.
His sudden sharp look upon me.
“We’ll need you when we arrive. Tis no sane
 place we travel to.”
“We’ll need all of us.”
A hand on his rocky shoulder, & a shuffle
 a-bed. But no birds tonight. No long-haired
lost loves.

My dreams numb of picture, word, advice.
Neither waking nor sleeping. Stand,
 stagger, stand. To my desk, its pile high
of old books. Dusty, useless. Then a look
 at my vials & flasks of herbs & powders.
Sleepless, I sort through them, snift
 a little, taste a little. Begin to mix
them together, eyes half shut, focusing
 on our task, this coming Island,
coming Gate, coming Cave, coming Beast.

Do I sleep? With eyes open? Continuing
 to mix, crumble, powder? This admixture
I swipe by finger into the pouch my
 father gave me when he knew me old enough
to be neither singer nor cheerful peddler
 of pots like he.

“Find what your valuables are in
 this world. Keep them in here.
Think of me, these old years.”

An image before me briefly:
A spread of fresh warm blood
 on a log, a huge axe from the sky,
  chopping it twine.

Fewer steps than possible up to deck &
 the golden pinking dawn upon horizon.

And, there, not possible, land!
 An Island where no map would claim one.
I shout my brothers awake. Shout &
 shout them. Years for this, for this.

Sober as schoolboys found by the preacher,
 caught with a hand down her
giggling pink panties, lips tasting her
 hard virgin’s nipple. We stand side by side
& behold the living object of our
 years-long quest. Each hoarsely waiting
the others speak a word, snap this
 silence, make us men again.

Tis Francisco, goodness love him,
 reading my mind as often he did
on my face. “She was no virgin.”

I laugh. Damn it all, we all laugh.

Spell snapped, we ready to cast our
 long boat into the water. Anchor down,
ready. Never a question we will all go.
 Nor answers to what our intent this first time.

Weapons? No. Food, extra clothes? Yes.
Bed rolls. Tents. I make sure to bring
 my pouch of dream powder.

Few words, enough to pack the boat,
 get everyone aboard. As I clumsily
climb from larger to smaller vessel,
 that image recurs before me, like
painted on a curtain I press near.
 I wave it off, & again. Nobody notices.
Perhaps the King. It dissipates of
 its own whim.

We row closer & closer to the shoreless
 rocky ledge. Tis then I notice in
the clear blue-green waters something
 darker blue, solid, not belonging
where it is. I reach for it, grunt
 an order to the rest. “Steer this
way. There’s something!” “What’s that?”
 “I don’t know. A little nearer.”
I don’t know. I don’t know.

* * * * * *

xix. The Mirror (Asoyadonna)

I don’t know what I feel as we ride
 into the King’s old homeland, the sufferings
of these people like my own, like it happens
 everywhere in this world I fell to
so long ago, before I can recall.

I don’t know what to think as I see
 our King leap more than fall in love
with Deirdre who I know before he does
 is also from Emandia, also fallen
here from a place far & gone.

So knowing neither, just that here
 is where we are until we learn
something, I give myself to tending
 the injuries, in thwarted hearts &
tired bodies. These are all my brothers now.

We free them of their masters,
 & lure them to take up their own way,
work beside them to repair, to build,
 to bond as more than slaves in one cage.
Wake up to a day’s work, sleep under
 stars, as free now as they are.

There are skills in these people,
 we find them out. Some at growing,
some at putting up solid structures,
 others at sewing & mending clothes,
at cooking. No longer needing to resist,
 eluding, hiding, resenting, they bloom.

We’ve done this before, many times.
 But the King was never in love, near
at moments to happy.

Of them all, it was Deirdre alone who
 waited our departure. We spoke of this
only once in all the months we were
 among them. I found her on the
shore one day where I myself would break
 from the hours of mending & building.
We sat together awhile in approaching tide.

“What do you think it looks like?”
“What’s that?”
Turquoise eyes on me. Fierce, steady.
“This world, saved?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think of there?”
I take a chance. “Emandia?”
“The Sea. Out there. Where our lost home
 sent us.”

I pause. “We sailed it many years. But the home
 I lost is where I grew. My village. My father.
My Aunt.”

She nods. Smiles.

I stand. Touch her hair, her shoulder.
Uncertain, maybe spooked, I return
 to my tent. Lie on my bed of blankets
& pillows, where I often share nights
 with my various brothers still. My five.
The King least often. Dreamwalker most.

The tent’s ceiling flap open, to let in
 fresh air, light, the leaves above
dapple in the breeze. Drift, drift
 further. Aunt. The last night we stayed
with her. Her warning of growing roots
 as we are here. Her warnings of many things.

Brushing my hair with my mother’s small
 ivory brush. Slow strokes, long & pensive.
Talk, eventually.

“Do you remember the songs we sang
 of the Island & its magic Gate,
when you were small?”
“Of course.”
Thoughtful brush stroke. Another.
“What is it?”
“Do you remember them, Asoyadonna?”

I gesture her still her brushing.
We face each other on my bed, in my
 same old room from those gone years.

“Tell me, child.”
“The Gates were sent out to many
 worlds, from Emandia. Portals through
dreams.” Pause. “You told me
 I’m from there.”

“Do you remember?”

I think again, close my eyes, wonder
 her dread tone. “They’re where a world
begins. And . . . where it ends.”

She nods. “The world may, or may not,
 be saved.”
“But we have to try.”
She nods. Reaches into the deep pocket
 of her long leavsy dress. Pulls from it
a small mirror. Hands to me. I look
 within. My self. My girlish self. Tempted
to touch my hair a bit. Do not.

“Pull it wider, with both hands.”
I gasp, hesitate, tis Aunt talking, do.

It pulls wider, easily, like clay,
 but does not thin. Just pulls from
itself. Pull till it’s the size of my head
 & Aunt touches my hands.

“What tis?”
“Look now.”
I look down into this shiny thing
 in my hands & see no reflection
of myself. Tis a deep twilit pond.
 Lillies dot its surface, among them
the reflection of a great mountain,
 its shore unseen.

“Where?”
“Far.”
“Where?”
“Very far.”

Her dark eyes inside my skull now, but
 me learning nothing from them.

“Tell me. Please.”
Silence. Dark eyes. Then.
“It’s another way out. Pull it wider &
 taller, enough to walk through,
lean it against a wall or a tree, & do.”
“Just me?”
“It won’t stay open long.”
“Can I return?”
“Not long.”
“How long?”
“Count of ten each way.”
Silence. Softly, “Why?”
Softly in reply, “This is how Travelers endure.”
“What of my brothers?”
More softly still, “I don’t know, child.”
She could tell no more.

I pulled out this mirror, & studied it, when restless, uncertain,
 sometimes my face, sometimes the pond,
wondering, unknowing, thinking what
 of Deirdre, of Aunt, the King, my brothers?

Think of it again tonight, more fearful
 than uncertain, two days into our final voyage
to arrive the Island. This afternoon I found
 Francisco on the deck, back of the ship,
painting furiously away. I had not seen
 him touch brush to canvas yet on board.

He rarely stays still when painting.
 Sways back & forth, paints in flurries
of strokes, walks away, walks back.
 Seems sometimes to battle his images from
his head, seducing, cajoling, smacking
 if he must. He paid me no more mind
than the sunny breeze about him,
 the choppy waves below.

The image is terrifying, not of his
 usual themes or styles. Harsh render
of an axe-twined log, blood pooled
 fresh & heavy around it. Execution?
Murder? A man? An animal? I watch
 wordless & horrified. Helpless.

The Wide Wide Sea is as still as
 it gets, hmmming softly through
my open window as it gets. The King
 has probably taken the dream powder
I traded the mirror for, to the Travelers
 I’d met approaching our camp,
looking for asylum, desperate, willing.

I tell them where to go, what to say,
 assure them of their welcome.
“What can we give you for this kindness,
 sister? Anything ours is yours.”

A simple trade. They take the mirror,
 so I need never choose between my life
& my brothers. In return a powder
 when my King needs to say goodbye
again to his happiness, his lost home.

Francisco’s painting. We may not save the world.

******

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