| The yeoman Fortus makes his way, (Pretended Enri’s man,) Confronting Faibelesius And learning as he can. |
| 1. You cannot find your way til you are lost — Discovery’s prerequisite is wandering; The path you follow will be forked and crossed And twisted back upon itself to bring You nowhere near the longed-for, dreamed-of thing You sought when you set out to find your way; But endless seeking, restless traveling Is your life’s destiny, and you must stay True to your course, with fortitude, each racing day. 2. And so the yeoman of Queen Glorianne Pursues his monarch’s dangerous request, Stepping outside the crumbled northern span With the aplomb of a departing guest; Though well he knows his life’s severest test Awaits him on that grassy northern plain, He moves with certainty up to a crest Where he can look northward; He hears with pain Some ill-played instruments blaring a martial strain. 3. As Fortus pauses at that earthen swell Affording something of a forward view, He surveys closely all the grassy dell From where the ragged music seems to spew; No turn of phrase, it is a venom true — The more he hears this trumpet, fife and drum That screech and thump, piercing his brain clean through, The more he feels confused, then chilled, then numb, Then madly angry, then with sickness overcome. 4. The Elven soldier cannot turn the tide Of misery that sweeps him with this sound; So weary, he begins to fail, to slide Beneath the waves of weakness that around Him slogger like a turgid sea; Near drowned, His sinking lids almost cause him to miss A stirring of the grass at the far ground; The unseen band subdues its sound to hiss; His mind rebounds upon the sight and sound of this. 5. No rest, Fortus, (he shakes himself awake,) No rest until your task is done and said! (He peers more closely.) Could it be a snake, Or many snakes that move without a tread Through grass so tall? Now I must keep my head! Then they appear, the arm of Prince Enri — Rolling one on the other, forwarded Without rising, rolling sinuously, All hissing and groaning — groaning piteously. 6. Each soldier’s coat is made of dragon’s scale, And dragon skulls helmet the regiment, So each squints through barred dragon’s teeth, a jail Providing each private imprisonment; They carry iron pikes for armament, And fiercely prod each another as they roll, All goaded on by their mad adjutant, Named SARCASM, a man sick in his soul, Who with his cutting lance maintains the line’s control. 7. March on, you lovely viper’s tide! March on! (Sarcasm croons as he is hissed and cursed;) On! Up this hill and to the tower yon — Free queenly kisses if you get there first! Your stench alone should cause her heart to burst. What’s happened to our regimental band? Don’t slack your music that’s so well rehearsed! A quick, sharp thrust – one instrument’s unmanned — So play, my masters! Keep our martial fervor fanned! 8. The music starts again, but Fortus’ mind Is wide awake to this strange circumstance; The serpent soldiers, miserably entwined, Crawl ever closer, steady, in a trance; Sarcasm’s steed keeps up its nervous dance Behind the writhing line of infantry, On whom he tries the edge of his sharp lance With cruel abandon and fierce gaiety; Fortus perceives his only chance immediately. 9. So as the boiling tide of vipermen Breaks on the grassy rise where Fortus hides, He dives among them, disappearing then, Changing his hood, as through the crush he slides; A bloody dragon helmet he provides Himself from one who has been disciplined To death by Sarcasm’s sharp blade; He rides The squirming mass as this is donned, And pushes through, taking in hand an iron wand. 10. Most miserably, the undulating line Slithers over and down the backward slope; And now, Fortus himself begins to whine And hiss despite himself; This straining rope Of flesh, pressed and entwisted without hope Of extrication presses Fortus, too; Now desperately he crawls and claws to grope, Knowing his life depends on breaking through, Despite the danger he is sure will then ensue. 11. So he endures the desperate crush and pain No longer than the time he needs to pass Through it; He claims his freedom once again, Though bruised, blood-smeared and panting on the grass; At once he feels a stinging prod harass His ribs through his wool shirt and Elven mail. Get up! Who is it dares be out of dress? (It is Sarcasm.) Get up! How dare you fail To keep in place with your comrades’ precise travail? 12. Spare me, my Captain, (Fortus says with fear,) I am from down the line; I have been sent . . . (Sarcasm screeches:) Who has sent you here? That Faibelesius? That miscreant? (There is no chance for counter-argument.) If it’s about the last council of war Before we storm the wall, your time’s misspent; Already I’ve received a courier From Prince Enri himself — he’s come and gone before. 13. But since the meeting place is here, you’ll stay And wait upon your captain on this rise; Halt, my brave snake-boys! Stop your making way! The soldiers halt just as their captain cries, Persisting in their howls, now envious That Fortus stands upright, free and unpressed, (Though if they would, they could in fact arise; Their servile thinking keeps them so depressed;) Soon other officers approach, all strangely dressed. 14. First rides a fat man on a staggering mare Whose sloppy girth renders its back unfit For furniture; Its mane of mangy hair And sagging spine provide the only bit And saddle for the one who clings to it; He hangs upon the horse’s neck, and chews its flesh; Since he will never stir if he can sit, He feeds upon that wound, biting it fresh When hunger prompts him to gulp down the putrid gush. 15. Here is your captain, Faibelesius, (Sarcasm whines,) astride his hairy lunch; Run now and summon him to join with us – Here come the others, riding in a bunch; There’ll be the Prince as well, I have a hunch; He said he’d join us here upon this hill, And stir us up before the coming crunch; So run, my hero, run it with a will! I will not wait on him; Look there! He’s standing still! 16. Fortus obeys as other officers Converge upon the hillock rendezvous: Ignoble captains — elevated curs To luxury pledged, and weak self-serving, too; There RIDICULE rides, whipping his crew Of subalterns, laughing through grinding teeth; Then NAUSEA, doing all that he can do To stay right in his seat, crowned with a wreath Of rotting flowers gathered on a fetid heath. 17. Next Prince Enri arrives leading his train — Lieutenants of presumptuous sophistry, Who, as they ride, press forward to explain To their fair prince the reasons, plain to see, Why this attack should be put off ‘til three, After luncheon, and (must we add?) a nap; Enri nods and yawns wide, seems to agree — His head slumps in mid-phrase, upsets his cap, Which one retrieves; Another gives their lord a tap. 18. What shall we do with HIM? he begs his Prince, Referring to a rider, sable cloaked, Behind them. Enri’s wet eyes wink and wince; His rumbling belly he clutches and strokes; Flexing his jaw to speak, instead he chokes, Recovers then to say: I just don’t know! Let’s halt! Why, perspiration simply soaks My brow! All this before we even go Into the ghastly tedium! To fight — the foe! 19. Really! You captains of my precious arm, I cannot tell you how deep my regret Has plummeted; I’d contemplate self-harm Before I’d subject one of my sweet set To this boorish battle for one minute; But Emperor Archimago has sent This brutish Elven knight — a martinet No less! — to force his peevish argument; We’ll penetrate the town where its surround is rent. 20. Fortus knows straightaway the sullen knight Who rides unspeaking through the conference there: It is SIR ARTEGALL, a man of might, And champion of Justice, fit and fair; But now he merely rides, lost in a stare, As if obeying some harsh, unheard voice; As soulless as an engine militaire, He moves, magnificent, without a choice, Empowered to kill, unpowered to weep or to rejoice. 21. Fortus abandons pulling at the jaw Of Faibelesius’ unbridled ride, And rushes to the knight, hoping to draw From him some hurried word, some quick aside Explaining Artegall’s descent from power and pride; The knight will not pause in his course — his gaze And gait fix on the city where its side Is breached; His cold indifference dismays One who admired the nobleman since childhood days. 22. Back off from him, you boor, (Prince Enri cries,) And turn your captain backward to his men; There’ll be no silly conference — My throat dries With this foul weather and camp regimen; So each and all back to your place again — Follow that model of a Martian god, He’ll lead you to the loutish Elven pen. (Then Enri yawns and gapes, his arms flung broad, Slumps snoring in his saddle, then flops to the sod.) 23. The zealots Sarcasm and Ridicule Gleefully drive sharp spurs into the flanks Of their horses, obeying Enri’s rule; Soon their lines move forward, serpentine ranks Surging across the fields and rolling banks Behind the steady tread of Artegall; They pause; The viper horde swarms at the shanks Of Artegall’s steed; In his stirrups tall, He signals the attack with an inhuman call. 24. The call he gives is more of helpless rage Than hot blood-thirst, the usual call to war — A cry out of a sealed and lightless cage, The cry of a perpetual prisoner; And all upon the field, both near and far, Respond to this sad war-cry with loud groans; The sun itself buries its flaming car In mist that shudders, wind that whines and moans, And heaping clouds, the color of discarded bones. 25. ENTHUZIAS, chief of the northern wall, Readies his men as well as he might do In face of dark and storm, a sudden fall That falls upon his darkening spirit, too; For seeing Artegall, knight just and true, Leading the hissing horde of Prince Enri Disheartens him and his good Elven crew More than all sights within his memory. Just have it done, he thinks; Live through it honorably. 26. In no time, Enri’s men have crossed the field, Crawling straight up the wall, or at the breech Squirming among the rubble half-concealed, Where Artegall moves in, his great sword’s reach Approaching closer to his folk; The screech Of battle then commences – distant sound To Fortus and the lazy captains, each Of whom have fallen dead asleep around The soldier, some still mounted, some stretched on the ground. 27. Twice Fortus strides toward the battle line, Then pauses, held up by this racing thought: Friends need assistance, but he must decline This urge to help them; Artegall had taught Him nothing helpful, so he knows he ought To stay his course and stop this fretting to and fro; But he can see a battle to be fought Before his eyes — how can he turn and go To seek for knowledge that’s impossible to know? 28. For why should other knights Fortus must seek Be more forthcoming than cold Artegall? Who would not pause, who would not even speak, Nor even look at him — a gesture small Enough — before turning to charge the wall Where fellow countrymen now stand and fight; How can Fortus ignore their battle call? How he is torn! Struggling with all his might, Both choices somehow wrong, no choice entirely right. 29. Just as a swimmer in a ragged tide That pulls him this then that way without rest Allows himself at last to drift and slide, Encradled by the over-arching crest That gathers him at last as to its breast, So Fortus sinks beneath his swirling thoughts, Dismayed, disoriented and distressed By unaccustomed feebleness that blots His mind and ties his strength in enervating knots. 30. His thoughts blend dreamily; His rocking will Self-mesmerizes til it is asleep; Slowly he sinks onto the grassy hill, Body and consciousness a jumbled heap; Then through his dream a figure seems to creep Too close, too close, then bends to nip his neck With razor teeth; A wound begins to weep, And there the stranger stays to nip and peck His swinish greed indulging without stint or check. 31. He turns his head and sees the horrid face Of Faibelesius, wet-eyed and gross, Both graceless and shameless of vile disgrace, Curling his quivering lip and bending close, Intending to retrieve a bloody dose From Fortus’ wound; The Brave leaps to his feet, Pushing the monster off with rapid blows; Before his pike assures the man’s defeat, The slug back-pedals, flails and falls down in retreat. 32. Not one to strike a fallen enemy, Especially one so doubtful in his fame, Fortus holds back, regarding anxiously His would-be killer, who, true to his name, Flops, gasping weakly; Weapons did not maim Him, and no fist landed to lay him low; But Fortus sees he’s dying all the same; His piglet eyes freeze open, gaspings slow, Then cease – Fortus prevails without striking a blow. 33. Repulsed, recoiling from the lifeless form Of Faibelesius, the briefest time His eyes draw toward the stress and storm Of battle at the northern wall; His prime Purpose was given by his queen; What crime, What treason would it be abandoning That mission? Bright and brilliant as a chime Tolling the hours, his duty’s reckoning Is clear — to face whatever his venture might bring. 34. The hostile camps both east and west include A knight among their complement, that’s known; Which way to go while working to elude Detection as he crosses through the zone Of battle, unaffiliated and alone Among attacking armies is his quest and plight; He sees the camps with banners flown; One shows the single letter “C” in white; This is the sign of Britomart, the lady knight. 35. And with that sign he knows where he must turn: Westward, seeking the knight of Chastity; Knight true or counterfeit? He hopes to learn; King Mammon’s camp, seat of pomposity, Sick lusting after wealth and vanity Must be his destination; There among The cads and sycophants he hopes to see The truth about the knights; The day is young, As is our story, so we shall follow along. finis canto ii |
| Glorianna Table of Contents |
| The Cantos |
| Appendices |