Nine the Rampant, Small Violet Bright, and Harbinger: A History of Numbers and Bad Rhyme

[Darkkin]

.

 

[Darkkin]

Where the Brook and the River Meet: The First Journey of Violet Bright

There is a place far beyond the front door, just past a weathered gate,
where Twilight dwells and whispered dreams patiently wait.
At the edge of a bluff, near deep throated roar of the sea,
there is a pathway, a door, where no ordinary door could be.

The place where the brook and the river meet, at a fork beside a stone,
beneath a great Alder tree, he, a keeper of all things known.
Yet this Alder, for all his knowings, pondered that odd door.
It was a question that echoed, as he stood guard upon that lonely shore.

A breeze set Alder's leaves whispering...Something's coming.
Someone had found the path, followed the waves' drumming,
as the shore curves away where the brook and the river meet.
A tern takes to wing as pebbles clatter beneath two small feet.

Naught but a girl, small in all ways, inky hair in coronet, braided tight,
she looked all around with a curious air, she, young Violet Bright.
To the left lay the woodlands, tree beyond tree, to the right, unbroken sea,
and straight ahead was the door, where no door could be.

Shadows of evening gathered, stars winking, blinking, waking...
Alder's question of Violet: What journey is it you are making?
Violet stilled as she looked at that great tree,
How can it query...speak...How could this be?

A face appeared in a gnarled old knot, a face, withered and dark.
Alder the Elder, he who offered shelter to the praying Lark.
Violet blinked, taken aback, this tree was a being, bright and alive
a being, so much more than leaves and a humming bee hive.

She looked at that face and down to her shoes.
To answer or not, how could she choose?
A flicker of doubt shone in her eye,
having come this far, it wouldn't hurt to try.

She thought the thought as only the small can do,
of her sister, Lily, wishing she could see this, too.
But Lily was frail and far from well,
and, Violet Bright had promised her a story to tell.

The leaves of Alder whispered and rippled,
A story for a child, ill, her heart crippled?
What better reason could there possibly be?
And curiously, up from Alder's roots, rose a key.

Violet, her eyes fixed upon the ground,
saw it, ornate and old, it had appeared without a sound.
It gleamed dimly in the star patterned light,
an answering twinkle came from the door to her right.

Small Violet Bright, she gathered up that key,
and took a step toward that door, where no door could be.
But the sea lay before her, a barrier, impossibly great...
until up bubbled an eagle ray, cousin to the skate.

All about him, waves burbled and broke,
sliding off his massive back, as rain does a cloak.
It occurred in an instant, an idea of reckless delight,
a mad, mad plan, had she, small Violet Bright.

Into the pocket of her pinafore she placed that key,
and hid her shoes where no one would see.
Barefoot and daring, she left the shore for the ray.
Upon his back, she rode, making for the door in the bay.

Waves lapped at her knees and tickled her toes
as the smell of salt tang and fish filled her nose.
That eagle ray carried her straight and true, across the sea,
bearing her out to the door, where no door could be.

The pair came abreast of that curious portal,
a door, untouched by all, but one daring mortal.
Small Violet rose to her feet, balanced and light.
For Lily, she thought, her courage, a beacon bright.

Into that pocket her fingers crept,
winnowing through the treasures, Violet had kept.
Three lumps of sugar, a tangle of ribbon, a shell and a milkweed seed.
Odd things, small things, items no one would ever need.

And finally there at the bottom, she found it at last,
that key, to unlock the future and reveal the past.
Stowing her treasures away once more,
small Violet Bright, introduced that key to that door.

Two pieces off a puzzle, old friends long parted and lost.
Violet turned that key round, her curiosity the toll and cost.
So it was, the knob was turned, finally that door unlocked,
and Violet, upon that ray, wondering if she should've knocked.

This was the door, where no ordinary door could be,
bleached bone white and hovering just above the sea.
Small, cold fingers rapped twice, as was polite,
and when no answer came, Violet gripped that knob tight.

Slowly, she turned it round once more,
while Alder waved encouragingly from the shore.
The tide shifted as sea beneath the ray began to rise,
lifting Violet up, adding needed inches to her small size.

Feet even with the bottom of that door,
Violet Bright cast a final glance at Alder's shore.
With a wave and wish and a small little hop,
she open that door, and beyond it she saw the world drop.

Stars shone where the sea and land should be,
and above, starfish glittered in an upside down sea.
Over that threshold and off the ray, Violet stepped,
and lifted her eyes to this place of Strangeways, kept.

With a splash and patter, she heard something breach,
Looking up, Violet saw the creature, just out of reach.
With the of a face of an angel and tail of a fish,
she was as fantastic a beast as one could wish.

A mermaid, of all things, suspended from an upside-down sea.
That mermaid, she smiled, at Violet, there in the lee.
With a friendly wave she nodded, toward a small cloak,
Violet blinked, wondering if this was some sort of joke.

Hanging from a brass hook beside the door,
Violet took the cloak as she cast a final glance at the shore.
A dark mottled grey, soft and warm, it was a pleasing cape.
against the wind it provided Violet a much need escape.

About her head, she drew that hood,
and with it donned a power, seldom understood.
Just like with Alder, now too, there was a voice in her head.
That cape allowed Violet to hear what that mermaid said.

Come, come and play, Small Violet Bright,
for that cloak you wear is a treasure of wondrous might.
From the waves, the cold, the dark, it will shield,
if to its temptation and care, you dare to yield.

But know this, little one, and know it well,
that cloak can be used but once, so says the spell.
For it is the coat of a Morph, a Selkie, in fact,
from a girl to a seal, and once more, back.

Young Violet Bright, needed no further urging,
'Round her she cast the cloak, a seal, swiftly surging.
Into the waves, up, up, up, to the bottom, she went,
bravely seeking, the story, for which she had been sent.

Jellies and rays, dolphins and skates, followed calling,
all the while, Violet swam as to the land she was falling.
Sponges and corals in their countless colours bright,
as Violet cleaved the waters, flippers swaying left to right.

Up became down, down was once up, true north lost,
but for Violet, this didn't seem a very frightening cost.
All around was a sea of breathing, billowed wonder,
the answer to the questions of what could be under...

Squid and octopi squelched and darted, jetting down into the black,
where blue lights shown, from creatures, crimson front to back.
Eyes larger than they should be, peered through the deep cobalt cold,
straight into Violet's heart, seeking the truth of the secret she did hold.

Violet felt the stab of the probing eyes, as she gave chase to a rare spiralling star,
a fluid rainbow, twining counterpoint to the current, beckoning the Selkie from afar.
With a fearsome tug, Violet paddled after the light, back and forth, left to right.
Faster, faster, and faster still, forward, onward into the deep, questing for light.

Flying down, yet the black was conceding to midnight and silvered azure, now,
pressure broke, Violet surged, bubbles cloaking, racing for the surface, but how?
Topsy-turvy, circumference and corners gone, no right way to be had,
Small Violet Bright wondered if she was dead or simply running mad.

A burning pressure began to ache deep in her chest,
and Violet knew she need air, some place to rest.
A sudden motion to the right, a flutter, a gleam of silvered speed,
it was the mermaid, having felt Violet's growing need.

 

[Darkkin]

Violet Bright, Continued.

In a billowing cloud of gathering bubbles, they began to rise,
chasing the gathering brightness that seem to draw all eyes.
Two heads breached the surface, a sea of gun metal grey,
The sun, low on the horizon, but was it the start or end of day?

In the distance thunder roared, deep and boding, warning
of danger, perhaps a storm, come the first or last star of morning.
The mermaid kept down, her nose just above the roll of a wave,
looking for the creature only this child could save.

Again they heard the bellow, as a lion winged, leapt into flight.
Wings beat, sending ripples dancing in the downdraft's might.
Violet's snout crinkled, wrinkled scenting the teeming air.
Iron, bronze, stone, salt--and breeze, tinged with hay and hair.

A grouping of stones, silhouetted, reaching to the deepest heart of the sea.
Spiralling, left, right forming a round--and Violet knew what they could be.
With the lion shrinking into the gathering light, Violet heaved onto a stone.
The mermaid whispered: 'From here you must find the path on your own.'

Nodding to the collection of stones, slowly spinning, a continuous round.
'These are the Stepping Stones, a place where the Lost become the Found.'
'There is one here, long under the guard of Nine, the lion now in flight--'
'A creature, the very last of his kind, waiting for you, small Violet Bright.'

Violet blinked, still being a seal, she had no words, nothing to say.
The mermaid smiled. 'Worry not, you are Selkie, you will find a way.'
'You are of the earth, the sea, and sky--Violet Bright you have to try.'
'Just as I am forbidden to reveal the how, the who, or even the why.'

Now young Violet Bright hauled out of the waves and onto the stones.
Still a seal, sleek and grey, she listened to the sea, a song in her bones.
Deftly, that salt breeze tinged with the sweet smell of newly cured hay,
found its way beneath that pelt, stealing the seal’s mask away.

A tendril, damp and sticky with salt, whipped about her face,
startling Violet, recalling her to the present and very odd place.
A puzzle and no answers to be had, where was she even to begin?
Her thoughts were haring, hither and yon, her knees a prop for her chin.

A habit of old drew her hand down, down to the pocket of her pinafore.
The cotton, stiffened by salt, still held the items she brought from the shore.
Three lumps of sugar, a shell, a tangle of ribbon, and a milkweed seed.
Of these useless treasures there was only one she knew would do the deed.

With a touch tender with wonder, she drew forth an ancient conch shell--
A treasure, worn and carved, Violet had found it in the bucket of the well.
Now cradled in her small palms, she looked at it anew, this was a key—
Part of the riddle, too, the key to a path in this place of stone and sea.

A tern shrieked, as far below, the deep bass of whale song sounded.
It was a verse old as the world, a melody, which in Violet resounded.
So as she had seen in that worn mariner’s book, she lifted the shell—
And blew, bright and sweet, a voice calling to the blood of her Kell.

Call it magic, call it might—but something awoke in small Violet Bright.
So she played a song of tides and woe, a symphony winging into night—
The stone, upon which she perched, lurched and heaved into a whirl.
Barefoot, to the tune she warbled, Violet began a lively swirling, twirl.

By reel and jig, she danced, waltzing and swirling on the brink of the sea.
Her stone was drawn forward taking small Violet where she needed to be.
On a final, trilling litany, she brought the refrain to a gentle, speaking end.
And before her eyes, stood the Bicorn, a creature who had never known a friend.

Eye to eye, they faced each other, blue to gold, young to very, very terribly old.
From her pocket, small Violet took a lump of sugar, made a move—very bold.
Palm open, gaze calm, to that Bicorn bound, she held out the proffered treat.
The great black head dipped, sniffed, snuffled and very tenderly began to eat.

With a muffled chuff, he nuzzled her hand, fingers to his muzzle—understand.
Those fingers, deft and light, had Harbinger free, hooves pawing at the sands.
Those golden horns, in deference bowed, to the kindness of small Violet Bright.
A hank of mane, wound round her hand, she clambered astride, settling light.

The great ebon Bicorn, coat all a’ flicker, a legend tense, sidled and pranced,
as overhead, unknown constellations wheeled, twinkled, winkled—danced.
And brave Violet Bright, she dug in a toe—Go! My friend! Harbinger, go!
Cloven hooves struck out across sands, racing away while the Tide was low.

Fleet feet flying o’er the cobalt bars, Violet Bright clinging with all her might.
Alder’s Dew erupted into sight, and Violet cast that milkweed seed into flight.
Onto the shaft of a moonglade, through the pool of the Moon, casting his light.
A new constellation of fabled might glowing, so to guard sleeping Violet Bright.

 

[Darkkin]

Penance of the Lesser Lion

Upon the bare bones of the Belle he stood,
a beast maned, chained, shoulders bowed,
the Lion Rampant—stone bowed to wood.

Paws penitent for a right instead of should,
a lesson learned—from a kindness showed.
Upon the cold bones of the Belle he stood.

Nine, now Lesser, a choice made for good,
of the many, for each constellation known,
the Lion Rampant—head bowed to wood.

Prayer of a Lesser Lion, a prison of would,
could, should—certainty now an unknown,
as upon the bones of the Belle, Nine stood.

Bound to the Belle’s bow, his eyes hooded,
Nine forgave the crime of a Sock Fox sewn.
The Lesser Lion bowed, stone upon wood.

Keeper of the Belle’s bones he now stood—
a leash, jellyfish tentacles in a dapper bow
tethered him to a wreak of bitterest should.
As a Lion Rampant, stone bowed by wood.

 

[Darkkin]

The Harbinger and the Tenet Light

From rippling shadows he watched, stars glimmering at the edge of the shore—
A constellation curled in the embrasure of a nightshade cast by the Alder Tree.
Tenet light, that odd collection of stars, a story no one had looked upon before.

Stones clattered, skittering to the bay as he approached on strong, cloven splays,
a bicorn, his coat dark as liquid fright, his eyes a golden burn of patience earned,
by iron, bound for crimes meted for lost wrongs, a prisoner repentant of his ways.

It was there among those stars, too—the foolish sentiment of a child’s kindness,
the first either being had even known, one trapped, the other patched and sown—
That little girl, her heart wide open, reached out in a world wrapped in blindness.

From the Stepping Stones, o’er dunes of napsand, Harbinger returned her home,
a tale of nonsense to pass along, kept for the days when everything goes wrong.
Harbinger of Gentle Might, freed by Small Violet Bright, waiting in the gloam.

As the stones’ chatter ceased and the whispered rustle of leaves bade all: Hush!
A dewy cache of cotton stars sat up. It was a fox! A fox made out of old socks!
In spite of his seams and bits, he stood tall, tippets white, his tail long and plush.

A single thread, kindness she paid forward, those actions of Small Violet Bright,
brought two lost souls face to face on the pebbled shore at ancient Alder’s Dew,
The Harbinger of Gentle Might and Star Socks Fox, a Strangeways’ Tenet Light.

 

[Darkkin]

Fugitive of Flowers

A thread entwining fates through seas of stars, inked muzzle to bright toes,
the Bicorn and the Fox at the Crossroad guarded by the ancient Alder Tree.
Harbinger, a warrior harsh as gilded thorns, without the softness of the rose.

A prisoner in the keeping of Nine the Rampant, a winged and worthy foe—
The clockwork lion hewn of living stone, who dwelt at the heart of the sea.
A thread entwining fates through seas of stars, inked muzzle to bright toes.

In chains, ironbound upon the Stepping Stones, a proud head hanging low,
the Harbinger, who had never known what it meant to be unfettered—Free.
Harbinger, a warrior harsh as gilded thorns, without the softness of the rose.

Bicorn, renowned for his great horns of twisted gold, envied the sooty crow,
for that humble bird had his wings, no weighted chains, he could simply be.
A thread entwining fates through seas of stars, inked muzzle to bright toes.

On gentle wings, steady and strong, the crow learning all there was to know,
of the places lost and found, a crow, who first lured a shy Violet to the sea.
Harbinger, a warrior harsh as gilded thorns, without the softness of the rose.

The glory of the quiet flower, courage and kindness abloom, she let him go.
A warrior of thorns becoming the fugitive of flowers, hiding in Turtle’s lee.
A thread entwining fates through seas of stars, inked muzzle to bright toes.
Harbinger, a warrior harsh as gilded thorns, without the softness of the rose.

 

[Darkkin]

Covet the Rain

Curse the light, the starbright these mortals seek—
Relentless are the rays that stray across the face
of the living stone, home to the weary, the weak…

Light upon their faces, warmth traced over skin.
And they revel, relish, indulge and so will burn.
I covet it, call, dance and daily pray for it again.

I covet as I call to clearest, deepest virgin skies
Hear me, ethereal element of the cursed, Cain—
bring the darkness, your ominous billows rise…

Soften the burn, the pain of a starbright blaze.
Even as the ancient evergreen smoke and char
I covet, cry at unblemished, crystalline days—

Affix the sins in withered bark, a sooted mar
the mark of the covetous, that human failing
that leaves the face with the livid, living scar.

Bones of innocence sacrificed to wild Cain
when he would not heed the calls, the dance
to free his element to quash starbright pain.

But it is not for a savage, smoldering char
I covet that brutal element of fabled Cain—
but for rough young knuckles, an old scar…

I covet for green infant hills, driftless dells
of the once denuded face of reef born stone.
Old growth taken, graceful giants all felled.

My bruised knuckles of wilderness untried,
unlike those legends that for millennia stand,
they, tried by fire and found worthy. So I cry.

Cain, like you, I too covet. What I covet…
naught by fresh, healing torrents: The Rain.

 

[Darkkin]

Call the Name of the Harbinger

Starbright blaze dances as it consumes
acre upon acre of weathered woodland
skies smeared by smoke, sulfur spume.

Above it all, he lords in turreted heights,
captive bound in the zephyr born maps
of the cumulonimbus crowned in white.

Harbinger, once cloven and bihorned—
he of darkest sin and covetous heart,
whose freedom came with bones torn.

His prison an ageless evergreen tree
whose, pith, pitch, and pulp bound
a beast by his horns, unable to flee…

Steadfast held the rings, grown true
so they kept him, a lover’s embrace
as worn night ceded to dawning blue.

And for Harbinger dawn was doom,
that starbright trace across his hide
would turn him to a cindered plume.

The great beast, the Bicorn bound—
sides lathered in muck sweat and
rank with fear, slid to the ground.

Each, hitched and panicked breath
might be the last, that final draw—
for he knew light brought his death.

But as night’s cloak finally broke
o’erhead a wind stirred, stretched
a billow of cloud, old gods awoke.

A veil, fell on the air of fresh dawn,
deepest shades of a blooming storm
gave new hope to the demon spawn.

To cloven splays, Harbinger surged.
Against his twined, twin golden horns,
he fought, a fear driven rage to purge.

Bicorn bound, held captive by a horn,
rammed into the heart of that old tree—
from the wood it would never be torn.

Harbinger, cloven hooves braced wide,
fear of Ebb clutched tight to his heart,
reared, threw all his weight to the side.

 

[Darkkin]

Hunter of the Unicorn

Lion Rampant let the preconceived rage soar,
by the laws of mortals, arbitrary flotsam said:
Fate of Cain: Imprisonment or Death’s Door.

Lion risen, judgement cast in wings of stone,
strong, unyielding, a bitter face, marble cold.
Yet there is a lesson told in a shattered bone.

For it was by the sacrificed of bloody bone,
a clever war lord was unleashed once again,
fleet feet that easily evaded the lion of stone.

Lion Rampant, two steps behind at the tree—
in a grove of ageless redwoods fire scarred,
a trail taken by fire, by coveted rain freed.

Unicorn broken away, loosed from a past,
never to be undone, that blood debt taken.
And for those crimes, Cain was iron cast.

Yet by haphazard fate the hunter was now
the hunted—denizen of the race extinction
sought to take. No quarter at Aslan’s How.

So time marked by the drubs of his heart,
Cain took to his heels. Two feet touched,
three feet gathered, stole a slim head start.

Fleet feet through the ashes and rain tore,
cinders, about his shoulders marked him,
a cloak of sin, a veil he henceforth wore.

Stains of Death upon sundered bones,
Cain the Covetous, Dark Unicorn flee
the Hunter, Lion cast in Living Stone.

 

[Darkkin]

Breach in the Nimbostratus Breakers

The surface was perfect, no ripple to disturb or mar
but beneath the unbreakable barrier it now appeared,
knobbled and gnarled, enrobed in old barnacle scars

One of the last and greatest beasts of old mariner lore,
breached the nimbostratus breakers that billowed there
beneath that curiously small interdimensional trapdoor.

Like Alice’s sneak peek through the keyhole, two eyes
saw there was more than meets the eye, she truly knew
the barrier, the stillness of the breaching beast were lies.

As if in reply, the wind with its load of waves and cloud,
drew a deep breath and rushed with all its fabled might
at the barrier that held it down. Breach it, dream aloud!

Whimsy wake, take wing. Sail on a song. Whale sing!
And from the heart of the nimbostratus breaker it woke,
the Humpback: Breacher of the Sixth Impossible Thing.

Water and wind in a breakers’ foam swallowed the sky,
feet lifted free, torrent swept, taken in an elemental rush
to the world where the sky was sea and the whales fly.

Through and away, fall down to reach high, catch hold
of a lost unicorn’s billowing mane, dare to climb astride—
and ride fast and hard, dive into the breakers’ biting cold.

Breacher holds the leading edge of a torrent, storm borne,
as he leaps free, pale belly a snowy slope in sweet indigo—
Nimbostratus waves lift the rider astride the wild unicorn.

Cloven splays hold the waves and climb as they break.
Onward, upward into the deepest folds of cobalt blue,
as the humpback cleaves a pathway, so much at stake.

Ageless maples like coral glow in the faded twilight,
golden aspens as the sea lilies, flutter, flex and flow
on the currents the bear the rider, violet eyes bright…

Livid white ‘n sour old smiths vivid in apple crisp air,
as a reef of trees, in the finest robes of autumn, rippled,
bore witness as the Breacher fell, caused reality to tear.

Like fresh, pressed parchment it split, a concise line.
Water, wind, whale, wild unicorn in a chaotic whirl—
Plunge, fold into of Nowhere, where lava stars shine.

Through pages, gleaned words, borrowed punctuation,
laid the passage forward, word by word, prose flows—
inky and deep as night, that molten, fluid foundation.

Fire in the water, stars swallowed by billowed seas,
chase the Breacher Whale, trace the breakers’ wake
as the Song of the Nimbostratus Whale wheels free.

Through the icy soul of the maelstrom once more
she rides, safe astride the fugitive sought by Nine,
Violet Bright on a journey to the Nowhere Shore.

 

[Darkkin]

Waterfall of the Fireflies

All seas have a source, dew drop to fierce tide—
So it is to the start of the Firefly tide, she goes,
Small Violet Bright, upon the Harbinger rides.

Jagged scars of fossilled stone, sundered land
cedes to the cold blood of the riptide’s thrall,
a place of start and end, and here she stands—

Astride the cursed beast, his face as scarred
as those limestone cliffs riddled with bones,
the uncatchable unicorn so horribly marred.

Fingers of wind, tangle in mane and spume,
lifts the stargilt mass clutched by thin fingers,
battle standard, Small Violet Bright in bloom.

 

[Darkkin]

Riding to Fall

The edge of the world looms, plunges away
a blade of lost prehistoric monsters interred—
a place where Violet Bright should not stay.

Old, scarred Cain glanced back at his rider,
saw the manic light in her shadowless eyes,
and leapt, splays steady as a water strider.

Spume plumed, bloomed in a gossamer veil
as that wily old unicorn began to race, follow
the passage revealed by the breaching whale.

Neither had knowledge of the perilous path…
but over the edge was the only was forward
it was a leap of faith, free of the lion’s wrath.

Off the cleave they went, Violet held tight—
sleek to the neck of her fleet footed friend.
Toes led, traced the passage of firefly light.

The deep throated call of that Tide roared,
as one Small Bright of those Strangeways
plunged into the storm surge and soared—

A Dodo’s Flight onto fabled Sea Upon Sky,
Cain’s hooves, sang, hammered those stars,
Violet, aglow amongst a torrent of fireflies—

And there, Beacon of the East, the Fox Star!
Little girl, limpet hung, rode neck or nothing,
Turtle’s light a kiss upon Cain’s lovely mar.

But why was she back, the question loomed,
for there was always a reason, always a need,
even as Violet pondered, fresh terror bloomed.

A wave as icy as Toxic’s Touch raced Cain,
the stallion, fleet feet in a game of Catchme—
Castme…Comeandgone…the bicorn slain.

Knees and toe and fingers, touched, held
as she dared to glance back at the source
of the fright, Lore, the Hound once felled.

And in his jaws gently held a white rabbit,
its eyes a tenebrous flood of untold fright,
a rabbit, Violet knew from her Alice habit.