This is one of the Types of Poetry. A 2,500 word, epic poem (*) about magic, evil and faith.
Duchess of Denmark
by
Richard A. McCullough
Types of Poetry
Duchess of Denmark robes flailing in lamplight high above the gate of her castle. Lamplight along the castle walls. The old steps weep dew and cry clammy droplets against the slow, slow wind, of moving clouds stretched out thin and close to the ground whispering like a blanket, to the far off mountains drawn up across the valley. From the foot of her bed, the sea grows quiet and gives up her moist comforter.
The Duchess stands like a turret a strand of damp hair hanging out from the shadows of her cowl. Types of Poetry Her robes hang in straight folds from her shoulders and sway imperceptibly about the cold stone where she stands damp clinging to the hem, gathering dust. Types of Poetry A copper hammered horn sounds dull and disappears. Sounds sudden, in the thick air. She waits. The shadowed cowl * points towards the sea. That's where they'll be coming from.
* * * Types of Poetry The fog has thickened to clouds in their mouths, men, her father's warriors, stand huddled wrapped and dripping about small oily fires that hiss and smoke from the damp air. Polished steel glimmers, dull through the fog winking in ripples, dents of battles hammered out crashed and beaten again. Types of Poetry 'They're strong men,' she knows. Fearless warriors of many battles used to waiting disciplined to stand for hours and days, waiting poised and ready but in silence. However, they are fearful this night they feel the presence of something that no mere sword can slay. No mere shield defend against.
Their arms and legs and torsos drawn tight skin stretched over muscles on muscles. Big men, who spit on graves curse the holy men laugh at death drink deep from their cups and are always ready to stand alone.
But tonight, they cluster in huddled groups darting their eyes about like frightened little boys shivering against the fear of shadows.
The Duchess does not think of them, she too knows, their weapons will be useless.
* * * Types of Poetry The horn had long ago sounded the middle of the night the air had turned crisp forcing the fog down close against the ground it lays like a billowed blanket against the walls of the castle.
The Duchess had decided, had looked out with the eye and felt the presence, still far out but coming fast. She knew that she must meet it far up in its element.
Silently she drew her robes closer still about her. And gliding unseen to the massive oak door; that guarded the narrow stone steps up to the tower, winding slowly in the darkness she used the sight. Only sparingly to see her way, least she fall. The sight was precious and though she could not use it up the presence of it would be felt by the men and their minds were already troubled enough. It was best they be not further frightened.
* * * Types of Poetry Now she stands tired from waiting head bowed in silent listening. 'Turn the eye within to rest.'
She leans her slender frame against the walls of the turret.
Fresh moonlight cold and clear cuts sharp shadows through the arches of the tower openings one for each direction.
The stone roof has stopped dripping
The moon is almost full bouncing sharply up from the back of the fog bank casting eerie shadows in the crisp cool air.
* * * Types of Poetry Finally just before moonset her eyes gone dry cold in the waiting, she sees it.
A glimmer of blackness against the backdrop of cool gray blue.
The speck is slowly growing.
She lifts her face tired and stiff muscles tense and then relax again like a cat waking.
She raises her arms and the robes sway releasing tiny droplets of dew about the stone where she stands.
The speck she watches, to see what shape, this thing will be what form it will take what visage to frighten her to shake her with its face. Demons from her dreams or will it show its own hideous unmasked features. Gradually it forms its shape now like a moth, far off indicating its size to be very large.
Now like a bird coming fast and straight towards her it grows. She can feel its cold empty motionless wind, the space of a vacuum sucking the hearts of men in its passing.
* * * Types of Poetry A cry from the court yard the sound of gruff voices barking at their fear. Feet running the clank of swords in their scabbards thudding at the sides and about the legs of running men.
Torches hissing in oily smoke passed about as brave men take their posts.
A growl of anger down on the wall below her.
Someone has recognized the coming shape for what it is.
But the voice, he said his prayers hurriedly and crossed his chest. He knows his mere steel is no match for this visage. But he draws it just the same vowing in his guard house language that he'll pluck the eyes of this enemy.
* * * Types of Poetry The Duchess has dropped her cowl and tucked the one loose auburn strand back amongst the others.
Her right hand slips beneath her robes and fastens the fingers about the crystal. She can feel its warm eye winking, slowly as she cradles it with her hand drawing power from one another. Her frame grows tense and light. The visage can now be seen; as a winged horseman.
* * * Types of Poetry The black stallion flailing its hooves, through the cold air in powerful strides, that blank out the stars leaving a powderless dust, of steam in its wake.
Huge black wings reach out behind the riders legs slowly beating, against the night air.
Nostrils flared billowing steamy puffs, of heavy breathing. Onward and closing still charges this stallion. Beyond the speed of its own endurance eyes red in glazed madness. Leather gray, against its sweat damp blackness. Froth about its red mouth and along the lines of leather, that the rider has woven, about this beast.
* * * Types of Poetry The Duchess can see the rider now. Empty cowl, filled with black night looks straight at her. Empty sleeves of black. Billowus robes flail about and stream beating back from the shape of the thing within. Black boots shimmer in the moon light cruel spurs spinning and lashing digging endlessly into the red dripping flesh of its fear crazed beast.
* * * Types of Poetry The Duchess watches and feels the cold breath darkness pressing, against her robes then slowly like fingers of ice passing through the fabrics through her skin to her very bones.
The crystal pulses breathing heavily in her pocket.
* * * Types of Poetry The rider, now blocks out the sky. She can hear the frantic beast heaving with all its strength hear its big heart boiling pulsing its black blood life through cold veins. Closer and closer still, until it would seem bent upon its own destruction against the walls of the tower.
But she knows this thing knows it is too smart to dash itself against the rocks like driftwood.
* * *
The men wail below and some brave soul barks for attention.
"Stand brave you bastards or this sword of mine will slice the bones of your backs. "If you fear - that demon will devour your soul from out your filthy bodies. SILENCE NOW!"
'Brave man', she thought. 'But mortal bravery will not win out against this visage of darkness.'
* * *
At the last instant the black rider hauls back on the reins of the beast pulling its head so hard the wild eyes bulge and spurt blood.
Skidding through moonlight hooves plowing against the sky sliding through the gossamer black the beast explodes. Its ashes falling slowly circling covering the shoulders below.
"QUICK", one shouted "Get that off you least you'll be the next beast of burden for that black thing."
* * * Types of Poetry The ashes fell and there in all consuming blackness like a hole yawning into nothing stood the thing itself. That void so complete it sucked away all light about it. Still in its cloak it slowly settled to just above the stone floor hovering there.
All consuming blackness. The bottomless void of fear itself. About to show its face. About to claim another soul.
* * *
"To what do I owe this honor?" Said the Duchess. "To receive a visit from YOU yourself. Why didn't you send a mere messenger? Or is that all you are, just a messenger, to be cast aside with a blink and a wave of my hand?"
* * *
The blackness spoke its robes waved and sucked the light from the moon. The pale shadows near it became black like holes.
The robes moved, but melted to black expanse itself. There wasn't even any starlight behind it.
The space that was was blackness, that reached beyond the sky a hole that stretched out through the universe a doorway into the void a mouth with no end yawning its dark throat before her.
* * *
"COME." Its voice reaching across the universe, a cold, dry bottomless whisper. "COME, Let us not play games. I've come myself to take your soul.
So feel honored and step into my arms and join all those who have gone before you."
"You are then emptiness itself?"
"I am he."
"Then show me your face" Her fingers sweated against the pulsing crystal, hidden deep within the folds of her robe.
"Come closer," he said "I'll do one better I'll BREATHE in your face."
"SHOW ME YOUR FACE!" she shouted "I'll be sure that I am speaking to the power of the dark, not some lowly servant."
* * *
The visage raised its arms sucked the moonbeam reflections the stones disappeared the cavern pulled at her clothes and whipped with a powerful wind about her. The mouth of nothing yawned wide and growing close about her
"I am the power of nothing," said the blackness. "Come closer and I'll show you my face." The shadow crept closer drawing the black void nearer and nearer.
"STOP!" she shouted, and made the sign with her left hand.
The shadow jerked back at the sign. And out of the yawning chasm she heard the wail of faceless children, the cry of all hunger, it pulled at her robes brushed at her cheeks.
"I'll not deal with a mere servant!" she shouted. "Don't show me mere tricks show me your face, or be gone you scrap of nothing. I fear not the blackness."
The black hole of emptiness recoiled shrank back from clutching at her robes and retreated to a point then stopped and began to spread itself again.
"Ha!" it laughed, "You think I am not the Master then I will show you but you will pay. Your demand for power will earn YOU as my next winged beast. And when I leave this time I have much further to go. But I'll enjoy sitting astride your slender body spurring you on until your heart should explode.
"But no. I'll not let you go so soon. I'll press your flesh beyond your wildest dreams of endurance. Then I'll press it on again. You demand to see my face then, YOU SHALL HAVE IT!"
* * * Types of Poetry With that the empty sleeves reached up and dropped the cowl back.
The face of death itself sprang out. Consumed the world. The tower and its' dripping stone disappeared. Blackness yawned to nothing all about her then she saw the face.
The eyes of misery itself the pupils made of human suffering, the teeth dripping blood of war, and hatred shone with the bones of unborn babes, the nostrils flared with the breath of human souls, crying in and out, endless breath after endless breath. The damned crying for forgiveness too late remembering past sorrows, too late wishing for another chance to give.
The hot breath of eternity breathed its ice fire and sucked and blew away her robes and she was naked in the all pervasive presence of all that is evil.
There, not before her but within her very being separated only by a thread was the totalness of nothing breathing its breath through her and she was afraid.
* * * Types of Poetry 'Fear,' said her eye the crystal still clutched within her hand. 'Fear is the only thing that you must fear.'
The crystal became a center and she sought to pass it close to her heart. But the wind was intense and swirled about her. There was no reference as to up and down. All the wind blew out of her head.
The void was eternal the wailing of nothing. Her arms still trying to raise the stone up near her heart. Both hands now together straining to lift, what was so soon ago as light as a sparrow taking to wing, now is as a boulder hot like fire brazed steel. 'Don't drop the crystal.' said a voice within her head 'HOLD ON!'
* * *
The black void becomes colder still. Laughter like emptiness rings through her head.
Louder and louder still echoing and echoing chasms without walls. The wind blowing away sucking, away all of her that is not of the center.
* * * Types of Poetry Slowly she strains first to her waist. The scream of emptiness increases, howling louder and louder still spinning and spinning through the void. Painfully she raises the crystal to her breast then still slowly she raises it to her neck.
Laughter made of suffering, rings like bells giant bells pealing.
She is inside she is the clacker her whole being banging against the bronze that is the nothing, the ringing that is beyond sound.
She holds the crystal against her head and slowly opens her hand.
* * * Types of Poetry The soldiers found her when suddenly the door broke free and rushing big men up those tiny stairs, they found her naked and unconscious, lying against the stone like a big wind would have thrown a leaf against a wall.
Wrapping her in a cloak one of them carried her to her rooms and ordered a fire built. The physician came but said there were no wounds there was nothing he could do.
And so; the kingdom and the castle waited. Until one day in August she awakened. With a crystal pressed against her head.
THE END
(*) cowl (koul) noun 1. a. The hood or hooded robe worn especially by a monk.
(*) Epic – long narrative poem. a lengthy narrative poem in elevated language celebrating the adventures and achievements of a legendary or traditional hero, e.g. Homer's Odyssey
