THE ELDER’S LULLABY

THE ELDER’S LULLABY, by Ngô Bình Anh Khoa, artwork by Andrea Alamanno

 

The Elder sits inside her home,

Crouched on her creaking chair–

Her figure like a vulture’s, which

Roosts by the fire there.

 

Her fingers weave some shadow plays

That dance across the room

To illustrate her whimsical song,

Whose echoes pierce the gloom.

 

Her hoarse voice stirs the dusty air

That fills the lonesome hut

Till distant noises greet her ear

And through the shadow cut.

 

The sounds of limping footsteps stop

Outside her ancient door;

At once, her song becomes a sigh

Loosed from her weary core.

 

The door’s pushed open, and a man

Invades her private space.

His silver armor’s marred by blood

While bloodless is his face.

 

Her solemn eyes of charcoal black

Turn toward the sudden guest,

Whose back bends under unseen weight,

Whose hand rests on his chest.

 

A tainted, tattered flag is clutched

Within that quivering grip.

He moves to speak, but no word leaves

His pallid, shivering lips.

 

“O valiant knight,” the Elder starts,

“You’ve braved a journey long

To reach this place that’s countless times

Slain those whose pride burned strong.

 

But those whose souls desire peace,

My forest welcomes them–

Those shackled by fatigue and loss,

By sufferings rendered numb.

 

Which one are you, o wayward knight,

A brave fool on a quest

Or a world-wearied wanderer,

Abandoned and unblessed?”

 

The gray-haired man speaks, eyes aglow,

“A wanderer I am now,

Whose kingdom is forever lost;

To no lord I am bound.”

 

Struck by her deep, discerning gaze,

The knight’s compelled to tell

The reason why he sought her out–

Why to despair he fell.

 

The man recounts in full a tale

Of treachery and deceit,

Of upheld duty, shattered vows,

Of struggle and defeat,

 

Of how some noblemen succumbed

To foreign bribes and greed,

And how his king and kin and peers

Were felled like worthless weed,

 

Of how one fatal masquerade

Killed years of hard-won peace,

And how the flood of innocent blood

Was spilled and would not cease,

 

Of how he was entrusted with

His injured pregnant queen,

To whom a makeshift burial soon

Was given, all unseen.

 

With his queen’s last command fulfilled,

He made a swift return

To find a ruin drowned in flames,

Which made his stomach churn.

 

He speaks of how, by wrath possessed,

He bathed his blade in blood

Of plundering traitors till a hill

Of mangled corpses stood.

 

He speaks of how he searched for days

For any sign of life

Beside the maggots, flies, and crows.

Sharp was grief’s twisted knife.

 

His people and his home were gone

While all their allies fled

And reveled in the hell they’d raised

Amid a sea of red.

 

Among the rubbles, only he

Survived the cowardly plot.

For years, he fought for vengeance, but

His efforts were for naught.

 

Spurned by his gods, chased like a dog,

For many months, he roamed

Till rumors of her reached his ear

And led him to her home.

 

Revenge and justice he still craves

For all the lives betrayed,

But since he’s helpless, weak, and lost,

He seeks the Elder’s aid.

 

The Elder ponders every word

As somber silence reigns;

Then tenderly, her verdict rings,

“I recognize your pain.

 

But my aid has a price: your soul

Removed from Heaven’s grace–

Tormented evermore within

Damnation’s cruel embrace.

 

Is such a wretched end what one’s

Immortal soul yearns for?

Dear child, it’s not too late to leave;

Wide open is my door.”

 

The knight beholds his gentle host,

And nothing more is said.

The look on his gaunt face is one

Worn by the hollowed dead.

 

“Then come to me,” the Elder breathes,

“Place your head on my lap.”

He does as told, much like a child

Soothed in his mother’s grasp.

 

The Elder’s voice conceives a song–

Her lullaby of old,

Whose mystic lyrics from her lips

Melodically unfold.

 

This song she’s sung for centuries–

A poison and a balm–

Both comforts and condemns a soul

Unto a fleeting calm.

 

The spell of her primeval tongue

Enshrouds the kneeling knight.

In her cold arms, his form grows lax,

And hazy is his sight.

 

The words whose meanings he knows not

Eclipse his tortured mind.

The stiffness of his being fades,

And respite he soon finds.

 

“You’ve done your best, dear child, so rest.

For now, let your pain cease.”

He heeds the Elder’s soft command

And shuts his eyes, at peace.

 

The fire roars, the darkness writhes,

The Elder’s shadows spread

To bring a plague that haunts her prey

Till all their blood is bled.

 

________________________________________

Ngo Binh Anh Khoa is a teacher of English in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. In his free time, he enjoys reading fiction and writing poetry for entertainment. His speculative poems have previously appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, Star*Line, and other venues.

 

Andrea Alemanno  is a compulsive illustrator  who fills the line spacing, preferably at 300 dpi.
He’s  from Italy and loves to move into a new city searching for inspiration. In every city,  he constantly keeps drawing.  Now, 3 decades later (and a little bit more), he is  still drawing and learning something new everyday.  He loves the traditional touch into a digital tools world so uses pencil, ink and digital colors to give life to his artwork.  Sometimes he shares his knowledge with wannabe illustrators.  His work has been selected for several awards and he’s currently working for Italian and international publishers.