Perilous Stare and Friendship Fair

 

 

Michael H. Payne

 

 

 

 

                           I

 

At dawn, I pace the floor, distraught,

Recalling dreams uncertain, fraught

With hazy figures, muffled sounds

That made me flee my sleeping grounds.

 

I wouldn’t call them nightmares quite,

But still, they strike me far from right.

Adventure’s prelude: that’s the thing

That spooky dreams will often bring.

 

Ambivalence, to put it mild,

Engulfs my thoughts. I’m often riled

By ventures wild. It’s true I’ll brew

A helpful potion, maybe two,

 

And offer such to those who seek

The thrill of danger. Call me weak,

But nothing good has yet occurred

Whenever mine’s the hoof that’s stirred

 

To crash and tumble, run about,

Engage in action, fight it out.

So now with morning coming on,

My thoughts are gloomy, woebegone—

 

Until a voice I surely know

Resounds as clear as sunup’s glow:

“Ms. Zarayeb? Are you awake? I’ve been out in the Tanglewood trying to find her, and then I thought maybe it takes one magical being to find another! So I thought of you, because what’s more magical than a unicorn?”

 

 

                      II

 

Mundane, the speech is lacking rhyme

And magic’s rhythm, not sublime.

Temptation stirs. I still could run

Around the back and jettison

 

The chance to get my eyeballs pecked—

But then I’d lose my self-respect…

My horn aglow, I step outside,

Though every fiber urges Hide!

 

A human’s slipped within my gate,

Bedraggled, worn, in sorry state:

“Please, Ms. Zarayeb! It’s me, Darla Drake. I’ve been to all your classes at the Academy. They’re the best. You’re brilliant, so I just hoped…”

 

When solitude begins to cloy,

In truth, I let the school employ

My services to teach the craft

Of mixing magic potions’ draft.

 

Recalling Darla, smiling, smart

But standing shy, a bit apart,

I also know she’s learned them well,

The arcane ways of brew and spell.

 

I gesture, bow, invite her in,

Abandon peace with sad chagrin.

“I’ll brew some tea, we’ll break our fast,

You’ll share your hectic recent past.”

 

 

                       III

 

Beside the table, face in hands,

Her sigh of misery expands.

“Ms. Zarayeb, it’s my good friend Susan. She’s gone! I can’t find her anywhere. And I can’t ask anyone for help because they all believe the legends about cockatrices!”

 

A cockatrice. I nod. Of course.

Foreboding swirls to stormy force.

How well I know when monsters call,

It’s not by halves: it’s full and all.

 

Except—unless I heard it wrong—

A word that slipped among that throng…

“Excuse me, please. You can’t pretend

You’d call a cockatrice a friend?”

 

Her nodding head and flashing eyes

Deny my hope of false surmise.

“And why not, Ms. Zarayeb? She can turn a stony stare when she wishes, sure, but she’s got feelings deep and true as the rest of us.”

 

Misgiving floods me mane to shoes;

I sigh and know I shan’t refuse.

The kettle’s whistle startles me

From monsters back to thoughts of tea.

 

Despite it all, I start my task

Of pouring fragrant tea and ask,

“You’ve known this creature moons by now,

And yet you’re not a statue. How?”

 

 

                          IV

 

The gentle sigh she then emits

Divides the steamy cloud that flits

Above her cup. It swirls about

But carries not a scent of doubt.

 

“Ms. Zarayeb, cockatrices are quite sweet when other creatures respect their ground. I just stayed gentle and shared my heart, and now, we’re seldom apart. But if she’s lost her way in the Tanglewood, I just don’t know how I can help her…”

 

I think I’ve got it, then, the path

That spins away from monsters’ wrath,

That lets me stay at home instead

Of stumbling forth to join the dead.

 

“Convince me, child, you lack for skill,

Befriending beasts whose gaze can kill.

Behold the fruits your work has earned,

The truths that only you’ve discerned.

 

“Your friend’s perhaps in danger, so

I’ll brew you something sure to show

Direction, speed, the way she went!

But go with no impediment!”

 

It doesn’t work. Her hands have clasped;

With magic flare, her voice has gasped,

“I knew you’d help! With you around,

My darling Susan’s good as found!”

 

 

                          V

 

So sighing soft and all agog,

I find myself commenced to slog

Through bosky dells on Darla’s track,

My trauma kit across my back.

 

With optimism, Darla strides

Behind, ahead, around the sides.

“The trail starts from my study in the ruins of Castle Ruddigore! It’s far from town and peaceful, and in the fair side of the Tanglewood.”

 

The rustling branches seem to laugh,

A sound that writes my epitaph.

The Tanglewood is always quick

To welcome each defenseless chick…

 

She talks until our wandering march

Reveals ahead the castle’s arch.

But Darla’s waving arms upset

A flock of vulturines, a threat.

 

“Oh, Ms. Zarayeb! Vulturines! My professor says they’re carnivorous but let’s see if they’d like some fruit!”

Their brandished talons don’t allow

Discussion time: I grab her now!

 

Their swirling, orange, deadly flight

Confers a certain, urgent fright.

With Darla pushed behind a tree,

I pose another target: me.

 

 

                       VI

 

My trauma kit’s, of course, prepared,

A vial smashed, a potion aired

That wafts a bitter scent about.

They flap off hacking, quite put out.

 

“Awareness, Darla, please, is all

I ask you, lest the worst befall

And spin us out a tragic end

Without a hope to help your friend!”

 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Zarayeb! I’m just always excited to learn new things! It’s all so amazing, so magical. I want to understand it all…”

And now I feel a smile emerge

Because I know that very urge.

 

“But wisdom needs to guide our course:

Delight and caution can’t divorce.”

“You’re right, oh wise Ms. Zarayeb! I tiptoed quite gently and circumspectly when Susan and I first met.”

 

Across the courtyard, up the stair,

Amid the castle’s quiet air,

We enter prismed streams of light,

Unbroken windows shining bright.

 

“Here we are! People say the castle’s filled with ghosts, but Susan and I have never felt spooked.  Although… the rooms are always swept and fresh, the greenhouse glass shining, the plants watered.”

Within, mosaiced columns soar,

Enclosing dreams from wall to floor.

 

 

                        VII

 

Aromas drift and strike me odd:

A mix of bird and snake and sod…

“A greenhouse, Darla, did you say?”

She blinks but turns and leads the way.

 

We reach a space where, growing free,

A frond’s a bush, a bush a tree.

“Within this place, I’ve fair well guessed,

Resides your Susan and her nest.”

 

She doesn’t shout, I’ll give her that,

But drops beside me, almost flat.

“Impossible, Ms. Zarayeb! Susan wouldn’t need a nest: she hasn’t got a mate!”

 

“I ask you please, be still and calm,

And view this news as less a bomb

And more a tribute, honest praise,

For how you’ve brightened Susan’s days.

 

“I’ll say it plain and say it true:

Her chosen mate, in fact, is you.

She knows you patient, knows you kind,

Expects your lives are intertwined.

 

“Her instincts cause the current state

Where you’re her guard and trusted mate.

Propelled by cues that pass the test,

She therefore seeks to build her nest.”

 

 

                         VIII

 

A sudden rasping hiss. I turn.

My innards flash from cold to burn.

For Susan stands on scaly legs

Before a nest with several eggs.

 

Her blazing eyes confirm it’s true:

She’s finding something here askew.

The grave offense is doubtless me,

Arousing flames of jealousy.

 

Attempted motion prompts unease.

My body stiffens, starts to freeze.

I light my horn—at least, I try,

But everything has gone awry.

 

I’m glad that Darla doesn’t leap

Just whispers magic slow and deep.

“Relax, now, Susan. She’s a friend.

We’ll let her move and let her bend…”

 

But Susan wavers, unconvinced.

Her glare goes on, my vision minced,

Kaleidoscoping, shattered, gone—

Until I blink and stretch and yawn.

 

Before me, crooning Darla beams,

Caressing Susan’s neck, the gleams

Of malice vanished. Purrs abound,

Ensconced within a hissing sound.

 

 

                      IX

 

And there, behind her, peeking out,

I’m counting four—I want to shout—

Bespeckled eggs of jadeite hue

Aglow and tinted, sparkling blue.

 

I force my breathing not to stop,

My heart to cease its flip and flop,

My voice to whisper, eyes to blink,

My frozen mind to stir and think.

 

“This sort of egg is more than rare,

Imbued with charms beyond compare.”

“Yes Ms. Zarayeb, but they’ll never hatch. Oh Susan, I’m sorry, my friend!”

 

I reach a hoof, but then retract,

Unsure how Susan might react.

“You called her ‘friend,’ a word so kind,

And that’s the thought to keep in mind.

 

“Those eggs express her love for you,

Abiding, deep—and scarce, it’s true.

She knows they’ll never hatch, and yet?

She gives them here without regret.”

 

While Susan’s eyes remain ablaze,

A softness enters Darla’s gaze.

“Susan, you are the sweetest friend! And your eggs are beautiful! The shine, the patterns swirling…”

 

 

                       X

 

Ideas shiver, start to hatch,

Of ways to serve with some dispatch

The latent power growing here,

To find the lost and save what’s dear.

 

“Unquickened, still their magic’s strong,

Could harmonize a potions’ song…

The love and friendship each contains

Would multiply a potion’s gains,

 

Intensify and build a store

Of magic never known before.

We’d only use these eggs in ways

That brighten other people’s days.”

 

Agreement’s reached. Now Darla sets

My potions down in planned rosettes

Around the eggs while Susan glares,

Providing strength no other shares.

 

This creature feared from earth to sky

Becomes through kindness partly shy.

But still, those stony-eyes will haunt

Ferocious dreams beyond this jaunt.

 

From future journeys lacking sense,

Protect me, Hoof of Providence!

I go to light the cauldron fire,

A magic brew my sole desire.