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The PRIeSTS OF ChILON CASTLe
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Published 27/9/15. A dark tale in an unknown land.
Darkness quietly slides into the room As the sun falls away Each object covered in paralyzing gloom By the end of the day. Within its crumbling confines, flowers rarely bloom And every crevice predicts unsightly doom.
Grim warrior priests here reside Within Chilon’s high walls, glowering Over the valleys where timorous peasants hide Where wheat grows in contrary abundance, towering
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Trees softly move from side to side Like flotsam in a powerful tide.
Seduced by thoughts of death The sweet call of violence The priests would ride throughout the land’s breadth Killing in awesome silence. Unable, even if they wished, to quench Their terrible lust; driven by its very stench.
The courageous Sir Lewis rode out With a thousand men on a cold autumn dayA thousand determined men, riding stout Armoured horses, dappled and grey. Sighting the enemy, Sir Lewis emitted a fearful shout. He ordered a charge, turning his snorting stead about.
Metal shrilly jarred on metal Sword clashed loudly with sword, The air refused to settle Blood pumped and soared Each warrior proved his mettle On the field dripping with guts and gristle . As crows circled the battlefield Seven valiant men remained Refusing to yield They prepared to die where they stood
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Ready to spill what they themselves had spilled As the dark priests around them milled.
The High Priest raised his hand Throwing emerald dust into the air, Inflicting tiredness on the warriors, they could not stand, Falling where they were, Their blood-soaked armour covering the rain-drenched land, So slept the meagre band.
Looming ramparts, huge oaken gates Behind which the black-robed priests abide Lingering over a multitude of fates: Chilon Castle, its seven towers with seven prisoners inside, Waiting as time and glory abates, Withered white hands clutching at taunting grates.
Fed on broth and bread, Sitting madly in the shadows Lice nestled in each head Like eager sheep in drying meadows. Neither really alive nor quite deadMouse droppings and dirt for a bed.
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Beyond the castle wall the resonating tide Rumbles, scrambling across the beach As ocean waves collide Against broken cliffs. Their vast ambitious reach Stretches near and wide Falling where unused fishing boats ride. AA
In the seventh year the priests prepared A brick-built six foot high altar on the keep’s top By whistling winds tormented Ravaged by sleet that would not stop Extolling their gods to descend And bring all life to a satisfying end.
Each night they prayed, bellowing incantations At the drifting moon. Lighting incense fuelled conflagrations With pipes and cymbals playing a clamorous tune Darkness igniting their dark imaginations As they deeply pondered their death-ridden creations.
All gods are demons intent On enslaving human minds In ways subtle; apparently beneficent,
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Their eloquence binds. More beautiful than art They rip a soul apart.
At the end of that seventh year They led Sir Lewis into the keep Covered in soiled rags, his fear Concealed by his spirit. Too hungry to weep He covered each unwrapt tear As he drew near.
Thrown and spread-eagled On the altar, limbs tied to its sides, While the High Priest inveigled His gods, and all other creeping forces besides: Their sulphuric essence mingled With the priest’s tortuous fate. Monotonously he demanded
They take his offering as he Plunged a knife into Sir Lewis’s neck, Sawing vigorously until the head was free. With a spurt of thin blood, with a bloody jerk The old man’s head bounced fitfully Coming to a rest gradually.
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By the morning, the whiteness of Sir Lewis’s skull Reflected the sunA gleaming invite into hell Turning whiteness into dun. Flesh rendered, sans eyes and lips, the castle bell Tolled darkly what it was terrible to tell.
At the beginning of each year Storms raging across the supine land A prisoner, draped in black, trying grimly to control his fear, Is escorted from his cell to stand Still shivering, before the early sky clear On a day both cool and drear.
In a moment, winds howling, rain falling, Mouth open in briefly felt horror His head unloosed is tumbling Over moss-lined rock, to burrow Into the shadows. The High Priest fumbling Retrieves it swiftly from the glooming
Placing it on a spike on the castle wall Blood creeping over the stone,
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To the raven’s insidious call And the vultures repetitive moan, The priest, his arms up in supplication, welcomes fluttering raptors all To feast on another fool.
On the gloomy precipice, governed by angry gods, Each year a severed head Was displayed amongst blood-grained sods Gratifying these priests who adored the dead. A shrivelled servant the remaining victims teases and prods. In his cell, in soporific dejection, Sir Geoffrey sleepily nods.
That year a famine came, thousands died. As the trees withered, armies into the valley surged, Women suffered, villages were razed, men cried, Devastation as far as they could see, plaintive cries everywhere heard, New born babies plucked and friedThe gods make suffer whom the gods deride.
Again and again, the High Priest led out his men With shrieking eyes and tongues, riding ferocious horses, Returning each time with half again Ravaged by the innumerable forces Emerging from the sallow half-light of mountain,
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Northern marsh, gloating forest and malodorous fen.
Setting up ballistae and rams the growing host Gathered around Chilon’s crumbling walls Surveying the hopeless scene, their leader made the boast That they would have victory when the last deer calls, Well before the snow turns to frost Before the year’s light is lost.
A month the leader waited, knowing hunger Was more effective than arrows Fired against the forbidding walls. The longer His shivering men waited in the cold snow showers, The closer came the point they could rip asunder The huge stones, and the castle’s riches plunder.
Inside the neglected walls, the warrior priests, At length resorted to eating their dead Consuming ten at a time in weekly feasts First hands, feet and lastly the head Roasting or boiling them as if they were beasts From the enveloping forests.
Soon only thirty remained to defend
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The expansive walls. And yet, the High Priest refused To surrender. They must fight until the very end, Die like heroes, he raucously enthused, Their legends to tend. Their honour, such as it was, to defend.
The following morning, as the bleak sun rose, Starving, he died, reduced to bone. His remaining men, devouring his blackened toes, As an aperitif, quietly ate his thighs, then with a sharp stone Cracked his femurs, and with a final thunderous blow Exposed the marrow
Whipped by the cold air, they went mad the next day Howling like demented trolls, rolling around Consumed by imaginary flame, tossed hypothetically every way. All the while, uttering a hideous sound, Urged by unseen demons to attack and slay Neighbours and friends. In the midst of gore they pray.
“I believe we have won.� The leader dryly observed Motioning his relieved force to advance, Enthused to achieve the victory they deserved, Gathering bow, sword, shield, spear, axe and lance
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Creeping steadfastly forward they swerved The assault of expected missiles-which never occurred.
Reaching the walls, shields raised, they hesitated, Searching the parapets for life. None was there! Not a head! Not a weapon showed on that frost saturated Day, the mountains covered with snow, forbidding and bare. With a howl, the army scrambled Up the walls, while rams the splintering gates pounded.
Tossed over the walls, the priests’ ravaged corpses Lay broken on the rocks below. Amused, ascending to the highest tower, the leader pauses Watching the evening sun’s mournful glow Shedding its final daily rays on dystopias Initiated by a thousand real and imagined causes.
Gold and jewels were gathered in gleaming piles Luxurious tapestry stacked high Silver and bronze cups, richly decorated tiles, Were flung together, uneven mounds against the blackening sky, Bundled onto carts arranged in seven files A bountiful testimony to the gloating leaders manifold wiles.
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By morning they were gone. Flames grasped the cracked stones Like specks caught by the sun The land shaken by fiery moans. Their history done The priests in death are one.
One by one, to the earth The towers crashed with punishing sighs All ground up in the turf, As when a lingering dream dies, Or when a celestial birth Is soiled by a divine death.
For several years undisturbed The ruins lay, half sunken in the ground The country long cursed With barely a footstep heard, all sound Into hell and beyond dispersed The good conjoined with the worst.
One man only, a raddled, ancient priest, Who survived half-naked in a cave, Each day scuttled around the ruin like a scavenging pest
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Clambering over an untended grave. He poked and probed without restA furtive skeleton covered with skin, too driven to resist.
Often, he’d disappear into the remains Of a tower, a sack in his hand, In summer sunshine or winter rains A strange, frightening shadow in the land. At evening, as mists roll over in endless chains Of silvery dust, he emerges, cantering back down the lanes
His sack now empty, saliva dripping from his jaw, Gibbering and snarling, he’d crash Through the forest taunted by jackdaw Watching from the branches, and dash Into the caves dark and odorous maw. Before an altar he’d pray. His incoherent chants would soar!
At night, in deepening darkness, he’d see floating Above him, the High Priest’s immaculate ghost, His decaying features fearful and gloating. Gesticulating at his awe-struck host, Enslaved again, no longer free, slobbering. ‘Complete the prophecy.’ The ghost demanded, his gaze withering.
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On the 7th month of the 7th year He entered the dungeon where Sir Gregory still lay Now desensitised to fear, The old soldier acknowledging death began to pray The priest grinning from ear to ear From the ruin, pulled him clear.
The signs were propitious. Overhead an eagle flew, The moon accompanied the sun Beside the ruined keep purple vines grew A fox was defecating where once a stream had run. On the altar the priest threw Sir Gregory, and from his robe a glistening knife drew.
Once more, in the flurry of leaves and rain, the ghost Appeared, emerging from the rocky shade He raised his skeletal hand allowing it to float Like vapour in the air, to burn brightly then to fade. Sir Gregory felt the spectre’s hands upon his throat Its ghastly visage seeming to gloat.
How hard the old warrior prayed as the knife rasped His dry, shrivelled flesh!
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Holding on to what remained of his life he defeated gasped, As around him the world began to crash, Colours mixed with colours, all clasped Together as time and permanence passed.
From the castle ruins each wraith strode out Heads balanced precariously on rippled necks Mouths agape but each spectral shout Vanishing into the wide universes fragile specks Of hope and horror, tossed about In equal measure, each frame seeming to melt
And failing, returning to improbable mass As each drew near, clutching weapons, shimmering and bright. Dissolving like summer-dew as each went past The prone knight overwhelmed by the ghastly sight. The High Priest’s spectre felt fear at last As they bore down on him like insidious gas.
His arms jolted, up, back and down As they milled around, his agonised features crumbled. Before the demonic ghost, the living priest’s fearful frown Became a scream. Turning to flee, he stumbled, Features contorted into the grimace of a dying clown
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As the sacrificial knife pressed down.
As the High Priest’s spectre fled the earth His succubus spontaneously joined him in hell, From which they’d emerged at birth Wrenched from the torment by a coven’s spell Given poisonous mind and breath And that love of death.
Sir Gregory’s bonds snapped Beneath him the altar crumbled away Unable to clearly see his friends, his energies sapped, He barely survived the day. A passing peasant on a wagon draped His wasted form, and to the villages through the mud slid.
On Chilton Hill the ruins now lie, barely seen Beneath a spread of trees Skilfully camouflaged by glistening coverlets of green, Whistling like the dead in each sudden breeze. Avoided by villagers, its once high towers broken And smothered by a muddy sheen.
Across the valley, on a colossal hill, was built
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A castle of rough granite. It had four towers each Two hundred feet high, with battlements covered in gilt, And soldiers armed to their gold-filled teethWho spread fear. Rivers of blood spilt Raging like glaciers as they melt.
At night the castle was covered in bats, Wolves howled in the forest, Around the castle’s ramparts strolled ebony cats Catching and gnawing on each wanton pest Trembling mice and battling rats For the coven in the vaults
Sprinkling gruesome, spittle-filled ointment On the High Priest’s discoloured bones, Bunched together in a golden fount And pounded with stones. The air became filled with a foul scent As the High Priest returned, his un-sated lust to vent.
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NO mATTeR hOw gReAT A vICTORy, NO bATTLe IS eveR TRuLy wON.