AK MULFORD
Copyright © 2021 by AK Mulford
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Bianca Bordianu, www.bbordianudesign.com
Tomymom.Thankyouforalwaystellingthatlittlegirlwiththe notebooksfullofstoriesthatonedayyouwouldbeholdingher publishedbook!
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CONTENTS
The Witch of Crimson Arrows
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author Acknowledgments
C H A P T E R O N E
black cat wove around her legs. Remy released a longsuffering sigh. Now the entire tavern would know she was a witch.
A glass shattered on the floor behind her as two tavern patrons pulled daggers on each other. The sounds of their drunken brawl echoed through the room. Remy didn’t even flinch. With her weathered brown boot, she shooed the cat away. She did not fear daggers or tavern spiders or the anger of drunken men. She feared being seen. For if any one of these tavern patrons knew she was a red witch, they would all be clambering over each other to cut off her head.
How many gold coins was the Northern King paying for red witch heads these days?
She set down another heavy wooden chair in the Rusty Hatchet tavern. The smell of dirt and stale beer swirled around her. It was the smell she knew as home. A handful of other tavern workers dotted about, readying for the evening rush of locals who would flock to the tavern for its strong drinks and spiced meats.
Remy swept up after the slow trickle of midday travelers. She stole a sidelong glance toward the bar, where two of the tavern’s courtesans sat, bored. Josephine and Sabine chattered away to the barman, who was listening, doe-eyed, entrapped by their beauty.
Remy looked with jealousy at their delicate embroidered dresses that flaunted their figures. She wished she could wear those beaded
necklaces and teardrop earrings, wished her guardian, Heather, would let her paint her face and line her eyes with kohl. She wished she could stand out, but that was, in fact, the opposite of what they wanted with their constant efforts to keep Remy hidden. Soot stained her warm brown skin. She tied her loose black curls in a messy low bun and kept her whole demeanor intentionally unremarkable.
Swapping out the full bucket with an empty one, Remy looked up at the droplets leaking from the thatched roof. Despite its rundown appearance, the Rusty Hatchet was far better than the last tavern. Remy and her brown witch companions had been at the Rusty Hatchet for nearly a year, and it was the best tavern they had worked at in a long time.
Taverns were the only places left that would hire witches anymore. Heather insisted they move taverns every three years. They kept funneling themselves along the chain of backcountry taverns along the foothills of the High Mountains. Remy tried to convince her guardian that the ones closer to the Western Court coast would be nicer. Heather insisted that the ones closer to town would have more fae customers and it wouldn’t be worth the risk.
In their realm, fae were at the top, ruling each of the five courts of Okrith . . . well, four courts now that the High Mountain Court had fallen to the Northern Court King.
An energetic voice piped up from behind her. “Scrubbing pans or scrubbing sheets?”
She looked over her shoulder. Fenrin was the same age as Remy. She had known him since they were twelve. He was an orphaned brown witch. Both Heather and Fenrin were brown witches, the coven native to the Western Court. Heather had found Fenrin living on the streets and offered him temporary shelter. But now, seven years later, he was an inextricable part of their makeshift family.
Fenrin was tall enough to draw attention in a crowd. Eating twice as much as Heather and Remy combined, he couldn’t seem to gain an ounce of weight. Built like a stork, he was still impressively strong despite his lean limbs. He had a mop of straw-colored hair and ocean blue eyes.
“I’ll serve the food.” Remy craned her neck up to him.
“There’s lots of folks from out of town here tonight,” Fenrin said. “Better to work in the back.”
Remy’s shoulders drooped as she dusted her hands down her cream-colored apron. She once would have argued with Fenrin about staying hidden, but she didn’t anymore. The likelihood of one of those travelers being a witch hunter was slim—that was the benefit of living in seedy little villages, but Remy listened to Fenrin. She had made so many mistakes over the years. Mistakes that had them fleeing towns in the middle of the night, and all to protect Remy’s secret: she was a red witch.
When King Vostemur of the Northern Court slaughtered the High Mountain fae, he also slaughtered the native coven of red witches. The witches scattered across the courts, driven into hiding to avoid the witch hunters, who made a living off the witch heads they brought to the Northern King. So few red witches remained now, the only ones she knew of were the property of the royal fae who protected them from the Northern King’s wrath, but the free red witches were either well-hidden or dead. Remy had not heard any gossip of a witch-slaying in years. Maybe she was the only one left.
“Pans,” she said with a resigned huff. She was about to get more stains on her clothes whichever task she did. These were the choices Remy made: pans or sheets, mopping or dusting, cooking or serving.
She would rather scrub grit and grease than face whatever stained those sheets. Remy had learned more about bedroom habits from washing tavern sheets than anything Heather had ever taught her. Everything else she had learned from a cobbler’s son and the tales of courtesans, though Heather tried to keep Remy away from them. Witches needed to keep to their own.
The humans and the fae couldn’t be trusted, a fact which Heather reminded Remy of every day. There was a new hierarchy to their world. That hierarchy changed after the Siege of Yexshire, the mutinous slaughter of the entire capital city of the High Mountain Court. It happened when Remy was six. Now, red witches were at the bottom of the barrel.
“You always pick pans,” Fenrin grumbled.
Remy couldn’t help but smile. “I just know how much you love scrubbing dirty sheets, Fen.”
The roar of drunken laughter echoed through the tavern. That black cat still mewled at the witches’ feet. Fenrin frowned at the cat.
“Go harass one of the humans,” the brown witch said, rolling his eyes as he pushed open the kitchen door.
Remy rubbed an acrid balm into her sore, cracked hands. Scouring pans had left its mark. Luckily, Heather was a skilled brown witch. Remy’s guardian had a potion, elixir, or balm for every malady under the sun. Many humans would seek out Heather in secret and trade coins for her remedies. Between their tavern work and selling potions on the side, it was enough to keep their group of three afloat and pay for their frequent moves.
“Ale!” Remy heard a deep voice shout from the front of the tavern.
Matilda, the matron who owned the Rusty Hatchet, came bursting through the swinging double doors to the kitchens.
The white-haired, heavyset woman groused to herself, cursing whichever patron had screamed. She chucked a rag over her shoulder and grabbed a tray of clean, dried glasses, hefting it easily. She tilted her head to the four plated dishes on the kitchen table.
“Remy, can you give us a hand?” she asked, exasperated. “Those plates to the loud assholes in the corner booth.”
“Yes, Matilda,” Remy said.
Matilda sagged with relief, as though Remy’s response was an act of kindness and not obedience. Remy liked Matilda. She was the nicest matron Remy had met so far. Matilda gave her staff fair wages and fair breaks. Remy was off for the night after the pans, but she heard the bustle of a full tavern and decided to help, ignoring Fenrin’s warning. Staying on the good side of the tavern matron was worth the extra few minutes of work.
Remy grabbed all four plates, balancing two on her left forearm and one in each hand. Using her hip, she pushed open the wood door.
Clamorous banter and the merry tunes of a fiddle and drum greeted her. She made her way past the bar full of cheery, drunk locals. Pushing her way through the throng of standing patrons, she did not let a single pea roll off the four plates she carried. Remy had been serving boisterous crowds in taverns since she was a child. She passed the musicians, casting a sideways glance at the fiddle player. He wore a dark tunic over his broad shoulders and a cap that covered his red hair. Like most of the people in this town, he was a human, not a witch or fae. There was no visible difference between humans and witches, apart from when the witches wielded their magic. The eerie glow of magic gave them away, each radiating with the colors of their home coven: blue, green, brown, and red.
The fiddle player gave Remy a wink, a blush creeping up her neck. She was glad Heather and Fenrin had already retired to their attic room so that she could enjoy the fiddler’s attention. Though Remy had learned many times over the years that the affections of a half-intoxicated man meant nothing.
She moved toward the far corner booth below the stairs of the Rusty Hatchet. The hair on her arms stood on end. Her face chilled in an invisible breeze. A thread of power hung in the air; there was magic in the tavern tonight. With enough time and stillness she could probably discern which people they were, but Remy was too tired. She wanted to serve this table and then go to her bedroll in the attic above the stables.
The lamp that normally shined above the booth was dark. The candle on the table did not flicker with life either. The four men in the corner sat in darkness. Remy could only just make out their shapes. It was not unusual, this sitting in darkness. Many a secret deal happened in back booths. Perhaps they were politicians and thieves, or sheriffs and scoundrels. She did not care to know their business, and she would not attempt to peer under their hoods.
“Your food, gentlemen,” Remy said, serving their plates.
As she backed away from the table, a hand snaked out and encircled her wrist. A jolt of lightning buzzed through her veins at the warm touch. The man who held her wrist flipped it over and placed two silver druniin her palm.
Remy looked down to the waxing and waning moons printed on the witch coins. The currencies of Okrith were all muddled together, but each race had their preferences. Fae preferred gold pieces, humans preferred coppers, and witches traded in silver druni. Perhaps these men were witches.
“We asked for ale,” another man spoke out from under his hood. She expected a deep, gruff voice, but it was rather lighthearted for someone hiding under a hood.
Remy didn’t take her eyes off the shadowed face of the man who still held her wrist. She clenched the coins in her palm, trying to stare through the darkness to his face.
“If you want your ale, then you should tell your friend to release me so I may fetch it,” she said through gritted teeth.
The man who held her wrist leaned forward, bringing his torso more into the light. With his free hand he grabbed his hood, pulling it back to expose his angular face, golden sun-kissed skin, and wavy chestnut hair that fell into his gray eyes. He was the most handsome man Remy had ever seen. Unnaturally so. Remy’s power buzzed through her again. The magic wasn’t witches in the tavern, it was the power of a fae glamour.
Remy froze.
Before her sat a fae male glamoured as a human. Here. In the Rusty Hatchet. The humans of this town didn’t take kindly to fae being amongst them, but the humans didn’t sense magic the way that witches did. To them, these were merely human travelers and nothing more.
Remy looked to the other three hooded figures, allowing her eyes to peer deeper into the darkness. She suspected the other three must be fae too. Remy bit back the gasp that wanted to escape her throat. She schooled her face, hoping they could not scent her fear.
“Apologies,” the striking fae said, releasing her hand. “I only wanted to tell you . . .” He paused to swipe one long, tanned finger
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I.
De reade Dei is dea; en d’ ingel Joun
Stiet nêst syn bliedend lyk yn frjemde dreamen; ’t Skaed fen hjar wjukken bevet oer de streamen
Fen ’t barnend bloed det út syn boarsten roun.
En d’ Ierde, wirch, sinkt del yn slomme, omwoun
Fen bleke roazen; oer hjar diiz’ge seamen
Glûpt stil de wyn en núndret nea to neamen
Foreale lieten oan syn ljeafste, Joun.
Wé my! myn siele lústret, tear en fyn,
Hjar klearste sangen oan de ljeafste, en freget
Hjar súvre ginst, en fielt de frede as skyn....
Mar ’t bliuwt sa einleas stil, en inkeld weget
De heimige Ingel sêft hjar wjuk; de wyn
Sjongt yet omdôch syn sang, dy’t twingt en freget.
II.
Myn moarmren went’ riist dêr’t de séwyn sêft
In liet sjongt tsjin it dún, fen iivge wille,
En stiet, fen weagen skûmmich wiet omtrille,
Yn blanke rêst fen al to greatske trêft.
Sâlt waret dêr de rook fen ’t wiid; de krêft
Fen greate weagen ropt; hja rize en tille
De koppen heech en sinke; fier forsille
Rûz’t yet it wûnder fen hjar stjerliet sêft.
En fen myn toer sjuch ik de wûndre joun,
It heimich rizen fen de greate sinne
En ho’t de dei syn goud’ne krânsen woun;
Dêr sjongt de sé syn ivich liet; dêr rinne
De weagen rêd nei ’t fiere doel; dêr foun
Ik inkeld smerte en langstme.... ’k bin allinne.
Noust fier bist, ljeafste, en ik myn deistich paed
Gean yn it jounljocht fen myn langstme-tinzen, Sjongt dôch myn siele, in glânzge fûgel, finzen
Yn goud’ne kouwe, en floitet yn it skaed.
Noust fier bist, ljeafste, en oer myn blanke stinzen
De widdou Nacht hjar swarte kladen spraet,
Bin dôch myn eagen ljocht, in neiglâns, skaet
Fen ’t ljocht det delsonk efter Wester-grinzen.
As nou de joun al lûd is fen myn sangen,
Myn eagen ljocht binne yn de donkre nacht
Fen stille hope en ljeafde en great forlangen,
Hwet wielde, as skielk de goud’ne Ingle-wacht
By wyn-muzyk en wijde harpe-klangen
De ynkomst kindget fen it Dage-ljacht!
Skean foel it hjerstich jounljocht troch de twigen
En dounse spoekich oer de wiete groun;
Do is it gien. It stjerrend hôf yn ’t roun
Song sêft de wémoed fen in lêste sigen.
Nou kaem de nacht.... Om eltse roaze woun
De dead in krâns’ fen wylgjend leaf; de rigen
Fen drippende asters stiene wirch to nigen,
Wémoedich-moai, al wier hjar tier fordwoun.
Do seach ik wer ús hûs fen moarmer-stien
Blank glânzgjend ûnder reade klimmerblêdden, Dêr’t ús de dagen goud’ne feesten wiern’.
Hol klonken yn it rom porteal myn trêdden,
En ’k seach en ’k wist my iensum: dou wierst gien
En ’k wier allinne yn ’t wiid fen winter-mêdden.
V.
’t Liet wier myn maet de dûnkre rûz’ge jounen
Do’t Winter flokkend bounze op iizren doar;
De heard ljochte op yn giel en read; in gloar
Skeat oer de flier, dêr’t stille skaden rounen.
Nachts bûgden Dreamen oer myn bêd, en wounen
My núndrjend griene krânsen yn it hier;
Den wier ’t my goed ef ’t al wer Maitiid wier,
En ’k dreamde fen ús giene ljeafde-jounen.
Mar och, de dagen, wirch, lang, feal en skier!
Hjar ûren klibben oan myn klean, hja woene
Net wei fen my, hja krieten drôf en swier;
En dû wierst my ûntdreaun; myn tinzen koene
Dyn fiere dreamen net forstean; it wier
Eft ek dyn eagen ’t ljocht forlieze scoene.
’k Fiel sêft gerûs fen Maitiid yn de loften
Dy’t oanstrûst yn hjar blau en glânzgjend klaed; In jonge wyn sjongt oer myn bochtsjend paed
Det ierdich rûkt, syn earste sang-geroften.
Jong krûd ûntsprút nêst wjittrings en by ’t saed
En ’t núndret dêr fen ljochte komstge skoften;
Myn ûren gean yn bûnte blide kloften:
’k Wit hwet ûnthjit my sunich wytge waerd.
O kom, dû dy’t yn hjerst en diizger dei
Net toevje koest, nou’t wer de rizende ierde
Hjar langst en ljeafde as wûnders fiele mei!
Nim hwet dy beamte en krûd en wjitt’ring biede;
Ja, kom by my, gean njunken my de wei
Mank ’t swiete blomkjen fen de griene miede.
VII.
Stil stiet de Dei en dreamt. Hjar ivich ljocht
Leit as in barnend klaed oer boarst en hânnen; Yn dream wei sjucht hja leech de fiere strânnen
En wiid de sé, hwaens wyn hjar koelens brocht.
Den fiert in sêfte langst hjar mei; de brânnen
Fen fjûr en gloed dy’t hja it hearlikst tocht,
Hja lôgen mei to fûl, to flikkrjend ljocht:
Ho myld en koel dy djippe leeg’re lânnen!
Sa stiest ek dû yn Middei’s himel-steat:
Omlegen rûz’t myn sé hjar koele sangen
En glimket, nou’t dyn loaits hjar wiidte oerskeat—
Den lûkt it read stil oer dyn blanke wangen,
Den siichstû del—de weagen, griis en great,
Forrize yn sterktme fen hjar loks-forlangen.
Mar ek: lûd droan’t it bûtsend wiet en ’t âll’t
Fen stoarm, opkrôljend yn de kopp’ge weagen,
En ’t grize brûs stout yn stoarm’ge reagen
Oer ’t grienjend wiet, det swolmich riist en falt;
Ien sé fen stoarmge dûnkrens ’t swirk—oer al ’t
Wiid loftrom grous’me wolkens, dy’t de fleagen
Dwylsinnich, wyld fen leed, toropje, as teagen
Dead’s feinten oer it djip, det kroan’t en gâll’t.
As wiid en loft bin wy by stoarm’gens ien
Sa goed as hwen oer d’ ierde Maitiid njuentet
Skielk is de stoarm wer krêftleas lune en gien
En oer it wiet giet wer it liet, det ljuentet:
Wyls riist heech oan dyn loft in goud’ne gloed
Dy’t ljocht en laits myld oer myn weagen stjûrt.
Detst moai en foarstlik wierst, ik wist it lang
Sûnt ik dy gean seach, laitsjend mids dyn blommen; Unthjit wier my dyn wird en lok dyn kommen, Eden dyn tún mei roaze en geale-klang.
As yn dyn eagen blide dreamen glommen
En dû myn twivel naemst mei sêfte twang,
Den siet ik biddend del en wist gjin sang
Dy’t nei fortsjinst dyn rike wûnders romme.
Mar nou’st myn soargen nimst en al myn noeden
Op egen skouders draechst, sa bliid, as gjit
Dyn foet nou dêr’t hjar ljochte krêften stjûrden,
Gin det ik nou myn tankbrens rûzje lit,
Dy ivich by my hâld yn krêft’ge hoede
En troanjend nêst dyn hege ljocht-steat sit.
In bleke gloede leit oer ’t slomjend wâld,
Dêr’t sêft de jounwyn núndret, frjemd-allinne,
En ’t swijsum beamte is timplich nou’t de sinne
Fen silvren nacht riist yn hjar blank biwâld,
Dochs is hjar egen skyn mar deadsk en kâld;
Gjin weach noch beam scoe hja oerstrielje kinne
As ’t deiljocht net út d’ oerfloed fen syn minne
Hjar glâns joech, dy’t de siele yn mymring hâldt
Sa frjeonen, as der glâns is yn myn eagen
Dy’t jim bitsjoent en treastget nei de tiid
Det d’ ûren fen de dei yn fjûr forteagen,
Wit, ’t is mar liende glâns fen hjar, dy’t swiid
Myn siele wijt ta dreamen as de reagen
Bleek sigende út it fiere silvrich wiid.
Ik frij dy as de geal syn breid. Yn ’t grien
Fen ’t swijs’me wâld tiist mei syn reade reagen
It lêste ljocht om blomte en twiich; wirch fleagen
De fûgels nei hjar went’; de dei is gien.
En swijsum leit it biidzjend wâld as ien
Hwaens dreamen yn in sêfte dea forteagen;
Gjin beam forweecht, gjin jounwyn rûz’t, gjin weagen
Gean núndrjend mear, as is hjar oanstream dien.
En húvrjend sink ik del en bid de Heit,
Det Hy myn langstme it frjemde leed binimme, En ’k yngean mei ta Dyn myld-diedichheit.
Yn ienen brekt yn júbljend liet myn stimme, En ’k sjong, ik sjong dy as de geal syn breid— ’t Wâld bevet—Goades each is oer my hinne.
Ik kaem en riisde, in stjerre yn neinacht-moarn
As dizen bleek it wirge mêd oerdriuwe;
Myn glâns is klear en wyt fen dream, hjar kliuwen
Is strieljend as it stiente út kenings-kroan’.
Men wijt hjar liet en bea, en ropt hjar oan
As scoe hjar ryk de tiid dy’t fljucht oerbliuwe—
Skielk riist de Dage en oer syn haed scil wiuwe
It poarper, fâldzjend út syn goud’ne troan.
Den is myn dreame-glâns as raend en wei,
En júbljend scil dit folk in kening earje
Hwaens ljochtsjend each oerglânzget moarn en dei,
Net ien mear kin mynstjerre it paed forklearje...
Net ien as dy. Hwent heech, ús sinne ûntdreaun, Bist nei myn greatre sinne langjend kleaun.
’k Bin Boaz, geande yn ’t rike nôt, dêr’t bliid
In wyn yn núndret en de sinne oer strielet; Fier, mids in berchtme brún en driigjend, mielet
It haedljocht oer in stream syn glinstring swiid.
Stil-sjongend skrept it diigre folk mei piid: Hjar driuwt de krêft dy’t treastget en skewielet; Men meant en rispet, bynt, en ’t wirk bisielet
Ta tank oan ’t wiis biwâld yn ’t ivich wiid.
lin lynjend op myn stêf oerskôgje ik ’t lân; Sêft giet in brún fanke oan myn each foarby, In „Hear, haw heil” klinkt seinjend troch de romte.
Ho’n wielde dochs dit feest! Ho leit de brân
Fen ’t gouden ljocht oer ’t goudne nôt sa lij!
—En ’t fanke bûgt en giet mids koarn en blomte...
XIV.
Do’t d’ ierde gyng nei d’ ein en ’t lêste blêd
Bleek deldwirle oer hjar wiettich earmtlik klaed,
Biloek ús gea, ’t wâld húvre—sêft oer ’t paed
Mids dripkjend beamte gyng in frjemde trêd.
Dead’s amme loek oer ’t wâldrom gear, en têd
Joech ’t beamt him del nei d’ âlde groun, as waerd
Hjar woartel wjirm-toknage; yn ’t dompich skaed
Forstoar it biidzjende iere nôt-sie rêd.
Det seach frou Frigga drôvjend oan: hja hat
It blomte en ’t nôt en simmer’s ljochtloft djûr
En striidt tsjin dûnkrens dy’t de tier fortart—
Ho brocht hja glâns! By ’t skriemen fen Natûr
Berne ûnder loft fen griis en drouwend swart
In laitsjend famke, in stjerre yn ’t Hjerst-bistjûr.
Der gyng in feint yn wémoed d’ ierde roun.
Hy libbe yn stiltme, in prins yn ienlikheit
Dy’t inkeld God syn langst en ljeafde seit
En nea geniet noch treast fen eagen woun.
’t Beamt rûze fen syn leed; de streamen roun
Gyng sêft syn stille winsk nei d’ Ivichheit
Dy’t him hjar ljocht ûntkearde en nimmen seit
Hwerta syn lot fier fen hjar Mem-boarst woun.
Ien dei—de wyn wier moarmljend yn it reid,
De himel striele en ’t wâld hie rêstme woun,
Kaem nei him, biidzjend nêst it wide, in breid
Hwaens ljochtsjend each syn siele yn iiv’gens boun—
Ien gloed wier ’t gea, ien júbling en ien liet
By ’t sjen fen Brêgeman en Breid fen d’ ierd.
XVI.
Prinsesse fen myn keningsdream! De kroan’
Striel’t yn dyn hier, in stjerre yn jountiidsloft—
Ho ljocht dyn klaed! Ik sjuch yn iiv’ge noft
En blide tank dyn swide heech-steat oan.
Dû komst en giest stil nigend nei de troan’
Fen my, dyn foarst en tsjinner, boud. In skoft—
Den rûzet bliid in great muzyk-geroft
En fiere sang by stimm’ge oargeltoan.
Dit is dyn dei, prinsesse fen myn hert!
En hiel dit gea is júbljend fen ús sang
Nou’t foar dyn laitsjend each elts soargjen stjert.
En glimkjend sitst en tinkst en mymrest lang
Wylst hiel de wrâld ien swiet muzykjen heart
Fen mear as ierdske en ivich-tankbre klang.
Det ik dizz’ dei stil nêst dy wêze mei
En nêst dyn foet de blide tiid oertinke, Hwaens glânz’ge ûren dy yn d’ eagen blinke
Ta wytging fen in iere moarntiids-dei.
Mocht ik in ljeave ús rizend ryk ûntsinke, De fûlste smert stoar yn mylde oantins wei; Al sjugge wy dizz’ skieding trienjend nei, Wy witte, in iiv’ger dei mei oer hjar blinke.
Liz, ljeaf, dyn hân yn mines—sjuch dizz’ dei
Hja is in stjerre yn ’t joun-swirk fen de hjerst, En silvren glâns spraet oer ús feil’ge wei.
Nou gean wy sterk togearre; yn striid en rêst
For ivich ien, eft God de wijïng sei
Dy’t oan mankoar ús knotte, hillich-fêst.
25Nov.
Wy bin de prinsen fen it Fryske gea,
Oermoedich, soun en jong; ús wille is tige—
De fammen biidzje ús liet yn ept’ge rige
En ’t noegjen fen ús nocht forjitt’ se nea.
Loaits ho’t, oerwoun, de tiden for ús nige!
By ús great kommen flechte bang de Dea; ’t Ljocht striel’t ús d’ eagen út—en dochs, myn ljea,
Ien ljeafste heimnis bleau aloan forswige:
Ik bin de prins fen ’t wâld, bistjûr de weagen
En al de loften gean nei myn bliid nocht; Ik riisde as Baldur, mar wier sjend fen eagen.
Blyn hie ’k in kening west; nou hat it ljocht
My laet, dêr’t nei myn gean dyn loaitsen seagen, En ’k wit my lyts en feal en earm bitocht.
Wit det ik lijde. Mennich iens’me jounen
Ha ’k stúnjend stien foar ’t finster oer de wei:
Nin ien dy’t kaem. En wer forstoar in dei
En húvrjend moast ik gean nei nacht hjar stounen.
En ienlik laei ik del en mymre nei
Oer ’t bange wûnder fen de sliep—wer rounen
Der húvrings oer myn wirge lea—wer wounen
Nachts wriggen al myn krêft yn dwylsin wei.
Mar einlings—wûndre tiid!—sei ien my sêft:
„Ik hâld fen dy.” ’k Haw gûld do’t ljeavjende eagen
Sêft ljochten yn myn siel mei wijde krêft.
De tsjoen tobriek. Sûnt waerd ik goed; sûnt seagen
Myn dreamen ljocht. Hja tiden op dyn trêft—
Noust komd bist, bliuw, yn boun tsjin niid en ljeagen.
Hoar giet it jountiids-let oer jounge groun.
Hiel dizze simmer-dei ha ’k bodde; d’ ierde
Dreau my ta wirk; ’k mocht der gjin stoun fen skiede
En meanend, swyljend, rispjend gyng ik roun.
In kenings-nocht! Ik skrepte yn ’t ljocht; ik woun
Myn holle in krâns fen hea en kûkúts-blommen; ’t Swit dripte my; ik haw gjin tiid fornommen—
Nou rêst ik hwet, hwent noegjend komt de joun.
En yn dit jountiids-let is wûndre wille, In nocht sa great, det ik forstean ’t hast net;
Myn hannen, sêft fen jounich ljocht oertrille, Bin fâlde en gear, en ’k jow my ta gebet:
En tinkljend, twinkljend klinkt it, stil yn ’t stille: „Wêz groete, ljeafste”, it hillich jountiids-let.
’k Tink oan ús Twiizler tún. Dêr giet de glâns
Bliid triljend oer de rûzge swiere blêdden;
De deiwyn dounset sêft mei lichte trêdden
De ljochte seamen fen de boskjes lâns.
Stil niget roaze-blomte yn sinn’ge bêdden
En bledtsjes sige del ta roaze-krâns;
Sims fiert de wyn hjar súntsjes mei, dy’t gâns
To núndrjen wit fen krûd en praetske blêdden.
En lange gerzen bûge sêft en soeije
Omheech, omleech, al nei’t de sigen ’t wol,
En sinne-blinkjes glimkje stil en djoeije
D’ âld apel-beam fen douns en maitiid fol,
En ús foriene sielen dreame en bloeije,
Elts nei hjar aerd, eft God hjar heechtiid wol.
