by Nash, Bobby
Had put his shame away.
And then, far-off, a quest-note ran,
A feathering hound replied:
The hounds still drew the night for man
Along that countryside.
Then one by one the hell-hounds spoke,
And still the horn made cheer;
Then the full devil-chorus woke
To fill the saint with fear.
He knew that they were after him
To hunt him till he fell;
He turned and fled into the dim,
And after him came hell.
Over the stony wold he went,
Through thorns and over quags;
The bloodhounds cried upon the scent,
They ran like rutting stags.
And when the saint looked round, he saw
Red eyes intently strained,
The bright teeth in the grinning jaw,
And running shapes that gained.
Uphill, downhill, with failing breath,
He ran to save his skin,
Like one who knocked the door of death,
Yet dared not enter in.
Then water gurgled in the night,
Dark water lay in front,
The saint saw bubbles running bright;
The huntsman cheered his hunt.
The saint leaped far into the stream
And struggled to the shore.
The hunt died like an evil dream,
A strange land lay before.
He waded to a glittering land,
With brighter light than ours;
The water ran on silver sand
By yellow water-flowers.
The fishes nosed the stream to rings
As petals floated by,
The apples were like orbs of kings
Against a glow of sky.
On cool and steady stalks of green
The outland flowers grew.
The ghost-flower, silver like a queen,
The queen-flower streakt with blue.
The king-flower, crimson on his stalk,
With frettings in his crown;
The peace-flower, purple, from the chalk,
The flower that loves the down.
Lilies like thoughts, roses like words,
In the sweet brain of June;
he bees there, like the stock-dove birds,
Breathed all the air with croon.
Purple and golden hung the plums;
Like slaves bowed down with gems
The peach-trees were ; sweet-scented gums
Oozed clammy from their stems.
And birds of every land were there,
Like flowers that sang and flew;
All beauty that makes singing fair
That sunny garden knew.
For all together sang with throats
So tuned, that the intense
Colour and odour pearled the notes
And passed into the sense.
And as the saint drew near, he heard
The birds talk, each to each,
The fire-bird to the glory-bird.
He understood their speech.
One said: "The saint was terrified
Because the hunters came"
Another said: "The bloodhounds cried,
And all their eyes were flame."
Another said: "No shame to him,
For mortal men are blind:
They cannot see beyond the grim
Into the peace behind."
Another sang: "They cannot know,
Unless we give the clue,
The power that waits in them below
The things they are and do. - "
Another sang: "They never guess
That deep within them stand
Courage and peace and loveliness,
Wisdom and skill of hand."
Another sang: "Sing, brothers ! come,
Make beauty in the air !
The saint is shamed with martyrdom
Beyond his strength to bear.
"Sing, brothers ! every bird that flies !"
They stretcht their throats to sing,
With the sweetness known in Paradise
When the bells of heaven ring.
"Open the doors, good saint!" they cried,
Pass deeper to your soul;
There is a spirit in your side
That hell cannot control.
"Open the doors to let him in,
That beauty with the sword;
The hounds are silly shapes of sin,
They shrivel at a word.
"Come, saint!" and as they sang, the air
Shone with the shapes of flame,
Bird after bright bird glittered there,
Crying aloud they came.
A rush of brightness and delight,
White as the snow in drift,
The fire-bird and the glory-bright,
Most beautiful, most swift.
Sweeping aloft to show the way,
And singing as they flew,
Many and glittering as the spray
When windy seas are blue.
So cheerily they rushed, so strong
Their sweep was through the flowers,
The saint was swept into their song
And gloried in their powers.
He sang, and leaped into the stream,
And struggled to the shore;
The garden faded like a dream.
A darkness lay before.
Darkness with glimmery light forlorn
And quavering hounds in quest,
A huntsman blowing on a horn,
And lost things not at rest.
He saw the huntsman's hood show black
Against the greying east;
He heard him hollo to the pack
And horn them to the feast.
He heard the bloodhounds come to cry
And settle to the scent;
The black horse made the hoof-casts fly.
The sparks flashed up the bent.
The saint stood still until they came
Baying to ring him round:
A horse whose flecking foam was flame,
And hound on yelling hound.
And jaws that dripped with bitter fire
Snarled at the saint to tear.
Pilled hell-hounds, balder than the geier,
Leaped round him everywhere.
St. Withiel let the hell-hounds rave.
He cried: "Now, in this place,
Climb down, you huntsman of the grave,
And let me see your face.
"Climb down, you huntsman out of hell
And show me what you are.
The judge has stricken on the bell,
Now answer at the bar."
The baying of the hounds fell still,
Their jaws' salt fire died.
The wind of morning struck in chill
Along that countryside.
The blackness of the horse was shrunk,
His sides seemed ribbed and old.
The rider, hooded like a monk,
Was trembling with the cold.
The rider bowed as though with pain;
Then clambered down and stood,
The thin thing that the frightened brain
Had fed with living blood.
"Show me. What are you?" said the saint.
A hollow murmur spoke.
"This, Lord," it said; a hand moved faint
And drew aside the cloak.
A Woman Death that palsy shook
Stood sick and dwindling there;
Her fingers were a bony crook,
And blood was on her hair.
"Stretch out your hands and sign the Cross!"
Was all St. Withiel said.
The bloodhounds moaned upon the moss,
The Woman Death obeyed.
Whimpering with pain, she made the sign.
"Go, devil-hag," said he,
"Beyond all help of bread a
nd wine,
Beyond all land and sea,
Into the ice, into the snow,
Where Death himself is stark!
Out, with your hounds about you, go,
And perish in the dark!"
They dwindled as the mist that fades
At coming of the sun;
Like rags of stuff that fire abrades
They withered and were done.
The cock, that scares the ghost from earth,
Crowed as they dwindled down;
The red sun, happy in his girth,
Strode up above the town.
Sweetly above the sunny wold
The bells of churches rang;
The sheep-bells clinked within the fold,
And the larks went up and sang;
Sang for the setting free of men
From devils that destroyed;
The lark, the robin, and the wren,
They joyed and over-joyed.
The chats, that harbour in the whin,
Their little sweet throats swelled,
The blackbird and the thrush joined in,
The missel-thrush excelled.
Till round the saint the singing made
A beauty in the air,
An ecstasy that cannot fade
But is for ever there.
From his secret lair in the wilds of Bethlehem, Georgia, Bobby Nash writes a little bit of everything including novels, comic books, short prose, graphic novels, screenplays, media tie-ins, and more. Bobby has worked for a variety of publishers including IDW, Sequential Pulp, Dark Horse, Moonstone, Avatar Press, Radio Archives, Airship 27, Pro Se Press, Raven's Head Press, BEN Books, and more.
Between writing deadlines, Bobby is an actor and extra in movies and television, including appearances in Deviant Pictures’ Fat Chance, FOX’s The Following, AMC's Halt and Catch Fire, and more. He is also the co-host of the Earth Station One podcast (www.esopodcast.com) and a member of the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers.
Bobby was named Best Author in the 2013 Pulp Ark Awards, his first professional writing award. Rick Ruby, a character co-created by Bobby and author Sean Taylor also snagged a Pulp Ark Award for Best New Pulp Character of 2013. Bobby has also been nominated for the 2014 New Pulp Awards and Pulp Factory Awards for his work.
For more information on Bobby Nash please visit him at www.bobbynash.com, www.facebook.com/AuthorBobbyNash, and www.twitter.com/bobbynash, among other places across the web.
Emerging publicly onto the Paranormal Scene in early 2005 as a writer first and foremost, Author and Paranormalist Alexandra Holzer, has also appeared on numerous film documentaries such as the 25th Anniversary of Poltergeist and Shattered Hopes: The True Story of the Amityville Murders. No stranger to the field of the unknown as her father, Dr. Hans Holzer, PhD, was the Modern Pioneer and Father of the Paranormal. Alexandra's published a few books, one of which, Growing up Haunted has been optioned for TV and film rights with award winning producers in Hollywood. She writes a monthly article based on her travels, meet and greets in the field for the popular holistic green zine, OM Times. Holzer has gone on investigations but feels that her expertise lies not just with haunted houses, places or people but also in getting 'impressions' and being 'sensitive' to her surroundings. This yielded a Psychic Paranormal Investigator aka Ghost Hunter who is also on the quest for the unknown with a sense of humor. She grew up haunted and therefore has known nothing else. She is the only second generation paranormalist blazing this type of a well-rounded, ghostly and occultist trail of the past, into the present and forward into the future. Currently Holzer lectures at events around the country and does investigations for groups teaching “The Holzer Method”. For further information, please visit www.alexandraholzer.com
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