The Warrior's Tale After a decade of playing with poetry, several years of performing Irish and Norse stories, sagas, and poetry, I finally gathered the nerve to start writing my own performance pieces. Customs differ between peoples; so, too, does the practice of war. A cattle-raiding Scotsman used to the strictness of clan warfare might find the wholesale slaughter of a Norse raid quite unappealing. He might also find that moral decisions are not often easy. A younger Scot than I am now, A riever I once was Forsaking Alba's golden strands Aboard a Danish prow Our Viking band set sail to East With blood and money lust We came at last to wooded lands Whose Wend and Rus gods feast We landed near a Wendish town And hued it Thor's own beard With smoke and ash and sullen shouts We razed it to the ground Into the bird's own home I fled I ran into the wood And sought relief in silent trees From screams of recent dead When time had sailed a smallish while I lay 'neath leaves and fewn And woke to find a Wendish lass With Iv'ry skin and smile She made to give herself to me A pretty gift it was But stupid Pict-brood that I am I tried to make her flee She stayed, and we did naught but lay While moon and stars arose And spent the night in quiet smiles And chaste but subtle ways When sun arose and blackbird's song Awoke me in the dawn I was alone beneath the fern Not knowing what was wrong I found out soon that Wendish lass was nothing but a ghost A poor young girl who drowned herself When love did not come fast Had I but loved that lost girl I'd set her soul aside And let her rest down in her pond Where twilit waters swirl A loss now at both love and life I've set my soul aside I storm all shores with war and death To hide my guilt in strife I curse all gods, both Scot and Dane And spite those of the Wend And cast my lot on dolphin's road no longer sure I'm sane copyright 25 Feb 1986 (AS XXV) by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw