Speculative Poem

Eve’s Bitter Harvest

Bring me my broadsword

and clear understanding

Bring me my cross of gold

as a talisman!

—Ian Anderson (Jethro Tull, “Broadsword”)

 

Her Highness, Eve, Queen of Vallandria,

bade the longships sail, bade them sail by day,

bade them sail by night, bade them sail away

to brighter lands of warmer climes, bade them

sail to sunset, for better harvests, for

greater crops and worthy prey. Eve’s army

sixty ships sailed to war, to war they sailed,

and through morning’s mists made way, made way west

and south and south. Forty souls sailed salty

seas in each longship, forty souls in each,

they sailed to regions unknown, unknowing,

beholden to brave Queen Eve, whose sire died

beneath snow a hero’s death on his

fool’s errand to save a foolish shepherd’s son.

 

A cross-bearing king of a cross-bearing clan,

Ardan held his land by vassal’s love and

knights stalwart as his Christian faith. Ardan

loved peace, though to war no stranger, no fool

to believe in words in times swords must cross.

Ardan’s knights were first to know Northers’ blades,

blades of axe and sword no shield did withstand.

On first word, Ardan his broadsword calls on,

calls for his cross of gold and his broadsword,

his shield and armor, his grieves and his steed,

for archers and lancers, Ardan calls all to war!

Calls to war all, in Christendom’s name, all

whose arms are able, whose arms are fatal,

all whose swords and arrows might save his lands.

 

Upon the field, in battle joined they, Eve

with her savage crew, Ardan with soldiers;

swords and lances, arrows and spears, steel steel

meets in the clash of warriors, in war’s clash

tumultuous. Blood and fury meet peace

without mercy, bent on destruction. Death

comes hungry to feed in carrion forms;

Eve feeds them with her sire’s blade, her son’s

death a rage that drives no gentle arm—she

slays as many as any man, though half

her crew be women slaying to avenge

husbands lost to ice and snow, the sea, war,

and hunger’s gnaw. Eve’s strides, strikes, carry her

toe-to-toe with Ardan. Yet he strikes not.

 

“Lay aside your sword, great queen,” Ardan speaks.

“Your head I’ll lay me aside,” Eve replies.

Stroke upon stroke they lay up against each

other—he to defend, she to slay—“Halt!”

cries he. “Let us speak and cool our blood, lest

we too soon leave all slain for the ravens!”

But relent she may not. She strikes, strikes, strikes,

and his shield is done. He strikes blade aside;

with pommel her head he bludgeons. She falls,

stunned, and all sounds cease around. Death pauses

amid the slaughter. Bated, Death breathes, stills,

bethinks his grand harvest—gives way to dusk.

Eve’s remnant lays them down their arms, away

they put their rage, and silent leave the field.

 

“What then?” Ardan tries reason on Queen Eve.

“Back to your plains of ice? Or would you my

vassalage undertake you? Be my queen,

and no more of your soldiers need die here.”

“What honor have you, that you a widow,

yet in her mourning, you would seduce? What

sort of king be you that you knock my skull

and refuse my right to dignant death?” Eve

frowns as fierce with hate as pain; Ardan smiles

sadness and pity in equal measure.

“Bind you to me and live,” he pleads. Yet she

shakes snow-blonde locks and glares condemnation.

Unshaken in faith, he pursues her hand;

unshaken in grief, she denies his heart.

 

Summer to autumn turns. Harvests fall short.

Ardan in honor has kept his guests these

long months, yet now it taxes too much his

war-impoverished lands. Again Ardan pleads:

“A season and a season again you

deny me, Queen Eve. Yet time demands this,

that you must take my hand or lose your head.”

“A woman cannot forever grieve; take

my hand and give me peace,” she condescends.

Forthwith he calls to court and feasts his folk

in celebration nuptials by customs

mingled in fair measure. Eve’s indigo

gown dark beside his golden armor; his

smile the day to her frown’s night. Yet they dance!

 

Love’s fervor cools never for Ardan, yet

his bride’s passion he feels only in dance

as he strives an heir to sire. Her fervor

in that dance mixes grief and hate, and yet

something glacial in her heart melts to his

smiles, his gentle manner, his courtly

grace, and his kingly wisdom. She softens

for him when alone, and for him alone.

But when the morning sickness comes, she knows

his son shall see the next summer; Eve grows

bitter at the flat ground, longs for mountains

and the land of her childhood. So she weeps

as her steel finds Ardan’s tender heart, rips

life from his brave chest—Eve’s bitter harvest.

David M Pitchford
29 April 2008