The Child of the Amaranths

‘Neath the tamarind trees where I sold all my wares,
‘mong the buyers and vendors of Culverin Square,
did I see the grim visage of Anatol Nairre
as he hid among branch and bough.
So I said to him, “Sir, why art thou in the tree?
Do come down, that I might better greet and know thee.”
But the man shook his head and cried out unto me,
“They have all come to kill me now!”

“What is this?” I replied, “Goodman, what is thy name,
And pray what hast thou done now to garner such fame
As to merit thy death? Art thou playing a game?”
I admit that I was perplexed.
And the man looked around, his bright eyes full of fear,
Then he beckoned and whispered to me, “Come thou here,
And if thou wilt now listen to me, thou wilt hear.”
Nonetheless, I remained quite vexed.

And the light glistened through ev’ry bramble and leaf,
and it threw his round face into quite sharp relief:
he’d three terrible scars, all quite horrid, but chief
was the long one across his eye.
And he wore ‘round his neck a quite old, golden key,
and I noted distinctly a strange oddity:
that he’d clutch it quite closely, as if fearfully,
that the thing might escape and fly.

“I am Anatol Nairre,” said the man to me then,
“And the whole of the town seeks me out; all the men
are approaching; they number nigh twoscore and ten,
for they think that I killed the Child.”
“Prithee who is this child?” queried I to him there,
as the gold of his key drew my poor eyes to stare.
“And pray is there some truth to their claim, good sir Nairre,
for which thou art now so reviled?”

“She’s the Amaranth child,” said he then unto me,
half obscured now by shadows cast long by the tree.
“Dost thou know of her, sir, or should I now tell thee
of the Amaranth’s lovely power?”
“I’m afraid,” I replied, “I know not of such things;
I know only the goldsmith and news that he brings,
of the birds and their music whenever one sings
in the branches of this, my bower.”

“Ah, the Amaranth,” sighed Anatol, with a voice
that upon having said the word danced and rejoiced
twixt the dewdrops that hung on the leaves, cool and moist
in the warmth of the midmorn sun.
“’Tis an undying flower of legend,” said he,
“Though the passage of Time should beseech it, you see,
never once shall Death have it, though it should have thee,
should have me, should possess everyone.

“And the child she tends it with patience and care;
In a Garden ensconced in an old forest fair,
although not a soul knoweth, save I, what or where
this old Forest of Time should be.
Ne’ertheless they have found her now slain on the street—
That the world should lose someone so tender, so sweet!
‘Tis a horrible, tragic, and wicked defeat
To the world! To us all!” cried he.

“But if thou didst not kill her,” I uncertain replied,
“Then pray what is the reason for which she hath died?”
And he looked at me long, closed his eyes and then sighed,
“Ah, but murdered she was, good sir…
But ‘twas not I, I tell thee, ‘twas three men! I know!”
And his eyes danced with frenzy, with terror, with woe.
“Yes, they wanted the flower, the villainous foes.
It was hunters three that killed her.”

Then I heard the first shouts of a furious crowd;
they were calling and calling a name very loud:
“Bring forth Anatol Nairre, and thou wilt be allowed
to yet live! Bring him forth to be hanged!
And the people the last corner fin’lly did round
into Culverin Square, and like ravenous hounds
they quite quickly poor Anatol in the tree found
and their weapons and pitchforks clanged.

From the midst of the clamour arose a loud call.
As if planned, it was spoken at once by all:
“Come thou forth to be punished! Come thou, Anatol!
Thou shalt suffer now for thy crimes!
Come thou down, Anatol!” the whole crowd did demand.
So determined were they to mete out reprimand
that they all stomped their feet in the dirt and the sand.
So I called to them all at once:

“But what evil hath this man committed, good folk?
Know ye any a law that he possibly broke?”
And a man all bedight in quite pompous baroque
then stepped out from the midst of them.
“Thou defendest him, then?” said the man with a sneer
which implied dark intentions that shone through quite clear.
“He assisted, methinks, and I say to ye here
that they both should be now condemned!

“For the Amaranth Child, let us weep! Let us cry!
But rejoice! For we’ve here found her killers, say I!
They have murdered the Child, and for that they must die!
Kill them both! Kill them both!” cried he.
“We’ve killed no one, good sir!” cried I to him, afraid
that for unperformed crimes I would quite soon be made
to ensure that somehow they were dutif’ly paid.
“Not a soul! I do swear to thee!”

“Nay, ‘twas thou who didst slay her!” called Anatol Nairre,
with his eyes fixed upon the frilled man with a glare
that was mingled with anger, with grief and despair
in the fading and transient light.
“Thou, with three other men, thou wert hunting for her,
ye were hunting the Child for the Flower, old sir!
Good folk, listen to me, and ye all shall concur
that ‘tis these men who die tonight!”

Look ye now ‘pon his tunic, which seems on first sight
to be nothing but only the purest of white,
but alas—do look closer! His sleeve in the light
shows the dark crimson stain of blood!
And did anyone see him about on the street?
Was there ever a soul on this day who did meet
any one of these men? They have tales incomplete.
I shall let ye upon this brood.

And they looked at each other with eyes all aghast:
“He is right!” whispered all of the crowed now amassed,
and it seemed that the danger had finally passed.
“He is right! ‘Twas they killed the Child!”
But the man with the frills and his snide cohorts two
with a speed like the lightning called out, “Know ye who
ye now plan to condemn? Know ye what ye now do?”
And the three of them sneered and smiled.

“But my friends, look at me!” cried the first of the three,
“Have I ever been known to have hurt one of thee?
‘Twas not I” he cried out, then looked up in the tree.
“It was he! Yes, he knew the Child!”
“Where wert thou when the Child was said to have died?”
Roared then Anatol Naire in indignant reply.
“Though thou’st blood on thy coat, they shan’t ‘gainst you decide,
For thy glitter hath all beguiled!”

Still the second of them then quite fervidly spoke:
“Have we ever been known to be villains, good folk?
We are doctor and lawyer, the third with a stroke
of skill with all wealth and gold.
Would ye have us to die? What this man says are lies!
But of course our accusings he hotly denies!
Listen now to us, people, and ye would be wise.
Ah, let Justice declareth bold!”

And the crowd all at once did seem suddenly swayed
by the words that the Doctor and Lawyer had made
and the Frilled Man resumed as if quite undelayed:
“And so now Nairre must die!” cried he.
And so Anatol looked at me firm in the eye.
“It would seem nought but gold shall e’er let one get by.
Take thou this, for I fear that quite soon I shall die.”
So he handed me then his key.

“Thou hast murdered the Child!” cried the crowed with a rage
such that never was witnessed by any since age.
“Thou shalt die for thy crimes!” cried they out, as a page
of the law was blown out by wind.
And a man then approached with a torch all aflame—
after so many years I could not find his name—
and he held it aloft. “Upon thee is the blame!”
then set fire to that tamarind.

It was many years thence I returned to the town,
that I might an account of this tale fully boun,
to be published one day, that it all could be found
by the peoples of times to come.
So I travelled about, with intention to seek
anybody to whom I could possibly speak
of that March day that ever had been so unique,
but it seemed they had all gone dumb.

Then I found, of all persons, yet one of the three
who in truth were the killers accused ‘neath the tree
by poor Anatol Nairre ere they set him aflame
on that day oh so long ago.
He was old, on his deathbed, in fact, and he now
did unto me his guilt for her murder avow
in a strange interview where he told me of how
they about their crime did go.

And the frills of his clothes had all faded and worn,
such that in many places were tattered and torn,
and upon his old face there was quite clearly borne
a grim visage of long-held pain.
And the light of midmorning cascaded in
then upon his pained mien and his old, wrinkled skin,
as his sad, sorry tale he did sadly begin.
And the words from his mouth did rain:

“Lo we saw her make exit from old yonder wood;
never once had we any intention of blood,
and yet here was our chance, and we reckoned it good,
to obtain an eternal life.
Yea we followed her closely ‘fore forging around
to the dark alleyway where her body was found;
in that dark alleyway on the outskirts of town
was three years ago born this strife.

“So we snatched her away ere her form glided past—
such a sad look she gave us whilst we held her fast,
like a beautiful flower into the flames cast,
and she spake then unto us three:
‘O, fair children,’ she sighed, and we filled with surprise,
for the voice of a woman was born in those sighs!
Not a girl, not a child, but an old woman wise,
and the sound of it frightened me.

“‘Thou canst not find the Flower of Life on thine own,
yea but only through me, for the sins thou hast sown
make that I, yes, the Child, the Child alone,
should be able to enter there.
But by me shalt thou enter the Garden of Dreams;
thou shalt never gain entry by some other means.
Nay, the Garden that with aught but true beauty teems
shall to thee ne’er its wonders share.’

“‘Tellest lies!’ said my cohort, Aplestia, who,
like a tempest in summertime irefully blew,
and I found this quite strange, for you see, I ne’er knew
for this man to have shown such rage.
Terephania, mine other aide, also burst out:
‘Child, thy story is fillèd with falsehoods throughout!
Tell us now, for our patience runs thin! Whereabout
does the Garden thou tendest bloom?’

“‘Thou hast found it,’ she cooed to us, still with that same
equanimity that could have any beast tamed.
Still I shouted, though for it I’m now filled with shame,
‘Tell us now! Tell us now!’ I cried.
For awhile she did nothing but quietly sigh,
and a tear did she shed before giving reply:
‘O, fair children, ye shall never find it, but I,
I will give it, if ye’ll join my side.’

“For a third time I called, ‘For us this thou wilt do,
or I swear that thou shalt for thy days this day rue!
Tell us where is the Garden that we do pursue,
or we’ll kill thee and let thee rot!
And the Child of the Amaranths low hung her head,
as if tortured was she, as if already dead,
then with sorrow, but firmness she unto us said,
full of sadness and pain: ‘I cannot.’

“‘Then thou shalt now die!’ called us three to the Child,
who then looked at us calmly and quite sweetly smiled,
and this gesture it drove us but all the more wild.
‘Knowest not what thou dost,’ she sighed.
And we drew then our daggers and tore at her throat
and her death-sighs they sounded like musical notes
that did ‘long the cool zephyrs in passing by float;
thus the Child of the Amaranths died.

“And we stood there in silence, our murder complete,
with the blood of the Child now pooled at our feet,
and we heard then the voices of folk on the street,
and we fled thence unto our homes.
When at last the townspeople her body had found,
and the shoutings of “Murder!” began to resound
through the alleys and corners and streets all around
we among them began to roam.

“And we sighed with relief when we heard in the air
calls for death and condemning of Anatol Nairre.
Who was he? we three wondered—but we didn’t care,
for the man could in our place die.
And thou knowest the rest, of his death in the tree,
that old tamarind tree where they nearly killed thee
O so long ago now, though at last I now see.
At the thought of my crimes I cry!

“O, what shame do I bear! How my heart is now rent!
From the depths I cry out now in earnest lament!
From the depths of my soul, the Abyss, I repent!
I have slaughtered the Flower Child!”
And it seemed he was poised o’er the e’er-waiting maw
of sweet Death, which to swallow him threw wide its jaws—
“It is finished!” he cried ere he passed, and I saw:
as he slipped into death, he smiled.

And still many more years would be made to go on,
when I walked with a limp and my face looked quite wan,
‘til once more I would pull out that key, whereupon
some compulsion to walk arrived.
So I set from my home ere the break of the day
and thus into the forest I did make my way.
I knew not where I went, but I liked it that way
as I into that forest dived.

So I walked all the day o’er that old forest’s floor,
and just as I felt I could walk for no more
I did find a stone wall and a quite ancient door
with a keyhole inside the knob.
Ivy twisted and spiraled atop the old wall:
o’er the parapets they did quite beautif’ly crawl.
As I moved to the door that I might see them all,
of a sudden I felt my strength robbed.

As I stumbled and cringed, there from my frail hands fell
that gold key which when landing rang out like a knell.
“I shall never go in!” I despaired in the dell,
and I fell then upon my knees.
And I sat there in silence and stared at the ground,
for at last I had certain that old Garden found,
but discovered that I by senescence was drowned.
And the wind whispered through the trees.

Then the ground gave a shake and the door opened wide
and the light was so strong I could scarce see inside,
but a figure approached and I clung to her side.
As she held me she softly smiled.
And a small purple flower she held as she cooed,
“That gold key worketh not,” with all graces endued,
and her face full of peace I with all wonder viewed:
the face of the Amaranth Child.

-D.B.