A Song ... and a Weed

"Yours till the stars have no glory, yours till the birds fail to sing, yours till the end of life's story .. this pledge to you dear I bring. Yours in the gray of december here or on far distant shore, I've never loved anyone the way I've loved you .. how could I? when I was born to be .. just yours."


The night had been spent riding night herd. Not much to do but be there in case of alert and ride among the herd keeping them calm. That meant not sneaking up on them and getting them used to your voice and the sound of gear. Hooking a leg around the pommel I rode and sang low .. all the little songs I had heard since I grew up. I did not know where they came from .. who wrote them or even if they were Tuchuk songs. I was not so egotistical as to believe that other peoples did not write songs or sing. I had proof of it in my own head given to me by the tiny parchments. I tried to add a melody to the verses I had memorized but I was not good enough to do so. None of the melodies I knew worked .. so I fell back on the old favorites and sang them to the bosk as the night wore on.

There was no movement of the great beasts so there was very little dust and my wind scarf hung around my neck loose and against my chest. It was too dark to see much even with the light of the moons giving everything a silver tint which left my mind free to wander and explore my thoughts. It was my favorite time of the evening .. here among the bosk. Where everything made sense and nothing seemed too big to solve or too far away to remedy. No one to misunderstand me .. no one to feel disappointed by who I was or what I did. Just me and the bosk and we had an understanding between us. The big red kaiila Kai and I also had this understanding and he would flick his ears back every now and then when I hit a particular note. Once in a while he would sneeze with a nice wet sound and I would know he approved.

It was that morning I found a build up of those dry weeds all piled against the skeleton of a broken down wagon. The planks of the wagon were bleached gray in the intense seasonal heat and cold of the plains .. split and fractured until it almost looked like the ends of one of the verr wool blankets. But it was not the wagon itself that drew my attention .. it was the many little weeds. I threw a leg over the pommel and dropped to the ground stomping my breeches back into place as I strode to the pile .. pulling them away I checked them all and to my surprise my search was not in vain. Deep within there was a parchment tied with a blue string. I felt foolish and made sure no one was watching me .. pleased for the horizon stretching in every direction would not allow it without my knowledge. The string untied and I read the short verse within.

Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,-
Wail, for the world's wrong!

-Shelley

Again it struck me so deeply. I wanted to know the story. The why and how that caused such melancholy. It struck a chord I knew and felt myself. Sometimes not sure even why .. only that it was there. The paper was tucked away to consign to the coals later and the string was shoved between my arm and the armband. I would sew it as soon as I had tied the knots that gave the next chapter in the story.