“Silk was too harsh for your dainty skin,

Red wine too poor for your drought;

We hunted the holes that the rain stood in,

And stripped the wolf for our clout.”

-Verse 4

CIVILIZATION:

Bell, Prince of Ar, wondered as he sat with the Counts, sipping through long reed straw, course beer, ‘What must it be like, to NOT assert with every fresh thought, ‘I am Bell, Prince of Ar?’ Blasted priest—stingy guard of white wine.’

“Prince,” asked Count Lion Gate, “may we help?”

“Oh, Uncle, surrounded by castrates, slaves—that priest hissing in my ear! Beer at least, needs no blessing.”

Seeing the slave woman standing above the pitcher of extra beer, he choked on his words. Count Leopard Gate, coughed, “Never fear, Our Prince, sshe has no tongue.”

Count Tiger Gate snarled, “Old sissy should no’ ‘ave been set over ye by your Grand Ole Mum.”

All looked to Count Bull Gate, commander of that maw that must gape daily to admit the toils—how he hated having to look at them. Uncle Bull yawned like a great hound, “My Prince, your father wanted you at arms. You drive the ass-cart like a demon. Join us for morning exercises?”

The direct words of soldiers were a comfort.

Uncle Bull was massive, a mighty man, and beheld Bell with eyes strangers to fear. His stool, cushioned with a felt pillow, vexed him—these men reclined on willow-reed chairs. He growled, “I’m sick of beating slaves. I want a real war—want to dip Father’s sword in those fish-thieves and donkey-takers. Instruct Me!

“Wench,” rumbled Uncle Bull, “a proper chair for Our Prince.”

In an instant she had unfolded a chair beneath him, bowed, and backed to her beer pitcher. Uncle Leopard placed all five straws in Bell’s mouth, “To a happy liver and vengeance, Lord!”

He slurped. His throat and belly filled. The straws were broken. The four Counts held up the pot to his lips, Uncle Bull rumbling, “Your very Father, Bull of the Rush, drank like so!”

His eyes bugged as they sloshed the beer down his gullet. Uncle Lion assured him with hand on back, “We have been attacked—filched of a spry toil and a good spear. Our Dusk Captain is gone, his blood found in the dry weir—we must punish the fish-thieves!”

They pulled the pot away and set it down and retook their seats. All looked to him, a mere child compared to their big, broad forms. He asked, quaking inside, “I will be ready by dawn? Punishment must be quick?”

“Yaaz,” grinned Uncle Lion, “as your Father and his, were ever ready, awakened by the breweress’ gong!”

With a nod from Uncle Tiger, the woman clapped her hands and five young women rushed in with granite amphora, held by the ears, brimming with beer…

BARBARISM—

“I Bell, Prince of Ar,” he chanted, the gong of the beer goddess tolling in his aching head, the ass cart jarring his ringing skull!

Uncle Bull’s men had beaten down the rain-soaked rushes so that he could drive to the deviltry place. Fifty men, shields on their backs, helmets on their heads, spears in their hands, stood with their backs to the buffalo grass. Uncle Bull led Bell’s asses forward to the scene where their captain’s head gawked upon a spear haft, the rain pooling in the puddle were his body was heaped over with a pack of skinned wolves—their teeth drawn, grinning harmlessly under dead eyes.

Uncle Leopard’s two best trackers were by his side, darts to hand, knives in their belts. Beside him pulled up Uncle Tiger, in his ass cart, most of his drivers stationed back beyond the marsh edge. He nodded to him, ‘Yes,’ and Bell, snarling from his thundering head, commanded, “Find them—whistle back!”

He had been advised over the puke bucket by Uncle Leopard, whose darters prowled the margins of the grain fields. Uncle Lion’s swordsmen guarded the city and the river banks where the cranes called.

The two trackers were off, good men, taken as babes from the fish-eaters down river. Something caused him pause, wary as he was between the hills that rose like walls, between which the scouts padded into the tall grass. Shrubs grew higher up, then stony-faced nobs.

Uncle Tiger followed his gaze, “Yes, Prince—they are not fish-stealers, nor ass-thieves. Wolf Sons by the look. Count Leopard Gate has his hounds in the fields, should they strike there in ruse.”

He nodded understanding, but, captivated by the spectacle now above, stood in wonder, his head pounding less. East, on the highest stone knob, stood a ragged creature, an elder wretch of some kind, as ancient as some toil of thirty harvests ripe for the grave of no name. It wore wolf skins, looked up into the face of the looming moon in the southern sky, spread his arms, the rising sun framing his scarecrow form. It chanted some dirge too low to be heard from such a distance.

All eyes followed this figure, dancing it was now clear, in the rays of the morning sun. whirling wolf-hides. Count Bull Gate looked to him and held up a narrow hand, indicating that a file of men should be sent behind the trackers.

Bell nodded to him and raised his hand to give the command, only to be startled by a wolf’s howl from nigh on a dart cast up the trail, followed by a pair of crows—no, heads with crow wings fluttering from their head bands; for the heads tumbled before his team, thrown from some western rock, though the call came from the north, where his scouts had gone, their heads now affrighting his snorting asses!

‘I am surrounded!’ whined the whelp within.

He lashed his asses in a panic, turned his cart about, crushing one head and knocking the other into the rushes, and drove for the Lion’s Gate; the men’s mouths agape.