The Treasury Of The Fantastic

by David Sandner

  Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”

  So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept

  And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,

  Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,

  Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang

  Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down

  By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,

  Came on the shining levels of the lake.

  There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

  And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,

  Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

  And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

  For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

  Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

  Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

  That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,

  This way and that dividing the swift mind,

  In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d

  Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d

  There in the many-knotted waterflags,

  That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

  So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

  “Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?

  What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “I heard the ripple washing in the reeds

  And the wild water lapping on the crag.”

  To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

  “Thou has betray’d thy nature and thy name,

  Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d

  Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight:

  For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,

  Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

  This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

  Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again

  As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing

  I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”

  Then went Sir Bedivere the second time

  Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

  Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;

  But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,

  How curiously and strangely chased, he smote

  His palms together, and he cried aloud,

  “And if indeed I cast the brand away,

  Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

  Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

  Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

  What good should follow this, if this were done?

  What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,

  Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

  Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

  An act unprofitable, against himself?

  The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

  What record, or what relic of my lord

  Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

  And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,

  Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

  Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

  Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,

  Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

  Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

  Upon the hidden bases of the hills.’

  So might some old man speak in the aftertime

  To all the people, winning reverence.

  But now much honour and much fame were lost.”

  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

  And hid Excalibur the second time,

  And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

  “What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “I heard the water lapping on the crag,

  And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

  To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

  “Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,

  Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

  Authority forgets a dying king,

  Laid widow’d of the power in his eye

  That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,

  For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,

  In whom should meet the offices of all,

  Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

  Either from lust of gold, or like a girl

  Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

  Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

  And the third time may prosper, get thee hence.

  But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

  I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”

  Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,

  And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

  Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,

  And strongly wheel’d and threw it.

  The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,

  And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,

  Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,

  Seen where the moving isles of winter shock

  By night, with noises of the northern sea.

  So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:

  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

  And lightly went the other to the King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:

  “Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

  Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  “Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

  Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,

  Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,

  Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,

  So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

  Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

  But when I look’d again, behold an arm,

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

  “My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone.

  Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,

  And bear me to the margin; yet I fear

  My wound hath taken cold; and I shall die.”

  So saying, from the pavement he half rose,

  Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,

  And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes

  As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere

  Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,

  And would have spoken, but he found not words;

  Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,

  O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,

  And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

  But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,

  Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

  When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,

  Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!

  I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”

  But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

  Clothed with his breath, and looking as he walk’d,

  Larger than human on the frozen hills.

  He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

  Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad.

  Dry clash’d his harness in the
icy caves

  And barren chasms, and all to left and right

  The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based

  His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang

  Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—

  And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

  And the long glories of the winter moon.

  Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

  Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

  Beneath them; and descending they were ware

  That all the decks were dense with stately forms

  Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these

  Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose

  A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,

  And, as it were one voice, an agony

  Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills

  All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

  Or hath come, since the making of the world.

  Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,”

  And to the barge they came. There those three Queens

  Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

  But she, that rose the tallest of them all

  And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

  And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,

  And call’d him by his name, complaining loud,

  And dropping bitter tears against his brow

  Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

  And colourless, and like the wither’d moon

  Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

  And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops

  Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—

  That made his forehead like a rising sun

  High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust;

  Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

  Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

  So like a shatter’d column lay the King;

  Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

  From spur to plume a star of tournament,

  Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged

  Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

  Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,

  “Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

  Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

  For now I see the true old times are dead,

  When every morning brought a noble chance,

  And every chance brought out a noble knight.

  Such times have been not since the light that led

  The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

  But now the whole Round Table is dissolved

  Which was an image of the mighty world;

  And I, the last, go forth companionless,

  And the days darken round me, and the years,

  Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

  And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:

  “The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

  And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

  Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

  Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

  I have lived my life, and that which I have done

  May He within Himself make pure! but thou,

  If thou shouldst never see my face again,

  Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

  Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

  Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

  For what are men better than sheep or goats

  That nourish a blind life within the brain,

  If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

  Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

  For so the whole round earth is every way

  Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

  But now farewell. I am going a long way

  With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—

  (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

  To the island-valley of Avilion;

  Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

  Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

  Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

  And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,

  Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

  Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

  That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

  Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

  With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

  Revolving many memories, till the hull

  Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,

  And on the mere the wailing died away.

  CHRISTINEA ROSSETTI

  Goblin Market

  Christina Rossetti (1830–1894), born in London and educated by her mother, is associated with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood through the work of her brothers, especially the painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A religious poet of some distinction, she was also a staunch voice against slavery, cruelty to animals, and underage prostitution. Rossetti worked in a house of charity in Highgate known to help rehabilitate “working girls.”

  Rossetti’s most famous work, “Goblin Market,” was first written in 1859, and then published in Goblin Market and Other Poems in 1862. The poem is widely regarded as a portrayal of feminine sexuality and as a commentary on Victorian mores, readings of the work that Rossetti continually denied. It is also an urgent spiritual work of hope.

  Morning and evening

  Maids heard the goblins cry:

  “Come buy our orchard fruits,

  Come buy, come buy:

  Apples and quinces.

  Lemons and oranges,

  Plump unpecked cherries,

  Melons and raspberries,

  Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,

  Swart-headed mulberries,

  Wild free-born cranberries,

  Crab-apples, dewberries.

  Pine-apples, blackberries,

  Apricots, strawberries—

  All ripe together

  In summer weather—

  Morns that pass by,

  Fair eves that fly,

  Come buy, come buy:

  Our grapes fresh from the vine,

  Pomegranates full and fine.

  Dates and sharp bullaces,

  Rare pears and greengages,

  Damsons and bilberries,

  Taste them and try:

  Currants and gooseberries,

  Bright-fire-like barberries,

  Figs to fill your mouth,

  Citrons from the South,

  Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,

  Come buy, come buy."

  Evening by evening

  Among the brookside rushes,

  Laura bowed her head to hear,

  Lizzie veiled her blushes:

  Crouching close together

  In the cooling weather,

  With clasping arms and cautioning lips,

  With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.

  “Lie close,” Laura said,

  Pricking up her golden head:

  “We must not look at goblin men,

  We must not buy their fruits:

  Who knows upon what soil they fed

  Their hungry thirsty roots?”

  “Come buy,” call the goblins

  Hobbling down the glen.

  “O!” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,

  You should not peep at goblin men."

  Lizzie covered up her eyes

  Covered close lest they should look;

  Laura reared her glossy head,

  And whispered like the restless brook:

  “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,

  Down the glen tramp little men.

>   One hauls a basket,

  One bears a plate,

  One lugs a golden dish

  Of many pounds weight

  How fair the vine must grow

  Whose grapes are so luscious;

  How warm the wind must blow

  Through those fruit bushes."

  “No,” said Lizzie, “no, no, no;

  Their offers should not charm us,

  Their evil gifts would harm us."

  She thrust a dimpled finger

  In each ear, shut eyes and ran:

  Curious Laura chose to linger

  Wondering at each merchant man.

  One had a cat’s face,

  One whisked a tail,

  One tramped at a rat’s pace,

  One crawled like a snail,

  One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry

  One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.

  Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves

  Cooing all together:

  They sounded kind and full of loves

  In the pleasant weather.

  Laura stretched her gleaming neck

  Like a rush-imbedded swan,

  Like a lily from the beck,

  Like a moonlit poplar branch,

  Like a vessel at the launch

  When its last restraint is gone.

  Backwards up the mossy glen

  Turned and trooped the goblin men,

  With their shrill repeated cry,

  “Come buy, come buy.”

  When they reached where Laura was

  They stood stock still upon the moss,

  Leering at each other,

  Brother with queer brother;

  Signalling each other,

  Brother with sly brother.

  One set his basket down,

  One reared his plate;

  One began to weave a crown

  Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown

  (Men sell not such in any town);

  One heaved the golden weight

  Of dish and fruit to offer her:

  “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.

  Laura stared but did not stir,

  Longed but had no money:

  The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste

  In tones as smooth as honey,

  The cat-faced purr’d,

  The rat-paced spoke a word

  Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;

  One parrot-voiced and jolly

  Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly”;

  One whistled like a bird.

  But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:

  “Good folk, I have no coin;

  To take were to purloin:

  I have no copper in my purse,

  I have no silver either,

  And all my gold is on the furze

  That shakes in windy weather

  Above the rusty heather."

  “You have much gold upon your head,"