As I readjust my cumber-
Band I know I cannot slumber
Marred my necktie – my chin, under – by this… uncanny-aiming Lor.
Sun of Ivis, nephyw of Stramn, pouring drams of lager balm
I would pay in drams and Seka
Lumber to restore my tie – to match it… as it were before.
Farrival Marchant tossed fitfully –
What is this?
It’s half past four.
–before returning to restive dreams.
Now, in his throne room, the stage that befit him like a monarch his crown, was Farrival thronged.
Couturiers and haberdashers promised unripped seams. A stain-resistant – nay, a stain free – and long life. ‘Till one haggard anomaly approached to stitch dissonant hymn.
The clothiers shall never vanquishéd be
Until a great Burning Wood to the Spined Lake shall return.
Farrival saw, in that dreamlike and inconstant manner, a body of water in streams. It did surround him as he seemed to drown and did succored him, whispering
Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day
Perhaps is but prolonged.
Then as he watched, the lake transmogrified from water to spines to feathers to a pen.
Farrival screamed.
And the haggard screamed: This fate you must not skirt!
Strutting and fretting, half-mad, on the stage – alone – Farrival raved.
Hem all the skirts then! And bring me more cravats! Let them fly, all!
Till a burning wood quench this watery pen?!?
My clothes cannot taint nor be smeared!
But if you stain me, do I not dye?
If I die, shall I not resplend?
From off-stage, Gadbois and Gadbois and Gadbois – that thrice be-fucked Gadbois! – all fed Farrival lines that his mind had not saved:
...
...
Before the legend
Before the glory
The Ferryman’s dream foretold the story:
“Five will ride the Roaringburn,
But only four will e’er return!”
Farrival startled awake, gasping. His well-trained actor’s brain snatched the last line back from dream’s fading clutches.
“Roaringburn? No, that stanza, I think, is unrelated. Good meter, though. Or!”
He reached down to open one of the side table hutches. Nestled, unstained, were one hundred and seventy-five traveling cravats. Those dearest of those that remained.
“Or perhaps that stanza meant I should start naming my cravats?” He stroked them and comforted them, even as tears welled in his own eyes. One of them, a scarlet that flashed even in the dark night, fell askew. “Roaringburn,” tremulously, “does that suit you?”
He slammed the drawer shut. “Knowing food stains, rips, and dust, oh actor, wouldst thou bind thy heart helpless to them?”
Farrival cried himself awake.
Editor’s Note 1: Yes, I do know what “self-important” means, and thank you for the compliment.
Editor’s Note 2: No it’s not “just a tie,” it’s really, really important!
Editor’s Note 3: No, you get a life!