The Ride of Shasta
The fog had smote the world beneath,
A misty haze under his feet,
A lonely road before him spread,
A road to which he saw no end.
Silence only met his ears and
Darkness whispered nightly fears and
Abandonment he felt once more,
As on that night at distant shore.
“Stricken, unlucky boy I am!
Most unlucky in all this land,
For my companions, things go well,
On me alone this sorrow fell.”
And when he thought that nothing worse,
Could befall his life’s sad curse he
Heard beside his horse’s tread soft
Footsteps falling, with ghostly dread.
Quieted though the footsteps were,
Hidden by dark and silence, sure
He felt the creature walking there
Was large, whose breathing stirred the air.
“Are you a giant?” Shasta said,
The breathing came above his head.
“A giant, yes,” said a Large Voice,
“But not the word I’d pick by choice.”
“See you I can’t,” Shasta then cried,
“Though we walk here, you by my side,
Tell me please then – are you a ghost?
Oh of all, doom haunts me the most!”
The voice for a time did not speak;
Shasta felt breath, low, warm, and deep.
“There,” said the Voice, “this breath is not
Breath of a ghost, my son, fear not.
“Tell me your sorrows,” the Voice said,
“What weight now bends your weary head?
Why do you ride here all alone?
Why so far from your distant home?”
Shasta began – the breath was real,
“I am ‘neath sorrow’s drifting wheel.
Father, Mother I’ve never known,
Raised by a man who made Hell home.
“I ran away with comrades three,
Two horses and girl carrying grief,
But we had not traveled for long,
‘Fore met with lions and much wrong.
“Followed us through the place of death,
A night with tombs far from the path,
Wandered, desert, with not one drop
To fill our hard and bitter cup.
“Then when we were come at last to
Our true home, a third lion met,
Wounded my friend, ripped in her back,
She being tended, while I go back.”
“You aren’t unlucky,” the Voice said.
At this shock, Shasta raised his head:
“Have you listened to my words? To
Meet three lions – hard to endure!”
“Only one lion,” came the Voice,
“What do you mean?” Shasta replied.
“Two lions chased us that first night,
“Only one lion,” the Voice cried.
“But,” came Shasta’s hard disbelief,
“No one lion could cause such grief.”
“That would depend on what you mean,
For I’m the lion that you’ve seen.
“I was he that forced you to join,
With your friends the night you had flown.
I was the cat who calmed your dread,
The night demons danced by your head.
“I was the lion ‘roared away,
Kept the fiends and monsters at bay,
It was I who gave you new strength,
To reach the land sought at such length.
“I’m the lion you’ve forgotten
I pushed the boat you were brought in.
A man, wakeful, though in deep night,
Waited, watchful, and saved your life.”
“Then you hurt my friend!” Shasta cried,
“Tore her back and into her side.”
“Yes, it was I.” “Please tell me why!”
“That’s her story,” came the reply.
“Who are you?,” Shasta asked again,
The Lion’s voice grew deeper, then:
“Myself,” he said, and the earth shook,
Rocks cried out; the boy’s breath it took.
“Myself,” again, but clear as light,
Piercing the air of that cold night,
“Myself,” the voice said, a time third,
Gentle breath, the flowers it stirred.
Trembled the boy but not with fear
The Lion would eat, or death was near,
But trembling of a different sort,
Just those know who’ve felt it before.
The mist was turning black to grey,
Dark of the night turned into day,
For the first time, the boy could see,
The Lion he’d once thought was three.
None more good had ever he seen,
None more awful ever had been
No word was said, nor was there need,
Fell from the horse, fell at his feet.
He stooped near him, scent in his mane,
On his head was a scar of pain
He wore as a crown bathed in light,
Light that seemed to bring day from night.
The boy raised his face; their eyes met,
The pale brightness swirled the large head,
Flame and light passed into glory,
Gone was He who held his story.
But there, at his knees, in the dust-trod road,
A Lion’s print, Shasta’s story still told.