Somewhere it was autumn, and the trees
Hung undecided, torn between the fear
Of concrete skies and black obsidian nights
And clung to fading leaves, yet still they felt
A dark desire to let the summer drop,
To scatter to the wind their tattered clothes
And tile the floor with fragments of the roof;
Sunset gold above and bronze below
By tarnish-faded silver pillars crossed.
Somewhere it was autumn, and the air
Was in-between a chill across the skin
And warmth as of a draft of honey wine.
The light that filtered through translucent leaves
Was grey and filmy, like the faded dust
On antique photographs of relatives
You never met, and cast the quiet trees
In serried ranks of cardboard cutout shapes
As if the world were made of scenery.
The colors burned as hot as furnaces.
The smell of leaf decay in every breath,
By coming winter frozen, chilled the blood.
Somewhere it was autumn. Nothing moved
Save for the sound of breath of one asleep
Upon the leaf strewn sand. He slept as if
He only had lain down and closed his eyes
To rest a moment, but he did not stir.
His limbs were thick with work and weariness.
His hair was red and short, as if of sparks
Shot out electric from the stony shock
Of steel fist on solid flinty pate.
Upon his hands he wore two weighty gloves.
His feet and chest were bare, his breath was slow,
His eyes were sealed but lightly as he slept.
A leaf above his all unmoving face,
For no cause visible, detached itself
And drifted, fickle, now towards him swift,
Now again away, until it stopped
Above his chest, and settled, and he woke
Like a volcano, sudden, swift, surprised.
He halted half arisen, and he stared.
He traced the tree trunks skyward with his eyes.
He slowly touched his breast, as if afraid
To find he was no longer there. The rush
Of breath relieved was loud enough to stir
Another scarlet leaf to drift and lie.
He rose and cast about with eyes and ears
For some familiar thing, just as a dog
Who finds his master absent suddenly
Will seek from side to side for his return
Ere he will take, in sorrow, to the wilds.
But nowhere could he see the slightest sign
Of where, or when, or how he came to be
In this place. All around the leaves lay flat
Quite undisturbed by any track or trail.
On all sides stood the woods, each way the same,
No landmarks but the trees, no signpost there,
The only compass was the evening shades.
Two passions warred within his mind. The one
To rise and go, and find what place this was,
How he came here, what he was to do next.
The other to remain where he awoke
And hope whatever agency had brought
Him to this place would open the way back
So caught between the two he wandered forth
And back, and forth, and back again until
He could not surely say where he awoke.
“Now what is this?" he spoke, and pressed against
The smooth grey bole grown nearest to his hand
As if to see if it would bear his weight
Or melt into a mist, “How came I here?
I never have beheld this place before.
I never have its like imagined, nor
Had any wish to find such silent haunts.
It looks to me as if no eyes save for
My own have seen this place, no ears have heard
The silence of these undisturbed leaves,
No feet before my own have felt this earth,
All looks so virgin here. And yet so old
For every tree is higher than the peak
On the cathedral in my window frame.
So even lie the leaves, as if they fell
A thousand years ago. But what is next?
But what am I to do? A moment gone
I was locked fast in combat in the ring.
Where has it gone, and my antagonist?
Where is the crowd? Did he who took them hence
Remove me here? How was it done so swift?
I almost feel upon my body still
The burning of the bruises raining down.
Perhaps my guard was weak, and on my head
There came a blow as from a meteor
That jarred my brain awry, so that in truth
I lie asleep upon the mat, and dream
All this. I do not seem to be asleep,"
He frowned, “Indeed, nor does this seem a dream."
How long he stood in thought he could not stay
But while he stood around him stirred a breeze
Too slight to feel, the only one to fly
Since long and many days ere he awoke,
And at its touch a thousand thousand leaves
That clung by less than threads detached at last
And fell as thick as snowflakes round his head
So that the air was for a moment filled
As fully as the trees above. Then as
Their tickling settled on his shoulders broad
He shrugged, and off they slid, and then he spoke,
“I may not know where I have come, or how
I may go to return. I do not know
What wilds these are, their name, where they are found,
Or if I wake or dream. I know not if
The blow that felled me cast me to these woods.
But nothing will I know if I stay here."
So saying, he set out, not caring where,
He took his gloves and hung them round his neck,
And through the leaves he pushed his way, that built
And clung and parted round his knees
Forming, reforming, rustling papery greaves.
Between the trees the boxer came alone.
No destination nor no object sought
Informed his wandering. As he went on
He wondered at the majesty of trees
That built for him a cloister and arcade
Spreading beyond the furthest he could glimpse.
However long he walked there seemed no end.
No herb grew in the ground, only the trees.
No blade of grass emerged between the leaves.
It might have seemed a garden, had there been
The slightest sign that any human hand
Had touched it ere he came, for good or ill.
The sun, which had hung high above his head
Brushing the topmost leaves when he awoke,
Slid downward, burned more fiercely, and engorged.
The slanting beams were threaded through the trunks
So nearly horizontal that the ground
Lay all in its own shadow, when he stopped,
Closed his eyes, and sighed out. “Now am I lost.
Surely I walk in circles." Then a voice
In complicated echoes off the trees
Commanded him “You there! What is your name
And what your business? Answer or defend!"
Between him and the amber setting sun
A man in armor stood, with sword and shield.
Beneath his lowered helm and lowering brows,
His eyes were like the points of iron nails
Honed down by strength and anger and the sort
Of bravery that leads a man to stand
Under a wholly hopeless, starless sky
And fight, and die, and go on standing; yet
More sharpened by a fear, not for himself
But for another, and of his own strength
To stand for them, that may not be enough.
His knees were bent, his stance was coiled to spring,
And challenge plain was written on his face.
The boxer swelled indignant, and he said
“I have no need to give account to you!
If all these woods are yours, then rather you
Owe an account to me! If they are not
Why should I need your leave to wander here?"
The warrior placed a hand upon his sword
And spoke again “What churl's nonsense is this?
Your speech is as the whimpering of pigs
That every time the farmer brings their slops
Imagine that the butcher comes, and squeal.
It means no more to me. Say better, pig!"
The boxer laughed as he pulled on his gloves.
“Am I a pig? Then come not near my sty
Unless you have a wish to taste the mud.
But two can play this game: you are no pig,
You are a chicken, brooding on the fence,
That squawks and flaps in panic for no cause.
Be careful how you crow!" he said, and grinned.
The warrior did not smile, but drew his sword.
“Your clothes are most outlandish, and your speech
Discourteous. You come in troubled times
To troubled lands. I know not what you are
But know I like it not. You are not armed
Yet I will smite you, if you get not gone."
The boxer only raised his fists and said,
“You say I am unarmed. Well, we shall see!"
A moment time moved not, but held its breath
While there they stood and nothing moved. They might
As easily from everlasting stone
As from temporal flesh been sculpted there.
As soon as time began again, they flew.
The warrior had his sword, whose deadly edge
Gave surety of blood with but a touch,
The warrior had his shield, both broad and thick.
The boxer only had his naked pride
And practice long, at staying out of reach.
So as he rained down blows so thick and fast
That they were as a sole battering force
Like countless wheels upon the interstate,
He ducked and bobbed both under and around
The weapon tip that sought him eagerly.
Twice he evaded it. Twice did it bite
Through nothing but the air, and struck the ground
And left a furrow, like a plowshare, in
The orange of the leaves, of chocolate earth.
Twice the warrior backward hauled the hilt
To jerk it free, then twice the boxer struck
And scored brave hits his foe seemed not to feel.
The third time, and the warrior swung again
And when the boxer swerved, he forward lunged.
He was too close now. Now the bitter tip
Slashed right across the shoulder and the cheek.
The boxer cried aloud, words not for here,
Collapsing to one knee. The warrior laughed.
“What, have you not known pain before? Or does
My sword cut deeper than you did assume?
Know you now, fool, that here we do not play?"
“Then do not!" spat the boxer as he rose.
He charged, bellowing. As he did he struck
Aside the hostile blade, but not enough.
The tip scored him again, across the side.
The steel cruel tasted again his blood.
He stumbled, fell again. The leaves were stained
A deeper red. Through eyes screwed shut in pain.
He heard the warrior saying “I regret
That I should slay one so unwisely brave."
The sunset blazing off descending steel
Rang like a crystal chime. The sword came down
And halted with a smack, as of the ice
Of an inevitable glacier cracked
Instantly, in a thousand facets, by
Some rising warmth allied unto some crag
Too stubborn to endure the grinding down.
Just was the sound of leather boxing gloves
That clapped around the blade and held it fast.
The boxer's eyes were blazing as he shoved;
He slammed the pommel in the warrior's trunk,
He wrenched aside the sword, and struck again.
The warrior raised his shield, the other fist
Came up around and knocked him breathless down.
He swayed defenseless, staggering. Enraged,
The boxer struck him on the mouth: once, twice,
Three times. The warrior toppled like a tree
And landed on his back. “Where I am from,"
The boxer growled, “We call this victory."
The warrior pulled himself upright, and reached,
Caught up his sword, and caught the boxer's eyes.
Then thrust it in its sheath, and laughed, and hugged
His former foe as if he were his kin.
Still laughing, he then clapped him mightily
Upon the shoulder, saying “Well met, then!
You are more unexpected far, I own,
Then I expected! Well met, friend, indeed!"
The boxer blinked at him, as at the sun,
More struck by this than by the sword, and said,
“This is not like a greeting, to attack
With deadly weapons. Who are you? And where
Am I? I understand you not at all."
“All this," the warrior answered, “can I cure.
But come! Your noble blood yet marks the path.
It is not far to fire and board, and there
Will I tend both your wounds and wonderment.
As for my name, which rudely I required
Of you, I am called Varr the Last-To-Flee."
The boxer, noticing that still he bled,
Followed and answered him, “My name is Shane
Falconi. Though I cannot say I have
Any grand title now, I once was called
A champion." Declined he more to speak.
The warrior said, “Here, you shall be again!"
Behold!" Raising his hand to wipe his bloodied lip,
Then pressed it to boxer's arm, “Here do I take
Forevermore by oath of mingled blood
You for my brother, Shane the Champion!"
Embraced he him, and Shane, bewildered sore,
With nothing else to do, clasped him as well
And laughed. The last rays of the setting sun
Slipped from the flame-souled leaves, and left them there.