The Night Wanderer
“This poem is a variation on the story of True Thomas or Thomas the Rhymer, a Scottish poet who was said to have been given the gift of prophecy after a tryst with the Queen of Elphame. In this updated version of the story, Thomas is not a medieval Scottish poet but a modern man, lying in bed unable to sleep as he broods about the past.”
Photo by Murilo Gomes
“True Thomas Lay on Huntlie Bank…”
This poem is a variation on the story of True Thomas or Thomas the Rhymer, a Scottish poet who was said to have been given the gift of prophecy after a tryst with the Queen of Elphame. In this updated version of the story, Thomas is not a medieval Scottish poet but a modern man, lying in bed unable to sleep as he broods about the past.
In section 1, Thomas drifts off with part of his mind into a visionary encounter with the Queen of Elphame. For the remainder of the poem part of his consciousness will be in Elphame, while the other part lies awake with insomnia in the mortal world.
In section 2, Thomas lies next to his wife and stares at the wall, too terrified to sleep due to the horrors he sees when he closes his eyes.
In section 3, the Queen of Elphame warns Thomas not to be hypnotized by the wonders of the Fairy realm.
In section 4, Thomas laments his inability to forget the past, even with the aid of whiskey.
In section 5, Thomas and the Queen cross an ocean of blood to reach the land of Elphame.
In section 6, Thomas remembers a lost love who still haunts his thoughts, a woman he wants to be able to forget.
In section 7, Thomas and the Queen reach Elphame.
In section 8, Thomas lies awake thinking about his own long history of violence toward other men, and again laments the impossibility of forgetting the past.
In section 9, Thomas and the Queen of Elphame become lovers.
In section 10, Thomas lies awake in the “long dark hour” just before the dawn, the hour when heart attacks are most likely to happen.
In section 11, the Queen warns Thomas that he cannot remain with her in Elphame.
In section 12, Thomas waits for some impending catastrophe in the mortal world.
In section 13, the Queen begins to warn Thomas of the teind, the human sacrifice the Fairy court must pay. He sees the dead spirits of those who came before him.
In section 14, Thomas suffers a heart attack and realizes that death is near.
In section 15, the Queen of Elphame gives Thomas the apple of the Truth to save him from being chosen for the teind.
In section 16, Thomas eats the glass apple and has a vision that transforms his view of the world and of his own life.
In section 17, Thomas leaves Elphame and wakes up in bed beside his wife in the mortal world. But does he survive his heart attack?
The Night Wanderer
1
The long horizon was a dark rose
From the city’s light on the low fog.
Too many times, I had seen the blue
Falling-away of the bright dawn. I
Went with you, and you looked in my eyes
And dipped your fingers in the red stream
Where dreams floated on broken shells like
Lizards birthing. And our skiff was light –
Made out of thin glass eggshells, soft like
Skin. “Careful, what lies ahead,” you said
“Is cold.” I wrapped my arms around me –
You did not. There was a distant look
In your eyes, and your hand on the prow.
In your green gaze, I had seen beauties
That were not human, and in your lips
I had tasted, thick as molasses,
The labyrinth of your history
And the asymmetric songs of your
Strange dances, melancholy and fast.
I had heard broken glass in your laugh,
But the finest glass. You were quiet
Like the muttering wind on a peak,
Like a deep forest of unmarked snow
Whose thick pines have never seen the spring.
2
(Outside, the trees muttered. And birds hopped
From wall to branch. There was a light breeze,
Which stirred the dead leaves. Though none of these
Mere atmospheres were fearful to me,
Yet I remained wide-eyed and staring
At the bare pock-marked wall. And of all
The shadows which rose and fell, and crept
Across my wife where she slept, and all
The tall shapes and all the thin sounds – none
Frightened me, but I was still not well.
Too many times, I had seen brash dreams
Break out of their purple shells and tell
Me nothing, but crawl across my wall.)
3
All citadels were broken there, and
The shoreline was choked with a fine mess
Of dead cities whose great fat old blocks
Stretched down to the red river like dogs
Panting in the heat. There was a thin
Coat of crystal hair along each block,
With swift colors changing like the tide,
Inconstant as snake’s eyes, hypnotic
And without meaning. “Pay them no heed.”
4
(Outside, the trees still muttered. And my
Hands fluttered like butterflies at a
Window while my eyes stared at the bare
Wall, unable to escape from my
Long awakening. Too many times
I had burned away my memories
With frenetic motion, and drunk from
An ocean of forgetting, rich and
Sweet, with deep waves like burnt caramel
And a dark well of secrets somewhere
With which I had become intimate,
The very worst of which is only
This – that you can forget nothing, that
There is nothing which you can forget.)
5
“Yet you are so quiet,” you whispered,
And your wet lips were like two soft birds
While our glass ship drifted on the red
River and the stars looked down at us
In cold submission, patient, alert
For your moment of weakness. I turned,
And heard the roaring of a distant
Sea. You looked at me, and said “This dull
Dark current, thick as with clots, is not
Made red by water. He who would come
Into our pleasant country must come
To it by blood.” And you were smiling.
6
(Outside, the leaves muttered. And I
Thought of how I had come to this pass-
Staring at a bare patch while leaves scratched
At the dry glass. There was a time that
I walked through shadows in old walls – paced
Where bridges were cold vultures, and retched
While droplets of water touched my face –
Wet insects erased by my dry flesh.
I could not forget. She was thick like
Bone, like salt crusted on a fish. She
Was deep as thin silver flakes on stone,
And my own dreams draining me of sleep.
She was my history of cloning
Lies from lies. All my bright cruelties
Glinted back at me from her snake’s eyes’
Wise irrelevant realities.
And the years passed, and at last I knew
That I would not forget. That in all
This world there is no way to forget.
And your bare patch where the leaves scratch at
The dry glass will be yours to watch. That,
And the blank revolving of the clock,
Till it drives you out to walk, alone,
By the stone arches of an old bridge.)
7
This new horizon was a dark rose
From an unknown light. There was no sun.
And our boat dried, as we came ashore,
To a fine dust. When I touched your hand
There was a softness like white birds’ wings
Breaking the wide night into pieces.
And in your wet lips my cup was full
With the water of your bright beauty
Whose cold reaches held such rich secrets,
Born of a blackly golden syrup
Which knew me and destroyed my reason,
Till I shuddered. There was that laugh, like
Broken glass. And so, we were lovers.
8
(Inside me, there was a long black patch
Which my mind scratched at, without relief,
In mixed grief and secret pleasure that
I had taken the measure of men
By their fear, that I’d seen clear into
Their hidden weaknesses, and the sad
Emptiness of their hard pretensions.
All but a few, and those are unknown,
Will moan like a scared dog under a
Black boot, will screech like a fat frog in
A snake’s mouth for their beautiful lives.
Too many times, I had seen weak men
Lick their dry lips at their new pleasure,
Taking measure of another’s fear.
Too many times, I had tried to drink
From the ocean of burnt forgetting,
Thick as caramel, with a dark well
Of secrets with which I had become
Familiar – and the worst of these is
This – that you can forget nothing, that
There is nothing which you can forget.)
9
And so, I was wet with the sweat of
Your soft body on the changing sand.
And there were locks of my hair stuck
To my face, and my ribcage heaving.
You were lighter than I would have guessed-
Lighter than a child, pressed against my
Shoulder, with your green gaze shifting. Red
Waves of color, like dark strawberries,
Flowed through your flesh. The sand, which had been
Green as a thick pine which has never
Left the spring, took on that red. I kissed
Your lips. But you were no longer there.
You were staring at a blank space in
The middle distance. Your eyes were sad.
10
(Outside, the trees were silent. No bird
Hopped. There was no hint of a mere breeze
To stir the dead leaves into false life.
Though I had been wide-eyed, and staring
At the bare pock-marked wall, I caught my
Breath. This was the time when hearts preferred
To stop. This was the hour whose juice I’d
Never known. My heart skipped by a beat
In the long dark hour before dawn,
Wet with my own sweat beside my wife.)
11
“Thomas,” you said, and a clear bead of
Sweat, warm from our mingled bodies, formed
And ran, a salted perfect river,
To the small of your back. “Thomas,” you
Said, “you cannot stay with me.” Along
The long horizon, which had turned both
Blue as the dawn and green as the sand
Had been, I heard the shuffle of ten
Thousand feet. I felt their milky gaze.
12
(“Wait for it.” I said to myself, “Just
Wait for the dawn.” The blackest moment
Of the night seeped in. There was a space
Like a gap in a glacier, like the
Endless moment just before a fall.)
13
You rolled on your back, and pulled your dress
Back on. “Thomas,” you said, “this is a
Pleasant land, for all who dwell between
The shores of its bloody rivers. And
I brought you to taste, in my salt lips,
The labyrinth of our history
And the asymmetric songs of our
Strange dances, melancholy and fast.
I gave you, thick as molasses, the
Blackly golden syrup of our rich
Secrets till your own heart’s cup was full
With the water of our bright beauty.
But you would have died.” I felt their eyes,
And I saw the triple death which had
Come on my predecessors – I saw
Their ghost souls like shards of broken glass,
Each one of them smoky and rippled
With her unforgettable soft kiss,
And the slow pain of remembering
Her touch until the end of all worlds.
14
(Now it was here. My heart no longer
Beat. Memories crowded my head like
Blind white moths. There was a chance that I
Would not be floating back across the
Black sea between late night and first light’s
Falling-away towards the blue morning.)
15
“Don’t be afraid,” you said, “They will not
Harm you. Though they might stare with all their
Milky eyes, eager to feed you to
The patient stars, yet I am their queen.
Here is the clear glass apple of the
Void, the endless empty space between
The worlds. Eat it, and drink of that vast
Churning well, that weightless cauldron where
No drop of light can slake the thirst of
Those who use all light like putty in
Creating worlds. You will speak the Truth.”
16
I drank the Truth. I tasted Truth like
The juice of the white grape. I found no
Escape from the starscapes which flashed and
Faltered, no escape from the altered
Landscapes, no way to be free of the
Seascapes shifting across my vision
Like thin shimmering mirages, real
And permanent. I was made false by
The surprising revelations flawed new
Equations granted me in the form
Of a storm of all-seeing fierce worms
Of profound understanding. And I
Was staggered. I dropped to my knees. But
There were no knees to be found where there
Was no solid ground for the standing,
And I had no eyes, but I cried in
Surprise at my own mouthless fury,
Without hands which were flailing, without
Even an atom, because I had
Spilled over. I wheeled around at the
Sick, thickly liquid sound of my own
Bones splashing on the worms’ equations.
“Bring it all to me!” Because now I
Could see, that there was no order, not
A secret order, no plan but I
Could understand its savage rhythm,
Nothing to understand but this – the
Song-rhythm of our memories has
No metronome, it keeps free timing-
And it soars up into the empty
Places, and flows between the spaces
Of its own notes, which are notes of harsh
Joy in a grand precenting, reading
The line in the void between the worlds.
I had been made sick by an excess
Of streetlights reflected on slick wet
Pavement, by beautiful cruelties,
By wise irrelevant snake’s eyes and
Their rimed realities, by my own
Desperate suicidal joy. “From this
Night on,” you said, “Just tell them the truth.”
You brushed the hair from my forgotten
Face, and gave me blood and bones again.
I left. I crossed the red river and
In my new ears, I heard the distant
Roaring of the sea.
17
And I was home.
I heard the leaves mutter, but my hands
No longer fluttered like trapped moths at
My scratched window. And I looked around.
Outside, the trees still shifted in their
Mysterious language. And I thought
Of how I had come to this strange pass-
To be numb, as if I had drunk good
Whisky, from the shapes of scars in glass.
Though I could not forget that she was
Still inside me, like an aftertaste
Of rock salt on a fish – like the bright
Glow of my old cruelties, and my
Nights in the shadow of a dead bridge,
Yet I knew that I was altered, now-
That I belonged to that queen’s void well,
Not because I had drunk of its thick
Waters, but because I had lived to
Tell what it held. And I looked at my
Wife where she was lying beside me,
And the rose of that night’s light was gone,
And I fell into a sleep with no
Dreaming, a night-wanderer in the
Blue falling-away of the bright dawn.
Christopher Scott Thompson
is an anarchist, martial arts instructor, and devotee of Brighid and Macha. Photo by Tam Hutchison.
