The Sketcher

The Sketcher

In a hut not made for living, He sat with his paper and pen.

He'd walked so many miles that day, Across the green of grass and glen.

Across many meadows and marshes, 'Cross bridges both natural and made.

He'd been up hills and down again, Finally making his way to this glade.

And as the robust shadows of ragged rocks, Around him grew and stretched.

He strained his ageing eyes to see, What exactly had been sketched.

The scratched lines upon the paper, Seemed alive in the fading light.

And all around, the beasts fell quiet, Settling down for the oncoming night.

The man was glad for his warm cloak, Which he tugged around him tight.

He dared not light a fire, For fear of pushing away the night.

He knew it was far too early, And fairly fed himself some food.

Restfully waiting for the witching hour, And the scene he hoped to view.

He sat and he watched and he waited, Patient as a man who expects to see.

Exactly what it was he was hoping, Would appear from betwixt the trees.

It was becoming close to midnight, A half eaten moon hung high in the sky.

And a silence descended upon him, The wicked witching hour had arrived.

In the darkness by which he was surrounded, A soft light seemed to suddenly shine.

And as it got ever so closer, He thought 'twas a trick of his mind.

For the clearing that he had been watching, Wasn't as empty as it had been all night.

Before him stood a slabbed table of stone, Etched with symbols that blushed in the light.

And figures appeared, stood around it, And more and more of them came.

Suddenly, and without any warning, Around it five fires burst into flame.

The spectres were becoming more steadfast, As the flames flickered higher and high.

But the man who was sat there spectating, Had turned, himself, a shade of white.

He watched these flickering visions, Dance in front of his terrified eyes.

And without breaking his gaze, he reached for his pen, And drew in trembling lines.

He drew as they cleansed the alter, By making it erupt up in flames.

He also drew when the flare had died, And as each of them called out a name.

“I am Hazel; I am Ruth; I am Blaylock; We are Truth!

I am Harrod; I am McPhee; I am Pressop; We call to Thee!

I am Bessie; I am Drew; I am Goodall; We call on You!”

Around was much commotion, As their cries drifted into the night.

It seemed like every beast out there, Screamed in response to their cries.

The pen hardly touched the paper, Yet left its mark with every stroke.

But with what happened next he stopped drawing, and huddled down into his cloak.

Another figure appeared in the clearing, And she was being flanked by two more.

Her whole body seemed to be shimmering, In the glimmering white dress that she wore.

The two led her up to the alter, Down upon which she rested her head.

And as the others danced around her, A solitary one stood still and said,

“We of the night we summon you

Make yourself known to us now

We offer this virgin upon you

Make yourself known to us now

All of the things we have shown you

Make yourself known to us now

We of the night, we must own you

Make yourself known to us now!”

As the others continued their dancing, The solitary one's robed arm was raised.

From the sleeve, a dagger gripped tight, With the moonlight glinting off of the blade.

A cacophony of sounds, many unhuman, Filled the forest and filled up his head.

He knew that the knife would take the girls life, Unsure what would happen at her death.

He watched in abject terror, As the blade began its descent.

“Oh Great One,” the lone one was shouting, “upon you virgins blood be besprent!”

The blade came down and entered, The Virgin's creamy, supple skin.

And red roses of blood began blooming, More came, the deeper it went in.

With hardly a sound of her suffering, The girl looked him right in the eye.

And she mouthed the words “I love you.” Then upon the alter she died.

The visions before him vanished, He was left all alone in the woods.

His body a lone solitary figure, Covered with a cloak and a hood.

The man's breath had been taken, By the scene that had just been seen.

And he didn't ever draw another, His body wasn't found for four weeks.

By J. Barrett