The Maeve of the Mountain by Andrew Scott
The Maeve of the Mountain by Andrew Scott
Part One – The Capture
The crack of thunder shook me,
rays of light knocked all of the sleep from me.
Never had I been shaken like that before,
I reached for my heart, checking for a beat.
I ran out in the all awoken village,
joined them in a half circle,
to see the site that we would all see.
You could not shield what we saw with any disguise,
what we were watching shook our village’s very core.
The given trickery and deceit,
once of us taken up the mountain after a silent pillage.
There were sins and this was the pinnacle.
We were all silent,
you could just hear shocked breath.
Getting him from certain imprisonment,
was a fore gone conclusion,
as soon as the sun rose over the peaks of the mountains.
Our faces were praying for an end that would not be violent,
this little peaceful caravan could not take another death.
All coming back home would be the perfect present,
but we are going for a rescue, without question,
I did not think most of us even knew how to use a gun.
Most of us spent the night sleepless,
tossing, turning, not fully knowing,
what we were going to travel to.
This was a village of farmers,
living a peaceful existence,
growing a life to pass down,
crops, homes to give to grown children,
of this Midland.
Never had I ever been so nervous,
I did not even know what I was packing,
what we were going to ride through.
Getting ready to be courageous warriors,
thrown into this by nothing but happenstance,
not one of use wanted to be kings with a crown.
Trembling thoughts, barely letting me breathe oxygen.
I pray for us in getting a higher powers guiding hand.
Herds of us at the village center,
each packed what we thought was essential.
I had my hunting bow,
dressed in bear skin to keep warm,
more furs for when it came time for sleep,
once we had to camp in higher country,
and fire would not do.
We headed to our goal, sombre,
hoping no one would sense our arrival.
Not one of us did know,
if we were walking into a dark swarm.
For the first few trails not one of us said a peep,
making each minute, hour, an eternity,
with each passing step anxiety grew.
Part Two – The Journey
I cannot tell you how many sunrises we saw,
our tireless yaks kept moving forward,
never out of line,
traveling in a lined pack
while our eyes were fixed on our goal.
Between us, not one word was spoken.
One step at a time toward our end mission.
There was plenty of food for our teeth to gnaw,
the deer and bear were easy to walk toward,
they never saw us coming, not even an outline.
Skins were kept in case of frost’s attack.
This we knew we could control.
Without hunter instincts our strength would be broken,
and our rescue would have died too, no question.
Sleep was uneasy,
even when we laid close to our creature’s matted, warm hair.
Constant thoughts of home,
back with the family that we missed.
Tired bones drifting in and out,
asking for our own beds back,
dreams of the simple life again.
Every single one of us looked up and felt uneasy,
without knowing, we were at the foot of the forbidden lair,
panicked looks at the fiery dome,
under our feet, the ground hissed.
Too late to turn on our doubt,
we would plan our uncertain attack.
Night fall is when we would break the imaginary chain.
Part Three – The Loyal Rescue
Everything looked so different,
under the cover of the brimstone’s night fall.
The entrance was a glowing blue, red.
Mutates walking along the towers,
silent, menacing in guarding.
Not seen during the daylight,
never the less, we were taking the first steps in.
Our creatures started charging with reckless abandonment,
the herd running, head down, towards the fortified wall,
no fear if one or two bled,
courage, beyond us, used as powers.
The captive’s yak leading the bombarding,
his master’s scent within sight.
The pack followed the creature’s rage within.
We watched, stunned, in horror,
on what we were seeing and hearing.
The guarding Mutates took to the fight,
howls of pain took to the darkness.
Our minds seeing the actual battle,
with each growl, charge and scream.
On looking, we were coward, fearful statues.
With the majesty of a conqueror,
towards us, they came out galloping.
We almost never saw him at first sight,
the captive, held in his yak’s harness.
We cleared as they ran passed, full throttle.
When we did finally catch up, our yak’s were out of savage steam.
Never will we know what guided our loyal creature’s virtues.
We saddled after injuries were checked,
bleeding patched and dressed.
As our beasts slowly walked homebound,
we were never to question the loyalty found.
May 25, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011
Bio: Andrew Scott is a native of Fredericton, NB. During his time as an active poet, Andrew Scott has taken the time to speak in front of a classrooms, judge poetry competitions as well as published worldwide in such publications as The Art of Being Human, Battered Shadows and The Broken Ones. His books, Snake With A Flower, The Phoenix Has Risen and The Storm Is Coming are available now