Artifact

 

Artifact

 

He ranges on.

Damp, dripping, sodden,

He ranges on.

The piece he carries disposes the weather not,

Nor provides other comfort,

Neither gift nor burden it is,

But he suspects mayhap be both.

 

A relic it is,

Ancient and appalling,

Dire, dangerous, disturbing,

And at times,

Deadly.

A token and tool of a time lost to history,

This he is sure of,

For it has made that much known to him.

 

When first he found it –

Or the other way ‘round,

He sought out those clerics known to him,

And others more distant,

Or removed,

Whether by their own choice,

Or driven elsewhere,

And these most laughed when shown the worn bauble,

Or recoiled in dismay, nay, even fear,

Muttering incantations and hurrying his leave.

One though called after him,

Would not near approach,

But cried out a name and a place to seek out,

Then would say no more.

 

So, he ranges on,

Toward some priest perhaps,

Or better named as wizard maybe,

A student and practitioner of old arts,

Not secret they, no,

But hidden just the same.

A slim chance to find this thing’s purpose,

Or meaning,

Or use.

He ranges on.

 

When first he found it,

He felt drawn to its compass,

Even before seeing it there was some call,

A beckoning,

A pull,

A summons.

Now it hangs by sturdy chain from his neck,

And he hears it more sharp.

It speaks when it wills,

Whether the time be opportune or no,

But it gave also what detail it willed,

Be that opportune or no.

 

Thus he learned of its placement in time,

If not its origin,

Nor its whole design.

This he did know:

It would not abandon him,

Nor he it –

Fate had decreed their binding,

He needed not this talisman to say so,

(though it made mention on occasion),

It was written on his bones,

It was scribed into his very being.

 

Now his mount plods disconsolately forward,

Uncertain of his not so gentle goading,

It had whickered at the scent of men close ahead,

These parts were known to conceal ruffians,

Keen to the prospect of the lone traveler,

Keen to what might be carried by the unwary.

A small matter.

This course had brought him to such straits before,

He had survived those,

He would survive this.

The artifact was intent on his continuation,

This had been amply demonstrated,

Well more than once,

And leaving little evidence of a confrontation.

So it was before,

So it would be now.

He smiles roughly.

Figures rise from the thickets at each side of the path,

Soon they would rise no more.

 

He ranges on.

 

Cliff Lake 9/7/2025

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2025