Fires - Book 3: The Hare, and Other Tales

The Slag

Among bleak hills of mounded slag they walked, 'Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag O'er-burdened by the belching smoke, and lie Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank, Till both felt youth within them fail and flag-- Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag A fluttering moment through the murky sky Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank Again beneath the iron bell close-bound-- And it was all that they could do to drag Themselves along, 'neath that dead-weight of smoke, Over the cinder-blasted, barren ground. Though fitfully and fretfully she talked, He never turned his eyes to her, or spoke: And as he slouched with her along the track That skirted a stupendous, lowering mound, With listless eyes, and o'er-strained sinews slack, She bit a petted, puckered lip, and frowned To think she ever should be walking out With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout, As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag.

And, all on edge, o'erwrought by the crampt day Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine, It seemed to her a girl of seventeen Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking-- Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay-- Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim, Till all her eager youth should waste away. Yet, even as she looked askance at him-- Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed-- She dimly knew of depths she could not sound In this strong lover, silent at her side: And, once again, her heart was touched with pride To think that he was hers, this strapping lad-- Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad... His crimson neckerchief, so smartly tied-- And hers alone, and more than all she had In all the world to her ... and yet, so grave! If he would only shew that he was glad To be with her--a gleam, a spark of fire, A spurt of flame to shoot into the night, A moment through the murky heavens to wave An eager beacon of enkindling light In answer to her young heart's quick desire!

Yet, though he walked with dreaming eyes agaze, As, deep within a mound of slag, a core Of unseen fire may smoulder many days, Till suddenly the whole heap glow ablaze, That seemed, but now, dead cinder, grey and cold, Life smouldered in his heart. The fire he fed Day-long in the tall furnace just ahead From that frail gallery slung against the sky Had burned through all his being, till the ore Glowed in him. Though no surface-stream of gold Quick-molten slag of speech was his to spill Unceasingly, the burning metal still Seethed in him, from the broken furnace-side To burst at any moment in a tide Of white-hot molten iron o'er the mould...

But still he spoke no word as they strolled on Into the early-gathering Winter night: And, as she watched the leaping furnace-light, She had no thought of smouldering fires unseen... The daylong clattering whirr of her machine Hummed in her ears again--the straining thread And stabbing needle starting through her head-- Until the last dull gleam of day was gone...

When, all at once, upon the right, A crackling crash, a blinding flare... A shower of cinders through the air... A grind of blocks of slag aslide... And, far above them, in the night, The looming heap had opened wide About a fiery, gaping pit... And, startled and aghast at it, With clasping hands they stood astare, And gazed upon the awful glare: And, as she felt him clutch her hand, She seemed to know her heart's desire, For evermore with him to stand In that enkindling blaze of fire... When, suddenly, he left her side; And started scrambling up the heap: And, looking up, with stifled cry, She saw, against the glowing sky, Almost upon the pit's red brink, A little lad, stock-still with fright Before the blazing pit of dread Agape before him in the night, Where, playing castles on the height Since noon, he'd fallen, spent, asleep And dreaming he was home in bed...

With brain afire, too strained to think, She watched her lover climb and leap From jag to jag Of broken slag... And still he only seemed to creep... She felt that he would never reach That little lad, though he should climb Until the very end of time... And, as she looked, the burning breach Gaped suddenly more wide... The slag again began to slide, And crash into the pit, Until the dazed lad's feet Stood on the edge of it. She saw him reel and fall... And thought him done for ... then Her lover, brave and tall, Against the glare and heat, A very fire-bright god of men! He stooped ... and now she knew the lad Was safe with Robert, after all.

And while she watched, a throng of folk Attracted by the crash and flare, Had gathered round, though no one spoke But all stood terror-stricken there, With lifted eyes and indrawn breath, Until the lad was snatched from death Upon the very pit's edge, when, As Robert picked him up, and turned, A sigh ran through the crowd; and fear Gave place to joy, as cheer on cheer Sang through the kindled air...

But still she never uttered word, As though she neither saw nor heard; Till as, at last, her lad drew near, She saw him bend with tender care Over the sobbing child who lay Safe in his arms, and hug him tight Against his breast--his brow alight With eager, loving eyes that burned In his transfigured face aflame... And even when the parents came It almost seemed that he was loth To yield them up their little son; As though the lad were his by right Of rescue, from the pit's edge won.

Then, as his eyes met hers, she felt An answering thrill of tenderness Run, quickening, through her breast; and both Stood quivering there, with envious eyes, And stricken with a strange distress, As quickly homeward through the night The happy parents bore their boy...

And then, about her reeling bright, The whole night seemed to her to melt In one fierce, fiery flood of joy.

Devil's Edge

All night I lay on Devil's Edge, Along an overhanging ledge Between the sky and sea: And as I rested 'waiting sleep, The windless sky and soundless deep In one dim, blue infinity Of starry peace encompassed me.

And I remembered, drowsily, How 'mid the hills last night I 'd lain Beside a singing moorland burn; And waked at dawn, to feel the rain Fall on my face, as on the fern That drooped about my heather-bed: And how by noon the wind had blown The last grey shred from out the sky, And blew my homespun jacket dry, As I stood on the topmost stone That crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head, And caught a gleam of far-off sea; And heard the wind sing in the bent Like those far waters calling me: When, my heart answering to the call, I followed down the seaward stream, By silent pool and singing fall; Till with a quiet, keen content, I watched the sun, a crimson ball, Shoot through grey seas a fiery gleam, Then sink in opal deeps from sight.

And with the coming on of night, The wind had dropped: and as I lay, Retracing all the happy day, And gazing long and dreamily Across the dim, unsounding sea, Over the far horizon came A sudden sail of amber flame; And soon the new moon rode on high Through cloudless deeps of crystal sky.

Too holy seemed the night for sleep: And yet, I must have slept, it seems; For, suddenly, I woke to hear A strange voice singing, shrill and clear, Down in a gully black and deep That cleft the beetling crag in twain. It seemed the very voice of dreams That drive hag-ridden souls in fear Through echoing, unearthly vales, To plunge in black, slow-crawling streams, Seeking to drown that cry, in vain... Or some sea creature's voice that wails Through blind, white banks of fog unlifting To God-forgotten sailors drifting Rudderless to death... And as I heard, Though no wind stirred, An icy breath Was in my hair... And clutched my heart with cold despair... But, as the wild song died away, There came a faltering break That shivered to a sobbing fall; And seemed half-human, after all...

And yet, what foot could find a track In that deep gully, sheer and black... And singing wildly in the night! So, wondering I lay awake, Until the coming of the light Brought day's familiar presence back.

Down by the harbour-mouth that day, A fisher told the tale to me. Three months before, while out at sea, Young Philip Burn was lost, though how, None knew, and none would ever know. The boat becalmed at noonday lay... And not a ripple on the sea... And Philip standing in the bow, When his six comrades went below To sleep away an hour or so, Dog-tired with working day and night, While he kept watch ... and not a sound They heard, until, at set of sun They woke; and coming up, they found The deck was empty, Philip gone... Yet not another boat in sight... And not a ripple on the sea. How he had vanished, none could tell. They only knew the lad was dead They'd left but now, alive and well... And he, poor fellow, newly-wed... And when they broke the news to her, She spoke no word to anyone: But sat all day, and would not stir-- Just staring, staring in the fire, With eyes that never seemed to tire; Until, at last, the day was done, And darkness came; when she would rise, And seek the door with queer, wild eyes; And wander singing all the night Unearthly songs beside the sea: But always the first blink of light Would find her back at her own door.