Iain N.R. Johnston Stories

THE REMORSE OF DOCTOR RUDOLPH RHEINHARDT

A Will Condon Hobo Tale

by Iain N.R. Johnston

I remember it clearly that fall of nineteen thirty four. The visual profusion of many hued dessicated leaves filled the porches and front yards. The bare trees had caste of their fading summer garb. The hint of frost was carried in the north wind. Fall in Pennsylvania; a solemn time of year.

                  THE NIGHT HAG

CRY OF THE BANSHEE

1

On this cold and bleak October night

over bog, moorland and windswept fen.

I hear the Night Hag's wailing cry,

from a world that is far, far beyond my ken.

2

Carried forth by autumn's mournful wind,

comes that ghastly, infernal scream.

Disturbs my deep, sound sleep,

invades and echoes through my dream.

3

In haste trembling hands latch and bar the door,

shaking lips form and mumble a prayer.

A shadow flits across the orb of moon,

evil intent lingers upon the night air.

4

On what lonely cottage will it alight?

In what darkened window will it peer?

Who is called by that dismal spectral wail?

Crouched by hearth, waiting, sunk in fear.

5

"What soul doth thou seek?" I call into the gale,

then answers with hideous shriek the night borne crone.

Whose phantom shape in tattered shroud wings the storm,

"The soul I seek this night, is thine own!"

HERNE

THE COMING OF THE HUNTER

1

On the breeze of this midsummer eve strange notes are borne

From the Faerie greenwood by the shadowed mystic lake.

Near Merlin's blue pool and standing field of corn,

By the old sacred Druid's oak and tall magical rowan.

Harken! Is that the distant sound of a hunter's horn?

2

For tis the night of the great hunt abroad,

When antlered Herne purses his inhuman lips and calls

Upon his deathless cohort, that spectral horde,

That call that echoes through ancient shrouded woods

O'er hill, vale, brook and mistbound ford.

3

On to heathered heath where smoulders yet ashes of balefire,

Down to the wooden bridge that spans Clodagh's dark water

Far by the hoary crumbling mill that borders Grymlann mire,

Where lies forbidden Elvish mound and craggy Borland Tor

Comes the demon howl of things begotten by an unknown sire

4

To the sound of his horn that shall haunt me unto the day I die,

Come coal black steeds with baying pack of houinds.

Thud of pounding fiery hoof and eerie scream and cry,

Crimson eyed riders with taugt bow and flaming spear.

The great hunt of Herne, The horned  One thunders on by.

Iain Johnston, 2008

Wandering Free

I left for France in seventeen,

A footslogger in the great War.

Furthest from the farm I'd ever been,

A Kid in Khaki,

                   Now I wonder what for.

I came back from Europe in nineteen,

A man, a soldier, war torn and weary

Returning to Land not scarred but quiet and green,

To the Great depression,

                                  To unemployment, sad and dreary.

I took the roads of America, far and wide,

With bindle on my back and old campaign hat,

From Montana to Mexico these dusty roads knew my stride

Working, a jack of all trades,

                                  Doing this and that.

A hobo was I, a wandering spirit in those days,

Many adventures I had, many friends I did meet,

Railroad box cars, junk yards, endless highways,

Summer sun, Autumn wind,

                                 Winter snow and sleet.

When I go at last from this worldly scene,

To that great hobo paradise in the sky.

To the Saviour I'll say, 'Brother, a wanderer on  Earth I've been,

He will smile and reply,

                                Brother, so on Earth, was I' 

I had passed through Clayton Forks once before. Four years previous to be exact. It had been high summer then. White picket fences, trim lawns. Clayton Forks, population five thousand. The typical, American town where in warm weather kids splashed in the cold water of fire-hydrants and old hound dogs lazed in the heat. A wide main street, a selection of small enterprises of various descriptions clustered around the usual general and hardware store.

Nothing ever seemed to occur there; nothing untoward so far. Just a small backwater. A piece of flotsam cast up by the ocean of time...

"Lartia"

A Tomb In Tuscany

In the smoky dusk of twilight I did walk alone,

Perchance, to come upon that ancient quiet place of rest,

A crumbling silent sepulchre of age worn stone,

Above the entrance, a long, forgotten and faded nobles crest.

Memory stirred within me of a life lived long since,

When Etruria was great among the nations of the earth,

Then I loved the maid, Lartia, and I a prince,

And she the keeper of my wealth, houshold and hearth.

Yes! We lived and loved within those spacious marble halls,

Till one eve I fell into a dreamless, timeless sleep.

To awaken in a future age to Etrurias ruinous walls,

Now for my long lost love I can only weep.

So, before this tomb where lies fair Lartia, my love,

That peerless damsel of beauty and flowing raven hair.

I beat the ground, curse gods below and above,

Those heartless deities we worshipped that didn't really care.

My eyes are dimmed, awash with endless tears,

The maiden, Lartia, to bone to dust has long gone.

Her laughter is but an echo, now fading in my ears,

My grief, within me, sings, a sad eternal song. 

 CREATION

From a thought

Then a substance

Then awarness

Then seed

Then growth

Small then large

Forms from chaos

Ever changing

Ever multiplying

An eternal process

Stars, Nebulae

Cartwheels spinning

Countless suns blazing

A myraid planets circling

Inhabitants like grains of sand

An immense ocean of space

Lapping at shores of strang worlds

Galaxies rolling, ever expanding

Ever outward

Life springing from star to star

Across the immensity of infinite universe

On swarming globes astrometers gaze skywards

And wonder

Then from mans thoughts

Come creation

COIS A BHILE

The Place of the Sacred Yew

A poem to the Oldest tree in Scotland

Stood I here for nine thousand years,

Though my heart has died and my limbs grow weak.

Trunk scarred by Druid's sickle and Neolithic spears.

Outliving my kindred oak, ash and teak.

I was young after the glaciers melt,

Saw new races pass below my shade,

Pict. Milesian, Danaan and Celt,

At my roots Saint Ninian knelt and prayed.

'Neath my greenery the little people did peep,

The woodland echoed to their fairysong.

Ever gone now they into an eternal sleep,

For the sond of Elvin pipes I listen and long.

I have heard the rhythm of the Gaelic plough,

Then a young man to the Holy Land sailed,

Once who played amongst my leafy bough,

And the Son of God to a cross was nailed.

With blare of trumpets the legions came,

Helmets and standards shone in the sun.

Only dimly do I remember Rome's fame,

For still I exist and their story is done.

Dwell I at the entrance of the glen of lugh,

Above the blue waters of the great Loch Tay.

Beneath a majestic sky of azure hue,

Where golden eagle and plumed hawk hold sway.

Long may I stand, avenerable yew.

Through solstice sun and winter storm that rages.

Symbol of Caledonia, lionhearted and true,

Stout guardian from the dawn of ages.

The Colloseum Cats

To H.P, Lovecraft

Moonlight in ethereal shafts awakens them from deepest, dreamless slumber

shadows,sinous, silent, arise from hidden places in ancient stone.

a restless hide comes to nighted ways, ceaseless without number,

to settle on mouldering sepulchre, on scattered and crumbling bone.

 

As shades of dark steal over that antique stony heap

yellow orbed eyes flicker open, strecting and scraping of claws.

Around doorway, atop wall, through windo they stealthily creep,

black shapes rush through the murk or softly whispering paws.

 

In sleep they rest by day waiting for the night,

their turn to wander the streets of decaying arcane Rome.

To marvel by starlight on that city's forgotten night,

to run and scamper over ruined forum, tower and dome.

 

They live, where in long gone primordial time champions fought,

Then crowds cheered the victors and blood stained the sand.

over now those days of empire, battle, war and plot,

four footed they walk where bravely stood that gladiatorial band.

 

Where haughty general in chariot rode with Legions Marching proud,

and once arrayed in purple emperors in pompious glory sat.

In vias where fair damsel walked with shy head bowed,

now rules the humble feline, and furred King, The Collosseum Cat!