The Father and his Troubadour sat down

Upon the outer rim of space. “And here,

My Singer,” said Earthmaker, “is the crown

Of all my endless skies—the green, brown sphere

Of all my hopes.” He reached and took the round

New planet down, and held it to his ear.

“They’re crying, Troubadour,” he said. “They cry

So hopelessly.” He gave the little ball

Unto his Son, who also held it by

His ear. “Year after weary year they all

Keep crying. They seem born to weep then die.

Our new man taught them crying in the Fall.

“It is a peaceless globe. Some are sincere

In desperate desire to see her freed

Of her absurdity. But war is here.

Men die in conflict, bathed in blood and greed.”

Then with his nail he scraped the atmosphere

And both of them beheld the planet bleed.

Earthmaker set earth spinning on its way

And said, “Give me your vast infinity

My son; I’ll wrap it in a bit of clay.

Then enter Terra microscopically

To love the little souls who weep away

Their lives.” “I will,” I said, “set Terra free.”

And then I fell asleep and all awareness fled.

I felt my very being shrinking down.

My vastness ebbed away. In dwindling dread,

All size decayed. The universe around

Drew back. I woke upon a tiny bed

Of straw in one of Terra’s smaller towns.

And now the great reduction has begun:

Earthmaker and his Troubadour are one.

And here’s the new redeeming melody—

The only song that can set Terra free.

The Shrine of older days must be laid by.

Mankind must see Earthmaker left the sky,

And he is with us. They must concede that

I am he. They must believe the Song or die.

XVIII

Vengeance (ven’jǝns) noun
1. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth; a fair, satisfying and rapid way to a sightless, toothless world.

Mercy (mer’sē) noun
1. The infrequent art of turning thumbs up on an old antagonist at the end of one’s rapier.

“Liar,” cried the Keepers of the Ancient Ways, when he had finished with his song. “We’ve kept this Shrine for many years as our fathers did before us. Earthmaker loves the shrine he gave us. He will meet us here forever.”

“No,” cried the Singer. “Please believe the Song. Earthmaker never will again meet men within this holy square.”

“Liar!” they cried again. “Strike him on the mouth.” A bearded monk, who only lately read the liturgy, laid aside his scroll and struck the Singer on the mouth. The blood ran down his chin.

“Listen, men of Terra!” cried the Grand Musician. “He sings a lie. Earthmaker loves the Shrine. He has loved it for a thousand holidays.”

The Singer stumbled to his feet and cried above the crowd. “Earthmaker loves neither shrines nor holidays. He loves only men. Life is the Song and not the Shrine.” Another Keeper of the Ancient Ways laid aside his incense and his holy book and struck him in the face. He fell once more.