Song of Seraphin
A Souragnien tale from a small village in the central swamplands.
Oh they say you can beat a dog only so many times
Afore his teeth you find squeezing your neck and spine.
I guess they oughta say that about people too
For I got you a story of a mutt of a boy whose teeth found blood too.
Our Story begins in a village without a name
A poor farmer, his gambling habits left his family in shame.
A poor mother, six children hers to feed.
And a payment unmade to the old Voodan by the creek.
So the father took his scrawny middle son by the hand
And led him through the mother’s tears and demands.
A payment left unmade to a Voodan must be heeded
And so the boy was sold as an apprentice was needed.
The boy grew from six to twelve and twenty three
At the harsh hand of Papa Wali he toiled everyday for free.
His old home he walked past nearly weekly for the village was the same
Yet his brothers not his brothers, his sisters avoided him.
For whatever he was before, he was now Theodore Seraphin.
Theodore absorbed much the knowledge, some called him gifted
But just as much his hide paid the price as Papa Wali’s instruction went unheeded.
Always something lacking, the boy’s work was hounded
By the old Voodan’s word even the porridge was lousy and found wanting.
Never will you make a decent bowl, the Voodan said to his apprentice.
For you lack the heart, the soul, the love that gives it taste.
From bitter soil grows twisted flowers and so is for our Seraphin.
His old mentor praised the Lord of the Dead, but the youth spited him.
And in the shade of gnarled trees the boy found his love-to-be
A woman most beautiful called to him, half living, half rotten indeed.
They traded secret meetings, in gifts and dreams.
The young man would bring her sacrifice, for her to smile in glee.
Seraphin felt he was wanted, a drug like little else.
Her seduction was complete, rot hidden ’neath raven locks.
For some she is disease, for others its reprieve.
For others yet she comes in famine, leaves you boney thin.
For the very few she is desire, the source of aching want.
Yet all call her by her name,
Ulwaddithri, The Consuming One
And so in the night she came to him in a dream.
She warned Theodore of Betrayal, of poisoning.
She spun her words heavy with honey, knowing she had his ear
That Papa Wali would not take his life, for her he was much too dear.
What disbelief the boy had vanished early in the day
As he was to retrieve a package from the village after rooster’s wail.
Opening the parcel he found the tools of his demise
A vial of sedative and the materials for a dark rite.
The young Voodan connected the dots, he counted two plus two.
I’ll be damned if he’ll bathe in my blood and be his fountain of youth.
His anger simmered as he walked his way down to the creek
His blood colder than the lizards staring up at him from muddy river bleak.
The boy made the porridge for his old master’s eating
The parcel made to look untouched, none of its contents missing.
For if you intend to betray me, well two can play that game.
The complaints of the porridge bowl now felt empty and lame.
A cold emptiness consumed the boy as the old man fell to the floor.
You might’ve been stronger in magic, Theodore said,
But you’ll cast no more.
As the old man choked and gasped, reaching for his throat
Two cold hands joined his, aiming to squeeze his life out.
As the master and apprentice stared in to one another’s eye
Dissappointment and disgust met with hatred and spite.
Four days the Voodan waited, with his master’s corpse set outside.
As people from the village came by, giving respect and sigh.
Four days he waited, the ramshackle hut’s door boarded shut.
The corpse left unwanted by the snakes, crocodiles and whatnot.
On the last night he faltered, thought no harm for shut eye
And the next morn the corpse was gone, much to his surprise.
Every year hence he spent in that ramshackle hut
Decay would settle in, a corner of the building dropped.
And each year during the autumn feast celebrations
Papa Wali would stand by the creek, staring at the hut in silent condemnation.
What came of Theo, the one they call Papa Seraphin?
I would not know, it’s almost as if the mists had taken him.
Thank you all for listening to this gruesome tale
Perhaps we’ll learn not to beat a dog,
Even ones without a tail.
