The Legend of Benfadden Forest

In the forest of Benfadden

Where the trees grow green and gladden

All the folk of Farrow Falls,

Stands a house whose shutters sadden

Any child who durst to call.

For, beyond its garden wall,

Tis said is magic made to madden.

Thus much the folk at Farrow stayed

At home, and only rarely played

Near the house whose shutters spoke

Of secrets, wicked, in the shade

Of trees all sinister – the oak

Whose gnarled bark could choke

The breath from any boy or maid.

But of the folk of Farrow, one

Known commonly as Robert’s son,

(Who was the miller of the town)

One day, without a word, begun

To take him, with his poesy, down

To where the golden trees had grown

And there he wrote new rhymes he spun.

And in Benfadden forest he

Carved all his poems on a tree

And signed his name upon the bark

As ‘Michael Robertson’, with glee;

And then when it was nearly dark,

He’d wind his homeward way and mark

His lessons very carefully.

Thus no one was the wiser when

His friends were playing in the glen

And Michael stole into the grove

And made himself a little den

Out of the trees he learned to love;

And then, he heard a collar dove

And knew no sound as sweet by men.

And, listening, carefully he went

Where’er his ear – ever bent

Unto the sound the dove had made

Which he believed the forest sent

Until he came upon a glade

Which made him glad, and so he prayed

Although he knew not what it meant.

Then, just beyond this open space,

He spied a different sort of place:

A wall of bricks he seemed to spy

So with a jump his legs did race

And, looking up into the sky

He realised he knew not why

He felt compelled to move with haste.

But as he nearer drew, he seemed

To recognise something he’d dreamed

(Or, perhaps, he’d only heard

And that his memory had gleaned

A grain of gossip from a word

Mispoken). Nothing else was stirred

But Michael’s heart which ever teemed.

The stillness drew him deeper in

And as he breathed, the air was thin,

But still he would not slow his pace;

Indeed, he quickened, yet again,

Till he was standing at the place

He saw; and how afeared his face

Became – and then he heard the din;

For such a sound he had not heard

It seemed a clamour – not a bird

Was singing, not for grief or mirth

There was not any tree that stirred

Nor any sound of death or birth

Of joy or pain, heaven or earth

But only emptiness that burred.

For Michael stood before a wall

And though he knew he was not tall

The wall seemed higher than it ought

And as he looked it seemed to pull

Him nearer to its bricks: he thought

It dangerous and thus he fought

With all his will against its call.

But Michael’s curiosity

Grew all the stronger and, so, he

Grasped both his hands upon the brick

And pulled a little, just to see

If it would hold, he made a kick

And swung his other leg o’er, quick

Till on the wall was he.

The world seemed different from this height

And he was gladsome of the sight

To which he had, hereto, been blind.

But looking now - from left to right –

He saw all that he left behind

Were forests of a closed mind

With all its branches made of spite.

For now, before his eyes he saw

A little cottage, with a door

And though its shutters were shut fast

And it seemed who dwelt there must be poor,

Through the silence seemed to blast

A breath of fear, which did not last

But Michael was transfixed with awe.

And yet the fear was not his own

But of a spirit kept alone

Within a silent prison there

And Michael knew he heard it moan,

Was it a cursing? Was it prayer?

Should he listen? Dare he dare?

Was he safe upon his throne?

These thoughts, thought Michael as he stood

Upon the wall, still as he could,

Remembering a lullaby

He used to hear, which said the wood

Beyond the Falls of Farrow, sigh

And lure children there to die,

If they’d been bad instead of good.

But Michael Robertson was brave

And, although he feared the grave,

He thought no one could e’er be good

And know how to always behave.

And so, because he thought he could,

He climbed down from where he stood,

As any foolish man or brave.

And now he was before the door,

He heard the sound he’d heard before,

A cry of pain it seemed to be;

But what might be the dreadful cause?

The prison of a thousand laws?

Oh what could bring such misery?

And in that moment, he did gladden

He knew the magic made to madden

Was this dreadful mystery

In the forest of Benfadden:

Where all human misery

Is heard and felt; But how could he,

Break its enchantment? How could he?

Perhaps the answer must be found

So Michael sat upon the ground

And thought of all that he had learned,

Repeated rhymes around, around

Till all the verse within him burned

As hot as fire – then, how he yearned

To rid him of that dreadful sound!

But then, as he could take no more,

He looked again toward the door.

Something inside, there seemed to be!

Perhaps the sound he’d heard before

Came from a creature? Gradually,

He crept forward, for to see

What secret lurked behind the door.

And so upon its frame he smote

And in the forest rang a note:

The magic charm was breaking as,

The miller’s son, who often wrote,

(As many’a lad of fancy has)

In poems, of a pretty lass

Whom he might rescue, still, he smote.

And smote upon that door, till he

Was sure that there was nobody

To hear his ardent knocking; when

The door was opened, suddenly!

There stood before a fair maiden

Who did not know the tongues of men

Because she had grown, wildly.

In loneliness, this maid was born:

Her mother died the very morn

That she was brought into the house,

Wherefore she seemed so forlorn;

And, all so quiet – as a mouse,

Except her weeping: all because

From birth she had been so withdrawn.

But Michael, understood her plight

For, every day, when he would write,

The other children used to play

And they would tease him out of spite,

And pull his hair and chant, and say

‘That Michael will go mad one day’,

Because he loved to watch the light.

And so he smiled at this maid,

And in his open hand he laid

A poem he was writing when

He came upon that little glade.

They both stood still for minutes; then,

She took it, and, it seemed to him

That in that moment, she had prayed.

Although she had no words to say,

It seemed enough: for all can pray

In language of poetic tongue.

And as the sun went down that day,

It rested on the miller’s son

It made him look, not quite, so young,

Yet fresh as darling buds of May.

And as she took his little hand,

They both began to understand

We are not meant to be alone

And, like the waving of a wand

The spell was broken – and the moan

Was gone forever: a new tone

Of hope went out about the land.

Then Michael spoke, slow as he could,

‘My name is Michael’, and the wood

That held the shutters fast did break

And, like the lifting of a hood,

Or veil, for a bridegroom’s sake

The house, so long asleep, did wake

To beautify it as it could.

And then the birds began their song

Oh they had not sung for so long!

And, hearing them, with such delight,

The maiden laughed, and laughed so long

And lo, her eyes were burning bright

The forest bathed in golden light

And marvelled in the sparrow song.

And as they listened, slowly, she

Began, ever so gradually,

To form her lips together, so

She might yet speak, eventually,

To ask him all she’d like to know

And learn of love, and, thereby grow

And live in a society.

The sound she made then, was not quite

A word – the murmur was too slight

But more would come, as she would move

Her tongue around her mouth aright;

She could not speak; but she could love

And so they both set out to prove

That darkness cannot vanquish light:

For in the forest of Benfadden

Where the trees grow green and gladden

All the folk of Farrow Falls,

Stood a house whose shutters sadden

Any child who durst to call.

For, beyond its garden wall,

Tis said is magic made to madden.