Sir Dominick's Bargain
Rufus Woodward
Sir Dominick’s Bargain
14 poems by
Rufus Woodward
Based on the story by
Sheridan Le Fanu
Olgada Press
Chapbook no. 1
2015
First published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by The Olgada Press, Edinburgh, UK.
All rights reserved
Copyright Olgada 2015
The right of Olgada to be identified as the authors of this book has been asserted by them under the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, by any means, with prior permission of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
Vane, venal Sir Dominick
I travel to Dunoran
This ruined house
Higher than a man could reach
It is an old story this one
Hazel and birch tree, oak and fir
A fair and a feast for a new squire
Come home to go away again
You know some men who would rather lose than win
“Take this gift and belong to me,” he says
A single brass needle pricks
Seven years
The fear is upon me worse every day
Faithless, feeble Sir Dominick
I
Poor Sir Dominick. Vane, venal Sir Dominick
What hope did you ever have?
Spent your money ‘till every last guinea is gone
On drink and dice, on women and dogs
We know your story before you even start the telling
No bargain like yours ever did end well
Go to France, Sir Dominick
Take your guns and your horses
Take the first coin on offer and
Fight for Napoleon, fight for Wellington
Die on a battlefield as you were born to
With a sword in your hand and blood in your nostrils
It is a better end than any awaits you in Dunoran
Poor Sir Dominick. Proud, boastful Sir Dominick
He will come when your need is greatest
He will offer you that which you want most
Though the cost will be more than
Anyone could imagine
Poor Sir Dominick.
What hope did you ever have?
The trees stand tall here tonight
Their shadows hang thick around you
Listen
There is the sound of footsteps approaching.
II
I travel to Dunoran
By bog and hill, by winding stream and twisting road
By rocky gorge and mountain range
By wild moor and straggling wood
I travel to Dunoran for business
By mail coach and by horseback
By posting house and rough thatched country inn
I travel as a gentleman will do
Solitary and melancholy
But with eyes wide open
A curious seeker after strange tales
I have no face, I have no name
I have no voice, save for the one in your head
I am the stranger by the fireside,
A wanderer in the woods
I am the ghost at the heart of the story
I am the ghost you cannot see but for looking
I travel to Dunoran
Up a long grass road, under the shadow of tall trees
Along the ridge of a precipice
At the wild edge of an ancient forest
To an old house, ruined and delapidated
Lonely and morose
I travel to Dunoran
III
This ruined house stands doorless and open now
Silent and abandoned. Black mould stains on
Tall walls thick with ivy. It’s broken roof
Hangs wide and ragged, barking at the sky.
Such a grand house in its day. The pride of
A whole county. A place of revelry
And warm welcomes. Of wine and candlelight
Golden threaded ballgowns and midnight masques.
The marble-staircased heart of a small world
Now weatherbroken and bowed down
The transitoriness of all things writ clear
In spoiled plaster, grey stone and wet oak.
From the twilight sneers an unpleasant drawl
It’s whisper shocking in the sombre gloom
Harsh and oppressive and close in your ear
Repeating and repeating
“Food for worms, dead and rotten.
Food for worms. God over all.”
IV
Higher than a man could reach
Higher than a man could leap
A rust coloured stain on the plaster of a wall
Not a mark from the weather
And not a strange vein of mould
It is nothing, no, nothing so lucky as those
A splash of old brains and blood it is
Where the skull of the squire was crushed
By the hand of the devil in a furious rage
As the midnight bells rang out
Marked there for a hundred years now
And marked there for a hundred more
No human hand will clear it, and no rain will wash it off
The last master of Dunoran
The last of the Sarsfield kin
He’ll never leave this place now. Not while these stones still stand.
V
It is an old story this one
But, you’ll believe me when I say
All the more true for being so
My grandfather first told it me
When I was only a tiny boy
And I’ve spoken and I’ve sung it out
More times than you could ever count
To anyone who’ll listen
To anyone who will hear me
But my back is twisted now and
My head is grey and I know that
Soon enough I’ll be put under this turf
Where my skin will rot and my bones bleach
And there will be nobody left
Who’ll want to listen to me
So this story is yours now
Take it and tell it any way you like
Tell it as many times as you like
In dark forests and by firesides
On dusty pages, in songs or sonnets
Shape it and change it and turn it
This story belongs to you now
This strange legend of dunoran
This story has some telling still to do
VI
Hazel and birch tree, oak and fir
Down in the wood of Murroa
Where roots burrow deep
Where leaves grow so thick
That no full moon ever shines.
In the dark wood of Murroa
Who knows what a man might find?
Shadows that speak
And beg for release
While the devil himself rides by
A gentleman walks out at midnight
A rope tied to a noose in his hand
At the end of his path
Is a door like a trap
For the unwary soul to fall in
So it was when I was a boy
When my grandfather told this tale
But time is a child
That burns all it finds
And now only his story remains
This grand old wood of Murroa
Cut down till the mountain is bare
Now the shadows are quiet
And the doors are shut tight
And the woods here are nothing they once were.
VII
A fair and a feast for a new squire
The young master of Dunoran
There was dancing and fiddling
A welcome for all to come see
This grand estate at its finest
We had wine for the gentlemen and ladies
Beer and cider enough to float a ship on
All the farmhands and the stableboys
All the maids and the servant girls
All the pipers in the county came to
Raise a cheer for our Sir Dominick
Feast for a week and then feast for a month
Feast till the weather breaks and work returns
‘Till none but the master was left feasting
And dancing and drinking and dicing
A sinful darkness upon him, they said,
A bold compulsion to drain a fortune
As though it were a barrel. A fever
That raged and barked, that burned all it touched
‘till everything was gone and nothing was left
And the house we feasted in stood empty
And disgraced and quiet and alone
The master of Dunoran
The last of the Sarsfields
Shame of an old family
Gone to travel abroad
Gone to flee the money lenders
While debts still grow and this sad
Old house rots in the woods
Gone for a year, gone for three
Waiting for an east wind
To blow home through the mountains
A cold and lonesome sound
So hopeless and afraid
“It is all over with me,” it says
“It is all past praying for now.”
VIII
Come home to go away again
Come home from far off places. Come
To see Dunoran one last time.
Come home, blown on an anxious wave
To see, as if for the first time
How small the old place looks, how grey
How tired and unimportant.
Come home laughing. Bitter laughter.
Bent double over a tree trunk
Coughing out curses, choked on a
Thought that sticks in your throat. Who is
The joke on if not you yourself?
Come home, not like a father, not
Like a lover and not like a
Soldier returning from a war.
Come home like a ghost to walk these
Cold walls at midnight when noone
Can see, to stand in the darkness
With noone to wait inside for you
Noone to sing sweet songs for you
Noone to weep or mourn for you
Noone even to notice if
You ever come home at all.
Come home with a plan in your mind
Come home with a purpose you dare
Not voice, not even to yourself
Come home
Come home to go away again.
IX
You know some men who would rather lose than win
No matter what game it is they play
Losing becomes an addiction for some men
The taste they crave is bleak and bittersweet
The acid cut of recrimination
The shifting fog of lost illusion
Some men will do anything to lose
If it will bring their hand to a swift end
They will happily squander a fortune
Betray all their family, shame their name
And think nothing of it. These men you know
Might choose to die at any moment
And be glad of it. And be grateful
This is not the kind of man you are
You are a gambler. You are not
Afraid to lose, but you will not love it
Even with the most hopeless hand you will
Stay at the table, you will fight and play
You will wait for the game to move your way
So now, at midnight in the wood of Murroa
Darkness so thick you cannot see your step
Why play a move you could never return from?
No. Take off the noose that hangs round your neck
Stay in the game while the dice are still rolling
Gamble and gamble and gamble again
X
“Take this gift and belong to me,” he says
He does not lie to you
Though the truth he tells will be
Too terrible for you to hear
A handsome gentleman with a hollow smile
With a gold laced coat and a voice like warm wine
He does not offer a name
But you know who your master will be
It is the sharp edged taste in the air that tells you
It is the way his eyes know you
The way each hair on your neck stands high
The red itch on your chest where your crucifix lies
“Take this bag of coins and more will follow,” he says
Not pebbles, not stones, not nutshells
Not empty promises to taunt and mock
And disappear come morning
A bag as wide as a hat
Full of guineas bright and new
A dreadful brightness to take in your arms
It is the heaviest load you will ever carry
“Take this good fortune and use it all,” he says
Though your heart tells you not to
Though your scalp creeps and your hands tremble
And your skin turns cold at the thought of it
You do just as he says
Because debts are due with more to follow
And demands rise on all sides
And there are no friends left to turn to
And there is nothing left to do
But continue the journey just begun
“You found the money good but not enough,” he says
“No matter. Come with me.
Are you willing?
XI
A single brass needle pricks
Three drops of blood from a vein
Strange words scratched on parchment slips
And now our bargain is made
For seven years I serve you
When that time ends, you serve me
A master and his servant
XII
Seven years
Seven years of all the pleasures
All the glories of the world
Seven years of enough and more to spare
Of never owing a penny
Of never missing a card, never losing a wager
Seven years of hounds and horses
Of great company, of grand nights
Of woman at hand and wine to drink
Of never a moment without a bright fire lit
Seven years of madness
Of troubled thoughts as black as the night
Of desperate diversion, of empty prosperity
Seven years of knowing
Seven years of waiting
Of wishing for a place to turn, a place to hide
Seven years of unwanted visitors in lonely places
Of pale riders come at your side
Terrible creatures in godless shapes
Leering and laughing, filthy and ragged
Who is the master now?
Who is the servant?
What is to come when seven years are done?
What is to become of me when seven years are done?
XIII
The fear is upon me worse every day
Fierce and growing, blowing like a gale in my
My flesh. A poison in my blood. I dare not
Trust my eyes any longer. My tongue is thick
And tastes of ashes, and tastes of sodden earth.
I have not spoken to any man in days.
Thoughts scatter and tumble like shattered glass.
I cannot drink enough to draw them together.
Only one thing I do know – he is coming
He is coming, he is coming for me.
Oh God, can you forgive me? Father can you
Help me? I would give up much to be free of
This. I will make my confession. I will make
My penancy, give over all my vices, change all
My ways, live in retreat like a hermit, as your
Servant, as your servant, Lord. Oh God, please let
These prayers save me. Oh Lord, please let these
Prayers save me. Please let these prayers save me.
XIV
Poor Sir Dominick. Faithless, feeble Sir Dominick
Some stains you cannot clean from your soul
He comes at midnight
Here by appointment
To keep a promise
Too late for priests and prayers now
Too late to run, too late to hide
How happy, now, how inviting looks
That old oak tree with its open noose?
Like a coward you bluster
Like a child you plead
But the stranger is not for listening
Not a gentleman any longer
His coat is ragged, his shirt torn
Long matted hair worn for breeches
He takes a step towards you
He puts his stong hands upon you
And throws you to the wall
And smashes your head in pieces there
Lights go out. A door crashes closed.
A gale blows through an empty house.
From the fireplace, ashes fly and
Hang in the air, glowing silent
For an eternity, it seems
Before dropping and vanishing
Outside there is a howling
A crying of beasts in panic
