The Prophetess

A writer suggests that the ancient troglodyte, gnawing a bone by the mouth of his cave, with his wife and family about him, knew far greater peace of mind and security than does modern man amid the threats of modern warfare and its nameless horrors.

I clubbed my love as the dusk came down
By the mouth of her father’s cave,
And I dragged her home by her tresses brown,
And schooled her to behave.
And she loved me well as a true wife should,
And she cooked the kill o’er the blazing wood,
And prized the gifts I gave.
But she was a witch; and she sang wild runes
By the cooking fire at night
Of days to come when a million moons
Had waxed and waned; and her eerie tunes
Stirred me to nameless fright.

“Oh, man that sprang from beast,” she sang,
“Shall grow in wit and will;
But the ancient law of fang and claw
Shall linger with him still.
He shall dream of peace, yet find no peace;
For the primal urge shall never cease:
To kill! Kill! Kill!
He shall conquer earth and the green sea’s girth,
But he shall not conquer fear,
Tho’ his gifts be rich.” So sang my witch,
Till I felt my creeping fingers itch
For the haft of my hunting spear.

I speared my love when the moon above
Was a fat and kindly moon;
And I went and got another love
Who sang no mystic rune.
And she cooks my kill, and sews the pelt,
While I seek the peace I one-time felt.
I seek it late and soon;
But as I dream beside the fire
My old love sings to me
A song of fear and man’s desire
Baulked in a world of blood and fire
And horrors yet to be.

“King Man,” she sings, “shall take him wings,
And soar into the air,
And never cease to seek for peace;
But peace shall not be there.
Where e’er he fly shall myriads die
And all sweet earth a shambles lie
Ravaged beyond repair.” . . .
I clubbed my love by her father’s cave,
A prophetess was she.
I was a cave-man, fearless, brave,
Until she sang her rune, and gave
This bitter curse to me.