The Man of Grackle Eye
by Will Stinson
“Perfidious prognosticator!”
the hapless man cried loud.
“What omen have you uttered here?
What doom have you avowed?”
But Grackle-Eye swept up his bones
and dusted off the ash.
A mirthless smirk curled up his lip
under drip-pitch mustache.
He tipped his hat and took his cane
and bowed, his hand aside,
for Grackle-Eye is courteous
even when denied.
“I spake it then, I speak it thus,”
said Grackle-Eye, his voice
of tones of honey, leather, smoke
and man who, lacking choice,
repeats with utmost certainty what
those who test him fear.
Repeats, I say, for to him,
tomorrow was last year.
And Grackle-Eye does not take well
to being so dismissed.
His yellowed, rounded, piercing stare
struck the man as fists.
“Ere the night falls to a close
and morning draws first breath,
Your heart shall still, your rose shall fade
and flesh shall fall from flesh.”
The man drew up his clean-cut chin
and hardened his cold heart.
“Should this prediction come to pass
I’ll ruin you as I depart!”
“Repent! Beware! This is of you,”
retorted Grackle-Eye.
“Your sins are known on wind and mist
and even now, they sigh.”
The man would hear not one whit more
and fled the house in fear.
His footsteps carried through the streets,
echoing cobble to ear.
The gaze of black-clad Grackle-Eye
was burned into his sight.
On he raced through evening fog
dragged forward in his fright.
He would need to flee this land
And take with him his gold
The man was one of means… and weight
—In town, and in body, all told.
He passed his door, the windows dark
behind the iron-wrought fence,
aside from one, wherein his wife,
ill, waited in effulgence.
No, through the dark the man did race
To his debtor’s home.
He could not bear to leave a coin
behind, not one he’d loaned.
He reached the hut wherein a farmer
eked out a meager life
and pounded meaty fist on door:
once, then paused, then twice.
“Awake, you sluggard, debtor mine!
It’s time to pay your due!
I leave tonight, and will not be
denied what I loaned you!
Awake, I say, awake, and pay!”
the creditor did demand
Until, at last, the thrice-patched door
creaked open and a hand,
Trembling, thin, and frail as bone
Emerged to ward off harm.
“Good sir, I prithee come again,
Lest I lose the farm.
Your coin will be repaid in full
Once I bring the harvest in.
So please, content yourself this night
To share a meal within.”
The farmer opened up his hut
And invited in the man.
But cursing him, the creditor
remembered from what he ran.
“I call for coin; not insult, now!
That stew is water and bone.
The air is foul inside this place
To think this is your home!
I’ll cart you off to debtors’ gaol
If you cannot repay
The money I once lent to you
ere the break of day!”
The farmer winced and pleaded thus:
“Have mercy, gentle sir!
What shall become of my dear kin
If I on debt defer?”
“What do I care for you or yours?”
spat miser to the poor.
“You’ve had your chance, so consequence
From you, to you, is borne!”
The farmer carried no coin to give,
but did a fertile field own.
He flinched aside when creditor
demanded what he’d grown.
“They are not ripe for harvest yet!”
he pleaded, tears in eyes.
“Potatoes, while still green inside—”
The man ignored his cries.
When a basket tuber-brimmed
The man at last left for home.
He raced to pack his money-purse
his finery, gold, and stones.
“Oh, dear, whyever do you rush
At this ungodly hour?”
The man’s sick wife could only ask,
“What news turns your face sour?”
The man could spare no time to tell
what Grackle-Eye had said.
Instead, he only ordered her,
“Bring this bag to the shed!
“Have them ready us a carriage
At once, posthaste, anon!
Look, there the hills begin to glow
It is not long ‘til dawn!”
He turned from her and raced to grab
the many things he had.
He packed his clothes and gold decor
in his terror, driven mad.
While rays first stole into his house
o’er spotless windowsills
The man raced out to the shed
and found his wife lay still.
A tuber’d tumbled from her hands
its flesh a toxic green.
She had eaten from the fruit
and in darkness, not seen.
Her skin was pale and clammy, cold.
She would no more draw breath.
The greedy man fell to his knees
and cursed his dear wife’s death.
“I warned you twice, you greedy man,”
said Grackle-Eye, behind.
“You knew that this would be your fate.
And lo, what do you find?”
“You said it would be me, you fiend!”
shrieked the fate-doomed man.
“You said my heart would soon lie still
And so, from there, I ran!”
“I knew where you would go, indeed,
I knew when you’d depart.
And look, I did not lie to you;
there, still, lies your heart!”
Your greed has brought about this end!
Death, once planted in rows
has visited your house this day
And wilted your dear rose!
Did I not warn you a third way
That ‘flesh would fall from flesh?’
In arrogance you sought to flee
from fate, even enmeshed.
Repent, or now I warn you here
next night, that you shall die!
Give out all gold you gathered in.”
With this, left Grackle-Eye.
What happened next, no man can say
Do misers ever learn?
What good do they produce the world
through all the wealth they earn?
There is no more to tell in verse
beneath that lightening sky.
For night’s the time of prophecy:
the time of Grackle-Eye.
