The Lay Of Lirazel

By Stephen R. Babb

Epic Poetry Meets High Fantasy

An Edenesque garden, a haunted tower, a forest shrouded in twilight wherein dwell Centaurs, Elves and a myriad of creatures fantastic and mysterious; this is the setting in which Babb’s “Lirazel” comes to life and where the tragedy of her life must unfold. Her doom is fixed, deadly, unavoidable and all the more tragic because of the choices Lirazel makes as she spurns wisdom for folly in a desperate gamble for love.

The Lay Of Lirazel is narrative poetry told in epic fashion, but it is poetry fully equipped with fangs and enough terror to keep a reader turning pages till the last curse falls and death and doom claim their prize!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483536248

Book preview

Author

FOREWORD

I first discovered Steve Babb through his music with Glass Hammer. After one listen I knew that Steve and his bandmates were artists in the tradition of the Inklings, pilgrims who had seen the Perilous Realm firsthand, encountered the deep magic of Faerie, and then returned to share the experience with us. Some years later, Glass Hammer released the concept album The Inconsolable Secret, and through its songs I met Steve’s Lirazel for the first time.

Her name is fitting. It evokes the memory of the heroine of The King of Elfland’s Daughter, Lord Dunsany’s lyrical classic. Dunsany helped to pioneer the modern genre of fantasy with his elegant novel, and I like to think he would be delighted to read this tale of his character’s namesake. He would approve, I expect, of how effectively Steve has employed a centuries-old literary form to recount a story of timeless import and meaning. He would admire, I believe, both the epic scale of Steve’s vision and the intimate power of its message.

The Lay of Lirazel is what J.R.R. Tolkien would term a fairy-story, built upon a yearning that is common to all of us, concerned with the great questions that are our birthright as human beings. Lirazel wishes to find love, but she also desires to understand her world, to know its secret histories. She discovers the truth not only of past rebellion and present threat, but of her own miraculous creation and unique destiny. With knowledge, of course, comes temptation.

Like all fairy-stories, as Tolkien tells us, The Lay of Lirazel offers its readers the precious gifts of Fantasy, Recovery, Escape, and, most importantly, Consolation. Tolkien of all people knew that tales need not be factual to be true. He recognized that a story might speak of witch-elves and fallen knights while at the same time it might speak about us, you and I, in our present circumstances. Lirazel’s journey to become what she was meant to be, as harrowing and wrenching as it is, is our own, and the victory that she finds in the throes of defeat is ours, as well, if we choose it.

This is indeed a story about choice. The bold and broad ones are there, to be sure, drawn in the vivid colors of a noble King and traitorous knights, vile lies and terrible vengeance. They are the choices between good and evil, love and hatred, loyalty and betrayal. What makes The Lay of Lirazel an honest act of sub-creation and a deeply moving meditation on the human condition, however, are the subtler and infinitely more difficult choices with which Lirazel struggles: the choices to sacrifice and to trust, to obey and to believe, to know remorse and to accept grace. Having caught a glimpse of the transcendent, she ultimately chooses well.

Fortunately for us, we too can catch this glimpse through the following verses. Fortunately for us, we too can be transformed by it.

Dr. Amy H. Sturgis

THE LAY OF LIRAZEL

Part One: The Inconsolable Secret

Once and long and long ago

before the tales that Men now know;

there were yet stories of great deeds done,

writ like secret songs unsung,

hoarded like treasure, guarded well

by fierce Angels and by Cherubs fell.

And yet these guards of Heaven’s troves

are thought to wander certain groves

on the groaning earth. They whisper then

of the ancient days, unheard by Men;

yet not by all.

No not by all; the poets hear.

Lovers, who by chance stray near,

then stop to kiss, they too may catch

a murmured tale in some nighted patch.

It has been said small babes have heard,

while in the womb, the secret word.

With keen eyes that pierce the gloom,

they see beyond the woe and doom

of earth. Then all is dark once more.

They hear now but the rush and roar;

the music of their mother’s heart.

An Angel comes and plays a part.

Each tiny head receives one kiss,

then all they knew of Heaven’s bliss

and glory is swept away;

forgotten on the very day

they are born to us.

Yet these tales of deeds and power

have each an appointed hour

when Heaven doth a wondrous thing;

the Angels shout and the stars sing.

They cry to the earth where doomed Men dwell,

and such the power of their spell

some Men look up and chance to hear

songs of joy and tales of fear

that once they knew. And then they write

and paint and sing. God takes delight

in all the works these children do,

yet still He hides from me and you

within the framework of each tale.

(We scarce can see behind this veil)

a truer story, a jewel fair,

an inconsolable secret there.

And thus, this tale has passed to Man

from Heaven, flung across the span

of time and space. ‘Twas hidden well.

But the magic of the Cherub’s spell

is broken.

It called out from an elder rhyme

and a painting from another time

hung upon my wall with care;

a portrait of a maiden fair.

Sad she was, and I wondered why.

She seemed so frail and soon to die;

fraught with doom and heavy heart.

What of her story? What of her part

in the greater tale, the secret one;

the hidden epic that God had spun

within her own? I found it then,

hiding in shadows it lurked within.

And though it fled, I followed fast.

Through dreams and songs it came at last

to the secret grove where the Angels talk

and whisper and gossip as they walk.

Those careless ones, they saw me not.

They let slip a secret long forgot.

So, quietly I crept away to roam

through dreams and songs and at last to home.

Then put to paper with my pen

a tale that had passed from the world of Men.

Part Two: The King and Lirazel

The bright sun climbed, the morning was young.

Of fair things wrought, the maiden sung,

of jeweled crowns and pale gems,

of golden rings and of diadems,

of treasures hidden by strong spells

under tall towers or haunted dells

Awake now, a joyous voice cried ringing.

"Will you spend all the morning in