The Sylvia Riddle

By Robert Coombs

The Sylvia Riddle is an epic poem set in medieval Scotland. The story maintains a Christian theme throughout as good battles evil. As the story develops, a hero emerges. He learns that the beautiful Princess Sylvia MacBee has been hexed by an evil wizard (Satan). The hex requires that Sylvia cannot marry unless her suitor successfully answers a riddle. An incorrect answer to the riddle has a fatal consequence. Eighty men have died attempting to answer the riddle, and there are no more suitors in Realm MacBee willing to risk death. As the story unfolds, the hero, Knight Jude MacPhitt also learns that not only must he answer the marital riddle to save Sylvia from marrying Grooson, Satan's horrific son, but he must answer an additional riddle for each of the seven deadly sins. His woeful journey takes him to the depths of Hell. The Sylvia Riddle is filled with challenges, excitement, and love while dealing with many moral conundrums.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781635254877

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The

Sylvia Riddle

Robert Coombs

ISBN 978-1-63525-486-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63525-487-7 (Digital)

Copyright © 2016 by Robert Coombs

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - A Spell, a Riddle

Chapter 2 - The Meeting

Chapter 3 - The Riddlers

Chapter 4 - The Riddle of Hauteuratus

Chapter 5 - The Riddle of Avaricia

Chapter 6 - The Riddle of Ireátus

Chapter 7 - The Riddle of Ruttishelle

Chapter 8 - A Wizard’s Motive

Chapter 9 - The Riddle of Gluttonius

Chapter 10 - Troubled Sleep

Chapter 11 - The Riddle of Covetina

Chapter 12 - Grooson’s Gorge

Chapter 13 - The Riddle of Indolensha

Chapter 14 - Castle MacBee

Chapter 15 - The Banquet

Chapter 16 - The Garden

Chapter 17 - The Games

Chapter 18 - A Lady’s Plot

Chapter 19 - An Evening Alone

Chapter 20 - Krylot Morning

Chapter 21 - A Foul Act

Chapter 22 - A Stairway Deep

Chapter 23 - The Sylvia Riddle

About the Author

Chapter 1

A Spell, a Riddle

Narrator:

In ancient time there was a distant, misty paradise.

It nestled deep in Scotland and was free of scheme and vice.

Thus all was well and holy till an evil wizard came,

And he enunciated he would rule the fair domain.

He cast a spell to stop the lovely princess of MacBee

From marrying a suitor. This was sure calamity,

For King MacBee was ancient, near relinquishing his reign,

And though he begged, new suitors held his daughter in disdain.

You see, the evil wizard’s spell required a riddle-guess

For one to marry Sylvia, and feel her sweet caress.

The penalty for guessing wrong was quick but painful death.

Each brokenhearted riddler died. Each gasped his final breath.

The riddle was perplexing, for the answer was well-known

From sorcerers and mediums and others who read bone.

Yet never did the answer prompt the wedding bell to ring,

For eighty riddlers tried their best, and eighty felt death’s sting.

The first day after Krylot, if no suitor had proclaimed

The riddle’s answer rightly, then MacBee would be defamed,

For Princess Sylvia would wed the wizard’s evil son.

Grooson, who was Satan’s seed, no longer could she shun.

Quickly word had spread about the riddle’s lethal charm,

And would-be suitors stayed at home avoiding riddle-harm.

It seemed the plight was hopeless—that the name MacBee would die.

The king’s inept advisors could but sit and sadly sigh.

Then one day a knight came forth. He hailed from Realm MacCann.

He was a good and humble soul, a pleasant, decent man.

The knight had been commissioned to refute all evil ways,

And thus he left his kingdom to begin his gypsy days.

His mission made him wander, and he walked across the land,

A patchwork quilt of loveliness amidst a forest grand.

A melody he hummed aloud, sweet music in his throat.

His travel was unworried, for no trouble did he tote.

The knight was chosen by his king from all among his court,

And fellowship, the king advised, was noble to exhort.

He gave the knight good wishes and wise counsel to be kind,

Reminding him that charity was harvest of the mind.

Good works, the king instructed, "are the building blocks of bliss.

Each time you work some good, you’ll feel an angel’s gentle kiss,

And nourishment your heart will feel, as sensual as taste.

Through righteousness and pious works, you’ll see His Holy Face."

To the knight, the kingly words were certain as commands.

To follow them explicitly was thus his knightly plan.

Yet in a world of right and wrong, a world of good and bad,

There’d come those troubling moments when sweet peace could not be had.

When prompted by necessity, his knightly heart was brave,

And swiftly he would forfeit life, if victims he could save.

Yet he preferred to sheath the sword and counsel by his word.

For strength, when cloaked in gentleness, is always better heard.

The sword he never used to gain high privilege or the like,

Nor had he ever felt the wish to cavalierly strike,

Though he’d respond with quickness when beset by evil men

Or beasts who belched forth crimson fire or Hell’s own denizen.

He nurtured love, a quiet love, to grow and give away,

And watered it with righteousness and kept it on display.

An armor of goodwill he wore. With brother-love his creed,

Compassion was his foremost tool. It flavored every deed.

Thus as his sire required of him, he traveled on his way.

He showed but true philanthropy to those he met each day.

Never ceasing to extend a hand of tender care,

Plenitude he did provide to those whose lives were bare.

Afar he saw some heaven’s edge, a mist from meadow dew,

A pasture of green-silver-gray a godly artist drew.

Demands unknown, no plans to keep, he traveled peacefully.

The tempo of the morning bred a sweet tranquility.

The story then unfolds as you go travel with the knight,

Who’ll lead you into conflicts filled with bloodshed and with fright.

I cannot tell you quickly if he’ll win the lady’s hand,

Because his riddle-quest reveals there’s more than one demand.

Chapter 2

The Meeting

Knight:

For days I’ve trudged toward that mist, yet far off it remains.

I’ve marched for hours that have no end. My strength does naught but drain.

That cottage spied beside the woods means sorely needed rest.

Perhaps I’ll beg some food and spend the eve there as a guest.

Narrator:

Toward the door, exhaustion near, he slowly did proceed.

His countenance, a woeful sight, reflected hungry need.

His knock, which bruised the hardwood, was soon answered happily

By a kindly man who brimmed with hospitality.

The peasant stood upon a stool and from his cupboard took

A partridge pie, a sugar loaf, and too, a handsome book.

The knight picked up the lovely script. Abruptly he did start,

For all the pages told of those who’d died of broken heart.

Knight:

Really, this is mournful. It is such a wasteful shame.

These brokenhearted lovers… there are eighty shown by name!

Tell to me this story. I shall utter not a word.

I assure you, Sir, that you will carefully be heard.

Partridge pie and sugar loaf! A feast of fowl and fat!

I beg you, Sir, some extra, please. I’ve not enough of that.

Although unsure where I may go, it’s long, the trip ahead.

With food to eat, I’ll bless you, Sir, for pie and sugar bread.

Peasant:

Eat your share of pie and loaf, then take whatever’s left.

Stuff your coat with sweetened toast. You shall not leave bereft

Of morsels for your journey. Now relax, enjoy the view.

Eat your fill enormously and quaff good measure, too.

This story is considered false by unenlightened men.

Though you, good Knight, can rest assured, yes, truly can depend

Upon my own veracity. I swear on partridge pie,

The story I’m about to tell is told without a lie.

A friend I had, heroic soul, a dashing knight like you,

With shining armor and a sword of brilliant silver-blue.

A legend in his kingdom, he, as you within your own.

Though sadly, Knight, he passed away. I heard his final moan.

My lordly friend had heard a tale about a princess fair—

A woman of great beauty who but longed for love and care.

Her wifely hand, a dowry large, the kingdom of her sire

Were offered for a riddle-guess, not husband-like desire.

Though suitors came in numbers, not a worthy one was found,

For all who tried had failed to solve the riddle so profound.

So knightly lord decided he would take the riddle-test

And win the lovely lady’s hand and too, the treasure chest.

On worthy steed, a royal mount, he rode for near a week,

Stopping oft to witches ask, from oracles to seek

The answer to the riddle-test to win the princess fair;

Then came a dream that told the script to him caught in its snare.

His day arrived, from dream derived, to truly riddle-solve.

A happy throng around him did expectantly revolve.

Though when at last he took a breath to give his answer clear,

He flushed and puffed and clutched his chest in sudden, mortal fear.

A witch it was who had divulged to him the perfect script.

Exactly, word for word he knew, but nonetheless he tripped.

It’s so, for on his riddle-guess, he quickly did depart

And joined the ranks of The Forlorn: another broken heart.

Now gossip in the countryside, what some folk might call lore,

Suggests a really tragic count, dead greater than fourscore.

Each and every one of them died from a broken heart,

The answer said was thought to be the answer to impart.

Some others had, in secrecy, consulted witches’ fires.

Through mediums and oracles, the answer was acquired.

But even though the riddle’s script was memorized ahead,

Fourscore had failed the puzzle’s test and rest in earthen beds.

So here exists a riddle spawned that clearly does perplex.

A deadly riddle, my good Sir, replete with killing hex,

For every knight, each noble lord, yes, any man who’s tried

Has hopelessly, with broken heart, lamented, wailed, and died.

My troubled heart beats sadly for the princess of MacBee.

Will she embrace? Have one to hold? A man with whom to be?

Will Motherhood, our species’ pen, then pass her in the night,

Deciding not to ink a child into her troubled life?

Aye, tremble, Knight, yes, tremble as she lives her virgin’s life,

For empty hearts and kingdoms both do prosper death and strife.

See you not the kingdom shall but wither without heir?

Anarchy shall spring to life and sit in every chair!

Aye, every lord and vagabond will covet empty throne,

And every vassal, every wretch will claim a royal bone.

The streets will be awash with blood that’s shed in vulgar waste,

And wet the city’s gutters, forming sanguinary paste.

I pray that human blood not quench the gutters’ endless thirst.

I pray that war is always last, and gentle ways are first.

Though how shall Sylvia betroth a truly worthy lord?

How shall it be a happy life is soon to her restored?

For while fair Sylvia endures a desperate life of pain,

Our peace is temporary, both ephemeral and vain.

If no one holds her tightly, no child suckles at her breast,

Not only her neglect and want, but ours shall manifest.

Her sisters in our kingdom’s reach will catch her loneliness,

And no one from her sisterhood will offer love’s caress.

Young couples who were courting will then stop as though they died.

Should women whisper, I love you, its promise shall be lied.

From near and far are none who choose to come and riddle-guess.

The thought of joining eighty dead is met with but distress.

Oh, there are countless men who wish to have her for a wife,

But of them all, no more are found who’ll gamble with his life.

Although I’ve looked and searched and prowled, not in the sky or ground,

Not anywhere, no place at all is where the wizard’s found

Who menaces the kingdom with this riddle’s fatal bite.

For eighty brokenhearted, he’s turned daylight into night.

I’m vexed because my story’s long and of poor final use,

And absent love, the virgin princess never will produce

A child to sit upon the throne and rule with dignity,

For none within our kingdom speak the words to set her free.

Unless, good Knight, you might aspire to seek the royal prize,

Unraveling the riddle which to others spelled demise.

By bravely riddle-guessing with your one good life to pay,

You’ll pay indeed, with your short life, if wrong is what you say.

Knight:

A troubling story you have told. My thanks, my learned friend.

With weariness upon me now, it’s sleep I need to mend.

With slumber shall come peace of mind. This shall restore my strength.

Then Sylvia, upon the dawn, we shall discuss at length.

Aye, in the morning after food, to sleep I now aspire,

For even from these brief few words, now mightily I tire.

Before I sleep I’ll say in brief that I may riddle-guess,

But if I do, I surely know my sins I shall confess.

For if my honest answer fails to solve the riddle-test,

I, too, will clutch my trembling hands up to my heaving chest

And join those who precede me that departed ’fore their time.

I’ll die with a clear conscience if I’m ended in my prime.

Narrator:

Darkness fell, the day was done, and each succumbed to sleep.

Unconsciousness, a new preserve, found each in slumber deep.

Aye, two good men, now sleeping shown by deeply dreaming eyes,

Chased lightning in the heavens and threw bolts to scare the skies.

So sleep they did in purity and childish innocence,

Though only after holy prayer and heart-felt penitence,

And on the morn the first to rise was rested, knightly lord,

While next to rise, but first to speak, was he who loudly snored.

Peasant:

Good morning and God bless you, Knight, my lord of great renown.

I trust in restful slumber that quite rightly you have found

Replenishment, renewal of your rugged, ample length,

Though riddles dodge combatants and they smirk at human strength.

I’ll muse a bit that strong were those who riddle-testified,

Though frozen into lifelessness, by riddles petrified.

Is there doubt the strength of mankind’s ever greatest part

Is spilled into a loveless hole each time he breaks his heart?

If love is served betrayal on a biscuit made of lies,

Love does not expire and die. It hides itself and cries.

If love is never served at all, hears neither truth nor lie,

Then it is, and only then, that love will surely die.

If love is served love in return, and love treats love with care,

Love’s fire will burn intensely, and its mighty flames will flare.

I question then, can Sylvia go hide herself and cry?

There’s been no love to nourish love! How can you let love die?

I presume the message here, you certainly must see,

As you contemplate what man might see himself to be.

While rummaging his insides, mankind finds his greatest part

Is not his lofty intellect but rather, it’s his heart.

Is it not apparent that our language just abounds

With words that hint of kindness and too, mimic gentle sounds?

If this world’s abundance of both gentleness and love

Were absent would we then not talk about the killer-dove?

Aren’t sainted creatures gentle? And ignoble creatures cruel?

Is ignorance not sometimes wise? Unknowing makes a fool?

Troublesome conundrum? It is not, my knighted friend.

The ignorance of evil is a blessing at one’s end.

I do go on! Now eat your meal and drink your morning’s fill.

But ponder as you eat this food that wedding riddles kill.

Though tell me, Knight. I’m in suspense. If I’m not being rude,

Will you seek this maiden’s hand? Will riddles be pursued?

The kingdom knows a hero’s heart we sorely wish and need:

A champion who will not fail to do a hero’s deed.

Aye, graveyard space is growing scarce. The princess lives in dread

Of filling up the royal plots with