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Somewhere it was autumn, and the trees

Hung undecided, torn between the fear

Of concrete skies and black obsidian nights

And clung to fading leaves, yet still they felt

A dark desire to let the summer drop,

To scatter to the wind their tattered clothes

And tile the floor with fragments of the roof;

Sunset gold above and bronze below

By tarnish-faded silver pillars crossed.

Somewhere it was autumn, and the air

Was in-between a chill across the skin

And warmth as of a draft of honey wine.

The light that filtered through translucent leaves

Was grey and filmy, like the faded dust

On antique photographs of relatives

You never met, and cast the quiet trees

In serried ranks of cardboard cutout shapes

As if the world were made of scenery.

The colors burned as hot as furnaces.

The smell of leaf decay in every breath,

By coming winter frozen, chilled the blood.

Somewhere it was autumn. Nothing moved

Save for the sound of breath of one asleep

Upon the leaf strewn sand. He slept as if

He only had lain down and closed his eyes

To rest a moment, but he did not stir.

His limbs were thick with work and weariness.

His hair was red and short, as if of sparks

Shot out electric from the stony shock

Of steel fist on solid flinty pate.

Upon his hands he wore two weighty gloves.

His feet and chest were bare, his breath was slow,

His eyes were sealed but lightly as he slept.

A leaf above his all unmoving face,

For no cause visible, detached itself

And drifted, fickle, now towards him swift,

Now again away, until it stopped

Above his chest, and settled, and he woke

Like a volcano, sudden, swift, surprised.

He halted half arisen, and he stared.

He traced the tree trunks skyward with his eyes.

He slowly touched his breast, as if afraid

To find he was no longer there. The rush

Of breath relieved was loud enough to stir

Another scarlet leaf to drift and lie.

He rose and cast about with eyes and ears

For some familiar thing, just as a dog

Who finds his master absent suddenly

Will seek from side to side for his return

Ere he will take, in sorrow, to the wilds.

But nowhere could he see the slightest sign

Of where, or when, or how he came to be

In this place. All around the leaves lay flat

Quite undisturbed by any track or trail.

On all sides stood the woods, each way the same,

No landmarks but the trees, no signpost there,

The only compass was the evening shades.

Two passions warred within his mind. The one

To rise and go, and find what place this was,

How he came here, what he was to do next.

The other to remain where he awoke

And hope whatever agency had brought

Him to this place would open the way back

So caught between the two he wandered forth

And back, and forth, and back again until

He could not surely say where he awoke.

"Now what is this?" he spoke, and pressed against

The smooth grey bole grown nearest to his hand

As if to see if it would bear his weight

Or melt into a mist, "How came I here?

I never have beheld this place before.

I never have its like imagined, nor

Had any wish to find such silent haunts.

It looks to me as if no eyes save for

My own have seen this place, no ears have heard

The silence of these undisturbed leaves,

No feet before my own have felt this earth,

All looks so virgin here. And yet so old

For every tree is higher than the peak

On the cathedral in my window frame.

So even lie the leaves, as if they fell

A thousand years ago. But what is next?

But what am I to do? A moment gone

I was locked fast in combat in the ring.

Where has it gone, and my antagonist?

Where is the crowd? Did he who took them hence

Remove me here? How was it done so swift?

I almost feel upon my body still

The burning of the bruises raining down.

Perhaps my guard was weak, and on my head

There came a blow as from a meteor

That jarred my brain awry, so that in truth

I lie asleep upon the mat, and dream

All this. I do not seem to be asleep,"

He frowned, "Indeed, nor does this seem a dream."

How long he stood in thought he could not stay

But while he stood around him stirred a breeze

Too slight to feel, the only one to fly

Since long and many days ere he awoke,

And at its touch a thousand thousand leaves

That clung by less than threads detached at last

And fell as thick as snowflakes round his head

So that the air was for a moment filled

As fully as the trees above. Then as

Their tickling settled on his shoulders broad

He shrugged, and off they slid, and then he spoke,

"I may not know where I have come, or how

I may go to return. I do not know

What wilds these are, their name, where they are found,

Or if I wake or dream. I know not if

The blow that felled me cast me to these woods.

But nothing will I know if I stay here."

So saying, he set out, not caring where,

He took his gloves and hung them round his neck,

And through the leaves he pushed his way, that built

And clung and parted round his knees

Forming, reforming, rustling papery greaves.

Between the trees the boxer came alone.

No destination nor no object sought

Informed his wandering. As he went on

He wondered at the majesty of trees

That built for him a cloister and arcade

Spreading beyond the furthest he could glimpse.

However long he walked there seemed no end.

No herb grew in the ground, only the trees.

No blade of grass emerged between the leaves.

It might have seemed a garden, had there been

The slightest sign that any human hand

Had touched it ere he came, for good or ill.

The sun, which had hung high above his head

Brushing the topmost leaves when he awoke,

Slid downward, burned more fiercely, and engorged.

The slanting beams were threaded through the trunks

So nearly horizontal that the ground

Lay all in its own shadow, when he stopped,

Closed his eyes, and sighed out. "Now am I lost.

Surely I walk in circles." Then a voice

In complicated echoes off the trees

Commanded him "You there! What is your name

And what your business? Answer or defend!"

Between him and the amber setting sun

A man in armor stood, with sword and shield.

Beneath his lowered helm and lowering brows,

His eyes were like the points of iron nails

Honed down by strength and anger and the sort

Of bravery that leads a man to stand

Under a wholly hopeless, starless sky

And fight, and die, and go on standing; yet

More sharpened by a fear, not for himself

But for another, and of his own strength

To stand for them, that may not be enough.

His knees were bent, his stance was coiled to spring,

And challenge plain was written on his face.

The boxer swelled indignant, and he said

"I have no need to give account to you!

If all these woods are yours, then rather you

Owe an account to me! If they are not

Why should I need your leave to wander here?"

The warrior placed a hand upon his sword

And spoke again "What churl's nonsense is this?

Your speech is as the whimpering of pigs

That every time the farmer brings their slops

Imagine that the butcher comes, and squeal.

It means no more to me. Say better, pig!"

The boxer laughed as he pulled on his gloves.

"Am I a pig? Then come not near my sty

Unless you have a wish to taste the mud.

But two can play this game: you are no pig,

You are a chicken, brooding on the fence,

That squawks and flaps in panic for no cause.

Be careful how you crow!" he said, and grinned.

The warrior did not smile, but drew his sword.

"Your clothes are most outlandish, and your speech

Discourteous. You come in troubled times

To troubled lands. I know not what you are

But know I like it not. You are not armed

Yet I will smite you, if you get not gone."

The boxer only raised his fists and said,

"You say I am unarmed. Well, we shall see!"

A moment time moved not, but held its breath

While there they stood and nothing moved. They might

As easily from everlasting stone

As from temporal flesh been sculpted there.

As soon as time began again, they flew.

The warrior had his sword, whose deadly edge

Gave surety of blood with but a touch,

The warrior had his shield, both broad and thick.

The boxer only had his naked pride

And practice long, at staying out of reach.

So as he rained down blows so thick and fast

That they were as a sole battering force

Like countless wheels upon the interstate,

He ducked and bobbed both under and around

The weapon tip that sought him eagerly.

Twice he evaded it. Twice did it bite

Through nothing but the air, and struck the ground

And left a furrow, like a plowshare, in

The orange of the leaves, of chocolate earth.

Twice the warrior backward hauled the hilt

To jerk it free, then twice the boxer struck

And scored brave hits his foe seemed not to feel.

The third time, and the warrior swung again

And when the boxer swerved, he forward lunged.

He was too close now. Now the bitter tip

Slashed right across the shoulder and the cheek.

The boxer cried aloud, words not for here,

Collapsing to one knee. The warrior laughed.

"What, have you not known pain before? Or does

My sword cut deeper than you did assume?

Know you now, fool, that here we do not play?"

"Then do not!" spat the boxer as he rose.

He charged, bellowing. As he did he struck

Aside the hostile blade, but not enough.

The tip scored him again, across the side.

The steel cruel tasted again his blood.

He stumbled, fell again. The leaves were stained

A deeper red. Through eyes screwed shut in pain.

He heard the warrior saying "I regret

That I should slay one so unwisely brave."

The sunset blazing off descending steel

Rang like a crystal chime. The sword came down

And halted with a smack, as of the ice

Of an inevitable glacier cracked

Instantly, in a thousand facets, by

Some rising warmth allied unto some crag

Too stubborn to endure the grinding down.

Just was the sound of leather boxing gloves

That clapped around the blade and held it fast.

The boxer's eyes were blazing as he shoved;

He slammed the pommel in the warrior's trunk,

He wrenched aside the sword, and struck again.

The warrior raised his shield, the other fist

Came up around and knocked him breathless down.

He swayed defenseless, staggering. Enraged,

The boxer struck him on the mouth: once, twice,

Three times. The warrior toppled like a tree

And landed on his back. "Where I am from,"

The boxer growled, "We call this victory."

The warrior pulled himself upright, and reached,

Caught up his sword, and caught the boxer's eyes.

Then thrust it in its sheath, and laughed, and hugged

His former foe as if he were his kin.

Still laughing, he then clapped him mightily

Upon the shoulder, saying "Well met, then!

You are more unexpected far, I own,

Then I expected! Well met, friend, indeed!"

The boxer blinked at him, as at the sun,

More struck by this than by the sword, and said,

"This is not like a greeting, to attack

With deadly weapons. Who are you? And where

Am I? I understand you not at all."

"All this," the warrior answered, "can I cure.

But come! Your noble blood yet marks the path.

It is not far to fire and board, and there

Will I tend both your wounds and wonderment.

As for my name, which rudely I required

Of you, I am called Varr the Last-To-Flee."

The boxer, noticing that still he bled,

Followed and answered him, "My name is Shane

Falconi. Though I cannot say I have

Any grand title now, I once was called

A champion." Declined he more to speak.

The warrior said, "Here, you shall be again!"

Behold!" Raising his hand to wipe his bloodied lip,

Then pressed it to boxer's arm, "Here do I take

Forevermore by oath of mingled blood

You for my brother, Shane the Champion!"

Embraced he him, and Shane, bewildered sore,

With nothing else to do, clasped him as well

And laughed. The last rays of the setting sun

Slipped from the flame-souled leaves, and left them there.