Bramble Night
The story
Lanterns pass the orchard wall and boots divide at every gate, calling households out by name. Hands pull children through the lofts while riders search the hay. Then comes one hard blow beyond the hedge. Some swear it was a stone from the dark, some swear an arrow flew first, and someone carried flame before any command was clear. The grain-house catches, then the byre, then more. The Hearthkin form bucket lines from well to roof, cut down the burning hedges and carry the living out through the smoke. Afterwards everyone will argue about who gave the order. But no order lifts the ash. In the mud lies a blackened bowl whose carver is gone, and most of one household does not come back. Far off, one village stands dark and untouched.
The blackened bowl found in the mud returns in Corren's hands in "The Briar Knives" and as a silent witness at the moot.
Lyrics
Lanterns pass the orchard wall, Black wings silvered in the rain; Boots divide at every gate, Calling households out by name. One cart turns toward the western path, One door will not give way; Hands pull children through the loft While riders search the hay.
The warning knots are cut and wet, The refuge marks exposed; A shield strikes wood, a window breaks, The narrow lane is closed. Then one hard blow beyond the hedge— No eye can name it true; Some swear a stone came from the dark, Some swear the first shaft flew.
Someone cried, “Search!” Someone cried, “Clear!” Someone carried flame before The first command was clear.
No order lifts the ash, No banner calls them back. Count the living, call each name, Carry who remains. No oath restores the roof, No answer fills the lack. Pass the water hand to hand— No order lifts the ash.
The grain-house catches at the eaves, Rain hisses on the thatch; A second fire takes the byre wall, A third outlives the match. Cut down the burning apple hedge, Keep sparks away from home; Break every pen and loose the stock, Leave every chest and loom.
The bucket line bends through the smoke, From well to roof to well; Seed sacks travel before the chairs, The small bells lose their tale. A cloak comes burning through the door With someone held inside; Two hands receive that weight and turn, Then four more clear the rise.
No order lifts the ash, No banner calls them back. Count the living, call each name, Carry who remains. No oath restores the roof, No answer fills the lack. Pass the water hand to hand— No order lifts the ash.
“The road was struck.” “The door was barred.” “The flame was never planned.” “I saw the oil beneath a cloak.” “I heard a clearing command.”
Write every word when morning comes, Ask who supplied the fire; But now the western roof gives way— Pull the living from the pyre.
Count again. Call each name. Count the living. Call each name.
One voice answers from the ditch. One beneath the cider stone. One blackened bowl lies in the mud; The hand that carved it is gone. Call the household once again. Only falling timber speaks. Most of one hearth do not return From smoke among the trees.
No order lifts the ash, No banner calls them back. Count the living, mark the lost, Carry who remains. No oath restores the roof, No vengeance fills the lack. Pass the wounded hand to hand— No order lifts the ash.
Beyond the burned and broken fields, Where rain draws smoke downhill, One village keeps its darkened roofs, Its doors and granaries still. No ember marks the apple rows, No boot has crossed the mere; One bell repeats an even note, Too distant and too clear.