THE WAY OF PHEMRA

Certain fears no human tongue should taste
lie bitter in the mouths of those who seek
cryptic knowledge hidden in the waste
of barren hinterlands, remote and bleak.
My uncle knows its secrets, but will speak
no word of Phemra nor the trials he faced,
but quickly shifts the subject, his voice weak,
eyes furtive as those shadow-beasts he chased.

Underneath my eldest uncle's bed,
I came across a crumbling manuscript
with letters calligraphed in faded red
on thinnest ivory parchment, pages ripped
and rusted pink where tears or blood had dripped.
To touch its cover fettered me with dread
as if I held the key to my own crypt.
The Way of Phemra was all the cover said.

I know I should have left it where it lay,
or burned its secrets into silver ash.
I must have stood there trembling half a day,
book in hand, until I saw the flash
of ligtning in the glass, and made a dash
for safety to escape the ricochet
of thunder that I knew was going to crash.
Clinging to the tome, without delay,

I scurried to my favorite inglenook.
Inside, I turned the lock inside its hasp
and settled on the bench to read the book,
ancient pages riffling with a rasp.
Their recondite locution made me gasp,
scanning arcane codes.  My fingers shook.
The Way of Phemra held me in its grasp;
less than half an hour was all it took.

My heart was heavy, though my head was light.
My lips and throat were dry, my fingers moist.
And though I closed my eyes, I could recite
whole paragraphs much better left unvoiced,
abominations I was loathe to foist
upon the world.  Too late to be contrite.
In far-off Phemra, shadow-beasts rejoiced.
I bit my tongue out of my mouth that night.

		—Jacie Ragan

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Jacie Ragan's writings at
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