Sensyo the Drummer (book)

Sensyo the Drummer,

by Gulliver VonDeverone

Introduction

"Percussion is physical," said the old Bard. "This drum - it has a rhythm, a heartbeat." Seemingly unaware, he began to tap out a steady pulse on his bodhran.

"It has its own skin." He tapped more insistently.

"Don't be fooled," he continued, "it's not a vessel. It's a body." His fingertips pattered across the bodhran in a continuous roll, drawing out a low, relentless drone.

"Oh, you can play a drum. But it echoes, and it can play you right back."

He brought the beat to a sudden halt, smiling slyly.

"Idon created the drum, of course."

Prologue: With Every Footstep

Each drum reverberates,
internal hum,
quivering, thrumming tremors,
tuned to every footstep,
every pace, every feint and movement:
the rhythm, measured, matching every stride.

Drums are humming, drums are humming!
Idon plots his cruel endeavors.
Drums are humming, drums are humming!
Bard, beware, for He is by your side.

A cacophony of noise,
discordant notes,
thunder, clashing, blaring!
Writhing with its master,
with his whirls, thrusts, his turns and thrashing:
the rhythm, howling, frenzied as his stride.

Drums are screaming, drums are screaming!
Idon dances through the embers.
Drums are screaming, drums are screaming!
Bard, beware, for He is by your side.

The pulse is settled: slow,
steady beating,
constant cadenced measures,
deep and pounding tolling
beckons, calls, on the edge of hearing:
the rhythm, baited, waning with his stride.

Drums are throbbing, drums are throbbing!
Idon's dreaming; hear his heartbeat.
Drums are throbbing, drums are throbbing!
Vigilance, Bard, He's sleeping by your side.

Sensyo the Drummer

Sensyo was born too soon, too quick;
his eyes too blue, his hair too black,
he grew too fast. Almost a man,
he fled from his village with an exile brand,
forced out with the townsmen's angry din:
"That child is Idon's kith and kin,
he's Idon's kith and kin!"

Forlorn, he prayed to fair Faenella,
with fervent pleas beseeched Murrula:
"Goddess of wren, of Fae, of lute!
Lady of phoenix, flame, and flute!"
But only his father was going to come,
his flesh-wild father was going to come:
a heron with a drum.

"You dare to wear your father's face?"
raged the reaver-god, the robber's rake.
On a pigskin bodhran he began to beat,
his tipper carved from cloven feet.
"Idon will not be outshined!"
seethed the god, as Sensyo became a swine;
the bodhran sang, and he became a swine.

But Idon remained unsatisfied.
"Though your beauty's buried in a hog-fat hide,
I can't stand the sting of being beaten.
I believe that you'd be better off... eaten."
With a hedonic howl, Idon faded. Alone,
Sensyo appeared by a blood-splattered throne,
at the base of Trothfang's throne.

As the savage centaurs licked their lips,
Trothfang bellowed, "Light the spit!"
"Our new guest deserves a grand welcome!" he cried,
"Build up the bonfire - we'll roast him alive!"
Sensyo squealed in Trothfang's sharp claws,
but torture is sacred to the centaur's wild god:
no mercy from the cannibal god.

Aldauth himself must have smiled at this death:
Sensyo's flayed skin, his broiled, bleeding flesh,
his humanity forgotten, his beauty bereft,
meat eaten, blood guzzled. Only ashes were left.
But the ash burst with glory: the fierce firebird!
Sensyo's final prayers had been heard;
the phoenix, Murrula, had heard.

As she rose from the firepit, the boy was reborn,
and Murrula spoke to the beast-god with scorn.
"You will be punished," she pledged, and he cursed,
displaying his fangs: "I'll eat your heart first."
Then, gorgeous and horrible, the phoenix did sing,
and the centaurs screamed as it took to its wings,
Sensyo safe in its great fiery wings.

Far from cruel Trothfang, they finally alighted.
"My goddess, you saved me," Sensyo gravely confided.
"From the barbaric darkness, you bore me away.
I would give you my love, if I may."
And before the bright lady could refuse his wish,
Sensyo startled Murrula with a kiss,
his tragedy lay in a kiss.

The goddess of beauty, as ardent as flame,
won't tolerate suitors: her lips scorch, untamed.
And Sensyo gasped as the kiss left him charred,
his mouth and throat seared, now useless and scarred.
"You've burned twice today, my youth - so unwise,"
she sighed and departed, and Sensyo cried.
Unable to speak, the boy cried.

He sank to the ground, a fool of desire,
born out of lust and ravaged by fire.
His goddess wouldn't listen as he begged for his rest,
so he prayed to the jackal, patient Eylhaar, for death.
But only his father was going to come,
his treacherous father was going to come:
a heron with a drum.

"I mean you no harm now, my once-handsome son.
Your luck has run out, but your life's just begun.
I'll save you, dear Sensyo, mercy bereft.
You've no other choices but mine to accept:
I offer you a place in my personal band."
Smirking, the heron held out his hand,
and Sensyo took Idon's hand.

For Idon is accompanied in every fell swoop
by the backstabbing backbeat of his wild rag-tag troupe,
featuring scoundrels and harlots, all types of scum,
and Sensyo, silent, on the drum.
Again Idon tricked him, so forever he's trapped
with his father's false smile and untrustworthy laugh.
With each note the boy plays, Idon laughs;
Sensyo beats out his footsteps, and he laughs, and he laughs.

Epilogue: With Every Footstep (reprise)

The beat falls tattered,
tottering,
a wretched, scattered sigh,
pocked with gasps and sudden patters,
pleading endlessly, unheard, entrapped:
the rhythm, lurching, follows Him, subdued.

Drums are sobbing, drums are sobbing!
Sensyo treads in Idon's footsteps.
Drums are sobbing, drums are sobbing!
Bard, beware, He has a place for you.