The Marid's Bequeathal

This is an imagined myth that pays tribute to this unique ecological wonder whose presence keep forest fires from spreading, keeping everyone safe. I imagine this to be a central piece in the Myth Ignites Art initiative.

The Marid’s Bequeathal

Seahorse tails as talismans

Their boney edges baroque

Hands that held these hilts

Were born of a fire without smoke

For a thousand moons they fought

With their kindred who were unkind

Enshrined in crystal, a million moons ago

Their blood-soaked anguish blind.

They carved a path through continents,

The Marids of the sea,

And tore a landmass from the root,

To set an island free.

Madagascar—sanctum made

By brine-blooded command,

Lifted from the mainland's ribs

By Marid-fettered hand.

The islanders were silent first

Then brought them fish with awe,

Scaled silver prayers wrapped in nets,

A grateful island’s law.

In turn the Marids gave their word

To shield this gifted shore,

And buried swords of seahorse hilts

To stop wild fires’ war.

The blades would drink the forest fire,

Would silence even ash,

A magic pact of earth and salt,

Where the ancient twin seas splash.

But envy sails on darker waves,

A rival horde drew near,

And as the Blood Moon lit their caves,

They slaughtered from the rear.

No cry, no horn, no final charge

Just shadows in the breeze,

And Marids fell like crashing timber

Blood fringed the island seas.

Their queens, from coral citadels,

Wept tears on the hilts of bone

Salt-grief that glazed each jagged hilt

Where names were once intoned.

Those tears turned stony over time,

Like shrouds of grieving shell

And crowned each sword with thorny grace

Where whispered sorrows dwell.

Now silence keeps the Stone Forest,

Its razor eloquence, its skyward edge

When winds pass through it’s jagged bones

Shriek low of a sorrow’s dead pledge.

We hear when blood moons rise again,

And sea tides swell with flame,,

The hilts will glow, the queens will call

Still mourning for the same.

So tread with care where Marids slept,

And queens once wept the sea

For myths may sleep, but never die,

And the stones remember me.