Bramble Night
Die Geschichte
Laternen ziehen an der Obstgartenmauer vorbei, an jedem Tor teilen sich die Stiefel und rufen die Haushalte beim Namen heraus. Hände ziehen Kinder über die Dachböden, während Reiter das Heu durchsuchen. Dann fällt jenseits der Hecke ein harter Schlag. Manche schwören, es war ein Stein aus der Dunkelheit, andere, zuerst sei ein Pfeil geflogen, und jemand trug schon Feuer, bevor ein Befehl klar war. Das Kornhaus fängt Feuer, dann der Stall, dann mehr. Die Hearthkin bilden Eimerketten vom Brunnen zum Dach, schlagen die brennenden Hecken nieder und tragen die Lebenden durch den Rauch hinaus. Später werden alle darüber streiten, wer den Befehl gab. Doch kein Befehl hebt die Asche auf. Im Schlamm liegt eine geschwärzte Schale, deren Schnitzer nicht mehr lebt, und von einem Haushalt kehren die meisten nicht zurück. In der Ferne steht ein einziges Dorf dunkel und unversehrt.
Die geschwärzte Schale aus dem Schlamm taucht in Correns Händen in „The Briar Knives“ wieder auf und später als stummer Zeuge beim Moot.
Liedtext
Der Liedtext bleibt im gesungenen Englisch.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.