Die Geschichte
Sechs Laternen verlassen die Anhöhe, als die Schreiber der Krone ihre abgeschriebenen Listen entfalten. Doch bevor ihr Licht die Mühle erreicht, öffnet sich ein Fensterladen, und ein Kind wird hineingereicht. Die ganze Nacht gibt das Tal seine Menschen und sein Wintersaatgut von Hand zu Hand weiter: Getreide unter Wolle und in Köhlerkarren, Fieberrinde und Honigtücher unter den Dielen, Namen, die aus den Dorfbüchern verschwinden. Ein Pfiff geht über das Wasser, eine Glocke antwortet vom Hang. Kein Läufer kennt den ganzen Weg, also kann ihn auch niemand verraten. Doch die Patrouillen rücken näher, ein alter Nachbar und ein Getreidekarren werden aufgegriffen, und eine kleine Glocke bleibt im Schlamm zurück. Am Morgen stehen sieben Türen leer, und die Krone weiß jetzt, dass sie mit Absicht geleert wurden. Nun suchen die Jäger die Spur.
Das leise Weiterreichen der Lebenden von Hand zu Hand wird in „Bramble Night“ zur Eimerkette durchs Feuer.
Liedtext
Der Liedtext bleibt im gesungenen Englisch.Rain threads the eastern orchard lane; Six lanterns leave the rise. The clerks unfold their copied rows, The patrol reads door signs. Before their light can reach the mill, One shutter opens wide; An old hand takes a waiting arm, A child is passed inside.
The loft receives a folded bed, The byre receives the grain; A reed knot darkens on the gate, Then vanishes in rain. No bell is heard beyond one field, No runner knows the end; One threshold gives the living on And trusts the next will bend.
Pass the living hand to hand, Hedge to hearth before the line. No one holds the whole road home; Every hand receives a life.
The winter seed leaves sack by sack, Not all by any track; Half travels underneath the wool, Half in a charcoal cart. The fever bark and honey cloth Go down beneath the floor; The village book loses its names, Then ash fills up the drawer.
A whistle crosses running water, A bell replies uphill; Three doors divide one store of oats, Two roofs conceal the ill. The warning page moves wrapped in wax, But never with the food; What one pair loses in the dark, Another route renews.
Pass the living hand to hand, Hedge to hearth before the line. No one holds the whole road home; Every hand receives a life.
Patrol lamps bloom beside the west; The rain turns white with steel. The first road ends against a chain, The second bears fresh wheel marks. A knot once tied with three wet loops Returns with only two; The waiting cell unbars the wall And knows the warning's true.
The old cannot outrun the light, The grain-cart marks the ground; They take them both and leave a trail The rain cannot wash out. Through cider trench and alder roots, Past stones the flood laid bare, The last cart clears the lower hedge With Crown drums in the air.
Seven doors stand open now, Seven hearthstones warm; No names remain beneath the beds, No winter sacks in barns. A little bell lies in the mud, Its broken cord gone black; No one can say whose coat it left, Or who first marked the track.
The clerks no longer count the doors; They count the prints between. The hammers leave the survey line, The patrols leave the green. One measured drum takes up the pulse The hidden bells began; The Crown has learned the empty homes Were emptied hand to hand.
Pass the living hand to hand, Hedge to hearth before the line. No one held the whole road home; Still, the last crossed out of sight. Pass the living hand to hand— Now the hunters seek the line.
The named doors wait for morning. The living breathe below. Beyond the farthest eastern hedge, Iron sings against a stone.