The Men Who Measure Roads
Die Geschichte
Eine ruhige Vermesserin der Krone steht zwischen den Trümmern der Brindle-Brücke und macht dem Tal ein Angebot. Stein, der nicht fortgespült wird. Bögen, die bleiben. Flutwarnungen, Patrouillen und Getreide, wenn die Flüsse steigen. Kein Kind soll je wieder einer schwarzen Wasserwand davonlaufen müssen, um eine Glocke zu läuten. Dafür verlangt die Krone nur den Namen jedes Hauses und die Tiefe jedes Brunnens. Die Hearthkin antworten leise: Ein Bauer zieht den ersten Pflock heraus, Kinder drehen die Markierungen nach Osten, ein Alter lächelt und verrät seinen Namen nicht. Jedes Mal rückt die Vermesserin alles wieder zurecht, und ihre sanften Worte verändern sich allmählich. Ordnung ist Gnade, singt sie, und was sich nicht zählen lässt, wird nicht länger sicher sein. Bei Einbruch der Dämmerung steht der erste Steinpfeiler.
Die silbernen Pflöcke, die hier eingeschlagen werden, versetzt Toman in „Ink Against the Hedge“, und in „Take Back the Road“ werden sie endgültig herausgezogen.
Liedtext
Der Liedtext bleibt im gesungenen Englisch.Set the rod. Draw the line. Record the water's height.
We found your bridge in splintered heaps, Your winter grain downstream; We found twelve roofs beneath the silt, Their chimneys breathing steam. You built with oak your fathers cut, You trusted root and rain; We bring the stone that does not drift, The arch that will remain.
Measure the road. Number each door. What we can measure, We can keep from the storm.
No child should race a wall of black To ring a warning bell; No village should be lost because One flooded marker fell. Give us the names of every house, The depth of every well; We cannot guard the lives you hide Or save what none will tell.
Measure the road. Number each door. What we can measure, We can keep from the storm.
We ask no hymn, we claim no field, No child, no hearth, no grain; One road for carts when rivers rise, One levy to maintain. A silver stake beside each gate, A mark beside each name; The line is neither kind nor cruel, The line is still the same.
A farmer pulled the first stake free; We set it back by dawn. Three children turned the markers east; We calmly turned them on. An elder asked who owns the road When Crown and village part. "We only mark the common good, So common law can start." He smiled as though he heard a joke And would not give his name. I left a blank beside his door And underlined the same.
You call the crooked path your freedom, Yet freedom washed away; You call the hidden door your shelter, Yet none could find you yesterday. A map is only memory That neither age nor fear can bend; A law is only shelter Built too wide for walls to end.
Now sign beside the crossing. Now place your household seal. The Crown will bear the labor, The Crown will bring the steel. Refusal leaves the valley Beyond the patrol's aid; No road, no grain, no warning - The choice is freely made.
Measure the road. Number each door. What will not be counted Will be safe no more. Measure the road. Record every name. Order is mercy, And mercy has a claim.
At noon we raised the first stone pier Where broken timbers lay; By dusk the children watched us work, Their elders turned away.
Set the rod. Draw the line. Tomorrow, mark the lanes.