A Knife Refused
The story
The eastern cut is black with rain. Rocks are braced above the bend and iron teeth wait under the road, while far off the convoy lamps move slowly through the ferns. A knife is laid before Toman, its orchard handle turned toward his hand. He sets it down on the road instead, lays the copied list beside it and lifts a shielded lamp. Escort and shields, yes, but also flour, healers and guarded workers whose names are written in Crown ink. The burned houses are no less empty for that, and the warning was not false. But no single grief can choose who dies under that canvas. Toman cuts the signal cord, not a throat. Some fighters dismantle their traps and step back toward the valley. Others vanish east with Corren. The convoy passes, and no one takes command.
The road hammer that breaks a silver survey stake at the end sets the working rhythm of "Take Back the Road".
Lyrics
The eastern cut is black with rain, Wheel ruts shine below; Rock waits braced above the bend, Iron teeth beneath the road. Firing hollows line the hedge, Each sight fixed upon the turn; Far off, convoy lamps move slow, One by one through alder fern.
The whetstone rhythm locks in place. The hidden downbeat waits below. A blade is laid between two paths, Its orchard handle toward my hand.
This knife will not decide for us. Not who must fall, not who commands. I will not raise it for your answer; I will not take the vacant rank. This knife will not decide for us. Let every hidden hand be seen. No edge can make one private purpose Speak for all beneath these leaves.
I set the blade upon the roadway, Open-handed in the rain; Lay the copied list beside it, Hold the shielded lamp above. First the escort, spear and harness, Raven iron, counted shields; Then the flour under canvas, Winter salves with healer seals.
Guarded labor names run downward, Numbers bound to Crown-made lines; One rear wagon carries weapons— No clean mercy, no clean side. The convoy feeds the occupation; Still one strike cannot choose its dead.
Read the marks before the signal. Read the hands the seal confines. If the page is false or broken, That does not make each body lie.
The blackened bowl is not forgotten. The warning was not proved untrue. Burned doors do not become less empty Because guarded healers travel through. But no one grief can take the valley, Set its hand upon the cord, Then call each life beneath the canvas One more payment for the burned.
The page is called a Crown deception, Every healer mark a bait; The larger violence stands behind it, Real enough to sharpen hate.
Cut the cord. Not the throat. Break the signal. Not the hand.
No order follows. No new captain. Choose beneath your open name.
One hand lifts the trigger stone; One uncovers where it aimed. One pulls stakes from wheel-deep mud; One keeps steel and will not bend. The single chain comes loose in rain, Not pardon and not peace; Some step back toward the valley, Some turn east beneath the leaves.
I do not call the standing down. I do not lead the ones who stay. The knife lies cold beside the list; The convoy passes out of range.
This knife did not decide for us. No victor stands, no new command. The cord lies cut, the names lie open; Each must answer for their hand. This knife did not decide for us. The Crown still moves beyond the trees. No edge has healed the burned-out houses; No throne was raised beneath these leaves.
The eastern footsteps lose their measure. Rain closes where the splinter went. A road hammer lifts above the orchard knife And breaks the silver survey stake.