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Indeed, this was so. He undid his doublet, unlaced his shirt and showed them the hole in his breast where his heart used to be.
"Good place to store cheese," Nick remarked.
And in a great storm of words then, in thunder and fury, in drizzling melancholy the Poet told the whole soppy, sorry story, which had no end, and could only be interrupted to further explain that a Poet's fancies come from the heart, and if he has already given his heart away, and does not possess it, those fancies must arise in some place other than the residence where the poet resides; ergo a problem of uncontrollable proportions, which the Poet can hardly be expected to do anything about; ahem, since he, therefore, struggling with the Muse, with inspiration, can hardly be expected to recapture and rein in his fancies because what he writes has no heart in it and the result is likely to come out more like:
"Doesn't even rhyme," said Nick.
"It could be worse," said Peter the Poet bitterly. "It could be Hey no
"I shudder to think," said Nick.
"Does she have a name?" Tom asked.
"Who?" said Peter.
"Your lady love. Now I too have some experience in the madness of love, for I was wounded in love myself, when I loved a giantess who was unfortunately moonstruck when she stood up too tall one night and the Moon hit her on the head and knocked her over the edge of the world-'twas a sad thing, but not entirely tragic, for still she tumbles in the abyss, among the stars, and she rather enjoys herself-I hear from her on occasion, as she dreams of me, or sings love songs in her dreams, though she has fallen so far now that sometimes they take years to reach me-but as I was saying, ahem, it is my experience that in these cases the beloved usually has a name…"
"It's Rosalind," said the Poet.
"Ah."
"At least that's her poetical name. I spied her from afar. I fell instantly, madly in love-something you can appreciate, I am sure-and I declared her my Rosalind. I set her on a pedestal, as my inspiration, my Muse. I gave her my heart, as you've seen, but still she loves me not, and my poetry ca
"But you haven't actually ever spoken to her, have you, much less inquired of her name?"
"What else can she be but my Rosalind?"
"Her name might be Ethel," said Nick.
"You haven't actually-?"
"I poured my love into a poem, and thus I gave her my heart. It melted into the paper like butter into toast. I followed her to where she lived, and slid the poem under the door-"
"Where for all you know the scullery maid found it, and used it to wipe her nose when she sneezed."
"All gooey with melted butter?" asked Nick.
"Alas, for unrequited love!" said the Poet. "Now sorrows and fancies pour from my heart, which is somewhere else, so what can I hope to do about it?"
"I think I know," said Tom.
And One who bore a scythe and hourglass, and had to hold both rather uncomfortably under his bony arms as he paged through his notebook, stood on the doorstep of the house where the Poet lived in the loft. There were by now twenty-seven moons in the sky, but the night was still somehow dark, the light itself steely, gleaming of death, the air chill, Doom and Gloom and Melancholy flowing by in the street like a vast river from an overturned witch's cauldron. (In fact every witch in the kingdom rushed out with a jar or a jug to get a sample.)
At last he found the page in his notebook. Yes, he did know these two, who were due and overdue and had evaded the ravages and reapings of himself and all his kind. These two had escaped all the tyra
Now would be a reckoning.
He passed through the door of the house and began to ascend the stairs to the loft, his scythe scraping awkwardly as he held notebook in one hand, hourglass in the other, and in situations like this wished for a third.
Just then Tom, Nick, and Peter the Poet came padding or clattering down the stairs (depending on condition of footwear) and nearly collided with the One who ascended.
The Poet let out a frightened cry. Nick just tugged on Tom's sleeve as if to say, Do something, and Tom, calmly, with the assuredness of madness, snatched the gravestone notebook out of the apparition's hand, flipped through it back and forth, laughed at a few things he saw in there, sighed at a few others, and said, "Oh, alas, I have lost your place."
While the Hooded One was still sputtering "Stop that!" and trying to find his place again, Tom said, "May I borrow this?" and took the hourglass. He popped off the top, wet his finger with his tongue, and reached in to draw out a few of the Sands of Time on his fingertip.
He touched his finger to his tongue, then turned to Nick and Peter and touched their tongues also.
It was a beautiful spring day, the sky so bright it was almost booming, "Hey! Look how bright I am!" Birds sang, not one of them with a hey no
"That's her," said Peter the Poet.
Thus she had appeared to his eyes when first he saw her.
"I am without words," said the Poet, enraptured once again.
So it was Tom who went up to the lady, bowed low and gallantly, did several somersaults, stood on his hands with his toes waving in the air, while he said, "Your pardon, gentle maid, but if you will take the word of a poor madman, there is a poet yonder who is mad for love with you-"
But the lady merely shrugged and said, "Why, of course. I am of radiant beauty, am I not? Poets appreciate that sort of thing."
She laughed. Tom fell over onto his feet. He found himself with Nick and Peter, back in London. The sky darkened and was once again filled with dripping melancholy and intermittent droplets of e
"That didn't accomplish very much," said Nick.
"I feel a hey no
Again, Tom held up his finger and touched their tongues.
The Hooded One flipped through his notebook furiously. These things had to be done according to protocol. He would have to be patient. But not too patient.
Now it was past high summer, with just a touch of autumn in the air, nighttime but a proper nighttime, with only one moon (a crescent) in the sky, and the Hunter rising to gaze over the horizon onto the fields and towns of England.
Tom, Nick, and the Poet came to a cottage. They knocked on the door and a plump, middle-aged woman met them.
Tom introduced himself, did a few handstands, pulled an egg out of his ear (which hatched in his hand; he gave the woman the resultant chicken) and explained why they had come.
"Ah, madmen," she said. "Of course. Enter."
"I'm not mad," said Peter. "I'm a poet."
"The same."
They entered in, and before Peter could launch into another of his flowing, poetical, and very long speeches, the lady broke in and said, "My name really is Rosalind, which is but happenstance. You, young man, are too wild-eyed for me, too like these other madmen. You speak of love. I remember love in all its rages. I think of it sometimes, on quiet evenings by the fire. But my life is not like that now. I count the days. I count sheep. I go to market on market day. The seasons follow one another the way they should. I am content. I might have cared for love once, but not now. Why bother?"