For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance... -- Ecclesiastes 3:2

Good evening to ye!

The keepers of this fine pub have offered me the title of Oak King for the season. Don't know if this means seven years of feasting, fine ale, and frolicsome wenches, followed by a messy death and long centuries buried in some peat bog waiting for the archaeologists, but I'll make the best of it I can. Seven good years are better than none.

October in Maine, chilly and raining as I write, gloomy advance-man for the winter lurking just around the corner. Come on over, sit by the fire, lift a pint, and listen to a cautionary tale of the cruel way the world has of dashing poetic hopes.

Like all such tales, I begin with the traditional words, 'once upon a time.' If someone kind would fetch me ale, for storytelling's thirsty work....

Ahhhh. Thank you.

Once upon a time there was a prince, handsome and strong after the way of princes but also intelligent and with great skill in his hands, unlike the common run of princes. He labored long and brilliantly in the shadows of his workshop, creating matchless beauty for his beloved, and caressed memories with the fingers of his thought....

'Prove your love for me,' she said, and he was glad, because it meant she cared. 'Bring me the moon, hung on a silver chain, and I will know your love is true.'

A boat he borrowed and rowed the Inland Sea, between the Sun Gates and the Moon Mountains, and dove time and time again beneath the emerald waves. Oysters he found and opened: one in a hundred bore a pearl. One pearl in a hundred shaped the sublime roundness of the full moon riding in the midnight sky. One pearl in a hundred of that rare shaping glowed with the serene inner light of the moon goddess, fit to touch the throat of his beloved. He wrought a silver chain, links marvelous to behold and strong, and hung the moon between her perfect breasts. She kissed him in joy and he took joy with her.

'Prove your love for me,' she said, and he was glad, because it meant she cared. 'Bring me the sun, set in a golden ring, and I will know your love is true.'

The Dragon Mountains he climbed, above the fire pits of Abbaddon and below the icy Peaks of Dawn, and delved into the heart of rock. Gems he found and cut: one fire-stone in a day of labor. One stone in a hundred brought a pure heart to the cutting. One stone in a hundred of that rare clarity shone with the beauty of the autumn sun in the Vale of Randilar, fit to reflect the glory of her cheekbones and her eyes. He wrought a golden ring of exquisite detail and set the sun upon her finger in a flare of beauty. She kissed him in joy and he took joy with her.

'Prove your love for me,' she said, and he was glad, because it meant she cared. 'Bring me the stars, cast in a veil of cloud, and I will know your love is true.'

Diamonds he sought, speaking traders from Cathay and Amritsar and Serendip, for such stones are never found in Kalimar. Baskets of stones he sifted: sands of adamant that would set the flame and twinkle of the zodiac against her raven hair. One stone in a hundred held the purity of her heart in its heart. One stone in a hundred of that purity matched the crimson fire of Aldebaran or the blue coldness of Rigel....

He labored long and brilliantly in the shadows of his workshop, forging wire as fine as spider's silk into a misty net of platinum to hold the midnight beauty of her hair. Slipping through the shadows and around the edge of his distraction, a thief stabbed him to the heart and stole the gems. She heard the news and wept, for she loved diamonds.

And that is the way of life, my friends. Savor the moments of brilliance and joy, but keep an eye to the shadows. Winter comes, and with it darkness, and the wind and other things howling outside the door. For now, celebrate the harvest, full woodsheds and full larders. Feast, and sing, and dance, and drink. Take joy with one another.

Then draw closer to the fire and dream of spring.