Secrets from the storyteller

On a day in the past,
‘Cross field and over hill,
An army was marching,
Its sole purpose to kill.

Sent by the Faerie Lord,
At good Trolls it was aimed,
To strike a hammer’s blow,
Leaving dead, crushed and maimed.

At its head rode fierce Darsh,
Part Faerie yet Elven,
Behind him his captains,
In the lead, black Delven,

Next in line, murd’rous Glebb,
Then fierce Glet, with mean Gleez,
Dark haters of all good,
Kindly Trolls, Ancient trees.

On this black day of days,
With blow ready to fall,
As the sun reached the ground,
Destruction threatened all.

Nearby in tree tops high,
‘Midst green leaves sprung anew,
A Toll lad was working,
Drawing sap for his glue.

This boy was small in size,
Not an Elk’s head in height,
Not soldier, nor fighter,
He was puny and slight.

Hardly the hero of deeds,
Merely a lad with a task,
Climbing high in the tree,
Gath’ring sap in his cask.

Unaware the boy was,
Of the army drawing near,
When on winds from the west,
A strange din reached his ear.

Voices grunting, some growling,
Feet tramping, boots thumping,
The sounds of an army,
Spears rattling, shields bumping.

In next breath the boy heard,
Horns lifting, steeds neighing,
On the cusp of their attack,
A horde poised for slaying.

Shocked was the boy to hear,
The fate facing his kin,
Snug asleep in their homes,
Unaware of the din.

What to do, he fretted,
How to send warnings dire,
Then a thought came to him,
Use his glue, warn by fire.

So he said to the tree,
Friend, the Faeries are near,
And I see but one way,
To save all we hold dear.

It’s hard to speak these words,
Words of death to a Tree,
But a fire lit on you,
Will draw Troll eyes to see.

The tree shuddered and shook,
Then spoke words with its breath,
To save dear Woodsy Trolls,
I would face fiery death.

Thank you, Tree, cried the boy,
As his cask he lifted
Your story I will tell,
How your life you gifted.

Spreading glue on the tree,
On great trunk lined and old,
He cried as he readied,
His dire plan to unfold.

Next, he took up tinder,
But before firing his spark,
The boy paused one last time,
To say words in the dark.

Oh, great tree, the boy said,
Grant me honor to know,
The name that you carry,
Finest tree e’er to grow.

The tree sighed and it cried,
Then gloomily replied,
Boy, do me this favor,
After burning I’ve died.

Gather my ashes all,
Lay them in grave shallow,
Tell Wood-Folk they were saved,
By fires on poor Hallow.