'Tis ninety times the Moon has run her cycle
And seven times I've watched the seasons spin
Since I, and all the young men of the village,
Wrestled, ran, and jumped, and strove to win.
And oh, so clearly I recall that day;
With every step I ran, and every contest,
As across the sky the Sun did make his way
I exulted, for I knew I was the best.
And as I crossed the final finish line
I saw the Harvest Queen before me stand,
And bright her eyes as she held out to me
The floral wreath and sickle in her hand.
The wreath they placed upon my streaming brow;
The sickle I raised high for all to see;
Then I turned, and my first duty as the King
Stood tall and fine and golden before me.
Since that day, each year I've done my duty,
And cut the first and final sheaf of grain:
Laid blessings on the fields and the village,
And likewise on the animals, for gain.
And since that day I've wanted not for food
However long or harsh the winter-time;
I was warm while all about were chilled;
The first and finest of all things was mine.
My home was always warm and snug and dry
And many women passed within my door;
And those who bore a child, and those who didn't
Would come back to my bed to try once more.
And now's the day the Harvest Games are held:
The village youths, so swift and strong and tall
I've watched and wept with pride as each one strove
To be the very best among them all.
And as I watch, the final race is run
And I see the victor cross the finish line;
A look of ecstasy and joy and pride
Upon his face, to match the look on mine.
The wreath is placed upon his streaming brow;
The sickle rises high for all to see,
And the Slayer's light is gleaming in his eyes
As he turns toward his duty, toward me.
They offered me the draught, the Barley Dream
To ease the Crossing and to mask the pain;
But I declined, for I'd not miss a moment
Of leaving here, where I will come again.
I hold my wrists up, weeping in my joy:
The sickle's bite is sweet, like a caress,
And the Harvest Queen's bowl overflows with blood
That splashes on her arms and swelling breasts.
I turn and, wordless, walk into the grain,
And a silent, solemn column follows me;
As it has been before, and will again,
And the sound of scythes is like the rushing sea.
Now sight and sound about me start to fade
As my blood pours out on rich and fertile loam:
I hear the Hunter's horn and Lady's laugh
And, falling, smile, for I am coming home.
The subtitle of this poem is a reference to a song by Isaac Bonewits in which the Sacred King experiences some second thoughts as the day of his sacrifice dawns.
The Sacred King, according to folklore, was the most perfect of all the young men of a village or region. He would reign for a set time (a year, seven years, until a crop failure, or other intervals depending on who you ask) and then be ritually sacrificed in order to ensure fertility and prosperity. During his reign, which was purely ceremonial but important nonetheless, he was considered semi-divine. Everything was done to make him comfortable and happy, and in a society where one might starve to death, freeze to death, or get a gangrenous injury from a random scratch while working in the fields, certain death might have seemed like a pretty good deal if it came with all those goodies beforehand. The movie The Wicker Man has an interesting, if skewed, take on the whole Sacred King concept.
When I first heard Isaac's song, it made a lot of sense to me. A mere seven years of "everything good" might seem a little short when the knife and the altar were staring you in the face. After some thought, however, it occurred to me that there's no reason to believe the Sacred King would be any less dedicated to his life than some of the religious suicide bombers we've seen in recent years. Just as the kamikaze pilot would go to full throttle as he aimed for the smokestack of an American ship, so would the Sacred King go joyfully to his demise. Surely there is only joy in the heart of the driver of a truck full of explosives, knowing he will go straight to Paradise. And just as surely the Sacred King, after a lifetime in a culture which saw this role as desirable, followed by seven years (say) of indoctrination by the clergy, would go gladly to his death.
OK, my guess is that the truth lies somewhere in between: that there were plenty of times when someone had to be held down so the "Barley Dream" (a drugged concotion that would make the drinker docile and suggestible) could be poured down his throat, and also plenty of times when the Barley Dream was unnecessary.
I like Isaac's song, incidentally, but I like this image better.