The Legend of Black Shuck (Part One)

Inspired by a recent poetry project in which S P Clark retold the folkloric tale of Bean Sídhe, he has now turned his attention to Black Shuck. This poem, The Legend of Black Shuck, again follows a ballad / narrative-style, and will be revealed in several parts. Enjoy the first part below.

The Legend of Black Shuck

S P Clark

Across all England it is known,

in every corner, nook and home,

that tales of terror may not be

the luxuries of fallacy.

Late at night when all lights are dimmed

and sheltered from the blowing wind,

families gather to debate

the hellish creatures and their fate.

In East Anglia there resides

evil behind homicides;

the deaths remain a mystery

so they become discussory.

Read on reader and I’ll reveal

a story that is most surreal.

When the marshes breathe mist so thick

in the low country, comes so quick

that you never could hope to see

the land pressed tight against the sea.

I don’t tell this tale to cause fright;

but such stories are soothed in light:

something happened, can’t be explained

the door slammed shut but fear remained.

Some creatures from the darkness need

only seconds to plant the seed;

an open door to cross on through

and growls and stands with me and you.

This is the legend of Black Shuck.

Stick with me and if we’re in luck

we might begin to understand

the terror he spreads ‘pon the land.

Elias Reed, raised in the fens

of Norfolk’s Western borders, friends,

as his age grew full to manhood

it was plain that he understood

the story of Black Shuck.  And so,

Elias Reed must surely know,

have overheard this legend spoke

from his people, from his kinsfolk,

and felt disquiet choke; the unease

loose in his veins like a disease.

That’s why it’s strange he chose to place

himself with Black Shuck, face-to-face. 

Whenever folk tell this fable,

at home, when around the table,

they keep their voices soft and low

in case it’s caught by winds that blow.

Yet, like a reckless fool have I

put pen to paper for your eye

in the hope that it’s safe to read

where voices fail to sow their seeds

of evil.  Some comfort, I hope,

this indeed gives for you to cope

with the horror of things I’ll share,

for no details within I’ll spare.

No faltering, let’s plunge right in,

It’s time this legend did begin.

Elias at the local inn

sat chatting and drinking gin,

keeping warm by the burning fire

while outside the storm whipped higher.

The roads between the inn and home

were all the roads that Reed did roam,

where he laboured his working day.

Knew how the ash and birch did sway,

understood the changing weather,

why the bird released its feather

as merrily he spent his day.

The sodden path, the path of clay,

the way his boots sank in the silt,

knowledge of the flowers that wilt.

Elias lived not by danger,

walked afeard amongst a stranger,

so when the Keeper suggested,

“time to leave to where you’re nested”;

he knew the clouds had brewed trouble,

“home”, he thought, “before the bubble

bursts and I’m trapped inside the inn”.

He stepped outside, the air was thin.

Clouds gathered, parted, then reformed

forming odd shapes, not uniformed.

Unsettling tinctures filled the sky.

No rain yet, ‘twas inclement dry.

He walked the sand-road near the coast;

that winds and bends, but he knew most.

Now, dear reader, we have arrived.

I’m sorry that I have contrived

to keep you in suspense thus far

but it’s a story so bizarre

that it takes time to fight back fright.

Where was I?  Oh!  A dreary night

saw Elias rapidly pace

(a manly gait with not much grace)

to reach his home and be encased,

out of the cold, he then made haste.

No warning came, the wind stopped dead,

black clouds parted above his head,

lilting grass stood to attention,

sea hushed so it couldn’t mention

the sight that was before his eyes.

A shape, an outline in disguise,

hidden beneath the shadowed moon.

Elias froze stiff on this dune

as he convinced himself of tricks

of light, shivering twigs and sticks.

Reason returned, he plodded forth

under the star that shone true north.

Yet even as the road bent round,

he couldn’t believe what he found,

that this figure in the distance

was still stood with such persistence.

Had Elias moved or stood still?

Sense of foreboding, of such ill.

Despite peaks and troughs in the road,

it did not melt nor change its load.

The ungodly shape did not shift,

if anything it seemed to lift

itself towards a little light

to uncover itself that night.

As it did so, there was a need

from deep within Elias Reed

to “find some safety far from here

before this wretched thing comes near”.

Like a statue glued to the spot,

he tried to scream but he could not.

Revealed before him, all agog:

A hideous un-dogly dog.

© S P Clark