Having computer troubles at the moment so this is something I wrote ages ago, meant to upload, and never did.
This is my favourite poem… don't ask why, it just is. And, when I was reading it, images of Sango and Miroku playing the main roles came into my head. Naturally, Naraku followed as the third main role. So, here's my take on "The Highwayman"!
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Highwayman", poem by Alfred Noyes. I don't own Inuyasha either.
The Highwayman
I
The howling wind rushed through the trees, making them groan agonisingly. Clouds veiled the stars, and only the moon, floating high in the sky, could be seen, looking like a ghostly galleon in the sea. The chill weather sent a warning to all travellers to be wary.
The moors were bleak and bare in the twilight, long grasses rustling menacingly in the wind, meeting the sky on the horizon. The road, looping the moor, looked like a silver ribbon, and in the half-light, the moor seemed a purple expanse.
Had anyone been out, they would have heard the steady thump of a horse's hooves on the dusty road, the sounds of a lone traveller. Or maybe, something more.
Miroku, the highwayman, looked up to the sky as he urged his horse onwards. Rough as he was, he did not look out of place in the oncoming storm.
He wore a long black cloak, shielding him from the wind and covering the white French lace he wore at his chin, spoils from a previous robbery. His tunic, just visible when a particularly strong gust of wind blew open his cloak, was a rich wine-red, and he carried a silver, jewelled rapier at his side, along with two pistols. They shone in the mysterious light of the moon, as though Miroku himself was carrying the missing stars.
His dark eyes were serious but still alight with life, and his black hair, tied at the back, was covered by the French cocked hat that he wore at a jaunty angle.
He lifted an arm to his head and looked ahead, just off the road. There, he could see it, the ramshackle inn just yards away, locked and barred.
He trotted the horse up to it and opened the old wooden gates, not bothering to dismount. He and his mount clattered across the cobbled courtyard and to one of the shuttered windows.
Tap Tap.
He hit the door with his riding whip, but no one answered. He tried the shutters. Nothing.
Then one of the lower windows opened, the dim light of a candle blinding to the highwayman's eyes. A figure leaned out - Sango, the landlord's daughter, brushing her long hair.
Miroku smiled. She was there, she who he had come to see.
"What are you doing here at this time?" Sango leaned out of the window, dark eyes bright with the gladness of seeing her lover, betraying the stern tone she tried to make with her voice.
"I couldn't resist." Miroku came forwards softly, a smile gracing his features. In the soft candlelight, his violet eyes seemed to become richer and fuller.
"After all, you are my soul."
Sango hid a smile. She knew all his lines too well. "And someday we will be together. But, hurry, what is it that you came to me for tonight?"
Miroku took in everything about her. Sango, daughter of the owner of the inn. Sango, secret lover of the most feared highwayman for years. Sango, the girl that every man desired.
Her long dark hair shone as she brushed it, gleaming with a calm light that spoke of peace, something the hardened robber knew little of. Her dark, expressive eyes, her full lips…
Yes. Sango was a prize to be won. But Miroku never lost.
"I can't stay long, so don't worry. I'm after a prize tonight."
Sango laughed, a rich and full laugh. "I assume you won't tell me what it is?"
"No." Miroku looked up, eyes serious. "But I came to say that, though I should be here at sunrise, if they chase me, I might not."
Sango nodded. "When can I see you again?" she asked.
"Look for me by moonlight." Miroku pointed upwards at the sky. "Watch for me by moonlight. I'll come here by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"
Sango leant over the window ledge and kissed him on the head. "Be safe," she murmured. Miroku hid a blush.
Miroku stretched up in his stirrups, and grabbed her hand. "Don't worry, I will be."
And with that, he kissed her hand as a farewell gesture, and sat back down. His horse reared, (very melodramatically) and the two galloped across the moor again.
Sango sighed, watching his disappearing figure. She would see him tomorrow. She closed her shutters and prepared for bed.
>
Darkness covered the yard again, sweeping over the inn like a mist. The average person would have though t it deserted. But it was not so.
In the darkness a stable wicket creaked as Naraku, an ostler, stood up from where he had been sitting. He narrowed his eyes.
"Checkmate." He said.
He loved the landlord's daughter, as did all the men around. But Sango's heart was given to another… that highwayman. Take him out and…
Naraku was not handsome. His long black hair was uncared for, and hung lank down his back. His face was pale and his eyes, hollows of madness, were shining with an eerie light despite the darkness of the yard. But he desired Sango, the landlord's daughter.
And nothing would come between him and her. Nothing.
II
Sango woke up early and looked out of her small window. The winter sun was just starting to rise, staining the clear sky pink and purple, and leaving a soft orange glow that gently lit up the old ramshackle inn where she lived.
There was no sign of her highwayman anywhere, so she could only assume that he was safe but unable to come near her. She heaved a soft sigh.
All that day she waited and waited for him to appear, but each time she heard the familiar sound of horseshoes on the cobbles, she would find that it was a merchant or traveller. Each time she heard the rusty bell ring on the door she flew to open it, but it was never his violet eyes staring back at her.
He hadn't arrived by noon and Sango knew then that she would have to wait until dark to see him.
>
At sunset, when the moor turned golden and the sky grew dim, she heard something on the road, which had turned into a tawny ribbon twisting over the moor. Shielding her eyes, she could see…
It wasn't him. An orderly line of men, red-coated, black-booted, marched towards the inn.
The King's men. (1)
Sango swallowed. Hard. If he came today, they would shoot him, should they see him…
She lifted her face to the light.
Not if I can creep out and warn him first.
She would have to put on a very good act then.
>
Sango immediately decided that she did not like the sergeant. At all.
He was rude and cocky, barging into the inn without knocking and demanding a table for him and his men, of whom there were about fifteen. One leered at Sango and the girl held onto her temper with difficulty.
She kept up a pleasant act all evening, serving them her father's best ale and ensuring that they were happy. All the while, she just kept thinking about Miroku, and his safety, ignoring the way they all eyed her.
Later, she quietly told her father that she was retiring early, and started to head for her room.
It all happened so fast, she didn't quite know what actually took place.
The sergeant was waiting for her around the corner, and grabbed her close to him. She tried kicking but he held her still and tied a rag around her mouth so she couldn't yell for help. It was all over in a couple of seconds, and Sango found herself helpless against the sheer strength of her captor.
Father! She wanted to scream. But, he wouldn't hear her. He wouldn't come.
They took her to her small bedroom, and tied her against the bedpost, straight upright. The cruel ropes cut into her wrists and legs, and she tried moving her hands a little, but the knots were tied tightly. She looked down slightly and could see the thick rope that bound her hands tightly together in front of her.
The men sniggered and sneered at her, and she tried to retain her composure.
This proved difficult when she saw the sergeant talking to someone outside the window and she realised what was going to happen.
The man outside, one of the ostlers, that she knew to be called Naraku, was being handed money. Straining her eyes, she could see that it was gold.
The only way one in these parts could get gold was for a reward.
Miroku.
Her heart seemed to stop for a second as she realised that they had been tricked. Betrayed. Whatever she called it, it made her whole body burn with helpless anger.
Miroku.
The sergeant returned shortly after.
"Saw you looking, girl." He spat at her. "That's what you get for falling in love with a monster."
He's not a monster! Sango thought defiantly. He's my best friend and more and the one I want to spend the rest of my life with!
The sergeant, perhaps sensing her wish to retaliate, chuckled darkly and whispered something to a man on Sango's right.
The man vanished and reappeared a few moments later with a rifle.
He bound it to her stomach and let the tip point towards her heart.
"Now, keep good watch!" He hissed at her, and kissed her on the forehead. All the men around her sniggered and she blinked back the furious tears with difficulty.
She heard his voice, the one who would surely die this night,
Look for me by moonlight. Watch for me by moonlight. I'll come here by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She took as deep a breath as she could and held her head up high.
For she now knew what she had to do.
Miroku.
She started twisting her hands, backwards and forwards. The knots were tight, but she carried on struggling. Her wrists became raw, but she ignored it.
The minutes ticked by, and the sky became darker. Each hour seemed like eons to the prisoner bound to her bed as she struggled with the knots. Her hands were sticky, but whether they were covered in sweat or blood, Sango didn't know.
Nor did she want to.
The darkness grew and eventually all she could see was the moon, looking blank and bare in the moonlight, and the moor, empty and silent, a dead watcher. She stretched and strained her arms and hands in the darkness. The men in the room ignored her. One stood at the window while the others sat around in silence.
The tension in the air made the night seem dark and cold.
And still Sango struggled.
At last, on the stroke of midnight, one finger, covered in blood, touched the trigger of the gun that was bound to her.
And she knew it would be alright.
Her heart was beating quickly and time dragged by.
>
Sango strained her ears. Suddenly…
Tlot-tlot. Tlot-tlot.
She could hear the horse hooves ringing clear on the bare road, and knew that he was coming.
She looked around. The red-coated men were not moving. Had they not heard?
Tlot-tlot. Tlot-tlot.
Surely they had heard?
Then she saw him. The dark figure of her highwayman, coming over the crest of the hill, down the road that, in her eyes, was bare and cold no longer.
The men looked to their priming.(2) Sango stood up, straight and still, forcing stiff and sore muscles to move.
She could still hear the horse hooves on the road, echoing in the night and the tense silence.
Tlot-tlot. Tlot-tlot.
He came nearer and nearer. She could just make out some of his features now, the French-cocked hat on his head, the glittering rapier…
Her eyes grew wide as she struggled to remember everything about him in this moment.
Time seemed to slow down. He face shone like a light of determination as the men lifted their guns.
Then, taking one last deep breath, she pulled downwards with one finger.
The finger on the trigger of the gun.
With a blast that shot through the frosty silence of the night, the gun went off. Immediately, Miroku swore and turned his horse, riding hard away from the inn.
The men turned away from the window and left the room.
What Miroku didn't know was that he was riding away from the figure of Sango, standing only through the ropes that bound her, soaked with her blood.
She had warned him.
With her death.
>
The next day found Miroku, desolate and miserable, in a quiet inn on the other side of the moor. No one would find him there. He planned to return to Sango on foot and then they could leave. It was too dangerous there for her now.
He paid his bill quietly and turned to leave. Not quickly enough to miss the harried traveller that arrived in the door, though.
The innkeeper evidently knew the man, because they quickly started chatting. Miroku tapped his whip on his leg and sighed – the man was blocking the exit. Exasperated with the world – he hadn't been able to see his darling Sango the previous night – he sat back down.
"… red-coats in the inn a few miles away…" Miroku perked his ears a little.
"… After some sort of criminal, I heard."
"Yes, a highwayman."
"Go on."
"They took the landlord's daughter to stop her warning him."
"Sango, you mean?"
"Aye. That was her name. They say that she loved him very much."
"Was her name?"
"She somehow got hold of a rifle. Shot herself, just to warn him."
The rest of the conversation faded out of Miroku's ears. He sat there, numb.
Sango…
He got up quickly, and, abandoning all manners, shoved the man at the bar aside.
"Oi! What are you doing?"
Miroku ignored the shout and sprinted out of the door to his horse. Throwing himself on, he galloped back the way he had come, towards the inn.
Sango!
Memories flashed through his head.
Sango as a young girl meeting her prince charming for the first time. Sango, sewing a rip in his clothes. Sango, there for him when his mother died. Sango, concerned for him.
"Be safe". Her last words to him.
He rose up in his stirrups and angrily drew his rapier. They would pay!
The road seemed to smoke as he charged at the inn, not stopping.
In the noon sun, his spurs seemed blood red and his wine-red coat shone, when they shot him down on the highway.
The horse galloped on, leaving Miroku lying on the highway, his blood slowly staining the lace at his throat red.
There was no life in his eyes any more.
>
Yet now, they often say, when the wind whistles through the trees, and the moon is full and round, like a ghostly galleon in a starless sky, that horse hooves can be heard. And on the road, a silver ribbon looping the purple moor, a highwayman appears.
In the half-light, they say, he is wearing a long black cloak, shielding him from the blasts of icy wind. Around his neck he wears white French lace, and on his head is a French-cocked hat. His eyes are violet and seem clear and unafraid.
He rides up to the old abandoned inn on the roadside, and through the rubble that was once the gate. He clatters over the old, overgrown cobbles and taps on one of the old windows.
A light shines through the misty glass that he has tapped, and a second figure appears – a girl with smiling dark eyes, brushing her long dark hair.
>
(1) For those of you that haven't read the poem, it's set in England during the reign of King George III (I hope). The nickname for his men was "red-coats."
(2) Priming refers to the loading of one's gun. During this period they used rifles – not brilliant, but it got the job done.
>
>
Ne. Had to nab Dad's PC. Oh well.
Whatcha think?
CN.