A man walked into town one day with verses on his tongue. He’d spent the night upon the rock that sits atop Cair Andros. He was a stranger in those parts and did not know what curse lies on the rock atop Cair Andros
He called for paper, pen and ink, and wrote his poems night and day as men stood by and clucked their tongues and said it was a waste. Death came within one year to those slept upon the rock. The rock atop Cair Andros.
But one old man spoke up and said they had the story wrong. A night upon the rock meant more than just assured death. The old man said, “A man would die within a year or else become a poet.” Such was the curse upon the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
Most everyone did not believe the words the old man spoke. But even those who did believe, thought nothing of the poet. “It’s trite, it’s trash, it’s useless bunk,” the people there proclaimed. “It’s coarsest verse, his rhymes are wrong, he cannot write a lick. No poet would produce such rot, so he is no such thing. He thinks that he can fool his fate by writing some such pap.” So all of them dismissed the man who slept upon the rock. The rock atop Cair Andros.
The stranger left and none were sad to see him go. Until the town heard of his fame in far off, distant towns. The world embraced the poems of the stranger they dismissed. And then the people there felt sure they had no curse to fear. Not least of all the curse that lay upon the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
“Was it that easy?” men there asked, “It could have been us too!” Throughout the year, the rock was bed to men from in the town. But soon the men were dying off and few were left alive. For many men had gone to sleep upon the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
Then people came from far and near, for they had heard the story too. For they all loved the poet who had dared to sleep upon the rock: the rock atop Cair Andros.
These others said, “Such simple folk, they are not smart enough. Their town lived just below the rock and yet this poet is the first to use it properly. We’ll analyze the failed attempts and find the proper way to sleep upon the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.”
But nothing came of these attempts and, still, the poet was no help. They asked him how he slept there when he made his great attempt to sleep atop the rock. Yet all that he could say about his night upon the rock was, “First I slept, and then awoke.” And that is all the poet said about his night upon the rock, he rock atop Cair Andros.
But still they pressed their questions home, demanding that he could say more. Yet all they learned was all who followed died within one year. Just one year from the night they slept atop the rock. The rock atop Cair Andros.
Soon many came to fear the rock and no one would go near. They swore the poet cursed the rock himself so that no man or woman could go there and live. Thus, men and women would not approach the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
Long years went by, the poet died, and still the legends lived. Until the scholars came to clear the air about the rock. “A curse? What curse? Such talk is bunk. We’ll even prove it so. It’s just a rock and nothing more, the rock atop Cair Andros.”
So one of them slept on the rock and felt no ill effects. He said, “Look here, I don’t feel bad, I’m none the worse for it.” The year grew long and he lived on, and he did not regret his night upon the rock. But even though he died, the scholars showed that it was not the rock. No, not the rock atop Cair Andros.
“See here,” they said, “no curse killed him. It was a simple case of flu. This further proves that this old tale is not the least bit true. Besides, the tale that said the poet slept upon the rock is nothing but another farce. For we cannot find documents that prove he even came near here. And many poets lived and died and none of them slept on the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.”
And all who heard the scholars said that they had proved the legend wrong. “Besides, he was not all that good, so why do we keep holding on to tales that have no shred of proof? We’re far too smart to ponder myths, we’d rather stick to facts and truth.” So people shoved the tales aside and threw the poet’s work aside. But still the poems stayed in print and people read them fervently. And no one would sleep on the rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
The poet read for simple joy, the rock forgot for lack of thought. Such was the tale of one large rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.
But then a stranger came to town. He spoke in meter, rhyme and verse. For he slept on the fabled rock, the rock atop Cair Andros.