Tithe is paid to the Clan upon the Cliff, one tenth the value of all goods as travel east to west, west t’ east, along the high valley. Narrow does the glen cut a line of fair passage twixt knife-edged mountains as rise snow-capped to north and south, and the tithe has always been so; payment made in good faith at the mid-point, there where Piper’s Ford bridges wet ground and the traffic is slowed. Collected at the standing stones, placed there on the altar as waits, and always, come dawn, it is gone. Payment taken unseen, collected unheard.
Who the by?
Eternal sleep takes those as’d hide to see.
Copyright: Paul Jameson, August 2021