They say the one Im searching for,
lives high up on a hill;
I know not whats become of him,
perhaps he lives there still.
His house, they say, is built from cedar,
the roof of elm and spruce;
A solitarie window,
its shutters hanging loose.
The door is made of solid oak,
the handle brass, engraved
with the letters B & H...
Ive never seen him face to face,
only from afar;
I know no facial features,
eye colour, birth-mark or scar.
Why did I seek this man?
Of what consequence was he?
I was searching for a teacher,
to fill my mystic needs.
I had heard the rumours far and wide,
and all across the land,
of conjured spells and magic deeds;
A wizard, a demon, a man.
The stories changed, details were vague,
but one thing remained throughout;
The man, one man, this mystery man,
of him there was no doubt.
They said that he came from abroad,
but no one knew just where;
Some said that he was short and dark,
others tall and fair.
And though I searched for many years,
I gathered nought but dust;
The rumours I had heard them all,
no story could I trust.
Then one day, within a shop,
I chanced upon a book;
The leather old, the title worn,
I chose to take a look.
I turned aside the cover,
the title black on white;
The Mystic Life is what it read,
thats not what caught my sight.
Down between the border
and the corner of the book;
Two letters there were scrawled in ink,
I took a closer look.
How could it be this very book
had fallen in my hands?
B.H. was signed, the signature
of the mystic man.
I dare not mention what I read,
within that book that day;
Ive hidden it well out of reach,
and there it ought to stay.
The one that I am searching for,
may still live on that hill;
If I ever find him there,
I may just have to kill...