(this excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons" begins as our heroine has just seen the Curmudgeons off on their mission to retrieve the battlerack and watchrug (last seen in the midst of a seething tiff, stashed in a sack and left on the edge of a cliff), and garner gossip from that 'bandy-legged bloke', the garrulous innkeeper at the Gimpy Gate.)
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
her
entourage emerged in solemn silence
from
their crevices and unsuspected nooks.
the
feathered folk filled the fence posts and railings
resting
their wings and exchanging puzzled looks.
Sludge
White smiled at the fawn's tawny mother.
"we
may as well go in. i'll put on some
tea."
then
a strong breeze stirred up the savor of salt
eerily
redolent of the distant sea.
and
it shivered every leaf in the forest
with
a wail that hovered on the edge of sound,
like
some siren on a mythical island
or
barrow-wight buried in an ancient mound.
the
gusts gathered fury, thrashing a hamlet
huddled
in the bend of a neighboring brook,
and
spun the creaking sign of the Gimpy Gait
nearly
plucking the plank from its rusted hook.
"we'll
have no more of your guff, Molt the Miller!
i'm
up to my ears with your blatherin' rows!"
the
barkeep's eyes flashed a fiery warning
from
their shaded pockets, 'neath his knitted brows.
he
loaded a tray for a pretty barmaid
who
balanced the weight while adjusting his wig.
hale,
hardy lads locked lips in darkened corners.
a
willowy youth pranced the "jitterbug" jig.
Molt
the Miller hiccuped, then slid off his stool
and
soaking in his cups, passed out on the floor.
the
blustering wind sandblasted the tavern
as
Rashful swept in, barely holding the door.
his
companions followed, flustered like flotsam
plastered
with bruises from a furious tiff,
which
broadcast the tale for those that could read it:
they'd
salvaged the sack from the edge of the cliff.
"who's
for a flagon of mead?" asked the barkeep,
smearing
the counter with his foul, grimy rag.
then
scanning the bobbing, bodiless heads
he
summoned another of his barmaids in drag.
"Pally,"
said he, "give our darlin' boys the works.
say,
didn't that sentry have an unpaid bill?"
catching
the drift from the stripling's rolling eyes
he
heaved a sigh at his disappointed till.
"i'll
fetch him" said Rashful. "i'm
just in the mood."
and he dropped from sight as he sprang from his chair,
regrettably
stepping on Molt the Miller
whose
garbled protests hung faintly in the air.
"just
sit yourself down Rashful my matey.
you'll
not be riskin' your life an' limb for coins.
the
clangin' wankers are like as not to stiff us.
they're
walkin' weapons that think with their loins.
"their
lot don't ken we're alive!" piped up Pally.
"on
market day last they trampled a child.
crushed
his little feet and left 'im for dead.
Trixie
'ad to 'old me back. i were that
riled."
he
tucked a tip in his fishnet stockings
and
blinking back a tear that was starting to sting,
parried
one of Gropey's red-handed advances
and
said "that's enough of that, ya' daft thing!"
as
he trained his sharp eyes on his leaking source
Mock
pensively swallowed a swig from his mug.
"and
why would the troops be out in such numbers?
are
they keepin' the reason under a rug?"
"well
now, as it happens," the innkeeper winked,
"i
might have a bit to say on that topic."
everyone
in earshot settled in their chairs.
Sleazy
leaned closer since he was myopic.
"the
word is the princess has been abducted.
and
the one they're blamin' is Woodcutter Nate.
what'll
happen when they get their hands on him
is
too grisly and monstrous to contemplate.
they're
sayin' the queen's just beside herself.
though
i say her ownsome's quite enough to ponder.
they'll
stop at nothin' to retrieve that princess
and
dispatch poor Nate to the unseen yonder."
a
musing depression enveloped the room
as
grim implications began to sink in.
a
menacing specter shrouded their future
and
managed to drown out the rollicking din.
into
the respite, the siren lamented,
their
troubles wafted, and the rafters rattled.
a
rash of ill winds left rooftops ravaged,
and
pendulous prospects, ensnared and embattled.
deep
in the forest the treetops were trembling.
frightened
creatures quivered in their fragile nests.
horizontal
blasts flailed the snapping branches,
stripping
them of leaves and casting off their pests.
the
sunset had barely embarrassed the sky,
when
the wight let loose with his harrowing wail.
the
furry retainers had made themselves scarce,
to
hide in their burrows and ride out the gale.
the
princess sat up by the crackling fire,
awaiting
her strange little housemates' return
and
dazedly gazed at the amber embers,
infrequently
adding a fresh log to burn.
a
pattering clatter pelted above her
fraying
her temper and needling her nerves.
three
creaking windows blew open at once
and
the spluttering gusts scuttled dust around curves.
the
tension mounted when the candid clock
made
a comment on the lateness of the hour.
but
when the self-starting candles all went out
the
seeds of panic proceeded to flower.
as
shadows condensed around the fireplace
a
tingle of dread disconcerted her spine.
then
an evergreen tree smashed through the front door
sprucing
up the entry, spraying it with pine.
Pasty
lost her courage and leapt up the stairs
her
fleet feet reflecting her fluttering heart.
in
headlong haste she mishandled the landing
prying
her presence and the present apart.
the
cloudburst arrived, tossing in its insult,
spattering
her dress and staining it with mud.
and
the ranting winds beleaguered the hallway,
entangling her hair in a dark pool of blood.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
- Evan Hawthorn, the
6th of April, 2016
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