Mock's unblighted plight

[this second set of stitched stanzas, assembled as an explanatory preamble
to the latest chapter in my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven
Curmudgeons", relates the tale of Mock's injuries, and their transcendence,
ending as the Curmudgeons and their friends gather together for the
merry feast of Aethelwort's Eve.]
** *** * ***** * ** **** ** * ***** * *** **
Nate pulled a chisel from his ruptured knapsack

and shakily attained his unsteady feet.

then he kissed Mock's forehead and started off,

as valiant a hero as one could hope to meet.

"where are you going?" Mock breathlessly asked,

toppling again from his bark-encrusted crutches.

"to have a go at saving our Sleazy.

i can't just leave him in that horrid thing's clutches."

as Nate descended into the gully,

Sappy sat up, and surveyed the scene with wonder.

"i have the impression we've been here before.

something to do with a housekeeping blunder.

why, this is the spot where we salvaged the sack,

with the watchrug and battlerack, remember?"

"me 'ead's in an awful muddle, Sappy.

i've a notion that beastie gave me distemper."

"surely not, silly old bean.  but come sit down.

i want to inspect those clotted bandages."

Mock winced while he warily lowered himself,

casting aside his knotted appendages.

Sappy visibly flinched from what he uncovered,

a ground up mash of puce and livid red;

the missing kneecap, several severed toes,

and the seeping, shredded skin, hanging by a thread.

his fingers were singed by a blistering fever

inflaming the tainted, shivering frame.

he was far from certain he'd ever recover

but harboured no doubts he'd been rendered lame.

"well, what do you think?" Mock placidly inquired,

gazing obscurely into the mire.

"i think i'll gather some fallen kindling.

it's high time we lighted a night-biding fire."

***** * ***** * ***** * *****

the skittish fire that Sappy had set,

crackling in the shelter of prehistoric stones

was encouraged by the flickering moonlight,

fostering warmth in their chilled and dampened bones.

as he rocked Mock in a cradle of compassion

the skies spilled out their spurting, silver sheets,

and he lulled the delirious ramblings

of anxious adolescence roaming lonely streets.

Mock closed his eyes when the winds subsided,
and the deluge dwindled to intermittent drip.
as the moon traipsed off in search of perspective,
Sappy hunkered down for a cursory kip.

** *** * *** ** * ** *** * *** **

Sylvana was sewing Mock's severed shreds,

coaxing his wounds in the manner Guanyin taught her

with the wandering stitches she'd handed down

from the Man in the Moon's transvestite daughter.

sprinkling his skin with an elixir of herbs,

she released the fever in sweltering streams

and sealing her charms with susurration,

dissolved the delirium reeling from his dreams.

"do you think he can travel?" inquired Sappy

peeping anxiously over her shoulder,

whilst wrapping ropes round ripped apart satchels

and piling them up in the lee of a boulder.

"he'll float with Chester, and don't start fretting.

i give you my word he's entirely benign.

can you hand me my wriggling sack of stitches?

it's over there next to that creeping vine."

Sappy pursued her bobbing directions

to the spry, slinking tendrils of unattached greens.

it wasn't a vine but one of Mock's crutches

spurting like it sprouted from Jack's magic beans.

leaves were unfolding with unstilted grace

while his face was a study in consummate shock.

"Nate carved those out of dead, fallen branches.

they were properly staid when we gave them to Mock."

as they stared at the staves in wide-eyed wonder

the furthest thrusting sprig arrived at Mock's toes,

and seeming to be pleased with this achievement

left off its flailing and acquired repose.

they stood transfixed in pools of stranded light,

sifting and slanting through the sloped, sunken barrow

till Nate passed the portal of staggered stones

in the company of the catering sparrow.

"your friends have turned up with Rashful and the twins.

they're wanting to know when we're planning to leave.

if we start anon and stay out of trouble

we'll be at the spookhouse for Aethelwort's Eve."

Sappy was moved by this tender echo

of Pally's spirited endearment for their home

and deeming that Nate could do with distraction,

pointed at the lumber stemming through the loam.

the woodsman was baffled at what he beheld

for Mock was cocooned in a latticework bed,

cushioned on a bower of shuffling leaves

while stalks were entwining beneath his dozing head.

but cottoning on to what he'd been seeing

when his carpenter's mark went sidling by,

he was seized by a sudden access of angst

and was quite at a loss to comprehend why.

the hedging awareness of a sun-drenched bench

lurked in the menace of a brandishing club.

yet the scent of a pipe like a keening lament

nearly occluded the memory's nub.

Sylvana flashed apprehension to Sappy

suggesting that Nate be nudged from this muddle.

"let's see how Chester's getting on" she proposed,

then linked up their arms to hinder rebuttal.

but her efforts were bested by the sparrow

pivoting focus with imperative cheeps

to the transplanting plants tagging along,

their rummaging roots never tarrying for keeps.

"this is rather unsettling" said Sappy.

"though Mock's conveyance is seemingly decided.

they certainly are a determined lot.

when we stepped in their way, they simply divided."

***** ** *** ** ***** ** *** ** *****

Mock was the last to reach the crowded table

thanks to the pace of his shuffling, rustling gate,

his organic crutches readily appending

to the well-drenched framework nudged next to Nate.

a hybrid species had come into being

a sardonic wit slinging slithering shoots,

an animated green man sprung from his scaffold

and rambling about on rummaging roots.

sensitive tendrils evolved into clothing,

a mossy fabric that covered awkward spots

where extremities lived in memory

ensnaring tactless eyes and tying tongues in knots.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

- Evan Hawthorn, the 30^th of May, 2016