late
in the evening as owls were convening
and
acrobatic bats flaunted in the sky,
a
sparrow announced a stranger approaching
and
Lumpy wobbled off to see who was nigh.
Pally
the barmaid stepped into the circle
framed
by the candles' self-animating glow.
"a dribblin' sentry says they nabbed our Nate.
as
your lot were mates i thought you'd want to know."
this
news smudged the halo of tremulous light,
dimming
their spirits and depressing the night.
they
sat up for hours devising a scheme
to
rescue their friend from his desperate plight.
a
sinister tension stifled the forest
as
they climbed the stairs and the candles went out.
a
fearful foreboding was freighting the air,
distorting
intentions and stiffening doubt.
their
unsettled rest was frantic and fitful.
those
sleep avoided felt they were being watched.
the
shadows in corners resembled the horrors
genetic
experiments might have botched.
remorse, disenchantment, and festering hate
seemed
to be sulking in every shaded spot.
the
dreamers all dreamed of constantly waking
under
the dirt in a cemetery plot.
a
grey morning dredged up, befuddled in fog,
shrouding
surroundings in dripping crystal ice.
out
of sync echoes bounced around like caroms,
attentively
uttering everything thrice.
while
the company gathered in the garden,
obliging
pairs of paws packed their travel things.
the
birds that had tired of slick, slimy perches
were hovered above on wearying wings.
though
Pally joined the party as part of the plan,
Weepy
and Lumpy resolved not to go
for
they daren't leave Pasty on her ownsome
to
face such a heartless, formidable foe.
the
strange triple talk hung about for some time
redundantly
revealing most of its gist,
and
then the voices drifted off with their forms
in
the swathing swirls of mysterious mist.
a
chill set in as the afternoon advanced.
clammy
currents clustered in the cloudy haze.
the
wavering vapor spread itself thicker,
as
though it intended to roll on for days.
when
Sludge White was rounding the foot of the stairs,
she
faintly heard taps being rapped on a log.
so
she pushed aside the slanting makeshift door,
and
a haggard old hag loomed out of the fog.
"my
dearie! i'm so glad i've found you at
home!"
cackled
the crone, as she cracked a crooked grin,
avidly peering through bleary, hooded eyes,
her cloak clutched close to her thrusting, double chin.
"i
would fain find my darling daughter's cottage,
but
i fear i've taken a misguided turn.
it's
on the old road to the abandoned mill,
betwixt
ByWater Landing and Fleagle's Fern."
"goodness!" Pasty smiled.
"that's several leagues hence.
where
the forest thins out near Nobbledy Nook.
up
ahead you'll come to a copse of willows.
from
there heed the ramblings of the babbling brook."
"i
thank thee, dearie. such a mannerly lass!
having
a care for a frail and helpless wench!"
she
lurched off the porch and hobbled out of sight,
infusing
the air with a mouldering stench.
and
Sludge White was afflicted by a vision
oddly
familiar and emanating dread,
of
the wizened crow's all-consuming gaze
and
something unsettling lurking in her tread.
** ** ** ** ** ** **
the colors of sunset were concealed from view
** ** ** ** ** ** **
the colors of sunset were concealed from view
but
the murk grew considerably darker
as
the watch at the castle sifted their shifts
to
the time being broadcast by the barker.
"eight
o'clock and all's well!" he brazenly bluffed
and
the villagers held their collective breath.
for
as soon as the sun rose on the morrow
a
hardy life would end in untimely death.
resolutely
they abandoned the courtyards
mislaying
their echoes in the market stalls.
the
fog-ridden ramparts all stood deserted
brooding
in a bleakness bleeding from the walls.
the reigning absentia was haunting his window
tailing
a hawk with barren, red-rimmed eyes.
the
guards at the gate were gathering the drawbridge
barring
disruptions and buttressing lies.
the
sentry at the entry of the dungeons
was
taken by surprise with the fetching lass
bringing
his dinner on a smoking platter
and a tempting toddy steaming up its glass.
his
crude endeavor to emulate Gropey
was
summarily met with a smarting smack.
so
he set in to pummelling poor Pally
when
Rashful popped up with a right proper thwack.
"ta, mate! i've rather gone off these randy old sods!"
the sentinel slid softly to the floor.
in
a fluttering flicker the keys were snatched
and
Gropey's fleet fingers flung open the door.
they entered a realm of palpable darkness
and
floundered blindly in a Stygian pall.
Pally
bumped his noggin and crossly exclaimed
"it's
a good show your lot ain't unduly tall!"
crossing
their fingers they inched slowly forward
expecting
each footstep to end in a fall.
when
fearful fancy supplanted their senses
they
got on all fours and proceeded to crawl.
Pally shuddered at the cold clasp of iron
for
grasping nothingness had frazzled his soul.
he
urgently whispered "Nate, are you in there?
your
chums 'ave come to get you out of this 'ole!"
"who
wants to know?" asked a hoarse, spectral voice,
and
the arteries clenched round their hurtling hearts.
"'tis your Pally from up at the Gimpy Gait.
the one you always call your 'Queen of Sweet Tarts'.
i'm in a crack pack of crusty Curmudgeons.
them
blokes what stay in the spookhouse in the woods."
the
lock had already been sprung by Gropey,
easily
ranking the handiest of hoods.
Nate
said "this old man needs to be rescued too."
propelling
a shade from the depths of his cell.
"of
course he does." griped Rashful.
"just the two of you?"
but perking his ears he cried "bloody hell!"
soldiers
were shouting in a nearby passage
and
everyone sank into utter despair.
next
they were shattered by an ear-splitting squawk.
Rashful
asked "what the heck is she doing there?"
the
sounds of a scuffle assailed their ears,
a
clanging commotion of clamorous clatters.
this
was succeeded by shrieks and screeches
and
shockingly stifled by gut-wrenching splatters.
"what
in blazes is that?" never got answered
but
another guard shouted "run for your lives!"
"there's
an idea!" said Rashful darting off,
following
the lead of the swashbuckling knives.
Sleazy
surfaced as they rounded a corner,
looking rather furtive and wanting for breath.
a
partly-clad page shot out of a doorway,
cringing
from cutlery, frightened half to death.
Sappy
and Mock were waiting by the stables,
detaining
some ponies by straining their reins.
to
judge by the grudging, disgruntled glances,
these
human attachments just weren't worth the pains.
"Gramps!" Mock was ecstatic. "they told me you died!"
he
leapt up and down as if he'd gone wild.
then
his face crumpled as tremors set free
the
fierce fractured sobs of a heartbroken child.
"wishful
thinkin'. they just buried me alive.
looks
like you grew up while i were gettin' old!
this
ain't the time for lengthy conversations,
but
darlin' you're simply a sight to behold!"
his
grandson lifted him onto a pony,
who
scornfully snickered while shifting his weight.
and
they stole through the shadows to the graveyard,
avoiding
the bullies attending the gate.
what
with the gruesome gallery of gargoyles
stalking
the headstones lining either side,
and
writhing branches jutting out of the fog,
it
was quite a disconcerting midnight ride.
the
ear-splitting squawk staggered the stillness,
disturbing the peace of a murmuring owl.
then
the banshee skidded out of the vapor,
cloaked
in a floating funereal cowl.
"don't
get your smalls in a stitch, my little gnomes!
it's
only yours truly, paying my respects.
did
you like my bit of fun with the sentries?
i've
more up my sleeve than the old bitch suspects!
tell
the shiny princess i thank her kindly.
her
tip was just dandy! these new digs are
grand!
if
there's anything else i can do for her
i'll
bend over backwards to lend her a hand."
in
a twinkling a series of crackling snaps
carried
off the banshee in a swirl of crepe
leaving
the atmosphere singed and sizzling,
the outlaws astounded, their mouths still agape.
"we'd
better get a move on" Gramps suggested.
"a
boggy boneyard's hardly the spot for naps.
and
unless you're aimin' to snare mosquitoes
you
might want to think about closin' your traps!"
the fugitives resumed their fright-filled flight,
tugged in front by Rashful while Mock propelled the rear
amidst
grim reminders of life's final stop,
the
ponies snubbing their vain attempts to steer.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
- Evan Hawthorn, the 8th
of april, 2016
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