"aftermath" - an excerpt from Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons

this excerpt from my novella-poem, "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons",

chronicles the aftermath of the drone attack that the Curmudgeons and their friends
(Nate the Woodsman & Pally, the transvestite barmaid from the Gimpy Gait),
witnessed in ByWater Landing.  it also introduces a new friend, who relates her
history, in a tale within a tale; brushing the realm of dream-time, where myths begin.

*******

the first stars appeared as they reached the cottage
and a velvet hush was softening the ground,

enhancing the glimmer cast from the windows

strangely enchanting the dislocated sound.

Lumpy and the princess came out to greet them

but meeting the trauma they stopped in their tracks.

ever so gently they unstrapped the trappings

springing back the springs in the ponies' packed backs.

while the fire sparked its primal enchantment

and Gramps spun yarns of inverted circumstance

nothing could inspire the warmth or the light

to summon Pally from the depths of his trance.

all the terror laid bare in his anguished stare

chilled the gathering deer to the very bone.

but though it caused Weepy to glisten with tears

Pally's petrified gaze was dry as a stone.

he wrestled the night nestled in Nate's embrace,

lost in a darkness impenetrably deep.

from adjacent rooms faint sobbing could be heard

and two or three voices cried out in their sleep.

the moon bathed the earth in august splendor

evoking its canticle of keening howl.

Pasty paced the woods, flinging glancing glow

spoiling the dinner of a disgruntled owl.

something was rustling in the silvery gloom

so she slipped within the branches of a tree.

then a striding figure shifted the shadows

pausing in a place Sludge White could plainly see.

a handsome lass was clad in leather armour

with penetrating eyes and a candid grin,

her lustrous hair bedecked in dangling cornrows

cascading on luminous, ebony skin.

as she calmly inquired "why art thou hiding?"

her flickering laughter lapped the brittle air.

the princess emerged as her heart skipped a beat.

"only to observe a smattering of care".

"i see.  then i ought to introduce myself.

i'm citizen Sylvana, of Fleagle's Fern;

protectress of the Peoples' Free Collective,

an anarchist, and an acolyte of Herne.

we brought aid to the survivors of the flood

and uncovered a mountain pass steeped in rocks.

for two days i've been bailing out a hamlet,

feeding the farmers, and unmiring an ox."

"i'm known as Sludge White, and most pleased to meet you.

there's a cottage nigh, where i'm staying with friends.

wouldst thou partake of rest and refreshment?

it's just simple fare.  i'm afraid we're at loose ends."

"i accept your kindness, and beg your pardon,

for i mean no slight to your lady mother.

but a name like that could hardly suit you.

i wonder if you answer to any other?"

"my friends call me Pasty" the princess replied,

stepping over flowers filling up with dew.

Sylvana sparkled with musical chuckles,

and shaking her head, said "that'll have to do."

their voices lingered in the sleeping forest,

till the last glints of moonshine began to fade.

then dawn resurrected the drowsy landscape,

splashing its flashes of pink amongst the jade;

advancing the gift of a separate grace

for spanning the hours and wearing down shores;

for grafting the grieving into different drifts

as their feet find the grooves of well-worn floors.

rose-tinted arcs illumined kitchen windows,

igniting gilt edges of saucers and plates;

as Lumpy and Weepy heaped on the table

plump bowls of porridge, buttered crumpets, and dates.

"you must have something" said Sappy with concern.

Pally strayed farther in his faraway eyes.

it was the first time they'd seen him unadorned,

in the folds of Nate's cape, skirting past his thighs.

though Gramps gnarled fingers tousled his tangles

and the otter tucked his tail around his feet

this failed to elicit any response.

for despite the mute scream his silence was complete.

Rashful's bark blasted through an open window.

"just how the hell did the ponies get unhitched?"

as each person's glance met another's nonplussed,

Weepy looked down and his jittery lips twitched.

a wrathful visage sprang into the window,

it's glare occluded by overhanging eaves.

those gathered at the table shrugged their shoulders,

while Weepy of course, was sobbing in his sleeves.

"i should have guessed it would be you!" said Rashful,

rushing in recklessly and slamming the door.

Sappy stood swiftly to fend off the fury.

startled deer scattered from their spots on the floor.

"we have to accept each other as we are.

that's what we all agreed, from the very start.

since Weepy senses what the animals feel,

we must respect him when he follows his heart."

Rashful struggled with himself for a moment,

and settled on secreting a strangled sigh.

then Sappy squeezed the dripping hanky, and said

"there now, dear Weepy, there's no more need to cry."

the otter prodded more grumbles from Rashful,

trampling his toes on the way to Weepy's lap.

"i don't know what's come over me lately.

i never used to be such a softhearted sap!"

Sylvana was delightfully diverted,

fondly reposing a hand on Pasty's knee.

Mock instantly noticed, but feigned nonchalance,

while passing to Lumpy honey for his tea.

"what was it?" asked Sleazy, audibly airing

the one burning question on everyone's minds.

Gropey dropped the dishes he was balancing,

cluttering a muddle of shards, crumbs, and rinds.

but all their attention focused on Pally,

his head cupped despondently under Nate's chin.  

"they mentioned a weapon" the woodsman offered.

"the soldiers discussed it when they brought me in.

it was something that could kill at a distance,

so its use would pose no danger to themselves."

"well as long as they're safe!" said Mock with a smirk.

"another 'orror snatched from misery's shelves!"

"that's the whole point of makin' weapons" snapped Gramps.

"wreakin' 'avoc without feelin' its effects."

"to do away with Karma?"  Sylvana blanched.

"surely that's not a thing a person directs."

"as i told Mock when 'e were just a sprat,

the world's been in denial since it got started."

she thoughtfully looked from one to the other.

"how long has it been since you two were parted?"

  

"you'd better ask 'im, i've no 'ead for numbers,

and me best guess wouldn't be near enough right.

it were all darkness for us in that dungeon,

with no way o' tellin' the day from the night.

but it 'urt me 'eart fierce to be without 'im,

for i raised 'im, you see, since 'e were a pup.

any moment now it's like as not to burst,

seein' 'ow me darlin' boy's grown 'imself up."

Mock said "they took 'im when i was eleven.

days later they told me 'e died of the pox.

that's when i first were branded a terrorist,

for peltin' the sentries with insults and rocks."

Sylvana's laughter rippled in soothing waves.

Rashful leaned in closer, leaving off his wrath.

"may i ask what decided you, m'lady,

to foster the seedlings on the Green Man's path?"

"as a child i'd heard of Herne the Hunter,

but stumbled on his acquaintance in a dream.

he placidly stood in a sun-dappled wood,

resplendent and smiling in his dazzling beam.

his antlers appeared to be growing swiftly,

yet they managed to remain a constant height;

and the moon and the stars rose in the sunshine,

filling the forest with several shades of light.

a herd of deer danced enigmatic steps,

weaving a pattern too intricate to follow.

then he beckoned while his image receded,

taking me with him to a haloed hollow.

surrounded there by cedars and willows,

we ambled past mushrooms of astonishing size.

vines were entwined with tinkling sapphire bells.

and strangely hued rainbows  shimmered in the skies.

empathetic animals thronged at my side.

flowers blossomed in bewildering array.

i felt so completely peaceful and happy,

i couldn't imagine not wanting to stay.

when i reluctantly woke from this vision,

i knew i'd embarked on a signal sea change.

but finding myself alone in our cottage,

i hastily scoured the rest of the grange."

a gripping stillness soaked up Sylvana's pause,

the table held tautly in tense suspension.

rapt, spellbound birds had assembled on the sills,

and even Pally was paying attention.

Pasty seemed unable to believe her ears.

though captivated she was plainly perplexed.

poor Rashful was flirting with apoplexy,

blurting "well, what the bloody hell happened next?"

Sylvana continued, rethreading the strands

misfortune had seeded, then callously strewn.

"i discovered my mother in the garden,

her hemorrhaging injuries disclosing bone.

flapping scraps of shredded dress ripped through the air,

as her windswept spirit was torn from my hands.

of my father i found only his pitchfork,

broken and splintered on the blood-spattered sands.

panicked and crushed at the loss of my parents,

compelled and entranced by the promise of Herne;

i decided to set out for the hollow,

grasping hopeless straws, yet yearning to return.

but the trees i walked under didn't greet me,

and sapphire bells weren't blooming in the sage.

it was only the greenwood i'd grown up in,

with nothing to temper my heartsickened rage.

at the edge of the forest stood a cottage,

which i'd willingly swear was waiting for me.

a wizened old woman beckoned from a window,

'come in, my poppet.  you're in time for tea.'

despite misgivings, i pushed open the door;

inciting glitter in the hovering dust.

sprigs of drying herbs dangled from the ceiling,

mingling their fragrance with primordial must.

a cauldron was simmering in the fireplace,

adeptly stirred by a free-floating spoon.

two or three brooms had been propped in a corner;

another swept ashes while whistling a tune.

a caucus of crows clung to the chimney,

profoundly engaged in a heated discussion.

a monkey was slapping the clock with a stick,

keeping the time with impromptu percussion.

  

'they've been at it all morning,' she chuckled.

'they'll tire soon enough.  don't pay them any mind.'

then she lifted a cup into empty space

and i suddenly understood she was blind.

as the afternoon waned i learned her story

how she tended the rustics for leagues around,

with natural remedies poultices

which hearsay said were the best that could be found.

Guanyin was named for the Goddess of Mercy

and crossed the fell mountains from the farthest east.

she'd settled in the outskirts of Fleagle's Fern

to decline no mild man, nor kindly beast.

we've bided together since our first meeting

and she's taught me all the healing lore i know.

but when i suggested Herne charted my steps

she said the wind introduced us even so.

from that day to this i've been an apprentice

extending the work of her dexterous hands.

and i serve in the People's Free Collective

to ferment freedom in plutocratic lands.

we're a council empowered by peasants

to see to their needs and defend the common good.

honoring an oath i plighted to Herne

i'm an escort for outcasts adrift in the wood."

Lumpy caught Weepy as he dipped in a swoon,

sparked and smitten by Sylvana's gallant tale.

it seemed that Sappy had forgotten to breathe,

his chocolate skin tempered to a creamy pale.

Pasty grew pensive.  "i fled to that hollow,

ferried through the air by some magical grace.

encircled by willows, enveloped by bells,

your phantom hollow is an actual place."

Gramps said "quite surely.  it's in all the legends.

custom calls it 'appily Ever After.

that's 'cause it's mostly composed of reflections

and tears shed there are said to brim with laughter.

no space misplaces your neighbors or their thoughts

and each consequence gets concurrently cast.

whatever you fancy unfolds on the spot

yet the time it befalls has already passed."

"it's not likely you've heard of it." Mock observed.

"i'll warrant their majesties wouldn't approve.

to escape the contagion of reflection

they'd bloody well force the whole kingdom to move."

mirth unfastened every face but Pally's

for humour was estranged from his senses by grief,

swapped like the hopes of ByWater Landing

for the changeling terror of a soul-sickened thief.

Sylvana took her leave early that evening

as a blushing sun flooded the earth with rust,

and the frayed shadows of unattained desires

shifted about in the unsettled dust.

they bade their farewells amidst sighing thrushes

in the drift of cooing doves, plaintive and hushed.

yet somehow Sludge White simply failed to fathom

why her heartbeat fluttered and her cheeks felt flushed.

faint stars made their flickering appearance

while a parcel of ponies scampered in a field.

for the very first time in their hemmed in lives

they weren't reined, restrained, or required to yield.

eternal yearning revolved in the sky

as the planets revelled in their ponderous dance.

unleashing their kindred downtrodden wishes,

the ponies frolicked in a freewheeling prance.

*******

(thus endeth the excerpt.  - Evan Hawthorn, 13th of May, 2015)

an extract from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"

this brief extract recounts the terror raining from the skies
that the Curmudgeons (& Pally, the transvestite barmaid)
encountered as they made their way home after rescuing
Nate the Woodsman from the elite's clutches.

(this bit is not for the faint of heart)
* * * * *
as the night wore on the cryptic mist lifted.

shards of starshine skimmed the surface of the earth.

by dawn even shade loving nooks and crannies

had dislodged the haze from its hovering berth.

Mock was astonished to find himself waking

and the cavalcade advancing on the woods.

though Sappy and Gropey scratched their groggy heads,

snores were still seeping from several slumping hoods.

the sun warmed the hills in ByWater Landing,

tanning fishwives and ferrymen on the dock.

children splashed laughter on the glistening beach,

while skipping and squealing and running amok.

when the file of Curmudgeons reached the river,

as that's where the ponies had wanted to go;

a flying contraption sundered the heavens,

a throbbing steal beast that flashed a baleful glow.

the destruction it unloaded was blinding;

the crater it gouged inconceivably vast.

Sappy tried to steady his rupturing chest,

certain his heart would be shattered by the blast.

when it was over and the ground laid back down,

they frantically inspected all that was left.

what was missing took longer to tally;

of its children the Landing was wholly bereft.

Pally raked the dirt in a frenzied fury,

despairing disbelief distorting his eyes.

even muscular Mock couldn't constrain him

or soothe his wounded, inconsolable cries.

but his outbursts were hushed and his struggles stilled

when unbearable shock left him dazed and numb

on discovering a foot in a sandal

and fingers still clasping a miniature thumb.

and they placed him on a shying pony

tendered by the mercy of the carpenter's hands,

then went on helping the desolate peasants

sift for survivors in the stained, shifting sands.

yet their efforts only piled on torment

for naught that's familiar was wrought in that hell;

only twisted, uninhabited fragments,

and the futile corpse of a cracked, chapel bell.

the prospects for rescue steadily decreased

till the misery was utterly unmixed.

in the silence the Curmudgeons remounted

while the neighbors stood by, wooden and transfixed.

like disfigured effigies stripped of their limbs

their senses were blunted and their dreams effaced.

whatever befell this town without children

its stolen future could never be replaced.

leaving ByWater Landing to its sorrow

they took comfort in the shadow of the trees.

but the keening of the mourners stayed with them,

its burden of aching distressing the breeze.

the rest of the day passed without discourse

as each on their own tried to fathom the attack.

the madness they'd witnessed offended reason

and even the ponies were taken aback.

*****

(thus ends the excerpt. - Evan Hawthorn, 14th of April, 2015)

a die-in to honor Michael Brown
in America,
the land of the frightened white people
(where fear of pigment
and of what their media calls terror,
excuse a carte blanche to kill anyone,
anywhere in the world.)

radical

i'm known as a RADICAL because i believe that structures
that support a status quo which is not only responsible
for maiming and murdering children throughout the world,
but also profits from it, must be challenged at every opportunity.

since virtually all of my heroes, from Jesus Christ and Crazy Horse,
to Mahatma Gandhi, Che Guevara, Patrice Lumumba, Lewis Hill,
Mother Jones, Martin Luther King, Angela Davis, John Lennon,
Noam Chomsky, Edward S. Herman, Howard Zinn, Arundhati Roy,
Tim DeChristopher, Hanan Ashrawi, Amy Goodman, Daniel Ellsberg,
Cornel West, Naomi Klein, Glen Ford, Sandra Steingraber,
Julian Assange, Sarah Shourd, Chelsey Manning, Edward Snowden,
Medea Benjamin, Chris Hedges, William Blum, David Swanson,
Ajamu Baraka, Jose Saramago, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Leo Tolstoy,
George Orwell, Jacob George, and Dr. Seuss
have also been branded RADICALS, i can't help but observe,
that if i can only live up to the name, i'll be in the best company
i could possibly imagine.

a third excerpt from "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"

its amazing how many excerpts from my novella-poem,
"Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons", seem to be
appropriate for All's Hallow.  i suppose this is because
it's always Hallowe'en in my heart.

this one takes place in the early morning, following the queen's
late night recipe session with her arcane tome.  the "spying" rat
referred to was introduced earlier in the story, when he was sent
on a spying mission to the Curmudgeon's cottage.

**************
the anxious harpy had risen with the dawn,
to slake her rancour and stay her aching need;
attempting to quell her equivocal qualms
with decisive action and distracting speed.
donning a hooded cloak she headed for the stairs,
past the nodding king in his aerie lair;
his ashen face etched with the trace of a tear,
his crown askew on his alabaster chair.

the hidden chamber seemed just as she'd left it,
awash in its litter of glittering junk;
the wainscoting stained with the travelling blood,
the book sequestered in a trifle-filled trunk.
the mirror was dozing in patches of purple;
swathing his gaze in a cryptic veneer.
the cauldron was insistently simmering,
seething bursting bubbles and free-floating fear.

the roughhousing rats were asleep in a heap
except for the spy who was watching the queen,
his red eyes glowing under half-opened lids
peeping from the rim of a tarnished tureen.
she slipped a slim vial from her vestment
slurping its turbid liquid in a single swig,
and set in at once to swagger and writhe
like an angry puppet in a scandalous jig.

her face was engrossed in a raging mask,
her skin stretched entirely out of proportion;
a staggering sack of wriggling wrinkles,
a sagging feat of torturous contortion.
then she clutched at her throat with dramatic flair
retching in a rasping agonizing gag,
and stumbled to a standstill before the mirror
decked out as the craggy, haggard old hag.

she inclined her head, batting her bleary eyes.
"well, deary, who's the scariest in the land?"

he winced.  "your likeness, your highness, takes the cake.
in all fairness it ought to be contraband."

she let loose a cackle and slapped his frame
flipping his shiny surface the wrong way around
and briskly hobbled to the smoking cauldron
amidst scuttling rats, revolving the ground.
raising her arms in solemn demeanor
she appeared to peer at a spot past the ceiling,
and produced an enchanting thrumming hum,
the drone of pious bees, their rapture congealing.

"i wake the winnowing wights in windblown wastes,
dissolving fallen dead with withering waves.
i summon the sirens of Sicily,
singing stranded sailors to sodden sea-swept graves.
i flush the frothy crystals melting fell fjords
ye frost fairies foster in thine ice-bound caves.
i arouse the selkies and stream-dwelling sprites,
dousing the earth with thy spouting, splashing staves.

i conjure fog from its filmy elements.
i evoke the mantle of billowing blue.
i convene the cover of inky darkness,
and wrest subtle mist from early morning dew.
i tinge my features with banishing brushes
to shelter my pigments in nondescript hue.
i steep in pervasive evasiveness,
and suffuse my semblance with a clandestine brew.

i assemble the ousted ancestors
to hearken to my wishes and answer my plea.
in the name of thee who are wholly unholy,
so it shall happen, and so mote it be."

the mirror spun around and softly muttered
"i said it before in this same dreary den;
she brought back to life that tired, belaboured horse,
and beat it to death all over again."

the snooping rat snickered in his bewhiskered dish,
and the mirror blushed with a coral glaze.
then the crone dipped an apple in the cauldron,
and clasping her basket stepped into the haze.

**************
(thus ends the excerpt)  - Evan Hawthorn, 27th of October, 2014

another excerpt from "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"

this excerpt from my novella-poem,
"Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons"
seemed rather appropriate for Hallowe'en...

it takes place shortly after Sludge White had bitten into the poisoned apple,
and Sleazy had been carried off by the titanic arachnid.  nearby, Sappy tended
Mock's wounds (incurred from the same beastie) during the stormy night...

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

Sludge White was sailing a subliminal sea,
gliding on a surface that glinted like glass.
her memories were ranged like sleeping mountains,
their colors cascading in a slumbering pass.
she was vaguely aware of all that transpired,
seen through a cloistering filter of crepe;
and tried to decipher what could have prompted
misfortune to open it's snarling gape.

her fur-clad familiars found her fallen.
a dubious heartbeat convinced them she was dead.
though ashen pallor bedimmed her glimmer,
a pink glow illumined the roses on her head.

as the deer nudged her with their probing noses,
an eerie wailing was let loose by a loon.
then a chorus of keening fused with the storm
in a howling lament that beckoned the moon.
it rose in the midst of turbulent flashes;
in shafts of fluorescence and gleam-tinted cloud.
and the fell fog was pummelled by pelting rains,
forging wispy tatters out of steaming shroud.

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.

Sleazy came to in a foul smelling cavern,
steeped in the silence that saturates night;
wrestling with his wrapping and scuffing the scrapes
he'd acquired from the spider's frantic flight.
he'd barely discerned the subtlest shuffle
when a presence emerged an inch from his face.
for a heart-stopping moment he felt it musing.
then it ripped apart his slithery case.

already running as his feet touched down,
they kept on kicking when he found he'd been lifted.
but sharp, spindly limbs simply spun him around,
and placed him in a spot where starlight sifted.
he embraced the bathed air like a stifled child
imbibing the breezes that bring in spring;
and hardly held on to the side of the cliff,
skipping and slipping and nearly taking wing.

in a nearby nook a pair of plump pigeons
snickered together as they watched him flit by.
and having made certain he hadn't been followed
one of them mounted the star-dappled sky.

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

(thus ends the excerpt).....Evan Hawthorn, 21st of October, 2014