Falstaff and Me
The Unsown Field: Canto 10
July 18, 2020

The wolves of the woods
through unworldly howls
gave their knell of Nyx nearing,
annulling the day.
Strained from the stress
of her strange misfortune,
Burve bore it badly,
but bravely pressed on
as she clawed and she clambored
through the cloak of dusk.

Though deeper was the darkness
and more dire her lot,
though the blanket of blackness
had blinded her sight,
though the wreck of her reason
eroded her fight,
yet still she kept searching,
seeking her brother.
Not till broken and breathless
did Burve then collapse
on the trunk of a tree,
trembling and hopeless.
There her heavy heart
now haunted her brain
with frightening fancies
what befell her poor brother.
How it gnawed at her nerves! —
not knowing what terrors
that beset her poor sibling,
so scared and so young,
so alone and so little —
how she longed to be comfort.

As she looked through the leaves,
a light she spied,
a silvery spark
on the surface of water,
the fleeting reflection
of a full moon.
Was it the lake at last?
Too late to matter.
But she mustered her might
and made for the source.

As she reached it she realized
a runnel it was,
and past it a pool
where she pondered the sight
and to where she next went
to wade in its shallows.
In the floating reflection
of the flowing stream
she beheld the herald
of a heavenly moon,
the lunar luminance
belying its presence —
but the moon was no more,
for midnight it was,
and at dusk it had dipped
down out of sight!
These watery ways
like their woods had been haunted,
so with surviving voice
she invoked its dark magic:

“Denizens of the brook, show where you are!
Come out, you airy sylphs, undines and kelpies,
watery fairies, skulking mischief makers,
you pixies of the pond and pine-tree majas,
you blighting demons of the bramble drops,
copse creatures of the night, declare yourselves!
What black magic you work, now make it known;
we’ll make a deal: if any demon trade
in miracles, I’ll barter with you. But,
if guilty of this recent charm, prepare:
You will repeat my name and learn to curse it.
So show yourselves and make a deal or face
what evil I know how to deal to you.”

At first the fallow
freshness of the night
her valiant voice
reverberated back.
But the same sound,
her soft echo,
persisted still
into a standing wave,
mutated, multiplied,
and mocked at its source.
Waxing over the water,
like weeping shrieks
and keening and crying
it carried on,
sonorous and searing,
resounding throughout
like a chthonic thunder
and a thousand hell-souls
reared in their rage
as they rushed to attack,
speeding toward her,
screaming and wild,
till they swept beside her…
then fell silent again.

They seemed to assay
to scare her off,
but Burve firmed her back
as boldness she feigned
until silence resumed,
then she said unphased:
“Burve will pay back
this boon if you grant it.
What debt would you deal me
to do me a favor?“

In full festive fury
they furnished reply:
“Burve by the brook,
you balk but should flee.
What foolish folly,
failing to mind
the peril of this place,
the purview of fairies!
So quake and cower,
you callow child!
Fathom the fix your in.
Fear for your life!”

Quoth she: “No hazard can harrow me,
hurt as I am.
No damnable deed of yours
dreads me more
than my current crisis,
which quashes all thoughts
of heeding harm,
from hell or worse.
So know this night,
I’ve nothing to lose.
It’s the fairy folk
who should fear me!”

Amused by such madness,
they mocked her reply:
“The foolish frippet
faces us here!
The churlish child
chastises there!
The thicket thick-head
threatens us all!
But ‘current crisis?’ —
she calls us for help?
She’d extort our services
but submit to repay us?
How dexterous and deft,
this daft little Burve,
who rebukes and who begs
and both at the same time!
What magic more
is she masking from us?
Is this wily young woman
a witch or enchantress?

“My name does mean it
by the magic it summons.”

“Oh the spirit and the spleen!
What a splendid green toy,
this weird little wonder
unaware and deluded!
This brazen Burve
unabashed at her cheek!
Is this silly sapling
concealing a trick?
Does this dappy dandiprat
deal with us fair?
With this green little girl
do we get what we see?
Is a hidden hand
held up her sleeve?
But sleeveless she seems.
Such we conclude:
Burve by the brook,
your bluff we call.”

Now spinning and singing,
they encircled the girl.

From the stately Sloag
(the spirit of a duck)
came rebuke to the brook’s bother
with his booming voice:
“You night-wights and knaves,
enough with your song!
Aroint with your revels,
you rustic throng!
Do you tease at her trouble
and taunt with your dance?
Do you dare to daunt her
when so audacious is her stance?“

Quoth Burve by the brook,
rebuffed near to tears:
“O sweet swimming swan,
I swear I mean well to—”

“Nay, appleknocker nitwit,
you’ll know what I am!
I’m a duck you dumb dirtfoot,
you doter of spam.”

“I—”

“You Podunk pickerel,
you punk little rogue.
You’ll now know my name,
and my name is Sloag.”

“Oh…”

“What brings you, Burve,
who barely can stand?
Why, hoedown hayseed,
do you harry our band?”

“O wit of the wyrd,
you otherly comic,
forgive my ignorance
O gallant, uh, duck.
The weary Wold
wants me no more.
The wuthering Wold,
from whence I came,
away I went,
and, woefully cast—”

“Woe that you wuther,
I’m weary to hear it!
Your point, my pretty,
then I’ll point you near it.”

“(Oh-gee-yesyes-ofcourse, uh…)
My beautiful brother,
a boy of just eight,
like vapor he vanished
by a vile enchantment.
I saw him one second,
then on second look,
he…… he—“

“Was the kid like the carer? —
cast from the Wold?”

“Well… it’s… Well, no.”

“I see,” said Sloag,
with a sorrowful tone,
“our Burve has been banished
but her brother was not.
But in folly he followed you,
who’s misfortune-fraught.
More likely you led him,
by lie or by bait,
away from the Wold
to walk with your fate.
Such a selfish sister,
to steal him away!
To ease your own burden
your brother does pay!“

“Oh dignified duck,
I did the right thing.
My baby boy brother
without Burve has no kin.
Who would help him,
helpless as he is?”

“Then tell me why taking him —
and be true to the letter —
recall if you can,
a case where it’s better.”

She recalled being curious
when they came from their land —
at a fabulous find,
their first sight of Day!
How strong it was and strange,
its stream of light.
Such a bounty of brightness
had Burve never seen.
But that splendid experience —
the spell of the Day —
she only now knew
that it never was hers,
but a spell reciprocal
beside her poor brother.

“We orphans of the Wold did not know Day —
not quite the golden hour, and little light.
Through selfish innocence and idle play
my brother was a burden day and night.
He was my little pullet, henbane at times,
whose antics cut my sanity in half.
He was the little pest whose childish rhymes
would make me scold but also make me laugh.
What kind of trick could be as cruel as this?
What kind of irony could be so mean? —
To not see how his peevish pranks were bliss
until too late, now that he can’t be seen?
Although he seems at times less friend than foe,
no ‘lily of the field’s’ arrayed like Ghoh.”

“Begone green girl,
we forgive your intrusion.
But th’offense is your fault —
that’s a foregone conclusion.
Dark deeds have been done
but the doer’s not us.
So go on’n’ git,
you green little cuss.”

“Oh who, then, can help me?
My hope was in vain!
I’ll give all I’ve got
for my Ghoh to regain.
All sorrow I’ll suffer
that this sweet boy be found.
I’ll bear any burden
so my brother come round.“

“Fool, don’t be flippant —
you feign to be selfless!
No wise man nor warrior’s
rewarded for that.”

So Burve by the brook
bowed to the duck
as in tears she turned
and tarried no more.
In dreariness dressed
she withdrew to the woods —
beleaguered, forlorn,
and at last she slept.