The Animals of Inkwhich Inn by Steven McClain

1.

A lodger in Tolland County’s Inkwhich Inn,

a storied boarding house in Inkwhich Wood,

I, that Halloween, in chair at parlor

chimney seated, was at supper joined

by Samuel Bludgeon, an innkeeper-aeronaut,

and Agnus Caper, the hotel’s detective.

I, by pair addressed as “Steven,” smiled.

   Without Bludgeon’s house’s doors, a woodland

windstorm was, from inn’s quarters’ shelter, barred.

The inn, an edifice-dirigible,

a tavern-submersible, a public

house and train, had to cusp of winter come.

 

2.

   At postwoman’s portly parlor entry gladdened,

Caper, cases’ correspondence clasping, clamored:

   “’Twixt bricks of chimney’s bore, through flue in forest floor

of Tolland’s woodland fair, a hairy shape,

in tents’ pit appearing, walls descended, loping,

leering, leaping did, on oxen hooves alighting,

dart ‘neath wires’ whale. There a gas lamp’s wick

in capstan’s cogs lit hackles’ horns of Inkwhich dog.”

   “The inn’s mutable hound!” Bludgeon bellowed.

Grinning exclamation ended, entered

Henry, pit’s inparadisial dog,

and Bludgeon’s house’s cunning monsters’ guard.

To refute a frowning farmer’s query,

about his bearded sentry, Bludgeon belched:

   “While flight of frost did forest blanch,

on floating bough-bridge rails of branch,

our inn o’er trees in winter lurched

on balloon tracks ’twixt boles of birch.

On halyard sheets of frozen light,

moon-kindled kites of falling snow,

like sails of soot, did tavern tow.

Soon Inkwhich hound appeared, then small,

to trot ’tween trunks in blizzard’s pall.

Approaching prow of Bludgeon’s barge,

night’s dwarfish dog grew eldritch, large,

bore bison’s bulk and height of horse,

wore hide of seal and hair of gorse.

Then slow from stern receding hound

again in frame of dog was bound.

While wolf, disguise uncastled, shrank,

our house through door to barrows sank.”

 

3.

Her hand on head of house’s hound, Caper,

to tent’s fairground tale returning, stated:

   “In lanterns’ leer of Inkwhich Forest well,

where clowns did dart ’neath brass of branches’ bells,

dell’s wind-clapped peals to winter trees affixed,

there ray of moon on rolling motes of snow

did tungsten tents ’top Tolland Circus throw,

fair’s photon-fibers’ incandescent cloth.

Then, as ambulating elm, a giant entered!

On legs of moose, in webbed claws of bat,

fair’s forest giant, clad in cloaks of stone,

did juggle barrel, cauldron-box, and vat,

his tumbling troughs where broths were brewed from bone.

In tanks’ putrescent smoke of clabbered blood,

extruded chimney stalks of mushroom buds

’tween captured bodies’ bearded seams of soup.

There peristaltic pulse of purple worms

in curd of giant’s coffins’ kettles squirmed.”

   Growing green at giant’s food, inn’s bakers,

about bodies juggler brewed, inquired.

Fore his sunset fire’s fender marching,

belly-bulksome Bludgeon, broadly breeching

bobbing beard, did to tavern’s bakers say:

   “The grinning horse of Tolland Wood

in turning trench of river stood

on legs of stork ’neath strike of rain

in coat of kelp and boarfish mane.

By lamp of moon, in fog of ford,

the horse to circus lodgers lured.

Mare’s tongue of eels ’tween teeth of loam

made binding songs of slime and foam.”

 

4.

   I, keening keel of wooden vessel, heard

a ship with winds o’er rooftop wrestle, wheel-

ing, flapping, flouncing: Whiz-BANG! Whiz-BANG! Whiz-BANG! Knock!

   “Flight of bakers’ oaken ornithopter!” exclaimed Agnes.

“They, ridding kitchens’ bobbing treadle-barge,

freights of flour, yeast, and butter carry,

to house’s bread in Bludgeon’s ovens bake—”

   “But well’s whale!” I badgered. Agnes rejoined:

   “In toadish hand, a taloned span in which could carthorse hide,

were pregnant mare in palm to stand when whale his fingers plied,

did What-in-Wood a cross-brace swing to trapeze-levers steer,

a handle-net of knotted strings on which ’neath whale appeared

a puppet built from tackle-spring and corpse of Irish Deer.

Parbuckle’s sling in circus ring did lurching carcass rear.

The puppet, five yards hoof to beard, then stood on hindlimbs ‘top a pier,

well’s trestle-wharfs’ depending tiers—”

   “Mine’s ladders-plank on which was circus set,” shouted Bludgeon,

twixt snow-girt groves of platforms’ starlit pines—”

   “Like to winter maple’s longest branches,” whispered Agnes,

“or its loam-leafed tubers’ delving taproots,

did antlers’ copse from skull of deer extrude,

bones on which a wake of vultures brooded

hissing, wearing wattles’ steaming stoles of sick—”

   “With stool of whale was deer embalmed,” burbled Bludgeon. “Whale’s dung

from frowning bung of puppet’s seams festooned,

a yellow paste on which antlers’ raptors,

climbing clotted clods of hair, dined like drones

dredging hive’s honeyed hexagonal combs.”

 

5.

Caper, clouting cakes ’gainst plate of palate,

did, o’er her bulging, battened belly, cluck:

   “His periwinkle pelt, a wrinkled rind,

harlequin pachyderm Wimple Stopknob

did, to the circus water organ wield,

wear protheses, tin to great-toed plinth-paws

tied, gloves of pegbox, string and hammer, hands

in cuff of keyboards’ pillory enclosed.

Stopknob, tricorn head in stocks ensnared, played

calliope in forest Underfair.

Wimple’s hippopotine tusks, gums’ gudgeon

axles anchored wheels on whose circumference

winding, did wet webs of iron wires

turn. Incisors’ gear-in-gob, spun by bob

of Stopknob’s bite, incited bellows’ blast.

Elephantine ears, twine, waxen batter,

forming Wimple’s pleated bellows’ bladder,

were, through eardrums’ pursing valves, with ivory

clouds of snow engorged. Sack’s disconsolate

contractions squeeze then through nose’s nozzles

sneezed burning steam to bore of organ fill.

On yawning peaks of Stopknob’s organ pipes,

pit’s fluted pikes of parchment, plank and paste,

were gaping beaks of feathered whales affixed.

Cetaceans’ severed muzzles’ singing reeds,

organ’s pedal-pulleys’ baleen whistles

did, draft through rings of humpbacks’ larynx drawn,

a barcarole’s befogging dance perform,

recital during which, I with Bludgeon

was, beneath stand of snow-clad pines concealed.”

Picture of Steven McClain

Steven McClain

Steven McClain is the author of the speculative poetry collection The Monsters of Inkwhich Well: An Octosyllabic Science Fiction (2022).