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 The Tale (Tail?) of Edgar Allen Watson |
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By Claudia Ruelke and Joe Gombarcik
(with apologies to Doyle and Poe) |
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Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered, weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious volume of Watsonian
lore --
while I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a yapping.
As of some hound wildly snapping,
snapping at my chamber door --
Could it be, I pondered, the Hound coming ‘pon the
moor...
Quote Doc Watson, “Or something more?”
Ah, yea, it was 'pon bleakest Dartmoor,
decaying clime of evil's death-lure,
whose own bleak, waterless shore
anchored countless
ships of legends before.
Death comes easy; on a breeze,
he seems to waft in looking freely,
freely looking for a soul to steal
'pon the yonder moor.
Seeking carnage, like the Hound;
And sacrifices 'pon the moor.
Only this, and nothing more.
Never 've been I soundly sleeping;
and thus now I started creeping,
creeping out into the dimly lit and eerie corridor;
A long shadow I saw trailing,
and my heart was nearly failing,
as I heard a distant wailing,
as if for mercy to implore.
I could scarcely trust my eyes then, as I saw old
Barrymore;
only him and nothing more.
My own steps I tried to soften;
and I watched as he quite often
waved a candle to the window that in darkness lay
before.
Out into the moor there staring,
with the candle brightly glaring
Barrymore stood waving, swearing
words that pierced me to the core:
"One last time... then nevermore!"
Hesitantly, from dirge of night,
Came evidence of Death's new might
Contained within a dot of light shown from yonder
moor.
What rapport this man before me held
With demons mad that gods once felled
when young earth first combined and gelled
from primordial ooze and gore?
And, what evil discoursed in that light,
just beyond the chamber door?
Pixie light...or something more?
This servant, then, I sought to fault
When powers of evil were now exalted;
whose vaulted, bold maneuver
allowed access to this upper floor.
Then jumping out, I clearly scared
the one before me who clearly dared
this brazen deception before his master's quiet door.
My suddenness would reveal his lair and freeze him to
the core.
Honorable once, but nevermore.
Carelessly, I took the handle
of the base of that damned candle
which might have sent many a man deliberately to
damnation's core.
Though suddenly burned by the wick still hot,
I shuddered to think of the horrendous plot
that probably still would not assuage this tortured
soul's private war.
Hidden within, how often is seen sign of respite from
the scars he bore?
Selden seen….or nevermore.
In my soul was horror growing
and I stumbled, not quite knowing
where and how I was now going, going back into my
room.
Thus I sat in bed and pondered
as my restless mind still wandered.
Were my nightly efforts squandered,
squandered in this house of gloom?
Then a thought pierced through the darkness that
enshrouded me before:
"Write to Holmes this haunting lore!"
When the early dawn was breaking
and my restless hands stopped shaking
and my heart had ceased its quaking, I was taking up
my pen.
I poured out my tale of ghostly
night events that now seemed mostly
a fantastical concoction of a mind that berserk ran.
For a moment hesitating, courage then came to the
fore:
"Send this now... or nevermore!"
So, I continued my investigation
when daylight burst my meditation
Like some prestidigitation from some sorcerer's
conjuring hand.
Yet an answer was not forthcoming
to the notes that I took running
to the local posts as cunningly and as swiftly as an
eagle's soar.
Taking notes that kept me penning observations to
Holmes’s door.
But, in return, was nothing more!
All my efforts seemed for naught,
the fears I had, leg pains I fought,
Sneaking through the streets, past people's doors.
I endured the perils of my hikes
Past pain of discovery, war wounds alike.
I wish I had at least a bike, to take me past the
moor.
To retrieve responses and the like from Holmes's most
famous door.
But, London's silent – there’s nothing more.
Where the devil is that man
Who assigned me to this frivolous plan?
Though at first the assignment was honor grand,
it is now an endless chore!
Finding it a bit of a bore, I seem to endlessly pace
the moor,
While waiting for Holmes to come to the fore.
Endlessly waiting -- but nothing more
Cursing Holmes, my mood was dire
as I wandered through the mire.
On a hill a little higher a strange figure I espied.
Holmes and London were forgotten.
Surely something truly rotten
must be in this bleak downtrodden figure with a
furtive stride.
To the east lay Vixen Tor,
as I followed to explore.
As I reached the hill in gray
mist enshrouded stone huts lay.
I drew nigh them with dismay: This must be the man's
abode!
Warily, with soft a pace
I approached this sullen dwelling-place.
My adventurous heart did race as towards the door I
strode.
Here I opened wide the door...
emptiness and nothing more.
But the scent, I knew was hot
as I saw a cooking pot
and a blanket on a cot. Someone lived within this
gloom!
Then a little paper card
thrilled me, chilled me to the heart,
with the words it did impart:
"Watson now has gone to Coombe".
"Lovely evening, dear Watson" said a voice I'd heard
before.
"Holmes! You rogue!" I loudly swore.
"You are," I stammered, completely still,
"the mystery man upon the hill!
The silhouette, a lurker milling ‘round about the
moor!
Oh my, I think I need my pills!
Something strong or stronger still.
Fearing that you were one who kills, has given me pain
galore.
The wonder spins the hut around and creates a pounding
roar
‘pon seeing this Man on the Tor."
So, I will calm my nerves and sit
With this most frustrating counterfeit;
Remembering that he does all of it to catch a killer
on the moor.
Trying to forget this bit; and why I should not throw
a fit.
Luckily I’ve teeth to grit, before I find the door.
The fateful writing has been writ, of what I do this
for...
'Cause, drama SELLS! Forevermore.
Suddenly, we heard the screaming
Then we saw a man a-fleeing
As if in some dream, he ran along, pursued upon the
moor.
Victim of the Hound, I said, seeing the body and the
gore.
Has Holmes lost his being, now laughing as he reached
the tor?
"It's NOT Sir Henry," he cried,
Shouting out a roar.
And, thus, the brazen convict, who now
Has turned into mere puppy chow,
Had been too proud to kow-tow to the Fates that roamed
the moor.
The "Who" and "How" was answered now, upon this
wind-swept moor.
"Hiding out in a final bow will only get you sore,"
Quote Doc Watson, "Or something more!"
"Clothes have been this devil's death"
Holmes said slightly out of breath,
"Boots, shirt, cap brought on this wrath, drew these
evils that appall."
"One last question," I was saying. "Sure no secret
you're betraying
If to me you'd be conveying what's the meaning of it
all?"
"Murder, Watson!" Holmes did answer. "We will end this
ghastly gore."
I could feel my spirits soar.
"Stapleton let loose this Hound.
And he thought what would be found
On this hard and rocky ground was Sir Henry, dead and
pale.
Very much he was mistaken, but his nerve is not yet
shaken.
Halloa, Watson! See who's making his way up here
without fail.
It's the man himself. Be silent! Just pretend to be a
bore.
Not one word now! Nevermore!
Pretend that you aren't knowing
About the circumstances that are flowing
To an inevitable conclusion like this blood upon the
moor.
Stapleton has conceded that his plan has now succeeded
But his hopes soon will be seceded by this sight upon
the tor.
He will try again, Watson, to accomplish his evil
chore.
For, he is obsessed. Forevermore."
And so, I got to thinking
if this detective had the link in
this great chain
that tightened, constricting, 'round the gloomy
windswept moor.
This Stapleton seemed to know much more about this
stinking moor,
better than the blinking tour I once had of old
Dartmoor.
He knew just where to step and more.
A secret, lost in lore!
There he came, the evil fellow.
With a voice quite shocked and mellow
he appeared so far from callow as he looked upon the
dead.
"Mr. Holmes what do you think?"
"Seldon teetered on the brink
and he fell into the stink of the moor with one false
tread."
"Reasonable, Holmes!" he answered, and his falsehood
made me sore.
Depraved he was down to the core.
Baskerville Hall was now our aim
for the next step in our game
to thwart this man who was to blame for his evil
schemes so vile.
We were sitting down to sup
and I raised my drinking-cup
as Holmes' gaze was wandering up to a cruel face full
of guile.
"Who's this ruffian in this portrait?" his voice
through the silence tore.
"T'is old Hugo, whom we abhor!"
“Watson, look! Deep in those eyes," Holmes said
later with a sly
twinkle in his winking eye, and a notebook page he
tore.
Climbing high upon a chair, he cried and asked if I
knew why Sir Charles had to die and what secret this
portrait bore.
The features were remarkable. He pointed them out and
more.
Clues that could stop Death du'jour.
Simple clues. Heretofore.
“This man’s a relation!” I stammered, quite taken
By signals that were making my mind an open door.
And the inferences I was taking, with the ideas that
were baking
in the mind of that detective, now became my only
chore.
“Check Stapleton’s career!” I said, “It just confirms
the fear:
One implication’s very clear --- Sir Henry, avoid the
moor!
And this warning he should quickly hear --- Sir Henry,
avoid the moor!”
Quote Doc Watson, “Forevermore!”
But, Sir Henry wants to prowl, thus,
despite the Hound’s unearthly howl gusts
And visit when the owl must find welcome on the moor.
This man sure has his share of pluck
to wander to Beryl’s for a nip and tuck.
How much does Henry push his luck by courting one so
poor?
Yes, how much does he push his luck by courting one so
poor?
Quote Doc Watson, “Just too much more!”
A great deal was now at stake
as this effort we would make.
Holmes his silence would not break, but we knew he had
a bait.
My nerves were thrilled as, with quick pace
and the cold wind upon my face
we started our nightly race to save Sir Henry from his
fate.
"Lestrade, your pistol?" Holmes asked severely.
Lestrade answered with a roar:
"I leave without it? Nevermore!"
Merripit House now lay ahead
and we all moved with cautious tread
but suddenly Holmes just stopped dead and said: "These
rocks will be our screen!"
"Why wait here Holmes? It makes no sense!"
"My dearest Watson, you're too tense.
Creep forward now towards the fence. The blinds are
up, you won't be seen!"
So I did tiptoe to the house where light was shining
from the door.
First one step and then some more...
And thoughts came flooding through my brain,
Thoughts of murder, ill-got gain.
Stapleton was Evil plain. I thought this, creeping
more.
I remembered back to this commencing season
And to the arrival of the written treason:
"If you value your life or your reason, stay away from
the moor."
What is worse, I considered -- the man, the Hound or
moor?
This I believed. Forevermore.
Reviewing Stapleton's devilish clues
I no longer had the blues
For we now had all the tools we needed to expose the
uncouth boor.
His secret lover, Ms. Laura Lyons,
Had discovered that he'd been a-lying,
And her thoughts, then, were a-flying to the former
Vandeleur.
Stapleton would soon be crying and perhaps might e'en
be dying
from the unleashed wrath of his unholy paramour.
Of now this I could be sure.
These thoughts went through my head as I
crept to the house so I could spy
on Stapleton now on the sly, detect his evil plans, if
able.
I reached a window, light shone out.
As I looked cautiously about
I saw Sir Henry amidst a cloud of cigar smoke at a
round table.
Beside him, Stapleton was lounging, his laugh through
nightly silence tore.
I made this oath: "He'll kill no more!"
As I watched out there in the gloom
the rogue soon rose and left the room
and I could see his shadow loom from where I hid from
view.
Where would it lead, his nightly spree? An out-house
in the shrubbery
now seemed his aim. He turned the key. A scuffling
noise; and then I knew:
This was the place he kept the creature,
a hound straight out of Hades' core,
with fur ablaze and teeth of ore...
The fog moved in, erased my sight
And I thought then that I just might
just catch a fleeting glimpse in flight of something
in that white.
But all clear movement hid in vain
As all our eyelids flickered, strained.
I tried to gaze but, in distain, the madman kept from
sight.
Enough to drive a man insane, to be thus on the moor.
With the Unknown. Forevermore.
Suddenly a Horror, frightening spectre,
burst from the wall of that all-blank sector,
as if the fog did grotesquely eject her fearfully from
its bosom of white.
The Creature, like some Spawn from Hell,
called forth a roar like terror's knell.
And, I thought, I would do well to give this thing
wide berth!
Were those flames? I could not tell, its skin glowed
all the more.
An appalling sight ‘pon Demon Moor.
With long bounds this fiend so black
was nimbly leaping down the track.
Now there was no turning back, nothing could have made
it swerve!
Paralyzed with deep contrition
did we watch this apparition
as it passed us in its mission, before we had regained
our nerve.
Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the
creature gave a roar...
but it ran on as before!
Horror! What did I now see
on the path ahead of me?
Who was this trying to flee, being hunted down like
deer?
Behold Sir Henry Baskerville!
Would he be the beast's next kill?
I could feel a horrid chill, creeping down my spine in
fear.
There! The beast sprang on its victim! At Sir Henry's
throat it tore!
This must happen nevermore!
Holmes discharged his weapon on a hunch
that this ghost image was just a bunch
of simple pieces, parts and such, to cover its mortal
frame.
He interrupted its ghastly lunch, before the throat it
began to munch.
Henry’s alive, but not by much, ‘pon the windswept
moor.
From where I stand, he’s barely alive, ‘pon the
windswept moor.
Thankfully there’s little gore.
Running to Sir Henry’s side,
The spot where last we saw he lied,
We had to jump the unmoving hide, of Stapleton’s
altered hound.
It was of a horrendous size. The bulk of it was not
denied,
From what source did this e'er derive? The birthing
room of the moor.
This we determined as we tried to run upon the moor.
Evil Incarnate. Demon Moor.
Insensible Sir Henry lay
beside the beast that we did slay.
Holmes tore the collar fast away, that had protected
Henry's throat.
We both now sighed in gratitude
on seeing that, although quite mute,
Sir Henry was alive. The brute that had attacked him
faintly glowed.
"My God" Holmes whispered "what was that? The creature
from the ancient lore?
We laid this ghost for evermore!"
Its size and strength more than a dog,
that creature lay still in the bog.
As we approached it through the fog, its huge jaws
seemed in flame.
The deep-set eyes were ringed with fire,
that made them sparkle, doubly dire,
throughout the darkness of the mire. A savage pawn in
this cruel game.
When I placed my hand ‘pon its muzzle, my hands shone
as away I tore.
Phosphorus was the puzzle's core!
And now the Hound has bit the dust.
This Stapleton's abused our trust
By forming evil plots that must remain in Moriarty's
pack!
There, on a hill, is Stapleton!
He sees that victory is not won.
But too far away for us to run and catch him in his
tracks.
This running is not too much fun. My knee aches all
the more.
Or shoulder. Blimey, nevermore!
The guilty man's the one I see.
Who else would share this horror spree?
There is, of course, dear Anthony...though no one
remembers him.
And then there's the wife, sweet innocent Beryl,
whose love affair with Henry, though sterile,
did assist in evil plots of peril in regards to Hound
and him.
They are all guilty, men and girl, of this plot on the
moor.
Of this fact, I felt completely sure.
Against this man we had our case
So on to his abode our race
did lead us now, so we could face this villain with
our grievous blame.
When we arrived the bird had flown,
but we perceived an eerie tone
and a really most piteous moan which from a bedroom
somewhere came.
And I could hear Lestrade was calling, as we raced to
the upper floor:
"I hear a movement. Open this door!"
As long as I shall live, I swear
I won't forget what we saw there.
It was almost too much to bear to see the woman,
gagged and bound.
Sweet Beryl Stapleton was most
uncomfortably bound to a post
by our evil, absent host. And thus by us was she now
found.
"The brute! cried Holmes with flashing eyes. "Such
cruelty we must abhor!
So tell us, Lady: where's this boar?"
"The man has gone into the mire!"
Beryl said about this liar.
"I refused his final, killing desire to reek havoc on
the moor."
So, making note of certain markers,
we left before the sky grew darker,
No longer fearful of any barkers left mad to roam the
moor.
Just the man, his madness starker, who now roams 'pon
the moor.
His horror spree is nevermore.
Stepping briskly, our meager band,
rushed to the island where once the man
had hidden the creature as he had planned to bide time
upon the moor.
Stopping midway in our pursuit,
Holmes bent down, retrieved a boot.
He looked it over and gave a hoot. Toronto's too far
from this moor.
The investigation's bearing fruit, traveling 'cross
the moor.
In search of answers. Evermore.
We arrive and look around.
The evidence is on the ground.
Bones of contention that we found, show the Hound's
home on the moor.
The shoe's now on the other foot.
Our destination flaunts the truth.
Our pursuit, alas, seems to be moot: Stapleton's not
on the moor.
Indeed, our worries were simply moot: he's IN, not ON,
the moor.
His horror spree? Ah, nevermore!
Here for a moment we did wonder
about him, who was lying yonder.
Never Stapleton would ponder over new villainies and
schemes.
And would the Curse of Baskerville
likewise lie now forever still?
Or would it rise with a fresh kill, reminding us of
ancient themes?
The green-splotched bog refused to give us the answer
we were looking for,
and silence reigned forevermore...
Thus, we learned the lesson taught.
Holmes revealed answers sought.
But now we seek Les Huguenot and to forget about the
moor.
Stapleton’s gone; his plot was taut.
In the elaborate trap; he was caught.
His tempting Fate has merely brought down evil from
the moor.
We seek respite now from battles fought. And the
haunting of the moor?
Quote Doc Watson, “Nevermore!”
Fin
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