Seven Poskoks and the Old Man (A sketch from a story)

Seven Poskoks
And the Old Man

(From the book and story:
“The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia”)


(Year Two)

The wild man, Mr. Goose, was an undomesticated kind of, someone, quick as a rabbit, and deadlier than a rattlesnake, and quiet as a dove; and I know you folks reading this, are somewhat aware of this, but I felt it needed repeating for this sketch where the old man, sees his seven prey, for as swift and keen as he be, he was no a magical worker, he had to work hard at what he did, and what you are reading is what he did, and therefore we must give him some credit, if not recognition for his efforts, I mean, he is, or was not the most likable someone, anyone had ever met.
“Hmph,” he grunted looking at seven snakes, poskoks, -- in the thick of the woods, “I’ll eat you all, eat you like an axe grinder, like a feed chopper, if I can get to you”! He murmured.
For he was witnessing at this moment, several snakes rolling about on their bellies in the grass and leaves further up, in the woods, mischievously, playing with one another. His head, jerked into position, to size the situation up, his head shaped like a cast-iron, iron, teeth in a flashing arc ready to sweep and chop the snakes, but for the moment he needed to put them into a helpless position, to entangle their inevitable death, he knew they were not as quick and cunning as he, and being young, even more so.
He quietly snuck closer to his prey, his quarry to be, like a hammer his jaws tightened up, half turned, he grabbed one snake before any of them knew what happened, and looked for the next, while grinding away on the first one he just grabbed, his nostrils trembling for more of the tasty poskak meet; uneven, his eating emitted a digging sound.
He stomped his hoof like feet, stomped them like a bull into the soil, his neck thrust outward as to make room to swallow the meat, under his sunburned skin.
Then with a yelp, he said, “Let’s get going!” to the other six snakes, trying to move closer to grab another, but they started to roll over one another to get away, to get to the rear of the others, so they would not be selected, becoming the next victim.
He grabbed one more poskok, as the others, five others fled into the deeper part of the cool dark forest, for a refuge.

The Old man, cursed them from afar, stood on his hoof-like feet, like a cow’s, which separated into three flat like toes, square almost, and he transferred onto another path for a fair assumption and deliberation of the situation; thereafter, he plunged madly into his dugout, he was living in, sank back against the dirt wall, he looked into a mirror at his teeth, they were like wire cutters, yellowish wire cutters, his eyes rolling with anger, for allowing the other five to get away; but youthful snakes were of a more tender texture in eating, a more delightful dinner than a tough old snake, and so he simply justified the kill, marked it off as: what do you expect when eating a rich steak compared to dog meat, you lose interest in other things around you, perhaps like he did: because in his younger days, he could have grabbed all seven of them within a matter of a minute.
(Yes, he was disappointed in himself, although he prided himself that at his age, he shot like an arrow at those youthful snakes, and got two out of seven, which he had eaten them in a wild-eyed frenzy, then had allowed them to scramble their way to live another day, and perhaps only one more day.)


Night in the Dugout

That night, beneath a gibbous moon, the old man was now huddled in his dugout, in a corner of his one room, shadows, with phantom shapes rushed by the moon, he saw them from the corner of his hollow, lingering they were, until morning, thus, but one overlooking his dugout remained…and soon, in the morning Mr. Goose would rise to find the last of the haunting shadows had betaken its ghostly shape away into the mist of the dense woods, and here was no sound in the woods, save an acorn dropping off a tree, or an abrupt thudding he could hear by way of a down wind. The old man yawned like a huge wild cat, dreamy like, in anticipation for a new feast.



Infamous Hero

“Who are you looking for Mistier?” Someone asked, and another said, “That’s the old snake eater!”
“Is he really?” said the first voice, “He sure is,” repeated the other.

Continuously the old man moved forward away from the country folks and their farms, and fields, back onto the dirt roads looking for the snakes, and occasionally back into the woods.



Princess in the Window

Meanwhile, during this second year of the Snake Eater’s task, the princess, unaltered by her potential marriage to the old man, nevertheless, as the days got closer towards the end of the second year, she did think about her losing her freedom after hearing about the good job Mr. Goose was doing; and the more she heard this good news, the more and longer she sat placidly on the sill in her bedroom window, looking down the lane he’d have to come up someday to get his reward, her hand in marriage, whereupon, he’d have to crossover the rampart, and into the courtyard. Then after a short while she’d again forget her fate and obligation that would follow—should he accomplish his mission, and pass her days doing what princesses normally do.