Foundling

by Cornish, D. M.

  “Really? Always?” The foundling sat up.

  Europe nodded gravely. “I am afraid so, yes. Here, there and everywhere—not that city folk would know. It’s out here in the nether regions that the nickers roam and the bogles lurk. But lo! Not a fear, Europe is here!” She finished with a flourish of her hand and a grin.

  Rossamünd blinked.

  The light was growing dim, though the time was barely midday, as the road drove deeper and deeper into the wood—a deep green dusk full of hushed expectancy and subtle murmurings. Trunks huge and old spread out great, knobbled roots furry with moss, about which the leaf-carpeted road was forced to bend and twist. There was little undergrowth but for some scattered colonies of fungus—tall, thin, capped mushrooms, large, flat toad-stools, tiny red must, which even Rossamünd knew was good for eating and for certain potions, and plump puffballs ready to pop. Bracken grew everywhere else, even upon the trees, while thin myrtle saplings sprouted here and there, struggling for life.

  Rossamünd had never been in such a place as this and found its appearance marvelous, more wild and beautiful than any of Boschenberg’s elegant, manicured parks. Yet there was a great watchfulness here, a feeling of being observed and unwelcome.This place was threwdish: a place where monsters might like to dwell. It marred the woods’ beauty and oppressed the visitor. He shivered and checked his almanac, squinting to read in the dimness. They had entered the Brindlewood, or so it said.

  “What does that contain?” Europe asked a little too loudly, as she fixed her hair back into the bunlike style, just as it had been the day before.

  “I was just finding out where we were,” said Rossamünd.

  The lahzar chuckled. “I could have told you that. This”—she waved about grandly—“is the Grintwoode . . . or the Brindleshaws, as the locals will have it. We’re on the northernmost marches of the Smallish Fells, the western tip of Sulk End, having recently entered the domain and jurisdiction of High Vesting.” She pointed casually to the book with her crowfoot hair-tine before poking it into the bun and comb. “I think you’ll find I am right.”

  The almanac agreed. Rossamünd was impressed.

  Giving a bored look, she sighed. “I’ve been here before. ’Tis a troublesome place.”

  A short time later Licurius brought the landaulet to a halt, stopping at a bend where the road began to descend even more steeply, falling over a series of folds in the earth before disappearing below around the flank of the hill. He alighted and went to the rear of the carriage. Rossamünd heard thumpings and scrapings.The factotum reappeared on Europe’s side holding a great pole about twelve feet long, as thick as a man’s thumb and tightly wrapped in copper wire. It was a fuse. Rossamünd had heard and read of them but had not seen one until now. He stared at it in open wonder.

  She must be about to fight. Rossamünd’s heart began to pound in anticipation.

  The lahzar took the fuse from the leer with a sweet smile and laid it across both seats, one end sticking some way over the side of the landaulet. Then she retrieved something out of her precious black box and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly with a disgusted look. These apparent necessities done, they were on their way again, Licurius now driving from the seat once more. The road went into a steep decline cut into the side of a hill carpeted in pine needles, bending always right and going always down. From their vantage point Rossamünd could see that they would soon come to a stone bridge a little farther below, which crossed a narrow, moatlike ravine.

  Europe finished her mouthful and fixed her small passenger with a serious eye. “Now, however, things shall soon proceed. You must declare to me that you will stay here within the landaulet no matter what. Do you declare it?”

  Going white and wide-eyed, he nodded. “Aye, madam.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  The roadway dipped for a moment as it crossed a creek, then passed right through and over the crown of a small knoll, either side flanked by a high earth cutting topped with sinuous pines. Beyond and below, the road widened in a clearing of grass and shattered tree stumps before constricting again at the bridge, which spanned the narrow gap in a solid, gentle curve. As they arrived on the farther edge of this clearing, Rossamünd thought he heard a rumbling, a kind of slow thudding, though he could not be sure.

  Licurius halted the landaulet and climbed down once more. With a respectful bow he offered Europe his gloved hand as she alighted. The thudding was unmistakable now, like great footsteps, and echoes among the trunks made it sound as if it was all around. While her factotum held her fuse, the fulgar straightened her frock coat, tightened buckles and secured buttons. Suddenly the whole forest seemed to burst with a stentorian cracking.

  Rossamünd leaped to his seat and looked about wildly to find the danger as Licurius lunged for the bridle of the spooked nag. There! Just before the bridge a young pine was collapsing, pushed out of the way by the tallest creature the foundling had ever seen.

  It looked just like an enormous person, taller than ten tall men, except that its legs were too short, its arms too long, and its body altogether too thick, too hunched and too rectangular. It was an ettin—one of the biggest of the land monsters—and it peered about momentarily before fixing a critical eye on the landaulet.

  “Fie, fie, what do I spy? Gold-toting travelers passing us by,” it boomed in a surprisingly well-spoken way, forming the words with great articulations of its jaw through a mouth full of protruding, blackened and spadelike teeth. It stepped into the clearing, sending the shattered pine toppling into the gorge.

  Europe gave Rossamünd a passing wink. “How so, how so, to do my work I go,” she murmured, then she turned and marched directly toward the ettin, shouldering the fuse and waving to get its attention.

  Rossamünd was agog: surely she did not think to challenge such a fearsome foe? It wore a large smock for modesty’s sake made up of many hessian sacks stitched very roughly together. Under its left arm the ettin carried a great barrel, which had probably been a vat for aging wine or brewing beer. The ettin waggled this distinctly, pointing within its wide gape.

  “I’ll not stop your chill-day stroll,” the ettin hoomed, “if you’ll not shrink from the bridge-crossing toll.”

  “Ho! ho!” Europe chortled dramatically, continuing her approach. “It’s that old ruse, is it? Frighten everyday folks out of their goods?”

  The ettin nodded once. From Rossamünd’s vantage it seemed very proud of itself.

  “What’s more, you stand-and-deliver us with sweet little rhymes. What a lovely touch, don’t you think, Licurius?”

  the lahzar continued, looking over her shoulder briefly at the leer, rolling her eyes mockingly as she did.

  Licurius, as always, said nothing.

  The ettin almost beamed with self-satisfaction, revealing even more crooked spadelike teeth. Rossamünd was finding it very hard to believe this creature was all that terrible. In fact it seemed more like a childish prankster than a dread threat.

  “And what do they call you, sir?” Europe stopped no more than ten feet away from the giant and planted her fuse firmly.

  Hesitating for a moment, the ettin formed its reply with obvious effort. “I’m th’ Miss-be-gotten Schr-rewd.” It patted its chest.

  “Well, Mister Schrewd, do you know who I am?”

  The ettin shook its head.

  The lahzar’s voice became very icy. “No?” She gave a cold, humorless smile. “It’s a bit much, I suppose, to expect absolutely everybody to have heard of me. No matter.”

  Rossamünd was grateful she had not asked him the same question when they had first met.

  “Nevertheless,” she went on, “there’s a problem, you see.

  Everyday folk don’t want to pay your toll, and I for one don’t believe they should have to. What say you to that?”

  The ettin’s face fell. It looked genuinely perplexed.

  Europe pressed on. “Hmm? Well, I have an alternative for you, and it’s the only one really, thoug
h I know you’ll neither understand nor agree . . .” The fulgar toed the ground in a mime of unconcern.

  “What’s she going to do?” Rossamünd whispered to Licurius. “Will she send it on its way?” Disturbed, Rossamünd stood, causing the wagon to rock and the horse to nicker.

  “Be still, toad! Wheeze!” Licurius hissed. “The beggar must die. That is our duty!”

  This small interruption caught the schrewd’s attention. It peered at them in a baffled way.

  Europe took her chance and struck out with speed, jabbing ferociously into the schrewd’s belly with her fuse. She spun about, as fast as the eye, with coat skirts flying, to strike again at its rump. There were no bright flashes, just a loud Zzack! with the first hit, and a ringing Zzizk! with the second.

  The ettin yelped and staggered, and dropped the barrel. As this hit the ground, many apples in various states of decay and a rind of cheese bounced out. In truth the brute had not really expected much at all! It flailed its arms wildly, and whether by design or accident caught Europe up in a giant fist. This was its big mistake—the fellow had surely never encountered fulgars before. It made as if to hurl Europe into the trees, but instead, with a look of profound confusion and horror, stood suddenly transfixed. By some invisible force, and most certainly against its will, the ettin bent its arm. This unwilling action brought Europe, whose own arms were outstretched and groping, closer to its head. All the time Rossamünd could read in its eyes But why? But why?

  “No!” Rossamünd cried. He leaped off the landaulet, avoiding the grasp of Licurius as the leer wrestled with the near-panicked horse.

  By now the schrewd held Europe up in front of its face and she quickly gripped its forehead like a snake might strike a bare ankle, sending a mighty charge of electricity straight into the monster’s skull. The schrewd could not even bellow its agony as smoke began to rise from its head. It simply swayed and took one step backward toward the ravine; then another, and another, and another.

  “No . . . no . . . no,” was all Rossamünd could find to say. Tears began to flow as he stumbled, as helpless as the schrewd, unable to do anything to intervene.The foundling dropped to his knees in horror.

  Almost inevitably the ettin tottered on the brink. It paused there for one terrible moment, its usually squinty eyes almost popping out of their sockets in terror, before toppling headlong into the gorge. As it fell, it released its grip on Europe, who pushed off from its hand and vaulted back nimbly to the ravine’s edge. She landed lightly, ready to fight on.

  In control of its voice once more, the Misbegotten Schrewd let forth a heart-wrenching wail—a cry of deep sorrow and great agony—which echoed all around the gorge, and then ended all too abruptly.

  Huddled on the ground, Rossamünd wept.

  He became aware through his tears that Europe was standing over him. She bent down and stroked his hair briefly, almost as Verline might have done when he had been sick or sorrowing. Then she said softly, “You broke your word, little man.”

  There was a sharp pain and a flash of sparks in Rossamünd’s head.

  His body jerked violently.

  Then there was nothing for the longest time.

  8

  VIGILANCE AND VIGORANTS

  sedorner (noun) official name for a monster-lover, often used as an insult. To be heard even trying to understand monsters from a sympathetic point of view can bring the charge upon one. Different communities and realms deal with sedorners with their own severity, but it is not uncommon for those found guilty to be exposed on a Catherine wheel or even hanged on a gallows.

  TO come back to awareness after you have been unconscious, especially if you have been unconscious for a long time, is an exceedingly odd experience. The first sensations Rossamünd became aware of were his hearing and a great ache in his brain. Amid the sharp throbbing was a rushing whoosh that spun about in his head, rising till he almost understood its purpose, then descending back to nothing.

  Rising again.

  Descending again.

  After who knows how long, he came to realize it was the sighing of wind in treetops; the voice of birds calling thin, lonely music; and the tap, tap, tap of a small scratching very close by. Smells returned: pine needles, wood-smoke and some worse stink. The sense of touch followed these other clarities as he felt his own weight pressing on something hard yet strangely yielding. He became aware that he had a hand, and that his hand was holding something that felt rough yet also soft—his scarf. He tried to move his hand and found that he could not. He was numb at every joint, frozen in every muscle. He could not even open his eyes.

  It was then that memory returned. Rossamünd forgot all the sensations he had just rediscovered, and was filled instead with the recollection of all that had just passed, the destruction of the poor Misbegotten Schrewd. He should not have cared. He should have rejoiced: one more triumph of everyday folk over the ancient oppression of the monsters. Yet somehow the foundling could not see much to cheer in it. Some poor ignorant slain just for being in the way.

  Instead, a great sorrow set in his heart. What would Master Fransitart think of this? Rossamünd had met his first nicker and come out of the experience a monster-lover. Unable to move or see, he lay filled with grief for some brutish giant he did not know and should not like.

  A new sound broke in, right by his head. “I . . . hiss . . . hold that something must be done.” It was the wheezing of that terrible leer Licurius. He was right by Rossamünd, far too close for the foundling’s ease. The boy’s stomach churned in pure fright.

  “I . . . I have done enough, don’t you think? It was just a little spark to quiet him . . . but look now!”

  This was Europe’s voice—Europe, the mighty fulgar.

  Europe, the slayer of innocents.

  Europe, the electrocuter of children.

  How powerfully uncertain he was of her now. So this is what she meant by a glorious “life of violence”!

  “. . . Wheeze . . . What good is he? Just some squirming snot nobody wants.You spied how he cried for that beggar, shed real tears like a toddling lassss for some tottering great waste of a nicker.You did a’rightly with him, I say—we’ve got nought spare for a rotten little . . . hiss . . . sedorner like his-same-self there . . . hiisssss!”

  Rossamünd’s soul froze. A sedorner? A monster-lover! That was one of the worst things to be called. Worse yet, they were quite clearly talking about him. What were they going to do to him?

  Europe sighed a long, almost sad sigh. “Stay in the carriage and everything was good, that was all it needed . . . What is it with males and listening? I wonder how this would read in the panegyric of my life, that I shock bantling brats.”

  “All the more reason to repair the wreckage. We should slit his belly and spill his umbles right here and leave done with it . . . gasp . . .” The leer’s voice rasped right by Rossamünd’s ear. “Or take his corpse and blame it on that ettin! A clear reputation is as good as a clear conscience, like you always say.”

  “Hush it, Box-face! You push too much! This circumstance does not warrant such brutal work. My word, leer! You are starting to scare me with your talk of slitting and spilling. It has gone from worse to worse these past months—is it possible your black old heart gets blacker still?”

  The leer hissed, long and cruelly. The landaulet shook for a moment, as if there was a struggle. Was Licurius daring to tangle with the fulgar?

  Europe gave a yelp. “Enough, now!”

  Rossamünd lay aware, terrified yet blind and paralyzed. With the shaking of the carriage, this terror rose unwanted from his gut to his throat and, though he tried to suppress it, it came out as a bubbling, whimpering cough.

  Everything seemed to go even more still. Then, “Aah.” Europe sounded relieved. “It appears he has returned to us. Good, good.”

  “. . . Wheeze . . . Don’t be blubbering to me, then, Sparky,” Licurius said, concluding their previous business with faintly wrathful tones, “when thisss’un pla
ces well-found blame on your pretty pate.”

  “Enough! Enough!” The lahzar’s voice wavered briefly. “Cease your insolence and boil the water. You know I am sorely in need . . .”

  With his little outburst, Rossamünd found some capacity of movement return. He wrenched his eyes open in an instant and, as his neck still proved stubbornly immobile, rolled them around wildly, to know his fate.

  He was lying under a blanket on one of the seats of the landaulet staring up at the clear sky pricked with early evening’s first stars, through high, scruffy boughs—they were still in the forest. It was bitterly, breath-steamingly cold. He began to shiver. Europe was in her usual place on the opposite couch. Her hair was down and that big book she scribbled in was upon her lap. By her sat the lantern, already lit. She was looking at him with an expression he could not fathom, neither hostile nor tender. He blinked over and over at her, limbs twitching as he tried to get some use out of them.

  “Good evening, little man,” the lahzar said slowly, her arms folded, her right hand up and covering her mouth and chin. “Don’t wriggle so.You will be able to move soon enough,” she chided, as Rossamünd’s wriggling turned into writhing. He did not heed her, but struggled and strained to get his body to respond. Now that they knew he was alive—that he was awake—he did not want to remain vulnerable one moment longer!

  Europe leaned over and placed a hand upon his shoulder. At this he yowled mightily. Europe herself shied, genuinely startled.

  Licurius came over to see about the commotion. “What a noisy little toad!” he growled, gripping the foundling hard about his throat. “Hush it, basket . . . wheeze . . . or you’ll die here and now!” All sound was pressed from Rossamünd as the leer clenched tighter and tighter, the boy’s cry changing to a panicked gurgle.

  “Let go of him, Licurius! This instant!” Europe glared at her factotum.