Foundling ft-1

by D M Cornish

  Foundling

  ( Foundling's tale - 1 )

  D M Cornish

  D M Cornish

  Foundling

  1

  IT BEGAN WITH A FIGHT

  Foundling (noun) also wastrel. Stray people, usually children, found without a home or shelter on the streets of cities or even, amazingly, wandering exposed in the wilds. The usual destinations for such orphaned children are workhouses, mills or the mines, although a fortunate few may find their way to a foundlingery. Such a place can care for a small number of foundlings and wastrels, fitting them for a more productive life and sparing them the agonies of harder labor.

  Rossamund was a boy with a girl's name. All the other children of Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls teased and tormented him almost daily because of his name. And this day Rossamund would have to fight his worst tormentor, Gosling-a boy who had caused him more misery than any other, a boy he worked hard to avoid. Unfortunately, when it was time to practice harundo, there was no escaping him.

  At Rossamund's feet was the edge of a wide chalk circle drawn upon floorboards so fastidiously cleaned that the grain protruded as polished ridges. Opposite stood his enemy. Regretting the ill fortune that had paired him with his old foe, Rossamund frowned across the circle; sour-faced and lank-haired, Gosling stared back contemptuously. The blankness behind Gosling's eyes terrified Rossamund; his opponent was a heartless shell. He delighted in causing pain, and Rossamund knew that he would have to fight better today than he ever had before if he was to avoid a beating.

  "I'm going to thrash you good, Rosy Posy," Gosling hissed.

  "Enough of that, young master Gosling!" barked the portly cudgel-master, Instructor Barthom?us. "You know the Hundred Rules, boy. Silence before a fight!"

  Both Rossamund and Gosling wore padded sacks of dirty white cotton, tied with black ribbons over their day-clothes. Each boy held a stock-a straight stick about two and a half feet long. Harundo was a form of stick-fighting, and these were their weapons.

  Rossamund was never able to get a comfortable hold on a stock. With the fight about to start, he shifted his awkward grip again. He tried to remember all the names, the moves, the positions he had ever been taught. The Hundred Rules of Harundo made perfect sense, but no matter how often he had trained or fought in practice, he could never make his body obey them.

  In Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls the only room large enough for harundo was the dining hall. Trestles and benches had been dragged clear and left higgledy-piggledy against the walls. The cudgel-master raised his whistle and the two dozen other children standing around the circle fell silent. Rossamund noticed some of them grinning knowingly. Others stared-slack-jawed and wondering-while the littlest shuddered with fear.

  Gosling twirled his stock with a swagger.

  Rossamund looked to the overcleaned floorboards and waited.

  The whistle shrilled.

  Gosling strutted into the ring. "Time to get your scourging, Missy," he gloated. "You've managed to dodge me all week, so you'll suffer extra today."

  "That is enough, Gosling!" bellowed Barthom?us.

  Rossamund barely heard either of them. The Hundred Rules were racing madly about his mind as he stepped into the chalk circle. If he could just get them straight in his head, surely his limbs would follow!

  With a venomous snarl, Gosling rushed him.

  The tangle of Rossamund's thoughts served only to tangle his body. Were his hands in the right place? What about his feet? How close was he to the edge of the ring? What was Instructor Barthom?us thinking of what he was doing? What would happen if he actually did land a blow?

  Gosling swept up his stock clumsily. He was not much better at harundo than Rossamund. Any other child, even many of the little ones, would have stepped out of the way, just as they should, and given Gosling a good crack on his back or shoulder. Instead, Gosling's vehemence forced Rossamund to take a clumsy backward step. By a small miracle, he got his stock up in time to swat away this first strike. The sticks collided with a deeply satisfying chock!

  Gosling gave a furious curse as he was thrown back. He bared his teeth.

  That felt right! Rossamund thought, a tiny glow of triumph within.

  "No, dear boy! No! Left decede, then counteroffend with a culix!" Instructor Barthom?us hollered at Rossamund. "You've seen it done. You've practiced it, lad! Just step away, then behind, then a jab-jab-jab with the handle! A halfhearted sustis is just not enough, boy!"

  Rossamund was deflated. Just when he thought he was getting it right, he was actually doing things worse than ever.

  Gosling was on him by then, chopping at his head again and again with his stock. Rossamund blocked one strike, swatted away another, then let one through. It smacked him crunchingly hard across his cheek and mouth. His head bursting with agony, his face stinging, Rossamund flung his own stock out wildly, skewering Gosling right under his ribs.

  With a wheeze and a gurgle, Gosling lurched backward.

  Some of the littlest children gave a tiny cheer, but quickly went silent as Gosling swung around and glared at them. Rage clearly boiled within him. He threw down his stock and leaped. Instructor Barthom?us tried to intervene, but Gosling darted beyond his grasp, tackling Rossamund about his stomach.

  "No one stops me!" Gosling hissed through gritted teeth as he drove Rossamund down to the glistening floor.

  That's not true, Rossamund thought as they tumbled. The others beat you all the time!

  Gosling smashed at him over and over with his fists. Rossamund saw stars as Gosling struck him once, twice, three more times in the head. Instructor Barthom?us blustered sharp warnings that were ignored. Finally he grabbed at Gosling and dragged him off, but not before Gosling had landed cruel blows in tender places. The boy swatted at the air as the cudgel-master hefted and flung him to the other side of the ring.

  "Get back, you miserable child!" roared Barthom?us.

  Dazzled, his head ringing with pain, Rossamund thought the instructor was shouting at him, and so he stayed down. Indeed, he found that he much preferred to lie still while the world swam.

  Though clench-fisted and seething, Gosling did not move.

  Rossamund groaned. He felt powerful, serious pains he had never felt before.

  Fransitart, the stoop-shouldered dormitory master, was called, and Verline, Madam Opera's parlor maid, too.

  The telltale sound of Verline's rustling skirts arrived well before her. When she saw Rossamund stricken within the chalk ring, she gave a startled cry.

  Rossamund's senses began to fade. He was vaguely aware of voices raised in shrill anger. He dimly felt a cloth dabbing at his face. Somehow Master Fransitart was already there.The old dormitory master was growling at Gosling as the other children were shepherded out of the dining hall with a loud scuffing of boots.

  Instructor Barthom?us lifted Rossamund to his feet and wrapped him in a blanket. Verline let him lean on her all the long, crooked way to the boy's dormitory, murmuring soothing, almost wordless things as they went. The dormitory was very long and very narrow and very, very smelly. Side by side, end on end, was crammed a clutter of cots-there was never enough room in Madam Opera's. The dormitory was empty now. The other boys were still attending to classes and day-watch duties. Rossamund's own cot was at the farthest end from the short, narrow door. With the parlor maid's help he stumbled through the inadequate gap between the beds, adding a stubbed toe to his woes. At last he could lie down, his head pounding, his cheek pounding-throb, throb-sharp, iron-tasting.

  Verline fussed over him. "You'll need a dose of birchet to set you to mending. I will fetch some from Master Craumpalin right away! You lie still, now. I'll return as soon as I can."
With that, she swished away.

  Master Craumpalin was the foundlingery's dispensurist. This meant that he made most of the medicine and potives the marine society needed. From what Rossamund could gather, Master Craumpalin had once served in the navy, just as Master Fransitart had done, though not always on the same vessels or for the same states. The old dispensurist had seen half the known world, and cured the rashes and fevers of a great many vinegaroons-as sailors were called-but that was all anyone seemed to know of him. He talked even less of his past than Master Fransitart did. Nevertheless, he let Rossamund sit with him for hours at a time while he dabbled and brewed. Most of the time Craumpalin worked in silence and the boy would just learn what he could by watching. Occasionally, however, the dispensurist became talkative and would instruct him on the uses of potives, showing him how to pour and blend and stir and store. One of the greatest thrills for Rossamund was to watch the wonderful and often violent reactions between ingredients as Craumpalin mixed and matched them.

  Red goes with green and makes purple, blue powdered in yellow makes off-white with olive spots, black boiled in white makes vermilion with orange vapors-how wonderful! These moments were so exciting, Rossamund would hop about and usually get under the dispensurist's feet. At this Craumpalin would yell, "Pullets and cock'rels, boy! Get out of me way before I spill this on ye and melt ye to a puddle!"

  Rossamund smiled woozily at the thought. Now he wanted to sleep but his aching face would not let him. He stared dumbly at the ceiling, obscure with shadows that seemed to creep and lurch. It had been a long time since he had been in the dormitory on his own-he had forgotten just how weirdly unnerving it could be in here, alone.

  Such glimpses of the oppressive dark naturally led his thinking to Gosling-Gosling Corvinius Arbour of the Corvinius Arbours-a powerful family with ties to some of the most ancient bloodlines of Boschenberg and Brandenbrass, far away to the south. He was notorious at Madam Opera's for many reasons, but the chief of these was the vigor with which he strove to make everyone's life a misery. He would cut the hair of sleeping girls, glue shut the eyes of sleeping boys, put earwigs and dead things in unguarded shoes or untenanted beds, blab any secret he might discover. Punishment, no matter how severe, proved useless, for Gosling just did not care. He had been abandoned at Madam Opera's foundlingery by his family. It was said that his parents had given him up so that they might afford to keep a pair of racehorses. Such a pathetic tale of rejection had not stopped Gosling from declaring to everyone just how important he really was, that he was not some ordinary fellow with only one name, but that he had three: a first name, a forename and a family name!

  This grim line of thinking led Rossamund to brood over his own, single and unfortunate name. He had spent his entire life beneath the high, peeling ceilings of Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls. He had arrived when he was little more than a wailing pink prune, left on the doorstep with an old piece of hatbox lining pinned to his swaddling. Upon this bit of card had been written one word, scratched awkwardly in charcoal:

  With that word he was named. The fact was officially sealed with its entry into the grand ledger that all foundlingeries possessed, and which gave all foundlings the family name of Bookchild.

  In the warren that was Madam Opera's, Rossamund often hid himself away from the taunts and snickers that he still endured from the other children. He would lose himself in his favorite books and pamphlets, reading them avidly. He dared to dream that there could be a better lot for him beyond the marine society's corroding walls, and let his head fill with scenes of battles, and marauding monsters and the mighty heroes that conquered them. He might have trouble remembering the Hundred Rules of Harundo, but the things he discovered within the dogeared pages of his precious readers would stay with him forever.

  Soon enough, Verline returned. She slid discreetly along the creaking wood, her great tent of many-layered skirts making their telltale rustling. The high ceiling bounced the hissing echoes softly back till the room was filled with the gentle susurrus of her passage. He was certain she floated with her feet some inches off the floor and, to him, this added to her virtue. In his tiny world, Verline was Rossamund's favorite. She was short and slight, her earth-dark hair hidden beneath the white cotton bonnet that female servants wore. She adored ribbons and bows, and even the plain, workaday clothes she wore had several knotted here and there, the biggest being a great white knot made from her apron straps, tied in the small of her back. Within the crook of her left arm, and wrapped in a cloth, she held a small porcelain crock. From it putrid, mustard-colored fumes boiled and evaporated in the close air of the dormitory, leaving a bad stink.

  BIRCHET!

  Befuddled as he was, he still recognized the yellow steam and rank smell. Birchet was a torture masquerading as a cure.

  Verline extracted a turned ladle from one of the many pockets in her white apron. She swilled about in the crock with this and brought it out filled with what he knew would be the most disgusting muck he would ever have the unhappy luck to swallow.

  "Now hold your nose and open your mouth," she told him sternly.

  Pinching closed his nostrils, and squeezing shut his eyes, Rossamund opened his mouth. Verline spooned the restorative potion as best she could into the tiny hole he had reluctantly made of his lips. Rossamund's whole head instantly flared with the fires of a thousand burning lamps. His nose was filled to bursting with the stinging stench of the mangy armpit of a dead dog, and his nostril hairs withered like straw on a fire. He was certain that cadmium-colored steam was squirting from his ears. Just when he thought he could stand it no more, the burning-bursting subsided and left him feeling well and whole.

  Better.

  He burped a little yellow bubble. "Thank you, MissVerline," he gasped.

  Verline told him to rest, that she would be back with a jar of water. She left again, and before she returned Rossamund was asleep.

  2

  MADAM OPERA'S ESTIMABLE MARINE SOCIETY FOR FOUNDLING BOYS AND GIRLS

  Vinegaroon (noun) also sailor, mariner, seafarer, mare man, bargeman, jack, limey (for the limes he sucks when out to sea), mire dog, old salt, salt, salt dog, scurvy-dog, sea dog or tar: those who work the mighty cargoes and rams that tame the monster-plagued mares and ply the many-colored waters of the vinegar seas. Such is the poisonous and caustic nature of the oceans that even the spray of the waves scars and pits a vinegaroon's skin and shortens his days under the sun.

  The great Skold Harold stood his ground. His comrades, his brothers-in-arms, had all fled in terror before the huge beast that stalked their way. This beast was enormous and covered with vicious, venomous spines. The Slothog-the slaughterer of thousands, the smiter of tens of thousands. The gore of the fallen dripped from its grasping claws as it came closer and closer. Struggling beast-handlers were dragged along as the Slothog strained against its leash.

  The battle had been long and bloody. Ruined bodies lay all about in ghastly piles that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Harold had fought through it all. His once-bright armor was bruised and dented beyond repair. With great heaviness of heart he checked his canisters and satchels: all his potives were spent-all, that is, but one. It would be his last throw of the dice. He fixed the potive in his sling and, taking up the Empire's glorious standard, cried, "To me, Emperor's men! To me! Stand with me now and win yourself a place in history!"

  But no one listened, no one halted, no one returned to his side to defend his ancient home.

  Alas, now, the Slothog was too close for escape. It paused for a brief and horrible moment. Slavering, it regarded Harold hungrily with tiny, evil eyes. Then, with a bellow it shook off its panicking handlers and charged.

  With a cry of his own, lost in the din of the beast, Harold swung up his sling and leaped…

  "Young Master Rossamund! What rot are yer readin'?"

  Fransitart, the dormitory master of Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys a
nd Girls, stood over Rossamund as he sat in a forlorn little huddle, tucked up in his rickety bunk. A great red welt showed on his left cheek and right down his neck. Gosling had done his work well.

  The boy looked sheepishly at Master Fransitart as he pressed the thin folio of paper he had been reading against his chest, creasing pages, bending corners. He had been so taken by the tale that he had not heard the dormitory master's deliberate step as he had approached Rossamund's corner down the great length of the dormitory hall.

  "It's one of them awful pamphlets Verline buys for yer, bain't it, me boy?" Fransitart growled.

  It was the old dormitory master who had found him those years ago: found him with inadequate rags and rotting leaves for swaddling, that tattered sign affixed to his tiny, heaving chest. Rossamund knew the dormitory master watched out for him with a care that was beyond both his duty and his typically gruff and removed nature. Rossamund did not pause to wonder why: he simply accepted it as freely as he did Verline's tender attentions.

  The foundling nodded even more sheepishly. The gaudily colored title showed brightly on the cover:

  He had woken a little earlier, after recovering from his dose of birchet, to find the pamphlet sitting on the old tea chest that served as a bedside table. Every second Domesday, when Verline was given a little time to herself, she bought them for the children from a shady little vendor on the Tochtigstrat. Today was Midwich-the day before Domesday. This particular issue must have been brought to him as a special comfort, and Rossamund had snatched it up eagerly.

  The dormitory master folded his hands behind his back. "What will Master Pinsum think of me findin' ye readin' these things again?"

  Master Pinsum was one of Rossamund's instructors. He taught the foundlings matters, letters and generalities-that is, history, writing and geography. Rossamund found it endlessly fascinating that, whenever Master Pinsum declared this about himself, he would wave his right hand theatrically, as was done in gala-plays, and rrrrolll his R's with equal drama.