by D M Cornish
Nestled in the forested valley between great bald hills, this confused homey mass of stones sat among a field of turnsoles, surrounded by thick groves of blossoming fruiting trees. At the north end flowed a swift stream, its made banks dense with a narrow wood of beech and plane.
Despite Philemon Plume’s vague hints about their departure, Rossamünd peered about in hope of Freckle or Cinnamon yet emerging. Upon the young factotum’s inquiry the younger Plume declared himself at a loss.
“Neither of them has shown himself since two days gone,” he mused. “That is ever their way, my boy—to come unbidden and leave inexplicably. Where they have got to, you can be sure it is needful.”
Every morning Rossamünd would fright awake from rushing visions of masked perils and snarling, sermonizing jackstraws. Only after long moments would he feel with relief the warm and downy softness and fathom that his tarrying alarm was but the work of dreams’ unruly vapors. With every new day he would inspect his wounds, observing in wonder the rapidity of their healing until he kept his flank and hand bandaged only to avoid intelligent questions. As friendly to monsters as these goodly folk might have been, they did not need to know that it was him about whom Swill was conducting controversial lectures.
Steadily—slowly—Craumpalin’s legs knitted and he became more lucid; Fransitart’s cold cleared, his bruises diminished. The bloom returned to Europe’s cheeks, and a grim resolve set itself in her eye.
Most evenings Gentleman Plume would gather everyone in a large drawing room to share the fruits of their toils. Gaspard himself might read his day’s theorizing. Pluto would show a particularly excellent drawing from her daily observations. Hesiod Gutter typically had them all take parts in the back-and-forth of his latest scene, or play upon the pianoforte a passage of a movement from his long-awaited second operetta. Amonias Silence usually graced them with doggerel or a sonnet penned in moments between pages of the Gentleman Plume’s dictations:
There was a young lady from Flint,
Accused as a cold-hearted bint.
She took a hot coal,
And swallowed it whole;
From then on she spoke with a glint.
Even Fäbia performed once, playing a cheerful tune with marvelous dexterity upon a guittern, the lively unusual music at odds with the fixedly somber expression of the player.
Encouraged to the brink of discourtesy, the guests were prevailed upon to participate; Fransitart dared something Rossamünd had never known him do and sang a brief selection of mildly bawdy capstan songs, each one popular enough to have the whole room chanting, thumping tables and clapping along. Beetroot-red and feeling very bland, Rossamünd did the only thing he could think of, and shared definitions from a five-year-old peregrinat he had found in Gentleman Plume’s well-stocked library.
“An excellent fact, sir!” Gaspard would utter, which he or Silence or Gutter would then enlarge on or correct.
To Rossamünd’s profound amazement, Europe consented just once to take her turn on the pianoforte. Brow slightly creased in concentration, head erect, frame upright, she proceeded to play a strong and sweetly flowing piece.
“Ahh, Phoebus Sonora in D minor.” Hesiod Gutter smiled warmly, tipping his glass of viscous, dark purple sirope in approbation. “What evening would be complete without a bit of Quillion?”
Europe played on, her eyes almost closing as she dared let the passion of the music have her, the melody transforming into a peculiarly melancholy second movement, then shifting pleasingly to a strident yet fitting finale. When she was finished, amid applause and commendations she returned to her tandem seat with a dignified air as if nothing had happened.
Philemon Plume would contribute only his presence to a night’s diversions, sitting on an easy chair by the hearth, clutching an ever-present tumbler, a melancholy half smile rarely leaving his lips. Frequently, he would stare fixedly at a painting above the mantelshelf, an image of an unknown woman with bright face, lively eyes and raven-dark hair. Sometimes he would even raise his glass to it in sad salute to this mysterious absent lady.
At the start of their second week of secluded convalescence—early in the month now named Narcis—Rossamünd stood one morning in the main sitting room admiring a painting. A true original by Student, it depicted martial men handing other martial men a wad of wax-and-ribbon-endorsed paper, all looking out at the viewer with lofty expressions.
He sighed long-sufferingly.
Behind him, Europe sat by the broad sitting-room windows, wrapped in a coverlet and brooding over her ledger and a slowly accumulating collection of missives.Through the help of the ever-cheerful Amonias Silence or the ever-grumpy Spedillo trotting between Orchard Harriet and Coddlingtine Dell, the fulgar had managed to get several cryptically addressed messages out to various agents in the city and had that very day received replies.
“I am making designs for our return” was all she said on the matter.
She would not allow Rossamünd to see what she wrote, yet kept him close should she need an errand run. These were not frequent, and so he spent much of his day looking at the great variety of paintings hung here and throughout the grand manor.
Passing through on a task of her own, Pluto hesitated, and, approaching Rossamünd, politely remarked on his fascination with the image. “Would you care to join me out in the woods and vales to wander and draw?” she suddenly asked.
Rossamünd declared that he very much would, and, careful to take his leave of Europe, he left her to her secretive plans.
Going forth in a heavy proofed long-coat of sage green and glossy copstain stuck with the feather of some mighty hunting bird, Pluto also took a two-barreled hauncet in holster at her hip. She advised Rossamünd to do the same, and he proceeded in frock coat and weskit, and brought his digitals too. Giving him a small card-covered drafting folio and a stylus of his own, the fabulist took him roaming through combes tangled with only partly tamed pine woods and myrtle copses, to see, to draw, and climb the high bald hills to look east out over the pallid waters of the distant Grume. Tiniest oblong shapes, barely discernible, seemed to bob and twinkle distantly out on the waves, squadrons of rams and convoy of cargoes on their way to or from Fayelillian.
Immersed in the joy of leaf and branch and singing birds, Rossamünd near forgot his cares as Pluto shared her delight for all the humble things, pointing out the names of everything she knew the names for—weeds and bugs and fallen feathers from the great variety of woodland birds that twittered and dived and scooted above, welcoming Darter Brown among them with song.
Following her lead, Rossamünd pressed flowers medicinal and ornamental within the pages of his compleat or applied himself to her patient instructions to draw with a frustrating lack of success in his drafting book. Oftentimes they would lie staring down at tadpoles dancing in a pond or insect larvae playing for life in a tiny runnel chattering down the stony shoulder of some hill. On other occasions they would watch transfixed at safe distance azure-crowned asps or great dun snakes belly across one of the many obscure paths Pluto knew, or stand among a flurry of tiny lavender moths feeding on the pollens of the little white flowers that festooned the wild turf of the wooded hills. Many times they would sit on a highland meadow to gaze up at the wondrous shapes made in the vapors above by the large white springtime clouds and just breathe the curative, untrammeled aromas. Every day they ate lunch together in a small glade of tiny white flowers that grew at the base of a cliff higher up the valley.
“Oh, Rossamünd! If only people could behold the native wonder of humble things!” Pluto would cry in her precise, kindly voice that Rossamünd could have listened to for hours. “See how perfectly the seeds hang from the brome stalk! See the exquisite construction of the legs on that emperorfly! Or that pillboy working with such patient industry on his rotten log!”
If she could, the fabulist would hold up the honored item to him until she was satisfied Rossamünd could see what she saw, and then set about drawing it with rapid ye
t remarkable accuracy from as many poses as the thing would allow before it crawled away.
PLUTO SIX
This was the stripe of adventure he preferred, out among the earth and sap, in quiet, wondering awe. Many times Rossamünd wished he might stay for good, away from strife and vengeance, half hoping that Cinnamon would return so that he could go with him into the uncomplicated wilds.
“Pluto?” he asked as they sat one morning upon a gray lichen-grown rock protruding from the naked northern slopes above the Harriet. “Have you ever killed a soul?”
Staring out at windy hills and wooded vales, the fabulist thought long before answering. “I may have . . . Yes.” Her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Twice have we been put upon here at the Harriet, as its denizens called it. By desperate brigand bands of Widden-folk, and twice have I joined the defense, shooting from windows, but I never was certain of the fall of my shot.” She sighed heavily. “If it is a choice between keeping my friends in peace or letting them suffer malice and violation, then I will always choose the former. My foe would surely have to accept fair portion of culpability if in bringing murder and violence to my door they find themselves hurt or killed in their turn. The moment a foe attacks you, whether they acknowledge it or no, they implicitly accept that you might best them and they instead might well die. In such event you—or I—surely hold no blame.” She beheld him with a sad and thoughtful look. “Have you, Rossamünd?”
Bitter memories of those men he had felled only a few days before repeated like a series of flashes in his mind’s eye. Bowing his head, Rossamünd nodded. “Aye.”
Pluto clucked her tongue. “So young to learn the bitter truth of adventure’s cost,” she said with a rueful sigh.
To this the young factotum did not know what to say. “A foundling has no fancy,” he offered finally.
The fabulist smiled at him sympathetically. “A soul does what a soul must,” she concurred, and returned her attention to her drawing.
Eventually Rossamünd did the same.
Pluto took him out on most clear days, going greater distances with each new excursion. Yet on sudden rainy, miserable days that would sweep in from the Grume—driven north by the spring storms out in the wider gulf of the Pontus Canis—and make excursions out in the natural wonders impossible, Pluto insisted that the young factotum sit for his portrait.
“You shall take the finished canvas with you,” she said, “or I shall have it sent to you if it is not completed in time . . .”
Rossamünd found himself sat, boots dangling, on a tall stool in the fabulist’s high, stony painting room—her aletry. Found at the back of Orchard Harriet, its walls were perforated with a great many windows, its thick roof beams hung with all manner of mirrors on cables and guys that could be tilted to give the fabulist the right kind of light. Every corner or gap was stacked with canvasses already stretched and waiting to hold pictures; the very air was saturated with strong waxy odors of pigments and the volatile pungence of thinning oils.
Dressed in his fine yet clearly bruised harness cleaned as best as possible, Rossamünd was told gently but firmly to remain still and quiet as Pluto stood before him, palette in arm and gripping a posy of brushes, to work intently behind a great easel bearing a modest canvas. Rossamünd did his utmost to fulfil this request, using his experience from standing long in pageants-of-arms to keep hand and arm, rump and foot from cramping or falling asleep.
At times the fabulist would draw her arm in wide expressive arcs or lean in and dab assiduously for what seemed an interminable time, constantly standing back to squint fixedly and tilt her head in critical regard of her labor.
Roosting high in the rafters, Pig the pied daw watched on, startling them both by swooping down upon the lizards that crawled the walls and the rodents that scurried in dark corners. Pluto would scold the bird, shouting at it, “You rat with wings!” as it upset pots and tools in its quest for food. Each time it would retreat to its lofty roost to peer at them smugly, some fat rodent or plump reptile in its stocky bill. Darter Brown joined them too, a quieter observer, restlessly swapping perches from Rossamünd’s head to the top of the easel to up beside Pig.
Especially attentive, Baltissär—as friendly and as placid as he might be—was not allowed in. Whimpering, the beast peered mournfully at Rossamünd through the speedily diminishing gap of the closing aletry door.
“He normally reserves such silliness for Pococo or Master Sparrow,” the fabulist said. “What use is a tykehound who is fond of tykes? as Mister Gutter likes to jest.”
“How is it possible?” Rossamünd asked.
“Master Cinnamon civilized him . . . and saved his life too.” Pluto became suddenly sad and inward. “It was when . . . when poor Philemon’s dear wife, the . . . the Countess was . . . was taken, snatched by some wretchling nicker from the very steps of their home at Temburly Hall near on a decade ago. Baltissär fought in her defense but could not save her. By chance or Providence or the turnings of Droid—or whatever you might care to name such functions by—Cinnamon came along, too late to deliver the countess Plume, but in time to preserve this cheeky fellow here.” The fabulist patted the unhappy dog on the crown before finally shutting the door. “He—like his master—has never been the same since . . . How I wish you might have known the Count and Countess before . . . before; she was like a clear day in winter and the truest of friends, he was a man of information and letters, taught in many obscure things and able to teach in turn.” She looked at the brushes clustered in her hand.
“How is it you can call any monster friend after that, Miss Six?” Rossamünd dared quietly.
“Do you hate your friends because you were attacked by other men?” the fabulist returned.
Rossamünd opened his mouth, hesitated, shook his head.
Pluto regarded him gravely, then quickly brightened. “A cheerier face, please, Master Bookchild—I’ll not paint you with such a pensive mien, sir.”
At the end of each occasion he sat, Rossamünd would ask to see his portrait, and each time Pluto refused.
“Only when it is done,” she insisted, and remained politely obdurate over the subsequent painting days, covering the image with a strapped-down sheet of leather and locking the door to her aletry when the day’s daubing was complete.
As time went on, Fransitart occasionally joined them out on their walks. It was clear the simple life did well for him, and he often set Pluto to bright laughter with the more agreeable of his salty stories.
Europe, however, kept her slow needful constitutionals close to the manor and absorbed herself in the scheme for their return. Impatient to recover, the Duchess-in-waiting had Rossamünd test for her—and Craumpalin too—all manner of little-used mending draughts, or sent to the kitchens for whatever hearty and balancing broths they could conjure. So ambitious was she to heal that she consented even to ingesting the rare weeds left for their curing by Cinnamon. By the middle of the month, her complexion restored, her cheeks almost rosy, Europe decided that the time for the return to Brandenbrass and all its troubles had come.
As the glowing pink of sunrise spread a brilliant rose patch over the deep purple clouds, showing darkly against the brightening golden green and blue of the western sky, Rossamünd, his mistress and his former masters departed.
“I will send you the painting as soon as I am able,” Pluto called, risen rosy-cheeked and early to wave them farewell.
In the early cool, they were taken from Orchard Harriet’s happy seclusion aboard the Plume brothers’ sturdy lentum. Spedillo at the reins and Silence as his side-armsman, they wended the green miles through seldom-seen glades and wooded vales. Rossamünd smiled at fresh memories of their last Grand Supper of eight gizzard-splitting removes the night before, where Gentleman Plume refused to let his guests be glum and made fun for them all.Yet as they bent left at a junction that went down a long stony gully road to the purple gray wolds of mercy jane, Rossamünd’s cheer began to falter. Other conveyances began to j
oin them, heralding their return to common life.They skirted by the high palisade of a martial encampment teeming with companies of musketeers readying for summer campaigning.The sight, like a slap, reminded Rossamünd of the Archduke, of Pater Maupin and the coming strife.
A bare mile beyond, they arrived at Flodden Fild, a drab, treeless yet prosperous town behind strong walls, its walks thronged with many clean, contented people—high-bonneted ladies and ruddy-cheeked country gents in ill-fitting wigs. With them strutted an uncommonly high count of pediteers in Branden mottle, their officers in fussy harness making great show of themselves, greeting the many stiff-backed quality fellows in sleek coats and high hats riding by on sleek, leggy horses.
On their passage through the town, Rossamünd thought he spied a bill on a wall, the paper blazoned with a heading line that included the name Winstermill! yet lost sight of it before he could read it fully. With final farewells they were deposited at the bustle and din of the Thrust and Flurry, hostelry and local coach host on Broadstairs Lane, to charter the next carriage bound for Brandenbrass. Folk waiting with them in the plainly adorned parenthis seemed agitated, speaking together in fervently murmuring groups.
The depth of Europe’s purse promptly secured them a lentum-and-six for Brandenbrass, and they did not remain long in that unsettling coach host. Out the opposite side of Flodden Fild they hurried, every stride of the horses taking them farther from peace and closer to strife.
In the rocking, increasingly dusty cabin, neither Rossamünd nor his companions were disposed to conversation, and spoke seldom beyond the necessities. Her hazel eyes obscured behind pink spectacles, Europe watched the rapidly passing view. Fransitart did much the same, frequently fondling the sleeve of his left arm—his puncted arm—as they bumped along. His still-splinted leg cushioned on the seat opposite and the crutch made especially by Spedillo resting by his side, Craumpalin nodded in slumber, his snores daring to interrupt the brooding, rattling silence of the cabin.
