Westmark

by Lloyd Alexander

  "Go along with her, then, Master De Roth." Florian grinned. "Here, we feed our stray cats."

  Zara led him to Straw market Street. The girl said little, as did Theo, still rankling at her comment. When he told her he had no money for rent, Zara shrugged. He could, she advised, settle it with the landlord some other time. Florian, meanwhile, would vouch for him.

  "What does Florian do?" Theo asked. "What's his work?"

  "His work?" Zara gave him a hard smile. "He works at being Florian."

  13

  Next day, having slept the clock around, Theo found his way back to the tavern. He wanted to thank Florian and take leave of him. He saw none of the company in the public room. Jellinek, a stout little man, surprisingly good-natured for a landlord, recognized Theo. He motioned with his thumb toward a cubicle beside the kitchen. Because of the commotion behind the door, Theo's knock went unheard or ignored. He let himself in, though uneasy at intruding on what sounded like a furious oration.

  It was Stock and, as Theo would learn, only his way of holding forth on any subject. The burly poet stalked back and forth, arms waving. Florian, Justin, and several others unknown to Theo sat around a plank table.

  "A battle, I say, is a poem," Stock was declaiming. "A sonnet of death, men for verses, blood for punctuation. Attack and counterattack, rhyme against rhyme, cavalry against foot-"

  "How do you reckon artillery, then?" broke in one of the listeners, called, as Theo later found out, Luther. "The exclamation marks? Clever notion. It only has one flaw. It has nothing to do with real fighting. Take my advice, keep to scribbling."

  Glimpsing Theo, Florian beckoned. "Stock has given up being a field marshal of poetry in favor of being a poetic field marshal. And what are you up to?"

  "I'll have to move on. I'll try to send you money for my lodging."

  "Going, are you? Where?"

  "It doesn't matter. Wherever I can find some sort of work."

  "These aren't the best days to go wandering around the country," said Florian.

  "I need to make a living, one way or another."

  Florian thought for a while. "Do you write a clear hand? There's room for a public letter writer here in Freyborg. The previous incumbent is no longer with us, and Stock finds the profession demeaning to his genius."

  "Yes, I could do that," Theo began eagerly. He stopped short. The day before, he had said nothing of what had happened in Dorning. He was still reluctant to do so. If Florian knew the truth about him, he might well withdraw his offer. Harboring a fugitive was as much a crime as being one. He took a breath and hurried on. "You may not want me to stay. There's something I have to tell you."

  "Go at it, then." Seeing his discomfort, Florian motioned for the others to leave. "What you ought to know," said Theo, once they were alone, "is-I'm in some trouble."

  "We all are. Go on."

  After his first painful hesitation, Theo poured out the whole account. His surprise, when he finished, was Florian's lack of surprise.

  "Youngster, I'm sorry," said Florian. "A brutal business, but I've heard far worse."

  "If I stay here, it could put you in trouble. And your friends, too."

  "Don't worry, we can manage it," said Florian. "In fact, you couldn't be in a safer place. So, it's settled."

  "One more thing."

  "Oh? You seem to have quite a lot on your mind."

  "My name. It isn't De Roth."

  Florian laughed. "We have something in common. My name isn't Florian."

  From then on, a bench and table were reserved for Theo in Jellinek's tavern, with pen, ink, and paper supplied by the host until he earned enough to buy his own. It had all been arranged so quickly, as if Florian needed only to snap his fingers. With Florian, he came to know, this was how things happened.

  In the following days, as he became a familiar sight in his corner, he drew a small but steady stream of customers.

  Some were able to write slowly and painfully, others not at all. None could draft a letter setting out what they had in mind to say. The task of Theo was to sort their ideas and try to put them on paper.

  An old woman needed an appeal to the Royal Prosecutor on behalf of her son, in prison for a crime he did not commit. A kitchen maid expecting a child wished to write her sweetheart, who had gone off to Marianstat, and lie to him that all went well with her. There were letters swearing undying love; letters begging for it; furious letters threatening lawsuits; timid letters asking more time to pay a debt. To the public letter writer, as much a piece of furniture as the bench he sat on, none hesitated to pour out every sorrow, shame, fear, and hope. Most of the letters went unanswered.

  Nights, Theo often lay awake tossing and sweating on his pallet in the loft, chewing over his clients' misfortunes as if he had to absorb them before he could rest. Sometimes, on the contrary, he could not go to sleep fast enough to escape them. He was overwhelmed, appalled. Finally, he grew modest. Until then, he had believed he suffered a very high quality of misery. It took him a little time to accept the humbling idea that most of his customers were in worse case than himself.

  Mornings, he went to Jellinek's tavern. Florian was sometimes there, sometimes not. He had the habit of disappearing for several days on end. When he reappeared, something in his bearing warned Theo against asking him where he had been. Stock and the others were used to these absences and did not comment on them. Theo, again, sensed that he should not raise questions. Otherwise, he got on well with them and enjoyed their company. The golden divinity and the russet divinity, he soon realized, were clearly in love with Florian: the former, dreamily and happily; the latter, bitterly and almost against her will. Stock, who usually turned furious at the least criticism of his poetry, listened closely to Florian's opinions. For the most part, Florian kept a wry good humor. Sometimes, however, his remarks could sting. The others were able to shrug them off, but on one occasion when Florian made a mildly sarcastic remark to Justin, the latter nearly burst into tears.

  "You should have answered back," Theo later told him. "You shouldn't have let him hurt your feelings." Justin turned his eyes on Theo. "If he asked me to, I'd die for him."

  To be called "my child." by Florian was a title of honor. It had not been granted to Theo. Nevertheless, he yearned for it. Despite Florian's help and interest, Theo was aware of a certain lack of acceptance.. Perhaps he had not yet earned it, perhaps he did not deserve it. In the lives of Florian and his children, some part was held back from him, and he was puzzled by it.

  What also puzzled Theo was how Florian stayed out of prison, for the man spoke his mind whenever and wherever he chose. The townsfolk worshiped him, and Theo first believed the officers feared a riot if they laid hands on him. Theo was wrong, as he learned one afternoon when two constables strode into the tavern and began badgering Jellinek for information about a runaway apprentice.

  Theo broke into a sweat, sure it was himself they were asking about. Jellinek, sweating as much as Theo, kept wiping his hands and face with his apron. Florian finally got up from his usual seat.

  He sauntered over to the constables. Smiling, he quietly suggested they leave. He did not raise hand or voice. The smile never left his face, but his gray eyes had turned bright and hard as ice. The officers blustered a few moments, then declared the matter unimportant and hurried out. Theo understood. It was not the townsfolk they feared. It was Florian.

  Florian's assurance of safety had not, been idle boasting, and Theo was grateful. His spirits had begun mending a little. At times, however, he turned restless, feeling his days were without sense or point.

  "I'm glad for the work," he told Florian one morning in the tavern, "but none of it does much good. I write their letters, but nothing comes of it. I'm not making anything better for them. What's the use?"

  "The use," answered Florian, "is that they need you. There's always a chance something may work out. You give them a grain of hope, at least. Be satisfied you can do anything at all.

  "As a matte
r of fact," he went on, "I might have something else for you. I warn you, it won't be easy."

  "What is it?"

  "We'll talk about it when the times comes."

  Theo, excited, pressed him for some hint, but Florian left, saying no more. The old woman whose son was in prison had been waiting patiently. Theo had written her same letter to the Royal Prosecutor so often that he knew it word for word. He had, until then, considered that the best service he could do would be to tell her to go away, that it was a lost cause. He beckoned to her.

  "Come along, mother," he said. "Let's try again."

  14

  "There's a dead one." The boy held up his lantern and leaned over the side of the rowboat. "Pull hard, Sparrow."

  The girl did as her brother asked. The craft bobbed alongside the stone steps leading from the embankment to the dock. The boy, Weasel, was small and as thin as his namesake. Sparrow, a few years older and the stronger, took charge of the rowing on their nightly ventures into the port.

  The man lay on his belly, half in, half out of the water. His legs swung gently in the tide.

  Sparrow shipped her oars. "Drowned, is he?"

  Weasel threw a line around the iron stanchion and hopped out of the boat. He squatted by the body but could not turn it. Sparrow came to help. They saw the knife hilt.

  "A brawl." Weasel nodded his head in solemn professional judgment. He tugged until the weapon came free of the breast. "It's a good blade."

  He put the knife in his belt. Sparrow had been deftly going through the pockets. She had no fear of the dead. On the other hand, she was terrified of spiders.

  The jacket and canvas slops yielded nothing. She made a face and shrugged her shoulders. The lantern light showed a bulky form a few steps higher. Sparrow got to her feet. The boy, too, noticed the figure and clambered after his sister.

  "I knew it was a brawl," Weasel declared with satisfaction.

  This man was white-haired and blunt-featured. One sleeve, blood soaked, had been slashed up the arm. The girl rummaged in the pockets. This time she whistled. She had discovered a purse of coins, and something else: The man was alive. Weasel crouched beside her, greatly interested. They had never found a live one.

  "What shall we do with him, Sparrow?"

  The girl chewed her lower lip. She was a sharp faced creature, more vixen than bird. The man was looking at her, muttering something she could not make out.

  She bent closer, listening, then glanced at Weasel. "I don't know what he's saying, but I don't think he wants to stay here."

  "I shouldn't wonder," said Weasel.

  Like her brother, Sparrow wore a garment of sacking. Her one vanity was the kerchief about her head. She undid it and awkwardly bound up the man's arm. Her patient groaned and made a feeble gesture.

  "What's he after?" Until then, Weasel had given all his attention to the unusual find. Now, at the edge of the circle of light, he glimpsed a leather case. He scuttled over and picked it up. "This?"

  Weasel snapped open the catch and peered inside. "Knives and things. They'll be worth something."

  Sparrow had finished her work and had come to her decision. "We'll keep him."

  "What will Keller say?"

  "He'll be glad. It's company for him, isn't it?"

  The two set about hauling the man down the steps and aboard the boat. He was conscious enough to make some small effort to help. Otherwise, his salvages would have had to leave their prize where they found it. Weasel cast off the line. Sparrow labored to get the craft under way before the tide turned against her.

  The River Vespera flowed through Marianstat. Near the port, narrow spits of land reached out from the banks: The Fingers. Part marsh, part scrub lining a maze of inlets, The Fingers formed a hand grasping whatever floated by. Human bodies, as well as animal carcasses, sometimes came to bob among the reeds. They were picked over for anything useful and sent on their voyage again by the scavengers who lived and made a living there.

  These river and shore dwellers avoided each other. They had their favorite backwaters which they defended jealously, tending and harvesting them like frugal farmers, selling their crop for a pittance in Marianstat. When the harvest was lean, those lucky enough to have a boat explored other waters. The docks usually offered gleanings of some value.

  It was toward The Fingers that Sparrow plied her oars, eager to examine her passenger at greater length and leisure. It was nearly full daylight by the time she beached the rowboat. The man, eyes closed, slumped in the stern. The scavengers could not move him.

  "Keller!" Sparrow shouted. "Come help."

  From a crude hut amid the bushes a little distance from shore, a lanky figure cautiously put out his head, then strode toward the youngsters. "Hurry," ordered Sparrow. "We brought company for you. He may be dead."

  "Marvelous," the man tartly replied. He was youngish, with rumpled chestnut hair and a pale face. "Exactly what I need."

  Weasel was pulling him by his coat sleeve. Keller glanced at the man in the stern, then hurried closer, paying no heed to the water sloshing about his knees.

  "Come on," said Sparrow. "Give us a hand."

  "Water rats," said Keller, with a bemused laugh, "You've caught yourselves a Royal Physician."'

  Dr. Torrens, opening his eyes, could be certain only of two things: He was alive and his arm hurt. His recollections, otherwise, were dim and confused. He had been hauled off by a pair of goblins. Or he might have dreamed it. Lying on a dirt floor, a stranger bending over him, he had no idea where he was. A ragged girl and boy were staring at him.

  "We've been waiting two days for you to wake up," the stranger said. "I can tell you, there were moments when I had my doubts. This is Sparrow and her brother, Weasel. They would have me believe you put a knife in a sailor's ribs. They find that intriguing. They are much impressed by you, Dr. Torrens."

  "You know me?" The physician, astonished, managed to sit up. "By sight and by reputation. You are one of the few who do not employ the services of leeches. Very sensible, since we already have a large one disguised as a chief minister. Ah-forgive me for imposing my opinion on someone too weak to disagree with it." Torrens grimaced. "I would hardly do so. You recognize me, but I cannot say the same for you." "You might know me better if I presented myself as Old Kasper!"

  In spite of his discomfort, Dr. Torrens laughed in surprise at hearing the name. It was the title of a comic journal circulated throughout Marianstat. "You? Is that possible?"

  "Since I pen the words to put in his mouth and, in fact, created him, I suppose I may claim his identity. The Bear's, too."

  "Your journal has given me pleasure," said Torrens. "Those talks between Old Kasper! and his bear show a nice wit. But-Old Kasper? With his peasant jacket, his tankard, his gray whiskers? I would expect his author to be a much older man."

  "The times we live in age us rapidly," said Keller. "Even so, I take it as a compliment. I make nonsense of the world to help others make sense of it."

  "A remark worthy of Old Kasper!" said Torrens.

  "Actually, the Bear is the smarter. He usually sets Old Kasper! straight, as you may have noticed. The chief minister, I am happy to say, finds their humor cuts a little close to the bone. They were-embodied, that is, in their creator-quite recently invited to a hanging: their own. A tribute to their ability to nettle Cabbarus, but an honor I was grateful to forgo. A whole crew of us scriveners awaited the writing of our last pages in the Carolia Fortress. A few succeeded in escaping. I joined them, not wishing Old Kasper! to make his final public appearance on the gallows. Once out, we all separated. I made my way here. These water rats have been most hospitable. They admire lawbreakers.

  "But I weary you, Doctor. Tell me how I may set you on your path, since you are clearly not here by choice. Trust my discretion about the dead sailor."

  "I killed him," Torrens answered flatly. "I have not forgiven myself for that. My occupation is to save life, not take it. But he would have taken mine. Unfortunately for
him, I know the vulnerabilities of the human body better than he did. He was not a sailor, by the way. Cabbarus had sent him. For you see, Master Keller, I too am under sentence of death."

  "Bravo!" cried Keller. "You'll be a hero in the eyes of our generous water rats. In mine, too, for that matter."

  Dr. Torrens was grateful he had fallen into the hands of a journalist and two urchins rather than those of another physician. Instead of dosing and cauterizing him, in their ignorance they merely let him rest, fed him as best they could, and kept his wound clean. As a result, he recovered quickly. Keller, following the doctor's instructions, made a sling from a linen garment he found in a pile of rags.

  "Sparrow and Weasel will not object to our making free with their rubbish collection," said Keller, adjusting the sling. "Some of it no doubt was here when they arrived: like an ancestral heritage. Good stewards, they have added to it."

  "This is not their home, then?"

  "It is now. If I understand Sparrow, they found it empty and simply moved in. They have no parents, except in the biological sense. They may stay, they may move on. They are here now, which is all that matters to them."

  "It is monstrous to think of them growing up in this-sewer, for it is hardly better than one."

  "On the contrary," said Keller, "they are among the lucky. Marianstat swarms with waifs and strays, as you surely know. Sometimes I think they must live in the cracks of the sidewalks. For them, what you call a sewer would be a holiday in the country. We, too, should be glad of it as long as we are obliged to stop here."

  "In my case, it cannot be much longer," said Torrens. During his recovery, the court physician and the journalist had come to have confidence in each other. Though gloomier by temperament than Torrens expected from the creator of Old Kasper! the writer could be comical and scathing in his remarks about Cabbarus. When their two hosts were off on their daily rounds, Torrens revealed his hope of rallying opposition to the chief minister.

  "Master Cabbarus hardly lacks admirers," said Keller. "That is, they would admire him most if he were at the end of a rope. They are scattered throughout the kingdom. Which sums up the difficulty. They are scattered."