D Cornish - Foundling

Interminable seemed these last few miles, though the way had, mercifully, become flatter. At one point Rossamund thought he heard the far-off tittering of the grinnlings and urged Europe on a little faster. The further they went the more fatigued he grew and the more insensible Europe became. She muttered odd things-often in another strange, musical language-at one time saying clearly, "We've been in many scrapes, haven't we, darling…?" She actually chuckled, then became dangerously louder. "But we get away scot-free every time, hey… hey Box-face? You and me… we… making it large all over the land…" It seemed she might go quiet, but suddenly she blurted, "Oh my! What have they done to you!" and began to sob, great, deep gulps that wracked her whole body. "What have they done to you?" she hissed finally and continued to weep. She said no more that night.

Soon Europe collapsed completely, toppling Rossamund with her in a flurry of sweat and perfume, stunning him. He lay for a moment half under the fulgar, his head full of spinning lights. He never thought a woman could weigh so much.

The soft hooting of a boobook went hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. It was a peculiarly soothing sound and he focused on it to stay awake. There was nothing for it-he had to drag her. Hardly believing where he was or what he was doing, he pulled himself out from under her, fixed a saddlebag under her head, grabbed her by her booted ankles with a foot tucked under each arm and began to walk. Pulling, pulling, finding energy he did not know he had, he dragged the fulgar. Her shoulders ground noisily and her petticoats rumpled and gathered and began to tear, but he could do nothing about either now. He must trust to her proofing, ignore her indignity and simply go on.

Despite the noise and his agony and the desperate slowness of their pace, Rossamund pulled Europe, bags and all, along the road till his fingers clawed and the eastern horizon grew pale. The trees began to grow farther apart, a fringe to the main wood, and as he gradually came around a bend in the road, he thought he saw lights through the sparse trunks. He pulled on a little bit farther and found that it was lights, lantern lights. He stopped to gather himself, gasping in air, and peered at this new sight.

There, in the obscure gray of a new day, he found what they sought: a long, heavy stone wall of great height on the left, protruding from the thinning trees. In a gap about two thirds along this wall and crowned with a modest arch was a solid ironwood gate. Above it was a post fixed horizontally from the apex of the arch, a bright-limn lantern at its far end, shining orange. Dependent from this post was a gaily painted sign. It showed what looked like a woman running or leaping and beneath this the barely legible letters:

… It was the wayhouse. They had arrived at last.

The entrance of the Harefoot Dig would not open when Rossamund pushed upon it with his shoulder. Undaunted, he carefully lay Europe's feet down. Without quibbling over whether it was polite at so early an hour, he hammered with the wrought knocker of the ironwood gate as loudly as his exhausted arms would allow. Indeed, he could only just lift them to grasp the knocker.

Eventually a round grille high in the gate emitted a gruffly quizzing voice. "Whot's this 'ere, then? Whot's yar business at this throodish hour?" It was a strange accent Rossamund had never heard before-a little like Poundinch's yet different again. It was hard to understand.

"I have a… a friend who's hurt!" Rossamund called up to the grille in his deepest, most certain-sounding voice. "We have escaped an attack in the Brindleshaws! We need help!"

There were slidings, there were scrapings. There was a muffled conversation.

"I see…" the grille returned eventually. "An' whot's a scamp like yarsalf doing up so late-or so eerly, if yar'll 'ave it at that-in risky places an' with no hat on his noggin?"

Rossamund sighed. "I lost it in the river. Please, sir, my friend is very, very ill and she needs a physician quickly!"

"A lass, yar say? We cain't have a sickly lass stuck out there. Stay yar ground."

One of the gates opened and a short man came out. He was almost as broad across the shoulders as he was tall, and wearing, of all things, a chain mail shirt over the top of longshanks and jackboots.

"Let's 'ave a look at 'er, then," this stocky gatekeeper said as he stepped onto the road. He glanced about with a quick but shrewd eye and then down at the stricken fulgar. "Blast me! That won't do at all. Pretty lass too."

The stocky gatekeeper picked the fulgar up under her shoulders, as if her weight was of little consequence. She stirred, but little more. He directed an "Oi…" over his shoulder. This prompted another person to move out from the shadows of the gateway. It was a woman, a dangerous-looking woman glowering into the dark spaces all about, ready for a fight. She was tall and wore a strange-looking coat-of-many-tails. She looked to the other gater, then at Europe in his arms and, with no further prompting, stepped over with swaggering grace and took the fulgar by the ankles. As this woman obediently hefted Europe by her boots, Rossamund saw that the backs of her hands were marked in strange brown filigree. It was the quickest glimpse but it fixed his vague attentions. Monster-blood tattoos! She was a monster-slayer too. Beneath her left eye was a line of spikes, spoors of some unknown profession.

Not too gently they carried Europe through the gate, the short fellow saying over his shoulder, "'Ere, grab 'er chattels an' all, an' follow me. I'm the gater,Teagarden-I look after the gate, see-at yar service. Whot's yar name, boy'o?"

"Rossamund," he answered simply as he gathered up Europe's fallen saddlebags. He could barely grip the straps. His hands cramped, neither shut nor open.

He was vaguely aware of a brief but pronounced pause.

"Oh. Yar pardon, lass. Mistaked yar fer a lad in this darkling hour." This Teagarden fellow actually sounded embarrassed.

Rossamund did not quite know what to say. His exhausted mind offered no assistance. "I, ah… that's all right, I am a boy."

Another pause, even more uncomfortable than the first.The woman bearing Europe's legs gave Rossamund an odd look.

Teagarden coughed in a perplexity of even greater embarrassment. "Ah yes, right you are, and I knows it too, boy'o. 'Tis the paucity of light, methinks, playing tricks. This lass with me be Indolene-she's me fellow gater."

Rossamund, too wayworn to care, offered only what he hoped was a smile.

Behind the gate was a dim, confined coach yard. A yardsman hurried over with a lantern, his feet crunching noisily in gravel. The light was shone in Europe's face while the two gaters took her to an entrance in the large, low house before them.

She still breathed! Rossamund could see her cheeks puffing as he followed closely. However, her skin was a ghastly pale green, showing the deep blue spoor vividly. Great bruised rings sunk beneath each eye, while sweat ran freely from her brow and hair. She was unrecognizable. She was getting worse.

The yardsman gasped, ever so quietly. "Oi'll be! She's a lahzar!"

The lady gater seemed to scowl but continued in her work.

Teagarden whistled softly. "Upon me 'onor! Yar keep yar comp'ny strangely, boy'o. Still, thass neither here nor there-get her inside sharply, she looks fit to expire!"