D Cornish - Foundling

The postman leaned forward and replied quietly, almost secretively, "A noble feeling, Rossamund. It does credit t'yer soul, and I heartily believe yer would have made an excellent chum: but I have ter warn yer not ter say as much ter many others. Such talk can get you a whole life o' trouble. Keep these things ter yerself." Fouracres thought for a moment. "I'll not trouble yer, though, nor say anything of what yer've just told me. 'Tween us alone, this…" But suddenly he stopped-stopped talking, stopped walking and stared rigidly at nothing.

Rossamund had walked some way ahead before he realized. Alarmed, he turned back to the postman. "Mister Fo… "

"Uh!" was all Fouracres said, his hand whipping up to signal silence. After only a moment more he stepped forward and whispered to the startled foundling. "We have something wicked on our path. Follow and step very lightly-yer life depends on't…" With that the postman crept into the trees on their left.

Looking over either shoulder in awe, Rossamund followed as quietly as he could into the wood, every snap and click underfoot a cause for chagrined wincing. He could not see anything on the road. How was it possible for this fellow to do so?

The ground all about was very flat and the trees broadly spaced. Some way in Fouracres found a modest pile of stone all about a small boulder and indicated that this was to be their hiding place.

His gizzards buzzing with fear, Rossamund gratefully hid behind these rocks and found a gap between them through which he stared back at the road.

Fouracres put down the large bag he carried and held up a finger, whispering seriously. "No noise, no movement-ye're the very soul of stillness. Aye? The soul of stillness."

"Aye," Rossamund replied in a nervous wheeze.

"I will be back."

The postman returned to the road, rapidly yet with little sound. Watching through the gap in the stones, Rossamund saw him pick up a long stick as he went, then take out something from the satchel he carried and unwrap it. The strangely pleasant odor of john-tallow came back to him in the light early afternoon breeze. Quickly, Fouracres skewered the john-tallow on the end of the stick and began to rub it on the ground, on trunks, on leaves, creeping off the road and into the trees on the opposite side.

He's making a false trail! Rossamund realized.

With fluid, careful speed, the postman worked deeper into the woods. Rossamund lost sight of him and began to feel all-too-familiar panic.

I am the very soul of stillness! I am the very soul of stillness… he chanted to himself.

There was a click close by.

With that one sound he became the very soul of dread!

There, just showing above one of the larger rocks, appeared the glaring head of a monster. Not more than five or six paces away, its long face was covered in mangy gray fur, with a pointed nose and equally pointed teeth, the top ones protruding over the bottom lip. A matted beard grew in limp strands from its chin. It had great, rabbitlike ears tipped with black fur that drooped out from behind its eyes. Large yellow eyes rolled about between slitted lids. This creature snuffled at the air as its ears twitched and swiveled.

Rossamund had never imagined such a thing-how very happy he would have been to have Europe with him now! He clenched every muscle he knew he had, holding his wind for fear that even breathing would make him move too much. I'm not here, don't see me… I'm not here, don't see me…

However, the creature's attention was clearly absorbed by the perfume of the john-tallow. It stalked away without noticing the foundling cowering in his temporary rock shelter. Remaining frozen, Rossamund was nevertheless able to watch it through the gap as it stepped onto the road. Hunched and gaunt and taller than a man, the nicker bent down to smell the spot where Fouracres and the boy had only just been standing. Its long, furry arms ended in long, furry hands from which grew long, curved claws that clicked and clacked together with every move of its fingers. Its legs bent backward like the hind legs of a dog, and it used them to walk in an awkward, jerking way. The creature looked up the road, it looked down the road, sniffed at the ground again. Finally it started into the opposite trees.

But where was Fouracres? Daring to move a little, Rossamund peered through his small gap in the rocks, looking for the postman out there somewhere in the trees.

Nothing.

Wanting to flee, wailing, into the woods, Rossamund determined instead to be patient. He had survived the grinnlings-the nimbleschrewds; he could survive this.

With a soft snort, the creature pranced farther into the shadows on the other side of the road. It lingered there in the twilight under the eaves. While Rossamund watched it, he began to get this strange niggling sensation to look to his left. He was reluctant to take his eyes from the creature, but in the end he did and looked over his shoulder. There was Fouracres sneaking back to him one slow cautious step at a time, his eyes never leaving the shadows of the opposite wood.

Relief! Sweet relief. Rossamund could not recall ever feeling so glad, so lightened within, to see someone as he did just then. Encouraged, he returned to his vigil, in time to see the creature thread its jaunting way through the trunks and eventually disappear from sight.

Turning back to watch the postman, he found Fouracres, his eyes still fixed on the farther trees, almost up to the rocks. He no longer had the john-tallow: that would be stuck somewhere cunning as far from them as possible on the opposite side. Rossamund went to move, but the postman cautioned him to remain as still as he had been.

"We're not free of it yet," he hissed almost inaudibly as he crouched down beside the foundling.

Taking the postman's lead, Rossamund stayed still and kept his watch through the gap. Muscles began to ache and an annoying hum started in his ears as he strained to hear any clue of the creature's return. This waiting was getting very hard.

Seconds slowed to minutes, minutes slowed to hours.

Rossamund gave Fouracres a pleading look.

"Keep waiting," Fouracres insisted once more, and Rossamund sat till he thought he could not take the buzzing of his joints or the ringing in his ears anymore. He had no idea for how long they waited, just that it was so very long.

Even when a carriage went by, they waited still. But when another clattered by only a few minutes later, the postman seemed satisfied, and at last released them, saying, "It's safe enough. Let's get away from here."

Leading Rossamund through the trees, still in silence, Fouracres allowed them to travel on the open road again only after they had put an hour's distance between themselves and their temporary refuge. Once clear of the trees, they hurried the rest of the way and arrived at the Harefoot Dig, safe at last.

It was late afternoon.

Exhausted, but promising to meet the postman in the common room, Rossamund went to tell Europe the good news.

The reclining, recovering fulgar received the revelation with her usual laconic grace. "You can trust this fellow?"

"He's an Imperial postman, miss. His whole life is trustworthiness!" the foundling enthused.

"Well, if a girl can't trust her own factotum, then who can she?" Europe closed her eyes, signaling the end of the matter.

Rossamund rolled his eyes.

And what if a factotum can't trust his mistress?

He returned to the common room too eager to enjoy his last meal, for tomorrow they would be leaving. Fouracres was waiting for him, a pipkin of small wine and two mugs already on the table. As they sipped the small wine, Rossamund showed the postman the cracking, illegible mass that used to be his traveling papers, letter of introduction and the rest. Rossamund still carried them even though they were next to useless, thankful at least that Mister Sebastipole's instructions were so skeletal, for while they lacked detail, they had been easy to memorize. He thought that an Imperial postman, especially one as friendly and helpful as Fouracres, would be able to help him with this problem.