D Cornish - Foundling

"Let me go! Let me go!" Rossamund hollered. "He's a liar! He's a liar! Let me go!"

"Rossamund!" The stranger's rebuke finally penetrated. "Rossamund! I know he's a liar. It's me, Fouracres!"

In an instant the foundling's whirling mind was stunned to a halt.

There was the postman, his normally grinning mouth tight with consternation, his tricorn knocked onto the wharf by the power of Rossamund's struggle.

Utterly confused, Rossamund looked back in the direction of Poundinch, who called to Fouracres, "Well caught, good sir! Ye 'as done me a service!"

Yet between the cruel intentions of the captain and his victim stepped that deep magenta shadow. It was Europe.

They've come-both of them!

On came Captain Poundinch, clearly thinking the chase concluded in his favor, his boots pounding, pounding on the wood. "Thought ye could rob a fellow of 'is rightful prize, did ye?" he gloated, with a smugly grim sneer as he hurried to claim back Rossamund as his slave once more.

Without a word, and without hesitation, the fulgar stepped into the path of the captain. He towered over her, yet she calmly reached out her hand.

Zzzock! There was the briefest flash of green fire as she sent the suddenly amazed Poundinch, despite all his forward momentum, hurtling backward into the oaken side of a sailing ship. He hit it hard, the wind driven from his lungs with a belching cough. His eyes fixed in shock, he dropped through the gap between the hull of the boat and the planks of the wharf. There was a muffled splash… and that was all.

Her expression masterfully serene, Europe walked back to Fouracres and the now elated foundling. Taking Rossamund by the hand, she continued back along the wharf. "Come on, let's find this Mister Germanicus," she said quietly.

As they led him out of the docks, Rossamund's heart was a song of freedom. They've saved me! They've saved me! She saved me!

While they went, he answered all their questions, giving an excited account of who Poundinch was, of why the rivermaster had been chasing him, of what had been intended for him. Then he thought of Freckle-poor Freckle-more friendly and genuine than most people the foundling had ever met. His glee at his own liberation entirely evaporated. Perhaps Miss Europe is still in a rescuing frame of mind?

He stopped and said, "Miss Europe? Mister Fouracres? I have a friend back on the Hogshead who needs saving."

Europe let go of his hand and folded her arms. Pressing her chin against her chest, she looked at him shrewdly. "Really?" was all she said.

"Aye, Miss Europe, aye! I can't be free and him not!" Rossamund implored. "I can show us the way-I remember it, it isn't far! The boat's most surely still deserted. It was when I was there, and that was but a few minutes ago."

Fouracres pursed his ample lips. "Ye're asking a lot of us, Rossamund."

The foundling swallowed.

"And what of this Germanicus fellow?" quizzed the lahzar, with a deepening frown. "Is not your need to see him urgent?"

"But my friend helped me!" Rossamund cried. "We've got to get him free!"

"You make friends too easily, little man," Europe murmured.

Fouracres sighed. "But when in straits, yer prove yer mates," he mused. "I for one will help yer. Miss Europe must shift fer herself. Lead on, let's get this done before that brute swims his way clear!"

Rossamund did not entirely follow what Fouracres was saying, but understood his meaning. Grateful, he started back along the way he had run, looking back at Europe.

She had not moved.

"Miss Europe…?"

With a long-suffering look, the lahzar rolled her eyes. "All right, little man! I'm coming… I'm coming," she said, and mouthed a sour complaint as she followed. She showed no inclination to hurry, despite the possibility of Poundinch's emerging once more from the vinegar waters. The fulgar lagged as they hurried back to the Hogshead, getting tetchy when Rossamund made a single false turn.

Yet he found the rotten, sinking cromster easily enough.

Nobody was apparent on deck.

With cunning grace, Fouracres crept aboard to check the hold below. Watching him from the berth, Rossamund could well see how the postman had survived the dangers of his employment.

Europe sat on a bollard, crossed her legs and made as if where she was, was just where she meant to be.

The postman quickly reappeared and quietly declared the Hogshead uncrewed. "She's a bit of a stinker," he added, "and a sinker too, by all evidence."

Rossamund hesitated for just a moment, overcoming his revulsion for this vessel and all the unhappy things that had happened to him aboard her.

Covering her nose with her handkerchief as she came aboard, Europe refused to go near the hold. "You were on here for how long?" she marveled.

Fouracres went below again and called, "Which cage, Rossamund?"

The foundling went to the hatchway and pointed to the prison that held Freckle, then to the third box-crate. "But watch out for that other one over there," he warned. "It's got a rever in it."

The postman rapidly took a step away from the dangerous crate. "Yer what?" he barked. "I can see why yer didn't much like being on this bucket!" Several times he turned a nervous eye to it as he crouched down and tinkered with the lock of Freckle's own cage.

Rossamund had no desire to go down into the hold while the rever-man remained, and stayed at the top of the ladder. It was only then it dawned on Rossamund that Europe-or even Fouracres-might not appreciate rescuing a glamgorn, a monster. He almost panicked. What will Miss Europe do? Yet whatever might happen, he would rather chance this than knowingly leave Freckle in the certain misery of his current condition.

Though Rossamund did not see how he had done it, Fouracres released the lock, saying, "There yer are, friend o' Rossamund, time ter be moving on."

As he swung open the top of the crate, it was slammed the rest of the way as Freckle suddenly sprung from the top of his old prison, wailing delightedly, "Free! Free! Free! Poor Freckle's had enough!"

At that same moment the rever in the third box-crate shook it mightily and started up a wretched wailing. "Let us out! Let us out! Aeeiii!We want to eat him! Let us out!"

Not even Miss Europe, when she had fought the grinnlings, moved as quickly as Fouracres at these simultaneous eruptions from the box-crates. In a single step the postman both spun about and sprang away, a tomahawk swinging ready in hand.

Quicker than the eye, the glamgorn leaped right over Fouracres and shot up the ladder. All that Rossamund saw of it was a small brown thing all legs and arms and those alien yellow eyes. These eyes caught Rossamund's own as Freckle dashed past-an extremely brief yet strangely meaningful contact-before the glamgorn sprang off the deck and disappeared into the murky liquid of the Grume.

Wide-eyed with shock, "Oh…" was all Rossamund could think to say.

Fouracres blinked up at him in equal surprise and came quickly away from the rantings of the rever. "There yer be, yer friend is free. Let's leave this wild, broken fellow ter his raging."

At the commotion Europe had approached. "Rossamund," she purred with icy malice, "was that your friend?"

The foundling turned to her and, seeing her cold expression, looked at his feet. "Ah… a-aye."

She gave him a look of mild contempt. "You made me come down here to rescue a bogle?… Licurius was right!" she growled quietly. "You really are a wretched little sedorner."

"Look here!" Fouracres declared, reaching the top of the ladder. "There's no need to be spitting such filthy words!"

Rossamund's eyes narrowed obstinately and he scowled at the fulgar. "And Fransitart is right!You're the worst monster of all! You just go around killing no matter what! That poor schrewd did nothing to you!"