15
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
glamgorn (noun) one of the smaller kinds of
monster, a true bogle. They come in all manner of shapes,
pigmentation and hairiness: big eyes, little eyes; big ears, little
ears; big body, little limbs; little body, big limbs; and all the
variations in between. Often feisty and jittery, certain kinds can
get downright nasty, the worst of them being known as blightlings.
One of the bizarre idiosyncrasies of glamgorns is that they like to
wear clothes, everyman clothes stolen from washing lines and
unguarded trunks. There are rumors that, dressed like this,
glamgorns—and worse yet blightlings—have been able to sneak into
the cities of everymen to spy and cause mischief.
THE cord that once tied his wrists now cut,
Rossamünd was forced to walk before Captain Poundinch, his fear of
that large pistola the only leash.
Mighty thunderclouds boiled in the west and cast
High Vesting in early gloom. It was clear that Poundinch thought
the hour already dim enough to move his captive. Why else would
he have returned to get me so soon? Rossamünd reasoned.
One consolation was the fresher air, happy relief
from the cloying, rotten fumes of the hold. As he was forced down
the gangplank, Rossamünd sucked in several headache-clearing
breaths through his nose to cleanse it of the stink.
There was hardly another soul about as they went
along the piers. Most of those they did pass by paid them no
attention, and the few who did saw Poundinch and quickly stopped
looking. Generally, the vessels berthed in this region of the docks
were in bad repair, similar to the state of the Hogshead
when Rossamünd had first gone aboard, way back in Boschenberg.
There was a strong sense that the authorities did not visit this
part of the harbor very often. Consequently, Rossamünd guessed that
they were likely to be captained and crewed by the likes of the
Hogshead’s master, and were not places to flee to for
help.
Between the stone and the sty, again! And what
of poor, lonely Freckle too . . . ?
The foundling walked on with his hands pushed hard
into the pockets of his fine frock coat. It occurred to him once
more to use his knife. Poundinch had still not taken it from him.
Rossamünd could not fathom why; perhaps he figured that the
pistola, his great size and greater experience would all be
deterrents enough. They were, and Rossamünd let the idea go in
despair.
“So ye met me cargo, then?” Captain Poundinch’s
rough voice intruded on the boy’s calculations.
Rossamünd grunted once and nodded.
“Ye see, whether ye knew nowt afore or not,”
Poundinch went on, playing it as if this were just an amiable
conversation between friends, “nows ye do—ye knows it all, I
expect, or nears enough—and with that bein’ so, I cain’t afford to
’ave ye out o’ me sight. Don’t worry, mind, life aboard th’
Cockeril will be a might more interestin’ than workin’ as a
lamplighter.”
“I don’t think so,” Rossamünd muttered
between gritted teeth. He felt cornered and cheated.
“Come, lad, that’s no way t’ be!” Poundinch sounded
genuinely hurt. “I’ll be sparin’ ye all that walkin’ back and forth
twiddlin’ with th’ lamps, as th’ day goes out and comes back in
again, on and on. Who’d want that?”
“I would.” Rossamünd had been raised to serve on a
ram, but not this way and most definitely not with a master
like Poundinch.
“What? An’ waste all that wonde’ful learnin’ ye got
from yer society?” The captain clicked his tongue disapprovingly
and shook his head. “Turn left ’ere, Rosey-boy.”
They stepped onto a main dock way.
Rossamünd was getting angrier and angrier. The
injustice of his own situation, and even that of Freckle, gnawed at
him. I don’t want this! I have been letting other people tell me
where to go, what to be, his thoughts fumed, I will not
let this beggar force me to do anything more!
With that, he sat down right in the middle of the
wharf.
Poundinch almost walked right over the top of him.
“What’s this ’ere!” he cursed. Giving a low growl like that of a
crotchety dog, the captain then said, thick and heavy,
“Get up!”
Rossamünd did not stir. He refused to be forced
against his will any longer. Master Fransitart, he knew with a
certainty, would not have let himself be cowed in such a way. What
is more, there were some people at the far end of the dock way that
looked as if they might actually come to his aid.
“Geeetttt uuupp . . .” Poundinch seethed quietly,
stepping over the foundling menacingly. “This li’l tantrum won’t do
ye any good, mucky li’l snot!” The captain leaned low and
Rossamünd heard the pistola being rattled near his ear as a threat.
“Stand, frasart, or I’ll make ye one of me cargo instead of
me crew . . . !”
The boy’s mind hummed now with a taut, thoughtless
energy, poised at the debut of valiant effort. First leaning
forward, then pushing up with hefty vigor, Rossamünd stood. His
crown and the back of his head collided sharply with first the chin
and then the already crooked nose of Poundinch, sending sparks
through the foundling’s vision. The brute captain belched a stunned
curse of the filthiest language and toppled clatteringly to the
wooden planks of the wharf.
Rossamünd did not wait to see what was to happen
next. He just ran.
Chancing one rapid glance behind as he fled, he saw
the evidence of his work: Poundinch sprawled on the dock way,
fumbling between his deadly flintlock and the blood sputtering from
his nostrils.
Rossamünd dashed on, bounding over and skipping
around all obstacles—on toward where he had spied those
better-seeming people. They were no longer there! Regardless, he
raced on. The sound of scuffling behind, then a steady pound
pound told him that Poundinch was on his feet again and after
him.
The chase was in earnest now.
With a stumbling skid, Rossamünd darted right, up a
connecting siding. He quickly saw that he had made a wrong turn.
Without hesitation he retreated. Poundinch loomed, blood smeared
over his mouth and chin—Too close! Too close!
“Get ’ere!” he shouted, but failed to close quickly
enough on the nimble boy. Rossamünd scrambled on with a panicked
yelp as the captain stumbled, his hands gripping at vacated
air.
With Poundinch now so near, Rossamünd expected to
hear the terrible, clapping report of the pistola and be sent to
his doom with an oversized ball foiling his proofing and piercing
his spine. He ducked his head without thinking, trying to make his
legs move faster. He caught sight of the clock in the square, away
to his left, half-hidden by all those masts. Though he was moving
too quickly to be able to read its time, it gave him his bearings
as he sprinted to the next connecting siding. Before him two
figures stepped out, two looming shadows. Rossamünd did not know
whether to plead to them for help or to avoid them as best he
could.
“Stop ’im! Th’ thief stole me coin-bag!”
bellowed the quicker-witted Poundinch.
That decided it for the foundling. Well aware that
most people preferred the assertions of a grown man to the excuses
of a child, Rossamünd skipped desperately past one of the
shadows—who seemed to ignore him, stepping past with a flash of
deep magenta cloth—and nimbly into the grasping arms of the
second.
He thrashed and squirmed wildly in that strong,
steady grip, his panic making him deaf to the voice of his new
captor. He looked back in horror to the charging captain closing in
fury upon his prey.
“Let me go! Let me go!” Rossamünd hollered.
“He’s a liar! He’s a liar! Let me go!”
“Rossamünd!” The stranger’s rebuke finally
penetrated. “Rossamünd! 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 Rossamünd’s struggle.
Utterly confused, Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd’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!” Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd.”
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!” Rossamünd 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!”
Rossamünd 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
Rossamünd 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, Rossamünd 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.”
Rossamünd 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,
Rossamünd?”
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.
Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd 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 Rossamünd did not see how he had done it,
Fouracres released the lock, saying, “There yer are, friend o’
Rossamünd, 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 Rossamünd saw of it
was a small brown thing all legs and arms and those alien yellow
eyes. These eyes caught Rossamünd’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 Rossamünd
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.
“Rossamünd,” 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!”
Rossamünd’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!”
“Of all the . . . !” Indignant, Europe took a step
toward him.
This time he was not daunted. This time he was not
going to just be meek. This time he would defend himself like a man
should.
Fouracres moved as if to intervene.
Europe became still. She looked from the boy to the
man, her expression twisting weirdly. She dropped her head and
began to make a low, unnerving noise in her throat.
Rossamünd glanced at Fouracres, who shrugged.
The foundling took a step toward her and started as
she threw her head back at last, and let out a gush of laughter.
Great guffaws shook her—mighty, mirthful sobs.
Rossamünd froze in bewilderment. “Miss Europe . . .
?”
The lahzar sank to her knees and laughed and
laughed and laughed.
Going to her side, Rossamünd crouched down and
tried to peer into her face. He looked to the postman again.
Shaking his head, Fouracres was just as
bewildered.
Eventually Europe’s violent glee ebbed. Panting,
still chuckling, she looked at the foundling from the corner of her
eye. “Ah, little man!” she wheezed softly. “You are about the
strangest, bravest little fellow I have ever met!” Taking off her
quartz glasses and dabbing tears, the lahzar got back to her feet.
She perched her glasses back on her nose, put on warm doeskins
against the increasing cold and offered Rossamünd her hand, saying,
“Now let’s find this Mister Germanicus.”
Rossamünd looked at the hand. He did not know what
to think of her. Besides which, what was he to think of Freckle,
who had fled with no farewells? This world is too hard, he
concluded.
Gripping the lahzar’s fingers gingerly, he
descended the gangplank off the Hogshead and wished never to
see that vessel—or smell it—again. Behind them they could hear the
muffled shrieking of the rever, still trapped in its tiny
prison.
As they walked back through the moored vessels,
Fouracres explained to him their own side of his original
liberation.
It had taken Europe longer than the prescribed half
an hour to settle up payments that were her due from her clients.
By the time she had emerged from the pink building, Fouracres was
already concerned whether Rossamünd was just being irresponsible,
or if something was wrong.
“Without even waiting to set the landaulet
someplace safe, Europe was after yer,” Fouracres stated
matter-of-factly. “I had to catch her up and we simply walked all
over the docks, asked for any sights of yer, turning up nothing for
the longest time. Then some fellow with a westerner’s accent and
the blackest fingernails I have ever seen suggested we might try
looking again in the direction where we found yer—took a few sous
to wheedle even this from him.
“We had already been searching an hour or more, and
had been over several parts of the docks twice. We were in the act
of following that fellow’s advice, when I spied yer running yer
heart out and looking as if all the utterworsts of Loquor were at
yer tail. Having crossed and recrossed that particular place
several times, we simply made sure we took a way that would cut yer
off . . . and whoever was scaring yer,” he added grimly. “The rest
yer were there ter witness.”
Rossamünd could almost not believe that these two
had striven so hard to find him, that Europe had led the way
in his liberation. How was he to feel about her now? If she was
this loyal, he would happily serve as her factotum, but then
. . . she hates monsters so bitterly. Oh, I don’t know .
. . ! Rossamünd was beginning to find his lack of gumption
extremely frustrating.
It was Europe who settled the question as they
drove on in the landaulet. “Something is not quite right inside me,
little man,” she declared. “I felt it when I sent that odious bully
into the harbor for a bath, and it’s got a lot to do with why I let
your bogle chum go. The spasm those nights ago has done more harm
than I care for. I need to see my surgeon very soon.”
“Are you really ill?” Rossamünd asked.
Europe smiled gravely. “I’m not dying, but I must
set out on the soonest vessel for Sinster.” She paused for a
moment.
The foundling watched her intently.
Europe returned his stare.
“This is my aim,” she continued finally. “You go to
Winstermill and serve there faithfully, as you have me, as the
lamplighter you are intended to be. I will go to Sinster to get
repaired. I have no idea how long that might take, but when
I am back to my healthy self, I will come by your way, little man,
and see how you’re doing.”
Rossamünd’s mind boggled at the thought of what “to
get repaired” actually involved. He knew better than to ask,
though.
She bent down and filled his senses with her sweet
perfume. “Perhaps then, you might consider again the opportunity to
become my helper?”
He just smiled and nodded. He liked this and was
glad it was Europe who had formulated such a plan. It gave him his
task to do right now and offered him time to think further on the
opportunities a factotum’s life might offer rather than a
lamplighter’s career.
The Offices of the Chief Harbor Governor were not,
a little surprisingly, near the port but in the administrative
center of High Vesting. The low marble-white building was so much
like all the others in this district that Rossamünd was glad he had
Fouracres with him, for he was sure he would never have been able
to find it on his own.
Within they discovered that Mister Germanicus had
left in a dudgeon three days before. However, he had left
instructions of his own referring to the appearance of one “lazy
marine society boy.” These instructions were characteristically
simple: he was to make his way to Winstermill forthwith, where he
was expected.
With Fouracres there to smooth the way and vouch
for Rossamünd whenever it was needed, the clerks and sergeants of
the Harbor Governor were industrious in their help. They ratified
the remains of his existing traveling certificates and
identification papers, writing up new travel documents. They even
wrote a covering letter, explaining—they said—the unusual state of
Rossamünd’s papers. What a relief it was for him—he had expected a
lot of hard questions and suspicious innuendo. He was now at
liberty to make his way to Winstermill.
To avoid any possibility of reprisal by Poundinch
or his crew, and in keeping with Mister Germanicus’ instructions,
it was determined that Rossamünd should leave the very next day.
They drove to a fancy hostelry known as the Fox Hole. Europe
preferred it as her place of repose whenever she was in High
Vesting.
Before its façade of grand marble columns, with
Europe organizing the footmen in the distribution of her luggage,
Fouracres bid Rossamünd farewell. “Now I reckon I just might get
the courts ter bring some of their burdensome interest ter bear on
the Cockeril and her nefarious captain—that’s the name of
her, ain’t it?”
“Aye, Mister Fouracres,” Rossamünd nodded. “It was
the Cockeril all right, and the Hogshead too.” He
sincerely hoped that such “burdensome interest” might bring the
dastardly career of Captain Poundinch to a necessary end.
The foundling stepped closer to Fouracres and
whispered, “And what of the glamgorn we saved? It was a shame that
he had to run off so fast. Will he be all right?”
“It’s the way of those little fellows,” said
Fouracres, with a fatherly pat on the foundling’s head. “Deep in
unfriendly places yer can hardly blame the bogle for skipping away
quick. As ter how he’ll fare, I can’t say I rightly know, though I
can sure tell yer those little fellows are wily and tough. Trust it
ter Providence, Mister Rossamünd—it’s all yer can do.”
Rossamünd’s burden lightened just a little. He
sighed.
Fouracres stood and smiled sadly down at him. “I
will keep my eye out for yer, Mister Rossamünd. I have reason ter
go Winstermill way ev’ry now and then. So ter thee I will say fer
now: till next occasion. Don’t trust everybody yer meet—though I
reckon she might be more honorable than she seems.” He indicated
the imperious fulgar with a subtle look.
Seeing this, Europe approached them. “Good-bye,
Postman Fouracres. Thank you for your help.” She gave a very
slight, almost curtsylike bow and tried to hand something to him. A
bill of folding money.
Fouracres bowed deeply, but did not take what was
offered. “As I said when we were hunting fer Rossamünd, I have no
need fer reward. Ter serve such a fair face and in such friendly
company is reward in itself. Thank yer, but no.”
With a wry look, Europe retracted her offering and
entered the hostelry.
“Off I go now, Rossamünd, ter my own abode. Stay
safe.”
The postman and the foundling shook manly
hands.
Finally Rossamünd had made a friend, and now they
were to part. He began to feel as if he would never settle down,
never have loved ones close by, to call his own. “I hope you can
come and see me soon, Mister Fouracres. I reckon a friendly face
will be really welcome where I’m going. I hope I find some
more.”
“Surely yer will, surely yer will,” the postman
answered softly. “The timing of such things is near often perfect.
Take care.”
With Rossamünd watching mournfully, Fouracres
walked away, with a wave, into the gathering dark.