D M Cornish
Foundling
1
Foundling (noun) also wastrel. Stray people, usually children, found without a home or shelter on the streets of cities or even, amazingly, wandering exposed in the wilds. The usual destinations for such orphaned children are workhouses, mills or the mines, although a fortunate few may find their way to a foundlingery. Such a place can care for a small number of foundlings and wastrels, fitting them for a more productive life and sparing them the agonies of harder labor.
Rossamund was a boy with a girl's name. All the other children of Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls teased and tormented him almost daily because of his name. And this day Rossamund would have to fight his worst tormentor, Gosling-a boy who had caused him more misery than any other, a boy he worked hard to avoid. Unfortunately, when it was time to practice harundo, there was no escaping him.
At Rossamund's feet was the edge of a wide chalk circle drawn upon floorboards so fastidiously cleaned that the grain protruded as polished ridges. Opposite stood his enemy. Regretting the ill fortune that had paired him with his old foe, Rossamund frowned across the circle; sour-faced and lank-haired, Gosling stared back contemptuously. The blankness behind Gosling's eyes terrified Rossamund; his opponent was a heartless shell. He delighted in causing pain, and Rossamund knew that he would have to fight better today than he ever had before if he was to avoid a beating.
'I'm going to thrash you good, Rosy Posy,' Gosling hissed.
'Enough of that, young master Gosling!' barked the portly cudgel-master, Instructor Barthom?us. 'You know the Hundred Rules, boy. Silence before a fight!'
Both Rossamund and Gosling wore padded sacks of dirty white cotton, tied with black ribbons over their day-clothes. Each boy held a stock-a straight stick about two and a half feet long. Harundo was a form of stick- fighting, and these were their weapons.
Rossamund was never able to get a comfortable hold on a stock. With the fight about to start, he shifted his awkward grip again. He tried to remember all the names, the moves, the positions he had ever been taught. The Hundred Rules of Harundo made perfect sense, but no matter how often he had trained or fought in practice, he could never make his body obey them.
In Madam Opera's Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls the only room large enough for harundo was the dining hall. Trestles and benches had been dragged clear and left higgledy-piggledy against the walls. The cudgel-master raised his whistle and the two dozen other children standing around the circle fell silent. Rossamund noticed some of them grinning knowingly. Others stared-slack-jawed and wondering-while the littlest shuddered with fear.
Gosling twirled his stock with a swagger.
Rossamund looked to the overcleaned floorboards and waited.
The whistle shrilled.
Gosling strutted into the ring. 'Time to get your scourging, Missy,' he gloated. 'You've managed to dodge me all week, so you'll suffer extra today.'
'That is enough, Gosling!' bellowed Barthom?us.
Rossamund barely heard either of them. The Hundred Rules were racing madly about his mind as he stepped into the chalk circle. If he could just get them straight in his head, surely his limbs would follow!
With a venomous snarl, Gosling rushed him.
The tangle of Rossamund's thoughts served only to tangle his body. Were his hands in the right place? What about his feet? How close was he to the edge of the ring? What was Instructor Barthom?us thinking of what he was doing? What would happen if he actually did land a blow?
Gosling swept up his stock clumsily. He was not much better at harundo than Rossamund. Any other child, even many of the little ones, would have stepped out of the way, just as they should, and given Gosling a good crack on his back or shoulder. Instead, Gosling's vehemence forced Rossamund to take a clumsy backward step. By a small miracle, he got his stock up in time to swat away this first strike. The sticks collided with a deeply satisfying chock!
Gosling gave a furious curse as he was thrown back. He bared his teeth.
That felt right! Rossamund thought, a tiny glow of triumph within.
'No, dear boy! No! Left decede, then counteroffend with a culix!' Instructor Barthom?us hollered at Rossamund. 'You've seen it done. You've practiced it, lad! Just step away, then behind, then a jab-jab-jab with the handle! A halfhearted sustis is just not enough, boy!'
Rossamund was deflated. Just when he thought he was getting it right, he was actually doing things worse than ever.
Gosling was on him by then, chopping at his head again and again with his stock. Rossamund blocked one strike, swatted away another, then let one through. It smacked him crunchingly hard across his cheek and mouth. His head bursting with agony, his face stinging, Rossamund flung his own stock out wildly, skewering Gosling right under his ribs.
With a wheeze and a gurgle, Gosling lurched backward.
Some of the littlest children gave a tiny cheer, but quickly went silent as Gosling swung around and glared at them. Rage clearly boiled within him. He threw down his stock and leaped. Instructor Barthom?us tried to intervene, but Gosling darted beyond his grasp, tackling Rossamund about his stomach.
'No one stops me!' Gosling hissed through gritted teeth as he drove Rossamund down to the glistening floor.
That's not true, Rossamund thought as they tumbled. The others beat you all the time!
Gosling smashed at him over and over with his fists. Rossamund saw stars as Gosling struck him once, twice, three more times in the head. Instructor Barthom?us blustered sharp warnings that were ignored. Finally he grabbed at Gosling and dragged him off, but not before Gosling had landed cruel blows in tender places. The boy swatted at the air as the cudgel-master hefted and flung him to the other side of the ring.
'Get back, you miserable child!' roared Barthom?us.
Dazzled, his head ringing with pain, Rossamund thought the instructor was shouting at him, and so he stayed down. Indeed, he found that he much preferred to lie still while the world swam.
Though clench-fisted and seething, Gosling did not move.
Rossamund groaned. He felt powerful, serious pains he had never felt before.
Fransitart, the stoop-shouldered dormitory master, was called, and Verline, Madam Opera's parlor maid, too.
The telltale sound of Verline's rustling skirts arrived well before her. When she saw Rossamund stricken within the chalk ring, she gave a startled cry.
Rossamund's senses began to fade. He was vaguely aware of voices raised in shrill anger. He dimly felt a cloth dabbing at his face. Somehow Master Fransitart was already there.The old dormitory master was growling at Gosling as the other children were shepherded out of the dining hall with a loud scuffing of boots.
Instructor Barthom?us lifted Rossamund to his feet and wrapped him in a blanket. Verline let him lean on her all the long, crooked way to the boy's dormitory, murmuring soothing, almost wordless things as they went. The dormitory was very long and very narrow and very, very smelly. Side by side, end on end, was crammed a clutter of
