horror, that the three gruesome crates bound with strong iron smuggled aboard about a week ago were still there. Two of them were side by side near the ladder and one on its own several feet away. This lonely one suddenly shook violently.
Rossamund gave a tight yelp. He tried to scamper back up, but Poundinch blocked his ascent. The captain shouted at the lonely crate and, after a few shudders more, it became still. The hold was otherwise empty but for acerbic seawater leaking in from the stern end of the hold. Rossamund saw that it was already about an inch deep at the bottom of the steps.
'Ye knows what's in these 'ere crates, don't ye, lad?' Poundinch had stopped about halfway down and cast his hefty shadow over the foundling.
'Uh-I-n-no…' Rossamund spluttered and backed away from both Poundinch and the crates. The bilgewater came up to his ankles now.
'Aw, come now, ye were snoopin' about, listenin' and pryin' after we took 'em aboard. Tryin' to get somethin' over ol' Poundy, were ye? A li'l morsel to sell to 'is enemies, 'ey? A li'l bit o' lev'rage to make some deals?'
The nature of this rogue's suspicions revealed, Rossamund looked at him in disbelief.
Poundinch descended all the way to the bottom. 'Those innocent rabbit eyes ye make don't work on me, mucky little mouse. I think I'll leave ye down 'ere to think again upon th' falsities of yer stubborn, lyin' tongue. We'll be back to collect them crates in a couple of 'ours, so ye'll 'ave a bit o' time to change th' tune of yer whistle.' He grabbed Rossamund by the wrist, twisting it cruelly.
Tears started in the foundling's eyes as he was compelled to squirm and bend in order to lessen the pain, movement which brought him right by two crates. 'But I don't know anything! I don't know anything! I just want to work as a lamplighter!' Rossamund howled, over and over.
Captain Poundinch ignored him and instead, quicker than a cat, gathered up Rossamund's hands and wound cord roughly all about them, fixing it to a loop of rope that held one of the crates together in such a way that it forced him to sit.
The boy's heart froze. He had been tied right up against a crate! His mind went a white blank of panic. 'But!.. But!..' was all he could manage.
'Aye, 'but, but.' Ye're babblin' now, bain't ye? Got to make more sense if ye wants yer freedom, tho'.' Poundinch put his greasy face next to Rossamund's. 'Ye were sooo keen to know what were in me cargo! Well now ye can 'ave a good ol' gander, as close as ye could want for,' he growled. 'Ye've got about three 'ours till I return- plenty of time for ye to mull, and if ye're still whole enough to speak after such a time with me prettee pieces 'ere, we'll see what we might do with ye. Ye never know, lad, if ye're lucky, ye might get to live it large on th' vinegar waves, with ol' Poundy as yer ev'r faithful, ev'r vigilant cap'n!'
With that and nothing more Poundinch left, his boots thumping heavily, back up the way he had come. The hatch closed with a clang.
'I just want to be a lamplighter… ' the boy sobbed. The seat of his longshanks already soaked in half an inch of water, he sat with his arms on his knees and his face buried in his sleeves. Overwhelmed with bitter hopelessness, Rossamund wept as he never had in his whole life.
Eventually calm came. He stopped crying and instead he listened. The Hogshead creaked in the tidal movements, the brine in the hold slopped ever so quietly and Rossamund's heart thumped, but that was all. He lifted his head and squinted about, his face puffy, stinging. It was very dim, but because of the bright-limn not so dark that the crates could not be distinguished clearly. Though he was overshadowed by the box he was bound to, his eyes adjusted to the weak light that also came from cracks about the hatchway. There was not even the slightest hint of movement from any of the three crates, not even the one that shook so determinedly before. Rossamund had been making all the noise he liked but still the things they contained had remained still. They must have been empty after all. Eyeing the gaps in the crate next to him, his mind whirled.
He would be missed, surely? Not by Europe, perhaps, but certainly by Fouracres. He'd come to the rescue, Rossamund was sure of it-Wouldn't he?… Yet doubt took hold, and he could not be certain of anything anymore. He was lost. How would they know where to find him? If Master Fransitart was aware of what had happened to him, he knew his old dormitory master would be furious and shift all obstacles to rescue him. But Master Fransitart did not know-and he was too far away to help. Rossamund rolled his eyes in his grief and his gaze caught a glimpse of something between the slats of the crate to which he was tied.
Two eyes stared back at him, yellow and inhumanly round.
Rossamund shrieked like a person touched with madness, and tugged and writhed wildly in his bonds. The crate jerked violently too, and the eyes disappeared. In blind panic he wrestled for his very life to get free!
It was all in vain. The knot he was bound with was a bailiff's shank, a cunning tangle that took two hands to tie but three to undo. He barely had a whole hand of fingers available between the two of them. Surrendering to whatever grisly fate he was now to suffer-'some 'orrible, gashing end,' as Master Fransitart would say-Rossamund bowed his head and began once more to weep, waiting for some flash of pain or other rending violence.
Instead a sound came. It was a voice, small, soft and bubbling like a happy little runnel. 'Look at you,' it said. 'Look at you, strange little one who can cry. No need for crying now, no, no, no. Freckle is here and here he is. Lowly he might be, but not the least. A friend he is, and friendly too. So no crying now, no no, nor screaming nor throwing nor bumping of poor Freckle and his head about this little gaol.'
Despite himself Rossamund felt calmed, and reluctantly turned his head. The round yellow eyes had returned and were looking at him again, earnestly kind.
The foundling held his breath.
The eyes seemed to hesitate too. Then the voice that belonged to those eyes-that small, soft, babbling voice-said, 'He is watching too, and knows you, oh yes, hm hm. Fret not. There is always a plan. Providence provides.You'll see, you'll see.'
'Who… who are y-you?' Rossamund managed at last. He could see little else but those big eyes-maybe a small nose… he could not be sure.
'Why, I thought I said, or did I say I thought?' The eyes blinked a long, almost lazy blink. 'Why, I am Freckle! Freckle who has been speaking all his thinking just now. I was afraid before, and I thought before that I would just think all my speaking and see what manner of strange little one you were. But I know now by your crying what you are and now I have no fear!' Though he could not see, Rossamund could well imagine this creature smiling a rather self-satisfied smile. 'Tell, little cryer, what is your name?'
'Um… it's Rossamund.'
There was a strange, gaggling noise, and Rossamund had the impression that this was Freckle's laugh. 'I see and see I do. An obvious name. Here is a tree. I'll call it 'Tree.' Here is a dog. I'll call it 'Dog'! Very clever! What a witty fellow who gave it to you! They must be a funny fellow indeed!' There was more of the gaggling laugh.
Rossamund frowned. Witty and funny were not words he would have associated with Madam Opera, who had fixed his name by writing it in the ledger. 'Why-why is my name so obvious?' the foundling pressed.
'Ah, your name is obvious by your weepy, weepy tears, little Rossamund, that is all, nothing more.' This little fellow was very hard to understand. 'And now we're done our meetings,' it concluded. 'I expect you've learned it that hands are shook together, to show a meeting met?'
A hand came out from a lower gap in the wood. This hand was about the same size as Rossamund's, though the fingers were longer, the wrist much thinner and the skin far rougher. Rossamund gawped at it: this was most definitely not a person's hand. He remembered himself, took it in his own grasp and politely shook. It felt warm and very much like the bark of a tree. Its grip was strong but gentle.
Looking into those bizarre yellow eyes, Rossamund tried to show trustworthiness and friendship in his own. If he had to suffer imprisonment and oppression, then getting a chance to make friends with a kindly bogle was an odd yet amazing consolation. 'Very pleased to meet you, Mister Freckle,' he said solemnly. Abuzz with curiosity, he could not help but go on and ask. 'Excuse me, Mister Freckle… but are you a nuglung?'
Freckle laughed again. 'They've taught you to divide and conquer too, I see-rule by division, divide by rules- the everyman creed. Ah, 'tis only fair. I named you first.' The eyes blinked again. 'As it is, you make me much bigger than my boots. No-no-no, a nuglung princeling am I not. I am just what I am, what the everyman might go calling a glammergorn-though really, I am just one lonely Freckle. There is no other Freckle, just this one Freckle, until he is no more.' The eyes look skyward.
Rossamund had seen a nuglung earlier that day, the sparrowling in the olive bush, and now he was actually talking with a glamgorn-which is what he understood Freckle to mean by 'glammergorn.' These were even smaller
