D.M. Cornish - The Foundlings Tale, Part One: Foundling

Table of Contents

Amazed gratitude first to God, the opener of doors; to Dyan, my lofty and passionate publisher, whose enthusiasm has fueled this book from the start; to Celia, my ever-patient and tactfully brilliant editor, who makes me look like a better writer than I really am; to Eija, my equally patient art director, for bearing with my neurotic ways and for linguistic appreciation; to Geoff and Ricki, my loving parents, for living an example to follow and for giving me a safe place to land; to Will, faithful friend, for all those sessions in which we bounced ideas about. It is to him that I owe the term monster-blood tattoothe very title of this series. Genius. To Mandii, insightful friend, for loving Europe as much as I do, and for brown; to Jacey, far-off encourager, for all the advice, from types of cloth to what was right and wrong; and to those who have read manuscripts or encouraged me through it all: my daring and caring sister Sheri, Phil Mr. Ip and Em Mrs. Ip, Matty McHam, Craigus Grovus, Edwin Man of Steele, Gary, Toom, Kirsty-Lee, Sue-Ellen, Jordan, David B, Cheryll, Ange, Maggie, Raquel, Emily, Andrew and Steph, the Cousins Lock, David K and the Once-a-Month-Wednesday Illustrators, and any others my sieve of a mind has neglected. Thank you.

D. M. C.

This is the map of the southern and central portions of the Half-Continent.
The area within the small rectangle is shown in detail on the following page.
There are also several pages of enlargements of this main map towards the end of the book.

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.

ROSSAMND was a boy with a girls name. All the other children of Madam Operas Estimable Marine Society for Foundling Boys and Girls teased and tormented him almost daily because of his name. And this day Rossamnd would have to fight his worst tormentor, Goslinga 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 Rossamnds 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, Rossamnd frowned across the circle; sour-faced and lank-haired, Gosling stared back contemptuously. The blankness behind Goslings eyes terrified Rossamnd; his opponent was a heartless shell. He delighted in causing pain, and Rossamnd knew that he would have to fight better today than he ever had before if he was to avoid a beating.

Im going to thrash you good, Rosy Posy, Gosling hissed.

Enough of that, young master Gosling! barked the portly cudgel-master, Instructor Barthomus. You know the Hundred Rules, boy. Silence before a fight!

Both Rossamnd and Gosling wore padded sacks of dirty white cotton, tied with black ribbons over their day-clothes. Each boy held a stocka straight stick about two and a half feet long. Harundo was a form of stick-fighting, and these were their weapons.

Rossamnd 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 Operas 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. Rossamnd noticed some of them grinning knowingly. Others staredslack-jawed and wonderingwhile the littlest shuddered with fear.

Gosling twirled his stock with a swagger.

Rossamnd looked to the overcleaned floorboards and waited.

The whistle shrilled.

Gosling strutted into the ring. Time to get your scourging, Missy, he gloated. Youve managed to dodge me all week, so youll suffer extra today.

That is enough, Gosling! bellowed Barthomus.

Rossamnd 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 Rossamnds 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 Barthomus 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 Rossamnd. 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, Goslings vehemence forced Rossamnd 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! Rossamnd thought, a tiny glow of triumph within.

No, dear boy! No! Left decede, then counteroffend with a culix! Instructor Barthomus hollered at Rossamnd. Youve seen it done. Youve practiced it, lad! Just step away, then behind, then a jab-jab-jab with the handle! A halfhearted sustis is just not enough, boy!

Rossamnd 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. Rossamnd 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, Rossamnd 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 Barthomus tried to intervene, but Gosling darted beyond his grasp, tackling Rossamnd about his stomach.

No one stops me! Gosling hissed through gritted teeth as he drove Rossamnd down to the glistening floor.

Thats not true, Rossamnd thought as they tumbled.