the groundskeeper - 2. a foundling

by nanette nanao

illustrations by danny delacroix

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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the record of my life begins with my being found in a basket by the side of the high road in the province of d------, on a cold sunny morning a little after the beginning of this unfortunate century. as it is unlikely that those who placed me there expended themselves by traveling any great distance to do so, it seems that i was probably born in the said province. i have never found occasion to doubt this most reasonable assumption, and i suggest that you, dear reader, accept it also. mademoiselle clotilde de t----------- de v-------- did everything at a most leisurely pace, and liked her journeys through life and down the roads of the kingdom to be slow and smooth, so when the coachman spotted the bundle containing myself nestled between a rock and a flower and brought the coach from a trot to a halt she simply yawned and settled back in the coach, without even enquiring what he was about. reader, i believe i have already indicated to you my distinct preference for simple and pious persons, and i have no doubt that this preference was sealed on that distant morning when charles the coachman - the sole cause of my continued existence, the most pious creature i would ever know and the first person i encountered in this life - after my anonymous mother and perhaps an equally anonymous midwife - picked me up and brushed the dew off my still blind face. did he say a prayer over me? probably not. curiously enough, despite his piety and his apparently limitless knowledge of the saints and angels and prophets and such, i do not recall that i ever actually saw or heard him pray. but i digress. charles picked me up and brought me over to the coach and handed me to adolphe, a "footman" or generally underfoot servant of mademoiselle, a lazy worthless rascal of a type she was all too complaisant about, and who on this morning was accompaniying mademoiselle and her maidservant and charles to - well, that is of no interest to you, dear reader, so i refrain from the description. knowing adolphe as i later would, i have no doubt he was a veritable fountain of witticisms and droll remarks about my sudden appearance. but as he was always somewhat cowed by charles and did his bidding - more promptly than he did mademoiselle's or charlotte the housekeeper's or jean-pierre the butler's - all of whom i will describe in good time - i do not doubt he handled me gently enough as the coach made it's easy way back to the chateau. reader, do you wonder that i can describe all this in such detail? if you do, i judge that you have probably never lived in the depths of the provinces, where the humblest of events - let alone one so spectacular as the discovery of a foundling - are told and retold on a winter's night - or on a spring night or a summer night or an autumn night - by any and all of the surviving participants or witnesses. all, that is, except mademoiselle, whom i would get to know very well in the coming years, and who almost never declined to answer a question put to her in the frankest possible manner, being totally indifferent to the opinions of her fellow creatures - with the possible exception of her favorite dogs - but who always claimed to have forgotten or never known of the blessed event, and to have been barely aware or completely unaware of my existence until i began to walk, at which time i joined her small menagerie of pets. (and learned to converse with dogs and cats, but that is a story for another time). writing all this is thirsty work! though the memories so far are not unpleasant. but i must have a cup of tea. *** dear reader, perhaps i should resume my narrative with a description of mademoiselle, as she will play so large a part in my story. mademoiselle the baroness clotilde de t----------- de v-------- was the sole survivor of an ancient and barely honorable race, one that through the centuries had alternately scorned a part in the larger affairs of the kingdom and been deemed too notorious for its wickedness to be trusted with one. what was to become of the estate on her demise was a matter of supreme indifference to her - though she was of too somnolent a disposition to be a spendthrift and bankrupt it - and as she had no near relations - neither uncle, nor aunt nor cousin - to encourage her to marry and continue the line she made not the slightest pretense of being anything but indifferent. later, when i had become her confidant - or at least her companion - i ventured to ask her how the estate had survived the revolution. she was mildly amused by my curiosity, but confessed she had no idea. after musing on it for a minute, she replied, "by pure chance, i suppose, like everything else in this world". she was more amused on a dreary winter afternoon when i asked her if her ancestors had gone on the crusades. she laughed out loud - something she seldom did, although she was hardly ever in a really bad humor - and exclaimed, "the crusades! what a question! the child talks to animals, and wishes to know about the crusades! what a prodigy!" as she hardly ever mocked me, but usually listened to my childish twaddle with the most serious expression - which in hindsight, i think a fellow adult might have found vacant - i was particularly stung, and blushed and did not answer, but made a pretense of attending to the low fire. my notions of the crusades, like most of my notions of the world outside the chateau and its grounds , i had absorbed from the good charles and his equally pious sister berthe, the chateau's cook - both of whom i shall describe in more detail as i proceed. at the time of my first memories of her - when i must have been three years old - mademoiselle would have been about twenty-three but looked at least twice that (even allowing for a child's notions of age). she took little care of her dress, and even of her hair - a major preoccupation of high-born and even bourgeois women of the period - and had a wardrobe hardly more varied than that of charles or berthe. she liked to eat, but even that not to excess, and often dispensed with dinner altogether as a "bore". but she was very fond of little strawberry cream cakes that berthe would make for her, and stuffed her face with them at all hours of the day and night. as her pet i found myself subsisting on them too, and grew to loathe the sight of the things and indeed of all sweets - a loathing which would stand me in good stead in later life, to be sure. the pen trembles in my blue-veined hand. tomorrow i shall describe in more detail the scandalous behaviors of my benefactress, but i will close by mentioning the trait of hers which more than any other discomfited her aristocratic neighbors and made her company less than ardently desired by them - that she did not play whist. 3. a wise child

the adventures of pandora paddington, gentlewoman - 2: a son of the wind

by laurene de lampeduse

illustrated by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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mr paddington having gone for his fateful walk - the fatefulness of which had not yet been made manifest - the routine of his establishment was little disturbed. the rain continued to fall. perhaps sal, desultorily chopping a potato for the evening meal, yawned a little wider than usual as she did so. perhaps bill bikes, with a slight premonition of the changes about to be made to his comfortable existence, sat a little closer to the fire as he stuffed his master's best tobacco in his pipe. but perhaps not. in any case their reveries were broken by a loud banging on the kitchen's back door. neither bill nor sal moved to answer it. it continued. "are you going to open the door, my lady?" "no, are you?" the pounding continued for a while. then it stopped, and only the rain beating on the window could be heard. bill stared at the door. "he'll be back." "indeed he will." "he will be back with a stick, to half break the door down. "that's a fact." "maybe we should just let him in." "you always do." "not always." the perspicacious reader may have deduced from the brevity of this dialogue that it was one long practiced and often repeated. "if you are so keen to let him in," sal contnued, "go open the door and call him back." but bill did not move. "maybe it wasn't dennis." "it was dennis." bill now had the pipe filled to his liking. he took a piece of straw off the floor and stuck it in the fireplace. he was lighting the pipe with the burning straw when the pounding on the door began again, louder than before. "didn't take him long to find a stick." bill did not answer, being occupied in lighting the pipe. the pounding continued, and with a sigh, sal put down her knife and went to the door. it opened with a fearful creak, letting in the wind, the rain, a foully blackened bowler hat, and a mass of patched clothing brandishing a stick. sal dodged the stick and roughly pushed the mass of clothing aside. "no need to be so loud, dennis. you know we'll let you in, you're more bother out than in." she closed the door, which groaned even louder than when it had been opened. "where's me seat?" "on the floor," bikes answered. "where it always is." dennis pushed his bowler up a notch on his head, revealing a bit of smashed red nose and face. "i thought yez was getting me a chair. when i was last here, yer said yez was getting me a chair." he looked around the four corners of the kitchen. "oh?" sal went back to her table and resumed her chopping. "i don't think so." "yez was getting an old chair of the master's, especially for me." bikes laughed. "that must have been in some other great house you come around and sponge in. not here." "and what other 'great house' is there, i ask you? this is the only 'great house' in thirty miles around of bog." "what's thirty miles to you, eh?" bikes answered. "a traveling man like you? i thought you went to the north pole and back every day." "only with the wind at me back, and only in a manner of speaking." dennis began to sit down in front of the fireplace. "here, here," cried bikes. "not so close to the fire, you will use up the warmth. over by the window, if you please." "but there is rain coming through the window." "not so much as all that. and you needn't sit directly under it, you know. make yourself comfortable. "ahh - but before i make meself comfortable maybe i could have a drop - just the weest of wee drops - to warm my insides." "a drop!" exclaimed bikes. "why, we thought you was bringing the drops with you!" "yes," added sal. "why do you think we let you in?" "we thought you had a bottle of malt, at least, on your person," bikes went on. "do you mean to tell us there is nothing under those rags but your misshapen and unwashed body?" "ah, yer a fine couple of wits, yez are. a fine couple of wits." dennis took a small handful of the straw that the window was stuffed with and spread it on the floor. "yer should be ornamenting and lighting up a drawing room in fair dublin city, not tormenting a poor bard and son of the wind by a low fire in the middle of the devil's own bog." he lowered himself down on the straw he had spread beside the window. "in a manner of speaking." "myself, i don't speak in a manner of speaking," bikes answered. "i'm a plain-spoken englishman, i am, and i speak my mind, with no manner about it." and he laughed at his own wit and waved his pipe. "bully for you, squire, bully for you." "well, dennis," said sal, "now that you are here, do you have any news?" "no, what news would i have? the world is going to hell, but that's no news." "you bogtrotters," said bikes. "always complaining. you'd complain if someone beat you with a brand new stick." "here," said sal. "this will stop your gob for a while." and she tossed dennis half of a potato, which he caught smartly. "for sure, this isn't the best piece of a potato i've ever seen." "why do you think i gave it to you?" dennis turned the potato over in his hand. "maybe i will make a poem about it - the song of the bad potato." "no, dennis, no!" sal cried, and bikes nodded. "we have told you before! we will let you in here sometimes. we might throw you a scrap, let you sit in front of the fire, even give you a drink. but we draw the line -" "indeed!" added bikes. "we will not listen to your poems." "oh, that's a hard condition, mistress, for a son of the wind like meself. a hard condition - it strikes at my very soul." "hard cheese." the wind rattled the window, and a bit of the rain of seeped through and ran down the wall. 3. the wicked king

the awakening of a silly girl - 3. franz

by victorine de valois

illustrated by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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dora was filled with an overwhelming foreboding as she walked up the steps of the administration building with adelaide, and they approached the massive doors. "have you ever been here before?" she asked adelaide. "yes, i came here to get my servant's papers when i first started to work." dora pushed at the right hand door, and it swung open easily and noiselessly. they stepped into a surprisingly small foyer. there were no signs or signs of life in it, just another set of doors, made mostly of impenetrably dark glass. the front door swung closed smoothy behind them, shutting out the morning light and leaving them in shadow, with only a little dust-moted light coming through the glass doors, which adelaide now pushed open. they did not open quite as smoothly as the first set of doors had. a narrow staircase loomed in front of them. corridors on either side of the staircase faded away into long rows of closed doors with small glass panes and smaller brass name plates. there were no people in sight. "i seem to remember, " said adelaide, "that it was a little more lively when i was here before. at least there was someone you could ask directions of." they heard a voice behind them. "looking for directions, missus? i would be happy to assist you." dora and adelaide turned. a ragged little person with a bat-like face looked up at them, with his thumbs hooked aggressively in his vest. it was not clear to them whether he was a small boy or a midget. adelaide stared down at him. "are you here in an official capacity? your dress would indicate to me that you are not." "no, missus, i am not. i am an independent operator." adelaide looked around and down one of the corridors. "are there no officials here to guide us? when i was last here there seemed to be an abundance of such personages." "ah, but you must have been here in the old days, missus. things have changed. this is the modern age now, and you have independent operators such as myself to deal with." "you do not say. tell me, have things changed so much that there is no longer a marriage bureau in the building, where this young lady can obtain a license for her scheduled nuptials?" "well as to that, missus, i couldn't say. i couldn't rightly say. there may be a marriage bureau and there may not. but i can help you look for it. for a price, of course." adelaide laughed. "for a price! i think not. come, dora, we will find our own way. who knows, the marriage bureau may be just around the corner." "it is easy to get lost in here, missus - " "stop calling me missus. it is fraulein, or mademoiselle , if you please." "that's as may be, miss - fraulein, but everything has its price. why, i daresay i could get a good price for you, and an even better one for the young lady here, if i were to offer you to the turk - " "what sort of talk is that!" and adelaide smacked the little person on his ear, causing him to shout in a manner to echo down the corridors. "here, what is all this? what is going on here?" a tall, gaunt figure emerged from the gloom of the corridor behind the would-be guide. an old man with bags under his eyes and wearing a gray suit that looked even older than himself looked down at the guide and then at adelaide. "this creature has insulted us, " adelaide replied evenly. "tell me, are you in charge here, sir?" "i am in charge of what i am in charge of," the old man replied. "well then, can you direct us to the marriage bureau?" "i am afraid that is not at all my responsibility or my function. our friend franz here is quite a good guide, you could do worse than retain him, especially as there seem to be no others about." "i am afraid your franz has insulted us, insulted us most grievously." adelaide glared at franz, who was still rubbing his head with a piteous expression on his face. "well, his manners might not pass muster at the court of the kaiserin or the empress eugenie, but he can take you where you want to go - or at least make an honest effort." "an honest effort!" "who can do ought else?" "he talked of selling us to the turk! what sort of talk is that?" "the turk pays in honest coin, mademoiselle, not in this damnable paper money." "do you know," adelaide replied. "i think we have had quite enough of this place, which is not at all as i remembered it - " "all things change, mademoiselle," the old man answered. "this is the modern age." "no doubt. but i think we shall take our leave, and ponder the ramifications of modernity in more congenial surroundings." at this franz laughed, and the old man shook his head sorrowfully. "i am afraid you have come about your business, mademoiselle, now you must go about your business." "really? are you saying we may not leave?" "no, you may not. what sort of business would it be, if people came to do their business, and then did not do their business? i ask you." "and if i were to push or pull at the doors behind me?" "they would not open." "i see. and if we find the marriage bureau and - do our business, as you so forthrightly put it, then the doors will open?" "they will indeed, though perhaps without the sound of trumpets." "i see." adelaide looked up the staircase. "well then, i think we will try the upper floors first. perhaps we shall find a little more light up there." "as you wish, mademoiselle. but i tell you you are making a mistake not hiring a guide." "we will take our chances. may i ask your name, sir?" "certainly. it is manfred, herr manfred. my office is first on the right, in the corridor behind me. drop by, if you like, on your way out, and give me an account of your adventures. they might prove amusing." at this franz gave a surprisingly hearty laugh, which caused dora to shudder. "so, " said adelaide to herr manfred, "you are in charge after all, sir." "i am in charge of what i am in charge of. no more and no less." 4. the staircase

the witches - 3. a digression and a dream

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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there are perhaps no subjects which have so exercised the imagination of fearful humanity, and about which so much has been written, and so little known, as witches and witchcraft. those learned authorities who have pondered and studied the subjects, and discoursed and written on them at length, begin by disagreeing, in the most extreme manner, on the extent that they have ever existed. the learned friar h-------------, resident scholar of the abbey of p----------, in the century of otto the great, averred confidently, not only that witchcraft has existed in all human societies since adam and eve were banished from the garden, but that as many as seventy-five percent of all eve's daughters have been initiates of the dark arts since that event (an event the culpability for which he ascribes entirely to adam's unfortunate helpmate). the modern reader, heir to what he perceives as centuries of "enlightenment", will no doubt smile at the monk's conclusions, and might smile even more, if he were to take the time to peruse his arguments, derived about equally from scripture and from the recorded lives of such heroes as alexander and charlemagne. the most opposite, and most aggressively argued opposite view is found, somewhat surprisingly, not in the most recent scholarship, which tends to the view that belief at least fostered some attempt to justify the beliefs, but from the perhaps unjustifiably obscure writings of the erudite abbess s------------, a contemporary of gervase of tilbury and rudolf von ems, who took the stance that the very notion of the black arts was a canard to be ascribed to the sages of the early christian era, particularly the "pagans" who sought to question the validity of the new society coming into being under the twin aegises of the church fathers, and constantine and his imperial successors. a modern reader, thinking from my description to find a kindred spirit in this learned lady, should be forewarned that no small part of her arguments derive from the study of astrology, which was just then beginning to be reintroduced into europe from the moorish world. i have briefly sketched the two most opposing views. the most notable aspect of the cacaphony of intermediate views may not be their divergence or their multitudiousness, but their dispersion over the whole terrain of recorded human existence. the witch is young or old, a woman of the country or the town or the forest or the desert, the woman in the next cottage or the follower in the train of the invading army, she is in possession of the most terrifying powers or the most trivial, but she is everywhere, or somewhere, in every time. the ferocious were-wolf, the insatiable vampire, the ghastly zombie, and the dread leopard-man, among others, have had their local fear and fame in various corners of the globe and odd stretches on the track of time, but perhaps only the ghost can rival the witch in the lore and belief of all peoples and eras. in conclusion it must be noted, that in this as in so many other subjects, the most confirmed skeptics often pass by in silent contempt, not deigning to spend their allotted time on earth arguing beliefs that seem to them beneath notice. *** reader, we apologize for this digression, which says both too much and too little. the dust emanating from the corners of our library has no doubt affected our brain and caused us to imagine ourself possessing some little authority on this elusive subject. we return to our story, where we left the old soldier probus on the dark road in quest of father propertius, whom he sought in order to administer the last rites to his old master barentius. the laughter of the three women he had encountered faded away behind him as he hurried down the road to mother ariana's, where he hoped to find the cleric. if not there, he would have to try the church, where the priest would surely be asleep. as he hurried his aged frame along as best he could, guilt and fear went back and forth in his mind like wind and waves. guilt - at having fallen asleep by the side of the road, thereby endangering his chance of finding father propertius in time to give barentius the last consolations - perhaps putting the very soul of barentius in jeopardy? fear - of the three women behind him , who had answered exactly to the most common description of witches - one young and beautiful, two old and wizened - the third indeed, old beyond description. the fear gradually overcame the guilt. he had difficulty imagining his masters soul but the three witches had been there before him - they could have reached out and touched him! was that their laughter - the laughter, in particular, of the young one - that he still heard? no, it was only the wind in the trees. suddenly he remembered the dream he had had before awakening. he had been walking alone down a dark road much like this one - or was it the road to the capital city - or the road to heaven - or the road back to the forest where he had been born? unlike this road, though, it had had a light at the end of it - a light now golden, now red, blazing brightly, but without lighting up the darkness around it. and without growing larger or smaller as he approached. in the dream he passed a dark building made of rain. and the rain spoke to him in a language he did not understand. he passed another building on the opposite side of the road. the building was made of wind, and it laughed at him. he came to a third building, low and round, on the same side of the road as the first, made of blue flame. and the blue flame spoke one word to him - the word was blown away by the wind. the light in the distance went out. three forms appeared on the road before him. and then he had awakened. or had he? was he dreaming now? the three women - had he really seen them? or just dreamed them? in the center of the dark road, in the shadows beside it - what did he see now? and did he hear laughter? 4. celia