The Orb & Ward Asper

By Bynum Westmoreland

The Orb & Ward Asper (1st book of series) combines reality, delightful fantasy, and childhood mayhem. It is the compelling story of Asper, a child made parentless by the cruel act of a prison wagon’s guard, annoyed by the child’s crying. His parents, known as the Falconers, watch the guard hurl their swaddling bundle toward a raging river with no apparent chance of rescue and for their king has forever relegated them to the prison colony as Indentured Slaves.
Unknown to them, a mighty Saker falcon plucks the bundle from the river’s rocky shore and flies away to lay the infant in her nest. Attended by pixie women, the baby sleeps until the free-spirited Lady Gadabout retrieves the child. She delivers him to the less-than-pious nuns of the abbey, ruled by the self-coronated Priest King Trapunto and Queen Nunsin, formerly the village’s teenage tramp.
The infant lives, and grows up as ward of King Trapunto and Queen Nunsin. Early on, Asper is aware that he can change his face at will. One day, the seven-year-old boy astonishes the women of the royal household by contorting his face to appear identical to their precious Princess Giddy, who is five and in puppy love with the ward Asper.
Grasping the potential of Asper’s unique talent, Queen Nunsin formally adopts him, so that at critical events she can order him to alter his face and stand in for her two-years-older son Prince Dullard, whom all judge to be stupid, rash and cruel, thereby advancing her precious Dullard as the ideal heir to the throne.
Lucid dreams plague Asper, telling of his ‘real parents’ in the penal colony. He resolves to seek them when mature, and so grows up driven to explore. This lures him to travel widely with a Gypsy caravan, to living among the feared swamp people, to learning to sail and to navigate. The mayhem of his return inspires the eleven-year old Princess Giddy to shout her welcome, telling all that one day she will snare the Abbey’s ward as ‘her man.’

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483564487

Book preview

-

WINTER - The SEASON for PLANTING

With Death Looming, Hero’s Future Ushered in!

The guard riding at the rear of the prison wagon snatched the crying baby - swaddling clothes and all - from the arms of his mother and without remorse or delay flung the tiny bundle over his shoulder. He ignored the infant’s flight as it soared across the road, and landed over the edge on a mat of thick ivy, wet and green from the winter rains. The tiny bundle bounced down the bank and finally came to rest beside the torrents of the Solo River. The baby stopped so close to the angry waves that spray from its crest wet the child’s face like the mist from a priest’s wand, exciting the infant still tightly wrapped to laughing with gleeful delight.

The mother had tried to quiet her crying child for the driver had shouted at her repeatedly to Shut that damn kid’s mouth! She knew the baby was hungry; she felt the loving chill of the milk seeping from her nipples. Custom kept her from baring her breast in the presence of a man other that her husband and so she cuddled and rocked, trying anxiously to reason with her tiny infant. Her husband, The Falconer, encouraged her to feed the child, insisting she cover herself with a blanket. Mrs. Falconer shook her head, ‘No!’ and smiled kindly at her husband.

People riding in this ox pulled wagon with a cage-like cover were destined for an area known as the Penal Farms. Granted, they were convicted prisoners. However, they were not thieves or killers or burglars or hard-core felons. Most were debtors, having accrued obligations that they could not pay. Some were repeat pickpockets or shop lifters. Others had angered their king and been banished to the colony, as was the case with this couple, known as the Falconers. They carried with them only a small satchel with a change of clothes and a few small utensils. The arresting constable had vowed to deliver within the week several large boxes of personal items the couple had selected from their total belongings and carefully packed.

Once in the valley’s Penal Colony, a newly arrived Indentured Slave would receive a small plot of tillable land, which was just large enough for a garden, a small cottage, chickens, a cow, a horse and tools. The wife would maintain the home, the garden and the domestic animals. The husband would take the title of Indentured Slave and work on a large farm. Single people found themselves pared, forming a two-person team, an event greatly needed for success in this remote farming commune. Indentured Slaves worked long arduous days. On the positive side, their masters usually treated them fairly for these masters or their ancestors also had once been Indentured Slaves. Therefore, the new arrivals lived only relatively less well than their masters did. The landowner would pay him fairly for his labor and sent a portion to the Slave’s creditor or in this case, the king. Under these conditions, the Falconers would grub out a living.

In the Penal Colony, (aka: Penal Valley) there were no guards because none were needed. This penal colony occupied a large remote valley, surrounded by the Grand Kipper Mountains. These were snowcapped, year round. Only an experience mountain climber could survive the brutal trek across. The valley had only one entrance; that was through the East Brutal Gorge, a distance of over two leagues. A river flowed through this narrow gorge draining the many springs and creeks flowing from the mountains and through the fertile land of the valley. Alongside the river ran a road: narrow and winding, often fording the river. At each end of the gorge was a securing gate, blocking the road. Sentries guarded both gates night and day. Inhabitants of the Penal Colony accepted their plight and survived, some prospered for this valley was the most fertile land of the entire region.

Hearing the commotion behind him, the young driver did not bother to turn his head, not that he could for his neck was thicker than his huge jaws. His eyes stayed fixed on the muddy road, rutted from the multitude of wagon wheels that travel this treacherous road in winter, now trying to subside into spring. The king charged the driver of the ox-pulled cart with delivering these ‘criminals’ to a certain area of the penal farms. The lone guard, who walked behind, carried a club made of the thorny limb of a Monkey Tree and affixed with a leather handle. He guarded the ‘criminals’ in the wagon and kept them quiet.

After throwing the swaddling-wrapped baby, he laughed wildly at his vile act, sneered at the helpless mother who shouted, cried and cursed all at once, until she was gasping for breath. Her husband tried to calm her as he shouted for the driver to stop the team and for the trailing guard to fetch the child from the river. From the low wooden bench the terrified mother leapt to her feet, crashing her head against the wagon’s canopy. This failed effort ejected her violently to the floor. She screamed and lunged for the flimsy gate, shoving and shaking mightily, and then thrown backward by the shifting motion of the wagon, she lunged again, even more violently.

Unknown to its anxious parents, the baby pressed firmly against a rock, giggled excitedly from the water’s spraying on his face. When their child’s cries had abruptly stopped, the mother collapsed, knowing in her heart that the river had swallowed her infant, and that he had plunged downstream over the waterfall where she and her husband had played when teenagers.

- - -

And so who trains the Falcon?

The child’s father, The Falconer, was the regional champion for training and hunting with the mighty Saker Falcon. This was a huge bird originally of the wild who dominated as the prime predator. A Saker’s wingspan could approach six hand spans. Yet, from practicing selective breeding, first Falconer’s grandfather and then his father had bred Saker Falcons with wingspan, half again that wide. These hybrids birds could fly away with prey larger than a cat.

Saker Falcons are grassland raptors and prefer a terrain with scattered trees or steep cliffs. This game bird usually hunts by horizontal pursuit, swooping low to catch its prey while still undetected. It feeds mainly on rodents, small birds, ground squirrels, feral pigeons and the young of other predators. The hen falcon builds no nest of her own but lays 3-6 eggs in an old stick nest on a cliff or in a tree, previously used by other birds such as storks, ravens or buzzards. Hunting territory can extend five leagues beyond the nest site with the parents working together to feed the fledglings.

On this fateful day, the female of the pair was circling widely, neither catching prey nor returning to feed a nest of hungry young. Her mate had died from wounds received in combat with a rival male falcon. Once the youthful but vicious rival had claimed mating rites, she had turned on him, chasing him beyond the horizon. He fled her wrath never to return, leaving her alone to lay and hatch the eggs, then protect and feed her brood.

This hen falcon had robbed a huge vulture of its nest built atop an ancient tree. There she had laid three eggs, sat on them for days going without food for long periods. The eggs hatched producing three actively hungry beaks begging for food. Without a mate to share the duties of hunting, feed and especially of protecting the breed, she had lost her three chicks to a marauding eagle while away hunting for food. Now alone, nurturing instinct ruled her.

The female falcon was unaware of the curse put upon Falconer as he and his wife and baby were loaded into the wagon destined for the penal farms. She was also unaware that Priest King Trapunto so resented Falconer beating him in the winter hunting events that he declared Falconer as ‘An Undesirable,’ and banished him and his family from his kingdom, known as the Realm. Falconer, his father and grandfather had won the ‘Hunting-with-falcons’ Event most every year for a half century. It was their life’s work, their hobby and their passion. They selectively bred the Saker Falcons, always seeking the largest, the most intelligent, the most aggressive, and the strongest.

Falconer had bred and trained this superb hen falcon. In her own way, she felt a fierce loyalty to him, partly from the rigid training but mostly, however, because he had fed her the hot liver from any game that she retrieved for him.

As the female falcon circled, she saw the baby thrown from the wagon and watched it virtually fly like a kindred spirit, coming to rest beside the violent river. Then with an insight superior to her breed but with an instinct bound in the core of all females, she dived to the bundle aside the rushing waters, and without a pause in flight, grasped the swaddling bundle with her finger-long talons, and flew. And flew she did with progress slow, ever so slow for the weight exceeded any that she had ever lifted. Flying in large circles, she slowly gained altitude. After an hour of supreme effort, she reached and settled heavily upon the stick nest that was now hers. The child still tightly wrapped tightened in swaddling clothes was destine to lie fitfully through the long cold the night, away from his nurturing mother, away from his protective father, and away from any other human care.

- - -

Mother’s Cry and a Father’s Curse!

As the East Brutal Gorge swallowed the fateful wagon, the mother’s cries and the father’s curses, a covey of Pixie women bent to wash their clothes in an eddy of the rushing water. The bundle’s sudden arrival startled them. Leaping, falling and fluttering about and all the while babbling aloud to each other, they rushed to see the now-laughing arrival. It sound most like a boy! a women acclaimed, You check! she laughingly demanded of her friend. Before any gained the nerve to undo the swaddling clothes and peer at the babe’s nudeness, the falcon swooped down, leaving the Pixie women to gaze in wonder at the bird’s struggle, promoting their chatter and triggering the Pixie message network.

In this land, called the Realm by most everyone, Pixies were common and lived wherever they wished. When full grown, they were about as tall as the hand span of a mature woman. All Pixies had tiny wings and flew about, walking only when in tight quarters. Not having a distinct language of their own, they most often spoke the language of the local people where they lived. They were productive as a species, living in comfortable huts and dressing well but sometime eating too plentifully. They had a happy and carefree attitude, and were angered to violence only when severely molested. Normally, their hecklers were limited to impish children who painfully learned to respect the penalty for tormenting the seemingly helpless Pixies. Through generations of living amongst people and animals that were massively larger, Pixies developed a potion that when shot from a spout inflicted a burst of cold fire upon the target. Most Pixies carried a small-jeweled vial of cold fire laced across their chest by a brightly braided cord.

As the falcon with its bundle struggled to gain altitude, a Pixie girl of about twenty sat on the baby’s chest and grasping the swaddling clothes, held on desperately. With wind in her face and with a mixture of abject fear and overwhelming elation in her voice, she shouted to her friends, I go along for the ride. Wish you were here! The other Pixie women cheering wildly, called to her ‘let it be known to Pixies everywhere where the mighty falcon carries this infant boy wrapped as a bundle ready for delivery.’ Their chattering spread through the airways, and heard in a code formed by the many Pixie colonies. Each decoded reply told the same message, When we know of his resting place, we will come to care for him!

- - -

Eyes from Tree & Words from Parrot!

Another pair of eyes watched the Penal Colony’s wagon in the far distance, traveling the East Brutal Gorge. However, she was too far away to hear the crying of the baby or to see the child’s plunge down the ivy-covered bank to lie giggling beside the Solo River. She was much too far away to hear fading sobs of the distraught mother as the oxen pulled wagon lumbered along the muddy road.

Sadly, she watched the penal wagon and at the great distance saw the events. As always, seeing the closed wagon with its human cargo troubled her. Unhappily, she was powerless to disrupt a system that had existed for decades.

Feeling yet another pang of sorrow for the condemned and watching the wagon disappear from sight, she returned to gathering wild honey. Seeking the natural honey that perilously waited in a beehive affixed to a tree’s upper limbs was the chore that Lady Gadabout had selected for this sunny day in late winter. Then after searching for an hour, she located a gnarled Locust tree, recalling that a beehive existed in the tree’s upper branches. At the tree’s base, she lit fire to a bundle of dry grass she had collected and wet with water so it would not flame up. Then when the bundle was smoldering, she zealously climbed the Locus tree and veiled the hive with the cool smoke; this daze the bees into submission.

While in the treetop and waiting for the bees to quiet, she rested to enjoy the mountain scenery in the distance and the gentle breeze blowing around her.

Lady Gadabout’s parrot Bycrackie traveled with her on many diverse ventures. On this trip and fearing an attack by angry bees, the bird flew away toward the rapids of the Solo River. When it was only a short distance from the rapidly flowing water, the parrot watched the mighty Saker Falcon struggle to rise airborne with its bundled baby and Pixie hitchhiker.

Several minutes later Lady Gadabout noted the falcon flying toward her and its struggle to gain altitude. Having watched a similar scene countless times, she barely glanced, assuming the bird carried a large fish. Only the hushed sounds of flapping wings came from the falcon as it flew overhead. Unknown to her, the Pixie girl had calmed the baby to sleeping.

The dull droning of bees recouping from the smoke, alerted her to return to fill an earthen jar with a portion of the honey. At this time of year, she was cautious to take less than a third of the total from the hive for the bees would need the rest to feed their colony until new flowers were available for nectar and a new batch of honey produced.

With the falcon in the distance and forgotten, she was startled when Bycrackie zoomed in, lit on her shoulder, chattering so excitedly that Lady Gadabout grasped the bird’s hooked beak between her fingers and scolded, Talk slowly, you befuddled beast.

Baby in blanket wrap! Falcon grabbed in big claws. Bycrackie gasped for breath, Big Falcon fly far away with baby. Look there, you see! Another gasp, Girl Pixie rides on baby!

Yes, yes, falcon are all the time diving into the river and flying away with fish. Lady Gadabout untied her rope harness, freeing her from the tree to begin the downward climb and said to the parrot, I saw the falcon climb slowly; I thought it might give up and drop the fish.

Not fish! Not fish! Bycrackie charged, Baby in blanket! Falcon’s claws hold baby bundle! Yet another gasp came and then, Pixie ride with baby! Pixies will help! Another gasp for air, Lady G, go fast! Fetch baby from evil falcon!

A baby! But are you sure? I saw the giant Saker Falcon struggle to bring its burden airborne and fly mightily. Shooing the Bycrackie from her shoulder, Lady Gadabout repeated, Falcon carries a baby child! Are you quite sure? The parrot’s flustered voice excitedly affirmed, ‘Yes!’

Plunging down the multi-trunk tree to the forest floor, Lady Gadabout lifted her flowing skirt and sprinted toward home. As her fatigue set in, she slowed to a jogging pace and arrived at her cabin a full league’s distance away, highly elated but sorely exhausted.

With a gasp, she screeched for Bycrackie, who trailed behind. The parrot lit on her left shoulder, screeching a crude imitation of its mistress, swirled its feathered head in a motion of mock confusion and grasped the Lady’s ear with its hooked ebony beak. Fussing, it released the flesh and uttered, What now me Lady G? We go for baby! Right? But food first? With its question hanging, Bycrackie calmly flew to a tree limb and settled to preening its bright blue and gold feathers, muttering feral sounds and garbled words without meaning.

Baby! Lady Gadabout gasped. She wrung her hands and wiped sweat from her eyes.

Yes mum, what of yonder babe there? Bycrackie replied with a language talent, which rivaled many peasants of the region. Its voice was raspy from screeching and naturally course. It came in short bursts between breaths. Though its thoughts were clearly valued and useful, its chosen words were more akin to the illiterate peasant than to the learned scholar.

Unless you are lying to me about there being a crying baby fetched from the riverside, we must follow the falcon to first find and then retrieve the baby. She wagged her finger at the fluttering bird and said, Find the Sisters Taxi and tell them that they have been selected for a venture close to the heart of all true women, then scolding herself, she muttered, I should have sent you for the taxi when we left the tree. Bycrackie spun her ruffled head near half way round and squawked, suggesting she found Lady Gadabout’s words inflated. Never mind my words; you just fly and fetch the Sisters Taxi. Be about it!

After stopping at her crockery bowl to sup water and eat a few sunflower seeds, Bycrackie soared skyward and began flying in an enlarging spiral. Her constant squawking divulged this pattern. Sensing confusion, Lady Gadabout exited her house and shook a stick at the parrot, shouting for the bird to hurry away and return with the sisters.

As she watched her pet of many years fly away, she thought about their time together and how she had fed the tiny ball of fluff after watching a hawk zoom down and carry away the little one’s mother. She had moved the baby parrot, still in its nest to the rafters of her low shed, housing firewood and tools. Many times each day, she carried bits of meat to the infant bird and watched its eager beak open wide and gulp down the morsel.

Feeling foolish, she had talked to the small bird as if it were a human infant. Three years past and the newly named, Bycrackie was full-grown. As is common with their breed, this green parrot freely imitated Lady Gadabout words, often to distraction. Lady Gadabout listened and ignored at the same time. Surprisingly one day when they were visiting a farmer, Bycrackie flew through the open door and into the cabin, shrieking, Farmer man hurt! Farmer man hurt!

Startled, Lady Gadabout and the farmer’s wife looked up and with hesitation responded to the parrot’s insistent words, then followed it to the barn where the farmer lay, groaning. After helping the injured man to his bed and tending to his wound, Lady Gadabout innocently asked, Bycrackie, how did you know he was hurt?

Again startling both women, Bycrackie with garbled words said, Big man lay on floor. He moaned. He call for help. I go fetch you. Good, good Lady G come and do good for man. The parrot had gasped for breath between each sentence but her meaning was clear. She was able to talk and more importantly, she was able to observe and tell what she saw. Bycrackie was smarter than most birds of her species, being able to talk logically rather than just mimicking the words they heard. No one knew how she had acquired this ability. Some claimed it came from living with Pixies when she was young. Others accused her of being a Pixie, now disguised as a parrot. Everyone tolerated Pixies as a way of life. Most people recognized them as being smart as people but far craftier.

Bycrackie continued flying enlarging circles until she spotted the two sisters lounging beside a bubbling pool of water heated by hot springs flowing from limestone cliffs which rumor claimed hid caves where either or both Feral Pixies and bizarre demons lived. However, no one had ever seen either Feral Pixies or bizarre demons, or if they had, they had not report it.

Swooping in and perching on the handle of their lunch basket, Bycrackie helped herself to several exposed morsels of grain. Her hunger satisfied, she imitated Lady Gadabout, Be it known to the both of you. She paused, You are hereby summoned to…Another pause, To couple yourselves together into taxi form. Pause. The Lady Gadabout wishes once again to ride all about! Pause. To do great good for a baby lost!"

Oh, goody! Hindsister cried, We are on the way once again to do great good for all tiny babies everywhere! Her next words faded; then she questioned, Doing what great good? For Baby lost! What baby?

Hush Hindsister, ordered Foresister, If you would stop your incessant chattering, perhaps this motley parrot will tell us. She looked sternly at her smaller sibling, and then scolded, Must you always be sucking on that vile straw? Everywhere she went, Hindsister carried a long polished silver beaker filled with a liquid of her own concoction and supped from it near-continually through a straw made from the hollow sapling of an Umbrella bamboo tree.

With garbled words coming in short bursts, Bycrackie told the details of seeing the baby tossed to lie beside the river, seeing the falcon fly away with the bundle and of Lady Gadabout’s quest to rescue the baby from the giant Saker Falcon.

The sisters argued heatedly about the wisdom of accepting this ‘common’ gig, eluding to the possibility, even if even so ever slight, that their taxi might be call into service at a moment’s notice to cartage the beloved Priest King Trapunto or perhaps to carry his child bride, known as Queen Nunsin. With the awareness that the sun would soon set, they agreed, If we rush over to Lady Gadabout’s place right now, she will want to leave ‘Right Now’ and we will spend this long night, sleeping on a rock in the dark forest without food or shelter or a warm blanket. The two had experienced memorable ventures, hauling Lady Gadabout around the countryside. They were familiar with her impulsive nature. Conspiring to avoid a night in the forest, the sisters ambled slowly, planning to arrive at Lady Gadabout’s home at dusk.

- - -

Man’s Fist and Woman’s Scorn!

The gate crashed shut behind them. The ox drawn cart move another hundred strides past the gate; its path blocked by two vigilante gatekeepers dressed in thick leather uniforms, that were wrapped with wide leather belts, showing a fighting sword fixed in a scabbard and thin fighting knives in the lacing. Their expression was firm and formidable.

One gatekeeper walked to the oxcart and around it, ordered the trailing guard to unstrap the cage’s door. The belligerent guard obeyed. Falconer and Mrs. Falconer emerged. Then with a single step forward toward the senior gatekeeper, Falconer announced, I am called Falconer from the land of Realm. This is my legally betrothed wife. We are your new Indentured Slaves. We did not ask to come here. We do not ask to live here but here we are. We shall be the best and most willing of inmates.

The vigilante gatekeeper stepped back a half pace and muttered a garbled greeting. Then Falconer turned and moved quickly toward the guard that had followed the wagon through the gorge. Without words or warning, Falconer struck one mighty blow against the guard’s nose, snapping his head backward; his nose seemingly pressed against his cheek. Grasping his face in both hands, now being flooded with his own fluids, the guard screamed the sounds of a defeated man and tumbled to the dusty road. As he fell, the club of thorns he had proudly held in his calloused fist leapt airborne as if propelled by a magical force. Before the weapon plunged to the dusty road, Mrs. Falconer leapt forward and grasped it with her extended fist. While screaming her rage at the guard, she beat him unmercifully with his own club, her arm lifting and plunging to inflict pain repeatedly against his quaking body.

Falconer wheeled to ward off the vigilante gatekeeper but to his surprise, the younger gatekeeper did not move; he just stared, his head jutting forward in wonder and amazement. The older gatekeeper calmly leaned against a fence post, removed a roll of dark leaves from his shirt pocket, then calmly lit them, puffed the smoke and calmly asked Falconer, Did I hear you wife shout that the fool on the ground getting his brains beat out tossed her child from the wagon to drown in the Solo River? Falconer nodded.

The three men continued watching, refusing to stop Mrs. Falconer’s tirade either from agreement with her or from awe of her brazenness or in fear of her wrath or all. Finally, with the guard lying on his face and begging for mercy, she retreated and fell into her husband’s open arms. My love, he whispered, my love, what you did is all right. He deserved it."

The senior vigilante gatekeeper called to his younger assistant, saying, Help me throw this worthless scum into the wagon! Together they lifted the battered guard and tossed him roughly onto the oxcart’s rough bed. The older gatekeeper shook his clinched fist at the driver who had remained seated, Get this scum the hell out of my valley!

Sir, the driver pleaded, He may die of his wounds before we pass through the gorge. He waited for the gatekeeper’s reply; it did not come; so the driver pled, There is too little light before night to get through the gorge.

"Then you die with that scum that lies on his