Twitch: The Foundling's Quest

By TBD

Twitch: The Foundling's Quest is a Dickensian novel made relevant to readers of the 21st century. In the mid-19th century, Malcolm, who is afflicted with Tourette's Syndrome and fostered at an impoverished Surrey farm, is returned to the London Foundling Ho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ralph F Smith Writer
• Release date: Sep 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737907428

TBD

Patsy Stanley is an artist, illustrator and author and a mother, grandmother and great grandmother. She has authored both nonfiction and fiction books including novels, children's books, energy books, art books, and more. She can reached at:[e-mail] for questions and comments.

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TWITCH: THE FOUNDLING’S QUEST

TWITCH: THE FOUNDLING’S QUEST

Ralph F. Smith

TWITCH: The Foundling’s Quest

Copyright © 2021Ralph F. Smith

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Portions of this book are works of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Ralph F. Smith

554 O’Connor Street

Ottawa, ON, Canada

ISBN: 978-1-7379074-0-4 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7379074-1-1 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-7379074-2-8 (eBook)

Contents

Chapter One: 8

Secrets, 1833-34

Chapter Two: 40

Sorrows,1834-40

Chapter Three: 76

Abyss, 1840-47

Chapter Four: 128

Away, 1847

Chapter Five: 156

Fever, 1847

Chapter Six: 178

Hades, 1847

Chapter Seven: 192

Quarrels, 1848-49

Chapter Eight: 214

Mermaid, 1849

Chapter Nine: 232

Medium, 1850-51

Chapter Ten: 244

Dark Days, 1852

Chapter Eleven: 260

Light, 1852-55

Acknowledgement 265

Dedication

For my dear wife, Nuala

Chapter One

Secrets, 1833-34

The others were right. It was the devil who made him blink and scrunch his face. And it was getting worse.

It started in July, just after his fifth birthday.  Fingers inside him pushed and squeezed. He tried to flatten his face with his hands but the inside fingers were stronger. Devil Face they called him. Mother tried to beat the evil spirit out of him and he had to stay away from his older brother Nigel, who knocked him down and called him freak.

He glanced at his brothers, Gilbert, four, and Franklin, three. They slept in a heap next to him in a chamber so small the bed and wardrobe took up nearly all the space.  They were lucky. They didn’t have devil hands pushing them out of shape.

When the devil finally left his face alone, Malcolm yawned, lay back and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he felt his hands grow clammy. He sat up and pressed his elbows into his sides–he dared not let the devil return!

He threw off the blanket, leapt off the bed, and stood looking out the window, trying to think about anything rather than the devil waking up inside of him. The pigs slept quietly in their pen across the yard. The hens roosting in the scattered hay near the bard door gave off an occasional soft cluck.  No one passed on the road that ran just beyond the barn. Everything outside was quiet.

Just then, the devil’s fingers twisted and wriggled his face again.

Franklin started whimpering. Mother. Please come Mother.

Malcolm turned. His brothers were on the far side of the bed with the blanket drawn around them.  They flinched when he looked at them.  

Mother, Devil-Face is doing it again! Gilbert put his arm around Franklin’s shoulders to soothe him.

Mother tottered in with a candle that lit her scowling face, wispy grey hair escaping her floppy nightcap. What’s this about? What’s amiss?

Gilbert and Franklin pointed at him.

Waking me up in the middle of the night, are you? Mother swatted him on the back of the head, seized his arm and dragged him out to the common room. You’re doing it on purpose, you brat, just when I’m about to have a baby!

His sister Lydia was waiting, holding blankets. She had long dark hair and wore a woman’s black nightgown that hung loosely from her shoulders. In the candlelight, her green eyes sparkled like a cat’s. She winked at Malcolm and he felt a little better.

Lydia, Mother said, you look like a fool wearing that ridiculous nightgown. You had a white one on when I went to bed.

I have a right to wear the clothes Aunt Belinda left to me.

Oh, aye, it’s your right to go around dressed like a widow. May your mother be informed of the dead gentleman’s name you married?

Mother, stop. You’ll wake Father and Nigel.

Mother dropped Malcolm’s arm and gave Lydia a slap. Don’t you tell me to stop. Next you’ll be thinking you‘re a witch like my sister who ought to’ve been locked up in the madhouse. A hundred years ago they would have burned her.

Malcolm cringed. This was all his fault. But how could Lydia  not cry and just stick out her chin at Mother?

To make things worse, Father staggered out of the bedroom in a grey nightshirt and cap. He pulled Mother and Lydia apart, then drifted up to Malcolm like an angry ghost. His breath was like rotting potatoes. The devil was still pushing Malcom’s face about.

Stop making that evil face or I will give you a hiding you will never forget. A runt like you should never have been let near a mother’s teat. When we had cattle, we used to cull calves like you. 

Malcolm’s face scrunched and his eyes blinked. 

Tomorrow I’ll take him back to where he come from, Father said. Just watch me.

What did he mean? Malcolm had seen kittens born, and did Mother have a hole like mother cat that he could be stuffed back into again? 

He’s less than a year to go and we need the coin, Mother said.

And what did that mean? Would the devil kill him in a year?  And pay them to do it?

Never fret, Lydia said.  I will stay out here and keep him quiet.

What! Mother said.  Fine.  He’s yours, and welcome to him.   She dragged away Father, who was having trouble with his balance, blowing out the candle on her way. Her voice came out of the darkness, Be quiet, you two.

After the bedroom doors closed, Lydia lit a candle on a glowing coal in the fire. She spread one blanket on the floor, bunching it up at the end to make a pillow.  Then she took Malcolm by the hand and told him to lie down. She cuddled next to him and pulled the other blanket over them.

I‘ll leave the candle lit until you are sleepy, she said. What happened in there? You can tell me."

But, if he told Lydia about the devil, would she hate him like everyone else?

You need not fear, she said.  Let me guess. You dreamed you killed someone with an axe. That does not mean you did it, you know.

Not a dream. . .it was . . . the devil went in me. 

She sniggered.  I’ve seen enough of you to believe there‘s a spirit inside you, but I do not think it‘s the devil. Even if it is, I can help you. So, calm yourself now.

Could his sister really help him? Her face looked happy and beautiful now, not like the scowl she wore while doing the chores, such as the weekly scrub-down of her three little brothers.

He shakes my face from inside, Malcom said. I’m not the one doing it. It has to be the devil like Mother says.

Well, maybe he just wants to get out?  She glanced at their parents’ bedchamber.  A soft snoring came through the door. I know what we shall do, she whispered. I will try you out as my apprentice and then you may be fixed. Do you agree?"

Yes, please. What’s an apprentice?

An apprentice is someone who learns something from someone else. The teacher could be anybody, someone who makes horseshoes or wooden spoons. She dropped her voice even further.  Or even a witch or a magician.

Which are you?

Well, I don’t make horseshoes. Now, no more time for questions as we both need sleep. Lydia put out the candle, lay down and kissed him. He turned on his side and snuggled back up to her, sensed her breathing and felt her warmth.

Did Mother ever lie with him like this? He could not remember. The floor below was hard but he felt safe.  Even better.  He felt good.

Lydia rose at first light. She put on her white gown from the cupboard where she had hidden it before going out to the barrows to spy on the secret sisters dancing naked under the full moon. She desired to be one of them but she had to wait until she bled and was fifteen. Such luck to get back just in time last night! She groped between her legs, pushed a fingertip inside but there was no blood. Naughty finger, you should be red.

It was not fair that she was alone, reduced to a spy on the sisters, and a slave in her family.

Malcolm poked up his head, gave her a jolly smile. She remembered how good it felt to snuggle him. Everyone else thought he was stupid but she knew he was more intelligent than anyone at his age she had ever met.

She led him outside. Before I make breakfast, we have time for a walk.

He pointed to a black horse out near the barn who was getting a dip in the middle of his back, drooping lips, and greying hairs on his forehead. They petted his head as he munched on moldy hay.

Poor old Stamper. He will have another hard day, Lydia said.

Why?

This afternoon he will be hitched to the stone mill and Father will drive him around until all the apples are ground up . . . why do you look so confused?

The mill?

You have never seen it? I will show you.

She led him to the barn that was in shambles, just like the house. Other farms were becoming the same way. If it were not for the secret sisters, she would run away. If they will not accept her, she will immediately be on the road.

Inside the barn there was a large hanging door made of rotting boards. She got at one end and pushed with all her might, sliding it open enough for the two of them to enter. In the light of a begrimed window they saw a huge round stone inside a wooden tub. The stone had a spoke in it with an old harness attached. There were remains of apple pulp on the ground and the air was sour-sweet.

Stamper has to pull around that heavy stone. Father hits him with a switch if he wants to take a rest.

Why is Father so mean?

It is the way we make cider and earn money. She was forbidden from telling him the other way they made money.

Lydia bent her knees so her eyes were level with the little fellow’s. He already had a lot of knowledge but she could fill him with more. Because you may become my apprentice, I can tell you things that you will tell no one else.

Malcolm reached out to stroke her cheek. His touch was gentle.

Three years ago, Father was hurt in ‘The Swing Riots.’

He fell off a swing?

No. It was a fight against the men who owned a lot of land. They brought in machines to replace workers and they made small farmers like Father pay more money to use the land.

It’s not fair.

No. One of the bullies hit father over the head with a shovel and he has not been the same since. Do you understand?

She expected he did. He said, Poor Father.

She looked down at his scrunching face and the way he screwed up his lips to keep sounds from coming out. The spirit was at work. He did not look away from her in shame the way he did from everyone else. If only she could speak with this spirit and tame it, the secret sisters might judge her powers strong enough to join them early.

Malcolm, when everyone else is asleep, you may come out to the common room. I will read you books that Aunt Belinda gave me. And, I will teach you to read.

He seemed to be trying to smile at her but his scrunching face made that difficult. She lay her hand on his forehead. Such power, such a treasure chest.

A week later, Malcolm wanted to run and hide when Lydia told him he was ready to face a bad witch. He begged her to wait but she insisted, Malcolm, every apprentice needs to go through a trial and today is your turn.

For certain he would not survive. When he died, would the evil spirit also die? Holes that the sun punched through the fog were demon eyes and the hills wore grey wizard hats. Father and Nigel were out in the potato garden, their arms chopping viciously, their hoes going chunk chunk. He heard a clack of wood on wood and shouts from the side of the house, Franklin and Gilbert playing at swords. They would not miss him. Even before the devil came to Malcolm, they stopped playing with him. In the middle of a game he traced the grain of wood on the walls with his finger. Or, outside, he would pause to study a beetle or a worm.

Lydia emerged from the barn with two wicker baskets. A low growl came from the dog hovel near the barn. Ratser rushed out, wagging his tail. He was a small dog with black and tan hair, white whiskers on his snout. He was fed bones and spoiled food and he had to scavenge around the countryside to keep alive.

Now you sit here, Sir, and we will call upon your services later. Lydia pointed down with her index finger. Ratser sat, accustomed to this role.

Lydia handed Malcolm one of the baskets and they set out to collect eggs. So, they would meet the witch later. Malcolm looked out for the dangerous roosters that strutted around and stopped to peck at morsels. Lydia had taught him where to find nests in the deep grass. She picked out most of the eggs, especially from under the fiercest hens that clucked angrily and pecked at her hand as she reached under them. He admired how fearless she was and how she talked softly to the birds and stroked their ruffled feathers.

When they finished the outside nests, it was time to go into the shed on the north side of the house. He hated the shed. The roof was low – Father and Nigel had to bow their heads so as not to bang them on the rafters. Built of old grimy timbers, the sun never shone inside. They were bound to get cobwebs and dead flies on their faces and hair. He had seen Father, on a rainy day, set up some planks on sawhorses, after which he and Nigel dragged in a pig they had killed. He could watch only a small part of the butchering. Rats liked making the shed their home and their smell was deadly rotten. There were boxes on a shelf where chickens laid their eggs.

As they approached, Lydia said, Now is your first test as an apprentice. Did you know Hetty is a bad witch?

He did not know that but, hearing Lydia say it, he knew it was true. Hetty ruled the shed. She nested in the centre of the shelf; the other hens gave her space. She clucked the loudest of them all.

It is your mission to collect Hetty’s eggs. Lydia looked at him seriously and then broke into a mischievous smile. Would she defend him when Hetty attacked? He scrunched his face and blinked so wildly that Lydia had to lead him inside and place him right in front of the witch. He stood there while Lydia collected the eggs from under the other hens. They clucked warily but yielded, resigned to have yet another baby taken away. Now only Hetty, a large red hen with glinting eyes, remained. Hetty’s clucking was like a growl. She turned her head from side to side, warning, daring. After receiving a little shove from Lydia, Malcolm drew in a breath, reached, palm down, towards the straw under Hetty. The hen watched and seemed to be trying to decide which one of his fingers to peck off. He reached her feathers and lifted gently, finding she did not weigh as much as he would have thought. He felt two warm eggs. Is this how people are born? He could not hold both eggs in his hand and so he whipped his hand out with one of them. It was not in time as Hetty scored a tremendous peck between his knuckles. He flinched and dropped the egg to the ground where it cracked open. He shuddered at his failure. Oh Lydia, I am sorry. I will never be brave enough to be your apprentice.

Lydia shook her head. No, you were brave. She gave him a hug. You will do it properly next time. Around witches and monsters, always move as if you were a hedgehog. She, herself, had no difficulty getting the second egg.

Now it was time for the ratting. Lydia whistled and Ratser came running over to sit at her feet. The dog knew what was coming as he panted, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Gilbert and Franklin dropped their swords and came over to stand with their fists clenched, like fighters. Malcolm felt excited but tried not to show it. He was the older brother, above all their play-acting.

Ratser sat still. Lydia slowly raised her arm and extended her index finger, pointing to the entrance of the shed. The dog’s eyes followed her movements, pleading to be sent. Go! she shouted at last. The animal bolted into the shed, barking like mad. The chickens screeched. Scratching and banging sounds mixed with the cheers of the two younger boys. A rat scurried out from a crevice and sped across the yard. The boys shouted, He’s getting away! but Lydia kept her unblinking eyes on the entrance. Soon Ratser came racing out, shaking a rat and placing it at her feet. It was dead.

Ratser barked again and, to Malcolm’s surprise, without even trying, he barked too, four or five barks just like the dog. His two brothers came over and started barking as well. Lydia put her hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. She pointed back to the shed and in Ratser went again. Before he was done three dead rats were piled in the same spot, one of them chased down by Ratser across the yard as it tried to escape. Malcolm barked off and on, especially when Ratser was barking. Now that the ratting was over, Malcolm continued to bark. Gilbert and Franklin were not amused any more. Gilbert stared at Malcolm and turned his finger in circles around his ear before dragging Franklin away.

The evil spirit had played him another trick. Now he mimicked sounds. If someone sneezed, he would sneeze two or three times. He said Amen, as required, at the end of the dinner prayer but kept on saying it. He felt some words would no longer exist unless he repeated them. That satisfied him in a way but it was terrible too – his head was sore from getting swatted. He found, after a time, that he could alter the sound when it was about to come out. Changing Amen into a bark did the trick but it did not help him from getting punished for his rude behaviour.

A few weeks later, Lydia looked right and left, wary of villagers who might slow them down lest they miss the sunset vigil at the chapel ruin. She looked at Malcolm trailing behind in a soiled grey cotton shirt and rough breaches. With Mother away, having another baby, as Lydia was obliged to say, she and Malcolm had time to go on their own outings. This was an adventure she had long wanted to undertake.

Dust from wagons lingered in the air around Westhumble Lane but, by now, most of the wagon run was finished and villagers were home having their supper. The sun shone into her eyes. She preferred shade and night, when Malcolm said her eyes were green and sparkly. Her ears did not fail her – a wagon was on its way towards them and she soon saw its dust.

She and Malcolm were by the village graveyard. In her black dress, they might look like a widow and son. Malcolm, come this way. Do not tarry.

They walked to the mid-point of the cemetery. Lydia stopped at a grave and bowed her head. Who is that? Malcolm asked.

No one I knew. We will go back on the road soon.

When the wagon had passed by, she looked for Malcolm, saw him running around and looking at the gravestones. She thought about calling him back but then he was doing what boys of widows would do in a graveyard. She saw him stop and kneel on the ground. Oh no, he would find those!

These say Mann. That’s the first word you taught me, our name, he said, round eyes peering at her.

He pointed at two tiny stones where thistles and wild flowers grew. Lydia bit her lips and lowered her gaze. She had wanted to tend to these graves but Mother said work at home was more important.

They are our brother and sister. They died before you were born.

Tell me their story.

There’s no time. See, the sun is going down.

She took his hand, leading him back to the road and in a westerly direction as fast as he could go. He was the only one who ever relished the adventures she went on but he had yet to prove his apprenticeship. If he did he could be by her side all her life, the two of them, magical, and more—but what was she thinking? Next year he would be six and must go the way of the others. It felt like a spiked club was inside her chest. Mother had forbidden her to say a word to him or any other of the children about the meaning of six. Lydia was tempted to tell him the truth but Mother would explode. When old enough, Lydia would run away from Mother and Father, who cared for nothing but the failing farm and drink. She would find Malcolm again. What could she do to bind him to her forever? She remembered drawings in Aunt Belinda’s books of witches suckling imps.

The ruin was at the west end of the village where weeds choked alders ravaged by disease. Within one hundred feet of the ruin, Lydia brought them to a halt. What happened to the other walls? Malcolm said.

Lydia leaned down and put her finger to her pursed lips. She straightened up and inspected the free-standing wall that towered above them. At the top was a rectangular window. A larger window shaped like a tear was below it, making the old wall seem to be crying. She glanced down at Malcolm who found it hard to stand still and to stop blinking. He scuffled dirt with his boots, marking letters she had taught him. She gripped his hand.

Quiet. Stand still and watch the windows. Eyes wide open.

She had never been here at sunset. Aunt Belinda told her this was the haunted time of the shades, and she wanted Malcolm to be with her to recall this vision when she would be an old, dying woman and he would be sitting by her side. Soon the sun lowered. Was it the play of the dying light or were there shadows moving inside the window? They could be monks kneeling. They must be chanting – she could hear them if only the cawing rooks were not so loud. She wanted to scale the wall like a lizard and converse with them but what if she arrived and nothing was there?

Malcolm, ask them about your spirit, she said without taking her eyes off the windows.

Ask who? he said, and now, in a mere moment, the shadows were gone – her voice had startled them. The fluttering of her heart ended as well.

Malcolm had been afraid but he was happy now that Lydia led him towards home. Home would be safer.

Malcolm, did you see the shadows?

He had not see anything special about the light coming through the window. He had tried to keep his eyes on it but, when he caught sight of a rat scurrying along the bottom of the wall, he watched that. Now there were shadows everywhere. Night had clamped down. Candles blossomed inside the houses of Westhumble. But, Lydia wanted him to agree and so he said, Yes.

"I knew you would. They are monks. Many centuries