Everafter Acres

by Carolyn Kephart

skirts of her gown as she made for her horse.

  Riding homeward, Calantha thought with small joy of her maid now probably glorying in her mistress’ purple velvet; of how Blanchefleur’s eyes had gleamed avidly at the sight of Sir Bors; of her own lord Peregrin, and how handsome he had once been, and how delightful life had once been, full of love and peril. What was left, now that youth and beauty had fled? If the knights had nothing to conquer, and the ladies had no need to be rescued…what then? What would fill up the endless hours between now and forever, if nothing meant anything?

  Dismally pensive, she let her mare find its way back to the castle, which it soon failed to do. After a time Calantha halted, looking around her. She was in the depths of a forest primeval, where rags of mist wraithed among the huge trunks and caught in the massive low-hanging boughs like cobwebs. No birds sang, but winds sighed through the boughs like resentful ghosts. It was the kind of place where something dreadful could occur at any instant.

  Reliably, it did. A horrific creature slithered out of a narrow cave with a sinister rattling of scales, coiled itself on the path, reared its ghastly head, and showed all its teeth, of which it had several rows, in a ravenous grin.

  Calantha’s horse promptly threw her, and galloped away. The monster seemed thrilled, and swayed its serpentine neck as its slit shimmering eyes stared its prey up and down.

  Palfreys weren’t much larger than ponies, and the fall had been soft, onto a bank of moss. As Calantha picked herself up, her first instinct was to scream, but she remembered Elspeth’s revelation. Now would be the time to test it. Accordingly she stood her ground, trying not to tremble.

  The wyrm--it was a wyrm--threw back its head, opened its maw to the maximum, and shrieked. The noise was truly blood-curdling, and normally Calantha would have screamed in her turn, running away as fast as her flowing skirts would allow. But she remembered what Elspeth had told her. Drawing a deep breath, she turned her back on the horror, closed her eyes and stood perfectly still, speaking between clenched teeth.

  “Go ahead. I dare you.”

  She waited, her heart battering, for foul hot breath, then fleshy slime-tongued damp enveloping her head, and a neck-severing crunch. An interval of a dozen or so seconds elapsed, every one of them a drop of boiling oil, until Calantha heard the wyrm make a noise that sounded exactly like a confused and petulant whine before giving her a hard headbutt in the back. Furious, Calantha spun around and smacked its face, or rather the one spot that wasn’t either teeth, eye, or snout.

  The wyrm’s glittering eyes blinked in what could only be amazement, and its spiny crest wilted as it turned about and slithered back to its den in a manner clearly nonplussed, without a backward glance.

  Calantha looked on absolutely astounded, and then uttered an oath that no lady would use under any circumstances.

  “My sentiments more or less precisely.”

  Turning toward that dry vernacular not a stone’s throw away, Calantha stared at the last person she expected to see. “Sir Bors, what are you doing here?”

  The dark knight shrugged with a slight creaking of half-armor. “Thought you might need rescuing. Quite apparently you don’t.”

  As always, Bors looked magnificent with an arresting touch of the sinister. His broad shoulders showed no signs of even beginning to bow, just as his waist had stayed as slim as a squire’s. His hair was long, still abundant, and raven, framing his swarthy hard features in an arresting way. He was so perfect that Calantha just stared at him for some moments, and of course he let her; and she couldn’t help but think, even in her jangled mental state, that dark knights seemed to have all the luck.

  “How long have you been watching?” she finally asked.

  “Just arrived,” Bors said. “Thought I heard a lady shrieking, but it turned out to be the wyrm.”

  “Shouldn’t you be rescuing Blanchefleur?”

  “Did that half an hour ago, from a troll.”

  “And was it terribly exciting?”

  “Not too.”

  “I believe you. It looks as if it didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  “You knew it wouldn’t.” He hesitated. “How’d you find out?”

  “Elspeth.” She hesitated, too. “How’d you find out?”

  “I just felt it. Had for a long time.”

  A long deep silence fell, and it was a relief when Bors looked away and spoke again. “Shall we be off? Nag’s getting restive.”

  Bors’ horse was nearby, pawing the ground and snorting. As they approached the animal, Calantha noted a charming wreath of autumn leaves around its saddlebow.

  “How lovely. A gift from Blanchefleur?”

  Bors shook his head in his moody way. “I made it for her to wear, but she didn’t want it. Said something about bugs and scratchiness and it not being her colors.”

  Calantha took the wreath in her hands. Around a circlet of ivy, thickly-clustered leaves of red and orange and gold seemed to glow with inner fire in the dim light of the deep woods. The wreath was very skilfully wrought, and Calantha tried to imagine Bors creating it, selecting just the right mixture of colors and shapes set off so well by the vine’s deep green, his tough fingers bending the ivy with just enough force, careful not to break it. “Blanchefleur indeed seems best suited to roses and lilies,” she said, as graciously as possible; but she suddenly disliked that lady more than ever. “Here.” And she handed the circlet back.

  “I don’t want the thing. Keep it if you like.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t…”

  “Bah.” Bors plucked the wreath from her hands, and in another moment Calantha was wearing it over her wimple.

  “Hold still,” Bors said, settling the circlet with care upon the fine white linen, then critically adjusting the leaves before moving back to inspect his work. “Hm. Very fine. You look like a prophetess.”

  Calantha had never before received so much of Bors’ attention, and hardly knew how to deal with it. “Too bad I don’t have a mirror.”

  “Here’s one,” Bors said, tapping his gleaming steel breastplate.

  Calantha contemplated her reflection only a little distorted by the metal’s curve. “Bors, I can’t tell Peregrin about…what happened. It would kill him.”

  “Actually, it wouldn’t, which is worse.”

  That thought made Calantha flinch within. “He really is perfect.”

  Bors nodded. “A bit over-jovial perhaps, but no harm done.”

  “He’d probably think me very odd-looking just now.” Calantha watched the image in the breastplate give a wry reminiscent smile. “Wreaths are meant to be worn over tresses flowing loose, by slim young damsels. Not by--“

  “Oh, nonsense.” Bors frowned, then. “Blanche really should put her hair up.”

  “Now that you mention it, she’s thinking of bringing hennins back into style.”

  Bors growled an underbreath imprecation against that conical mode, and reached for his horse’s halter. “How would you like to ride? Withers, crupper, or led?”

  Calantha did a swift mental rejection of all three. “I’d rather we both walk.”

  “Hm. That’s different. Do you have the shoes for it?”

  “Flat and comfy. And you?”

  “The same. Well, let’s be off.”

  It turned out to be a very enjoyable stroll, despite the dank gloom of the woods. Calantha had feared she and Bors would have little in common, but such wasn’t the case at all. Unlike any other knight Calantha had ever known, Bors wasn’t his own favorite subject of conversation, and the talk didn’t once stray to the good old days, which were usually just about the only topic in Everafter. No monstrosity whatsoever appeared to make itself troublesome, although now and then Calantha noticed an ogre stealing sheepishly behind a rock, or a chimera scuttling away abashed, or a spectre discreetly dissipating once sighted. Clearly word had gotten around.

  The horse soon wandered off, taking its way back to Everafter. Relaxed in the quiet, Calantha and B
ors stopped often to examine the mushrooms growing on fallen trunks and in shaded earth, and together they admired the symmetry of the delicate gills, and tried to give names to the indeterminate colors. They halted at a bend of a stream and watched a bullfrog swelling its croak, and further on gazed up at a great owl nearby on a branch staring back at them with its huge yellow eyes, and they both made hooting noises to get it to hoot back, which it did. At one point in their progress Bors tapped Calantha’s arm, alerting her to a little troop of deer crossing the path. And the more they walked together, and the more they saw and enjoyed, the more the sun came out, until all the leaves on the trees gleamed bright against the deep blue sky.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever really enjoyed the woods,” Calantha said as they passed through an especially radiant grove. “I was always too busy worrying about being attacked, or carried off, or both.”

  “I never really minded for a long time,” Bors replied. “It kept me busy. But now…”

  Rounding an outcropping of rock, they found themselves looking out over the little castled hills of the community, and they sighed at the same time. At that very instant Bors’ mastiff began baying.

  “What a barker that beast is,” the dark knight said. “I never noticed before.”

  Calantha stared. “Surely you jest. He’s the terror of the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll feed him to the manticore. How does that sound?”

  “You know the manticore won’t touch him.”

  “I suppose not. Well, I’ll find a muzzle.”