Once Upon an Autumn Eve

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Why, thank you, Susanne. I am sorry and yet not sorry I spoiled your dream.”

  “Perhaps I was foolish to ever dream it in the first place,” said Suzanne.

  “Oh, child, no dream is foolish, though some are not meant to be. A few dreams come true quite by accident, while others will happen only if you make them so and perhaps get help along the way. Hence, keep on dreaming your dreams, Suzanne, and work toward those ends, and one day, mayhap, some of those dreams will be realized.”

  The next morning dawned to a freshly washed world, and, after a hearty breakfast, Liaze mounted up on a fretting, sidle-stepping Nightshade and said, “Merci, Matthieu, Madeleine. I am grateful for your hospitality. Even so, I wish you had slept in your own bed and left me to the barn.”

  Madeleine shook her head and said, “ ’Twas only fitting.”

  As Liaze sighed, Vincent looked to the hills in the direction she was to ride, and then he stepped back and said, “The black seems anxious to go, my lady.” He bowed, as did his brothers, and Noël added, “Bonne chance, Princess.”

  “Merci, Noël. I hope your good wishes for me come true. Oh, and Matthieu, I thank you for replenishing my supplies, for I know not what will be needed on the road ahead.”

  Matthieu bowed, and Madeleine curtseyed, and Susanne curtseyed and then, her face twisted in anguish, said, “Oh, please save Luc, Princess. If you don’t then I think I’ll just die.”

  “So will I, Suzanne,” said Liaze. “Indeed, so will I.” Sighing, with a farewell wave she heeled Nightshade and gave the black his head, and off toward the sunwise bound he cantered, Pied Agile and the four geldings in tow.

  “That horse must be enchanted,” said Thierry.

  “Just well trained,” said Vincent, and he looked at his père.

  Matthieu shrugged and said, “Enchanted or well trained, he seems to know the way.” And the family stood and watched as Liaze rode up and over the next hill and then was lost to sight.

  “Come, there is work to do,” said Matthieu, and he and his sons headed for the barn, while mother and daughter turned and went inside, where Madeleine’s eyes widened in surprise, for in the mid of their plank-board table lay a gold piece.

  For two more days did Liaze ride in this sparsely populated land, and on the eve of the third day she came to the sunwise twilight bound, where she reined Nightshade to a halt, and set about making camp.

  On the morrow I will enter the Forest of the Oaks, but on this night I will sleep in peace.

  22

  Lure

  In the dim light of the following dawn, Liaze fed the horses rations of oats that had come from Matthieu’s croft. As the animals munched, the princess sliced off an end of the loaf of bread Madeleine had gifted her with, and opened the jar of honey and liberally slathered the piece with the sweetness and then ate. When that was gone, she besmeared another slice of bread, and enjoyed the taste of it as well. She washed all down with clear water, and then broke off a large corner of honeycomb and popped it in her mouth and gently chewed as she broke camp.

  She laded her packhorses and saddled Nightshade and Pied Agile. She tethered the mare and geldings to the stallion, and mounted the black.

  Nightshade started to move forward, but Liaze pulled the reins and stopped him. And as he looked back at her, she took the pliable wad from her mouth and divided it in two, and then plugged her ears with the softened beeswax.

  She loosened her long-knife in its scabbard and then said to Nightshade, her voice somewhat muffled to herself, “Now, my lad, lead on.” And she heeled the stallion in the flanks, and into the twilight marge they fared, even as the sun broke free of the horizon.

  Through the shadowy wall they went, to emerge in a hoary old forest, the trees mostly oaks, though here and there stood elms and maples and green conifers. A low fog curled among the boles, and the forest itself appeared to spring from the mist, as if there were no ground beneath. But Nightshade, under his own guidance, trotted ahead, the stallion seemingly undaunted by the unseen footing, the mare and geldings trailing after. Onward they fared as the sun rode up into the sky, and by midmorn the fog was gone.

  As she rode Liaze scanned the surround, for she could hear nought but her own breathing, for that came from within and not without. And she was disturbed by her deafness, and for the first time in her life she realized just how important hearing was, for she heard no birds, no chitterings of insects nor chatterings of tree runners, no rustle of leaves, no scurryings, no snap of twigs, no fall of foot or hoof, nor burble of water when they stopped at streams. I thought the constant wind was bad as I crossed Caillou’s realm, but this eternal silence is worse. Why, something could be galloping toward us, or creeping stealthily, and I would hear it not.

  “Keep a sharp ear,” she said to the animals, “for you are the first line of defense.”

  And so, lacking hearing, she kept a sharp eye out, frequently gazing ’round, and now and again she saw animals and birds and crawling things, but she heard them not. Still, even though the silence was oppressive, she heard no pipes playing, and of that she was glad. Her sense of smell, however, seemed to intensify, for the scents of the grass and leaves, of the earth, and of the horses heightened. But it was her sight she most depended upon, and so she scanned this way and that, her gaze ever roving.

  Thrice throughout the day she did see lone maidens, demoiselles much like the Nixies in look—exotic beauties—though these did not appear to transform into anything other than what they seemed. One was sitting among the broad limbs of a large oak and combing her russet hair. Another one, quite distant, seemed to be digging at the roots of an oak. And one just ahead and slightly off the line along which Nightshade fared looked at Liaze coming toward her, and then the demoiselle stepped directly into the solid trunk of her tree.

  Liaze gasped in wonderment, yet it was as she had suspected: the maiden had been a Dryad, a Wood Nymph.

  That night Liaze camped by a stream, her bow strung, arrows at hand, her long-knife at her side. And she burned no fires, for she would have no light to summon Satyrs or flames to upset the Dryads.

  And she did not at all sleep well, waking often to peer about in the light of the full moon.

  The next day was much like the previous, and the farther she rode, the more irritated Liaze became with the lack of hearing. But then she saw a storm-slain tree lying on the ground, and she recalled the old conundrum: should a tree fall in a forest with no one to hear, would it make a sound? Long she and her siblings had argued the question, first taking one side, and then perversely taking the other. She smiled in the memory, knowing that should a tree fall this day, it would make no sound as far as she was concerned. She would have to remember to tell her siblings this. But then a stricken look overcame her features. Oh, my, was a Wood Nymph also slain when her tree died?

  On Nightshade trotted, a league and then two, mare and geldings coming after, and as they entered a wide glade, in the near distance in the center of the clearing Liaze espied a gathering on the banks of a small mere, with a large weeping willow o’erhanging, and a small grove of oaks nearby. Nightshade paid no heed, and as he fared nigh, Liaze could see demoiselles lolling on the sward at hand, and midst them stood a beautiful youth, a willow-root pipe at his lips, his fingers dancing upon holes along its length. In Liaze’s self-imposed silence, she realized he was playing, but she could hear nothing of the tune. And then she could see the youth had the ears and hindquarters and tail of a deer.

  Faun! Liaze scanned to fore and aft and aflank, yet she saw only the forest. If the Nixies were right, surely Satyrs will come.

  Liaze haled on Nightshade’s reins, halting the stallion. And she reached for her bow, as if to take it up. Should I? No! ’Tis the Faun’s nature to—

  Instead, Liaze gave a sharp whistle, but the Nymphs paid no heed, for they were entranced. Yet the Faun looked up and saw Liaze, and he took the pipe from his lips and smiled a glorious smile, and gestured for her to join his circle. But t
hen his eyes widened in fright and his deerlike ears flared up, and he looked beyond Liaze.

  She swung her gaze in that direction, and over a crest among the trees came five or six hairy and horned Satyrs running, their goatish legs driving cloven hooves, and, for all Liaze could hear, they ran in total silence. The Nymphs scattered, some to disappear into the trunks of oaks, others fleeing into rocks, and two diving into the mere.

  “Hup, hup, hup!” called Liaze, alerting the string of horses; and their heads came up and their ears pricked forward. Then, “Hiyah!” she cried, and kicked Nightshade in the flanks, and the stallion sprang forward, the princess continuing to shout and goad him onward, the black galloping away from the pool, the mare and geldings running in his wake.

  The Satyrs changed the angle of their run, rage on their faces, their mouths wide as if shouting, and they dashed toward fleeing Liaze. She whipped her strung bow out from the saddle scabbard and nocked an arrow and let fly, striking one of the Satyrs in the leg. He fell to the ground bleating loudly—though Liaze heard him not—and the ones with him sheered off, and Nightshade and the line of horses raced on into the forest, leaving the creatures behind.

  Liaze did not stop to camp that night, but continued to fare onward instead, sometimes astride the stallion, sometimes walking, at other times riding the mare, though the black yet led the way.

  As Liaze dozed off and on in the saddle, it was nigh noon of the following day while mounted on Nightshade that she came to the sunwise twilight bound. She clucked her tongue and urged the stallion forward, and in that moment, trailing, Pied Agile reared, and someone or something landed behind Liaze and grabbed her by the hair and jerked her hindward and threw an arm about her neck. Liaze managed to stay in the saddle, and she smelled a musky reek and glimpsed a goatlike leg alongside her own. Satyr! She kicked Nightshade in the flanks and wrenched her long-knife from the thigh scabbard even as the stallion sprang forward into the twilight, the other horses nearly stumbling, but following. But the Satyr yet had its fingers tangled in her hair, and with his bristly forearm he began choking her into submission. Reversing her grip and praying to not hit the black, Liaze blindly stabbed down at the leg of the being, and in the shadowlight she felt the blade strike home.

  In the darkness of the border, the creature fell away, yet his fingers were still entangled in her tresses, and she was nearly dragged from the saddle, and she felt as if her hair was being yanked out by the roots. Of a sudden she was free, the Satyr gone, and Nightshade hammered on through the blackness and beyond, out into sunlight and an open field.

  Panting, her heart racing, Liaze kept the stallion running, the mare and geldings galloping in tow. The princess looked behind, and nothing, no one, no Satyr, came charging after.

  She was free of the Oak Forest and its perils, and she burst into tears and wept uncontrollably, to her own dismay.

  23

  Village

  Liaze reined back on Nightshade and slowed him and the mare and geldings to a walk. She loosed the reins and gave the stallion his head and let him choose the trail.

  As the black wended between sparse thickets and a few stands of timber, with low rolling hills to the fore, Liaze gained control of her emotions and berated herself for weeping like a silly goose. She cleaned her long-knife of Satyr blood and slid it into its sheath. She removed the beeswax from her ears and reveled in the trilling of birds, of the humming of insects, of the clop and breathing of her horses and the creak of leather, and the soft wafting song of the gentle breeze. As she listened to the surround, Nightshade came upon a trace of a road. Wagon ruts marked the way; it was a two-track farm lane used to reach the field they had left behind, though whatever crop it had held—most likely hay—had been harvested.

  They followed this route and soon came in among other fields: grain mostly—rye, barley, wheat—though here and there grew turnips and squash and other vegetable crops. By the reach of the fields, it has to be an extensive croft. Soon Liaze’s suspicions were confirmed, for she came unto a large farmhouse—With numerous rooms, no doubt; a considerable family must live here; prosperous, too. Behind the dwelling sat a great byre; abundant cords of firewood lay under a wide, sloped roof held up by tall poles; on beyond, several round grain storage sheds squatted next to a silo; a number of other croft structures were scattered here and there.

  Liaze reined Nightshade into the yard, and a yellow-haired, matronly woman in a fine-woven linen dress the color of a clear sky at noon stepped onto the porch and shaded her eyes and watched as the princess rode nigh.

  “Might I have some water for me and my horses?” Liaze asked.

  “Indeed you might,” said the woman, gesturing toward the side of the house. And as Liaze rode past: “Oh, my, you’re a fille,” declared the woman, stepping down from the porch and walking alongside. “I thought you a warrior, dressed as you are and riding that big black horse.”

  “Would that I were,” said Liaze, glancing back in the direction she had come. “It would have made things easier.”

  “Oh, you didn’t pass through the Forest of Oaks, now, did you?”

  “Indeed I did,” said Liaze.

  The woman’s brown, golden-hued eyes flew wide. “Oh, you poor child, did they keep you long?”

  “They did not keep me at all,” said Liaze, reining Nightshade to a halt at a watering trough, an axle-driven, bucket-chain pump at one end atop the stone rim of a well.

  “Then you are certainly warrior enough, or very skillful, or extremely fortunate,” said the woman.

  “I think the Fates themselves were watching over me,” said Liaze, dismounting, a faint smile on her face.

  As Liaze turned the wheel-crank ’round and ’round to spill water into the trough, the horses crowded forward, though on their long tethers the geldings gave Nightshade considerable leeway.

  With the vessel three-quarters full, Liaze stopped turning the wheel and ducked her head under the surface next to Pied Agile and, after a moment, came up sputtering.

  “Oh, dear,” said the woman. “Let me get you a towel.” She rushed to a side door and into the house and quickly returned with a soft cotton cloth.

  Liaze patted her face dry and then briskly rubbed her hair, wincing occasionally, for her yanked-upon scalp was yet tender, especially where strands had been torn loose.

  The woman said, “Would you like a cup of hot tea and perhaps a bite to eat?”

  “Oh, I would treasure it,” said Liaze.

  The woman eyed the packhorse goods and said, “Well then, why don’t you give your animals a bit of grain while I prepare, and then you can tell me what in Faery you were doing coming through that most dreadful Forest of the Oaks.—Oh, and I am Madame Divenard, but at times my sisters—one on each side—call me Midi, as can you.”

  “And I am Liaze of the Autumnwood,” replied the princess.

  “Well and good,” said Midi, smiling. She turned and hastened toward the house, calling back over her shoulder, “Now hurry, for I shan’t be long.”

  “. . . And that’s why I had to come through the oaks,” said Liaze. She took the last bite of buttered and honeyed biscuit, and washed it down with bracing hot tea.

  “Well, my dear, that’s quite a tale. And, oh, from what you’ve told me, you’ve crossed the four twilight borders that your Sir Luc rode going the opposite way.”

  “Did Luc come past your croft?”

  “If he did, Liaze, then it was when my sisters and I were busy elsewhere.”

  Liaze’s face fell, and she sighed. “Always before, I had confirmation that Luc rode this way, what with Caillou and Matthieu’s corroboration. But now it seems . . .” Liaze’s words fell to silence.

  Madame Divenard reached across the table and patted the princess on the hand. “Fear not, Liaze, from what you tell me, the black follows the way.”

  Heartened somewhat, Liaze asked, “Do you know of any witch living nearby, or of a woodcutter—an armsmaster—named Léon?”

  “No
n, but someone in the village might know,” said Midi.

  “Village?”

  “Oui,” said Midi, gesturing in the direction Liaze had been faring. “Ruisseau Miel is but an afternoon’s ride hence. You go down my lane until you reach the main road, and then follow it onward till you come to the town. A sign will point the way.”

  Liaze stood. “Then I’ll be going now, for if someone there might know of a witch or a woodcutter, I—”

  “But Liaze,” protested Midi, looking up at her, “you have had little rest and a terrible experience in the Forest of Oaks. Surely you can stay here one night and catch up on your missing sleep.”

  “Non, Madame Divenard. My horses and I can last long enough to reach this town you speak of; it is there we will rest.”

  Midi sighed and stood, and then brightened. “It has but one inn, L’Abeille Occupée, with quite a good stable. Its kitchens are, um . . . adequate, and the wine, eh . . . tolerable. L’Abeille is where the honey buyers stay when they come in the honey season.”

  “Then, merci, madame, I shall always be grateful for this respite you have given me.”

  Midi smiled and said, “And I shall be certain to tell my sisters of this venture of yours . . . as far as it goes, that is. And, oh, Liaze, may you find what you seek.”

  Liaze and Midi stepped from the farmhouse and to the horses, and Liaze removed the nosebags and packed them away, and let the horses have another small amount of water. Then she mounted up on Nightshade and bade Midi “Au revoir,” Midi replying in kind. The princess wheeled the black about and rode to the lane and onward.

  And when she had gone from sight, the lush farm fields and the large farmhouse faded away, and the matronly woman, smiling to herself, silently vanished as well.

  Dusk was falling when Liaze reached the small village of Ruisseau Miel, and as she rode down the main street, she saw a signboard proclaiming a rather modest inn to be L’Abeille Ocupée—a depiction on the board of a honey bee at work echoed the name of the inn.