Camille returned to Le Sanglier.
After she took her supper that eve and had gone up to her room, Camille sat in the bed and by lanternlight examined the walking staff. Again the bottommost blossom was withered. Frowning in puzzlement, Camille set the stave aside and blew out the lamp and pulled the covers about her chin. Moments later she fumbled for the striker and lit the lantern once more. She rummaged through her rucksack and pulled out a spool of thread. Breaking off a piece, she wrapped it around the cane, tying it tightly just below the withered flower. Again she blew out the lamp; it was awhile ere she slept.
Dawn came, and Scruff chirped and pecked lightly on Camille’s cheek, waking her. It was only after she washed her face that Camille remembered the stave. She took it up and where a flower should have been, there was nought, though the thread was yet tightly affixed. She closely examined the place where the flower had been. Oh, what’s this? A tiny indention on the carved vine itself, as if it marks the place from which the blossom fell . . . But these are wooden flowers.
She looked on the floor for a tiny chip of wood or a grain of sawdust, something to be the blossom fallen from the stave. Yet she found nought.
Then she took up the stick again and looked down the length of the vine carefully. She found more tiny indentions along the part that appeared to be withered. Scruff chirped insistently to go out for his early feast, and Camille murmured, “In a moment, Scruff.” She counted the tiny dimples. Sixty-one. There are sixty-one wee dints. Still Scruff chattered. Camille sighed and said, “All right, my wee hungry friend, it’s to a meal we go.”
Swiftly she dressed, and down the stairs and out into the arbor she took Scruff. As he scrabbled about after his morning meal, Camille puzzled over the staff.
Again that day, Camille spoke with villagers, and none knew where lay a place east of the sun and west of the moon. They did tell her that the oldest person in the hamlet was probably Vivette, or mayhap Romy: they were sisters, perhaps twins, and it seems they had built the first house in this place, and anchored by their dwelling, the hamlet of Ardon slowly came to be as others settled in as neighbors.
Gradually, stopping at each door, Camille worked her way toward the cottage of the sisters, but none of the villagers on the way could answer her question as to where the place she looked for might be. As to the sisters, they lived in the last dwelling along the outbound lane, and there did Camille finally come.
Her knock on the door was answered by a beautiful maiden, a jot taller than Camille and a deal more buxom, and she had dark blue eyes and black hair twined with flowers down to the middle of her back.
“Yes? . . . Oh, you must be Camille. The whole village is talking of you, my dear, and of your quest. Come in. Come in. We’ve been expecting you.—Romy! Romy! Camille has finally come.”
As Camille stepped across the threshold and into a parlor, she said, “You are . . .?”
“Vivette,” said the damsel, just as another beautiful, dark-haired, and buxom maiden entered, her eyes blue as well.
“Oh, but I was expecting someone, er . . .”
The sisters looked at one another, somewhat bewildered. “Someone . . .?” said Vivette, pausing, waiting on Camille.
“Well, older,” blurted Camille.
Again the sisters looked questioningly at one another, and Romy said, “Well, there isn’t anyone older in Ardon than us.”
“But you’re not, um . . .”
Enlightenment filled Vivette’s eyes. “Ah, I see. Wrinkled, you mean. Age-bent.”
Camille shrugged and grinned apologetically.
“Oh, la!” said Romy. “It’s just that we’ve never been in the mortal lands, where I understand time does terrible things.”
Only in Faery, thought Camille, and smiled as Vivette said, “Sit. I’ll put on a kettle. Romy has some wonderful petit fours. And perhaps we can fetch up something for that cute little sparrow of yours.”
On Camille’s shoulder, Scruff emitted a chp! as if to say, Cute?
Camille spent an afternoon at tea with them, and though the sisters did have much lore, neither did know of a land or district or town or building or aught else that fit what Camille sought. They did, however, bid her to seek the aid of the Lady of the Bower. “She lives somewhere across the twilight boundary down the road,” said Vivette. “Just where, I cannot say.”
Camille looked at Romy, but she shook her head and shrugged.
“This Lady of the Bower . . .” said Camille.
“A wisewoman,” said Vivette.
“With knowledge arcane,” added Romy.
“And you know not where she lives?”
The sisters looked at one another and then to Camille and shook their heads. “But she’s somewhere beyond the marge,” said Vivette.
“It’s just that we don’t go there,” said Romy. “The Spriggans, you know.”
“I do not care for ghosts,” said Camille. “Especially the ghosts of Redcaps, but any ghost of anyone or thing, I would rather avoid.”
Vivette frowned. “Ghosts?”
“The Spriggans,” replied Camille. “Jolie at the inn said that Spriggans are the ghosts of Giants.”
“Oh, la, Camille, that is but an old wives’ tale,” said Vivette. “They are not ghosts at all, but rather ugly little things who can inflate themselves to enormous size to make you think they are Giants; yet instead they are quite cowardly.”
“Thieves, they are,” added Romy. “They’ll steal you blind and flee to hidden caves, where they ward their ill-gotten gains.”
“Though cowards all, some say they are quite dangerous,” said Vivette, “able to call up great winds and storms.”
“If you have any valuables,” said Romy, “I would advise avoiding their realm. Either that, or you could wait for a knight-errant to escort you through.”
“Knight-errant?”
“Yes,” said Romy. “Travelling sellswords, they are. Now and then one comes through. They are quite gallant and brave, and would make splendid travelling companions across perilous realms.”
“When might one come by?” asked Camille.
“Perhaps in a moon or two,” said Vivette. She glanced at her sister and then leaned forward and whispered, “We usually entertain them.”
Romy giggled and twirled a finger in her dark hair. “It seems they tell one another about us.”
“In a moon or so,” said Vivette. “Perhaps more than one will come. Then you can have a brave companion to escort you beyond the twilight. Of course, they tend to stay here awhile, and so it might be a fortnight or two ere they’ll be ready to take to the road again.”
“I think I cannot wait,” said Camille, “for I must find my Alain, and if the Lady of the Bower can aid me, knight or no, I have no choice but to go on.”
The sisters looked at one another and tsk-tsked, and Romy said, “Well, then, you must go.”
Once again that evening, Camille examined the walking stave. As before, the bottommost flower looked withered. “Ah, Scruff, how can this be? At break of day it was quite healthy. But now . . . Besides, the flower is wooden, carved. How can such wither?” Scruff answered not, for he was quite sound asleep, tucked away in the shadows of the bed canopy. Once more she counted the tiny dints on the carved vine. Sixty-one: the same as this morning. Again she counted them. Sixty-one. She set the staff aside, and disrobed, making ready for bed. As she was washing her face, she glanced across at the stave. I wonder how many flowers? Swiftly she finished her ablutions, and then took up the stave again, but this time she counted the blossoms, including the withered one. Hmm . . . Three hundred and five. Once more she counted them, and then again; the tally remained the same. An elusive thought tugged at her mind, yet she could not quite grasp it. This night as well, she tied a thread about, just below the last blossom. Then she blew out the lantern and crawled under the covers. “Lady Sorcière, what does this mean?” she asked aloud in the dark. But no answer came.
Sixty-two and three hundred a
nd four; one blossom less, one dint more. “Did you know that, Scruff? One blossom less, one dint more.”
“Chp-chp-chp-chp . . . !” Scruff chattered, yet it seemed more likely he complained of being hungry, rather than responding to her question.
“All right, all right, you demanding little beggar, it’s off to break our fast we go.”
Down the stairs she went, and out into the arbor. She set Scruff to the ground and then took a seat at the table. And though her gaze was upon Scruff chasing insects, it was plain she did not see him, for she was deep in thought: A blossom withers each day, sixty-two altogether. What can it—? Oh, sweet Mithras! Swiftly Camille tallied up how many days she had been on her quest. Two days and a half it took to go from the Lady of the Mere to the twilight border along the grassland; seven days on the grass; some nine days in the foothills gathering food; ah, three days trapped by rain; a day walking up to the col; thirty days across the Endless Mountains; and two full days in Ardon, not counting today, which has just begun. That sums to, um . . . fifty-five days altogether. Fifty-nine if I add in the time I searched for the Seer by the Mere . . . Lady Sorcière. That doesn’t tally to sixty-two. Oh, then there is this: sixty-two dints and three hundred and four blossoms, that sums to three hundred and sixty-six; that’s how many blossoms the staff must have started wi—
“Your break fast, Camille,” someone called.
Her concentration broken, Camille glanced up to see Jolie coming out to the arbor, a laden tray in hand. As Jolie set the tray to the table and began parceling out the dishes and such thereon, she asked, “Have you had any luck with your query? The whole village wants to know.”
Camille sighed. “Non, Jolie. It seems no one in Ardon knows the—” Suddenly Camille’s eyes widened in revelation, and she snatched up the stave. “Three hundred and sixty-six! A year and a day!”
“What, my lady?” asked Jolie, taken somewhat aback by Camille’s outburst.
“Don’t you see, Jolie? Alain disappeared sixty-two days ago, the same number as are dints on the stave, the same number as the flowers that have withered. If I add up all the dints and the remaining blossoms, it comes to three hundred and sixty-six: a year and a day. ‘A year and a day and a whole moon beyond,’ that’s what Lady Sorcière said. The withering blossoms are—But wait. What about . . .?”
Jolie, entirely confused, watched as Camille again carefully examined the staff. A moment later, Camille pointed to the dark disk at the top of the garland. “That must be the moon, Jolie.—Oh, my, this is a calendar, a marking stick, keeping track of the days.”
“I remember calendars from when I lived in the mortal lands,” said Jolie, yet bewildered, for she had no idea whatsoever what three hundred and sixty-six had to do with Camille, nor a whole moon beyond, for that matter. Jolie shook her head. “But there are no calendars here. Not in Faery. Time touches not this place.”
“Ah, but the sun does rise and days do pass,” said Camille, “and moons do wax and wane. Oh, Jolie, I now know I cannot wait for a knight-errant, but instead must be on my way, for the days are truly numbered.”
“Well, you’ll break your fast ere you go,” snapped Jolie, “for I’ll not send you out on the road astarve.”
Two candlemarks later, with her staff in hand and her bedroll slung, along with her replenished rucksack and waterskin, and with wee Scruff perched on her shoulder, Camille set out down the lane, a twilight border somewhere in the distance ahead. The entire village turned out to see her off, many calling out “Bonne fortune” and “Bonne chance,” but others cautioning her to beware of brigands and thieves and ghosts and other such evil beings. The last to bid au revoir were the sisters Vivette and Romy, and they embraced Camille and kissed her, Vivette saying, “I do hope you find your Alain,” and Romy adding, “Seek the Lady of the Bower, and ’ware the Spriggans.”
A full two days later—with another pair of blossoms withered and gone—in early midmorn, Camille and Scruff came to a looming, twilight border and stepped into yet another realm of Faery beyond.
22
Everted
“Oh, Scruff,” said Camille, a tremor in her voice, “I am not at all certain I like this place.”
She and the sparrow had stepped through the twilight to come into a dismal mire, bogland left and right of the road, with cypresses and black willows and dark, gnarled oaks twisting up out from the quag, some trees alive, others quite dead. And from these latter, long strands of lifeless gray moss hung adrip from withered branches, as if the parasite had sucked every last bit of sustenance from the limbs, hence not only murdering the host, but killing itself as well. ’Round the roots and boles of the trees and past sodden hummocks, scum-laden water receded deep into the dimness beyond, the yellow-green surface faintly undulating, as if some vast creature slowly breathed in the turgid muck below. Ocherous reeds grew in clumps and clusters, and here and there rotting logs covered with pallid toadstools and brownish ooze jutted out at shallow angles from the dark muck, the swamp slowly ingesting slain trees. And from within the bog there came soft ploppings and slitherings, but what made these sounds, Camille could not see. And the road itself twisted onward, into the shadowy morass ahead.
“Well, Scruff, there’s nothing for it, but that we must go on, for somewhere in this realm the Lady of the Bower dwells, though I do hope it is not in this quag.”
“Chp!” answered the sparrow, its head turning this way and that, its tiny body slightly atremble.
Forward stepped Camille, the tip of her walking stave striking the soft earth of the road: plp . . . plp . . . plp . . .
She had taken no more than a half dozen strides when a whirling cloud of whining gnats and blood-sucking mosquitoes came buzzing out from the mire to swirl about and attack any and all exposed flesh, and to attack wee little Scruff as well. Swiftly, from the rucksack, Camille donned her gloves, and she slipped Scruff into her vest pocket, then drew her cloak about and pulled up the hood. For the most part this thwarted the blood-mad insects, though Camille then had to enwrap her face and forehead and neck in a scarf, leaving only her eyes exposed. Still, the most voracious mosquitoes managed to pierce the cloth and suck life regardless. And the gnats buzzed about her eyes, dancing motes gyrating in air. And though Camille brushed her hand back and forth before her face, it did little to drive them away.
The day was warm, and Camille began to swelter, en-wrapped as she was. And this seemed to bring on more mosquitoes, more gnats, and in addition there came biting flies. But still she trudged on, sweating beneath her garb, a whining cloud all about. Yet the insects could not penetrate the leather of her pants and boots and gloves, nor the cloth of the all-weather cloak, and so, uncomfortable as she was, still Camille shed nought to be cooler. In the darkness beneath her cloak, Scruff had gone to sleep, though the wee bird was overwarm as well.
Just ere the noontide, and above the whine of insects, Camille thought she heard someone wailing, and the shrill of an animal too. And as she rounded a bend in the road, ahead she saw a bent crone holding the end of a frayed rope and tearing at her hair and howling. In a boghole at hand, a swayback nag grunted and wallowed and squealed in panic, mired up to its ribs in the muck.
As Camille approached, she called out, “Madam, may I help?”
The crone turned, and her eyes widened in fear. “Keep away,” she croaked, cowering back and making an arcane gesture.
“Madam, I shall not harm you.”
“Then why is your face hidden if not to rob me of my goods and steal my mare?” snapped the crone, now belligerent.
Rob her? And she dressed in nought but rags and her horse mired belly deep. “I am no brigand, madam,” said Camille, casting back her hood. “I but wear this because of the—” Of a sudden, Camille realized that the mosquitoes and gnats and biting flies were gone. She unwrapped the scarf and tucked it away in her rucksack.
“Why, you’re just a chit of a fille,” said the crone, cackling in glee, revealing the stained snags of but three
widely spaced teeth: two above and one in between below, her gums empty otherwise. But then like quicksilver her demeanor changed once again, and she held up the frayed end of the rope for Camille to see and gestured at the floundering nag and began to wail once more.
By this time Camille had reached the crone, and the stench from the churned-up quag was dreadful, much like rotten eggs. Near to gagging, but now breathing through her mouth, Camille looked at the poor animal, its shabby white coat splattered with mud, and she said, “Fear not, madam, I’m sure we can get your horse out from there.”
“But how?” wailed the crone. “The rope is too short to reach my mare, and she’s too stuck to come closer.”
“We’ll think of a way,” said Camille, looking about. “Perhaps we can use that broken limb yon to snag the end of the rope I see yet attached to her harness.”
The old crone laughed merrily and danced a bit of a jig, and she called out in a singsong chant, “How clever you are, ’tis easy to see, my beautiful young fille, to fetch out my filly for me.” And then she smiled slyly and added, “But not clever enough, my tender sweet, else you’d release the bird ere he dies of heat.”
Camille’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you kn—?”
“Never you mind. Just do as I say.” The crone’s tone was quite matter-of-fact.
Camille opened her cloak and wakened Scruff, his little beak wide and panting. He seemed quite exhausted, but after many sips of water from Camille’s cup, he recovered somewhat, though not quite to his usual chipper self.
“I was protecting him from the mosquitoes,” said Camille.
“Sometimes the cure is worse than the ailment,” angrily barked the crone, her mood changing quicksilver again.
Once Upon a Winter's Night Page 22