Once Upon a Winter's Night

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Barely able to think, Camille shook the water from her eyes. Something but dimly seen, something perhaps white or grey, stood directly before her, barring the way. Above the scream of the wind, someone or something turned and nickered in her ear.

  Horse . . . blocking.

  Camille started to slump down, but again came the nicker, and from within the pocket of her inside-out vest she heard a frantic chirping.

  Scruff.

  Dimly, she realized he was telling her something, but what? She clutched at the large animal and pulled herself upright, and one thing penetrated her mind:

  Save Scruff.

  And then at last, pummeled by howling wind and hurled ice—the rain had turned to sleet—with her inside-out-gloved fingers, she clutched the mane of the creature and managed to crawl onto its back, all the while instinctively clasping Lady Sorcière’s staff.

  With Camille hanging on and leaning forward, the animal set off through the shrieking wind and the battering ice hurtling through the air, and Camille knew not where the creature was taking her nor did she have the will to care or the wit to do naught but cling.

  A time later—a candlemark, a day, a fortnight, a moon? Camille could not even form the thought—she felt gentle hands pulling her from the mount and bearing her into somewhere. Her ice-laden clothes were taken from her, and she was put in a brick-warmed bed.

  She roused long enough to hear Scruff chirping, and she saw in the candlelight the fair face of a red-haired maiden hovering above, who whispered, “Sleep, Camille; here you are safe, for I am the Lady of the Bower.”

  23

  Bower

  Camille fell into chills and fits of shivering, alternating with spells of torrid fever. She was drenched in cold sweat one instant, then hot and parched the next, and dry coughing racked her frame. Lucid moments she seemed to have, but then babbled quite madly, yet most of the time she was seized by unconsciousness, for surely it could not be called sleep. Days passed with her in this condition, but finally her illness broke, and then she truly slept. And at last she awoke to sunlight and Scruff off chirping elsewhere, and the sound of someone moving about and quietly humming.

  She was in a soft bed within a small room, and the day shone through a window; slender shadows wafted to and fro, made by long and hanging-down branches beyond, swaying gently in the air. Past the foot of the bed, an open doorway led to another room, and ’twas from that place the sound of humming came, the sound of chirping as well.

  Camille tried to sit up, yet—“Oh, my”—she fell back, quite dizzy.

  Footsteps neared, and in the doorway stood a lithe, redheaded woman. Her face was narrow, her eyes emerald-green and aslant, her skin alabaster, tinged with gold.

  “Ah, Camille, you are awake.” She smiled, her mouth generous, her teeth white and even.

  Again Camille tried to rise, and the woman stepped forward. “Let me help.” And she plumped pillows and aided Camille to sit, then propped her up in place.

  “How do you know my name?” asked Camille, her voice faint.

  The woman smiled. “ ’Tis a gift I have.”

  Camille started to ask another question, but the woman held out a staying hand. “One moment, Camille.” She stepped from the room, and Camille could hear water being poured and the stirring of a spoon in a cup.

  But then from beside the bed: “Chp-chp-chp-pip . . . !”

  “Scruff,” said Camille, glancing over the edge at the tiny sparrow, who had hopped into the room. “I’d take you up, but I’m afraid that I’d fall out on my head.”

  “Chp-pip-pip-chp-chp . . . !”

  “Take this, Camille,” said the lady, stepping once again into the room, cup in hand. “ ’Tis a tisane of mint to restore the heart and mind.”

  Camille received the cup and inhaled deeply, the keen aroma refreshing.

  Still, Scruff chirped insistently, and the lady took him up on one of her long, slender fingers and set him to the bed. The sparrow hopped across the cover to come before Camille, then he cocked his head and peered at her, as if examining a patient.

  “Oh, Scruff, I think I am well,” said Camille, “or at least on the mend.”

  Apparently satisfied, Scruff scratched up a small mound of cloth and settled down, as if nesting.

  The woman laughed, and Camille smiled and sipped the minty tea.

  “Camille, indeed you are on the mend, though ’twas touch-and-go for a while.”

  “How long have I been sick?”

  The lady frowned. “A sixday or seven, I deem. I am uncertain as to which. Time means so little to me.”

  “A sevenday?” Camille sighed and looked to see Lady Sorcière’s staff leaning in a corner. “More blossoms withered,” she glumly said.

  The lady arched an eyebrow, but Camille said nought.

  A momentary silence fell between them, but then Camille said, “I’m sorry, my lady, but I know not who you are.”

  The woman smiled, her tilted green eyes aglitter. “Many know me as the Lady of the Bower, yet my name is Lisane.”

  Hope flooded Camille. “Lady of the Bower, Lisane, it is you I came seeking.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  Lisane sat on the edge of the bed. “Aye. You did come seeking answers, yet I speak not with just anyone.”

  Camille’s face fell. “But I sorely do need your help.”

  “Camille, fear not, for well did you pass the test.”

  “Test?”

  “Indeed, for I tried you sorely, yet you showed me an uncommon patience and goodness of heart.”

  “Tried me?”

  “Aye. A test to see if you were worthy of my aid.”

  “How so?—I mean, how did you test me?”

  “Oh, la, Camille, I was the crone with the horse.”

  Camille’s eyes widened in shock. “You were the crone?”

  “Indeed.” Lisane made a small negating gesture. “ ’Twas but a minor glamour I cast ’pon me and Thale, though he did not like playing the part of a broken-down, swayback mare.”

  “Thale?”

  “The one who rescued you nights past.” Lisane gestured.

  “Look without. You will see him.”

  Camille raised a bit and peered out through the cote window. Past hanging-down willow branches, there on a sward a splendid white creature cropped grass; horselike, it was, but smaller and with cloven hooves and a pearlescent horn jutting from its forehead, a thin spiral groove running up from its base to its very sharp tip.

  Camille gasped. “A Unicorn.”

  The Lady of the Bower nodded. “ ’Twas he who saved you.” Lisane gestured at nesting Scruff. “You and your tiny sparrow.”

  “Saved us? Saved me? But I thought Unicorns would have nought to do with those who are impure, sullied, those of us who are no longer maidens, who no longer have our virgin’s blood. To have a Unicorn rescue me is a wonder, then.” Camille shook her head in rueful memory. “I was spurned by one once; with a flick of its tail it turned and trotted away.”

  Lisane frowned. “How so?”

  “It was as I rode the Bear to visit my family—”

  “You were upon the back of a Bear when you were so-called spurned?”

  Camille nodded.

  Lisane laughed. “Ah, then, ’twas the presence of the Bear that caused such.”

  “But I was told that when one loses her virgin’s blood ...”

  “Oh, la, Camille, ’tis not virgin’s blood which draws the Unicorn, but rather purity of heart.—Gods know, were it virgin’s blood, then long past Thale would have left me. ’Tis but an old wives’ tale you did hear.”

  “Oh,” murmured Camille, her heart suddenly lighter. Then she grinned and said, “In this case, ’twas an old fra’s tale, bolstered by a votary of Mithras.”

  Lisane shook her head and faintly smiled. “I oft wonder if fras and votaries and heirophants and other such have the faintest notion of Truth.”

  Again a quietness fell bet
ween them, but then Lisane frowned. “What is it you do seek?”

  “A place east of the sun and west of the moon. I was coming to you in the hopes you would know where it might be.”

  Slowly Lisane shook her head. “I know not where this place lies, but mayhap the cards will know.”

  “Cards?”

  “Aye. I use them for divination. That’s how I knew you were coming. Oh, not you specifically, but that someone sought me and was on the way, or so the cards did say. That’s why Thale and I were waiting along the road. We would have fetched you the following morn, yet the storm intervened, a thing the cards did not see.”

  Camille frowned, then cocked an eyebrow. “These cards, they are taroc?”

  “You know of them?”

  “Only as a game, as well as what some people say: that there are those who can read the future within an arcane spread.”

  Lisane turned a hand over in a small negative gesture. “They do not foretell the future, Camille. They speak not to what will be, but rather what might be, and then only if the reader has interpreted them wisely and true, and only if the acts they portray are not contravened by actions unshown.”

  “Hmm . . . Sounds much like the pronouncements of fras and votaries and heirophants,” said Camille, grinning.

  Lisane laughed gaily. “Touché, Camille. Touché.”

  Camille’s smile faded, and she looked into the now-empty cup. “How long ere I can go onward?”

  Lisane sighed. “A sevenday or so, mayhap.”

  “Seven more days?” Camille tried to struggle up in protest, but, nearly swooning, she fell back. Then she whispered, “Oh, but I must not tarry.”

  “Hush, hush, Camille. You cannot press on as you now are. Heed, you were most seriously ill—the ague, I believe—and it took much out of you.”

  “The ague?”

  “Aye. Mayhap caused by ill vapors of the mire, mayhap by the boghole you waded into, and for that I am most sorry. Mayhap ’twas brought on by a biting fly or mosquito, for ’tis said that some carry ill vapors in their sting, though the charm I cast should have protected you from their bites.”

  “Charm?”

  “Aye, the gift I bestowed upon you when I played the crone.”

  “Ah, then that’s the reason!” exclaimed Camille. “I wondered why the pesky pests left us alone, whereas upon our entry into the clutches of that mire they did anything but.” Camille sighed and shuddered, adding, “Would that you had cast a charm against leeches as well.”

  “Leeches?”

  “Aye. From the boghole.”

  Lisane shook her head in rue. “Mayhap ’twere leeches gave you the ague, for surely they carry the worst of ill offerings a mire can bestow.”

  Camille reached out and laid a hand upon Lisane’s. “Berate not yourself, Lisane, for perhaps it wasn’t the swamp at all made me ill, but instead was the icy storm.”

  “Mayhap,” replied Lisane, yet her arching of an eyebrow spoke otherwise.

  They sat wrapped in their thoughts for a moment, each looking beyond the window to where a Unicorn cropped grass. Finally, Lisane said, “You did babble of an encounter with Spriggans, and, if so, ’twas they who caused the blow.”

  “I wondered,” said Camille. “Vivette and Romy said they could bring on storms.”

  “Aye, indeed they can,” said Lisane. “Given its fury, I thought it might be Spriggan-sent, and then did Thale go seeking you.”

  Camille smiled. “Not only did Thale save me from the storm, but it was you who saved me from the Spriggans within their cave.”

  Lisane’s eyes widened in shock. “You were in their cave?”

  Camille nodded. “They stole my goods, but I retrieved them, yet wouldn’t have were it not for your words spoken as a crone. Ah, but you should have seen them run about in panic when I stepped within their vault wearing inside-out clothes. Better than iron.”

  “Better than iron,” Lisane echoed. “Even so, ’twas a dangerous thing you did, venturing into their den.”

  “Dangerous or no,” said Camille, “I could not let them keep my belongings. And were it not for the words of the crone—were it not for your words—they would have.”

  Lisane sighed. “I thought you would set camp wearing inside-out clothes, for then they would not have taken your goods.”

  Camille’s eyes widened in realization. “Ah, I see: ‘Even when night lies on the sward, Wrong-side-out stands sentinel ward.’ Oh, Lisane, ere I came unto the Spriggans’ cavern, I thought the crone’s words—your words—nought but the babblings of a mad old woman.”

  A slight smile fleetingly crossed Lisane’s face. “Ah, me, mayhap I should have made my warning more plain . . . Still, I knew not for certain the Spriggans would come upon you, only that they might, or so the cards did say.”

  “The taroc cards.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then this time they did say true.”

  Lisane nodded.

  Camille squeezed her hand, and Lisane grinned and squeezed back. Then she stood. “I have some broth warming, and ’tis time we began putting some strength back into you. Too, I would hear your full tale.—But first . . .” Lisane felt of Camille’s forehead, then smiled and opened the window, swinging it inward, allowing fresh air to waft through. Momentarily, Thale looked up at this movement, then resumed cropping grass.

  Two days later, Camille was finally strong enough to venture outside. It was then she discovered that Lisane’s small two-room dwelling was wholly within the massive trunk of a great willow tree more than a hundred feet tall, its long swaying branches hanging down all ’round, though sunlight clearly shone through.

  “That’s why they name me the Lady of the Bower,” said Lisane, “for does it not look as such?”

  “Oh, it’s much more, my lady,” breathed Camille. “ ’Tis a place of wonder.”

  Camille walked about the massive girth. There was but one door into the trunk, and it a bright yellow hue; two windows looked out on the world—one in each chamber. Both the door and the windows had willow-bark shutters, such that when they were closed, the trunk looked entirely whole, and nought could be seen of the dwelling within.

  Shaking her head at the marvel, “Indeed, ’tis truly a wonder,” said Camille as she came to the sward, where Lisane sat on a blanket.

  Lisane smiled, then poured tea, and they sat and sipped the drink, while tasting small, sweet cakes. Scruff chitted and scratched about for insects, and Thale stood nobly by.

  After a while, Camille said, “Lady, I think it is time I returned your bed to you. I will sleep on the pallet in yon chamber where you have been.”

  Lisane shook her head. “Nay, Camille. I oft arise in the night and read the cards by candlelight. I would not disturb your sleep. Think no more of it.”

  Camille started to protest, but Lisane pushed out a shushing hand and passed Camille another small cake.

  And as the day slowly went by, Camille took in fresh air and basked in the sunlight, warming in the rays. Finally, Lisane said, “I shall read the cards for you this eve.”

  Of a sudden Camille’s heart clenched, for though she was not yet well enough to venture onward, she felt a pressing need to go.

  Lisane glanced up at Camille. “Remember, with all the cards, though I might name them he or she, they could just as well be the opposite: female instead of male; male instead of female.”

  Camille nodded, murmuring, “I will remember.”

  “Remember as well”—Lisane tapped the remainder of the deck—“there are four cards yet to come, but not until after the reading of the wheels, for they will speak to the whole, and I would not have their influence ere then.”

  On the table in the candlelight, upon a silken cloth spread o’er the oaken plank, a great circular array of cards lay, rings within rings, concentric, the cards facing outward, away from the center, or inward toward. Camille sat on one side of the table, her eyes wide in wonderment; the Lady of the Bower sat opposite, and she slowly sho
ok her head in dismay. “There are so many swords, Camille, so very many swords, here about the center.”

  “Is that to the good?”

  “It means great conflict.”

  “Do you mean combat, fighting, bloodshed?”

  “Mayhap. Yet it can also mean confrontation, a great physical effort, a testing of wit, any number of things. Think of conflicts, Camille, and how so very many different kinds there are: conflicts of the heart and mind and body and spirit and soul; conflicts from within and without. Why, this illness from which you are on the mend, it, too, is a conflict of sorts.”

  “Oh.”

  Long did Lisane study the array, Camille silent, waiting. Finally, Lisane took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then circled her left hand widdershins above the wheel of cards, followed by her right hand, circling deasil. She then opened her eyes and said, “This is what I see,” and she began speaking of the meanings of the cards and their relation to one another, and as she spoke, she touched each card: her right hand for those upright—facing inward—and her left hand for those reversed—facing out.

  “Here at the beginning are the Two Lovers, upright. I can but think the card bespeaks of you and Alain. But flanking are the upright three of swords on one side and the upright four of swords on the other, and here is the Tower, upright. Respectively they mean separation, isolation, and disaster. Immediately at hand is the three of cups, reversed, signalling a reversal of circumstance, and what was good now causes pain. It is directly followed by the nine of swords, and upright it means despair, anxiety, misery. Camille, this is what has been.”

  Lisane looked across at Camille, who nodded, tears brimming. Lisane reached out and patted her hand, then spoke on:

  “Here is the two of cups upright; it indicates harmony between two souls, yet I think this card does not represent you and Alain, for its position in the array seems to point to two souls you do know, yet mayhap in truth do not.”

  “How can that be?” asked Camille, a puzzled frown upon her face.

  Lisane shrugged. “I cannot say, yet these cards flanking, this one upright, the six of cups, signifies friends, while this three of cups reversed speaks of a test or tests, the double-edged nature of intuition, and since it is reversed, your intuition, or mayhap your first thought, may be wrong.”