Once Upon a Winter's Night

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Never had Camille seen so many people bustling to and fro; to her eye the streets seemed utterly jammed; how anyone avoided collisions, she could not say, yet they managed to do so. People rushed thither and yon, bearing baskets, pushing carts, towing small wagons, all laden with goods. Others were there as well: shoppers, hawkers, a group of street urchins dodging in and out among the grown-ups, laughing, playing at some game. Merchants stood in doorways and invited passersby in. Playing a lyre and a lute and a drum and a fife, a quartet of strolling musicians winnowed among the mass. These and more did Camille see, and to her eye it was all quite confusing: much like a thousand motes of dust dancing in a beam of sunlight, and as with them, she couldn’t seem to pick out from the crowd any given mote.

  “I feel quite like a minnow, Scruff, about to swim against a tide of spawning salmon.” Even so, she paid the bridge toll-keeper a copper penny, then plunged into the mass, trying to master the intricate ballet.

  Camille made her way along the teeming street, foot traffic flowing about her, and though she did not know the dance, it seemed the others did, and so she progressed slowly along the way without crashing into anyone, or rather without them crashing into her. And as she went, instead of a faceless mob, she began to see individuals: tall, short, rotund, slim, breathless, sweating, rushing, casually ambling, standing still, elegantly dressed or wearing rags, some selling goods from carts or open-air stands.

  “Oh, Scruff, that must be a Dwarf.” Camille paused and watched the bearded, short, broad-shouldered being cross athwart the street to disappear down a byway. “I think he was no taller than I am.”

  Camille continued onward, and she came to a footbridge arching across to another island. Ahead, she saw a group of Dwarves—five or six—coming her way, and she stood aside to study them as they passed. Indeed, she was nearly a full head taller than any, each of them somewhere in the range of four-foot-six or so. Yet they were very broad of shoulder, and they all wore leather vests with small, overlapping plates of bronze affixed thereon. Oh, ’tis armor they wear. Is this a warband, or do all Dwarves go about accoutered so? At their belts they wore daggers, but no other weaponry did they bear. All were bearded, and all seemed to be male. And they spoke to one another in a rather guttural and harsh-seeming tongue.

  After they passed, Camille continued onward, her gaze now on faces and forms. Most were Human—“Common salt,” Louis would say—while others were Fey. She saw someone child-size, three foot tall or so, brown and shaggy and quite ugly. Spriggan? Her heart gave a lurch. No, not a Spriggan, but what? Mayhap one of those Alain called Pwca, yet then again, mayhap not. Onward she went, making her way along the crowded street, passing across bridges, progressing toward the big island, where Girard had said the inn would be. As she came nigh the midmost isle, she encountered two bearers carrying a small, silk-curtained litter, and Camille heard high-pitched giggling coming from within, sounding much like the giggles she had heard in the Springwood an eternity past, or it seemed that long ago. Still, she did not see who or what made the laughter.

  Finally, as the sun lipped the horizon, she came upon the Crown and Scepter, a rather modest but quiet inn sitting a bit back from the sheer drop to the water below. The clerk looked somewhat askance at Scruff riding on Camille’s shoulder, and he shook his head and grinned, saying, “We get all sorts here, ma’amselle.”

  “Maps?”

  Camille nodded.

  “Of Faery?”

  Again Camille nodded.

  It was the next morn, and Camille had decided to start the day speaking with any mapmakers in the city. And so, after breaking fast, she had asked the serving maid, who referred her to Huges, the desk clerk.

  “Well, now,” said Huges, “I’m not certain there is such a thing, the way Faery keeps changing, and all.”

  Even as Camille’s heart sank at this news, a second man, sitting at a desk behind the counter, quill in hand, looked up from his ledger sums. “Huges, that’s an old wives’ tale. Faery doesn’t shift about like a tassel in the wind.”

  Huges raised an admonishing finger. “I only repeat what I hear, Robert.”

  “Well, then, let me ask you this: how long have you lived here in Les Îles?”

  Huges turned up his hands. “Why, I’ve been here almost as long as has the Crown and Scepter.”

  “Ah, then, a good long while, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed.”

  Robert smiled. “We agree. Now answer me this: how often has this part of Faery changed in all that time?”

  Huges frowned. “Why, not at all.”

  Robert touched his temple with the feathered plume. “And what would you conclude from that?—I mean about Faery changing and all.”

  Huges’s jaw jutted out stubbornly, and he snapped, “Perhaps the ’scape of Faery doesn’t change much around here, but elsewhere, now . . . well that may be a different story altogether.”

  Robert sighed, then looked across at Camille. “Ma’amselle, I suggest you visit the docks, for perhaps they know of mapmakers and chartsmen and other such.”

  “Merci, sieur. I shall do so.”

  A fortnight later, her legs weary from climbing up and down ladders and stairs on the sheer-sided steeps of the isles, Camille had located many folk who had charts—boatsmen; traders; merchants, three of whom did sell maps—yet none knew of the place she sought.

  Then she began seeking out minstrels and bards, visiting the parks where some played or orated, stopping on street corners to talk to others, walking alongside strolling musicians, and haunting taverns and theaters and music halls to speak with any she found. And she asked if they knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, and she also asked after Rondalo.

  And all those she queried shook their heads or turned up their hands, though one had heard of the Elven bard, but had never met him.

  She continued to visit the docks, for every day boats and travellers came and went, but it seemed a hopeless cause, for none knew of such a place, nor of a bard so named.

  And another moon elapsed, and more blossoms withered away.

  Oh, my Alain, one hundred ninety-nine blossoms remain; one hundred sixty-seven gone. Will I find you ere all are faded away?

  In the lanternlight, Camille, having taken a late meal, trudged up the steps to her chamber. But at the top of the stairs, she heard Scruff chirping frantically even though it was night and he should have been well asleep. Fearing fire or some such, Camille rushed to her door and inside. Light from the hallway lantern shone dimly into the darkened room. “Chp!-chp!-chp! . . .”—Camille could hear Scruff chattering from the direction of the bed, and in the dimness she could faintly see his wee form fluttering and flopping about on the covers. Swiftly, Camille lit a lantern and then quickly stepped to the agitated bird. “What is it, Scruff?” Camille knelt at the side of the bed, eye level with the sparrow, and she held out a finger, but Scruff ignored the offer and, fluttering awkwardly, he hopped to the floor and toward an open window, where a faint breeze stirred the curtains.

  Camille frowned. I do not remember leaving the sash ajar.

  Now she looked about the room. Oh, no! The chifforobe stood open, the drawers pulled out, the contents of her rucksack were strewn about, her cloak lying on the floor. As Scruff chattered up at the open window, Camille rushed to the scattered goods. The rucksack was empty, the secret pocket lay open, all the contents gone. She turned to her cloak; the lining was slitted; the jewelry and coin that had been therein was gone as well. And her money belt no longer lay in the bottommost drawer.

  “Oh, Scruff, we have been robbed.”

  The clerk called the city watch, and two men showed up, but there was little they could do, except take a description of the stolen goods—coin, jewelry, money belt. They did, however, tsk-tsk and admonish her for not taking better care of her valuables; and when she replied she thought the inn quite safe from thieves and such, they smiled and told her she was nought but a gullible girl.

  W
hen Camille suggested it might be Spriggans at work, they both denied that such were in the city. “We keep watch at the bridges and throw the buggers into the river below.”

  After the watchmen had gone, the clerk cleared his throat. “Ahem, ma’amselle, but does this mean you cannot settle your debt to the Crown and Scepter?”

  Camille burst into tears.

  “Ma’amselle,” said Robert the very next morn, “you can work in my kitchen, though it will take some while to pay off what you owe.”

  “How long, sieur?”

  “Three moons, mayhap a bit more.”

  Camille’s heart sank. “Oh, but that’s nearly one hundred days in all, one hundred blossoms withered.”

  “Eh?” Robert cocked an eyebrow.

  “There is another way,” said Huges, “one where you’ll erase your debt much quicker, mayhap in two fortnights or less.”

  “Huges . . .” said Robert, a note of warning in his voice.

  “Oh, sieur, I would be most grateful,” said Camille. “Where is this job?”

  “At the Red Garter,” replied Huges.

  “Red Garter?”

  “A brothel,” growled Robert.

  “And what would I have to do?” asked Camille in all innocence.

  “You really don’t know, do you?” said Robert.

  As Camille shook her head, Robert glared at Huges and said, “It’s just as well you don’t, for the Red Garter is no place for the likes of a young fille as you.”

  “Robert, it is hers to decide, not yours,” said Huges.

  “What would I have to do?” repeated Camille.

  “Have you lain with a man?” asked Huges.

  Camille reddened, but nevertheless replied, “With Alain, my beloved, he whom I do now seek.”

  “That’s what you would have to do with the clientele of the ’Garter. And given your face and form and golden hair, men will gladly pay good coin to couple with you—”

  Shocked, Camille blurted, “You want me to lie abed with strangers and do that?”

  Huges nodded. “Many a lonely boatman and merchant and trader comes to Les Îles, and I would think one such as you would be in great demand; as I say, your debt would be wholly discharged within two fortnights, perhaps in but one.” Huges glanced at Robert, who stood in grim-lipped silence. “Much less than the three moons Robert offers.”

  A fortnight compared to three moons. Yet to couple with strangers, any and all who can pay? But what if on the morrow, someone comes to the city who can tell me where to find my Alain? And if I work here at the Crown and Scepter, how will I even get about to ask, given that I am tied down by having to do kitchen labor? Yet if I work at the Red Garter, a place frequented by travellers and merchants and boatmen, could I not find one who knows whereof I seek? But to lie with strange men, would my heart remain pure? Would Thale ever bear me again? Would I ever—?

  “Of course, my uncle would have to approve,” added Huges, breaking into her thoughts. “Perhaps even try you himself.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “He owns the Red Garter”—Huges smiled—“it is a play on his name: Gautier.”

  Camille shuddered and turned to Robert. “Sieur, may I work in your kitchen while I consider what to do?”

  Robert smiled. “Indeed, ma’amselle.”

  That evening, Camille and Scruff were moved into cramped quarters in the attic, and the following day, Camille began washing dishes and aiding the cook and bearing out garbage to cast into the waters below. It was the best Robert could offer, for, though he sympathized with Camille, her manual skills were those of a crofter, and there were no farms in Les Îles for her to earn her keep while working off her obligation.

  Even so, Camille struggled with her dilemma: one hundred days versus as few as fourteen; her virtue versus mayhap finding Alain. She spoke to no one about her quandary, though she did tell of her loss.

  Many of the kitchen staff did commiserate with her, telling of cutpurses and robbers and muggers and such, some blaming the burglary on a shadowy thieves’ guild, while others declared that it must have been those wretched urchins who had stolen her wealth, while yet others blamed it on Bogles in the night, or Knockers or River Selkies, or even mayhap—Mithras forbid—creatures of the Unseelie.

  The cook did ask how she could have been so innocent as to leave her valuables unwarded, and at this Lisane’s words echoed in Camille’s mind: “. . . you are quite guileless and trusting, which is both to your good and ill . . .” Even as tears brimmed in her eyes, Camille answered the cook as she had Lisane. “I am who I am, sieur. If that means I am an innocent, then so it is I am.”

  Some four days after, as she was washing dishes she began singing to make the work go swifter, a habit from her days in the cottage of her père. And as she sang, the cook stopped what he was doing and stood rapt, listening, along with the kitchen help and serving girls, and the common-room staff as well. And soon Robert came to the door of the scullery, drawn thereto by her voice, and, as did the others, he, too, stood spellbound. As Camille turned to take up another dish: “Oh!”—she abruptly stopped—“M’sieur, I did not—Is my singing disturb—I’ll be quiet.”

  “No, no, Camille,” protested Robert. “I would have you sing. Why did you not tell me you have the voice of an angel?”

  “But, m’sieur, I—”

  “How many songs do you know? And have you sung before an audience?”

  “Oh, sieur, sing for others? I am no bard nor minstrel.”

  Robert snorted. “Minstrels, bards, what would they know of how an angel sings?”

  In moments, Robert had taken Camille’s apron from her and had given her a towel to dry her hands. And he drew her into the common room and quietly spoke of her working off her debt much swifter if she would sing therein—two times each eve, and for a candlemark or so each time.

  It took less than a fortnight for the word to spread across Les Îles: a golden-haired girl with a golden voice was singing at the Crown and Scepter, and ’twas said she sometimes sings to a wee little bird.

  And every night the common room was crowded, come to see and hear the beautiful maiden who sings to a sparrow. They had come for the novelty, but they stayed for the voice. Accompanied by nought but a flute and a drum and a fife and a harp—four musicians she had met in her search—she held the crowd enthralled; and her songs were such that one moment they were laughing, and the next they were in tears.

  And every night, after every performance, ere she and the musicians took up the coins cast upon the stage, she would ask the audience if any knew of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, or of an Elven Bard named Rondalo.

  The answer was always Non.

  Camille’s debt vanished virtually overnight, much sooner than the fortnight or two offered by Huges, and Robert moved her into a suite of rooms. Seamstresses came and fashioned gowns, and from the music halls came managers who offered her unheard-of sums if she would but sing for them.

  Camille politely declined, for she yet felt beholden to Robert.

  But Robert now knew of her quest, and he bade her to sing in the largest hall—Le Magestreux—at least three nights of each seven, “. . . for the Crown and Scepter can still highly profit from the other four.”

  And so she did.

  And there, too, in the grand music hall did she ask the overflowing audiences did they know of the place she sought as well as where might be the bard? And still no answers came.

  Days passed, and blossoms withered and vanished—two hundred ten, two hundred twenty, and more—and each day Camille’s desperation grew, and she felt as if she needed to be doing something, anything, other than remaining there in Les Îles . . . yet what? She had no answer, and there came times in the depths of the night, her despair so deep, she fell asleep while weeping.

  Camille continued to trek to the docks and through the city seeking strangers. Too, she hired a group of urchins to be her eyes and ears, and to ask her two questions of strangers as
well. But all the queries—hers and theirs—were met by shrugs, though many of those asked did now seem to know of Camille and her continuing quest.

  But then came one night . . .

  Camille took up Scruff and reached high to set him on the branch of a potted tree there upon the brightly lit stage. She stood silent for a moment, and a hush fell over the audience, and then came a run of tweeting notes from the fife, and Camille turned as if just discovering the wee brown bird, and she began to sing:“Tiny brown sparrow, sitting in the tree,

  Scruffy little soul, just like me,

  Would you be an eagle, would you be a

  hawk,

  Or would you wish instead to sing like a lark?

  Or would you have plumage bright and gay,

  Or would you wish . . .”

  As Camille came to the second verse, the drum softly took up the rhythm, adding its beat to the chirping fife. At the third verse, the flute joined in, and at the fourth, the harp, and still Camille sang verse upon verse, chorus after chorus, her song telling the well-known tale of the maiden who found comfort in the familiar, yet who wished somehow to experience something new and unpredictable, a maiden who would finally discover love, which would set her free to fly as the transformed sparrow she then was. And in singing this song, Camille’s voice soared to heights that caused the audience to gasp, and it dropped to depths but a whisper, her tones pure and clear and true.