Once Upon a Winter's Night fs-1

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “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 Iles 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 pere. 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 Iles: 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 Iles… 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.

  And as the song came toward an end, a clear tenor voice from the audience joined with hers, and Camille nearly faltered- Alain? — and she looked to see who caroled in flawless harmony in melodic counterpoint to her soaring soprano. In the shadows beyond the footlights she could just make out a tall, fair-haired stranger standing midway up the right-hand aisle, someone she had never before seen, yet someone somehow familiar. The audience broke into spontaneous applause, quickly quelled, for they would not miss even a single note or word, as the stranger sang of the sparrow, and the golden-haired maiden sang of the girl.

  And the harp and fife, and flute and drum fell silent, for here was perfection needing no accompaniment.

  And as he caroled, the stranger walked forward to sing up to Camille, and she to sing down to him.

  At last the song came to an end, and both Camille and the stranger fell silent, as did the entire hall, some in the audience weeping quietly in joy, others sitting wholly stunned.

  But then Scruff emitted a loud “ Chp! ” and as if that were a signal, the hall erupted in great glad shouts and thunderous applause and calls of “ Bravo! Bis! Plus! ” and “ Camille!”

  The stranger leapt onto the stage, and he took Camille’s hand and bowed to the audience as she curtseyed. As they stepped back from the footlights he smiled at her, the sapphire gaze of his tilted eyes sparkling within his narrow but handsome face, his alabaster skin somehow glowing as of a hint of gold. Tall and lean, he stepped forward with her again, and bowed as she curtseyed, and as he did so he glanced sideways at her and said, “My Lady Camille, I am Rondalo, and I hear you have been looking for me.”
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  Bard

  Hand in hand, they fled the music hall, escaping wellwishers and ardent admirers alike, Rondalo whisking her away into the shadows cast by a waxing gibbous moon above. He hied her down side streets, Scruff asleep in the special shoulder-pocket of her new-made gown. Finally, well clear of the devotees, Rondalo slowed to a stroll and reluctantly released his grip.

  Catching his breath, he said, “My lady, I did not know any other than Elvenkind could sing as do you.”

  Somewhat breathlessly, Camille replied, “And I thought none but Alain could sing as well as you.”

  “Alain?”

  “He is my love,” said Camille, not noting how Rondalo’s face fell at such news.

  “The one I seek,” added Camille.

  “Lost, run away, kidnapped, vanished?”

  “ ’Tis a long tale, sieur,” said Camille. “One I pray you can help me resolve.”

  “We have all night, my lady,” said Rondalo, “and I know just the place where your tale shall trip gently from your treasured lips unto my unworthy ear.”

  Rondalo swirled the wine in his glass and peered within. “ ’Tis quite a tale, that… one worthy of a saga or song, did we but know the end.”

  They sat in soft-glowing candlelight in a small, out-of-the-way restaurant on the downstream rim of the great isle. Faint dawn glimmered through windows. In a distant booth, the restaurateur slept.

  “Regardless, Lady Camille, I know not where lies this place you seek-”

  “Oh,” said Camille, despairing.

  “-but I know someone who might help.”

  Hope bloomed.

  “Who? Where?”

  “Nearby,” said Rondalo, gesturing outward. “As to whom, mayhap you know her as the Lady of the River, though her true name is Chemine. She is my dam.”

  “Your mere? But I thought you were one of the Fir-Oh, my, now I know who you remind me of: Lisane, the Lady of the Bower.”

  Rondalo laughed. “A distant cousin, Lisane. Yet how do I remind you of her?”

  Camille turned up a hand. “The same tilt of eyes, the same slender face, the same tipped ears, the same alabaster skin with an aura of gold.”

  Rondalo grinned and looked into his wineglass and shook his head. “My dear, those are but Elven traits.”

  “Lisane is an Elf?”

  Rondalo looked up at her. “Indeed.”

  Camille dropped her gaze. “I did not know, for she said nought.”

  “Undeniably, you are newly come unto Faery.”

  Camille nodded. “There is much in this realm of which I have not the faintest inkling. Still, if your mere, Chemine, the Lady of the River, can aid, I would be most grateful.”

  Rondalo looked downstream toward the distant small isle. “We will go thither this eve, for first light comes, and I deem you need rest.”

  Rondalo cast coin on the table, and they slipped out without waking the restaurateur.

  They strolled in silence along the bluff toward the Crown and Scepter, while the river below slipped gently through the waning night, and just as they reached the riverside door, full dawn finally came, and, with small, sleepy peeps followed by insistent chirps, Scruff awakened and scrambled to Camille’s shoulder and demanded they break fast.

  Rondalo was yet laughing when he bade au revoir, and that he would see her in the eve.

  It was late afternoon as Rondalo and Camille, with Scruff on her shoulder, stepped from the bridge and onto the high riverside bluff.

  “I thought we would be taking a boat to the isle,” said Camille.

  “Non, Camille, there are no docks, no cliffside stairs, no scaling ladders to my dam’s abode.”

  “Then how-?”

  “You will see,” said Rondalo, smiling.

  They followed the road a distance, past a large paddock and a busy set of stables, where, since no horse was allowed in the city of Les Iles, those of the red coach as well as those of other travellers were looked after. The road went onward a way, but then turned and ran down the face of the bluff through a series of heavily buttressed switchbacks to the ferry slips below. Rondalo and Camille did not follow this way, but instead at the high turn they did leave the road and entered into the galleries of the woodland beyond; therein they made their way among the trees overlooking the river far under.

  “Tell me, Rondalo, are you one of the Firsts? I mean, Lisane said you were, yet it would seem that your mere had to precede you herein. Would that not make you instead one of, say, the Seconds?”

  Rondalo smiled. “She was in labor the moment she stepped into Faery, and swiftly was I born… or so it is she tells me.”

  “What came before?” asked Camille. “That is, where did your mere live ere then? Whence came she?”

  Rondalo shrugged. “ ’Tis said that long past there was no Faery, until shaped in the tales of the Keltoi, a wandering race of true bards, every man a king, and they finally came to settle on an emerald isle somewhere elsewhen. How they did so-created Faery, that is-it is not at all certain. Some claim that as they told their glorious tales to one another, they spoke with such silver tongues, with such subtle mastery, that the gods themselves listened intently, and what the Keltoi told, the gods made manifest. Thus was Faery fashioned, twilight borders and all, and the moment my dam stepped into Faery was the moment I was born.”

  Camille frowned. “Has no one asked these men of the emerald isle? It should be easy enough to find the truth of the matter.”

  Rondalo shook his head. “Alas, the true Keltoi are no more, vanished from the worlds, and only their stone circles and dolmens remain.”

  “Then what of their descendants? Cannot they shed some light?”

  “ ’Tis said that many of those have silver tongues and some have golden pens, yet they are no wiser as to how Faery came to be than I.”

  “Then mayhap your mere will know,” said Camille.

  “Alas, my dam has but one memory of aught ere I was born, and that a grievous one: the death of my sire.”

  “Oh,” said Camille, and fell silent.

  The sun was just beginning to set, high white clouds turning golden in the foredusk sky, when at last they stood on the bluff straight across from the solitary isle. As Camille gazed at the distant white cottage within the walled grounds atop the sheer-sided river mesa, she said, “Now that we are here, how do we proceed?”

  Rondalo grinned. “I will show you.” Pulling Camille after, he stepped through the long shadows cast by the trees to come to a great white boulder. And on the side away from the river, he placed his hand to the stone and whispered a word, and lo! a silver-bound, oaken door appeared. At Camille’s gasp, Rondalo said, “Fear not, lady, for my dam tells me ’tis but a simple glamour.”

  “ ’Twas not a gasp of fear, Rondalo, but one of wonder instead, for glamours are strange and marvelous: they turn beautiful Elves into crones, Unicorns into nags, and doors into stone.”

  “And sometimes just the opposite,” replied Rondalo, smiling.

  In spite of the illusion, the door was locked, but Rondalo produced a silver key, and in but moments, by the light of a newly lit lantern found on a peg just inside, they descended a long, spiral stair down into stone depths below. At last they came to the bottom, and a tunnel stretched into darkness before them, and along this way they went, their footsteps echoing hollowly down the long, granite corridor.

  There it was that Scruff peeped drowsily a time or two within the shadowy hall, and Camille carefully slipped him into the high vest pocket, where, after another peep or two, the sparrow settled down to sleep.

  As they continued on, Camille asked, “Who made this?”

  “ ’Twas here from the first.”

  “A Keltoi creation, eh?”

  “Them or the gods.”

  Finally, they came to the foot of another stair spiralling upward into the darkness above, and up this way they went nearly three hundred steps altogether. They came to another door, this one locked as well
, but the silver key opened it, too.

  As Rondalo blew out the lantern and hung it on a peg, Camille stepped outward into the early twilight beyond, for dusk was drawing down o’er the land, and she came into a splendid garden, flowers everywhere. A pillared gazebo sat centermost, beyond which stood a white-stone cottage. Pathways wended among blossoms. “Shall we?” asked Rondalo, offering his arm.

  As Camille slipped her arm through his, she looked back toward the door, yet ’twas nought but a stone boulder she saw, like the one on the shore opposite.

  Through the gloaming they trod along one of the pathways, but as they circled ’round the gazebo, a gentle voice said, “Would you pass me by?”

  Rondalo laughed. “Mother, I saw you not.”

  “ ’Tis no wonder, son, for what man would have eyes for aught but the beauty who walks at your side?”

  Even as Camille blushed, Rondalo said, “Mother, may I present Lady Camille; she has come for your aid. Lady Camille, my mother Chemine, the Lady of the River.”

  Camille curtseyed low, and Chemine rose and curtseyed as well. She was tall and graceful and had an ethereal quality about her, yet a quality of sadness as well. Her eyes were grey-blue and held a tilt, and her skin, like that of Rondalo, was alabaster touched by gold. Her hair was fair, though a trace of copper shone here and there among the flax.

  “Come and sit and have some tea. I have been waiting for you.”

  “You have been looking into the water again, eh, Mother?”

  Chemine canted her head and made a small gesture toward a stone bowl, which seemed to be filled with ink.

  Rondalo turned to Camille. “Mother is a Gwaragedd Annwn, or as mortals sometimes say, a Water Fairy, though ’tis a misnomer, for the Gwaragedd Annwn are of Elvenkind rather than of the Fairies.”

  “I’ve heard of Water Fairies,” said Camille, setting her cup aside, “yet I thought they were creatures such as those I saw in the Spring- and Autumnwood. Small, they were, nearly transparent, a long, graceful fin running from wrist to ankle.-Oh, and they can change into otters, or at least so did the males, as I discovered while swimming unclothed.”