Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

“No, Hegwith. I have not much gear, for I lost nearly all of my goods when I was captured by Trolls, and then again during my escape.”

  Startled, Hegwith blurted, “Trolls? Where?” The Gnome looked about in panic.

  Borel pointed back up the vale. “Past the twilight marge, and over hills and through woods to a distant river and then upstream past rapids; altogether some fifteen or twenty miles hence.”

  A look of relief passed across Hegwith’s face. “For a moment I thought they might be nearby. Yet you escaped them, you say?”

  Borel nodded.

  “What did you lose?”

  “Lose?”

  “Your goods. When you were captured and then escaped.”

  “Oh, it’s not important. Just a rucksack and a tinderbox and provisions, as well as a small kit for fletching arrows and other such things. Yet that is neither here nor there. Instead let me ask you this: do you know of Lord Roulan? Where his estates might be? We are on a desperate mission, and it is vital we get to his lands.”

  Hegwith shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not know of him. Would that I did, but I don’t.”

  Borel sighed and then pointed ahead and said, “What lies along the vales we follow?”

  “Meadows. Flowers. Streams. Coppices. All the way to the next border, some twenty-five miles hence. But there are no estates along that path.”

  “What lies beyond the next twilight marge?” asked Flic.

  “Oh, you don’t want to go there,” said Hegwith, pushing out both hands, as if to stop any movement in that direction. “ ’Tis a terrible mire-hideous bogs and quags; why, I nearly drowned when I passed through, back when I fled from the hag who wanted to steal my-um, er, harrumph, and those horrible girls who cut my beard. Regardless, there is muck without bottom and quicksand and leeches and snakes and other dreadful things, things that slither and plop and wriggle and…” Hegwith’s voice trailed off, his face squinched, his gaze lost in ill memories.

  “Blossoms?” asked Flic.

  “What?”

  “Are there blossoms, flowers, within the swamp?”

  “Why, I suppose so. Yes, I remember. Many flowers hanging from trees, altogether quite beautiful. Others were growing up out of the muck. And some of those filled the air with the odor of carrion, as if some animal had crawled within and had become trapped and died, the stench of putrefying meat rather dreadful.”

  Flic looked at Borel. “Then, my lord, I think that is where Buzzer is headed, for the flowers of a mire are rich in nectar.”

  Borel shrugged and hitched to his feet, for sitting had stiffened him up. “If it lies along Buzzer’s route, then there’s nothing for it but that we must follow.”

  The prince slung his bow by its carrying thong and said, “I thank you for the tasty meal, Hegwith. It filled up the empty spots in my hollow stomach. But now we must go, for our mission is dire and the moon sails on and stays her course for no one.” He turned to the Sprite and the bee. “Flic, Buzzer, ’tis time to fly.”

  At a signal from Flic, Buzzer took to wing and flew up and ’round, sighting on the sun, and then she arrowed away. Flic flew up to the prow of Borel’s tricorn and settled down. Borel sketched a bow to the Gnome, then turned and strode off through the evergreens, and Hegwith watched them go. Just ere they disappeared from sight, the Gnome called out, “Thank you for setting me free without cutting my beard.”

  Hegwith stood a moment in thought, muttering, “What has the moon to do with ought?” Then he looked at the axe and the crack in the log and at the cord of wood Borel had split and laid for him. His eyes widened and he glanced once more in the direction that Borel, Flic, and Buzzer had gone, then turned and rushed into his tiny dwelling, where he opened a trapdoor and climbed down into the mine below. There he took up a maul and began pounding on the bedrock, his rhythmic hammerings sounding very much like signals.

  “Nought but liaisons, eh?” said Flic.

  Borel frowned and then brightened and said, “Ah. With the fair sex, you mean?”

  Now Flic frowned. “Fair sex?”

  “Women,” said Borel. “Females. Ladies. Mademoiselles and demoiselles. Femmes fatales.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Flic. “Yes, they are who I meant.”

  “Oui, liaisons is all I have had with members of the fair sex,” said Borel.

  Flic sighed. “Me, too. Ah, but as I said before, I wish I had someone to love and someone who loves me.”

  “A lady Sprite, eh? Someone from the fields?”

  “That would be my choice,” said Flic, “though I suppose a Woodland Sprite would do.”

  Borel frowned. “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, indeed. A great difference. They live in the woods, you see, whereas I and my kind live in the fields.”

  Borel strode forward several steps before asking, “Are you of a size: Field Sprites and those of the woods? Do you more or less resemble one another?”

  “Um, yes,” said Flic.

  “Then why would there be any problem in such a union?”

  Flic pondered a moment. “Well, I, uh… Hmm. I suppose we could live in the woods some of the time and in the fields at others. That or live in a field on the edge of a woodland.”

  Borel smiled. “What of living in a woodland on the edge of a field?”

  “Hmm…” Flic mused. “I suppose that would work as well, though surely the other way ’round is better.”

  Borel laughed. “It never occurred to me that where one lives might keep lovers apart. I would think that the important thing is whether or no one has found his truelove and she has found him. Then from that moment on, they would seek to overcome whatever obstacles lay in their way so that they could be together.”

  Flic fell silent, and Borel strode on, following the path that Buzzer flew, the bee keeping to the vales rather than flying up over any of the mountains hemming them in.

  At times Borel waded streams and rivulets and deep flows. At other times he trudged up long slopes, or down. Through laurel hells he went, and groves of aspen and birch. Whin oft stood in his way, and this he passed ’round when he could, or pushed through when he could not. Stony ways he sometimes followed, or whisked among tall grasses springing forth from rich loam. Yet no matter the terrain, always there were flowers along the way: Buzzer’s larder.

  And as Borel strode and Flic rode and Buzzer flew, the prince and the Sprite talked of the mysteries of amour and ardor and passion and affairs of the heart, and they both bemoaned the fact that each had yet to find his very own truelove.

  They were yet in the high mountain valleys when they came to the wall of twilight marking the border into the next realm of Faery. And as the sun set, hearkening to the words of Hegwith the Gnome, they set camp in a coppice this side of that marge and planned on passing through and into the mire the next morn.

  Altogether, they had gone some twenty-seven miles that day, for with the ministrations of Flic’s medicines, Borel’s hurts had considerably eased.

  Once again Borel knapped flint arrowheads as he sat beside the fire. He had seen no game that day, and so he would be without meat for his meal. Had I my loyal Wolves, I would set them on a hunt. I do hope they escaped Hradian’s wrath. Though he had not felled game, he had managed to dig up a tuber-something akin to a parsnip-from one of the meadows, and Flic had assured him that certain grass grains were nutritious, at least to grazing animals, that is, and so whenever they had passed through thigh-high grass, Borel had plucked and chewed the heads. And so he roasted the tuber and knapped flint, while he and Flic spoke of liaisons and love and lovers.

  That eve, when Borel settled down to sleep, Flic reminded the prince that he needed some way to change the setting of the turret, should he happen to find Chelle in his dreams again.

  Yet Borel did not know how to do such a thing, and even as he concentrated upon remembering that daggers meant that he was dreaming, still the quandary of how to escape the stone chamber lurked on the edge of his thoughts.r />
  17

  Dance

  “My lady, what is it across your eyes?”

  “There is something across my eyes?”

  “A dark band.”

  “Then I know not what it might be, my prince, for I see you clearly, and you, my love, are just as I remember.”

  Borel took her hand and bowed and kissed her fingers. As he straightened, he glanced about the deeply shadowed chamber. The room was round and seemed somehow vaguely familiar, as if he had been there before. The walls were of stone, and the floor of wood, as was the conical ceiling above. To one side, stone steps led downward to somewhere below, and there were windows opening out onto — Daggers! Floating daggers! I am in the dream.

  “My lady, I must get you away from here.”

  “How, Lord Borel? The windows are warded, and something dreadful lies down below. It isn’t as if we have a magical doorway to lead us to safety.”

  Magical doorway?

  Flic’s words echoed in Borel’s mind: “… you must remember that if you are aware you are dreaming, you control aspects of the vision.”

  Again Borel looked about. Perhaps in the deepest shadow opposite the stairwell. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and when he opened them again- There!

  “My lady, if I have done this right, I have a surprise for you. If you please.” Borel offered Chelle his arm.

  Hesitantly she took it, and Borel led her to the hidden door in the wall, and when he swung it wide — Music and gaiety filled the air, and they entered a large chamber full of people waiting their turn to dance the minuet: the women in silks and satins, their long, flowing gowns of yellow, of peach, of lavender, pale jade, deep red, of puce and rust and umber, and of white. Chelle was the only one wearing a gown of sapphire blue and white. The men were arrayed in silken tights and knee hose and buckled shoes, with doublets and waistcoats and silken shirts and ruffles galore, their colors in darker shades than those of the women, but running throughout the same range. Only Borel was dressed in leathers. And violins and violas and cellos and a harpsichord sounded out the stately air, while a single pair in the center of the floor gracefully paced out the courtly steps.

  “How utterly wonderful,” breathed Chelle.

  “My lady, does this suit?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Chelle, a glorious smile lighting her face, though the dark band yet remained.

  And she and Borel moved in to take their place among the elegant circle of waiting couples “Where are we?” asked Chelle.

  “In Summerwood Manor. Here it was I last danced.”

  “Who is the man in the mask?” asked Chelle.

  “My brother, Alain,” said Borel.

  “And his partner?”

  “Camille, his truelove.”

  “Why does he wear a mask?”

  “He is cur-” Borel frowned. “No, wait. He was cursed, but no longer.”

  Of a sudden the mask vanished, yet none in the gathering seemed to notice that ought had changed, not even Chelle.

  The music segued into an interlude, and amid applause Alain and Camille stepped to the edge of the floor, and from across the circle Alain gestured to Borel. All eyes turned toward the Prince of the Winterwood.

  And as the violins and viols and cellos and the harpsichord continued the interlude, “My lady,” said Borel, stepping onto the dance floor and bowing to Chelle and then straightening and holding out a hand to her.

  Chelle smiled and curtseyed, and then took Borel’s hand and he led her to the center of the floor. And as the prince and his lady took position, the musicians played an introductory refrain, followed by the dignified air of the minuet.

  And while all those about them watched and waited their turn, Borel and Chelle moved in time to the moderate tempo, the stately court dance one of small steps and erect posture and deep curtseys and bows and hand-holdings and pacing side by side while facing one another. And they turned and drew close and then stepped apart, and struck the requisite poses, the whole of it having an air of restrained flirtation.

  “It is called the kissing dance, Chelle,” said Borel, smiling mischievously.

  “I know, my lord,” said Chelle, a rising blush touching her cheeks.

  “Fear not, my lady, I will not embarrass you in front of these guests.”

  “Oh,” said Chelle, her voice falling.

  As they continued the dance, yet effecting the various postures and carriage, Borel said, “I would not have you be a mere liaison, Chelle.”

  “And I would not be one, Sieur,” replied Chelle, a hint of coldness in her response.

  “Ah, my Chelle, do not take me wrong,” said Borel. “I find I am strongly drawn to you, and it is more than mere desire.”

  “Oh, Borel, I have loved you ever since I first saw you,” said Chelle.

  “You were but a child then,” said Borel.

  “I am no child now,” replied Chelle, again a blush gracing her cheeks.

  Borel’s blood raced and his heart hammered in his breast, threatening to escape. And of a sudden he and Chelle were stepping out the dance in the center of an enormous floor, the ring of spectators still all ’round but now furlongs away.

  And Borel leaned down to kiss her and Chelle raised her face to meet him, and in that moment the music slipped into the interlude, and all the spectators suddenly appeared right at hand, applauding.

  Borel and Chelle sprang apart, and Chelle, blushing furiously, hid part of her face behind the fan that suddenly appeared in her hand, while women in the circle about them clapped and smiled and whispered to one another, and the men slapped their hands together and looked at Borel and grinned their approval.

  Borel led Chelle from the floor and they resumed their place among the bystanders, while another couple took the center.

  The music again segued from an introductory refrain to the dance, and Borel leaned over and murmured, “I apologize, my love, I should not have been so bold.”

  “I am not sorry, my lord,” said Chelle, her fan rapidly whisking back and forth, as if to cool her face.

  As the couple on the floor minced through the steps of the minuet, Borel said, “How came you to be in the turret?”

  The walls of the hall in Summerwood Manor began to turn to stone, and Borel clutched Chelle’s hand and cried out, “No, no, my love, there are more dances to dance and things to say!”

  And the stone faded and became wood once more, and Chelle looked up at Borel and, though he could not see them behind the shadowy band, he knew there was fright in her eyes.

  No one else seemed to have noticed ought.

  The music changed, and Prince Alain announced they would begin the contredanses.

  Dancers formed into squares and stepped out the intricate but lively footwork of the cotillion, and then that of the quadrille, with its handful of complex figures, each with its own vigorous tune. And some of these dances again turned upon flirtations, where couples frequently switched partners and hands were held and cheeks were kissed and long lingering looks were exchanged with much touching and swinging about, though every time Borel traded partners it was always Chelle with whom he next danced.

  Then came the longways dances, where the men arrayed themselves in a line facing the women in a like line opposite, partners directly across from one another.

  Here the music was lively, sprightly violins showing the way, and various partners took turns dictating the mode of the dance, the others following in whatever pattern the leaders had set, sometimes dancing a lively romp down the center, at other times weaving in and out of the lines or circling ’round the outside, and when each couple reached the far end they took a place there and stood still while those following romped or reeled or wove past in a dancing game of follow the leader. When Borel and Chelle’s turn came to set the pattern, Borel called out, “The Dance of the Bees!” and then he and Chelle flapped their arms as if they were wings and wriggled and buzzed down the center of the lines, and then ran back and wriggled and buzzed down
the center again, Chelle laughing gaily in between her buzzings, men and women in the long lines laughing and clapping and waiting their turn at becoming bees.

  After this merry and vigorous dance, Alain called a halt for both dancers and musicians to rest. And as Borel led his demoiselle through the wide double doors and out into the garden beyond, he looked up to see the moon four days past fullness, and of a sudden they were back in the turret, Chelle gazing at the thin beam of moonlight shining against the floor.

  “There is less than a moon left,” she said in the Old Tongue — And Borel awakened in a camp next to a twilight border to hear small footsteps scurrying away in the night.

  In Summerwood Manor, both Alain and Camille startled awake.

  “I had the strangest dream,” said Alain.

  “So did I,” said Camille.

  They looked at one another, eyes widening.

  “A dance?” asked Alain.

  Camille nodded.

  “Borel?” asked Alain.

  Again Camille nodded.

  “A demoiselle with a dark band across her eyes?” asked Alain.

  “Oh, yes, Alain,” replied Camille. “How can this be?”

  Alain shook his head and replied, “I think, my love, the more important question is: what can this possibly mean?”

  18

  Torrent

  As the footsteps scrambled away, Borel bolted upright and gazed through the moonlight in the direction of the sound, but there was too much underbrush to see ought. Snatching up his bow, ready to string it, the prince jumped to his feet; still, he saw nothing. Then he whirled about and breathed a sigh of relief: Flic and Buzzer slept peacefully upon the broad leaf they had taken to as their bed. Borel knelt and added wood to the fire, and in the growing blaze, he examined his meager belongings to see if anything had been stolen: nothing had. But he found in addition to his goods a tiny rucksack, and within were several small bags, and these he cautiously examined: in one there was oatmeal; another contained strips of jerky; a third one held a loaf of black bread, the same as the Gnome had served; the fourth and final bag held several coins, silver and gold among the coppers. Furthermore, there was a small jar of honey, a coil of line, a tiny pot of glue, a packet of thread, a small tin pot with a bail, and a tinderbox with flint and steel and fine wood shavings.