Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

  Charite rushed into the cottage and then came running back out, a cloth sack in hand. “There’s biscuits and boiled eggs and dollops of honey in a jar and apples and cheese and a bit of salted bacon. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry on your way to town.”

  “Mother,” said Maurice, “town is but a half a morn away, and I am sure they won’t starve ere they get there.”

  “Well, you never know, Maurice,” snapped Charite. She turned to Borel and her voice softened. “What with enchantments and magiciens and sorcieres and Fairies and other such strange things on the road, you never know.”

  Borel tied a length of rope to the top of the bag and looped the improvised sling over his head and across one shoulder. Then he raised Charite’s fingers to his lips and kissed them, she to simper coyly. The prince shook hands with Maurice and turned on his heel and stepped ’round the cottage and through the gate and set off down the trace toward the river gleaming in the distance, Maurice and Charite following him to the fence and calling out their adieus, proud Brun barking his own farewell.

  Borel strode onward; after a while he looked back to see Charite scattering grain for the chickens, and Maurice in the bean field plying his hoe.

  “What was it you called out as you were flying about and blessing that stead?”

  “Oh,” said Flic. “I was merely singing an old song about the richness of the land and the luxury of the rains and the goodness of those who husband the crops and care for the beasts and tend such. Whether you can call that a blessing, well, I couldn’t say. And whether or no it will do ought whatsoever… hmm…” Flic shrugged a shoulder and fell silent and Borel strode on for the river crossing, he, too, saying nought, for he knew nothing of blessings either.

  In later days and thereafter, though, it would be said by those who should know of such things that Maurice and Charite had the most fertile and prosperous farmstead in the realm, no matter the seasons or weather.

  “Do you really think that someone in town might know something of Rhensibe and where Lord Roulan’s estate might be?” asked Flic.

  Borel shrugged. “Perhaps. Then again, mayhap we can find one of the Fey Folk that Maurice spoke of. If they are truly Fey, then they might know of something that will give us an inkling as to where to go next.”

  “Perhaps,” said Flic. “Yet if I were you, I’d be careful of what Fey Folk say.”

  Borel broke out in laughter.

  “What?” said Flic.

  “Oh, Flic, my innocent. Don’t you realize that you are as Fey as any? Should I be wary of your words?”

  “Humph!” snorted Flic. “I should say not. After all, I am not speaking of Sprites and such, but of the true Fey Folk.”

  “ True Fey Folk? And just who might they be?”

  “Well, um, er… oh, I know: Fairies, that’s who. Those and-” Flic’s words jerked to a halt, but then he whispered, “Oh, my, perhaps that’s one of them now.”

  Flic pointed, and just ahead on the riverbank sat a crone, mumbling to herself and picking at her considerably long nose.

  As Borel drew near, she whirled about and screeched, “Where have you been! It’s quite late, you know, and I can’t wait here all day.”

  26

  Wyrd

  “Madame,” said Borel, “are you speaking to me?”

  “Of course, you fool,” snapped the partly bald, scraggly-gray-haired, warty-headed crone, the old lady dressed in filthy rags, wooden-soled sandals on her dirty, misshapen feet, the shoes held on by half-rotted leather straps across her insteps. “Do you see anyone else here?”

  “I am here,” said Flic. “I am someone else, and so is Buzzer.”

  “Pah!” sneered the wrinkled hag. “You little pip-squeak, you can’t carry me across the river, while this big lummox of a man can.”

  Flic frowned. “Pip-squeak? You call me a-?”

  “You wish me to bear you across, Madame?” said Borel, interrupting Flic.

  “Have you no ears, or are you total a dolt? Didn’t I just say so?”

  “Leave her be, my lord prince,” said Flic, now thoroughly irritated. “Let the old fool wade.”

  “Is that food you’ve got in the sack?” queried the snaggletoothed crone. “I smell food, and I am hungry.”

  “Indeed, Grandmother,” said Borel. “Let me offer you some.” He unslung the cloth bag from his shoulder and untied the rope and held the sack out to the old woman, its top open. “What will you have?”

  She snatched the pouch from his hands and began wolfing down biscuits and cheese, and drinking honey straight from the jar.

  “My lord,” cried Flic, “take it back from this old beldame, else she’ll gobble it all up.”

  The hag clutched the sack to her bosom and turned away from Borel so that he couldn’t easily grab it from her.

  As she cracked open a boiled egg, Borel said, “She’s hungry, Flic, and I can always hunt, and you and Buzzer can always sip nectar.”

  “Bu-but she’s eating it all!” exclaimed Flic.

  “Nevertheless,” said Borel.

  ’Round a mouthful of apple, and over her shoulder, the crone snarled, “Swat that little pest. Swat the stupid bee as well.”

  As Flic, thoroughly infuriated, hissed in rage, Borel said, “Non, Madame. Flic and Buzzer are my friends and my guides and my allies. I’ll not do them harm, nor shall you.”

  “Friends? Guides? Allies? Ha! Then you are a fool thrice over,” sneered the hag.

  “My lord,” gritted Flic, the Sprite seething, “let me set Buzzer upon her, and then we’ll see just who is the fool.”

  “Non, Flic,” said Borel. “She is old, and a bee sting might kill her.”

  “Good riddance, then,” growled Flic, but he made no move to carry out his threat.

  The crone turned and shoved the sack back into Borel’s hands. “Now carry me across,” she demanded.

  Borel peered into the bag. Only the salted bacon and an empty honey jar remained.

  Borel sighed and retied the bag and looped the sling over his head and across his shoulder again. Then he turned to the old woman and started to pick her up in his arms.

  “You fool!” she screeched. “You might drop me that way. Instead I will ride on your back.”

  “Leave her,” screamed Flic, “the ungrateful old witch that she is.”

  But Borel sighed and turned his back, and the crone climbed up, complaining about the quiver and bow and rope slings and the Gnome rucksack belted to Borel’s waist all being in the way. But finally she was in place.

  Flic would have none of this, and he and Buzzer took to wing.

  “Well, are you just going to stand there all day?” snarled the crone, a gust of her breath nearly gagging the prince.

  Following the trace of the road, into the river stepped Borel, the ford wide and slow-running. Up to his ankles, his shins, his knees rose the water as he bore the old lady across, she breathing at his ear, a miasma of foulness swirling forth from her snaggletoothed mouth. And with every step she seemed to grow heavier… and heavier… and then heavier still.

  Up to his thighs rose the water, and the crone screeched that her feet were getting wet, and she climbed higher, her knees gripping his waist.

  Onward waded Borel, while Flic circled above and shouted that the prince ought to simply dump the whining old hag. So what if she drowned, it would serve the ancient carp right.

  And still she seemed to get heavier with every step.

  “My shoe!” screamed the crone. “You’ve made me lose my shoe! Get it! Get it!”

  Borel looked and saw the wooden-soled sandal drifting toward an eddy. “Madame, it is merely a sabot, a wooden clog, and easily replaced.”

  “No, no, it’s my shoe, and your fault that it is floating away! Get it! Get it now!”

  “Dump her!” shrilled Flic. “Let her bob along after it, or better yet, let her sink out of sight, never to be seen again.”

  Sighing, Borel turned and waded after the sabot, the water
deepening, the crone on his back and screaming at him that she was getting wet. Finally, Borel overtook the shoe and, waist-deep, he waded for the shore, while the hag on his back screeched, “Get me out! Get me out! I am like to drown!”

  “Let her!” shrieked Flic, flying above, Buzzer circling alongside. “Let the old harridan drown!”

  With the crone squalling and Flic screaming, at last Borel reached the far bank and trudged up out of the water.

  The hag scrambled off his back, but held on to Borel while standing on the one foot still sandal-clad. “My shoe,” she demanded, “put my shoe on my foot!”

  “Throw it back in the water instead,” shouted Flic.

  With her yet holding on, Borel knelt and she raised her hammertoed, broken-nailed, dirt-encrusted, bunion-laden foot to receive the worn and wet sabot. And as he slipped it on, her foot became slender and graceful, and the shoe turned to silver. And even as Flic gasped and cried, “Oh, my,” Borel looked up to see not a withered crone, but instead a graceful silver-haired, silver-eyed demoiselle of surpassing beauty, arrayed in a silver gown.

  And above the sound of the river and just on the edge of hearing, it seemed he could faintly detect the sound of a shuttle and loom, as if someone nearby were weaving.

  “Lady Wyrd,” he said yet kneeling, and she canted her head in assent.

  “Lady of the Mere,” he added, and once more she acknowledged the name.

  “Lady Sorciere,” he said, and again she nodded.

  Finally, he said, “Lady Skuld,” and she smiled.

  “I am known by many names, Prince Borel,” she said, “those among them.” She turned her silver gaze toward a nearby frond on which Flic sat, his face in his hands, Buzzer at his side. “Sieur Flic,” she said.

  Flic mumbled, “Didn’t I tell you, Lord Borel, when we first saw her waiting on the bank of this river that she might be one of the Fey? Well, she is, she certainly is. Too bad I didn’t listen to me.”

  He dropped his hands from his face, and stood and bowed. “My Lady of the Yet to Come, I apologize for all I said. Had I but known-”

  Skuld laughed, her voice as silver as her hair and eyes. “Ah, my Flic, I must play my games.” She turned to Borel. “You, Sieur, you did very well, for ere I can aid, a favor must be given, and you were tested sorely.” She held out her hand to him.

  Borel stood and bowed and said, “My lady.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers.

  “Ah me,” she said, smiling, “are you trying to turn my head?”

  “No, my lady, though I would ask you for guidance in the quest I pursue.”

  “I know your quest, Lord Borel, and it is worthy.”

  “Will you help me, Lady Wyrd? I need aid, for I know not where my Chelle lies, nor where lies the manor of her pere, and there is little time left.”

  Skuld sighed and said, “My sisters and I are bound by a rule: no answers of significance or gifts of worth can we give to anyone without first a service of value being rendered to us-which, in my case, you have certainly done, bearing me across the river as you did.”

  “Um, begging your pardon, my lady,” said Flic, “but he gave you food as well.”

  “Indeed, he did, and that’s two beaux gestes,” said Skuld. “Even so, my sisters and I, we cannot grant favors until a riddle we ask is correctly answered, and even then our answers will be couched in mystery.”

  “My lady,” said Borel, “any answer is better than what we now have

  … and to be fair, I know the riddles you and your sisters asked Camille, as well as their answers. Too, I know the answer to the riddle of the Sphinx.”

  “Honorable,” murmured Skuld. Then she turned and looked at Flic and smiled. “Do you fly in races ’gainst other Sprites?”

  “Oh, yes, and I’m quite good at it,” said Flic, beaming.

  Now Skuld turned to Borel and said, “Here then is my riddle: “Were Flic in a Spritely contest

  To see who was most fleet of his

  Kind,

  But in some manner unknown to him

  He had fallen behind-”

  “What?” Flic started to protest, but Skuld threw up a hand to stop him- “But through a furious burst of speed,

  He passed the Sprite in second place,

  Where then would our sprightly Flic

  Now be in this incredibly fast race?”

  “Oh, I know, I know!” cried Flic, jumping up and down on the frond, Buzzer bouncing beside him.

  “ ’Tis not yours to answer, Flic,” warned Skuld.

  Again she turned to Borel, and he said, “Flic would then be second.”

  Skuld grinned and nodded. “Well answered, Borel.”

  “What?” cried Flic. “Second? But I passed that one. Why not first?”

  Borel smiled and said, “Flic, my lad, when you pass the second-place Sprite, you have not yet passed the one who is first, hence, you would be second.”

  “Oh,” said Flic, his face falling. “I thought I would have been in first.” Then he sighed and said, “It’s a good thing it wasn’t my riddle to answer, for I seem to be no good at it. I mean, I didn’t know what women want, nor could I choose between night and day, and-”

  “Flic, you are a valuable member of this quest,” said Borel. “Again I say, without you and Buzzer, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Flic grinned and said, “That’s true. Besides, it wouldn’t have been but a moment before I would have passed that Sprite in first place anyway.”

  Both Borel and Skuld laughed at Flic’s cockiness, but Borel then turned to Skuld. “My lady…?”

  Skuld smiled. “Ah, yes. Aid.”

  She pondered a moment and then said: “Heed me, Borel: “Long is the journey lying ahead.

  Give comfort to those in dire need,

  And aid you will find along the way,

  Yet hazard as well, but this I say:

  Neither awake nor in a dark dream

  Are perilous blades just as they seem.

  “And this I will add for nought: you must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed to find the Endless Sands.”

  Borel frowned, taken aback by her answer, and he said, “My lady, I do not under-”

  But in that moment the persistent sound of the loom swelled, then vanished as did Lady Skuld.

  27

  Riverbend

  “She’s gone,” said Borel.

  “Vanished into thin air,” said Flic, his mouth yet agape. Then he scowled. “Isn’t it just like fate to strike unexpectedly and then as quickly disappear and leave the victim-or beneficiary-to deal with the consequences?”

  “You are right, Flic. None knows when the Fates will come and go, nor whether they might bring good or ill.” Borel sighed and shook his head. “But this I wonder: whenever they speak, why can’t the Fates-the Ladies Wyrd and Lot and Doom-ever answer straight out? Why must they always couch their words in riddles?”

  “I don’t know,” said Flic. “However, my prince, it seems to me that Lady Skuld did tell you something of worth.”

  “Oui, she did. She spoke of finding the Endless Sands, whatever and wherever they are, yet she did not say what might be there.”

  “Whatever it is, my lord,” said Flic, “it surely will help in the quest.”

  Borel frowned. “Endless Sands… they’re in many a childhood tale, but I know not where they are. Do you?”

  Flic shook his head. “Non.”

  “What about Buzzer?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  After a moment, Flic said, “She has flown over sands, but they were not endless. Besides, I think that something called the Endless Sands would not have flowers abloom.”

  “Well, then,” said Borel, “we’ll seek another way.”

  “My lord,” said Flic, “Lady Skuld did tell you what must be done to find them: you must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed. Hmm… perhaps you are to slay some terrible monster.”

  “I think not, Flic, else she would no
t have called it a steed. I think I am meant to ride it, perhaps to tame it and even ride it to those Endless Sands, wherever they are.”

  “That could be,” said Flic. “Tell me: do you know how to ride?”

  Borel sighed and nodded and said, “Not as well as my brother Alain, but I have spent time ahorse in saddle.”

  “I think you are not likely to have a saddle on a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed. And it might not be a horse at all, but, rather, as I said, some terrible monster, a fell beast of some sort-a Gryphon or Wyvern or even a Dragon.”

  Borel took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “You might be right, Flic. But come, get Buzzer and let us be off and discover what we can in the town. It could be that someone there knows of the Endless Sands or can otherwise aid us with Lady Wyrd’s rede. As for you and me, we can ponder as we trek.”

  And so, with Flic and Buzzer riding the tricorn, Borel set out along the meandering river, heading for the community lying upstream a league or two off.

  As Borel strode townward, Flic said, “What about that verse she spoke. How did it go?”

  Borel intoned: “Long is the journey lying ahead.

  Give comfort to those in dire need,

  And aid you will find along the way,

  Yet hazard as well, but this I say:

  Neither awake nor in a dark dream

  Are perilous blades just as they seem.”

  “Well,” said Flic, “we’ve already journeyed far and no doubt have farther to go. And you’ve given comfort and found aid, and I am sure that will continue. And there has been hazard along the way, and, as things are going, there will likely be more. As to the blades-”

  “I think Lady Wyrd was referring to the daggers surrounding the turret,” said Borel.

  “Oui,” agreed Flic. “I believe she has simply verified what we suspected all along-that the daggers aren’t daggers at all but rather represent some other peril, such as terrible guardians or even an army. We won’t know what they really are until we find the turret.”

  “Oui, Flic. But here is the true riddle as I see it: just why did Lady Wyrd speak the verse at all?”