Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

  “Your meaning, my lord?” asked Flic.

  “Why did she utter those particular words, when all it told us was how we already act and what we already know or suspect?”

  Flic frowned and shrugged a shoulder. “That is certainly a riddle, my prince, yet who can comprehend the ways of the Fates?”

  Even as they passed dwellings on the outskirts of town, Flic said, “You know, at first I thought I should have seen that the crone was not what she seemed, and that I should have detected the glamour. But after she revealed her true self, I realized that her bewitchments would always utterly defeat my Fey sight.”

  “Fey sight?” asked Borel.

  “Oui. I can at times see when something is not what it seems. Oh, if the glamour is strong enough, it defies my vision. Or, if the being is powerful enough, again I am helpless to see… as was the case with the invisible monster in the swamp.”

  “But you can see through some glamours?”

  “Oh, yes. But not all. And sometimes when I do not see what I expect to be there, then I think an enchantment might be involved-either a spell so strong that my sight cannot penetrate it, or that it is truly gone. In the case of Lord Roulan’s dell, I did not see what I thought should be there, yet when you walked its length, I knew it wasn’t merely hidden. Then I thought that during the day it might be absent, but at night moonlight might make it materialize, yet I was wrong.” Flic shook his head and said, “Pah! Most of the time having Fey sight is not an advantage this way or that.”

  Borel smiled and said, “I would think in the case of Lady Wyrd, she can deceive the best of any vision, Fey sight or no.”

  Flic laughed and said, “Indeed, my lord, indeed.”

  Using a bit of the Gnomes’ coinage, Borel took a room in the Running Stag, the best of the three inns in Riverbend, a rather modest and sleepy town. As Borel signed the register, the clerk eyed the Sprite and then the bumblebee, both of them beside Borel’s hat on the counter. The clerk turned to Borel and said, “Are you certain, Sieur, the bee is well behaved?”

  As Flic huffed, Borel said, “Indeed, she is. Of course, should someone try to swat her, then she will not be bound by manners.”

  “Oh, perhaps I’d better warn our other three guests as well as the staff, then.”

  “I should say so,” said Flic, drawing himself up to his full naked two-inch height. “Else they’ll have to deal with me.”

  “I would add,” said Borel, “that the bee is quite protective of her charge.”

  “Her charge?” said the clerk.

  “Me,” said Flic, grinning. “Swat me at your peril, Sieur.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” said the clerk, holding out a key to Borel. “I’ll be certain to warn all.”

  As Borel took the key he said, “And your baths are…? -Oh, and I will need my leathers cleaned, and a robe.”

  “Indeed, Sieur.”

  “This, too,” said Borel. “Have you a jeweller in town, and a weapons shop? And a place where I can get a good rucksack and supplies?”

  “No jeweller as such, Sieur,” said the clerk, “though there are a few brooches and rings and other like items over at the milliner’s. Jewellers, you see, arrive in the spring, peddling their wares; the milliner, she always takes extra on consignment. As for weapons, our blacksmith has a few knives and such; if he has not what you wish, he can easily make it. The dry-goods store is two streets over.”

  “Ah, yes, milliner,” said Borel, looking at Flic. “Perfect, for she will have pins and needles. Which way the milliner? Blacksmith, too?”

  The clerk gave directions, and then told Borel the baths at the inn were out back.

  Even as Borel turned to go, a town crier stepped into the lobby and loudly called out, “Another man drowned! Another man drowned! A crofter from a stead beyond the White Rapids found floating under the red bridge by a passing goose girl.” The townsman then hurried back out to the street to herald the latest news.

  “Oh, Mithras,” said the clerk, “three drownings in the last three weeks, and that’s the second one this week alone. Will those farmers never learn to respect the river?”

  “Three altogether have died by drowning?” asked Borel.

  “Oui, Sieur,” replied the clerk. “As I said, three in the last three weeks.”

  “Has anyone investigated?”

  “The constable. He went up there to the White Rapids and looked about.”

  “These rapids are…?”

  “Terrible,” said the clerk. “They lie some two or three leagues upriver. I mean, on a quiet night, like most nights around here, you can sit on the veranda and hear them roar. They’re not anything like the rest of the Meander.”

  “So the constable went up there?” said Flic.

  “Oui. It was after the second death, but he found no sign of foul play.”

  “Still, three in three weeks sounds somewhat suspicious,” said Borel.

  The clerk shrugged. “Nevertheless, the constable, he said there just wasn’t anything to see.”

  Borel frowned and looked at Flic, but the Sprite turned up both hands. He stepped onto the tricorn and said, “Let us away to the tubs.”

  With Flic and Buzzer aboard, Borel took up his hat and headed for the door to the baths. Just as he reached it, the clerk called after, “Though there were quite a number of hoofprints.”

  Borel turned and said, “Hoofprints?”

  “Up beyond the rapids. That’s all the constable found. There’s a wild horse running amok ’round those parts that’s been destroying crops and raising havoc at night.”

  Flic gasped and swung down to Borel’s shoulder and said, “Lady Wyrd knew. She knew! That’s what she meant.”

  Borel nodded and intoned, “ ‘You must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed.’ ”

  “A Pooka,” said Flic. “Oh, Borel, she was speaking of a Pooka. There’s a Pooka beyond the rapids, and it is drowning men.”

  28

  Interlude

  Borel said, “We should go right now and-”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” said Flic. “Pookas are night creatures. Besides, you don’t even have a good blade.”

  “I have this one of flint,” said Borel, pulling the stone knife from his belt.

  “I think you will need a better one, my lord; Pookas are quite perilous, you know… one of the Dark Fey… unseely. And so you need something better than a piece of flint to threaten him with, but not to kill him.”

  “Not that I was planning to, but why not kill a Pooka?”

  “If you kill a Pooka, my lord, you will be forever cursed.”

  “Very well, Flic. I’ll get a long-knife at the blacksmith’s. Then we’ll go.”

  “My lord prince, it is yet midmorn, hence we have most of the day for you to not only purchase a weapon, but also supplies and goods for the long journey Lady Wyrd said lies ahead of us. Hence, I think we should spend the day in town acquiring what we need. After all, we know not exactly where the creature might be, other than perhaps in the vicinity of the White Rapids. Once we get there I can fly in the night and find him.”

  “All right, Flic, all right. I yield. We do have time. Let us first to the baths, and while I soak I would have you tell me all you know of Pookas. Perhaps an idea will occur on how to triumph o’er this cunning and wicked and most deadly steed.”

  Borel gave over his leathers to the attendant for cleaning, and his linens for laundering, and then he eased his trim frame with its long, lean muscles down into the great copper tub full of hot water, where he lathered and rinsed his shoulder-length, silver-cast hair, then lathered and rinsed his body; and the silver-sheened hair on his broad chest tapered in a vee down across his flat stomach toward his narrow hips and to his groin to meet the same silvery tone, though there it was perhaps a bit darker. He then settled in to soak. As he did these things, Buzzer watched from a towel rack, while Flic sat on the side of the tub and spoke of Pookas:

  “They’re also called Phookas
and a number of other names, none of which are to be confused with Pwcas-a name that sounds the same, but is spelled differently-who are really Bwcas, a kind of a Goblin, but usually helpful rather than vile.

  “Anyway, Pookas are of several natures: some are merely out for a lark, while others are a bit more destructive, and still others are on a rampage.”

  Borel grunted and said, “It seems as if the one beyond the rapids is on a rampage.”

  “Oui,” said Flic, “for it is killing men, rather than merely swooping them up for a terrifying ride through bogs and briars and such and then dumping them in muddy ditches or quag holes.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard of Pookas,” said Borel. “They are tricksters, and they fool people into thinking they will go on a pleasant ride when instead it is quite the opposite. But that is all I’ve heard of them. This one, though, the clerk said, destroys crops and raises havoc at night.”

  Flic nodded and said, “Oh, yes, my lord, Pookas do such things. In the night it roams the countryside and tramples crops and tears down fences and scatters cattle and sheep and other such. Why, they even say that should a crofter’s fowl-chickens and geese in particular-merely catch sight of the creature, they entirely stop laying. Too, they can cause livestock to sicken or sour their milk or cause a number of other wicked mischiefs.”

  Borel frowned. “It would seem that if the Pooka were doing most if not all of these things, the constable would know that it’s not merely a wild horse running amok.”

  “Perhaps none in this town nor in the steads ’round have ever heard of Pookas.”

  “Either that,” said Borel, “or they are afraid to acknowledge that one of the Dark Fey is responsible for the killings.”

  Flic knitted his brow. “Perhaps the Pooka was wronged by someone herein, or wasn’t given its due.”

  “Its due?”

  “Aye. At the end of the harvest, long strips of standing crops are left behind by the reapers specifically for the Pooka. It is his share.”

  “And if the crofters do not do such…?”

  “Then the Pooka rampages,” said Flic.

  “Ah, then, perhaps here we have the motive for this destruction,” said Borel.

  “Even so, my lord, it does not justify murder.”

  “No, it does not. But tell me, what else is there about Pookas? If we are to stop him, I need to know.”

  “Well, Pookas are also shapeshifters: most of the time they take the form of dark horses with burning yellow eyes, but they’ve also been known to become huge and hideous and hairy Boglemen, sometimes with goats’ heads and horns, at other times they become great black goats in full. Pookas can also transform into a variety of enormous birds: vultures, eagles, crows, ravens, and the like, all with wingspans as wide as a barn, they say, however wide that might be.

  “Oh, and there is this: they say Pookas are nearly impossible to kill, but should someone do so, he and all his kith are cursed forever. Not only that, but wherever a Pooka might be slain, great storms rise up, especially along sea-coasts and waterways and lakes. Too, wherever the Pooka dies, the land for leagues about is blighted for a hundred years or more. That is what I have heard, my lord. Whether it be true, I cannot say, though I do believe it to be so.”

  “Then I shall not try to kill the Pooka,” said Borel. “After all, we need its aid, or so Lady Wyrd implied.-Is there ought along those lines?”

  “Indeed,” said Flic. “Though it be rare, it is said they sometimes help people by prophesying or giving guidance.”

  “Ah, then, this is why Lady Wyrd uttered what she did,” said Borel. “We must get the Pooka to give us aid.” Borel frowned and looked at Flic. “Tell me, how does a Pooka do so? — Give aid, I mean.”

  “Why, my lord, it speaks,” said Flic, turning up a hand.

  “In a human voice?”

  Vexed, Flic snorted and said, “And in the voice of the Fey, too.”

  “Sorry, Flic, I didn’t mean to omit the Fey.”

  Borel then stood and, dripping, stepped from the tub and took up a towel from a shelf rather than from the rack where Buzzer rested. As he dried off he said, “And just how are we to stop this rampage and gain the guidance we need?”

  “By riding him until he submits, my prince, and perhaps by giving him his due.”

  “Has anyone ever ridden a Pooka to submission?”

  “Just one, I think: a man-a king of the Keltoi, I believe-but I don’t recall his name. There was some trick to it. If I can remember how it was done…”

  “I hope you do, my friend,” said Borel, now donning a robe. “For Lady Wyrd says I must triumph o’er a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed, and every trick will help.”

  Even as Borel looked about for the attendant, the man appeared and said, “Your clothing will be ready ere the noontide, Sieur.”

  “Good,” said Borel, “Just in time for a midday meal.”

  After eating, Borel, with Flic and Buzzer riding his hat, went to the dry-goods store, where he purchased a bedroll and a rucksack and a good length of rope, to add to his Gnome-given things. Next, he stopped in the farmers’ market and bought supplies for the trail, including another jar of honey. With his rucksack full and the bedroll atop, he went to the smithery, and though the metalworker had no blade on hand to fit Borel’s long-knife sheath, if the lord would only leave it behind, the blacksmith promised he would have a keen, proper-sized bronze blade within it by morn.

  As they left the smithery, Borel sighed and said, “Perhaps we’ll go after the Pooka this night, and come back for the blade in the morn.”

  “My lord, I would have you go armed with a good bronze blade rather than the one of flint.”

  “So would I, Flic, yet the moon does not pause in her path, and I would not tarry one moment longer than necessary.”

  “Lord Borel, take it as an omen that your blade will not be ready till the morrow. Besides, I would scout the place ere we go, else we will be in unknown territory with peril about. And we yet have a fortnight and seven till the moon rises full.”

  Borel sighed. “Again, perhaps you are right. You need to scout, and we need to go fully armed. And speaking of weapons, let us hie to the milliner’s.”

  “Weapons? The milliner’s? Why so?”

  “You will see, my wee one.”

  In the small shop on a side street-Marie’s Millinery-Borel examined a silver needle, one just the size to fit Flic as a sword.

  “Demoiselle, have you a silver sequin?” he asked.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” replied a fille who had just begun to blossom, she the daughter of the milliner. At a table to one side sat her mother, fixing ribbons to a hat.

  “A sequin that is not holed?” asked Borel.

  “Oui,” said the daughter.

  “Ah, good. And I see by your sign without that you make minor repairs to jewellery.”

  “Small things. Nothing major.”

  “Can you puncture this sequin in the very center with the silver needle, and then slide it up to the eyelet and fix it in place?”

  “What’s that for?” asked Flic.

  “Your needle will act as an epee or a foil, and the sequin as a bell,” said Borel.

  “A bell?”

  “A guard for your hand,” said the proprietress, looking up from the beribboned hat.

  “Madame, you are familiar with epees?” asked Borel.

  She nodded. “Although I am known as the Widow Marie, a mere milliner, I am well acquainted with fencing blades. My Renaud-bless his departed soul-was a maker of fine epees and foils for going out into the world, as well as fine rapiers. He even made a colichemarde or two.”

  “Colichemarde?” said Flic.

  “The ancestor of the epee,” said Marie. “For you, though, my tiny Sprite, I would suggest an epee.”

  “Why not a colichemarde or a foil?” asked Flic.

  “A foil, I think, is not stiff enough,” said Marie, “and a colichemarde is a bit on the heavy side for one as small
as you.”

  “Ah, then you know what it is I want for my wee friend?” asked Borel.

  The proprietress stood and stepped to the counter. She eyed Flic, and glanced askance at Buzzer, and then said, “Sieur, I think a finer choice than a needle would be a silver hatpin or, better yet, a man’s scarfpin; they’re a bit sturdier, less likely to snap. Of course, I’ll need to remove the ornamental head; it would just get in the way. And with the bell fixed in place and the grip properly wrapped with my finest silver thread it will be a weapon worthy of this Sprite.”

  At Borel’s assent, she selected several of her scarfpins and held each up next to the Sprite, finally selecting the one that best fit his stature.

  “He will need a baldric,” said Borel.

  “A matter of a few strokes of needle and thread and a ribbon,” said the milliner. “Step here, Sprite; my daughter will take your measure.” She turned to the demoiselle. “Renee, s’il-te-plait.”

  Even as the mother passed through an archway to a back room, “But, Mere, he’s naked,” said the daughter.

  “Demoiselle Renee, it’s not as if I am going to ravish you,” said Flic.

  Though she reddened, the demoiselle laughed and said, “Wee little thing as you are, I do not feel threatened.”

  “Ah, ma cherie, I might surprise you, for I am Fey.”

  “Oh!” Renee exclaimed in startlement and backed away.

  With an eyebrow raised, Borel looked at Flic, and the Sprite laid a finger alongside his nose and gave Borel a slow wink.

  “Fear not, Demoiselle,” said Borel, grinning. “I will protect you.”

  Somewhat assured, the young lady stepped to the counter once more and, reddening again, began to measure the Sprite for a baldric.

  “Will this interfere with my wings?” asked Flic. “I do need to fly, you know.”

  “Perhaps a belt would be better,” said Borel.

  “A sash about the waist,” called the mother from the room beyond. “We can fashion a scabbard as well.”

  Blushing furiously, the daughter wrapped a thread as a gauge about Flic’s tiny waist, trying to see what she was doing while at the same time trying not to look at Flic’s maleness. Despite their manifest disparity in size, under the blushing demoiselle’s gaze, Flic, grinning, began to respond.