“Oh, my,” blurted Renee, and quickly she pinched the thread at the right length and pulled it free and turned her back to the Sprite.
In that moment the mother stepped in through the arch, the scarfpin free of its bauble and with a pierced silver sequin affixed as a bell.
Flic’s response vanished.
“Though it is not quite ready, let me see how this fits,” she said, and handed the miniature epee to the Sprite.
Flic took the tiny foil in hand and, eyeing the silver shaft, said, “It has no edge.”
“It is meant to stick, to impale, not to cut,” said the Widow Marie.
“Ah, like a bee sting, then,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer. “I like that.”
To judge its fitness to his size, Marie had Flic strike several poses. She closely looked at the grip and Flic’s grasp of it, then held out her hand for the weapon and said, “It seems to suit you well enough. Come back in the morning. It will be ready by then.”
As he gave over the foil to her, “My belt, too?” asked Flic.
Glancing only sideways at the Sprite, the daughter nodded.
“I need to get a mate,” said Flic, as they emerged from the millinery. “I mean, after all, she was fifty times my height.”
“More like twenty-seven or — eight,” said Borel, grinning, “and much too young for you.”
Flic laughed.
“What?” asked Borel.
“Never let it be said that I don’t like tall girls,” replied Flic. They both laughed, but Flic sobered and said, “I repeat, I need to find a mate.”
“Someone to love?” asked Borel, a smile yet on his face.
“That would be fine, but at least someone eager for passion,” said Flic.
“Ah,” said the prince.
As Borel strode on toward the inn, Flic said, “You know, since neither of us will be properly armed until the morning, I think I’ll just fly out to the fields and flit about the flowers for a while.”
Borel broke out in a guffaw, and said, “Luck, my little man.”
Flic and Buzzer took to wing and gained altitude, then shot away, following the river upstream. Borel watched until they were out of sight, then turned and continued on his way to the inn. Once inside, he settled in to a dinner of roast beef and scallions and bread, all washed down with a hearty dark beer. After all, if I fail with the Pooka, this just might be my last good meal.
Borel sat out on the veranda and sipped an unpretentious after-dinner brandy and watched a number of people on the street hurrying home or running errands or strolling leisurely to somewhere. Nearby, the Meander River flowed past, and when the air got still Borel could hear a distant rumble, as of water hurtling apace. The White Rapids, no doubt. As the sun set and twilight drew down, Flic and Buzzer had not yet returned. Borel raised his glass to the deepening lavender sky and said, “May you have found what you seek, Flic, my friend, be it a lasting love or nought but a brief liaison.”
He watched as a horse-drawn wain trundled past and over the bridge and away. All fell quiet after, but for the faint grumble upstream. Borel downed the last of his drink and stood and trudged into the inn and up to his chamber, where he opened a window for Flic to use, should the Sprite come flying back, though since Buzzer was with him it was not likely he would return till morning, for the bee fell dormant when night drew its spangled dark cloak across the sky.
Borel shed his garments and settled down to sleep, his thoughts meandering much the same as the river flowing past.
Tomorrow… Tomorrow… Tomorrow we shall seek a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed and I shall try to triumph o’er him. If I fail- Borel jerked awake, his heart hammering. Nay! I will not even consider failing, for Chelle’s life depends upon me.
Slowly Borel gained calmness, and he turned on his side and watched through the window as the night darkened and stars appeared one by one.
Chelle, my Chelle, where are you now?
And then Borel slid into sleep.
29
Idyll
“Oh, Chelle, my love, I am so happy to find you here,” said Borel.
“Trapped in this turret?” said Chelle, frowning and gazing about in spite of the shadowy band across her eyes. “How can you be happy over that?”
“Oh, Cherie, I am not happy to find you trapped; it’s just that when last I saw you it was in another place, one that I left abruptly, and I was afraid you might be lost, and I would never find you again.”
Once more Chelle frowned, this time in concentration. “I do not recall where last I-Were we in water?”
Borel took a deep breath and let it out. “It was at a lake. We were going for a row, but you went swimming instead.”
“Ah, yes. Then suddenly I was here and you were gone, Borel. What happened?”
“Would you like to take that boat ride now?” asked Borel, steering away from that specific dream and the talk of dreams in general. “There is an isle I would take you to.”
“Oh, yes. A row to an isle would be splendid.”
Borel frowned in concentration and then offered his arm to Chelle, and together through the door they stepped, to find themselves high on a grassy slope leading down to the shores of a lake. Above, the moon-just under half full and waning-shone in the starry sky. A small pier jutted out into the water, a skiff afloat at its end. As they strolled toward a dock, Chelle said, “It has been awhile since I last went boating. The Meander flows near my father’s manse, and there is a small lake in our vale.”
“I know,” said Borel. “I fished in your lake.”
Letting go of Borel’s arm, Chelle swung about and faced him and grabbed both of his hands and walked backward, tugging him after. “Did you catch anything?”
“I think not,” said Borel, smiling. “Oh, wait… a small one I threw back.”
“Yes, because I pled for you to do so,” said Chelle, grinning. “Do you not remember?”
“Hmm… I think there was something about it being a magic fish and if I spared its life then one day I would be repaid sevenfold.”
“You do remember,” said Chelle, stopping abruptly and raising her face to his.
Borel took her in his arms and pulled her close and kissed her. She pressed her body against him, and his heart began to race and his blood roared in his ears. It would be so easy to No! I cannot take advantage!
Borel withdrew and held her at arm’s length.
She looked at him, her head canted as if in puzzlement, yet with the shadowy band across her eyes he could not be certain of her expression, though it seemed there was a slight frown upon her forehead.
“Ma cherie,” he said, dissembling, trying to gain control of his heart, “you are so very beautiful.”
She smiled and released his hands and curtseyed. “Why, thank you, Sieur.”
He grinned and bowed and reached out and took her hand and kissed her fingers. Then he straightened and said, “Demoiselle, your boat awaits.”
Chelle turned. “And this isle you are spiriting me away to…?”
“Beyond the argent mist, my love,” said Borel, pointing.
Out in the lake a silvery haze shone in the half-light of the moon. Past the vapor a vague silhouette loomed, as of close-set trees standing tall in the night.
“Let us away then, my sweet Borel.”
Hand in hand, they strolled toward the pier, and Borel said, “Tell me, my love, have you ever heard of the Endless Sands?”
“In children’s tales,” she said.
“Know you where they lie?” said Borel.
“Non. Should I? Are they even real?”
“Perhaps, ma cherie.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” said Borel as they reached the dock. “Oh, here we are.”
Borel handed her into the boat and to the reclining seat in the bow, and then he sat upon the mid thwart, and, facing her, he pushed the oars to propel the craft, rather than using a pull stroke.
As the dip and pres
s and lift and swing of the oars caused ringlets to expand in ripples and swirls to spin away, Chelle trailed her fingers in the crystalline water, and Borel smiled and said, “Mayhap you will catch a fish come to nibble upon you.”
Chelle grinned. “Do you think?”
“Perhaps the very same fish you had me cast back in,” he replied.
“Oh, then it might take my entire hand,” said Chelle, “for surely it is grown large by now.”
Even as she said it, a great whorl formed nearby, and Chelle-“Oh!”-jerked her hand from the water.
Borel frowned. ’Tis a dream where anything can occur, sensible or no.
Without pausing in the beat of his oars, Borel said, “My love, take care, for this is a Fey lake, full of strange phenomena and oddities. We should not tempt fate, hence I shall no longer speak of catching fish.”
“And I shall no longer trail the bait,” said Chelle, laughing.
Into the silvery mist they glided, and the moon dimmed and then brightened again as they passed through. And they came to a cypress-ringed isle, the trees close together and growing right at the water’s edge, their great roots reaching out and down into the lake as if drawing up water to drink. And the faint fragrance of cedar filled the air.
Working the skiff between two of these giant conifers and into a tiny cove, Borel beached the craft. He handed Chelle out of the boat, and arm in arm they made their way inland to come to an open glade overflowing with wildflowers.
“Oh, my Borel, it is beautiful,” said Chelle, interlacing her fingers with his. “What a wondrous place, this isle.”
She pulled Borel toward the center of the glade, stopping now and again to stoop at a particular blossom and inhale its fragrance. And as they worked their way inward, Chelle paused and gasped and said, “Oh, look, two Sprites. But what are they doing? Fighting?” She stepped closer, drawing Borel after. “No, not fighting, instead they’re-Oh, my.” Blushing furiously, Chelle turned her back and looked into Borel’s face, and then, yet flustered, turned away from him.
Ah, me, I said it before and it bears repeating: ’tis a dream where anything can occur, sensible or no.
Of a sudden, Chelle turned back to Borel and pulled him to her and kissed him passionately, and he returned her kiss in kind, his senses overwhelmed with fervor. And she pulled him down among the flowers.
And then they were unclothed, and he kissed her lips and neck and the palms of her hands and her stomach and her breasts, and she moaned with desire. And Borel, and Borel, and Borel — jerked awake, as Flic and Buzzer came flying in through the window in the dawn, the Sprite crying, “I remembered! I remembered!” And grasped in his hand were three very long, thick hairs trailing after.
30
Pooka
As Flic settled down on one of the bed knobs and Buzzer on a candlestand, Borel stumbled out from the bed and across the chamber to a basin and ewer. Flic eyed the naked prince and said, “Well, I see you were having an exciting dream.”
“Oh, Flic, I almost did it again.”
“Did what again, my lord?”
“Took advantage of Chelle in my dream.”
“You mean you nearly bedded her?”
Borel splashed cool water on his face and took up a towel and dried. “Yes. I nearly bedded her, there in a field of flowers.”
“Sounds fitting,” said Flic.
One eyebrow arched, Borel looked at the Sprite.
Flic said, “To deflower her among the flowers.”
Borel snorted and stumbled back to the bed and flopped down and said, “Ah, Flic, you don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?”
“Courtship.”
“Pish!” exclaimed the Sprite. “I don’t know what it is with you humans. Dillydallying about as you do and calling it courtship. It’s just a waste. We Fey… or at least we Sprites, we make love to see if we fall in love. If not, then it is just a pleasurable liaison, whereas if we do find our truelove, then we’ve lost no time dancing about and hemming and hawing and such.”
Borel shook his head. “But, Flic, we humans engage in courtship to get to know one another, to see if we have common interests and common dreams, to see if there is something about the other that draws or repels. In other words, to see if we are compatible in likes and dislikes, in desires and loathings, in longings and aversions, in interests and tediums.”
“Again I say: Pish! There’s plenty of time to discover that afterward,” said Flic.
“Tell me, my wee friend,” said Borel, “just how long do your trueloves last?”
“Oh, sometimes whole days, other times weeks-”
“Days? Weeks?” said Borel. “And you call it true love?”
“You didn’t let me finish, my prince,” said Flic. “Fleurette and I, we both think our love will last for years upon years, if not forever.”
“Fleurette?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you about her?”
“No.”
“Well. I met the most wonderful Sprite: Fleurette. She is splendid, and we are deeply in love. But I told her that I was on a quest, and that just as soon as it is done, then I would return.”
“And you met her… when?”
“Oh, yesterday. Out in the fields. I told you where I was going. Don’t you remember?”
“And you are deeply in love, you say?”
“Oh, yes. Deeply.”
Borel broke into chuckles, and Flic huffed in vexation. “Well, I am!” declared the Sprite.
Borel’s chuckles turned to laughter, but he waved a hand of apology even as he was guffawing.
Flic turned his back and crossed his arms, the three long, thick hairs yet in his grip and dangling down from the top of the bedpost to nearly touch the floor. “Well then, Monsieur Scoffer, just maybe I won’t tell you what else happened last night,” he announced, his nose in the air, the Sprite quite miffed.
Borel finally mastered his laughter, and soberly he said, “Ah, Flic, I am sorry. I think I was laughing to relieve the stress of my near-violation of Chelle. Will you forgive me?”
“Humph,” snorted Flic, still facing away. “I told you you should go ahead and bed her, dream or no dream. It would allay the strain.”
“Ah, but, my friend, though by your lights we humans may be pixilated, we are not Fey, and so-”
Flic broke out in laughter and turned around to face Borel. “Pixilated?”
Borel smiled. “Daft. Mad, crazy, foolish, stupid for carrying on courtships.”
Flic nodded. “You are.” Then he sighed and added, “But I suppose that’s a penalty for being human.”
“Or a reward,” said Borel.
“Well then I’m glad I’m Fey,” said Flic.
“I will not hold that against you,” said Borel, grinning. Then he sobered and said, “I hope you harbor no ill will because I laughed at your ways.”
Flic said, “Aah, I cannot hold a grudge ’gainst you, my lord.”
“Flic, my lad, I think you cannot hold a grudge against anyone.”
“Oh, no, my lord. There you are wrong, for I can and do have hard feelings toward those Trolls and Goblins who captured me.”
“Ah, then, the exception to the rule,” said Borel, grinning.
“I suppose,” said Flic.
“By the bye,” said Borel, “what were you screaming when you came in through the window, and why in Faery are you grasping those, those-what are they-four-foot-long hairs?”
Flic’s face lit up and back and forth he waved the hand holding the hairs, causing sinuous ripples to undulate down the strands. “He did it by having an Elf weave three of the Pooka’s tail hairs into an Elf-made rope.”
“What are you talking about? Who did what?”
“That king of the Keltoi, the one who prevailed over a Pooka. He had an Elf weave three Pooka hairs into a rope and then used the rope-perhaps to fashion a harness, though I don’t exactly remember that part-anyway, he used the rope in some manner to make the creature su
bmit. You see, I remembered the legend at last.”
Borel’s eyes widened in hope. “And you think we can do the same?”
“Indeed, my lord, and you can master the Pooka, for these are hairs from his tail.” Of a sudden, Flic’s countenance sank, and he glumly said, “But I don’t think there is an Elf hereabout, and we don’t have an Elf-made rope.”
“Wait. Wait,” said Borel. “Those are hairs from the Pooka’s tail? Our Pooka?”
“Oh, yes. Last night my sweet Fleurette upon hearing of our quest told me where the Pooka might be, though she wouldn’t go there herself. Pookas terrify her, you see, and so she simply keeps away from them. But I went, and there he was. And as the Pooka was rampaging about some poor crofter’s stead, his tail brushed against one of the old splintery posts of the fence he was tearing down, and some of it wedged in a split-rather like the Gnome’s beard, you see, only this was a jagged notch, rather than a crack-and when the Pooka galloped away, there they were, three long hairs. Anyway, the moment I saw them, then I remembered the tale of the king and how he mastered the Pooka.”
Enthused, Borel leapt up from the bed and began throwing his clothes on. “And you think this might actually work?”
“Well, I suppose you could say they were given freely, which I think adds to the power, but as I say, if we had an Elf and an Elf-made rope-”
“A moment, Flic. Are you saying we need a rope into which to weave the three Pooka hairs?”
“Oui. Wasn’t I clear about that?”
“I thought maybe you were saying we only needed to braid the trio together as a rope unto themselves.”
“Oh, non. The Elf who told me the tale said the king used an Elf-made rope and had an Elf weave the three hairs within that rope.”
“Ah, I see.”
“But, my lord, as I say, we have no Elf-made rope nor an Elf to weave the hairs within.”
As Borel donned his socks he said, “Ah, Flic, you are one of the Fey-surely as good as an Elf-and as for a rope, we have one that is Gnome-made. I think that will certainly do.”
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