Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

  “Argent?”

  Flic patted the epee at his side. “My silver stinger. Renee named it so. It is a formidable blade, and all such require names.”

  “Oh, Flic, I would rather you stay completely out of it. I don’t want you to get injured.”

  “Nor would I see you hurt,” said Flic, his chin jutting out stubbornly.

  Buzzer, orbiting about, sensed the tension and flew to hover at Flic’s side before Borel’s face. At this redoubtable show, Borel smiled and said, “Very well, Flic, you may come to my aid, but only in the extreme.”

  “Hai!” cried Flic. “I’ll stab him in the eye.”

  With that, the Sprite flew to the high branches of the sycamore, Buzzer following.

  And Borel stood alone upon the bank and waited, the thundering rapids falling further into shadow as twilight slid across the sky, dragging the train of dark night after.

  And as the first stars began to appear, up and out from the furious churn came a sleek, black horse with a long flowing mane and tail, and cruel, sulphurous yellow eyes.

  And Borel, his tricorn askew and pulled down to the point where his ears stuck out and his forehead all but vanished, began trudging upslope along the stone bank and singing a tuneless air, his hands worrying a short length of slender line. And he took no note of the dark steed, ebon as night, standing but fetlock-deep in the midst of raging white water, though the bottom itself was fathoms down, the savage rapids having no effect whatsoever upon the jet-black beast.

  And the raven-dark creature trotted through the fury and made its way toward the shore. When it gained the bank, it paced after Borel, a seemingly oblivious fool. And when it reached this unaware dupe, it paused at the man’s side and softly nickered.

  Yet Borel continued to sing tunelessly and plod on.

  The Pooka snorted, and trotted ahead and stood across the simpleton’s path.

  Borel collided with the horse, and looked up. “Oh, my. A horse. Are you lost? So am I.”

  The Pooka presented itself, inviting the imbecile to mount.

  “Um, um…” Borel dithered from foot to foot. “What do they say? What do they say? Ah, yes: always look a lost horse in the mouth before you take a ride. Yes, that’s it; I am sure that I’ve got it right. So, my gone-astray steed, I am going to look into your mouth, and then I’ll go for a ride.”

  But the simpleton, the nit, the ninny, he began walking toward the Pooka’s hindquarters, mumbling stupidly about having to look in the horse’s mouth.

  The Pooka turned about and faced this fool.

  “Now, now, Sir Lost Horse, I do need to look into your mouth. I am certain I have to see your teeth before I can go ariding with you.”

  Once more the tomfool dullard started for the rear of the Pooka, and once more the Pooka turned ’round to face the gull.

  “Listen to me, Lost Horse, I cannot ride unless I have a look in your mouth.”

  For the third time the idiot human plodded toward the creature’s hindquarters, and, snorting in exasperation, the Pooka whirled to face the goose of a twit. And this time it showed its teeth.

  “Oh, my, silly me, are these what I’m-”

  In a flash and before the Pooka could react, Borel jammed the loop into the Pooka’s mouth and ’round the lower jaw and into the gap and jerked the slipknot tight, and leapt to the creature’s back and grabbed the mane and hauled hard against the rope.

  A piercing scream of pain and rage rang through the night, for the Pooka had never before been fooled, and never before felt such pain.

  And it leapt into the river and submerged, for it would drown this fool.

  Borel barely had enough time to take a breath as they plunged into racing water, and he held the mane tightly in his left hand and hauled with all his might on the Gnome-made line.

  And again the Pooka screamed in pain, but it dove for the bottom.

  And the current buffeted and hammered at Borel, but he held on and haled back against the line, jerking again and again.

  Yet he needed to breathe, but there was no air, and his diaphragm pumped, trying to take something into his lungs, be it air or not.

  Screaming in agony, the Pooka raced through the water as if it were nought but ephemeral atmosphere, and, just as Borel knew that he would of a certainty drown, back onto the shore and into the woods galloped the creature. Borel breathed in great gulps of blessed air, even as the Pooka raced across the ground and crashed through thickets and slammed up against trees and rocks, trying to knock this deceitful person from its back.

  But Borel hung on to the mane as well as the Gnome line, and he slid from side to side to avoid the boles and boulders and such, and he hauled hard against the rope.

  “Submit!” cried Borel. “Submit!”

  But the Pooka was strong and stubborn and enraged, and in spite of the pain it galloped on.

  Of a sudden it transformed into a monstrous, hairy Bogleman with the head of a black goat. And it bit down on the line and shrieked in agony, for, with the three Pooka hairs woven throughout the rope, it was as if it were biting itself.

  “Submit, I say!” cried Borel, even as the Pooka reached for the line to tear it from its own mouth. But Borel leaned back and threw all of his weight as well as all of his strength against the rope.

  “Eeyagha! ” shrieked the Pooka, and it flung its hands wide and became a great dark vulture and took to wing.

  Up it flew and up, skreighing in agony, the rope through the vulture’s beak, Borel hanging on and fiercely haling back on the line and shouting for the Pooka to submit, while the slipknot clenched tighter and tighter.

  Yet the Pooka did not give in, but instead it rolled over and over in the air, trying to shake loose its tormentor, trying to make him plummet to his death ’gainst the ground far below. Yet the only thing that fell away from the Pooka was Borel’s long-knife, for earlier, on a run through a thicket, the keeper had jolted free, and now as the Pooka repeatedly spun upside down the weapon slipped loose from its sheath and tumbled away, bronze glittering against the starlight to vanish in the night.

  Above his own shouts for the creature to yield, Borel became aware of Flic shrieking. The prince looked over his shoulder and against the starry night sky he saw the tiny Sprite, swift as an arrow, overtaking the great black bird. And as Flic neared he cried out, “My lord, my lord, if he goes much higher, the air will get too thin for you to breathe and you will lose your strength and swoon.”

  Now Flic drew his epee, and-“Yahhh!”-he dove at the head of the monstrous scavenger and stabbed him with Argent, the vulture to skraw in related hurt.

  And Borel hauled hard at the rope, and agonized screams filled the sky.

  Again and again, Flic stabbed at the hideous bird, and again and again Borel jerked at the rope and called for the Pooka to yield, and at last the creature began spiralling downward.

  It landed in craggy mountains and transformed into a huge black goat, and it began dashing its flanks against icy crags and pinnacles and massifs and hurtling in great leaps and bounds up and down sheer slopes and across deep chasms. And Borel shouted at Flic to stay back, else the Sprite might be smashed between creature and stone.

  Borel hung on and wrenched the jaw loop even tighter and shouted for the creature to submit, but still the Pooka screamed in agony and rage and slammed into rock and ice, but Borel held on and slipped from side to side to avoid being crushed. Now the black goat leapt down the vertical steeps of the mountain toward the vale below, landing in a series of bone-jarring jolts in an attempt to dislodge this vile human from its back. And Borel, exhausted and battered, knew that he had not the strength left for another transformation and wild ride. And even as they reached the vale and Borel was certain the creature would win, the Pooka transformed back into the black steed with its sulphurous, burning yellow eyes, and it stopped and stood still, trembling, its sides heaving as it moaned in pain.

  And then, its words muted by the rope ’round its jaw, it said, “What is it you
wish, O Man?”

  31

  Exaction

  “ It is not a wish I desire, but rather aid in reaching a place,” said Borel, yet grasping the lower-jaw rope.

  “Where, then, is it you wish to go?” said the Pooka.

  “The Endless Sands,” said Borel.

  “Endless Sands?”

  “Oui,” said Borel. “A desert of sand stretching forever, or so the tales would have it be.”

  The Pooka snorted. “I am a creature of the water. What would I know of deserts?”

  Borel gave the rope a tug. The Pooka moaned and cried out, “Spare me, my lord, for I am telling the truth. I know nothing of any Endless Sands.”

  “He is of the Dark Fey, my prince,” said Flic, waving his silver epee. “He might be trying to trick you, to trick us. Let me jab him with Argent, and then he’ll tell the truth.”

  Borel shook his head and said, “Non, my friend, I would not have you prick him, at least not yet.”

  “Oh, pox!” said Flic, clearly disappointed.

  “Pooka,” said Borel, “the Lady Wyrd sent me to master you, and so I have, and you will-”

  “Skuld?” asked the Pooka. “Skuld sent you after me?”

  “Indeed,” said Borel.

  The Pooka shuddered and said, “Then, my lord, I must speak the truth, and I have: I know nought of the Endless Sands.”

  “My lord, please let me jab him,” said Flic. “Argent will puncture his lies.”

  “Sprite,” said the Pooka, “I swear by the Lady Skuld, I am telling the truth.”

  “I believe him,” said Borel, “for none can tempt the Fates by taking their names in vain.”

  Flic frowned and sighed and sheathed his epee and said, “Well.. if he truly does not know, and since Lady Skuld sent you to triumph over him, perhaps you are to keep the Pooka as your mount.”

  “ Je vous en prie, non, my lord,” said the Pooka. “Oh, please, I beg of you. Were you to take me as your mount I would die.”

  Borel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Die?”

  “I cannot withstand the sun.”

  “You could ride him at night,” said Flic.

  “Do not heed the Sprite, my lord,” said the Pooka, “for every nighttide as dawn draws nigh I must return to water ere the sun rises, and water may not be at hand if I serve you as a mount.”

  “Well, then,” said Flic, “if that be the case, I say let him die in the sunlight, for he is a murderer.”

  “No, I am not,” said the Pooka.

  “What of those three men who drowned?” asked Borel.

  “They were foolish enough to pursue me,” said the Pooka. “In spite of my warnings, nigh dawn they chased me into the rapids and were caught in the flow. I was helpless to aid them, for the sun was then rising.”

  Borel frowned. “If I cannot use you as a mount, and if you know not where the Endless Sands lie, then why would Lady Wyrd send me to master you?”

  The Pooka said nought, but Flic volunteered, “Perhaps it is as she said: to give aid to those in need, and the steads back nigh the rapids are certainly in need of relief from this Dark Fey.”

  “Non, my friend,” said Borel. “Recall what she actually uttered: ‘You must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed to find the Endless Sands.’ ”

  “Skuld said that of me?” asked the Pooka.

  “Oui,” replied Borel. “Hence you must know of the Endless-” Borel’s eyes widened in revelation. “Ah, wait, you must know of them or know of someone who does.”

  “My lord, it is as you say, for although I do not know of these sands, I do know of someone who might.”

  “And that would be…?” said Flic.

  “The King Under the Hill,” said the Pooka.

  “Oh, my,” said Flic. “Someone even more dangerous.”

  “More dangerous?” said Borel.

  “More dangerous than the Pooka, my lord,” said Flic.

  “Nevertheless,” said Borel, “I would speak to this King Under the Hill. Where will I find him, Pooka?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” replied the Dark Fey.

  Borel yanked on the lower-jaw rope.

  “My lord, my lord,” cried the Pooka. “I swear, I do not know, but I know of those who do.”

  “And they would be…?” said Flic.

  “The Riders Who Cannot Dismount,” replied the Pooka, groaning in pain. “They would know, for the king himself cursed them.”

  “And where can I find these riders?” said Borel.

  “They frequently pass through the Glade of the Mere,” said the Pooka. “And that I can show you, for therein lies a water refuge.”

  “Then let us go,” said Borel.

  “Wait, my lord. What of Bu-what of our bee?” said Flic, the Sprite unwilling for a Dark Fey to know any of their names, not even the common ones.

  “We must fetch her,” said Borel. “I would not abandon our companion.” He leaned forward and said to the Pooka, “I would have you fly back to the rapids, where we have a friend awaiting, and then take us to this Glade of the Mere.”

  “It is a long flight, my lord,” said the Pooka, “and if you could just loosen the clench of this rope even if only a bit.”

  “No, no!” cried Flic. “It is a trick, and remember, he is a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed.”

  “I remember,” said Borel. “Non, Dark Fey, I will not loosen the clench by as much as an iota until we are delivered unto the Glade of the Mere.”

  “Very well, my lord,” said the Pooka, and he transformed into a giant eagle and took to wing, Borel holding on to feathers and the rope and locking his knees firmly against the eagle’s flanks.

  With Flic now standing in the prow of Borel’s tricorn and hanging on tightly to the brim, and with Borel on the eagle’s back and hanging on just as tightly, over the land they flew, starlight gleaming in rivers and lakes.

  The eagle was swift, and soon they came to the White Rapids, where they landed beside the Meander, though in this part of the river it did not meander at all.

  Flic flew up into the sycamore, and in moments came flying back, sleeping Buzzer in his arms, the Sprite rather struggling in flight, for the bee was nearly as big as he. Somewhat disturbed by the movement was Buzzer, and her wings trembled, but Flic silently spoke to her, soothing and calming the bee in the night.

  On the tricorn Flic landed, and when he and Buzzer were well settled, at a signal from Borel the giant eagle took to wing, and up it spiralled and up, and then shot off toward the mountains. Long did it fly, league after league, and through several looming twilight walls of Faery, passing over farm fields and inlets; above long stretches of tundra, where herds of antlered animals grazed; over stretches of snow and ice; above vine-laden jungles; over villages and towns; over open prairies with shaggy beasts standing asleep in the night; and across other realms as well.

  Finally, even as the waning crescent moon rose into the sky, above a great forest flew the eagle, now slowly gliding down through the air until at last it spiralled ’round and ’round to come to rest nigh a small lake in an open glade.

  There were no riders on horses within.

  “Here is the only place where I know the riders come,” said the Pooka, even as it shifted back into the form of a dark horse with sulphurous yellow eyes.

  “There’s no one here,” said Flic, his hand moving to the hilt of his epee. “Perhaps this is just a trick.”

  “No,” said the Pooka. “Did I not swear on Lady Skuld?”

  “Well, there’s that,” said Flic.

  “Pooka,” said Borel, “a vow taken in the name of Skuld is one not to be broken.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said the Pooka, his voice yet laced with pain.

  “Then, ere I loose you,” said Borel, “there is a pledge I would have you make, a vow-”

  “Oh, my lord, loose me now,” said the Pooka, “loose me now. I will swear the vow when I am free of this agony.”

  “No, no!”
cried Flic.

  Borel said, “I know, my friend: he is a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed.”

  The Pooka sighed. “What is this vow, my lord?”

  “Ere I tell you the vow,” said Borel, “three men died because of your rampages, Pooka. I ask you, what would be a fitting punishment?”

  “None, my lord,” replied the Pooka. “They did not give me my due, and I justly destroyed their fences and gave some of them a ride. They themselves are responsible for their own deaths, for they chased me into the rapids, trying to kill me, but instead got caught in the flow and drowned of their own accord. Hence, no punishment is warranted.”

  “Hmm…” mused Borel. “Your rampage against them is still not defensible. Even so, they tried to murder you.”

  “Yes, yes, murder me,” said the Pooka. “That’s absolutely correct. That’s why no punishment or vow is due.”

  “Not so,” said Borel. “Here is what I would have you swear on the names of Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd-”

  “All three Fates, my lord?”

  “Yes, Pooka, all three. A more binding oath I cannot imagine.”

  The Pooka sighed and said, “Yes, my lord.”

  “Here it is then,” said Borel: “You must altogether leave the realm of the White Rapids and never rampage on men again-”

  “Not rampage? But they did not give me my due.”

  “Pooka!” snapped Borel. “What you name as getting ‘your due’ is nought but obtaining by threat that which you desire. It was not yours to begin with, and you did nought to earn it-no labor nor services rendered. And so would I have you swear.”

  “My lord,” said the Pooka, “if I cannot rampage against men, then what, pray tell, will you allow?”

  Borel sighed. “I would have you act as your more gentle Pooka brethren: you, like they, can take men for wild rides and dump them in muddy ditches and quag holes, just as long as they will not die or sustain any but superficial injury.”

  “My lord, I cannot merely-”

  Borel gave a yank on the jaw rope.

  The Pooka moaned and said, “Though you yourself are obtaining by force and threat that which you desire-an offense you accuse me of-I will take your oath.”