Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

  “Have him also swear to leave us unharmed,” said Flic. “You, the bee, and me, my lord, for I do not trust him.”

  Borel nodded. “You will swear by the Ladies Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd all of these things I-we-demand.”

  The Pooka sighed and spoke the oath, as elaborated upon and administered by Borel.

  At last Borel dismounted. And he loosened the lower-jaw rope and set the Pooka free. With a sigh of relief the Pooka worked his jaw and lips, feeling of them for residual hurt. But with the three Pooka hairs now out of his mouth, miraculously it seemed there was none. And the Pooka said, “My lord, you fooled me by playing the dolt even better than any third son could, and I applaud you for it. You were too clever for me by far. Yet heed: never again will I be duped by such a trick or even one closely linked.”

  Borel smiled and said, “All I ask of you is to keep your oath, Dark Fey.”

  “Oh, that I will do, else who knows what the Fates would have in store for me?” The Pooka shuddered and added, “Perhaps they would assail me with even more of your kind.”

  With that the Pooka transformed into a great bird and flew away in the starry moonlit night.

  32

  Legend

  After settling Buzzer on a selected leaf, Flic turned to Borel and said, “What now, my lord?”

  Borel hobbled about, laying a fire, for he was sorely battered from his wild ride. “Now, Flic, we wait,” he replied.

  “For the Riders Who Cannot Dismount, eh?”

  “Yes, though why they cannot is a puzzle, except the Pooka said they were cursed by the King Under the Hill. And speaking of the king, what is it about him that makes him even more dangerous than that Dark Fey?”

  “Because, among other things, he can lay curses,” said Flic. “Too, it is said that on a whim he keeps people prisoners for thousands of summers merely to dine with him. It seems time runs at a different pace within his hold.”

  “Ah, well,” said the prince, “I’ll try to avoid each of those things.”

  “Well, if he gives you any trouble, you might-My lord, your long-knife: it’s gone!”

  “Tumbled away in the night, Flic,” said Borel, “when the Pooka was the vulture and rolling over and over. I could not spare a hand to try to catch it, hanging on as I was. Yet even had I tried, I think I would have only cut myself.”

  “You needed a keeper for your blade,” said Flic, “like my Argent has.”

  “The sheath has a keeper, Flic, but when the Pooka ran through thickets and smashed against trees and such, it must have come loose. Regardless, it lies somewhere lost. Perhaps one day someone needing a weapon will come across it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Flic, stretching and yawning and settling down beside Buzzer. “Besides, I was going to say you could use your long-knife should the King Under the Hill give you trouble, but I think with his power to curse someone, it’s better that you don’t.” Again Flic yawned.

  Borel lit the campfire and, groaning a bit, settled down to a meal of jerky and hardtack, after which he stepped to the mere and took a deep drink and replenished the waterskin he had purchased in Riverbend. Then he cast another branch upon the fire and turned to bid Flic good night, but the Sprite was sound asleep.

  “Good evening, ma cherie,” said Borel, determined this time to control his heart, with its lusty urges. He was back in the turret surrounded by floating daggers.

  “My Borel,” she replied, smiling and curtseying. “Where are we off to tonight?”

  Borel frowned in thought and then smiled and said, “I think to a place that once held peril, but now does not.”

  “Ah, a mystery, I see,” said Chelle. “Lead on, my lord.”

  Borel offered Chelle his arm, and together they stepped into the shadows and through the hidden door to emerge on the stone bank of the White Rapids. And the air thundered with the roar of water hurling furiously down the long slope of the run.

  “Oh, my, what a beautiful fury,” said Chelle, raising her voice to be heard above the churn. “And you say peril was here?”

  “Oui, and recently at that.”

  “What kind of peril?”

  “A Pooka. Have you ever heard of such?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Chelle. “My pere often told me of the king of the Keltoi and his wild ride.”

  “What?” said Borel, and he shook his head. “I should have asked you of the legend.”

  “The legend of the king and the Pooka?”

  “Oui,” said Borel. “I heard of it from a Sprite, but he did not know how the king prevailed.”

  “Would you like to know? It will cost you a fee.”

  “A fee?”

  “A kiss,” said Chelle.

  “Gladly,” said Borel, and he took her in his arms and they kissed long and lingeringly. Finally he backed away and said, “A splendid fee, my lady, joyously paid, but now I would have that tale. Yet let us find a place a bit quieter.”

  Upstream they strolled, until the rumble of the rapids faded and the wide Meander slowly slid past. They came to a mossy bank, where they settled down to talk.

  “Now about this Keltoi legend…” said Borel.

  “Pookas,” said Chelle. “They are rather dreadful night creatures, though in the legend there seems to be only one instead of the many my father believes are in Faery. What do you know of them?”

  “A bit,” said Borel, “but not the legend.”

  “Did you know they can assume many forms?” said Chelle.

  Borel nodded but did not interrupt, for he was entranced by Chelle’s lilting voice, which was both soothing and exciting at one and the same time.

  “The most common of which are goats, Boglemen, giant birds, and horses,” said Chelle. “But they also can take on the forms of bats and horrible things right out of a nightmare-some of which might jump out at you in the dark.” Chelle smiled. “Or so my pere said.”

  She pointed at the moon. “It is said that sometimes in its bird form it swoops up a man and flies to the moon and abandons him there, though I think that merely a tale for children.

  “It is also said that in one of its nightmare shapes it leaps onto a person’s back and claws at him, and the only way to dislodge it is to pray or to say a blessing. Of course, should the person not do these things, death of fright will occur.”

  Borel cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but again remained silent.

  Chelle grinned at him and went on: “The most common shape the Pooka takes is that of a black horse with burning yellow eyes. And it can run swifter than an arrow, and does so. Again it is said that as a dark steed it snatches up men-drunkards especially-yet in this case it doesn’t go to the moon, but instead takes them for fearful rides before dumping them into a bog ditch.

  “It is a water creature, haunting rivers and lakes and the sea, and it sometimes carries men to their death by drowning.”

  “That I most assuredly know,” muttered Borel, and when Chelle looked at him in curiosity, he motioned for her to continue.

  “Sometimes on long voyages the sailors will see in the night a black steed galloping o’er the waves after, and then they know something terrible lies ahead-a reef, a shoal, pirates, or such-and so they become fearful and change course.”

  Chelle paused and leaned over and kissed Borel, and it was some time before she began the tale again.

  “There was a king of the Keltoi whose land was plagued by a particular and quite cruel Pooka, who had caused the deaths of many of the king’s subjects-by drowning, by fright, by being hurled from a cliff, or by having their bones crushed by its powerful kicks. And no matter which road or river or field a person walked, the Pooka could be met anywhere. It was as if the creature claimed the realm as his own, when instead it was that of the king.”

  “Do you remember his name?” asked Borel.

  “The Pooka or the king’s?”

  “The king’s,” replied Borel.

  Of a sudden Chelle laughed. “I don’t know why I asked that, for neither th
e Pooka’s name nor that of the king do I recall.” Then she frowned in concentration, trying to dredge up from her memory either of the names, but finally she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “I seem to remember it was a name similar to yours, though I am not certain of that at all.”

  “I think it matters not,” said Borel. “Please do go on.”

  “First, my tale-telling fee, Sieur,” said Chelle, and she leaned over for another kiss.

  Her lips were so soft and her breath sweet, and he felt there was no better place for her than in his arms. And he held her and inhaled her fragrance, his blood hammering in his ears. And he kissed her again and this time he began to harden, and Borel gently disengaged and murmured, “Ah, Love, please go on with the story.”

  Chelle sighed but nodded and said, “Well, the king set out to deliberately find this Pooka and master it. Now somehow the king had gotten hold of three of the Pooka’s tail hairs, and he wove them together-”

  “He didn’t have them woven by an Elf into an Elf-made rope?”

  “Oh, no,” said Chelle. “At least not the way my pere tells it. You see, I think if they had been woven into a rope, that would have muted their power, and the king would have had an even more terrible time of it.”

  Borel groaned but said, “I’m sorry for interrupting you, Cherie. Please go on.”

  “First my fee,” said Chelle.

  Again they embraced. Again they kissed. And again Borel began to respond. But Chelle laid her head against his chest and said, “I can hear your heart, my love. It beats like a horse agallop… or mayhap a Pooka arun.”

  They sat quietly, the river murmuring past, the rapids afar rumbling, and then Chelle said, “The king plaited the three hairs together, and then went looking for the terrible Dark Fey. When at last he found the creature-in the form of the black horse, I add-he looped the braided Pooka hairs about the creature’s neck and leapt upon its back. The moment he did so, the plait became a rope of steel, and steel being a form of iron, and the Pooka one of the Fey, it screamed in pain, in agony, for iron was against its skin.

  “Still it was enraged, and off it ran, taking the king on a harrowing ride and trying to throw him, but the king hung on and let the Pooka run to exhaustion. And when it was defeated, the king made the Pooka swear never to harm another man.”

  Chelle stopped and looked into Borel’s eyes, her own unseen behind the shadowy band. “Isn’t that a wonderful tale, my love? Not that it likely happened, for who but a drunk or a fool would dare ride a Pooka, regardless of a three-hair charm?”

  Borel burst out laughing, his face turned to the sky, and he finally answered, “Who but a fool, indeed?”

  Chelle twisted ’round to lie back against him, and she looked up and smiled and said, “Kiss me, my sweet Borel, for I have given you the tale you desired.”

  “Oh, my love, I desire more than a mere tale,” said Borel, and he embraced her and leaned down and “My lord, wake up, wake up!” cried Flic. “The riders have come, they’ve come!”

  Groggily, Borel opened his eyes to see Flic holding his own head and groaning in pain.

  “Wh-what did you say?”

  “The riders have come, my lord, and I must leave, for they bear iron-dreadful, aethyr-twisting iron.”

  And with that, Flic flew up and away, Buzzer following, as into the Glade of the Mere came men ahorse in cavalcade.

  33

  Riders

  Into the glade came the riders on horses, some nine men altogether, all armored in what appeared to be light chain shirts, and armed with bows and spears… and swords hung at their sides. And they stopped on the far shore of the mere as if to let their horses drink, yet none did, and not one of the riders dismounted. And they seemed to be arguing among themselves, and so they took no notice of Borel as he made his way ’round and toward them. But their voices carried well o’er the water, and he heard what discord lay among the men.

  “My lord, my lord,” cried one of the riders, his voice tight with distress, “we are on an endless ride, for the cur will ne’er jump down of its own accord.”

  Borel frowned. Cur? And as he neared he saw that one of the riders held a small dog across his saddlebow.

  And the man with the dog said, “Chevalier d’Strait, you must not give up hope, for surely someone can solve our dilemma. Think of the others who felt as you do, for they are now gone. Think of your horse as well.”

  “But, my lord king, there is nought left in the mortal world for us to return to,” said the first man, the one named by the king. “I would join my wife and child in the Beyond.”

  At this, other of the men set up a clamor, some crying out No! while some nodded in agreement.

  As Borel came up to them, he noted that although the arms and armor seemed solid enough, the men themselves as well as their horses seemed pale and wan and not quite real, as if they had somehow grown tenuous.

  Borel frowned. Perhaps they are spirits, even specters, though the sun is up, which would seem to belie any contention of them verging onto ghosthood.

  “It is within my power to command you, d’Strait, to list to me and not do this thing. Yet it is my fault we are as we are, and so I will not forbid you. Instead I beg of you to-”

  “Enough, my king,” the chevalier cried out in agony. “Debate is useless; all is hopeless.” And he swung his leg over his saddlebow and leapt from his horse. And the moment his feet touched the ground his flesh withered and fell away, as did that of his horse, and their bones clattered down, but then turned to dust.

  Men cried out, as did Borel, and some began to weep, and a whirl of air spun among the ashes, as if something were seeking some essence within.

  And now Borel stepped in among the mounted riders, and he knelt at the side of the wind-stirred mound, where all that was left behind were ash and dust and aged and cracked tack and tatters and shreds of cloth, along with rust and timeworn splinters where arms and armor once had been, but for the hilt of a sword jutting out from the desiccated heap.

  “Mithras, receive him,” said Borel, and he passed his hand over the ashes in a sign of blessing.

  Borel stood and turned to the others and said, “Now I understand why they call you the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”

  Mastering his grief, the man with the dog upon his saddlebow asked, “And you are…?”

  “I am Prince Borel of the Winterwood in Faery,” replied Borel, bowing.

  “And I am King Arle of the mortal realm,” replied the man, canting his head in acknowledgement. “And these are my men, what remains of them.”

  Borel glanced from man to man, and each had nought but desolation in his eyes. Then Borel looked at the ashes. “I take it he was not the first.”

  “The fifth,” said Arle.

  “Here is a story to be told,” said Borel. “Perhaps I can help, for Lady Wyrd, Lady Skuld, She Who Sees Through Time’s Mist, she sent me to aid others, and perhaps receive aid in return.”

  “Skuld sent you?” said the king, as if mulling over what he had just heard, and his men shifted about in their saddles and looked at one another, a bit of hope in their eyes.

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “And she said we might help you in turn?”

  “Oui, my lord.”

  “And what is it you want?” asked Arle.

  “To find the King Under the Hill,” replied Borel.

  At this, all the men gasped and made warding signs and cried out in a great clamor that he must not seek the King Under the Hill.

  Arle held up his hands for silence, and when it fell he said, “Prince Borel, you must stay away from the King Under the Hill, for it was he, the High Lord of the Fey Folk himself, who cursed us to be the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”

  “That I understand, my lord, for such did the Pooka say.”

  “Pooka? That dark creature?”

  “Oui. He was the one who told me to seek you out to find the King Under the Hill.”

  “I think they be in league,�
�� called one of the riders, “the Pooka and the King Under the Hill. Both are black of heart.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Borel, “I must find the High Lord, for my truelove’s life depends upon it.”

  King Arle sighed. “Ah, me, if that be the case…” He frowned and said, “But first I would tell you our tale, and then you will see whether or no you still wish to seek out that king.” He looked at Borel for consent.

  “I will listen,” said Borel, “yet I am determined.”

  King Arle nodded and said, “This then is the way of it:

  “I am monarch of a mortal realm bordering on Faery-or perhaps I should say, I was monarch there. Regardless, one day I decided to go on a hunt, and twelve of my chevaliers were eager to accompany me.”

  “Dix et trois,” said one of the riders. “Unlucky thirteen.”

  Arle sighed and ruefully nodded. “Unlucky thirteen indeed we were.”

  The king remained silent for moments, and Borel thought he might not continue. But then Arle said, “We had no intention of riding into the realms of Faery, but up jumped a white stag. We sounded the horns in glee and gave keen pursuit. Yet into the twilight border he ran, and for such a magnificent creature we would ride into the very Realms of Perdition, were he to run that way-or so we told ourselves.

  “And thus into Faery we raced, hot on the trail of the White Hart, though one of us, d’Strait, I believe, said such creatures were enchanted and to beware.

  “Yet I would not easily yield such a trophy, and after him I galloped, all twelve of my chevaliers following, for they would not abandon me in dread Faery.

  “Over hill and dale we ran, and through many of the looming twilight borders, the White Hart just out of range of bow shot, and just a bit faster than our steeds, though every time it stopped to rest, again we caught up.

  “And just ere dusk, it fled into a large opening ’neath a dolmen sitting atop a hillside, light pouring out from below, and we pursued, and found ourselves not only in Faery but also in the very Hollow Hills of the Highborn Ones, a gala in full swing.