Once upon a Summer Day fs-1

by Dennis McKiernan

  Roused by Borel, Flic said, “I’m up, I’m up,” and clambered to his feet. He took station in the prow and looked about as he yawned. “The sun is not yet risen,” he muttered, “nor is the gibbous moon set.”

  “The moon will set in a candlemark or so,” said Borel, “and the sun will rise shortly after. But we must press on and begin the run sinister, for Lady Doom’s words tell us that I cannot rest.”

  “Then away, my lord,” said Flic.

  “Can you recognize and name trees in the dimness of dawn and the moonlight shining aglance?” said Borel.

  “Though I am a Field Sprite, woodlands border meadows, and well did my mere tutor me in the lore of the verging forests, and, so, trees I know, by sunlight or moonlight or even by starlight. Hence, my lord, dally no more.”

  And so again Borel took up the run along the twilight bound, and the moon set and the sun rose, and Buzzer wakened, even as they came to a stream. Borel stopped for a drink, and as he gobbled down a biscuit, he uncapped the honey jar and poured a small dollop down in the brim of his hat along the cocked back. And while Buzzer and Flic broke their fast, Borel took up the run once more.

  A candlemark after sunrise Borel called out, “Flic, I see a tree standing beside the border. Is it a black oak?”

  Flic looked at the deep purple leaves and the smooth silver-grey bark and said, “Nay, my lord, ’tis a copper beech. Run on, my prince, run on.”

  And so Borel ran on, now and then momentarily stopping at a streamside for a drink, then splashing on across the flow and over the land, a marge of twilight always on his right, a woodland on his left, though no black oaks did Flic espy therein.

  Just ere the noontide, Borel called out, “Flic, another tree alongside the border.”

  Flic eyed the green leaves and the grey-white trunk and said, “Nay, my lord, ’tis a silver maple. Run on, my prince, run on.”

  At the next stream, Borel gobbled down another biscuit, and once more he set a dollop of honey on the brim of his hat. And then he started running again.

  Two candlemarks or so after the sun passed through the zenith, Borel called out, “Another tree, Flic, standing by the border.”

  “Nay, my lord, ’tis not what we seek but a golden ash instead.”

  As he loped onward Borel growled and said, “I’m beginning to wonder if Lady Doom has arranged this apurpose.”

  “My lord?”

  “Three trees have we seen standing alongside the marge: copper, silver, and gold,” said Borel, “a timeless progression in fables. But usually when the gold of that trio is encountered, so too is success at hand.”

  “That might be the case in hearthtales, my lord,” said Flic, looking back, “and perhaps here as well, for each of those trees-the copper, the silver, and the gold-might signify that something marvelous lies across the border and in the sands beyond. Yet we cannot pause to see, for no black oak is nigh, and the sun ever sinks toward his setting, and the unseen moon ever nears her rise.”

  Borel ran onward, up slopes and down, splashing across streams and shssh ing through tall grasses, woodlands ever on the left, the twilight bound on the right.

  And in late afternoon, “A tree alongside the border, Flic.”

  Flic looked at the broad limbs with their nine-lobed leaves, and the dark, dark trunk, and cried out in glee, “ ’Tis a black oak, my lord, a black oak! We have come to the black oak at last!”

  Weary beyond measure, Borel ran to the dark tree and stopped, and his breath came harsh and heavy. As Flic took to wing with Buzzer following, Borel glanced at the remains of the day, and his heart fell, for there was but a single candlemark left ere the sun would begin to set and the full moon begin to rise.

  46

  Daggers

  “Come,” said Borel, straightening up, “let us hurry, for time is-”

  “Wait, my lord,” said Flic. “Remember Urd’s warning: “ ‘Seek the black oak sinister

  Beside the twilight wall,

  Behind it a narrow portal,

  Yet beware the fall.’

  “That’s what she said. And so, my lord, before you go through, let me first see what lies beyond.”

  “Hurry,” said Borel, again glancing at the sun, “we’ve no time to tarry.”

  With Buzzer following, Flic turned and darted into the twilight marge.

  Long moments passed, and long moments more, and Borel could wait no longer, for the sun itself would not delay, nor would the as-yet-unseen full moon. But just as he started to step within, Flic and Buzzer returned.

  “Beware, my lord. Lady Urd was right. Straight through and you’ll plunge to your doom, for when I emerged out the far side, I was in the air above a great drop. To both the left and right there are outjuts along the face of a sheer cliff, with pathways down to the sands below. Yet these are not to be trusted, for when I tried to return by flying across one of those outjuts, Buzzer and I ended above bubbling molten stone within a hollow mountain. We fled back, and I tried the other outjut, with the very same results. And so, Lady Urd was right when she spoke of the black oak: ‘Behind it a narrow portal,’ she said, and narrow it is. This marge is tricky, my lord, a perfect place for Rhensibe to set a trap. I would think that from this side of the bound, should you step left or right of the portal, who knows where you would end? Perhaps above that same pool of molten stone.”

  “Nevertheless, I must enter,” said Borel.

  “How, my lord? You cannot fly.”

  “There must be a way,” said Borel. “I will try to find it.” And without further delay, Borel pulled from his rucksack the rope he had purchased in Riverbend and tied one end to the tree. Paying it out, he stepped into the twilight directly behind the oak.

  As Flic and Buzzer flew past, into the dimness Borel went, testing each step before taking it. Darker and darker grew the marge, and in the depths of the blackness, he came to the lip of a sheer precipice.

  Down he swung on his rope, and he felt about for handholds, but the surface was smooth with no places to grip, all the way down the extent of his line. Side to side he swung, and yet there was only vertical stone.

  Finally he clambered back up to the top. Which way, I wonder, would the witch walk? Ah, yes, I know: sinister, what else?

  Hoping he would not need it, Borel left the rope behind as a marker and sidled leftward through utter darkness along the very verge of the precipice. Slowly, ever so slowly, the dimness began to lighten. And then he emerged along the flat top of a stark desert cliff two hundred feet above the Endless Sands.

  A pathway led steeply down.

  “My lord,” cried Flic joyously, he and Buzzer circling about.

  But Borel paid him no heed, for a half a league away lay a lush vale trapped between endless dunes, and in the very center a great green heap mounded up a hundred feet high or more, its length and breadth a furlong or so in each direction.

  “What is it, Flic?” asked Borel.

  “What is what, my lord?”

  “That,” said Borel, pointing.

  Flic turned about. “Oh, my, there’s green in the desert. How did it get here?” He turned back to Borel. “I do not know what it is, my prince. I was so concerned about you and the crossing, that I didn’t see it ere now. Ah, me, some scout I make, eh?”

  “I pray it be Roulan’s vale carried here by the black wind,” said Borel. “You and Buzzer scout ahead, Flic, while I make my way down. And be certain to look at that mound in the middle; it sits where the manse should be.”

  “Oui!” cried the Sprite, and away he flew, Buzzer at his side.

  Down the steep path Borel trotted, and when he reached the sands he found the terrain barren and rocky, and off he loped toward the green vale with the great mound in the middle, a mile and a half away.

  Before he had covered two furlongs toward the heap, he came unto the sand, and running became difficult in the shifting footing. Yet on he loped, for the sun angled down through the sky, and the moon would soon rise.

&n
bsp; He had covered perhaps half the distance when Flic and Buzzer came winging back. “The mound: ’tis vines with thorns: great huge vines with thorns as long as your own forearms, my lord. Yet beware, for unto my Fey vision there is an aura about them, as of magie.”

  “Daggers,” said Borel, not pausing in his run. “These must be the daggers of Chelle’s dream. Did not Lady Wyrd say ‘Neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem’? And these blades, these daggers, are not as they seemed, for they are instead thorns.”

  “We guessed they weren’t really daggers,” said Flic.

  “Indeed, we guessed, and now we know,” said Borel. “-Is there a turret within?”

  “I could not tell, my lord, for the thorn vines are much too thick. Yet there is a higher place at the center where a turret could be.”

  Yet running, Borel said, “Lord Roulan had a turret nigh the center of his manor.”

  “Perhaps that is it, then,” said Flic. “But there is something else, my lord: as I flew near, I could hear a squeaking coming from somewhere within… close to the center, I think.”

  “A squeaking?”

  “Oui, just as you told me was in your dream, as of a wagon wheel long without grease and turning.”

  “Never mind, Flic. We will find what it is when we get in,” said Borel.

  “Oh, my lord, I think there is no way to penetrate the thorns,” said Flic. “I mean, not even Buzzer could make her way through.”

  “There’s got to be a way, else Chelle is fordone.”

  “But I flew all ’round,” said Flic, “and I simply don’t see how we can enter.”

  “Again I say, there must be a way, Flic, else the Ladies Wyrd and Lot and Doom would not have sent us here.”

  “Perhaps they did so to make certain Rhensibe is killed,” said Flic. “I mean, we will avenge Chelle should worse come to worst. Surely Rhensibe will arrive to gloat if that happens.”

  “I will not think of such,” snapped Borel, and in that moment he trotted into the green vale, and now the running eased. Onward he sped toward the massive mound and he came unto pavestones just before reaching the vast tangle of thorns.

  “My lord, again I caution you, there is something of magie about the vines,” said Flic. “I do not know what it might be, yet there is an enchantement upon them.”

  “Indeed,” said Borel, “else how could they have grown so large? The entire vale must be ensorcelled, to be so green among these dry sands.”

  “Oui, lord, yet the vines seem somehow… I don’t know… different from the rest of the vale. ’Ware, lord prince, be chary.”

  “What kind are they, Flic? — The vines and thorns I mean.”

  “Blackberry, I think, my lord, though perhaps there are rose vines as well.”

  “Pink-blooming shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines,” murmured Borel. “I deem you are right-roses and blackberry-but these are monstrous, most as thick as my leg and more.”

  Cautiously, Borel moved forward along the pave. “I think this is the footpath to Roulan’s gates,” said Borel. “I vaguely remember such.-It has to be the way in.”

  “Take care, my lord,” said Flic, as Borel came to the snarl of Of a sudden, one of the massive vines lashed out at Borel, and without thinking he snatched his long-kni-Nay! Not his long-knife. Instead it was the jagged remainder of the rusted sword he wrenched from his scabbard to parry the attack, even as Flic shrieked, “Look out, my lor-!”

  But in that moment the blade touched the lashing thorn vine, and lo! just as had the rider, the vine withered, shriveled, blackened and fell to dust, as if it had aged a thousand years in but an instant of time.

  “Hai!” cried Borel, staring at the weapon he had taken as an afterthought from the remains of one of the Riders Who Cannot Dismount. “Indeed not all perilous blades are just as they seem. Oh, d’Strait, d’Strait, your death was not in vain.”

  And Borel stepped forward, wading into the massive thorn tangle, striking left and right with the rusted blade at the giant lashing briars, their long thorns seeking to stab, the vines striving to grasp.

  “Hurry, my lord, hurry!” cried Flic. “The sun is low and ready to set, and the full moon nigh to rising.”

  Hacking and slashing, onward went Borel, and attacking vines fell before him, yet with each vine turned to dust, the sword grew shorter, rust flaking away, and the farther he penetrated into the mass, the less of a blade he had.

  “Mithras, be with me,” cried Borel, and onward he hewed, leaving a wide tunnel through the entanglement behind. Yet Borel did not come off unscathed, for as vine after vine lashed at him, the thorns stabbed and tore at his flesh. But still he pressed on, his leathers gashed, blood seeping, and his sword diminishing with each strike.

  But at last, bleeding and with no blade left, he came the remaining few feet to the end of the vines and stepped into a clear forecourt before the gates of Roulan’s manor.

  The portal was open and warded beyond by sleeping guards wearing blue tabards with a silver sunburst centered thereon: Roulan’s sigil.

  And drifting through the air from within came a strange, squeaking noise.

  And the rim of the sun just then touched the horizon, and the limb of the moon peeked above the edge of the Endless Sands.

  “Hurry, my lord,” said Flic, “for the sun is even now setting and the full moon rising, and we must save Lady Chelle.”

  Borel looked at the bladeless hilt of d’Strait’s sword, and he reverently laid it down, and then into the courtyard stepped the prince, Flic and Buzzer coming after. The moment Borel stepped through the gate, the squeaking became a soothing but atonal squealing flutelike sound, and Flic, entering just behind, flew past Borel and partway across the courtyard but then fluttered down to the pave, where he fell sound asleep.

  Buzzer agitatedly flew about, and Borel crossed to the Sprite and took him up and set him within the rim of the tricorn. With the bee angrily circling ’round and ’round, onward Borel headed, running for the doors of the manor and the tower within.

  Yet with every step taken, his own eyelids began to droop, and his mind became fuzzy, and all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep.

  But I cannot… I must save…

  An agonizing pain stabbed him in the neck and he snapped awake.

  Buzzer!

  The sun sank its lower limb below the horizon, and the full moon continued its inexorable rise.

  Across the courtyard Borel staggered, past sleeping men and women, past sleeping Fey Folk, Fairies all. And they were dressed in finery, as if celebrating It was, it was… Oh, now I… I… Chelle’s majority..

  Lurching to the doors, he opened them and reeled into the halls beyond, sleep dragging at him. And he was so tired, so very tired, all he needed to do was lie down and Again the bumblebee stung Borel, and again the pain brought him awake, and the flutelike music-or was it a squeaking? — tugged at his mind.

  The flute-the squealing-grew louder, and Borel jabbed his fingers in his ears, but it seemed the sound grew louder still.

  And the rim of the sun sank lower, nearly a full quarter gone, and the moon rose higher, nearly a quarter up.

  Now down the hallways he reeled, past sleeping men and women and Fey. He came to the stairwell, and up into the turret he tottered, and the music-the skreeking-became a discordant crescendo, and when he reached the stone floor at the top the noise was nearly unbearable, and he staggered under the burden of simply trying to remain awake, and he was losing consciousness.

  But again Buzzer stung him to awareness, and there slumped against the wall lay Chelle, an overturned stool nearby. And just beyond, a spinning wheel turned, its distaff empty of wool or flax or fiber of any kind, its treadle oscillating up and down with no foot whatsoever pressing. And the wheel rotated a strange spindle, a spindle with flutelike holes along its considerable length, and from this instrument came the screeching, came the atonal music.

  And now the
sun was nearly halfway set, and the moon nearly half risen, and each continued its relentless advance heedless of any consequence that might ensue.

  If I stop the wheel…

  Borel stumbled toward the turning The moment he came to Chelle, he fell to his knees, unable to go on, and he closed his eyes and Again pain jolted him awake.

  Once more he tried to get to the wheel, this time crawling, but the shrieking-the music-swelled even higher, and he could not go forward.

  He swung about, and crawled to Chelle.

  If I can just get her free… get me free… of the wheel..

  He took her slender form in his arms, and, in an effort nearly beyond his capability, he just managed to gain his feet.

  Once more Buzzer stung him, and down the stairs Borel struggled.

  And the sun was nearly three-quarters gone, and the moon three-quarters up, and still they moved on and on.

  Lurching, reeling, down the hallways Borel faltered with Chelle in his arms; past sleeping guests, past Lord Roulan, past Fairies, and past Lady Roulan, he staggered. He paused a moment to rest, but Buzzer stung him again.

  He stumbled out through the doors and into the courtyard beyond and across, and finally he was past the gates.

  And the sun was nigh set, the moon nigh risen; and the sun continued its unrelenting slide downward, its upper limb now disappearing; and the moon continued its remorseless ascent, the orb striving to reach the open sky.

  Flic awakened in that moment, and he screamed, “Lord Borel, the tunnel!”

  Ahead, the thorn vines were closing the hewn corridor, and Borel, now free from the spindle music, began to run through the ever-narrowing gape.

  Vines lashed at him, and he held Chelle close to protect her, and he ran with speed to get her free from harm.

  Through the swiftly closing gap he fled, Flic and Buzzer leading the way, and just as he thought he would be trapped forever, he burst out into the vale beyond.

  Within a few more strides he sank to his knees, and, bleeding and totally exhausted, he laid Chelle to the grass.