Once upon a Summer Day

15

Again Borel used his bow, the carrying thong, and a slightly hollowed rock cupped in his hand to steady a straight stick to spin against a piece of dry bark laden with dead grass to start a fire. And soon the grouse roasted above the flames, and Borel knapped out a flint arrowhead and started on another.

“How do you manage that, my lord prince?” asked Flic.

Borel looked up and frowned.

“The shaping of the stone, I mean,” said Flic.

Borel shrugged and held up the piece he was working on. “Flint has what I would call a natural direction for shaping, and all one need do is carefully chip with the grain instead of across, else the piece will be ruined. Precise sharp raps with a knapping stone break small flakes away from the flint and leave a matching hollow behind.” Borel grinned. “The trick is to gradually strike away everything that isn’t the arrowhead.”

As Borel continued chipping out the second point, he said, “Hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees are your friends, Flic, but who are those that pose a threat to you?”

“Various creatures that slither and crawl and walk and fly.”

“Such as…?”

“Meat-eaters for the most: spiders, snakes, shrews, some birds, some insects such as praying mantises. Oh, and now I can add Goblins and Trolls.”

“Yet you carry no weapons?”

“Buzzer protects me well,” replied Flic, glancing at the bee, sleeping on a nearby leaf.

“But not at night, it seems,” said Borel. “What if a night-hunting creature comes upon you when you are aslumber?”

“Buzzer and I deliberately select a place where something moving on the branch or across the leaves will cause enough of a tremble to waken me, and should that happen I would then take up Buzzer and fly away,” said the Sprite. He pointed at the clear sky above Buzzer’s resting place. “And we sleep where there is no overhang for a spider to come dropping down by thread, or other such to leap upon us from above.”

Borel nodded and then said, “Even so, Flic, at first opportunity I will get for you a weapon that you can wield. The brooch of my cloak has a long silver pin which will suit you fine as a sword. Yet I must find a way to fashion a hilt and cross guard to make it into a proper blade.”

“Hai!” said Flic. “Then Buzzer won’t be the only one with a sting, eh?”

Borel laughed and continued to chip away flakes of flint.

The point fashioned at last, Borel paused in his crafting long enough to eat the entire grouse, insufficient as it was, and then fashioned two more arrows, using flint heads bound to the shafts with thongs of rabbit hide, and though he now had grouse feathers he instead cut silken strips from his shirt and tied them to the arrows as tails to aid them in flying true.

Finally, he washed his face and hands at a nearby mere and drank deeply, then added more wood to the fire and bade good night to Flic and settled down for the eve, telling himself over and again to look for daggers in his sleep to know he was dreaming. He was yet mumbling of daggers when he drifted away.

“What is it you do, my lord?”

Borel looked up from the great arrowhead he now fashioned. Across the chamber stood a slender, golden-haired demoiselle dressed in sapphire blue and white. There was something strange about her eyes, as if a dark band lay across.

“I need a great arrow to slay Trolls,” said Borel.

“Trolls, my lord?” She glanced at the stairway going down. “I think there are no Trolls herein.”

Borel set aside the great melon-sized knapping rock and struggled to shove the massive piece of flint from his lap. After a moment the tiny arrow point tinked to the floor. Borel stood. “The Trolls are at the door, and we must escape out the window.” Hefting the great loop of rope over his shoulder, Borel stepped to the sill to see…

… Daggers! Now what…?-Wait! I am in a dream!

Borel dropped the rope and turned to the demoiselle.

“My lady, are you Chelle, daughter of Lord Roulan?”

“Yes, my lord, I am. And you are…?”

“Prince Borel of the Winterwood.”

“Oh, Borel, my love, are you here to help me escape?”

Borel found himself back at the window, the rope and grappling hook in hand. Even as he set the tines against the sill, the daggers darted forward. Borel stepped back.

Daggers! I am in a dream. Why didn’t I remember?

The hook vanished along with the rope.

Borel stepped close to Chelle and took her hands in his and looked closely into her face.

“My lady, where are you?”

“Why, here in the turret, Borel. And please, stand not on formality; you may call me by name.”

“And where is this turret, Chelle?”

Chelle frowned. “On my father’s grounds.”

“Ah, good. Then I am on my way to find you.”

“But you are here, Borel. You have found me.”

She doesn’t remember what she told me when last I was here. ’Tis the vagary of dreams.

“This is but a dream, Chelle. Somehow we are linked.”

Chelle looked about. “A dream? Linked? I do not understand.”

“Neither do I, Chelle. Nevertheless it is true. Do you not recall warning me of the oncoming Goblins, and telling me I must waken?”

Hesitantly, Chelle nodded.

“At the time I was in a prison, unconscious, and you came to me then.-Or rather, I came to you, for it was here in this chamber you cried out the alert that Goblins were coming down the stairs. I wakened in time to fend for myself. Hence, we are dream linked.”

“Are you telling me that I am at this moment asleep?”

“Yes, Chelle. We both are.”

Of a sudden, the room began to waver, and in spite of trying to hold on to the moment, the chamber vanished, and Borel awakened.

Yet sore, he painfully lurched to his feet and stumped away from the camp and relieved himself. Then he stepped to the mere and jerked to a halt, arrested by anxiety, for upon the mirrorlike surface floated the moon, now some three days past full.