Once upon a Summer Day

25

“You flew over the vale?”

“Yes, and along it, too. I went there to see if all would reappear in the light of the moon. And as I said, it did not.”

“Ah, then, that’s why you had me open the window. Why didn’t you tell me what you planned?”

“I didn’t want to raise any false hopes,” said Flic. He sighed and added, “Would that my own lifted hopes had been realized, yet they were not.-But you, Lord Borel, what are you doing out and about?”

“My dream got away from me,” replied Borel. “I’m afraid I might have stranded Chelle in a place of my making.”

“How so?”

“I nearly did that which I said was unprincipled: bed her on the whim of a dream. When I realized what I was about to do, I wakened. And so she may be-I don’t know where-lost in my dream as well as in reality.”

“Gracious me,” said Flic. “Well then, you’re just going to have to go back to sleep and rescue her from the quandary of your making.”

“I tried, Flic, but sleep now eludes me. That’s why I am out in the night, trying to achieve a measure of serenity so that I can fall aslumber. But my mind is racing helterskelter, and stillness of my spirit eludes me. What I need is”-Borel turned about, searching-“Ah, I see.”

Borel stepped to a woodpile, where an axe stood embedded in a upright stump. “Fly, my friend,” he said. “Labor will tire my body and perhaps my mind.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Flic, and he launched himself from Borel’s shoulder and into the air and flew ’round the cottage and in through the open window.

Borel wrenched the axe free from the chopping block and took up a billet. “Step back, Brun,” he said, adding a guttural, and the dog moved away.

Shortly, the night air was filled with the sound of hewing as Borel split logs and stacked wood. Maurice drew aside the curtain on the bedroom window and peered out, then he turned to say something to Charite as he let the fabric fall back.

The moon had risen another two fists when Borel embedded the blade of the axe once more into the chopping block. He sat long moments in the cool air while gazing at the moon, and then went back into the house, Brun following. Into the loft he crawled and lay down to sleep, yet he tossed and turned fitfully, and did not dream again that night.

“My lord prince,” said Charite as she fixed a great breakfast of eggs and sausage and warmed up the biscuits, “I want to apologize for our fearful behavior last eve. You may call us foolish for being in such dread over… er… um… the magicien who shall not be named, but strange things happen in Faery, such as the duke’s valley turning to stone and such. And so, we know firsthand, do Maurice and I, that terrible things can come about when sorcieres and magiciens and other such are involved, to say nothing of strange creatures, like Trolls and Ogres and Goblins and-”

“Madame Charite, give it no second thought,” said Borel, “for you are right in fearing Orb-Pardon me, in fearing the magicien who shall not be named.”

“Well, Maurice and I, we just thought it best to not tempt fate,” said Charite.

In that moment, Maurice came through the door, Flic riding on his left shoulder, Buzzer on his right, another bucket of milk in hand. “Madame Vache, she seems full morning and night,” he said as the Sprite and the bee flew to the table. “It means more butter and cheese and curds to sell in town… and buttermilk,” he added, as he covered the pail with a cloth and set it by the churn.

“The cream, it’s quite delicious,” said Flic, and glanced at Buzzer. “And she agrees.”

“Good morrow, Monsieur Maurice,” said Borel.

Maurice bobbed his head and returned the greeting and said, “I thank you, my lord, for setting aside a goodly amount of wood.”

“Did I wake you? If so, I am sorry. I was working out a problem.”

“A problem, my lord?”

“Yes. You see, I thought that I had reached an impasse, a cul-de-sac, but as I wielded your axe, I realized I hadn’t. At least, not quite. I will go to the town and see if there is something of truth to the rumor you spoke of, something that might send me on my way. Perhaps I can find someone therein who knows ought of Lord Roulan and Chelle, or where this Rhensibe might dwell.”

“Oh, my lord prince,” said Charite, as she ladled out great spoonfuls of eggs and slid sausages onto Borel’s plate, “ ’fi were you, I wouldn’t have ought to do with Rhensibe. But as to perhaps finding Lord Roulan’s estate and the duke and his daughter-assuming the vale and all were carried away by that black wind-well, that’s a noble goal, and we wish you good fortune in that.”

Her eyebrow cocked, Charite looked at Flic and slightly lifted her platter of breakfast fare, but he waved her off, saying, “None for me, thanks. I’m full of rich cream from Madame Vache, and so is Buzzer.”

“As you wish, Sieur Flic,” Charite said, and she spooned out eggs and sausage to Maurice, while he passed the biscuits to Borel.

Charite looked at wagging-tail Brun and said, “You can have what’s left over, Monsieur Dog.”

“Come look!” called Maurice.

Borel placed four copper pennies on the table, and then took up his bow and stepped through the back door to join Maurice and Charite.

They stood behind the cottage and watched as Flic and Buzzer flew over the fields of crops and the byre and cote, over the pond and well, and over the green pasture where Madame Vache grazed contentedly. They could hear the Sprite calling out something or mayhap even singing, Buzzer’s humming wings accompanying Flic. Yet what the Sprite cried or sang, they could not quite hear, though it was definitely lilting words of a sort, mayhap in a language unfamiliar.

Finally, Flic and Buzzer came spiralling down and landed on Borel’s tricorn, and Flic said, “There, I’ve blessed your entire stead, Monsieur Maurice and Madame Charite. What good it’ll do, I cannot say, for I’ve not done such a thing until now.”

“Oh, Sieur Sprite, we thank you, we thank you,” gushed Charite happily, beaming in gratitude. She elbowed Maurice in the ribs, and he humbly added his own thanks as well.

Borel made a slight bow and said, “Madame, Monsieur, I thank you for your hospitality, and if I am ever back this way, Maurice, I will tell that tale of my pere and mere’s enchantment and how Camille managed to dispel the glamour. But now we must hie to the town, for Chelle is entrapped somewhere and I would set her free.” Borel then turned to Brun and spoke a word or two, gutturals mixed within, and the dog seemed to take heart, and his tail curled up o’er his back.

Charite rushed into the cottage and then came running back out, a cloth sack in hand. “There’s biscuits and boiled eggs and dollops of honey in a jar and apples and cheese and a bit of salted bacon. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry on your way to town.”

“Mother,” said Maurice, “town is but a half a morn away, and I am sure they won’t starve ere they get there.”

“Well, you never know, Maurice,” snapped Charite. She turned to Borel and her voice softened. “What with enchantments and magiciens and sorcieres and Fairies and other such strange things on the road, you never know.”

Borel tied a length of rope to the top of the bag and looped the improvised sling over his head and across one shoulder. Then he raised Charite’s fingers to his lips and kissed them, she to simper coyly. The prince shook hands with Maurice and turned on his heel and stepped ’round the cottage and through the gate and set off down the trace toward the river gleaming in the distance, Maurice and Charite following him to the fence and calling out their adieus, proud Brun barking his own farewell.

Borel strode onward; after a while he looked back to see Charite scattering grain for the chickens, and Maurice in the bean field plying his hoe.

“What was it you called out as you were flying about and blessing that stead?”

“Oh,” said Flic. “I was merely singing an old song about the richness of the land and the luxury of the rains and the goodness of those who husband the crops and care for the beasts and tend such. Whether you can call that a blessing, well, I couldn’t say. And whether or no it will do ought whatsoever… hmm…” Flic shrugged a shoulder and fell silent and Borel strode on for the river crossing, he, too, saying nought, for he knew nothing of blessings either.

In later days and thereafter, though, it would be said by those who should know of such things that Maurice and Charite had the most fertile and prosperous farmstead in the realm, no matter the seasons or weather.

“Do you really think that someone in town might know something of Rhensibe and where Lord Roulan’s estate might be?” asked Flic.

Borel shrugged. “Perhaps. Then again, mayhap we can find one of the Fey Folk that Maurice spoke of. If they are truly Fey, then they might know of something that will give us an inkling as to where to go next.”

“Perhaps,” said Flic. “Yet if I were you, I’d be careful of what Fey Folk say.”

Borel broke out in laughter.

“What?” said Flic.

“Oh, Flic, my innocent. Don’t you realize that you are as Fey as any? Should I be wary of your words?”

“Humph!” snorted Flic. “I should say not. After all, I am not speaking of Sprites and such, but of the true Fey Folk.”

“ True Fey Folk? And just who might they be?”

“Well, um, er… oh, I know: Fairies, that’s who. Those and-” Flic’s words jerked to a halt, but then he whispered, “Oh, my, perhaps that’s one of them now.”

Flic pointed, and just ahead on the riverbank sat a crone, mumbling to herself and picking at her considerably long nose.

As Borel drew near, she whirled about and screeched, “Where have you been! It’s quite late, you know, and I can’t wait here all day.”