Once upon a Summer Day

45

“My lord, she did not say which way to go.”

“The direction is in the aid she gave,” said Borel. “ ‘Find the black oak sinister,’ she said.”

“My lord?”

“Sinister, leftward, Flic. We have been going the wrong way from the outset, for we chose dextral.”

Flic growled and said, “I knew we should never have trusted that slapped spit, for Dame Fortune oft plays dastardly tricks.” Then he groaned. “All that searching we did, and all of it away from instead of toward.”

“Take heart, Flic, for now we simply must find the black oak next to the twilight bound.”

“My lord,” said Flic, “there were no black oaks nigh the border the way we came.”

“None?”

“None, my lord. It means we must go all the way back to where we started and then beyond to find Lady Urd’s dark tree.”

Borel sighed. “She warned us: ‘And this I will tell you for nought: it lies afar and you cannot rest.’ ”

“Oui, my lord,” said Flic, “those were her very words.” Flic glanced at the gibbous moon, the orb nearly full and now some four fists above the horizon and on the rise, and he said, “And there is but a day remaining.”

Borel, too, looked at the moon in the night sky. “Less than a day, my friend, for even as does the sun set on the morrow, so shall the full moon rise. We must find that black oak well ere then, for we know not what we will face in the Endless Sands.”

“Daggers, my lord,” said Flic, “that’s what we’ll face, whatever they might be.”

“Oui, Flic, whatever they might be,” said Borel. Then he glanced at the woodland nearby. “And you are certain that there are no black oaks between here and the place we started?”

“None whatsoever,” said Flic. “Do you know what a black oak looks like?”

“Non, Flic, for I am of the Winterwood, where all trees but evergreens are barren and snow- or ice-laden. Though I do know pine and yew and fir and the like, I simply did not pay heed to the differences among the barren trees.”

“No matter, my lord, for I do know the black oak.”

Borel looked at Buzzer asleep in his hand. “Then let us hie, and as I run, you rest, sleep if you can, for Urd has said we’ve a long journey ahead, and I would have you afresh when we reach the place where we began.”

“Oui, Prince Borel,” said Flic, even then yawning. “But let us away, and now, for the moon stays not her course for any.”

Borel set dormant Buzzer within the tricocked brim of his hat, and Flic took a seat there as well, and back the way they had come did Borel begin his run.

Throughout the moon- and starlit night the prince loped alongside the twilight bound, while the heavens above wheeled slowly ’round, and the moon sailed serenely on, and neither the stars nor the argent orb paused even a jot in deference to the desperate drama unfolding below. On Borel ran and on, occasionally pausing briefly for a drink at a stream or from his waterskin.

All night he ran, growing ever more weary, and as first light began to grace the skies he came to the place where the Fairy horse had brought them in the dawn of the day before.

“Waken, Flic, waken!” called Borel. “I am back where we began.”

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.