Once upon a dreadful time

Conundrums

Down into a fog-laden vale plunged Roel and Devereau.

Their passage caused swirls in the clinging vapor, as of ghosts flying through the mist. But soon up a long slope they surged, and back into the sunlight of the Springwood they ran, the air among newly leafed-out foliage bearing the scent of the forest, fresh and full of promise. Yet old were these trees, some of them, their roots reaching deep, their great girths moss-covered, their branches spread wide and interlacing with others overhead. Oak there was, proud and majestic, and groves of birch, silver and white; maple and elm stood tall, with dogwood and wild cherry blossoms filling the air with their delicate scents. And down among the roots running across the soil, crocuses bloomed, as did small mossy flowers, yellow and lavender and white. Even though much of the woodland seemed aged, here and there stood new growth-thickets of saplings and lone seedlings and solitary treelets, all reaching upward in the search for light, their hues more vivid than those of their ancient kindred. Birds flitted among the verdant leaves, their songs claiming territory and calling for mates. The hum of bees sounded as they moved from blossom to blossom, and elsewhere beetles clambered along greening vines and stems. Overhead, scampering limb-runners chattered, and down among the grass and thatch, voles and other small living things rustled.

And streams burbled and splashed among stones, as if singing and dancing on their way to some collective goal. Bright and dark and twilight were these woods, and full of wakened life, and Roel, though he had lived herein for some four years in all, was filled with the marvel of this splendid place.

But unlike other times and other days, he did not stop to revel in the glory, but pressed his mount onward toward the distant goal.

Now and then across Roel’s vision a winged Sprite would flash, much like a hummingbird in its swiftness, bearing the warning through some part of the realm. And occasionally, Root Dwellers and other such elfin folk would try to keep pace with them, but swift were the steeds and their riders, and shortly the small beings would be left far behind.

Even though their mission was urgent, of necessity Roel and Devereau paused to relieve the horses, to water them and feed them a bit of grain and allow them some respite. And at these stops, they would change tack to fresher mounts and shortly take up the ride again, the horses pounding through the soft loam and the detritus of the forest floor.

One of these halts occurred nigh the noontide in the hamlet of Auberville, where the Sprite-borne warning had already come, and an assembly of folk looked unto the chevalier for answers. While the horses rested, Roel replied to their queries as best he could, but at last he and Devereau mounted up to push on. Yet ere leaving, Roel wheeled his horse toward the gathering and said, “At this time, we are doing all we can to meet the threat of Orbane. Yet whether or no he gets free, in but a few days men will arrive to begin training those who are able-bodied, for there might come a time when battle cannot be avoided, and we must be ready. Thereafter, if the call to assemble is sounded, all fighters will then report to wherever the muster is to be held. Even so, some must remain behind, not only to protect the realm, but also to provide for the oldsters and youngsters and the sick and lame and enfeebled, for, though you might be eager to join the fight, we cannot abandon those herein who will need your aid.”

And with that, Roel and Devereau spurred away.

Across flowered glades hammered the mounts, spring melt trickling from the shadowy feet of trees, where snow yet huddled out of the rays of the sun.

And the sun itself slid through the sky and across and down as the day crept toward the eve. And as the orb set and dusk drew down on the land, Devereau called out, “But a league or so and we’ll be at the manse.”

“Oui, Devereau, I know,” answered Roel, for he was quite familiar with the route between Springwood Manor and the Castle of the Seasons, having travelled it a number of times.

Yet he was glad of Devereau’s company, for the flaxen-haired youth was of good spirit. Besides, should they meet up with trouble along the way, the youth, a member of the Springwood warband, was quite handy with a bow.

And as they galloped down a dark gallery of trees, in the near distance ahead something small and white stood upon the way.

“Rein back, Devereau, rein back,” called Roel. “We know not what this might be.”

“Think you it is a trick of the witch?” called the youth, even as he and Roel slowed their mounts to a walk, the horses breathing heavily, lather running down their flanks.

“I know not,” answered Roel, and he drew Coeur d’Acier, its silvery blade rune-marked.

Devereau strung his bow and nocked an arrow, and slowly they pressed forward, both scanning the surround for waiting foe, yet in the light of dusk they saw none.

Now Roel gazed ahead at the creature in the trail. “Devereau, methinks ’tis a goat.”

“Indeed, Sieur, but something or someone small lies on the ground at its feet.”

“I see,” said Roel, frowning, then urging his mount onward.

“Perhaps a new kid or a small child. Even so, keep a sharp eye.” And as they neared, they could see it was a youngster, a femme lying facedown. When they came unto her, Roel sheathed his sword and reined to a stop and leapt from his horse. The goat bleated and sidled but did not flee, and Roel turned the child over and cradled her head and shoulders. She was breathing but unconscious and looked to be no more than eight or nine summers old.

“Devereau, your wineskin,” snapped Roel as he supported the child’s small frame, and he reached with his free hand toward his companion.

Devereau untied the small leather bag from his cantle, and leapt down and uncapped the skin and handed it to Roel. Carefully, Roel dribbled a small amount in between the child’s slightly parted lips. She lightly coughed and then swallowed, and opened a dark eye and whispered “More, please, Sieur.”

“Oui, ma petite goatherd,” said Roel, and he gave her a second sip.

She opened her other eye and said, “More please, Sieur.” As Roel tipped the skin to her lips, she grasped it with both hands and gulped and gulped and gulped.

“Non, child!” protested Roel, but with surprising strength she wrenched the wineskin from his grip and drained it. Then she looked up at Roel and cackled.

And of a sudden she was free from his embrace, and a dark shimmering came over her as she stood.

Roel sprang back and ripped free his blade from its scabbard, even as Devereau snatched up his bow and nocked an arrow and drew.

And before them stood a black-haired, black-eyed toothless crone dressed in a black-limned ebon robe, and from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere came the sound of looms weaving.

Roel called out, “Devereau, hold! Loose not!” and then he sheathed his sword and knelt before the hag and said, “My lady Urd.”

Behind him, Devereau pointed his bow down and away and relaxed his draw, then he, too, fell to his knees in obeisance.

“Heh! Had you fooled, eh?” said Urd, even as she turned toward the goat and made a small gesture, and it vanished.

“Oui, my lady Doom,” said Roel, yet kneeling before her.

“Given the straits we find ourselves in, have you come with a message?”

“Of course, of course,” snapped Urd. “Why else would I be here?”

“Only the Fates would know,” answered Roel, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Urd gaped a gummy grin and said, “Given to bons mots, are we?”

“I rather thought you would like such,” said Roel.

Urd hooted in glee and said, “And I thought no one could fathom even a trifle when it concerns the characters of my sisters and me.”

“My lady Doom, I remember the pleasure you took in small joys when last we met.”

“Hmm. . Got to be careful around the likes of you, my lad, else I might let something unwarranted slip. Can’t be too caught up in tomfooleries, especially not given the events to come.” Urd’s smile vanished, and her face took on an aspect even more careworn than her aged features would suggest.

“Events to come,” said Roel. “That’s why you are here.”

“As always,” said Urd. “By the rules we follow, ’tis only in times of a future need that we might appear, and even then not always.”

“But I thought all was written,” protested Devereau.

Urd shook her head. “Although we have seen, still no event is permanently set until I finally bind it into the Tapestry of Time.”

“How so?” asked the youth.

“My elder sister Skuld sees the future and weaves those scenes into the tapestry; Verdandi sees the present, and changes the weavings to reflect alterations in the events; and I finally bind all incidents into permanency. But heed me, Devereau, Roel, great deeds are needed to change what Skuld and Verdandi weave and what I prepare to affix, but once I do the final binding, nought will recall any event whatsoever so that one might change the final outcome.”

“And what you and your sisters have seen is dreadful?” asked Roel.

“Indeed.”

“Then, my Lady Who Fixes the Past, tell me what I must do.”

“Heh. You know the rules, Roel. First you must answer a riddle, and then I will give you advice.” Roel sighed and said, “Say on, Lady Doom, say on.” Urd took a deep breath, and the clack and thud of shuttles and battens swelled:

“They stood there as if long dead,

Their children buried alive,

And someone well might wonder:

Did any of them survive?

Parents awoke at my passing;

New vigor seemed to flow;

Some children then did rise up,

Most all with a healthy glow.

Now my riddle is done;

I’ve given you sufficient hint.

Tell me, Roel, who am I,

And what is this grand event.”

The sound of looms abated, and Roel’s heart fell. Devereau started to speak, yet with a gesture Urd silenced him and said,

“This is for Roel alone to answer here in the Springwood.” Here in the Springwood? Is that another hint? Roel frowned in deep thought. What is it vis-a-vis this demesne that might give a clue to the answer? He looked about in the twilight to see burgeoning trees and flowers and new leaves, and sprouts pressing upward. It was a woodland of eternal-

“Spring, my lady Doom, bringing with it resurrection and life anew. The ones standing as if long dead are the trees and shrubs and grasses and other such in their winter sleep. And the buried children are seeds in the ground. And when spring comes they quit their slumber, vigor flows, and seeds sprout. And so, my lady Urd, I say the answer to your riddle is the coming of spring and the awakening of life.”

Fretting, he looked up at her, and Urd said, “Exactly so, Roel.

It is spring and rebirth, indeed.”

Devereau shook his head. “And here I thought it had to do with parents grieving over children trapped in a collapsed mine or cave and the ones who came to dig them out.”

“Heh!” crowed Urd. “Fooled you, eh?”

“Oui, Lady Doom.”

“That’ll teach you to stop and think ere speaking, laddie.”

“Lady Urd,” said Roel, “have you a rede now to give us?”

“Impatient, are we?”

“Somewhat, my lady Doom, yet I am at your behest.” Urd nodded and cackled, her toothless smile wide, and once again the clack of shuttles and thud of battens intensified.

“ ’Pon the precipice will ye be held, As surely as can be,

Yet can ye but touch the deadly arcane, The least shall set ye free.”

And as the sound of weaving fell, Roel frowned but remained silent, yet Devereau said, “But, Lady Doom, I, for one, do not understand. Will you not tell us more?”

“Non, I will not,” replied the black-eyed crone. “But this I can tell you for nought: If you do not solve this rede, Roel, then all as we now know it to be will come to a horrible end.” And after laying that terrible responsibility upon Roel, again the clack and thud intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Urd.