Once upon a Summer Day

11

Of a sudden, “The moon!” cried Borel, and he lurched upright to a sitting position, upsetting the bee, who took to wing and buzzed away to land on the handle end of the fore steering sweep. “Where stands the moon?”

“My lord?”

“What is the phase of the moon?”

The Sprite frowned then said, “Tonight it will be two days past full, Sieur.”

“Ah, good,” said Borel, painfully groaning as he lay back down. “Then I haven’t lost a great deal of time.”

The Sprite flitted to land on Borel’s chest, there where the bee had once been. He plopped down and, elbows on knees and his face in his hands, he sat looking at the prince.

Borel smiled and said, “Have you a name, tiny one?”

“Yes, my lord. ’Tis Flic.” The Sprite stood and sketched a bow and then resumed his seat and said, “And you, Sieur?”

“I am Prince Borel of-”

“Of the Winterwood?”

“Yes, Flic. It is my demesne.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see the Winterwood, but Buzzer would go dormant in the cold, and so might I.”

“Buzzer?”

“My companion,” replied Flic, pointing at the bee yet perched on the fore sweep.

“How came you to be in that cage, Flic?”

“The Goblins captured me in a fine net and took me prisoner.”

“To what end?”

“I am a Sprite of the fields, and the Trolls tried to force me into having my friends-the bees-make honey, every last drop of which the Trolls would take to baste their fare. I refused, of course, for I cannot think of a more heinous crime than making slaves of bees. Regardless, the Trolls said that when I got hungry enough, then I would obey. They tried to starve me into submission, but they hadn’t counted on Buzzer feeding me. I thought, though, that I would never get free, be a prisoner forever, yet you came along and, well…”

They drifted downriver in silence for a while, the unguided raft slowly turning in the current, and then Flic said, “And you, Prince Borel, how came you to my rescue?”

“I was escaping, Flic, for I was to be one of those whom they would baste with honey.”

A horrified look came over the Sprite’s face. “You mean they were going to eat you?”

Borel nodded. “Spitted, roasted, and consumed.”

“Oh, my, that might be a crime even worse than making slaves of bees.”

Borel grinned. “Perhaps.”

“Is that their customary fare? — Trolls and Goblins eating people, I mean.”

Borel nodded. “Whenever they can come by such, I ween.”

“Oh, my. Well, then I am glad that I didn’t have the bees give them honey.”

A frown came over Borel’s face, and he glanced back in the direction of the cliff. “Hmm… By the number of shackles in the prison where I was held and the count of the craft they’ve hidden in the reeds, I deem they waylay river travellers.”

“Oh,” said Flic. “That’s why all the boats were…” His voice trailed off, but Borel knew what he meant.

“Someday,” said Borel, “after I complete the task I am on, I’ll have to take a warband to that place and clean out the nest of its vipers.”

Again they drifted along without speaking, but then Flic said, “Yet tell me, Prince, how came you to be in their clutches in the first place, and what is this task you are on, and what does the moon have to do with ought?”

“ ’Tis quite a tale, Flic, not long in the telling, and it seems we do have time. You see, I’ve been having these dreams, and there is a witch named Hradian…”

“And so you always see this lady, this Demoiselle Chelle, in a stone chamber?” asked Flic.

“Yes. That is the way of it. We seem to be linked, and always I find myself there, and likewise she seems to know something of where I am, else she wouldn’t have warned me of the oncoming Goblins.”

Flic stroked his chin. “Next time you find yourself in that chamber, why don’t you take her somewhere else? Somewhere out of that chamber. Perhaps down those steps you spoke of.”

“Dreams are strange, Flic. It’s not as if I can control them.”

“Ah, but you can, Lord Borel, to some extent, that is.”

“How so?”

“A seer once told me that if in the midst of a dream I somehow discovered I was dreaming, then I could change the dream to an extent.”

“Hmm…” mused Borel. “And you think I can in some way use this knowledge?”

“Indeed, Prince Borel, for can you guide your dream, perhaps you can turn the conversation in a way that will aid you in your task.”

“Maybe so,” said Borel. “Yet tell me this: just how would I go about discovering I am dreaming?”

“Ah, there is the rub,” said Flic. “What is required is some sort of trip or trigger or stratagem that will let the dreamer know he is dreaming. In your case, I suggest you fix on something extraordinary about the setting-say, the band across her eyes, or better yet those strange, floating daggers-so that when you see them you can then become aware that you are in a dream and take steps to guide the dream into channels other than the one you find yourself in.”

“And how do I do that, Flic?”

“I’ll tell you what I was told: when you settle down to sleep, try to fix the triggering sight-say, the daggers-in your mind, and the thought that when you see them you will know you are dreaming. If successful, you can then change the dream.”

“Have you ever done this, Flic? — Guided your own dreams?”

“Well, no. But you see, I’ve never had a need, never found myself in a dream as important as yours. I mean, after all, perhaps by guiding your dream and speaking with the demoiselle, she can aid you in setting her free.”

Borel sighed and said, “I cannot promise I will succeed, nevertheless I will try. Yet it seems to me that I have a larger problem than guiding my dreams. You see, although I have been to Lord Roulan’s estate, at the moment I do not know where we are, hence I know not where his lands lie from here, and yet I must get to them ere the full moon comes again.”

Flic frowned and said, “What are his gardens like?”

“What?”

“Lord Roulan: what kind of flowers does he grow?”

Though he was lying down, Borel managed a shrug. “I don’t know. Besides, what has that to do with ought?”

“I believe we can take you there,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer.

Surprised, Borel sat up, nearly dumping Flic. But the Sprite took to flight and settled atop the stanchion of the aft steering sweep. Holding out a hand of apology, Borel said, “Know you where Roulan’s estate lies?”

“Nay, my lord, I do not, but mayhap Buzzer does.”

Borel frowned. “Your bee knows of Roulan?”

“Nay, Prince, but mayhap she knows of Roulan’s gardens.”

“His gardens?”

“Aye. You see, unlike most bees, Buzzer is not deterred by twilight borders, and she wandered into Faery from the mortal world quite long apast, and she has been here ever since. She has plundered more blooms than anyone can count, and when it comes to flowers, she remembers where blossoming fields and beds lie. And so, all I need from you is a description of Roulan’s gardens, and if Buzzer has been there, well… So again I ask, what kinds of flowers does Lord Roulan grow?”

Borel turned up his hands. “It has been long since I was there. Besides, I do not know much of flowers, for I am of the Winterwood, where flowers are all but nonexistent.”

“Regardless, Prince, this is important if we are to aid you. So try to remember.”

Borel closed his eyes, attempting to visualize Roulan’s estate. “I don’t… um-Oh, wait, I do remember a strange little flower. Clumps of green leaves, three to a stem straight from the ground, and several tiny blossoms on separate stems.”

“Clover, my lord?”

“I don’t think so.” Borel held out a hand and spread his fingers wide. “Unlike the nubs of clover heads, I seem to recall that the flowers had petals straight out that went all the way ’round.”

“How many petals?”

His eyes yet closed, Borel said, “Five, six, seven-Ah, I do not remember.”

“What color?”

Borel sighed and shook his head. “Yellow, I think-No, wait, pink. Chelle-she was but a child at the time-plucked a blossom and held it up saying, ‘Pink as my lips.’ ”

“Pink as your lips?”

“No. Pink as hers.”

“Ah, then. Three leaves on a stem, growing in clumps, tiny pink blossoms, most likely with five petals if I have guessed right: shamrock, I think. Not exactly rare in Faery, yet not common either. Even so, shamrock alone is not enough to go on.”

Borel opened his eyes. “I recall something else, Flic. Chelle also had a flower in her hair, a rose, I believe, white with a pale pink tinge.”

“Good. Pink-flowering shamrock and white roses with a faint blush. What other blossoms were about?”

“I don’t recall any others.”

“None at all?”

Dejected, Borel shook his head.

“Do not despair, Lord Borel, for there are yet ways to explore.”

Borel looked up. “Such as…?”

“What fruit did you eat while there?”

“None I recall. Oh, we did have a blackberry torte, but I think that’s not exactly-”

“Fresh blackberries, or preserves?” Flic interjected.

Borel closed his eyes and frowned, then said, “Was it fresh-picked that day? Yes. I remember now. We spent part of the morning plucking them from a rather large patch of briars. Chelle’s mouth was stained purple, for she ate one of every two she gathered.”

“You seem to recall much of Demoiselle Chelle, Lord Borel,” said Flic, grinning.

“I found her quite a nuisance,” said Borel, opening his eyes and smiling. “Even so, she was very bright. Yet that is neither here nor there. What else would you ask concerning flowers?”

In that moment, Buzzer came winging to Flic, and agitatedly flew about the Sprite. How they conversed, Borel could not say, but Flic looked startled and peered downstream and said, “Prince Borel, Buzzer says there is noisy water ahead. I think she means rapids.”

“Rapids?” Grimacing in pain, Borel stood and peered downstream.

The river narrowed and the banks grew higher and the current grew swifter, and from ’round a turn in the flow he now could hear a distant roar. Even as he hobbled aft, Borel glanced at the single undamaged arrow he had left, and then the line, and shook his head; rope was entirely too weighty for an arrow to bear; besides, the nearest shore was yet some hundred or so paces away, and any trees still farther. Taking up the sweep, he pulled for the closest bank. The rear of the float swung sideways.

Borel stepped to the front sweep and again hauled for the shore. The raft swung about once more, this time opposite, though it did not come closer to land for, with a fore and aft sweep, it was meant to be steered by two oars-men, who, pulling together, could have reached either bank at will.

Using the sweep, Borel stopped the slow-turning spin and oriented the float so that one end was aimed toward the shore, the banks ever steepening, and then he used the sweep in a fishtailing fashion as a sculling oar. But the raft was ponderous and progress slow; surely it would not reach land in time.

Borel took up one of the poles and thrust against the deep bottom, but the shaft went in nigh its full length, and he got little purchase, and the ever-swiftening current now had the raft in its grip, and Borel’s efforts proved futile.

’Round the bend they went and, ahead between rising walls, Borel could see rapids falling away, their end beyond seeing past a distant turn, the roaring white water crashing among and over great boulders.

“Ah, Mithras,” he groaned, “more rocks.”

He took up his bow and slung it across his back by its carrying thong, and then he looped his quiver over his head and across one shoulder.

“Lord Borel, what will you do?” cried Flic above the oncoming roar.

“There’s nought I can do but ride it out,” shouted Borel.

“Oh, if you could only fly,” cried Flic, hovering, Buzzer orbiting.

“Indeed,” muttered Borel, and he grabbed the aft sweep stanchion and held on tightly as the raft plunged into the thundering rage.