Once upon a Summer Day

16

“She called me her ‘love.’ ”

“Mayhap you merely wished it to be so, Lord Borel. After all, it was a dream.”

The prince fished the rock from the heated water in his hat and dropped in a stone fresh from the fire. “No, Flic, I do not dictate what she says, nor does she control my words. Instead, she named me her love, and yet I know not why.”

“Well, you did say she followed you about when you were on Roulan’s estate.”

“Indeed, she did. Even so, she was but a child.”

“Nevertheless, Lord Borel, that could have been when she forged this link with you as well as the ardor she expressed for you.”

“Ah, Flic, at that age it would have been puppy love at best.”

“If you say so, my prince. Still, dreams are strange and unpredictable things-some are omens, others are true, and some are simply flights of fancy. Yet you say she is now a lovely demoiselle, and so I think more able to forge bonds of love. Would that I could be so fortunate as to have someone I love and someone who loves me.”

“You have never been in love?”

“No, my lord; only liaisons.”

Borel sighed. “ ’Tis the same with me.”

Borel removed the last rock from the now-bubbling water. Flic dropped blossoms in, and Borel stirred with his forked stick. Shortly, after Flic’s approval, he drank the tisane all in one gulp. It did not seem as distasteful as it had yestermorn. Even so, a frisson ran the length of his spine. Setting aside the tricorn, Borel next turned to his makeshift mortar and pestle and began crushing moss. As he did so, he glanced at the nearby twilight border. “I wonder what lies beyond?”

“More flowers, I imagine,” said Flic, smiling at Buzzer.

“I hope the going will be easier today,” said Borel.

“Less painful, you mean?” asked Flic.

Borel shrugged.

“It should be,” said Flic, “for you are healing quite well.”

Borel peered at his exposed skin. “ ’Tis true my bruises have turned from black to yellow. Even so, I am yet tender, and I ache now and again. And I am hungry. The snare caught nothing in the night.”

Flic grinned. “Perhaps we’ll come upon a meal beyond the marge.”

“One can only hope,” said Borel. He looked at the result of his handiwork. The moss had turned to slime. “Is it ready?”

Lightly touching it, the Sprite tested the sludge between thumb and forefinger and said, “Oui, Prince.”

They smeared a thin film upon each of the bruises. When that was done, Borel began crushing herbs for the juice, and a short while later his scrapes had been treated.

He donned his clothes and after quenching the fire he took up his goods and strung his bow and readied an arrow. “Let us hope something lies beyond I can fell and eat.”

Buzzer took to wing and sighted on the sun and then flew in a straight line into the twilight margin, Borel following, Flic again riding upon the prow of the tricorn.

Through the twilight they went, the day growing dimmer as they pressed on, and then lightening again as they came to the far side, where Borel groaned, for they had come into a high mountain valley with towering peaks all ’round. If Buzzer flew up and across a mountain, then this day would not be easier after all.

As Buzzer circled ’round and took a bearing, Borel gazed about at the place they had come into, seeking to see if ought was familiar. Whin grew on the land, and aspen groves dotted the hillsides. Streams tumbled down from high mountain snows, with groves of silver birch clustered along the flow. A long vale stretched out before them, sloping up toward a distant pass.

Borel sighed and said, “I’ve not been here before, and so I still do not know where Lord Roulan’s estates lie.”

“Fear not, Prince,” said Flic. “Buzzer knows the way.”

Even as the Sprite said that, along the rising length of the valley arrowed the bee toward the col.

Panting in the thin air, Borel trudged up the long slope, wending this way and that among the thick hells of gorse, doing his best to avoid the thorny evergreen shrubs, with their sharply pointed leaves and solitary deep yellow cup-like flowers.

“See, I told you that there would be blossoms on this side of the marge,” said Flic.

Borel growled, but said nought.

“And you say the chamber just vanished?” asked Flic.

“What?” said Borel.

“Your dream, the chamber, it vanished?”

“Yes,” said Borel, pressing through a place where the furze spread too widely for him to go around. “When I told her we were both asleep and dreaming, that’s when it went away. I tried to hold on to the chamber, but it faded and then was gone, and I woke.”

“You could not control it, eh?”

“No.”

Flic pondered a bit as Borel trudged on upward.

Far ahead, Buzzer passed through the col and disappeared downward beyond.

Finally, the Sprite said, “I think it is because it is her chamber and not yours, hence it is hers to control. Perhaps when you told her you were both in a dream, the reality came as a shock and she withdrew, and that’s why the chamber vanished. You will have to gently dance ’round her predicament to perhaps discover how she came to be where she finds herself.”

Forgetting that Flic was on the prow of his tricorn, Borel sighed and shook his head. “Hoy!” called the Sprite as he was nearly pitched off.

“Sorry,” said Borel. “I was just thinking if it upsets her that much to know we are dreaming, mayhap I should not try to ask her any more about her predicament.”

“Hmm… Perhaps you are right, Prince,” said Flic. He rode in silence for a while but then said, “There is this to consider, my lord: you must remember that if you are aware you are dreaming, you control aspects of the vision. Perhaps you can change the setting. Take her somewhere she can forget her troubles, and then seek answers.”

“How would I do this?” asked Borel. “I cannot take her out through the windows, and she refuses to go down the steps.”

“I do not know,” replied Flic. “I just know that as long as you and she remain in that chamber, you do not control the setting.”

Again Borel sighed and shook his head, but Flic was holding on to the upturned brim of the tricorn and remained well seated.

On up the slope Borel went and passed through the col, and then strode down the far slant, the way easier, for the whin mustered less thickly upon the land on this side of the notch.

Of a sudden Borel paused and said, “I hear the sound of an axe, I think… or perhaps that of a hammer.”

Faintly upon the air came a distant thwack, and after a moment, another… and another… And in the distance among a stand of evergreens “Look, a thin tendril of smoke,” said Borel, pointing at the grove.

“I see it as well,” said Flic, taking to wing. “I’ll scout ahead.”

“Take care, my friend,” said Borel. “It could be more Goblins and Trolls.”

“Or something worse,” said Flic. “I will be wary of nets and such.”

With that the Sprite flew down the slope and toward the distant copse.

On downward strode Borel, his steps not as faltering as they were yester, for Flic’s flowery potion and mossy salve and juice of herbs seemed to have alleviated much of Borel’s woe, his soreness but a dull aching rather than a collection of sharp pains. Even so, he was not yet up to running, not yet capable of the Wolftrot he could maintain throughout a full day. And so, gaining the benefit of two applications of Flic’s medications, Borel strode on the edge of discomfort, rather than hobbling along in acute hurt.

Buzzer came flying back, apparently to make certain that this walking two-legs followed. Not finding Flic in Borel’s company, the bee agitatedly flew ’round and about Borel’s head, then alighted on the brim of the hat, then flew again, and landed again and flew and landed and flew.

“He’s gone on a scouting mission,” said Borel, and he pointed at the grove. And still smoke drifted into the air from the center of the trees, and still there came a periodic thwacking.

Buzzer flew down before Borel’s face and hovered somewhat menacingly.

In spite of the bee, Borel continued to stride forward, and Buzzer turned and flew a short distance, then hovered again directly in Borel’s path. “I tell you, Flic’s gone on ahead,” said the prince, once more pointing.

When he reached Buzzer, Borel stopped and held out a hand, palm down, and then slowly raised it up underneath the bee, until she had no choice but to land on his hand or fly away.

She landed.

Borel moved his hand to his tricorn, and Buzzer walked off and onto the hat. Then Borel strode on toward the grove.

Some moments later, Flic came flying back; he was giggling. Buzzer flew up and about the Sprite, seemingly overjoyed at the wee one’s return. But then the bee buzzed angrily, as if admonishing Flic for worrying her so.

They both landed on Borel’s tricorn, and as Flic stroked the bee, Borel said, “Well?”

“You must go into the grove, my lord prince.” Again the Sprite broke into giggles.

“And what will I find?” asked Borel.

“Oh, I would not wish to spoil the surprise,” said Flic.

“Flic, I would rather enter the coppice knowing what is there than be surprised by a danger dire.”

“My prince, I was gone as long as I was because I flew throughout the entire grove, seeking peril, and I assure you there is no danger lurking within.”

With that the Sprite would say no more, and Borel strode on to the stand of evergreens and, nocking an arrow, he cautiously walked within, following the sound of the rapping and the fragrance of woodsmoke, and then he heard cursing.

He came upon what looked to be a very small, one-room log cabin, perhaps no more than four foot high, its wee, leather-hinged door standing ajar. The rapping and cursing came from beyond the tiny dwelling.

Not wishing to leave danger lurking behind, Borel stooped down and took a quick look within the small dwelling. No one was inside. Cautiously, he worked his way about the lodge and toward the oaths, the Sprite on the tricorn with his hand pressed to his mouth to keep from laughing aloud, though now and again a giggle did escape.

Borel came to the back corner, and he drew his arrow to the full and stepped ’round. There behind the cabin knelt a small Gnomelike man, two foot tall at the most, a tiny axe in one hand, a small, blunt wedge of wood in another; using the flat of the blade, he was trying to pound the poorly tapered block into an entirely too-narrow, lengthwise crack in a large log in which his long white beard was trapped nearly all the way up to his chin.

Flic broke out laughing in glee.

At this sound-“Are you girls back again? Are you girls back again?” snarled the little man, unable to turn about to see for himself. “Go away! Go away!”

“Nay, Sieur,” said Borel, smiling and relaxing his draw. “We are no girls.-Or rather, only one of us is female.”

Upon hearing Borel’s deep voice, the little man jerked and tried to-“Ow!”-swing ’round to see, but his beard was caught, and a goodly number of strands tore free as he tried to look behind. “Now see what you made me do,” he cried. “Oh, my beautiful beard.”

Laughing gaily, Flic flew up and across and lit on one end of the log, and the Gnomish man’s undersized eyes widened at the sight of the Sprite. Then Buzzer lit nearby.

“Oh, oh,” cried the little man, “kill the bee, kill the bee, else I am certain it will sting me.”

Flic gasped in horror. “Kill my friend? Why you ugly little man. You deserve to remain stuck.”

“Now, Flic,” said Borel, even as the Gnome began to cry, “I am certain that he is merely frightened, and had he known Buzzer is a friend, he wouldn’t have said such a thing.”

“Oh, oh, are you going to leave me trapped here forever?” asked the small man.

“No, no,” said Borel, “I will help you, Sieur.” The prince slid the arrow back into his quiver and stepped to the opposite side of the log, where he unstrung his bow and slung it across his back.

Before him, Borel saw a rather homely Gnome, with a nose much too large for his face, and eyes much too small, and a very wide mouth running nearly from one overlarge ear to the other.

At the sight of the prince, again the wee man’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to cut my beard, are you?

That’s what the girls did. Cut my beard. It took years to grow out to its now magnificent length.”

“No,” said Borel. “I assure you, I will only cut your beard if nought else will set you free.”

“Oh, no,” moaned the Gnome, great tears forming and running down his cheeks and nose and splashily dropping onto the bark.

Borel knelt down and examined the log, the crack, and the beard. “Give me the axe,” he said.

“Oh, no, you’re going to chop my beard off,” whined the Gnome, and he tried to hide the axe behind his back.

Sighing, Borel reached across and took the axe from the wee man. “Have you a hammer, a mallet?”

“Y-yes. In my cottage.”

Borel frowned and looked at the oak-hafted axe, more of a hatchet in size, being just slightly longer than a foot in all. “Never mind,” he said and took up a billet nearby. He set the cutting edge of the small axe into one end of the split well away from the Gnome’s beard, and then with the billet he hammered the bronze blade into the crack, widening it. In moments the Gnome was free.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” said the wee man, standing up to his two-foot height and stretching, while at the same time keeping a wary eye upon the bee. He tucked the end of his foot-long beard into his belt and said, “I’ve little to pay you with.”

“I ask for no pay,” said Borel, “though a meal would be splendid.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said the Gnome, “though it will take me awhile,” and he rushed away toward the back door of his cabin.

“It would also suit my friends,” Borel called after, “if you have a bit of honey as well.”

“Yes, yes,” called the wee man over his shoulder, and into the cabin he went.

Borel looked about, and then wrenched the axe from the log and, in spite of his lingering aches, he began splitting the wood in twain.

Borel had laid aside nearly a half cord of wood by the time the Gnome returned, the small man staggering under a steaming tray piled high with honey-baked beans, several wee slabs of black bread slathered with butter, a number of small rashers of well-cooked bacon, and a tiny bowl holding perhaps a spoonful of honey.

“Just as I was trying to wrench my axe out of that log,” said the Gnome, now sitting on the ground before Borel, “a gust of wind blew me down on it at the very same time my axe came free and the crack snapped shut on my beard.”

Also sitting on the ground, “Mmm…” said Borel, his mouth full of beans and bread.

“By the bye,” said the Gnome, “my name is Hegwith. And you would be…?”

“He is Prince Borel of the Winterwood,” said Flic, licking sweetness from the tip of one finger, while beside him Buzzer lapped at the small dish of honey. “And this is Buzzer, my guardian”-Flic shot a glare at the Gnome-“and not a bee to be swatted nor trifled with. And I am Flic, Sprite of the Fields.”

“Prince Borel?” said the Gnome, looking up at the man.

Still chewing, “Mmm…” replied Borel, sketching a seated bow, then scooping up another mouthful of beans, using the Gnome’s soup ladle as a spoon.

Hegwith stood and bowed to the prince, and then seated himself on the ground again.

“How came you to believe we were girls coming to cut off your beard?” asked Flic, dipping his finger into the honey again and then licking it clean.

“Well, this isn’t the first time my beard has been caught in a crack, and for that I think some evil witch or the like has cursed me. You see, awhile back and at a place far from here, I got my beard caught in another split in a log. Two young girls came along, and to get me free they snipped off the very tip of my beard. I’m afraid I was rather ungracious, seeing as how my marvelous beard had been virtually destroyed. I’m rather vain about it, you know.

“In any event, not a week went by when again my beard got caught in a crack, and as fate would have it, again came along these same two girls. And they cut off even more of my beard. This time I cursed at them, for now it was even worse than before.

“Finally, when my beard got caught the third time around, and this same pair of girls came by, I promised them treasure if they would set me free without snipping off more of my beard. They readily agreed, and, well, wouldn’t you know, they took the treasure and ran away, leaving me with nought but a small pair of scissors.” Tears filled the Gnome’s eyes. “I had to cut my own beard. My very own beard.”

Borel shook his head in commiseration, but Flic laughed in glee. “Clever girls. I say they well earned that treasure.”

“What do you mean?” sobbed the Gnome. He took out a red kerchief and noisily blew his nose, but continued to weep over the loss of part of his beard.

“Why, they kept their promise, Hegwith,” said Flic. “By leaving the scissors, they gave you the means for you to get free without they themselves cutting your beard.” Again Flic broke into gleeful laughter.

“Yes, but I had to cut it myself,” wailed Hegwith above the Sprite’s giggles. “At least if they had snipped it off, I would have them to blame and not myself.”

Borel sopped up the last of the honey-baked beans and popped the bread into his mouth.

Drawing in a shaky breath and stifling his tears and blowing his overlarge nose once more, Hegwith looked up at the prince and said, “At least you, my lord, didn’t chop off my beautiful beard. And for that I am grateful.”

“Had I had to cut it off,” said Borel, “it would have been at your chin.”

“Oh, my,” said Hegwith, clutching his beard, and he burst into tears again.

“My lord, I see you travel light,” said Hegwith. “Do you live nearby?”

“No, Hegwith. I have not much gear, for I lost nearly all of my goods when I was captured by Trolls, and then again during my escape.”

Startled, Hegwith blurted, “Trolls? Where?” The Gnome looked about in panic.

Borel pointed back up the vale. “Past the twilight marge, and over hills and through woods to a distant river and then upstream past rapids; altogether some fifteen or twenty miles hence.”

A look of relief passed across Hegwith’s face. “For a moment I thought they might be nearby. Yet you escaped them, you say?”

Borel nodded.

“What did you lose?”

“Lose?”

“Your goods. When you were captured and then escaped.”

“Oh, it’s not important. Just a rucksack and a tinderbox and provisions, as well as a small kit for fletching arrows and other such things. Yet that is neither here nor there. Instead let me ask you this: do you know of Lord Roulan? Where his estates might be? We are on a desperate mission, and it is vital we get to his lands.”

Hegwith shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not know of him. Would that I did, but I don’t.”

Borel sighed and then pointed ahead and said, “What lies along the vales we follow?”

“Meadows. Flowers. Streams. Coppices. All the way to the next border, some twenty-five miles hence. But there are no estates along that path.”

“What lies beyond the next twilight marge?” asked Flic.

“Oh, you don’t want to go there,” said Hegwith, pushing out both hands, as if to stop any movement in that direction. “ ’Tis a terrible mire-hideous bogs and quags; why, I nearly drowned when I passed through, back when I fled from the hag who wanted to steal my-um, er, harrumph, and those horrible girls who cut my beard. Regardless, there is muck without bottom and quicksand and leeches and snakes and other dreadful things, things that slither and plop and wriggle and…” Hegwith’s voice trailed off, his face squinched, his gaze lost in ill memories.

“Blossoms?” asked Flic.

“What?”

“Are there blossoms, flowers, within the swamp?”

“Why, I suppose so. Yes, I remember. Many flowers hanging from trees, altogether quite beautiful. Others were growing up out of the muck. And some of those filled the air with the odor of carrion, as if some animal had crawled within and had become trapped and died, the stench of putrefying meat rather dreadful.”

Flic looked at Borel. “Then, my lord, I think that is where Buzzer is headed, for the flowers of a mire are rich in nectar.”

Borel shrugged and hitched to his feet, for sitting had stiffened him up. “If it lies along Buzzer’s route, then there’s nothing for it but that we must follow.”

The prince slung his bow by its carrying thong and said, “I thank you for the tasty meal, Hegwith. It filled up the empty spots in my hollow stomach. But now we must go, for our mission is dire and the moon sails on and stays her course for no one.” He turned to the Sprite and the bee. “Flic, Buzzer, ’tis time to fly.”

At a signal from Flic, Buzzer took to wing and flew up and ’round, sighting on the sun, and then she arrowed away. Flic flew up to the prow of Borel’s tricorn and settled down. Borel sketched a bow to the Gnome, then turned and strode off through the evergreens, and Hegwith watched them go. Just ere they disappeared from sight, the Gnome called out, “Thank you for setting me free without cutting my beard.”

Hegwith stood a moment in thought, muttering, “What has the moon to do with ought?” Then he looked at the axe and the crack in the log and at the cord of wood Borel had split and laid for him. His eyes widened and he glanced once more in the direction that Borel, Flic, and Buzzer had gone, then turned and rushed into his tiny dwelling, where he opened a trapdoor and climbed down into the mine below. There he took up a maul and began pounding on the bedrock, his rhythmic hammerings sounding very much like signals.

“Nought but liaisons, eh?” said Flic.

Borel frowned and then brightened and said, “Ah. With the fair sex, you mean?”

Now Flic frowned. “Fair sex?”

“Women,” said Borel. “Females. Ladies. Mademoiselles and demoiselles. Femmes fatales.”

“Oh, I see,” said Flic. “Yes, they are who I meant.”

“Oui, liaisons is all I have had with members of the fair sex,” said Borel.

Flic sighed. “Me, too. Ah, but as I said before, I wish I had someone to love and someone who loves me.”

“A lady Sprite, eh? Someone from the fields?”

“That would be my choice,” said Flic, “though I suppose a Woodland Sprite would do.”

Borel frowned. “There’s a difference?”

“Oh, indeed. A great difference. They live in the woods, you see, whereas I and my kind live in the fields.”

Borel strode forward several steps before asking, “Are you of a size: Field Sprites and those of the woods? Do you more or less resemble one another?”

“Um, yes,” said Flic.

“Then why would there be any problem in such a union?”

Flic pondered a moment. “Well, I, uh… Hmm. I suppose we could live in the woods some of the time and in the fields at others. That or live in a field on the edge of a woodland.”

Borel smiled. “What of living in a woodland on the edge of a field?”

“Hmm…” Flic mused. “I suppose that would work as well, though surely the other way ’round is better.”

Borel laughed. “It never occurred to me that where one lives might keep lovers apart. I would think that the important thing is whether or no one has found his truelove and she has found him. Then from that moment on, they would seek to overcome whatever obstacles lay in their way so that they could be together.”

Flic fell silent, and Borel strode on, following the path that Buzzer flew, the bee keeping to the vales rather than flying up over any of the mountains hemming them in.

At times Borel waded streams and rivulets and deep flows. At other times he trudged up long slopes, or down. Through laurel hells he went, and groves of aspen and birch. Whin oft stood in his way, and this he passed ’round when he could, or pushed through when he could not. Stony ways he sometimes followed, or whisked among tall grasses springing forth from rich loam. Yet no matter the terrain, always there were flowers along the way: Buzzer’s larder.

And as Borel strode and Flic rode and Buzzer flew, the prince and the Sprite talked of the mysteries of amour and ardor and passion and affairs of the heart, and they both bemoaned the fact that each had yet to find his very own truelove.

They were yet in the high mountain valleys when they came to the wall of twilight marking the border into the next realm of Faery. And as the sun set, hearkening to the words of Hegwith the Gnome, they set camp in a coppice this side of that marge and planned on passing through and into the mire the next morn.

Altogether, they had gone some twenty-seven miles that day, for with the ministrations of Flic’s medicines, Borel’s hurts had considerably eased.

Once again Borel knapped flint arrowheads as he sat beside the fire. He had seen no game that day, and so he would be without meat for his meal. Had I my loyal Wolves, I would set them on a hunt. I do hope they escaped Hradian’s wrath. Though he had not felled game, he had managed to dig up a tuber-something akin to a parsnip-from one of the meadows, and Flic had assured him that certain grass grains were nutritious, at least to grazing animals, that is, and so whenever they had passed through thigh-high grass, Borel had plucked and chewed the heads. And so he roasted the tuber and knapped flint, while he and Flic spoke of liaisons and love and lovers.

That eve, when Borel settled down to sleep, Flic reminded the prince that he needed some way to change the setting of the turret, should he happen to find Chelle in his dreams again.

Yet Borel did not know how to do such a thing, and even as he concentrated upon remembering that daggers meant that he was dreaming, still the quandary of how to escape the stone chamber lurked on the edge of his thoughts.