Once upon a Summer Day

6

Sleeping but fitfully, at last Borel gave up his attempts at restful slumber and arose just ere the dawntime, and after a meal of apples and a bit of bread left over from the loaf he had taken from the bakery in Summerwood Manor, he and the Wolves set out.

Dawn came and slowly vanished as the sun rose into the morning sky, and its angling light revealed an autumnal forest adorned in yellow and gold and amber and bronze, in scarlet and crimson, and in roan and russet and umber. Through this flamboyant woodland passed Borel and the pack, trotting at the steady pace Borel had set the day before.

In midmorn they came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, and a rich stand of grain grew therein. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Borel headed for the scarletand gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.

Borel called out, “Bonjour, Moissonneur.”

“Bonjour, Seigneur Borel,” the reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.

Borel called a halt to the run, and set his Wolves to hunting, though by growled word he forbade them to go into the field of grain, for he would not have any of the wee gleaners within accidentally taken for game. As the Wolves trotted away, Borel turned to the man and gestured to the ground and both sat beneath the autumn-clad oak. “How goes the day, Reaper?”

“The sun rises, passes overhead, and then sets,” rumbled the large man, a grin twitching his lips.

Borel laughed and shook his head. “Still the wit, I see.”

“And you, my lord,” said the reaper, “how fare you?”

“Well, I could say on two legs,” replied Borel, but then he sobered. “I have been having strange dreams of late.”

“Dreams?”

“Aye, of a demoiselle in some distress, but what that misfortune might be, I cannot say.”

“Mayhap instead of a dream, Lord Borel, it is a sending.”

“If it is, it is of little use, for I cannot aid when I know not where she is.”

“Have you no inkling?”

“She is in a stone chamber, and beyond the windows hover endless daggers.”

“Daggers in the air? How can that be?”

“Who knows the ways of dreams, Reaper?”

“A seer, my lord, a seer.”

“Aye, you are right, Reaper. Mayhap when I reach the Winterwood, I will consult with one.”

The big man nodded. “A wise choice, Lord Borel.” He paused a moment and then asked, “And there is no more to this vision?”

“In the dream I hear a cricket chirping, or a squeaking of some sort. Yet it simply could be that somewhere near my place of rest a real cricket sang for a mate.”

“Hmm…” The reaper frowned. “A cricket does not seem to have a bearing on a maiden in trouble. Perhaps more will come if the sendings continue. On the other hand, if these are not sendings, perhaps there is something of import in recent days that could explain your dream, something dwelling on your mind.”

Borel sighed. “The only thing of note is that Alain and Camille are to be married soon, and of late I have been pondering on whether or no I will ever find a truelove as did he. Yet if that has ought to do with this demoiselle of my dream, I cannot say. Perhaps she is nought but a manifestation of my desire, though why I might think of her as being in peril, I know not.”

The reaper frowned and said, “Perhaps in your sleep you wish to do a bold deed to win a demoiselle of your dreams.”

Borel sighed and turned up his hands.

The reaper shook his head and said, “You have a dilemma, Lord Borel. If it is a sending, then she is real and you know not how to find her. If it is but a dream, then she is not real, and you worry needlessly.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, and as the Wolves came trotting back, a brace of rabbits their catch, the huge man sighed and said, “I, too, would like a loving mate.”

“Well, I can’t give you an adoring bride, Reaper,” said Borel, as Shank and Blue-eye each proudly deposited a coney at Borel’s feet, “but, as is my custom, I can dress out these rabbits and set them to cook. Would that I could bide awhile and take a share as I normally do, Moissonneur, yet I have far to go and little time.”

Borel quickly dressed out the rabbits, and, as the reaper buried the skins and viscera, Borel started a fire and set the game on a spit above.

As the big man took his place to turn the spit, “Adieu, Reaper,” said Borel, standing.

The man smiled and said, “Thank you once again, Winterwood Prince, and thanks to your hunters as well. I always look forward to your passing through.”

Moments later, Borel and the pack were on their way across the meadow, skirting the edge of the field in which grew oats and rye. And as they trotted onward, scampering alongside but hidden by the teeming stalks, wee giggling elfin gleaners paced them.

Soon the man and Wolves were out of the vale and running among the vibrant trees of the Autumnwood again, and, as before, in seemingly random places did they come upon groves of fruits and nuts and fields of flax and barley and millet and other grains, or they passed through orchards of red apples and golden peaches and purple sloe and fruit of other kind. Too, now and again they veered around plots of loam, the soil bearing beans and peas, leeks and onions, pumpkins and squash, and carrots and parsnips, as well as vines of hops and grapes, or stands of various berries. And none of this largesse seemed to be growing wild. In fact, unlike in the oat-and-rye field where the reaper dwelled, there seemed to be no farmers, no crofters, no sowers, planters, growers, cultivators, harvesters, pickers, or attendants of any kind in the scattered fields and orchards and gardens and other stands. Even so, this was the Autumnwood, where bounty for the dwellers of the Forests of the Seasons was ever present, and anything gathered somehow mystically reappeared when no one was looking.

Yet although these fields and gardens and arbors were scattered throughout this treeland, Borel and his Wolves mainly passed through virgin forest on their run. And as they trotted across the woodland, occasionally others loped or flew alongside-tattooed lynx riders and darting winged folk and other such denizens of Faery-but for the most part, Borel and his Wolves coursed alone.

As the sun crossed the zenith, they came unto a small glade surrounded by great oaks with leaves all vermilion and saffron. Here Borel called a halt, and set the Wolves to forage for their noonday meal, and as they sought mice and voles, or mayhap a coney or two, Borel took his own fare, supplementing his cheese with apples picked in the morning.

Shortly, they were on the trail again, and they passed along deep river gorges and high chalk bluffs and through thickets and mossy glens, the land rising and falling as they went. And whenever they topped crests or went along cliffs, though bright day was upon the land, in every direction afar the vivid woodland faded into distant twilight, just as the remote forest had shaded into silver-grey gloam in the green Summerwood the day before. In fact, in nearly all of Faery, no matter the realm, the view fades into twilight along any bearing one cares to look, clear day or no.

The sun sank toward the horizon, and as dusk came upon the land, Borel called a halt, and once again set about making camp, while the pack set about gathering small game for the evening meal.

That night Borel tossed restlessly, not succumbing at all to deep slumber, but struggling instead on the edge of wakefulness for the fullness of the darktide.

He had no dreams whatsoever.

Late on the second day within the Autumnwood, they came to another looming wall of twilight, and leaving the bright-hued trees behind, they stepped into the gloam, the daylight fading as they went, and then brightening again as they pressed on through, until a gray sky loomed o’erhead, with chill, diffuse light gleaming through ice-laden limbs and glancing across snow, for when they had passed beyond the marge they had come into the cold of winter.

Even so, they continued on, and when darkness finally fell, they made camp in the icy surround, for this was the Winterwood.