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  Once upon a Spring morn

  ( Once upon - 2 )

  Dennis L. Mckiernan

  Dennis L. McKiernan

  Once upon a Spring morn

  We are in Faery, my love. .

  Strange are the ways herein.

  1

  Springwood

  Unlike today, once upon a time Faery wasn’t difficult to reach. All one had to do was walk through the boundary-a wall of twilight-between here and there.

  That particular twilight wall is rather difficult to find these days, yet now and again someone stumbles across and-lo! — enters that wondrous place of marvel and adventure and magic and peril, of mythical and mystical creatures, of uncommon beings. . along with ordinary folk-if anyone who lives in Faery can be said to be ordinary. Too, items of magic are found therein-grimoires, amulets, swords, rings, cloaks, helms, and the like, most of them quite rare. Even the lands within are numinous, for Faery itself is composed of many mystical realms, rather like an enormous but strange jigsaw puzzle, the individual domains all separated from one another by great tenebrous walls of twilight that rise up high into the Faery sky well beyond seeing. And like a mystifying riddle, some of the realms touch upon many others, while some touch upon but few. The twilight walls can be quite tricky to negotiate, for a small error in where one crosses might take a person to a domain perhaps altogether different from where one might have intended to go. Hence, care must be taken when stepping through

  these dusky margins; else one might end up somewhere hazardous, even deadly, though one could just as easily find oneself in quite splendid surroundings. Many who dwell in Faery ofttimes stay put rather than chance these shadowlight walls, while others-adventurers, explorers, or the driven-cross from domain to domain.

  Some travel well-known paths; others fare along unfamiliar routes to cross between realms. There is this as well: directions in Faery do not seem to be constant; there may be no true east, south, west, and north, though occasionally those compass points are spoken of by newcomers therein; yet when going from one realm to another, bearings seem to shift. Instead it may be more accurate to say that east, south, west, and north, respectively, align with sunup, sunwise, sundown, and starwise. . though at times they are also known as dawnwise, sunwise, duskwise, and starwise. Whether or not this jigsaw puzzle makes an overall coherent picture is questionable, for each of the pieces, each of the domains, seems quite unique; after all, ’tis Faery, an endless place, with uncounted realms all separated from one another by strange walls of shadowlight, and with Faery itself separated from the common world by looming twilight as well.

  Among the many remarkable domains within this mystical place are the Forests of the Seasons. One of these four woodlands is a place of eternal springtime, where everlasting meltwater trickles across the ’scape, where some trees are abud while others are new-leafed, where early blossoms are abloom though some flowers yet sleep, where birds call for mates and beetles crawl through decaying leaves, and mushrooms push up through soft loam, and where other such signs of a world coming awake manifest themselves in the gentle, cool breezes and delicate rains.

  On one side of this mystical, springlike realm lies the mortal world, or at least one path through the twilight leads there. On the other side, though, and beyond an shy; other great wall of half-light there stands a land of eternal winter, where snow ever lies on the ground, and ice clads the sleeping trees and covers the still meres or encroaches in thin sheets upon the edges of swift-running streams, and the stars at night glimmer in crystalline skies when blizzards do not blow.

  Beyond that chill realm and through yet another shadowlight border there is a domain where autumn lies upon the land; here it is that crops afield remain ever for the reaping, and vines are overburdened with their largesse, and trees bear an abundance ripe for the plucking, and the ground holds rootstock and tubers for the taking. Yet no matter how often a harvest is gathered, when one isn’t looking the bounty somehow replaces itself.

  Farther still and past that magical realm and separated from it by a great wall of twilight is another equally enigmatic province, a domain graced by eternal summer; it is a region of forests and fields, of vales and clearings, of streams and rivers and other such ’scapes, where soft summer breezes flow across the weald, though occasionally towering thunderstorms fill the afternoon skies and rain sweeps o’er all.

  How such places can be-endless spring, winter, autumn, and summer-is quite mysterious; nevertheless it is so, for these four provinces are the Springwood and Winterwood and Autumnwood and Summerwood, a mere quartet of the many magical domains in the twilit world of Faery.

  And as to these four regions, a prince or a princess rules each-Celeste, Borel, Liaze, and Alain-siblings all: the sisters Celeste and Liaze respectively reign o’er the Spring- and the Autumnwood; likewise, their brothers, Borel and Alain rule the Winter- and the Summerwood.

  They love one another, these siblings, and seldom do tribulations come their way. Oh, there was of recent that trouble with Liaze and the travail on an obsidian mountain, but she had persevered in spite of the perils. Too, ere then, there was that strangeness with Borel and his dagger-filled dreams, yet he had managed to successfully deal with that hazardous episode. And earlier still, there was the mysterious disappearance of Lord Valeray and Lady Saissa, and the dreadful two curses leveled upon Prince Alain, but Camille had come along to resolve those trials.

  But after Liaze’s recent harrowing ordeal, it appeared trouble was at last held at bay, though the Fates would have it that there yet loomed a portent of darker days to come. But at that time joy lay upon the land, for, in the Summerwood, Camille and Alain were wedded, and Borel and Michelle had started back from their journey to Roulan Vale, where they had visited with Chelle’s sire and dam and had received their blessings; soon Borel and his truelove would reach the Winterwood, and a king would be notified and the banns would be posted and preparations for another wedding would get under way. And Liaze, with Luc at her side, was on a leisurely journey back to the Autumnwood, though she had not yet arrived; but when she and Luc reached the manse, yet another wedding would take place.

  And so, at that time all was well in these Forests of the Seasons, or so it seemed.

  But then. .

  . . Once upon a spring morn. .

  Leather-clad Celeste, a bow across her lap, a quiver of green-fletched arrows at her hip, a silver horn at her side, rested in a fork among the huge branches of a great oak tree, its everlasting new leaves rustling in the cool morning breeze sighing across the Springwood. Celeste called this massive tree her Companion of Quietness, for here she came whenever she felt a nagging unease, one that seemed to dwell for days in her heart. In times such as these, Celeste would ride to this old friend and climb up within its arms and let it whisper to her of the richness of the soil and the luxury of the snowmelt and the warmth of the sun, and her unrest would abate somewhat if not disappear entirely. But on this day, though the oak gently murmured of the awakening of spring, Celeste yet felt a foreboding, for Liaze had set out nearly six moons past in the hope of finding her truelove, and still no falcons had flown from the Autumnwood bearing news of her return. And so, lost in her concern, Celeste fretted over her auburn-haired sister, and prayed to Mithras that she was well.

  Even as she brooded, the Springwood princess became aware of a distant baying and the cry of a far-off horn. Celeste frowned, for she had not sanctioned a hunt that day, and yet it seemed one came this way.

  Nearer and nearer bayed the dogs, and nearer and nearer cried the horn. Celeste stood and stepped outward on one of the huge, horizontal branches of the oak, the great limb easily bearing her, and she turned toward the
oncoming hunt.

  Louder and louder sounded the pursuit, and now Celeste could hear the hammering of hooves. Tethered below, her horse snorted and pawed at the soft ground, as if asking the princess to join in the chase.

  Of a sudden, a terrified stag burst through the underbrush and fled past the great oak. A moment later, yelping dogs raced by, and not far behind, riders galloped after, the one in the lead- What’s this? A crow upon his shoulder? — sounding the horn.

  Celeste raised her own trump as they came on, and she blew a call. In the fore the man bearing the bird glanced ’round and then up as Celeste continued to bell the clarion. Ruthlessly hauling back on the reins, the horse screaming in pain, the man wrenched the steed to a halt at the perimeter of the oak. The other riders-

  some dozen in all-momentarily passed him, and then cruelly hauled their own horses to a stop. They turned and rode back to mill about this man.

  In the distance the bay of the hounds diminished.

  The man looked up at the leather-clad, slender princess, with her pale blond hair and green eyes. . and he grinned. “Well, now, what have we here?” Celeste stared down at this brown-haired, unshaven, crow-bearing man, dressed in a red tabard emblazoned with the sigil of a black bird in flight. On his shoulder the bird shifted about and with glittering eyes looked up at her as well, as did the rest of the band, arrayed in red tabards, all.

  “Who gave you permission to hunt in my demesne?” demanded Celeste.

  The calls of the pack hounding the stag grew faint.

  The crow turned its head, and it seemed to whisper in the leader’s ear. The man frowned, and then looked up and said, “And just who might you be?”

  “Celeste, Princesse de la Foret de Printemps.” The crow ruffled its feathers and turned to the man and emitted a croak as if to say, “See, I told you she was the one.”

  The man sneered and said, “Well, then, ‘Princess of the Forest of Spring’-”

  But Celeste interrupted him and again demanded, “I ask, who gave you permission to hunt in my demesne?”

  “Bah! We need no permission to take that which we seek,” sneered the man.“Come down from there, Princess, for, whether you like it or no, we have been sent to take you to someone who”-he grinned again-“wishes to see you.” Then he barked a laugh and said, “By being out here alone, as she said you often are, you have saved us a bit of trouble.”

  “Brigand,” spat Celeste, and she nocked an arrow.

  The man sniggered, joined by all in his band. “Ah, indeed we are brigands, Princess, and sent to fetch you. So put away your little arrow and come down; else we’ll have to use our own-yet dead or alive, it matters not to our mistress, for she would see you either way.” He signaled to one of his henchmen, and that man rode forward and reached for his bow.

  “Call off your lapdog,” said Celeste to the man with the crow. “Else you will be the first to die.” The brigand leader sighed, and then gestured a command to the man in the fore, and that henchman nocked an arrow. As he raised his weapon- Thock! — a crossbow quarrel took him in the ear, and he fell from his horse, dead as he hit the ground.

  “Yahhh!” came a cry, and out from the surrounding trees an armored man in a blue surcoat charged on a black steed; even as he galloped forward, he swung a shield up and onto his left arm, and drew a glittering sword. Laying about to left and right with his gleaming blade, the rider crashed in among the brigands.

  “Well, second to die,” Celeste muttered, and she let fly her own shaft, and the leader fell slain. As the man tumbled from his horse, the crow took to wing and cried out, “Revenge! Revenge!” as it circled up and about, but Celeste paid it little heed, as she winged arrows into the melee below, aiming for those nearest the rider in blue, especially those behind. Man after man she felled, as the deadly blade of the swordsman reaped brigands.

  Of the thirteen outlaws, only two managed to survive, and they fled into the forest-one with an arrow in his side, the other now missing a hand. Most of the brigands’ horses galloped away with the two, though some of the mounts fled elsewhere, the reek of slaughter more than they could bear.

  In the preternatural silence that followed, far away the sounds of the hounds vanished, and somewhere a crow calling for revenge flew beyond hearing.

  The man in blue wheeled his horse about and looked up at Celeste. “Are you well, demoiselle?”

  “Indeed, Sieur, ” replied Celeste, somewhat breathlessly, her heart yet pounding. “And you?”

  “I have taken a cut across the leg, but otherwise-”

  “Oh, Sieur,” cried Celeste, “let me tend that.” She shouldered her bow and began scrambling down from the oak.

  The rider glanced about and then hung his shield from a saddle hook and dismounted and stepped to the base of the tree. He set his sword aside and removed his helmet; a shock of raven-dark hair tumbled out. And as Celeste came down the last of the trunk he reached up and featherlight swung her to the ground. She turned

  ’round in his embrace and looked up into his dark grey eyes. He held her closely and returned the gaze. “Oh, my,” he breathed, “you are so beautiful.”

  2

  Roel

  With her heart pounding, “Sieur, we must tend to your leg wound,” said Celeste, dropping her gaze, knowing a blush filled her features, for in addition to having dark hair and grey eyes and a handsome face, he was tall and strong and most certainly brave. . and dangerous in battle, and perhaps otherwise, too. . the kind of man she had dreamed of meeting one day, and here she was in his arms.

  “ ’Tis but a scratch,” said the man, a rakish grin filling his features as he reluctantly released his embrace.

  “Sit with your back to my Companion of Quietness,” said Celeste, gesturing at the trunk of the oak.

  The man raised an eyebrow at her name for the tree; nevertheless he eased himself down and leaned against its bole.

  “Have you a name, Sieur?” asked Celeste, as she knelt to examine the wound.

  “Roel,” replied the man. “Son of Sieur Emile and Lady Simone, brother of Sieurs Laurent and Blaise and of Demoiselle Avelaine.”

  “You are a chevalier?” asked Celeste as she peeled back the edges of the slash through his leg leathers.

  “Oui,” said Roel, breathing in the scent of her hair.

  “Oh, my, that is a rather nasty cut,” said Celeste, examining the wound. She stepped to her horse, and unlike Roel’s black, her grey was white-eyed, agitated by the faint smell of spilled blood, mixed with the urine of released bladders and the feces of loosened bowels of the slain men. “Shhh. . shhh. .,” hushed the princess, running her hand along the steed’s neck, calming it. She opened a saddlebag and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle and a small waterskin and returned to the knight.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, and undid the cloth, revealing cheese and bread and an apple. The food she handed to him, but she kept the cloth. As blood welled from the cut, she ripped the fabric in two and laid one half on the grass. She folded the other and set it aside as well. Then she poured water on the wound to wash the blood away, and quickly took up the folded cloth and pressed it against the cut, and bound it there with the first piece.

  “There, that ought to hold until I can get you to the manse,” she said.

  Yet kneeling, she looked at him, and, dagger in hand, he offered her a slice of apple. “First, demoiselle, let us finish this cheese and bread and fruit, for you never know when we might get to eat again. And, oh, might you have a bottle of wine in those saddlebags of yours?” Celeste burst out laughing. Why, she did not know, though it might have been the incongruity of a wounded man on a field of battle calmly eating an apple and speaking of wine. He smiled in return, a gleam in his eye, and added, “Besides, my sire always told me to never pass up the chance of a picnic with a lovely demoiselle, for you never know what might happen.” Again Celeste felt a flush rising to her cheeks. “Non, Sieur,” she said, “I have no wine; water must do.” He sighed. “Ah, me, mere wat
er. Still, I can drink in your beauty.”

  Again Celeste laughed, and she took the apple slice and sat beside him, her back to the tree as well.

  “And have you a name?” asked Roel.

  “Celeste,” replied the princess.

  “How perfect, for does it not mean heavenly?” said Roel, handing her another slice of apple along with a cut of cheese. Then he tore off two hunks of bread and handed her one of those as well.

  “Did you not hear me call out my name to those brigands?” asked Celeste.

  “Non. I heard you call, but I was yet at some distance away.”

  “What brought you?”

  “The horns. I heard them and rode this way, and I arrived just as”-Roel gestured toward the slain men-

  “one of those bandits moved forward at the behest of another. It looked as if they were going to slay you outright, so I cocked and loaded my crossbow, and”-Roel shrugged-“the rest is history.”

  “Well, Sieur Roel, I am glad that you did.” They sat in silence for a while, watching Roel’s black horse placidly crop grass nearby in spite of the smell of death. But at last Roel said, “Were they your enemies?” Celeste shrugged. “They said they had been sent to fetch me to some mistress of theirs. Dead or alive, it mattered not to her. . or to them.” Roel frowned. “Then they would have slain you?”

  “It seems so.”

  “Too bad their mistress was not among them.” Celeste took a drink of water and passed the skin to Roel, who drained it and set it aside.

  He started to reach for the cheese, but of a sudden-

  “Hsst!”

  Celeste stopped chewing and listened. A horn cried in the distance. Roel leapt to his feet and sheathed his dagger and snatched up his helm and slipped it on. He took up his sword and stepped to the black. “Mount up, my lady, and make ready to ride; mayhap more brigands return. If it comes to battle, flee. I will hold them off.” Sword in hand, he mounted.