Once Upon a Summer Day Page 3

  As the sun rode through the zenith, Borel halted under a broad oak at the edge of a grass-laden meadow, and there he took a cold meal of bread and jerky, while his Wolves foraged in the field at hand for mice and voles and other such ample fare.

  After a short rest, again they took up the course, and miles fled in their wake as across the Summerwood they ran, the cool green forest shaded by rustling leaves above, with shimmering golden sunbeams dappling the growth below.

  Down into a river-fed gorge they went, the lucid water sparkling, greensward and willowy thickets adorning its banks. From somewhere ahead came the sound of a cascade falling into water, and soon Borel and his Wolves trotted alongside a spread of falls pouring down amid a spray of rainbows into a wide, sunlit pool. Here did they stop to drink of the pellucid mere, and in the glitter a handful of Waterfolk cavorted. Two foot long and nearly transparent they were, as of water itself come alive. Webbed fingers and long webbed feet they had, the latter somewhat like fish-tails. Translucent hair streamed down from their heads, as if made of flowing tendrils of crystal. Over and under and ’round one another, darting this way and that they swam, as if playing tag or some other merry game, and though they were completely engulfed in lucid water, still did their laughter come ringing clear above the roar of the cataracts.

  Borel and the Wolves, their thirst now slaked, once again trotted onward; and up and out from the ravine they loped and in among the woodland again.

  It was nigh sundown when they came to a looming wall of twilight, and this they entered, the day growing dimmer as they went, and then brighter as on through the tenebrous marge they pressed. When once more they reached daylight, they came into a color-splashed forest, the trees adorned in scarlet and russet and gold. There was a nip in the air, for they had left the Summerwood behind and to the Autumnwood had come.

  5

  Entreaty

  Just after crossing the marge into the Autumnwood, Borel called a halt to the run and set about making a camp ’neath the limbs of an apple tree, its bounty ready for harvest. He put the Wolves to hunting, and shortly there were two coneys spitted above the fire, and several others being consumed by the pack.

  Nearby, a patch of wild onions grew along a small rill, and Borel gathered a few of these and washed them clean. He plucked two of the red fruit from above. The apples and onions alike would be replenished overnight, for this was the wondrous Autumnwood, where such things did happen: no matter whether picked, plucked, shorn, or dug, whatever was reaped somehow reappeared when none was looking. Only wild game seemed vulnerable within this forest where falltime ever ruled, yet given the fecundity of such fare—be it furred or feathered or scaled—it would not be long ere whatever was taken came to full fruition again.

  Yet Borel did not ponder upon the marvel of the Autumnwood as he set about making his meal, for in this demesne it seemed as natural to him as breathing or eating or sleeping.

  Soon the savory smell of rabbit on a spit, with juices dripping into the flames, mingled on the crisp air with the sweetness of fresh apples and the sharp tang of onion. And the Wolves, now finished with their own meals, occasionally turned toward the fire and raised their noses and inhaled the odor of cooking, though for the main they stood alert, with ears pricked and eyes scanning the surround for any sign of intruders.

  After consuming the haunches of one of the rabbits, along with the onions and apples, Borel spent some time calling the Wolves to him one by one. He started with Slate, the dominant male, after which he summoned Dark, the dominant female. He then called Render and Trot and Shank and Loll and finally Blue-eye, as he worked his way down through the hierarchy of the pack. As turn by turn they separately came to him, he hand-fed each a bit of cooked rabbit, and he ruffled their soft, clean fur and spoke gently until he had done with the last of the lot.

  With words somewhere between utterances and growls, he assigned a watch order, and as two took up station, all the rest settled down, including Borel.

  Sleep soon came . . .

  . . . and stars wheeled in the silence above.

  But just after mid of night, once more Borel found himself in a round stone chamber, only this time it was deeply shadowed. Again, the slender young damosel was there. With her head bowed, she stood in the dark on the opposite side of the stone floor. In spite of the gloom, Borel could see that her hands were clasped together just below her waist, and an ebon blindfold or a band of blackness lay across her eyes. She was dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with a ruffled white bodice, and dark blue ribbons were entwined through her golden hair; given the utter darkness surrounding her, how Borel could see this he could not say; nevertheless he saw.

  Once more, off to either side stood windows, beyond which daggers floated in the air. Only a thin tendril of wan light managed to shine through one of the apertures, so thick were the blades. Borel stepped to that opening and peered up along the meager glimmer. As to its source, he could not be certain, though from its pale silvery illuminance he thought it might be light from the moon. He leaned into the opening for a better look, but daggers darted forward and threatened. Borel stepped back, and the stilettos moved hindward as well, away from the sill.

  Even so, Borel yet tried to see past the blades, and he shifted this way and that, attempting to get a glimpse of what lay beyond the sharp poniards hovering so thickly all ’round. And as he moved, so did they, each of them locked in aim toward him. But the only thing he could glimpse that might be outside the beringing dirks was the wisp of light that managed somehow to winnow its way through.

  He stopped and stilled his breathing and listened intently, as if to discover something of the world that might lie on the other side of the floating blades, yet all he heard was a faint but persistent squeaking. As to its source, what it might be, he knew not.

  Shaking his head, Borel turned and stepped toward the damosel, and as he did so, once again came her desperate plea: “Aidez-moi,” she whispered. “Aidez-moi.” And in that moment she and the stone chamber faded, and Borel awakened to find himself under the apple tree. A waxing gibbous moon shone down through leaves shifting in a faint breeze, and a scatter of pale light rippled upon his face.

  Somewhere at hand chirped a cricket.

  Nearby, Trot and Shank stood ward, and they both looked toward Borel, sensing he was awake. Slate, too, roused and lifted his head, and he and the ward waited. Yet Borel gave no command, and soon Slate lowered his head and closed his eyes, and Trot and Shank shifted their attention to the darkness beyond the camp.

  With a sigh, Borel turned on his side, but it was a long while ere he once more fell adoze.

  6

  Autumnwood

  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 scarlet- and 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.

  7

  Winterwood

  Though kept warm by his quilted eiderdown bedroll, once again Borel did not fall into deep slumber, but instead was wakeful throughout the darktide. Needless to say, he did not dream, for dreams come to those who pass into deep sleep, a state that completely escaped Borel.

  The restlessness of the prince affected the Wolves as well, and they spent much of the night rising and turning about and then settling into the snow again, only to lift their heads at every stir of their master and at every small sound, be it the fall of an icicle or a plunge of snow from a pine or the cracking of rock in the winter cold.

  Borel finally fell adoze just ere dawn, yet Loll came and licked his face to announce the coming of the sun and a winterbright day.

  Stiffly, Borel arose and added wood to the remaining few glimmering coals of his fire, and he made strong tea to revive his alertness. Shortly thereafter, he broke camp, then he and the pack began trotting through the Winterwood, with its snow-clad pines and ice-clad deciduous trees barren in their winter dress, trees that in the ordinary world would awake with the coming of spring, yet these tr
ees rested perpetually in the forever winter of this realm. Shrubs and grasses and other plants slept as well, for among the Forests of the Seasons, each woodland was eternal in its aspect: the Springwood was ever burgeoning; the Winterwood ever resting; the Autumnwood ever bearing; the Summerwood ever flourishing. Somehow, these mystical realms seem to maintain one another in concert, each by some numinous means giving unto the whole the essence of that which was needed to remain in a constant state of existence. The Winterwood provided slumber and rest that all such life needs; the Springwood infused all with the vitality of awakening life; the Summerwood gave to the whole the sustenance of coming to fullness; and the Autumnwood spread the fruitful rewards of maturation throughout. Jointly, they ran the full gamut, though each separately remained unchanged as well as unchanging.

  And so the realm of the Winterwood slept under blankets of snow and claddings of ice.

  And as in any winter realm, within this woodland there were storms and blizzards and gentle snowfalls, days bright and clear and cold or gray and gloomy or dark, days of biting winds howling and blowing straightly or blasting this way and that, of freezings and hoarfrost so cold as to crack stone, of warm sunshine and partial thaws and a bit of melt, and of snowfalls heavy and wet, or falls powdery and dry.

  It was a world of silence and echoes, of quietness and muffled sounds, and of yawling blasts and thundering blows.