Once Upon a Summer Day (19 page)

Long did he stay down, and he knew the monster stood somewhere above, turning its unseen head, if it had one, this way and that, snuffling, taking in air, trying to catch his scent. And Borel’s lungs began to burn, to cry out for air, his diaphragm pumping uncontrollably, seeking to breathe in anything, air or not.

And just when he knew he could hold out no longer—

—the unseen monster moved away, the jolting quake of its steps diminishing with every stride.

Borel surfaced and—
Ghhhuh!
—took in a great lungful of air and stood panting, drawing in the stench of rotten eggs with every sweet breath taken. And as he wiped his eyes free of quag, Flic came flying down.

“Oh, my lord, that was so close. I thought you gone for certain.”

“Flic, my lad,” said Borel, as he waded out from the sludge and sat down on the sodden shore, “although I appreciate your concern, it does little good for you to shriek ‘look out, look out’ when there is nought I can do.”

“My lord?” said Flic, puzzlement on his features. “I was screaming?”

Covered with muck and mire, Borel began to laugh so hard he fell over backwards.

In that moment Buzzer came flying back to see what was the delay, and Borel pointed at the agitated bee and laughed all the harder.

 

As he made his way toward one of the stagnant pools, Borel noted the tracks of the creature, though, in the mire as they were, much mud and silt had oozed back into the depressions, and even as Borel looked on, the spoor vanished altogether. Whatever the monster had been, it had walked upon massive feet, yet whether it was beast or fowl or something altogether different, Borel could not say. The prince shook his head and said, “Here is something I hope never to meet face-to-face, unseen or not.”

He went to scum-laden waters, where he sloshed about and ducked under to rinse the quag-hole muck away, and, after picking off the leech that had fastened to his cheek, he washed out his quiver and rinsed off the arrows. Somewhat cleaned of the muck, Borel resumed the trek, and biting, stinging insects swarmed about, the cloud of them maddened by the odor of blood seeping from his leech-wounded face. But then Flic returned with another blackstool, and the swarm was held off by the putrid stench of the snotlike salve.

And the day pressed on, and the sun slid down the sky, until long shadows fell across the bubbling, steaming mire. And as twilight came on, they still hadn’t reached the far margin, and Buzzer came flying back and settled on Borel’s hat.

“My lord,” said Flic, “Buzzer says night comes and it is time to sleep. She has settled in for the eve.”

“But we’re not at the border yet,” said Borel. “Can she not fly until we reach it?”

“Non, my prince, ’tis the way of bees.”

“Then we will gamble,” said Borel, “for I would not spend a single night in this swamp, most especially this one, with its unseen monsters lurking.”

Lining up landmarks along the beeline, Borel slogged onward. And as the dusk deepened, ghostly blobs of light rose up from the swamp in the oncoming night and drifted among the waterlogged boles of dark, looming trees.

“Will-o’-the-wisps,” said Flic. “Follow them not, for they would lead you to a watery grave.”

“Corpse lanterns they are,” murmured Borel, and he waded onward by the light of the stars, for the waning moon was not yet risen.

 

With both Flic and Buzzer sound asleep in the turned-up brim of his three-cornered hat, it was nigh mid of night when Borel reached the twilight wall. Exhausted, he pressed on through the marge to emerge into a broad grassland, the plants waist-high and slowly nodding in the wind. He took no steps onward, for had he strayed from the line, they would need to pass back into the mire once more for Buzzer to locate the way; and given the vagaries of twilight borders, a misstep in either direction could lead them to an entirely different place. And so, as the half-moon rose o’er the distant horizon, Borel flattened out a great swath of grass right next to the looming dark wall. Then with the Gnome-gifted thread, at the edge of the trodden area he bound together the tops of a great number of still-standing stalks and carefully set his hat with its precious cargo over the tip of the living sheaf, where ground-dwelling shrews and such could not get at them. Finally, yet slathered with the snotlike gel of blackstool, giving off a horrid stench that should drive most creatures away, he stretched out nearby and lay his head down to sleep.

“A
nd where are we now?”

“In the Springwood, Chelle.”

“Oh, my, it is so marvelous.”

In the angling light of the stars and the risen half-moon Chelle looked out over a burgeoning forest, a realm where the gentle air of midspring wafted among newly leafed-out trees, a place of color so vivid that even in the wan glow shed down from above still she could see new life agrowing.

Chelle stood on the crest of the knoll onto which the hidden door had opened, and she slowly turned and breathed in the scent of the woodland, some sproutlings fresh and full of new promise, some trees old, their roots reaching deep, their great girths moss-covered, their branches spread wide and interlacing with others. Oak, she could see, proud and majestic, and groves of birch, silver and white; maple and elm stood tall, with dogwood and apple and wild cherry blossoms filling the air with their delicate scents.

Borel led her downward and in among the boles of old growth and the reed-thin saplings of the new. And among the roots running across the soil, crocuses bloomed, as did small mossy flowers, yellow and lavender and white. As they passed among the trees, now and again Borel pointed above, and there aroost were drowsing birds—chickadees and finches and sparrows alike. Somewhere nearby and hidden in bracken, a small stream burbled and splashed, as if singing in the night as it danced on its way to the shores of a distant sea. And there was a nip in the air, as of snow hidden away ’neath enshadowed ledges, lingering, clinging, desperately resisting a final melt.

Hand in hand, Borel led Chelle past the great bole of a huge elm and over a series of stepping-stones across a brook, the bourne singing its rippling song as it tumbled o’er pebbles and rocks. Toward a crepuscular wall they went, the twilight looming upward in the night.

“I thought you might like a glimpse of the mortal world, Chérie,” Borel said as he came to the fringes of the marge.

“Will that not make us old and withered?” said Chelle, frowning but unhesitant.

Borel laughed. “Only if we stay overlong there. Yet I propose but a brief look.”

Into the twilight border they went, the half-moon dimming as they strode therein, then brightening again as they began to emerge.

They came forward into a springlike forest, the air nippy, water runnelling as of snowmelt. Wild cherry and dogwood and other flowering scents filled the night.

“Hmm . . .” said Borel. “I think we somehow got turned about, for we are in Céleste’s demesne again.”

“Céleste?”

“My sister. The Springwood is her principality.”

“Ah, I remember.”

Borel shook his head and wheeled ’round to face the border again. “Come, Chelle. We will see the mortal world yet.”

Hand in hand they strode into the twilight wall, only to once more emerge in the Springwood.

After two more tries, Borel gave up. He led Chelle into a wildflower glade, saying, “Mayhap, Chérie, the only way we can be together as we are is to remain in Faery.”

Chelle knitted her brow. “Be together as we are? What do you mean, my love?”

Borel took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. The last time he had told Chelle that they were both dreaming, she had fled away, the dream dissipating, and he had wakened in regret. “Did I ever tell you of the day of my majority?” he said.

Chelle did not seem to notice he had changed the subject. “No, Borel. Was it a happy time?”

“Indeed.”

“Then say on, my love.”

“Ever since I was but a wee babe,” said Borel, “among my friends I have always had Wolves as my companions.”

“Wolves? But aren’t they wholly vicious? Quite dangerous? Killers all?”

“Oh, no,” said Borel, smiling. “I think tales of such are to frighten small children, and they carry this fear ever after.”

A bit of a frown graced Chelle’s features, and she said, “I did not know.”

Borel grinned. “Would you like to see my Wolves?”

“Oh, yes,” said Chelle.

Borel closed his eyes and stood a moment, and then opened them again. “There,” he said, pointing.

Like shadows slipping among the trees, silently came the pack. Chelle drew closer to Borel and gripped his arm, yet she did not blench.

Tails awag, out from the forest trotted the Wolves and, yipping and fawning, they gathered ’round.

Borel squatted, and Chelle, holding on, of necessity was drawn down as well.

“This is Slate,” said Borel, ruffling the big male’s fur. “And here is Dark, his mate.” Borel reached over and stroked her head. “And then we have Render and Shank and Trot, as well as Loll and Blue-eye.”

Laughing, he fended off their licks, but Chelle seemed unable to do so, and she let go of Borel’s arm and petted and stroked and hugged, her silvery mirth ringing as they gathered ’round and lapped her face and nuzzled her and took in her scent.

After moments of fondling the pack, Borel stood, and Chelle rose to her feet alongside. With a word from the prince, the Wolves settled, most lying down, all but Trot, who took station as ward. Chelle turned and embraced Borel there in the field of wildflowers and said, “Oh, my darling, they are quite splendid. Until now, I thought Wolves savage beasts, yet I see—”

Borel tilted her face upward and kissed her deeply. Then he clasped her tightly against him, his blood pounding in his ears.

Chelle held on to him fiercely and murmured, “I love you so, my Borel.”

They stood without speaking for a moment, savoring the closeness of their embrace, and nought but the gentle breeze
shush
ing among the petals of wildflowers disturbed the stillness.

“I can hear your heart beat,” whispered Chelle, her ear against his breast.

“It’s a wonder it doesn’t fly out of my chest,” said Borel, “along with my soaring spirit.”

Chelle laughed and broke away from his embrace, and whirled about as if dancing. Wolves’ heads came up and cocked this way and that in curiosity at this gyrating behavior, and Chelle broke into peals of laughter, and she rushed to Dark and dropped to her knees and hugged the Wolf about the neck. Then she sat and looked up at Borel. “Oh, my prince, I love them. And they have been with you since you were a child?”

“Yes, Chérie,” said the prince, and he settled down beside her. “My sire, Lord Valeray—you met him when we came unto your own sire’s estate—anyway, my père thought I had an affinity for them when he saw me with a cub, I but a babe at the time. And so, he gathered this pack, cubs all, back then, and we grew to fullness together.

“Just ere I reached my majority, he asked me which of the Forests of the Seasons I would claim as my own. You see, I am the firstborn of his get, and so he gave me first choice.

“I and my pack, we visited each of the woodlands in turn, and together with the Wolves, I chose the Winterwood. For therein at times is a breathtaking silence, and running free through the snow is a joy I had not thought would ever be rivaled—that is, until I found you.

“And so, on the day of my coming of age, at the gala thrown I announced my decision, and I have never regretted my choice, nor has the pack.

“Ah, what a wonderful day that was: we danced and ate and drank, and gifts were exchanged and songs were sung; games were played, and favors given, and promises made and kept.

“Oh, Chelle, the day I attained my majority is one I will never forget.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Borel reached out and took Chelle’s hand and kissed her fingers. Then he looked into her face, her eyes yet concealed behind a shadowy band. “What of your day of majority, Chérie? Was there dancing and joy?”

“Oh, indeed,” replied Chelle. “It was just today, you know. All of us were gathered—my père and mère, our guests, my friends, and the staff—and the music soared, and we danced and sang and played at croquet and archery and quoits and games of blind tag and the like. My sire had invited some special friends, those who had aided in a struggle long past. Feylike they were, and they came to me and said that I had attained all they had wished for in a daughter of such a brave man—beauty and grace and joy and other such things, they claimed, though I am but an ordinary girl.

“And, oh, the party was gay and bright—”

Of a sudden, Borel found they were back in the shadowy stone turret.