Once Upon a Summer Day (28 page)

“Flic, my lad, I think you cannot hold a grudge against anyone.”

“Oh, no, my lord. There you are wrong, for I can and do have hard feelings toward those Trolls and Goblins who captured me.”

“Ah, then, the exception to the rule,” said Borel, grinning.

“I suppose,” said Flic.

“By the bye,” said Borel, “what were you screaming when you came in through the window, and why in Faery are you grasping those, those—what are they—four-foot-long hairs?”

Flic’s face lit up and back and forth he waved the hand holding the hairs, causing sinuous ripples to undulate down the strands. “He did it by having an Elf weave three of the Pooka’s tail hairs into an Elf-made rope.”

“What are you talking about?
Who
did what?”

“That king of the Keltoi, the one who prevailed over a Pooka. He had an Elf weave three Pooka hairs into a rope and then used the rope—perhaps to fashion a harness, though I don’t exactly remember that part—anyway, he used the rope in some manner to make the creature submit. You see, I remembered the legend at last.”

Borel’s eyes widened in hope. “And you think we can do the same?”

“Indeed, my lord, and you can master the Pooka, for these are hairs from his tail.” Of a sudden, Flic’s countenance sank, and he glumly said, “But I don’t think there is an Elf hereabout, and we don’t have an Elf-made rope.”

“Wait. Wait,” said Borel. “Those are hairs from the Pooka’s tail?
Our
Pooka?”

“Oh, yes. Last night my sweet Fleurette upon hearing of our quest told me where the Pooka might be, though she wouldn’t go there herself. Pookas terrify her, you see, and so she simply keeps away from them. But I went, and there he was. And as the Pooka was rampaging about some poor crofter’s stead, his tail brushed against one of the old splintery posts of the fence he was tearing down, and some of it wedged in a split—rather like the Gnome’s beard, you see, only this was a jagged notch, rather than a crack—and when the Pooka galloped away, there they were, three long hairs. Anyway, the moment I saw them, then I remembered the tale of the king and how he mastered the Pooka.”

Enthused, Borel leapt up from the bed and began throwing his clothes on. “And you think this might actually work?”

“Well, I suppose you could say they were given freely, which I think adds to the power, but as I say, if we had an Elf and an Elf-made rope—”

“A moment, Flic. Are you saying we need a rope into which to weave the three Pooka hairs?”

“Oui. Wasn’t I clear about that?”

“I thought maybe you were saying we only needed to braid the trio together as a rope unto themselves.”

“Oh, non. The Elf who told me the tale said the king used an Elf-made rope and had an Elf weave the three hairs within that rope.”

“Ah, I see.”

“But, my lord, as I say, we have no Elf-made rope nor an Elf to weave the hairs within.”

As Borel donned his socks he said, “Ah, Flic, you are one of the Fey—surely as good as an Elf—and as for a rope, we have one that is Gnome-made. I think that will certainly do.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He pulled on his boots and stood and lightly stamped to settle his feet within.

“But I don’t know ought of how to make a harness,” said Flic, “if that’s how it was done.”

“Don’t worry,” said Borel, sliding his silk shirt over his head. “I do.”

“Well, whatever the harness, you have to deceive the Pooka just to get it on. And it has to be one that will make him submit, and I think you must make him submit immediately, else he will ride you to death.”

“The simplest submission harness is a jaw rope, and one of those should cause the Pooka to yield,” said Borel, buckling on his leather jacket. “I think I can slip it in and over in less than a wink, can I get him to open his mouth.”

“Jaw rope?”

“Oui. In the lower part of the jaw of a horse there is a gap between the nipping front teeth and the grinders aft—it’s where the bit rides—and if I can slip a simple noose into that breach and ’round his lower jaw, I’ll have him.”

“But this is a Pooka, my lord, a Dark Fey, even a Démon, and certainly a shapeshifter. It might not have a gap where an ordinary horse would. Or it might shift shape into that of the Bogleman, and simply bite through the rope.”

“Hmm . . .” said Borel, now dressed. He sat back down on the bed. “Perhaps you’d better tell me how this king of the Keltoi caused his Pooka to submit.”

“I don’t know that, my lord.”

“Well then, why the three tail hairs? What would that have to do with ought?”

“I can only guess about that.”

“Then guess away, Flic.”

“All right, my lord. Let me ask you this: have you heard of the power of three?”

“I think so,” said Borel. “It has to do with heart and body and soul, doesn’t it?”

“Well, some think it means those three, while others think it means mind and body and spirit, and still others think it means three sorcières working together, while some reject that and choose three different things altogether. But no matter which, my understanding is if you have three things from someone or something—oh, not of their belongings but rather of their physical self, such as are these hairs part of the Pooka—then you can create a thing—an amulet, an image, a doll—a thing that will then make a connection with that someone or something. Whether this created thing is used for good or ill is up to the one who made it, or rather the one who possesses it.

“That is what I was told and it’s all I know concerning the power of three. But as to just how a trio of his tail hairs woven into our Gnome-made line can gain mastery o’er this Pooka, I cannot say, though it means the resulting rope will have a power-of-three bond with the creature.”

“Well, then,” said Borel, “perhaps I don’t need to tie the rope to the creature to be linked to him.—Oh, wait, you say the king of the Keltoi used his as a harness?”

Flic frowned and said, “Maybe it was a harness; I’m a bit hazy on the details.”

“Hmm . . .” said Borel, “then I’ll need to do something similar, for as long as the rope is tied to the Pooka and as long as I can hang on to the rope, I will be linked to him, not only in a physical way but perhaps in a mystical one as well. Mayhap it will mean he cannot throw me.”

“Perhaps, Prince Borel. On the other hand, maybe the rope with his three hairs in it will prevent the Pooka from shape-shifting. If so, then you will merely have to master the creature as you would a horse.”

“A wild horse,” said Borel.

“A cunning and wicked and most deadly horse,” said Flic.

“Ah, well, a lower-jaw rope then is my best chance,” said Borel, “for such a thing has been used in the past to make even the most savage horse submit.”

“If you can get him to open his mouth,” said Flic.

“We’ll think of a way,” said Borel, standing. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

“Well, I suppose I could do with a bite. Buzzer, too.”

“Come, let us to break our fast and scheme of ways to master the Pooka.”

 

“How does a horseman get a wild horse to open its mouth for a lower-jaw rope to be slipped on?” asked Flic, as he picked at a portion of biscuit and dipped the resulting bit into honey. “—Oh, not that such a trick can be used on a Pooka, for they are not horses but are Dark Fey instead and smarter than most humans. Still, perhaps a trick can be done in a similar manner.”

Borel said, “At times, one man strong enough, or several men working together, can grab an unruly horse about the head and force it down and slip the rope in place.”

“My lord, here we are dealing with a—a Démon,” said Flic around his mouthful of honey-soaked crumb, “its strength beyond measure, and I think such a trick will not avail here.”

Borel rolled a rasher of bacon up in a piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth and chewed awhile. Finally, he said, “At other times a carrot or a piece of sweet apple or other such will get an unruly horse to open his mouth, and so food is used to trick the creature.”

“My lord, I think a Pooka too wily to be fooled by mere food,” said Flic, picking off another crumb of biscuit. He looked at the bee and said, “What if I have Buzzer sting him, say on the lip?—Oh, no, that won’t work, for it will be at night.—But wait, when I get my épée, I can jab him there.”

“I think that would just cause him to toss his head and then trample me,” said Borel. “But there must be a way to fool him.”

“Once more, I say, he is a Démon and clever,” said Flic. “Though I am quite dull-witted, my lord, surely you are smarter than he is.”

“Perhaps not,” said Borel, “for you are no more dull-witted than I, and—” Of a sudden Borel’s eyes lit up. “Dull-witted! Oh, Flic, you have hit upon it!”

“I have?”

“You do say he can talk and therefore understand speech?”

At Flic’s nod, Borel said, “And he is very clever, for he deceives men into thinking they are out for a pleasant ride when it is anything but. Well then, here is the nub of it: if he would have me ride, in me he will have met the most dull-witted creature in the whole of Faery.” Borel grinned and added, “Flic, my wee friend, thank you for the idea.”

Flic shrugged and said, “You’re welcome, my lord, no matter what the idea is.”

 

After breaking their fast, with Flic and Buzzer riding atop Borel’s tricorn the trio set off for the smithery. As they fared along the way, Borel said, “To get this plan of mine to work, we will first have to find the Pooka.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” said Flic. “I know where it lives.” Borel stopped. “You do?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh, me. What with my meeting Fleurette and falling deeply in love and finding the three hairs and all, perhaps I’m the one who is pixilated.”

“But you say you know where it lives?”

“Oui. You see, after working the three hairs loose from the splintery fence post, I followed the Pooka on its rampage, but as dawn neared, and as the night came to a close, it made for the river and entered it right in the midst of what are surely the White Rapids.”

“And . . . ?”

“And nothing, my lord. You see, the Pooka is a water creature, and it either lives in a body of water—the ocean, a lake, a river—or it hides away inside a mountain, probably in an underground pool.
Our
Pooka lives under the rapids during the day, and comes out at nightfall. We will merely need to get there before darkness.”

“Easily done,” said Borel, moving ahead again. “I just hope my scheme is as simple to accomplish as it is for us to reach the torrent.”

When they came to the forge, the smith had just finished honing Borel’s new blade. With a final swipe and then a wipe of a cloth, he sheathed the weapon—a keen, double-edged bronze long-knife with a needle-sharp point—and handed it to the prince.

As Borel drew the blade from the scabbard, the man said, “ ’Ware, Sieur, for ’tis finely whetted to a razor’s edge. You’ll have no trouble shaving with it.” Then he grinned and added, “Or with gutting Trolls, I’ll warrant.”

Borel smiled and held the long-knife up in the light and said, “Well, Smith, I hope not to meet a Troll to gut, yet I thank you for the warning.”

He slid the blade back into the sheath; the fit was perfect.

“Nicely done,” said the prince. He handed over the agreed-upon fee, the coins from those gifted by the Gnomes, and belted the scabbard and strapped it to his right thigh.

Next they went to the milliner’s, where the scarfpin sword waited, along with a tiny green belt fitted with a wee buckle made of silver wire, and affixed to the belt was a tightly wound coil of silver wire the length of the blade to act as a minuscule sheath. As Flic and Borel examined the tiny weapon, the Widow Marie said, “Since you will be using this against foe—or so I did assume—I filed it so that it has a three-sided, fluted blade, just as would a genuine épée.”

“Épées have three-sided blades?” said Flic.

“Oh, yes, little master,” said Marie. “It gives them strength while at the same time allows lightness. A good weapon with which to go out into the world and meet dangerous foe. You see, to face perils you either need a cutting blade or one with a very sharp point. And I think you too wee to wield an edge that cuts—such as a rapier—for that takes a bit of strength, and since you seemed to favor a bee sting—a jabbing weapon—an épée is best for you.”

“A good choice, Madame,” said Borel. “Better than a limber foil, and I see that you have well wrapped the grip against slippage, and fashioned a small pommel as well.”

“I also shaped it for the Sprite’s grip,” said the widow, “and I fixed the bell in place with silver-wire collars and a bit of crucible-melted silver as solder.”

“Well done, Madame,” said Borel, inclining his head.

“And the belt . . . ?” said Flic, smiling at the daughter Renée.

Renée refused to look directly at the Sprite, and instead cast a sidelong glance at him as she said, “Sieur Sprite, please note the silver-coil sheath has a keeper to secure the épée in place so that it won’t fall out as you, um, flit about. A simple flick of the thumb will set the épée free.”

“Superb, Demoiselle Renée,” said Borel.

Renée blushed before Borel’s penetrating, ice-blue gaze, but she said nought.

“Well, try it on, my lad,” said Borel.

Flic, a wicked grin on his face, said, “Demoiselle Renée, would you care to fasten my belt ’round me?”

“Non!” said the daughter as the widow choked back a laugh.

“Ah, me,” said the Sprite, and he took up the belt and buckled it about his waist. The fit was exact, though there were additional holes for expansion. Borel handed him the silver-bladed épée, and Flic flourished it about, and then slid it into its silver-coil scabbard. He frowned a moment, but then discovered how to slip the keeper in place.

“There, how do I look?” said Flic, strutting back and forth.