Once Upon a Summer Day (31 page)

A
fter settling Buzzer on a selected leaf, Flic turned to Borel and said, “What now, my lord?”

Borel hobbled about, laying a fire, for he was sorely battered from his wild ride. “Now, Flic, we wait,” he replied.

“For the Riders Who Cannot Dismount, eh?”

“Yes, though why they cannot is a puzzle, except the Pooka said they were cursed by the King Under the Hill. And speaking of the king, what is it about him that makes him even more dangerous than that Dark Fey?”

“Because, among other things, he can lay curses,” said Flic. “Too, it is said that on a whim he keeps people prisoners for thousands of summers merely to dine with him. It seems time runs at a different pace within his hold.”

“Ah, well,” said the prince, “I’ll try to avoid each of those things.”

“Well, if he gives you any trouble, you might—My lord, your long-knife: it’s gone!”

“Tumbled away in the night, Flic,” said Borel, “when the Pooka was the vulture and rolling over and over. I could not spare a hand to try to catch it, hanging on as I was. Yet even had I tried, I think I would have only cut myself.”

“You needed a keeper for your blade,” said Flic, “like my Argent has.”

“The sheath has a keeper, Flic, but when the Pooka ran through thickets and smashed against trees and such, it must have come loose. Regardless, it lies somewhere lost. Perhaps one day someone needing a weapon will come across it.”

“Perhaps,” said Flic, stretching and yawning and settling down beside Buzzer. “Besides, I was going to say you could use your long-knife should the King Under the Hill give you trouble, but I think with his power to curse someone, it’s better that you don’t.” Again Flic yawned.

Borel lit the campfire and, groaning a bit, settled down to a meal of jerky and hardtack, after which he stepped to the mere and took a deep drink and replenished the waterskin he had purchased in Riverbend. Then he cast another branch upon the fire and turned to bid Flic good night, but the Sprite was sound asleep.

 

“Good evening, ma chérie,” said Borel, determined this time to control his heart, with its lusty urges. He was back in the turret surrounded by floating daggers.

“My Borel,” she replied, smiling and curtseying. “Where are we off to tonight?”

Borel frowned in thought and then smiled and said, “I think to a place that once held peril, but now does not.”

“Ah, a mystery, I see,” said Chelle. “Lead on, my lord.”

Borel offered Chelle his arm, and together they stepped into the shadows and through the hidden door to emerge on the stone bank of the White Rapids. And the air thundered with the roar of water hurling furiously down the long slope of the run.

“Oh, my, what a beautiful fury,” said Chelle, raising her voice to be heard above the churn. “And you say peril was here?”

“Oui, and recently at that.”

“What kind of peril?”

“A Pooka. Have you ever heard of such?”

“Oh, yes,” said Chelle. “My père often told me of the king of the Keltoi and his wild ride.”

“What?” said Borel, and he shook his head. “I should have asked you of the legend.”

“The legend of the king and the Pooka?”

“Oui,” said Borel. “I heard of it from a Sprite, but he did not know how the king prevailed.”

“Would you like to know? It will cost you a fee.”

“A fee?”

“A kiss,” said Chelle.

“Gladly,” said Borel, and he took her in his arms and they kissed long and lingeringly. Finally he backed away and said, “A splendid fee, my lady, joyously paid, but now I would have that tale. Yet let us find a place a bit quieter.”

Upstream they strolled, until the rumble of the rapids faded and the wide Meander slowly slid past. They came to a mossy bank, where they settled down to talk.

“Now about this Keltoi legend . . .” said Borel.

“Pookas,” said Chelle. “They are rather dreadful night creatures, though in the legend there seems to be only one instead of the many my father believes are in Faery. What do you know of them?”

“A bit,” said Borel, “but not the legend.”

“Did you know they can assume many forms?” said Chelle.

Borel nodded but did not interrupt, for he was entranced by Chelle’s lilting voice, which was both soothing and exciting at one and the same time.

“The most common of which are goats, Boglemen, giant birds, and horses,” said Chelle. “But they also can take on the forms of bats and horrible things right out of a nightmare—some of which might jump out at you in the dark.” Chelle smiled. “Or so my père said.”

She pointed at the moon. “It is said that sometimes in its bird form it swoops up a man and flies to the moon and abandons him there, though I think that merely a tale for children.

“It is also said that in one of its nightmare shapes it leaps onto a person’s back and claws at him, and the only way to dislodge it is to pray or to say a blessing. Of course, should the person not do these things, death of fright will occur.”

Borel cocked a skeptical eyebrow, but again remained silent.

Chelle grinned at him and went on: “The most common shape the Pooka takes is that of a black horse with burning yellow eyes. And it can run swifter than an arrow, and does so. Again it is said that as a dark steed it snatches up men—drunkards especially—yet in this case it doesn’t go to the moon, but instead takes them for fearful rides before dumping them into a bog ditch.

“It is a water creature, haunting rivers and lakes and the sea, and it sometimes carries men to their death by drowning.”

“That I most assuredly know,” muttered Borel, and when Chelle looked at him in curiosity, he motioned for her to continue.

“Sometimes on long voyages the sailors will see in the night a black steed galloping o’er the waves after, and then they know something terrible lies ahead—a reef, a shoal, pirates, or such—and so they become fearful and change course.”

Chelle paused and leaned over and kissed Borel, and it was some time before she began the tale again.

“There was a king of the Keltoi whose land was plagued by a particular and quite cruel Pooka, who had caused the deaths of many of the king’s subjects—by drowning, by fright, by being hurled from a cliff, or by having their bones crushed by its powerful kicks. And no matter which road or river or field a person walked, the Pooka could be met anywhere. It was as if the creature claimed the realm as his own, when instead it was that of the king.”

“Do you remember his name?” asked Borel.

“The Pooka or the king’s?”

“The king’s,” replied Borel.

Of a sudden Chelle laughed. “I don’t know why I asked that, for neither the Pooka’s name nor that of the king do I recall.” Then she frowned in concentration, trying to dredge up from her memory either of the names, but finally she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “I seem to remember it was a name similar to yours, though I am not certain of that at all.”

“I think it matters not,” said Borel. “Please do go on.”

“First, my tale-telling fee, Sieur,” said Chelle, and she leaned over for another kiss.

Her lips were so soft and her breath sweet, and he felt there was no better place for her than in his arms. And he held her and inhaled her fragrance, his blood hammering in his ears. And he kissed her again and this time he began to harden, and—

Borel gently disengaged and murmured, “Ah, Love, please go on with the story.”

Chelle sighed but nodded and said, “Well, the king set out to deliberately find this Pooka and master it. Now somehow the king had gotten hold of three of the Pooka’s tail hairs, and he wove them together—”

“He didn’t have them woven by an Elf into an Elf-made rope?”

“Oh, no,” said Chelle. “At least not the way my père tells it. You see, I think if they had been woven into a rope, that would have muted their power, and the king would have had an even more terrible time of it.”

Borel groaned but said, “I’m sorry for interrupting you, Chérie. Please go on.”

“First my fee,” said Chelle.

Again they embraced. Again they kissed. And again Borel began to respond. But Chelle laid her head against his chest and said, “I can hear your heart, my love. It beats like a horse agallop . . . or mayhap a Pooka arun.”

They sat quietly, the river murmuring past, the rapids afar rumbling, and then Chelle said, “The king plaited the three hairs together, and then went looking for the terrible Dark Fey. When at last he found the creature—in the form of the black horse, I add—he looped the braided Pooka hairs about the creature’s neck and leapt upon its back. The moment he did so, the plait became a rope of steel, and steel being a form of iron, and the Pooka one of the Fey, it screamed in pain, in agony, for iron was against its skin.

“Still it was enraged, and off it ran, taking the king on a harrowing ride and trying to throw him, but the king hung on and let the Pooka run to exhaustion. And when it was defeated, the king made the Pooka swear never to harm another man.”

Chelle stopped and looked into Borel’s eyes, her own unseen behind the shadowy band. “Isn’t that a wonderful tale, my love? Not that it likely happened, for who but a drunk or a fool would dare ride a Pooka, regardless of a three-hair charm?”

Borel burst out laughing, his face turned to the sky, and he finally answered, “Who but a fool, indeed?”

Chelle twisted ’round to lie back against him, and she looked up and smiled and said, “Kiss me, my sweet Borel, for I have given you the tale you desired.”

“Oh, my love, I desire more than a mere tale,” said Borel, and he embraced her and leaned down and—

 

“My lord, wake up, wake up!” cried Flic. “The riders have come, they’ve come!”

Groggily, Borel opened his eyes to see Flic holding his own head and groaning in pain.

“Wh-what did you say?”

“The riders have come, my lord, and I must leave, for they bear iron—dreadful, aethyr-twisting iron.”

And with that, Flic flew up and away, Buzzer following, as into the Glade of the Mere came men ahorse in cavalcade.

I
nto the glade came the riders on horses, some nine men altogether, all armored in what appeared to be light chain shirts, and armed with bows and spears . . . and swords hung at their sides. And they stopped on the far shore of the mere as if to let their horses drink, yet none did, and not one of the riders dismounted. And they seemed to be arguing among themselves, and so they took no notice of Borel as he made his way ’round and toward them. But their voices carried well o’er the water, and he heard what discord lay among the men.

“My lord, my lord,” cried one of the riders, his voice tight with distress, “we are on an endless ride, for the cur will ne’er jump down of its own accord.”

Borel frowned.
Cur?
And as he neared he saw that one of the riders held a small dog across his saddlebow.

And the man with the dog said, “Chevalier d’Strait, you must not give up hope, for surely someone can solve our dilemma. Think of the others who felt as you do, for they are now gone. Think of your horse as well.”

“But, my lord king, there is nought left in the mortal world for us to return to,” said the first man, the one named by the king. “I would join my wife and child in the Beyond.”

At this, other of the men set up a clamor, some crying out
No!
while some nodded in agreement.

As Borel came up to them, he noted that although the arms and armor seemed solid enough, the men themselves as well as their horses seemed pale and wan and not quite real, as if they had somehow grown tenuous.

Borel frowned.
Perhaps they are spirits, even specters, though the sun is up, which would seem to belie any contention of them verging onto ghosthood.

“It is within my power to command you, d’Strait, to list to me and not do this thing. Yet it is my fault we are as we are, and so I will not forbid you. Instead I beg of you to—”

“Enough, my king,” the chevalier cried out in agony. “Debate is useless; all is hopeless.” And he swung his leg over his saddlebow and leapt from his horse. And the moment his feet touched the ground his flesh withered and fell away, as did that of his horse, and their bones clattered down, but then turned to dust.

Men cried out, as did Borel, and some began to weep, and a whirl of air spun among the ashes, as if something were seeking some essence within.

And now Borel stepped in among the mounted riders, and he knelt at the side of the wind-stirred mound, where all that was left behind were ash and dust and aged and cracked tack and tatters and shreds of cloth, along with rust and timeworn splinters where arms and armor once had been, but for the hilt of a sword jutting out from the desiccated heap.

“Mithras, receive him,” said Borel, and he passed his hand over the ashes in a sign of blessing.