Once Upon a Summer Day (36 page)

A
fter making camp within a wind-twisted cedar grove down in a dip in the land, Borel left Flic on guard and in the twilight strode toward the sound of the waves. Within a furlong or two he reached the brim of high stone cliffs stretching away for miles, and they loomed above a darkling sea. The ocean itself was tumultuous, as if a violent storm raged somewhere beyond the horizon, one so powerful that its effects were being felt even here. Borel scanned the waters to the limit of his vision in the failing light, and he saw only luminous whitecaps rolling in, and no ships of any kind asail. He breathed in the bracing air laden with salt of the sea, and he reveled in the tang of it, for not often did he come to the tempestuous oceans of Faery. Finally he turned and as he did so, far to the right along the cliffs Borel could just make out a pile of stones, perhaps the remains of a tumbled-down tower, a remnant of elder days, perhaps to keep watch on the sea. Borel briefly considered walking there to see, but night was upon him, and morning would be soon enough. And so, instead, he made his way back toward the cedars, reaching there as darkness fell absolute . . . but for light from the stars above and the tiny campfire within.

Flic was yet awake by the small blaze and finishing off the last of the honey from the jar lid. Buzzer was adoze on a nearby green-needled branch. Borel dropped down by the earthen-ringed fire, and he fished about in his rucksack for jerky and hardtack.

“Have you ever seen the wild waters of Faery?” he asked.

Flic looked up. “Do you mean the ocean?”

“Oui.”

“Non,” said Flic.

“Well, my wee Sprite, they lie not two furlongs yon. You might want to take them in.”

“In the morning,” said Flic, yawning. “All this travel makes me weary.”

“What?” said Borel as if taken aback. “With you aride on my hat?”

Flic grinned but then sobered and morosely said, “You know what I mean.”

Borel shook his head and frowned. “Just what
do
you mean, my friend?”

Flic shrugged. “I don’t know. Or perhaps I do. It just seems that nothing happens.”

“Nothing happens?” said Borel, wide-eyed in astonishment. “I suppose you mean nothing happened when we escaped the Trolls and wrecked the raft, or when we freed Hegwith the Gnome from the crack, or when the unseen creature of the swamp came, or when we found Roulan’s vale turned to stone, or when we came across Lady Wyrd, or when you met Fleurette, tracked the Pooka and found three hairs, got your épée, helped subdue the Pooka, met the Riders Who Cannot Dismount, shared a dream, routed the spotted beasts, and saw a caravan with a great tusker. Is that the ‘nothing happens’ you meant?”

Flic sniffed. “Well, I didn’t really meet the Riders Who Cannot Dismount. They bore iron, if you recall.”

“But you saw them.”

“Oui, yet those things you listed, they’re not what I meant when I said ‘nothing happens.’ ”

“Well, just what did you mean?”

“That we seem to be no closer to finding Chelle and setting her free.”

Borel’s features fell, and now his own words were morose. “Believe me, Flic: I am frustrated, too. I would that we were closer than we seem. Yet Lady Wyrd set us on this path, and we simply need to go on, for, given that aid, I am certain that we will succeed. And, as you once said, there yet seems time to do so.” Borel glanced at the spangled sky and said, “A fortnight and three remain ere the moon rises full again.”

“Well, I would have your lady free
now
,” said Flic, peevishly.

“As would I,” declared Borel, and then more softly, “As would I.” Then he sighed and said, “Come, let us sleep. The morrow will see us in better spirits.”

And so they bedded down, and the wind slowly strengthened, and far out to sea dark clouds crept over the horizon.

 

“Ah, Borel,” said Chelle, “you remembered.”

“My lady?”

“I see you have brought your bow,” said Chelle. “Have you one for me?”

“Ah, yes, archery,” said Borel. “And I know just the bow for you.”

“I could use yours,” said Chelle.

Borel smiled. “Perhaps, though you might find stringing it difficult and the pull a bit arduous. Yet even if not, my arrows are fitted to my draw, and I think my reach exceeds yours somewhat.”

He spread his arms wide, and Chelle laughed and did the same and pressed up against him and raised her face toward his and smiled. Clearly his span outreached hers by a good foot, but neither of them was thinking of such.

Borel swept her up in his arms and kissed her deeply, and she clutched him tightly and returned his kiss with fervor. At last they broke and Borel looked into her face. “My lady, methinks you a Vixen.”

“And you, Sieur, a Fox,” she replied. But then she grinned and said, “But I would challenge you to a contest: bow and arrow at fifteen paces.”

“Your paces or mine?” asked Borel.

“Why, mine, of course,” said Chelle. “—But only if you find me a suitable bow . . . and, naturally, arrows to fit.”

“Very well, ma chérie, but I ask you, what be the prize?”

“Name it, my love.”

“Ah, a dangerous suggestion, that,” said Borel.

“It is?” said Chelle, a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“Indeed,” replied Borel.
She knows not that we are in a dream, at least not at the moment, for peril is absent.

“Where be this contest?” asked Chelle.

“I have just the place in mind,” said Borel, and he offered her his arm.

They stepped through the door and—

 

—found themselves on the thick, grassy lawn of Summerwood Manor, where stood haycocks with a target pinned to each. And though but a fingernail-thin crescent of a moon and the stars in the slow-turning sky illumed the land below, still they could see that one target bore the outline of a buck, while another haycock held the silhouette of a Redcap Goblin, and the third sported a conventional bull’s-eye.

“My bow, Sieur?”

“Here on this bale with your arrows, sweet demoiselle,” said Borel. “ ’Tis the bow used by Lady Saissa—my mother—when she comes to game at Alain’s estate.”

Chelle took up the bow and strung it and pulled. “The draw suits,” she said. She nocked an arrow to string and again drew. “The arrow fits,” she said, then she turned and let fly at the bull’s-eye target. The shaft struck just inside the center ring.

“Hmm . . .” said Borel, reaching for an arrow of his own, “it seems I have my hands full.” The shaft he pulled from his quiver was fitted with a flint point. Borel replaced that arrow and paused a moment in thought, and picked another shaft, this one with a proper head of bronze. He nocked and drew and loosed. His arrow struck just inside of hers.

“My, do you have Fairy arrows, Borel?” asked Chelle. “ ’Tis not fair if so.”

“Fairy arrows?”

“They are magique, my love, and only miss should a greater spell come along to deflect them.”

“Non, sweet Chelle, my arrows are plain and simple, lacking magie altogether.”

“Neither Fairy arrows nor those of Elves, you swear, eh?” said Chelle, grinning.

“Elf arrows?” said Borel. “This is another kind, I take it.”

“Indeed, Sieur. Have you not heard of being Elf-shot?”

“Yes, though I think it but ill-founded rumor. Elves are for the most part quite honorable, whereas to be Elf-shot means to be afflicted with a spell or disease delivered by an Elf arrow.”

“I know what it means, my love,” said Chelle. “Nevertheless, Elves have arrows that fly exceptionally true, and so, Fairy and Elf shafts are outlawed in the contest we play.” She laughed and took up another arrow and turned and drew and let fly. Her shaft struck inside Borel’s.

Shaft after shaft they loosed, and it became clear that Borel was the better archer, yet Chelle’s own shots were quite excellent, for the palm of Borel’s hand would cover her spread, but the smaller palm of her hand would easily cover his.

As they vied with one another, the gentle breeze became a wind, and clouds rolled in, and lightning flashed afar. “It seems we are in for a storm,” said Borel. “Mayhap we had better call it a night.”

“While you are winning, my love?” said Chelle. “Ah, you are a Fox indeed, or perhaps I should say a Wolf.”

“Would you settle for a tie?” asked Borel.

“Nay, my lord, you have won fairly and squarely,” said Chelle. “Name your prize.”

He took her in his arms and said, “If any be Elf-shot ’tis I, enspelled in the heart by you.”

Of a sudden they were lying unclothed in the soft grass and clasped tightly in each other’s arms. Their lips sought one another’s, and fire ran through their loins and their hungry kisses as well. Rain came, yet they took no heed of it, and lightning flared. And still Borel kissed her as if he would consume her, and his hands caressed her body, and Chelle moaned in response, and—

CRKK!
lightning struck—

BOOM!
thunder roared—

SHHSSSHHH . . . !
cold rain came drenching—

And Borel—

 

—awakened in the downpour. And he blundered to his feet, and took up his weatherproof cloak and wrapped it ’round himself. Then he grabbed up sputtering Flic and groggy Buzzer and shoved both under his wrap.

L
ightning flashed, and thunder boomed, and the wind roared, and rain hammered across the cedar grove in horizontal sheets. The drenching downpour quenched the fire, and, with Buzzer and Flic safely within his cloak, Borel dragged his goods and himself under the shelter of the cedar boughs. But then water began running into the dip in the land where stood the trees. And as it started rising around Borel’s boots, “I’m going to have to find better refuge,” he called to Flic.

“Where will we go, my lord, in this abysmal dark?”

“There seem to be ruins not far from here along the edge of the cliffs. Can you slip into one of my pockets and hold Buzzer?”

“No, my lord,” called Flic. “We would be crushed. Instead, place me under the hood of your cloak. There will Buzzer and I ride.”

When the Sprite and the now-semi-awake bee were in place within the hood and clinging to the collar of Borel’s shirt, he shouldered his rucksack and quiver and bow, taking care not to crush his friends. He then splashed out from the cedar grove and up onto the land and set off through the dark, storm-hammered night.

Carefully, and with the aid of lightning flashes, Borel made his way toward the cliffs, and the storm grew fiercer as he went, and the wind battered him, and he feared for Flic and Buzzer. Yet the Sprite and the bee slid down within Borel’s collar, and tiny bee feet walked upon the skin of his neck, and it was all Borel could do to keep from slapping. At last he came nigh the edge of the fall, and the savage sea below crashed into the vertical stone and spewed water high into the air, and spray drenched Borel.

Rightward he turned—
Caution, my lad. It will not do to go atumble down to the sea below
—and followed the brim toward where he’d seen the ruins, and the shrieking wind tore at him, and the raging sea thrashed him with salt-laden spray, both air and water seeming furious that he did not yield but continued on toward the remnants of an ancient refuge.

By lightning flashes he could see the spill of stones ahead, and as he neared, he heard a wailing above that of the wind itself. And then he saw a white-gowned lady standing on the verge, her dress and hair blowing all about, and she wept and wailed and held her arms out to the sea, as if imploring, as if pleading. And then—“No!” cried Borel—she stepped over the brink, and fell down and down and down into the rage below.

Borel ground his teeth and slammed a fist into palm, yet there was nought he could do.

He came unto the ruins and cautiously stepped to the lip of the sheer fall and peered through the spray and down into the luminous churn. There was no sign of the lady in the white dress.

Borel turned and made his way into the fallen stone, and he found a sheltered corner of yet-standing walls, with remnants of beams above, and therein he took refuge, as the tempest grew in strength.

 

Day came, and still the storm raged, and still Buzzer and Flic resided in Borel’s collar, with little bee feet yet walking about, little itchy bee feet.

“Buzzer cannot fly in this,” said Flic.

“I know,” replied Borel, as he moved their camp into a partial room he’d found when the dim light of morning seeped through the roiling black sky above. Within the protection of the remains, Borel had found broken lumber—the remnants of a floor—the timber but a bit damp. Using a chunk of rubble, he shattered wood, and then he cut shavings from the dry interior using his flint knife. In moments he had a small fire aflame, and Flic and Buzzer came out from Borel’s shirt and took warmth beside the blaze, and Borel spent awhile scratching his neck.