Once Upon a Winter's Night (25 page)

A look of indignation crossed Kelmot’s tiny face, yet he said, “Most certainly, Lady Camille.” He turned to the lynx and spat-hissed a word or two.

Now it was the cat who looked offended, and it turned its back to them all: Camille, Kelmot, and the sparrow.

Kneeling at her rucksack, Camille took a small jar from within, and, making soothing sounds, she applied a daub of salve to the injury. “I think he may never fly again,” she said, sadness tingeing her words as she carefully folded the wing shut.

Kelmot frowned and asked, “Think you this sparrow will be a willing companion?”

“Let us see,” replied Camille, setting the sparrow on her shoulder.

Now free from Camille’s gentle grip, “
Chpp!
” chirped the bird in alarm, and it tugged on one of Camille’s golden tresses, and, pulling, it leapt down into a high vest pocket, tugging the end of the lock in after. Then it peeked back out over the verge at the disgruntled lynx.

Camille smiled and whispered, “Tiny brown sparrow, sitting in a tree, scruffy little soul, just like me, would you be an eagle, would you be a hawk—”

“My lady,” said Lord Kelmot, “mayhap you are correct in that this is the second gift, but I would have us search more, for in events dire enough for the Lady of the Mere to speak, one cannot be too cautious.”

Camille sighed, but nodded, and back to the oak they went.

Long did they look—in the hollow and about the base of the oak and in the limbs above, Kelmot and the lynx climbing to do so, ’round the mere and in among the cluster of reeds, and across the sward—yet they found nothing else that seemed to apply to the words spoken by the seer, and all the while the sparrow rode in Camille’s vest pocket, occasionally chirping quietly, its gaze, whenever possible, on the cat. Finally, Camille said, “Lord Kelmot, the staff and the sparrow: I deem they are the gifts, for there is nought else here.”

Kelmot sighed, but nodded in agreement. “Even so, though I know not where is a place east of the sun and west of the moon, I would go with you, but for the words of the Lady of the Mere.”

Camille sighed. “I was going to ask Borel and Celeste and Liaze to accompany me, and when you came to my aid, I would have asked you as well, Lord Kelmot. Yet, ‘Go alone,’ she said, ‘but for one of my gifts.’ ” Camille smiled down at the sparrow. Its tiny brown eyes peered into her eyes of blue. “
Chpp!
”

“Scruffy little soul, will you go with me?”

“
Chpp!
”

She laughed and turned to Kelmot.

“It appears I have a companion, though I know not where to go.” Camille frowned and then said, “Tell me, Lord Kelmot: would anyone in the Forests of the Seasons know where this place east of the sun and west of the moon might be?”

Kelmot shrugged. “Mayhap, yet I know not who.”

“What of Witch Hradian or Wizard Caldor or Seer Malgen? Would they not know?”

“Oh, Lady Camille, there is that about each of them I do not trust, and I would not like to place the fate of Prince Alain into the hands of any one of the three, for they might lead you astray.”

“Why so?”

“Hradian strikes me as false in some manner, my lady, she with her sly eyes. Malgen seems quite unsound. And Caldor is a pretentious ass, perhaps a mountebank. In fact all three could be such. If so, any or all would send you astray, and a year and a day and a whole moon beyond would find you at no good end.”

Camille nodded, for Kelmot’s opinions as to the nature of these three magi echoed her own. “Tell me, my lord, which way lies Autumnwood?”

“Yon,” replied the Lynx Rider, pointing. “But I thought you were not now going to ask Prince Alain’s kith for—”

“I’m not,” said Camille. “If none of the siblings are to accompany me, then that means I should not go into the Autumnwood, Winterwood, or Springwood, for surely Alain and Lanval and Blanche and the remainder of the staff would not have vanished into any of those three demesnes, for if they had, then Borel or Celeste or Liaze would make certain that all could return to the Summerwood. Hence, I shall go the opposite way, for surely a place east of the sun and west of the moon must lie elsewhere. Besides, if I went therein, Liaze and Celeste and Borel would insist on coming with me, and as you know—”

“—You must go alone,” said Kelmot. “Even so, by the same reasoning, Lady Camille, I can lead you to the far marge of the Summerwood and by the swiftest ways, for surely Prince Alain and his staff are not within these bounds either, but somewhere deeper in Faery beyond.”

“In Faery?”

Kelmot nodded. “Indeed, for I ween that nowhere in the mortal world could there be a place lying east of the sun and west of the moon.”

A faint smile crossed Camille’s face. “Only in Faery, indeed.” Camille took up her kit and the staff. “Let us be gone, then.”

And together they went, the Lynx Rider on his cat, Camille striding at his side, with a sparrow in her upper vest pocket.

 

A day and a half later—“Shall we press on, Scruff?”

“
Chpp.
”

“Au revoir, Lord Kelmot,” said Camille.

“Be safe, my lady,” he replied. “And this I advise: ask the traders, the travellers, the merchants, the mapmakers, and the elders in particular, for they are most likely to know where such a place might be. Go with my benediction: may you find that which you seek.”

Camille nodded, and, gripping the garland-carved stave in hand, she stepped through the wall of twilight and into another realm of Faery beyond.

G
rass: hip-deep, thick-stalked, jointed, and green, with nodding heads of seeds. Camille had stepped through the twilight border to come into a vast sea of such, stretching away toward snowcapped mountains in the distance afar. To left and right the verdant plain extended to the horizon and beyond. Far off to the right as well, dark clouds rose into the sky, building in the afternoon warmth.

Now that the lynx was beyond the twilight, flapping and scrambling, one wing held awkwardly, the sparrow managed to clamber out from Camille’s vest pocket and to her shoulder.

Camille glanced at him sidelong. “What do you think, Scruff? Left? Right? Straight?”

“
Chp.
” The sparrow cocked his head and peeked ’round her chin to look into her eye.

Camille grinned. “Ah, but you are no help. For me, I think we’ll go straight ahead, for to the left I see nought but grass forever, and to the right I deem a storm is brewing. Aye, straight ahead we’ll go; perhaps if foothills lie along the mountains, we can climb a tall one and be high enough to see some sort of town or farm or the like, if one is nigh, a place where we can ask directions.”

And so she set out toward the mountains, travelling generally westward, she thought, yet in Faery, in spite of the moon and sun and stars, none could be sure of directions, or so she had been told by her père, though how he would know, she could not say.

Across the early afternoon she walked, trudging—
swish, swash
—through the heavy grass, her rucksack and bedroll and waterskin slung, her festooned stave barely aiding. At times she came to hidden swales, dips in the land, and down she would go into the dint, where the plants were taller than she. It was difficult travel, for the grass did sorely impede, dragging against her as it did, slowing her considerably.

Of a sudden in midafternoon, “
Chp!
” chirped the sparrow, and, pulling on a lock of Camille’s hair, down into the high vest pocket he fluttered, where he chattered frantically and tugged on her tress.

“What is it, Scruff? What is the matter?” Camille looked all ’round, yet she saw nought but empty plain. But then a shadow glided across the tall grass, and she glanced up to espy a red-tailed raptor soaring in the sky above, sweeping to and fro in a hunting pattern.

“Ah, I see. First a lynx and now a hawk. Perils dire, eh, Scruff?”

Yet she received no answer from the sparrow, the wee bird silent and hiding in a pocketful of golden hair now that the hunter was near.

“Peril to you, indeed, Scruff, but peril to me? . . . I think not,” said Camille, smiling, as she strode onward.

Suddenly, the hawk stooped, its wings folded, only the tips guiding, and just ere striking the grass, it flared. Camille continued to watch as she walked onward, and sometime later, up struggled the raptor, and in its talons it bore the remains of an animal—rabbit, marmot, or what, Camille could not say. “Well, Scruff, there is life herein after all—hawks and small game though it be.”

When the raptor could no longer be seen, once again Scruff scrambled to Camille’s shoulder, as across the plain she went.

In the far distance to her right—north, she thought—the dark clouds now towered into the sky, and lightning stroked the ground and flashed from cloud to cloud, at times illuminating the darkness from within. Distant thunder rolled across the grass, a mere grumble from afar. And rain fell down in long grey streaks, like wind-driven brooms sweeping o’er an endless plain.

“Oh, Scruff, let us hope the storm does not come this way to drop its bounty on us, for there is no shelter for as far as the eye can see.”

But Scruff made no comment, and Camille pressed forward, glancing now and again at the remote storm, too far away to be of immediate concern. Too, it seemed to be moving away, or so Camille hoped—northward, she believed.

On she went and on, the mountains seeming no closer, and when the sun stood in late afternoon, regardless of the distant storm, she stopped awhile to rest and to take a meal, stamping down the grass all ’round to make a space to sit. Then she plopped down and set the sparrow to the ground beside her.

“Some nest, eh, Scruff?” she asked, as she rummaged through the rucksack for hardtack and jerky. But the sparrow was busily nipping seeds from the felled grass, and pursuing an insect or two, and he answered not.

As she ate, Camille wondered if only hawks and small game and insects dwelled in this grassland, for she and the sparrow had so far seen nothing otherwise. And there was no smoke on the horizon to indicate a dwelling or community.

Time passed, and Camille fetched a cup from her rucksack and filled it with water. After she had drunk, she again filled the cup, but this time she offered it to Scruff. The sparrow hopped to the rim and dipped in his beak and raised his head to swallow, then did so again and again until his thirst was quenched, then he hopped into the cup itself and fluttered and flounced in the water. Laughing, Camille said, “Oh, Scruff, I suppose I’ll not drink from that vessel again, at least not until it is washed. Yet I know how you feel, my sparrow, for would that I, too, had a bath. But I couldn’t very well bathe in front of Lord Kelmot, now could I? Nor you in front of his lynx. And since you and I have been on our own in this land of grass, we’ve not come across a stream or pool. Mayhap we’ll find one when we reach the foothills, or the mountains beyond.”

The sparrow hopped out from the cup and fluttered and shook, though awkwardly with its injured wing. Camille again applied salve from the jar on the injured joint. “Oh, wee Scruff, but I do hope you’ll be able to fly again someday.”

Finally, she packed all away, and once more they started across the grassy plain, the storm in the north receding.

When darkness fell, Camille made a fireless camp mid the grass, and, in spite of furtive rustlings in the nearby surround, she fell quite soundly asleep.

 

By midafternoon of the following day, although she had kept up a steady pace, the mountains seemed no closer, and the foothills, if any, were not in sight. And still Camille had seen no significant life, but for the hawk of yester. Oh, not that she had seen no other life whatsoever, for there were insects, aye—beetles and hoppers—and worms and grubs as well, all unearthed by tiny Scruff during their pauses for meals. Yet they had seen no farms, no towns, no habitation of any kind there on the broad, green plain, and yet it seemed that such should be—

Of a sudden, Scruff chirped and grabbed a tress and dove for the cover of the vest pocket. Camille looked into the sky, yet no hawking bird of any sort did she see. But Scruff repeatedly tugged on her hair and chattered in alarm, and so Camille slowly turned about, her gaze sweeping across the grass, searching—

And still Scruff twittered madly and tugged on her lock, as if trying to pull her within the vest pocket as well.

Camille frowned and glanced down at the bird then up at the riders again, apprehension now in her gaze. “Very well, Scruff,” she said, and knelt down. “I will wait until I see what they look like, and then decide whether or no I should stand revealed and ask them for direction or aid.”

But Scruff yet chattered and pulled on her tress, and Camille crouched a tiny bit lower.

On came the riders and on, and now she could see—

“Oh, my, those are not horses.”

Hairless were the steeds, scaled instead, glittering green, with pale undersides, and long, lashing, whiplike tails, the mounts an impossible crossbreed of serpent and horse, as only in Faery might be. And the riders—

Camille flattened herself in the grass, lying lengthwise to present the least target, praying to Mithras that none would run over her.

—the riders, too, were serpentlike, or so they seemed . . . either that or they wore hideous gargoyle masks, and armor scaled much like the serpent-horses they rode.

And the ground trembled as onward they came, and Camille flattened herself even more, taking care to not crush Scruff, the bird now silent with dread so near.

And then riders thundered by, the steeds hissing and blowing and grunting with effort, the ground shaking as they passed. And riders sissed cries as onward they plunged and away, the shuddering earth slowly subsiding. Yet Camille did not rise, but instead lay with her face buried in grass. And the tremble of the ground became a quiver, then a shiver, and then was still once more. And yet Camille could hear a blowing, as if nearby—