Once Upon a Summer Day (18 page)

“Oh,” said Chelle. “Then you do not have the pleasure of turning over new soil, tilling, planting, hoeing, tending . . . getting your hands in dirt and watching things grow, and then enjoying the fruits of your labor. You see, for me and many others not only is there delight in seeing a garden or field in its fullness, but there is also joy in all the steps it takes to bring such a thing about. And so, to have a never-changing realm, a realm without seasons, well, it seems quite sad to me.”

A thoughtful look on his face, Borel nodded but said nothing, for until this very moment he had not considered the Autumnwood anything other than a place of everlasting harvest.

They gently swung to and fro without speaking for long moments, the only sound that of the brook murmuring past and the rustle of leaves in the faint breeze. But as the silvery light from above crept across the garden, Borel glanced at the waning moon and said, “Tell me this, my love, how do you know that there is less than a moon”—of a sudden they were back in the enshadowed turret—“left?”

Her voice trembling in dread, “Rhensibé told me,” whispered Chelle, and the stone walls began to waver, and there was nought Borel could do to hold on to the dream.

“R
hensibé? She said ‘Rhensibé’ told her?”

“Yes, Flic,” said Borel, scraping the hide of the marmot snared in the night, the dressed-out carcass roasting over the fire. “Know you anyone by that name?”

“No,” said Flic, licking honey from a finger. “Perhaps it’s a friend of hers, or on the other hand mayhap a foe.”

Borel scraped for moments without speaking. But then he nodded and said, “Chelle was quite frightened when she named Rhensibé, but whether it is because Rhensibé is vile or because time grows shorter, or both, I cannot say.”

“Last night the moon was five days past full,” said Flic, dipping a finger back into the honey. “That leaves a fortnight, a sevenday, and a threeday ere it is full again. Plenty of time to reach the vale and somehow win through the ring of daggers, whatever they might represent.”

“Only if we are heading to the right valley,” said Borel. “Although Chelle did confirm that pink-petaled shamrocks and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberries grow on her sire’s estates, I just hope that Buzzer has been there.”

“There’s a good chance she has, my lord,” said Flic. “After all, it has the right blossoms and lies in a vale with a small lake and with a river nearby.”

Buzzer arrowed back through the twilight wall and landed next to the Sprite. After a silent conversation of waggles and postures that Borel could not interpret, Flic said, “She tells me that it is not raining in the mire. Even so, it is cloudy, yet she can still take a bearing and fly the course. We can only hope the storm is on the way out, and rain stays its hand.”

“As soon as this marmot is done, we’ll leave,” said Borel. “I cannot take a raw carcass into the swamp, else we’ll be covered in pests.”

“Humph,” grunted Flic, as Buzzer took station at the jar lid, the bee lapping up sweet honey therein. “Raw carcass or no, we’ll be plagued by pests regardless.”

Borel nodded but made no reply.

“By the blossom, how are you feeling?” asked Flic.

“Surprisingly well,” said Borel. “It seems my bruises and cuts and scrapes are all gone.”

“No surprise to it,” said Flic. “Did I not tell you that three days would see you hale?”

Borel smiled. “You did, my friend, and for the treatment I thank you. Without it I would yet be hobbling about in pain. And I still intend upon seeing your queen and obtaining the secret of those curatives from her.”

“Mmmm,” said Flic, his mouth full of honey.

With his flint knife, Borel tested the marmot and then turned the spit again, and resumed scraping the hide.

“Is she still in love with you?” asked Flic. “—Chelle, I mean.”

“It seems in my dreams we are both in love with one another,” said Borel.

“A passing fancy?”

“No, Flic, I know now I am truly in love, and I think she is the one I have been searching for all my life. I can only hope that she feels the same when we are not dreaming.”

“But you’ve only known her for, what, a fortnight or so?”

“Nevertheless . . .” replied Borel. He held up the hide and examined it closely, then wetted it down and rolled it up tightly and stuffed it into the wee rucksack.

“Well,” said Flic, “twice now you have managed to take control of the dreams. This thought of yours to create a ‘magic door’ to change the setting was rather clever of you.”

“It was Chelle who gave me the notion,” said Borel. “Else we’d still be trapped in that turret.”

Again Borel tested the marmot. “Ah, I think we can leave just as soon as I break my fast.” He wrenched off a haunch and began eating.

As he chewed, he managed to say around mouthfuls, “Chelle said something I had never thought of before: that the Forests of the Seasons are fixed, static, and each one in and of itself has no seasonal change. She likes to till and plant and watch as her gardens grow and come to fruition. If we were to plight our troth, would she eventually hate my demesne?”

“My lord,” said Flic, “you could always visit places where change is the rule. Too, can you devise a way to provide her with a place in the Winterwood where she could plant a garden and watch it change, watch it grow, then she might be content with such.”

“A greenhouse,” said Borel. “I could furnish her with a greenhouse.”

“What is that?” asked Flic.

As Borel explained what a greenhouse was, Flic frowned and
umm
ed and
err
ed and
ahh
ed throughout and wondered why anyone would choose a glass-enclosed garden over one in an open field. The prince finished the leg of marmot and cleaned himself up and packed away his things, as well as the jar of honey. He then strung his bow and said, “Swamps at times are perilous, and I should be set for such.” He turned to Flic. “Ready?”

“Ready,” replied the Sprite, and at a silent signal, Buzzer took flight and headed into the twilight border.

 

They emerged from the crepuscular wall and into the swamp, the leaves adrip with water yet runnelling down from the bygone storm. In the damp air, Buzzer circled up and ’round and took a sighting on the sunglow seeping through the overcast, and then she flew into the environs of the mire, with Borel following, Flic riding in his now customary place on the prow of Borel’s tricorn.

Into the bog strode the prince, even as gnats and biting flies and mosquitoes began to swarm about.

“Oh, my, this won’t do,” said the Sprite, and he launched into the air. He hovered a moment before Borel’s face and said, “I will fetch something to deal with these dratted pests,” and then darted away, while Borel, taking a sight on landmarks along the line set by Buzzer, pressed ahead.

Slogging through ooze, onward went Borel, now and then splashing through stagnant, green-scummed water, while all about large hoary trees—black cypress and dark swamp willow, and other such—twisted up out of the muck, looming, barring the dim morning light, their warped roots gnarling down out of sight into the slime-laden mud. A greyish moss dangled down from lichenwattled limbs, like ropes and nets set to entangle and entrap the unwary. In spite of the morning chill and the dripping water all ’round, a faint mist rose up from the quag, reaching for, clinging to, clutching at, and swirling about those who would seek to pass through. In the surrounding saw grass and reeds, unseen things plopped and splashed and splatted, and snakes slithered from drowned logs into the torpid water, and now swarms of bloodsuckers filled the air like a grey haze.

Slapping at those that landed on his exposed skin, Borel paused long enough to don his gloves, and now only his face and ears and neck were bare. He slogged forward, keeping to his line of travel, taking new sightings when warranted to keep on a straight-line course.

Bearing what appeared to be a large, dark, and somewhat rotted toadstool, Flic came flying back, his entire face twisted in revulsion. And as he neared, a terrible stench filled the air. “Here, my lord, crush this and smear it wherever they bite.”

Borel mashed the toadstool between his gloved hands, and a greenish mucus oozed out, and he gagged on the putrid stench. “I am like to lose my breakfast,” he gritted between clenched teeth. “What is this dreadful thing?”

“Blackstool,” said Flic, gagging as well.

“I think I prefer the bloodsuckers,” said Borel, gazing at the nauseating mess in his hands. Nevertheless, he wiped the viscous, snotlike gel over his face and ears and neck, nearly retching as he did so. He offered some to Flic, and the Sprite slathered his entire body with the toadstool phlegm.

And with their faces twisted in revulsion, on into the environs trod Borel, both man and Sprite swathed with the stench of blackstool to repel the ravenous mites. Oddly enough, Buzzer herself seemed unaffected by the malodor.

As the day wore on the sky slowly cleared, and the heat became oppressive. Clouds of swarming pests flew all about, and at times Flic would have to find more blackstool to keep the insects at bay. Yet now neither man nor Sprite noted the horrible stench, for as Borel said, “I think my nose is dead, slain by your cure, Flic.”

The bog itself was a veritable maze of water and mire and land. Frequently did Buzzer return to keep them on course, for often Borel had to backtrack to get around some obstacle—quicksand, deep muck, fallen trees, snag-laden pools, and the like—but at times he had no choice but to wade through the scum-laden waters; and he would emerge with leeches clinging to his leathers, razor mouths clamped tight to the hide, attempting to suck away his life, but failing. Borel scraped them away with his stone knife, grateful that they didn’t strike blood and draw even more pests into the frenzied mass swirling all about.

Slowly the clouds above parted, and the sun crept up into the sky and glared down upon the swamp, the mire steaming in response; and it seemed as if the air itself became too thick, too wet to draw a clean breath. The marsh heaved with gasses belching from slimy waters, bubbles plopping, foul stenches drenching the air. And Borel had no idea how far he had come, nor how far there was left to go. Yet he pressed onward, following the bee, for he had no choice but to push on through if he were to reach the place where grew pink-petaled shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines.

As the sun reached the zenith, Borel paused to give Buzzer and Flic some honey, and to take some jerky for himself, and only the stench of the blackstool permitted the trio to eat, for insects swarmed even more thickly here in the heat of the day. And then Buzzer took to wing, and Borel pressed on, his thirst held in check by sips of water from leaves adrip, for he would not drink from the torpid sloughs of the mire.

It was midafternoon when the quag began to repeatedly quake, rhythmically, as if jolted and then jolted again and again and again, with measured regularity.

“What is it?” asked Flic.

“Something this way comes,” said Borel. “Something large.”

“I will see,” said Flic, and he flew up and away as Borel continued following the beeline.

Long moments passed, the jolting of the ground getting heavier with each quaking thud, as of something enormous striding across the bog. Of a sudden Flic came winging, panic on his face. “My Lord Borel, you must hide! You must hide!”

“What is it, Flic? What comes?”

“I do not know, my lord, but all creatures flee before its steps, and yet it remains unseen, though its passage is marked by great gouts of splashed water and the bending away of boughs. And even though it is not visible, it is gigantic, for at times whole trees fall in its path, as if smashed down and crushed merely for being in the way. Oh, my prince, you must hide.”

In that moment, the quaking stopped, and there came through the air a great snuffling, and then—
Thd-d-d! . . . Thd-d-d! . . .
—the massive steps resumed, now drawing closer.

“Oh, hide, my lord, it has caught your scent!” cried Flic.

“How does one hide one’s scent, especially when covered with blackstool?” said Borel, and then he knew. And he stepped back to a great, wide bog hole he had passed ’round but moments before and waded into the putrid sludge until he was waist-deep; and great bubbles sluggishly rose to the surface and splatted open, reeking of the sulphurous stench of weeks-old rotten eggs.

THD-D-D! . . . THD-D-D! . . .
The massive steps neared, and louder came the great snuffles.

High above, Flic darted back and forth and screamed, “Look out, my lord, oh look out, look out!”

And the trees before the quag hole bent aside as something unseen and unseeable pressed through—

—and stopped—

—and snuffled—

—and silently Borel took a deep breath and submerged completely.