“Ah,
très bon!
” said the widow, glancing at Borel and winking. “The very picture of a gay blade.”
And even Renée looked, for she could not resist seeing just how well her handiwork suited the Sprite. Flic turned toward her and struck a full frontal pose, and Renée threw up her hands in exasperation, and Flic struck another stance. At this posture, Renée burst out in titters.
“What, ma chérie? Do you find me amusing?” said Flic.
Renée only giggled all the harder, though she did turn away.
Flic stepped toward Buzzer and said, “Well, Madame Buzzer, now we both have stings.”
Borel then said to the milliner, “My lady, we need a needle that will fit these.” He drew forth the three Pooka hairs. “We must weave these three into this rope.” Now he drew out a length of the Gnome-made line from another pocket.
Marie said, “Ah, in my daughter’s hands it will take but a trice.”
“Madame Marie, I think this is something Flic must do,” said Borel.
“But I could use instructions,” said Flic. “Perhaps Demoiselle Renée could guide the work while I actually perform it.”
A small smile graced the corner of Marie’s mouth, and she said, “Most certainly, for she has a finer hand than I. Renée,
s’il-te-plaît
.”
“But, Mother, he is still naked!” protested Renée.
“No I’m not,” retorted Flic. “I’m wearing a belt.”
“Though to me it was rather like my épée, we used a silver needle,” said Flic, “once Marie discovered what it was to be used for. She said silver has wondrous properties for dealing with things of ill intent, and a Pooka is certainly that.”
“And how did you and Renée get along,” said Borel, grinning. “Did she, um, get a rise out of you?”
Flic smiled, but shook his head. “Oh, no. She’s a rather nice girl, once you get to know her. I think we became friends as she showed me how to slip the needle and the Pooka-hair ‘thread’ through the plait of the Gnome rope. When I told her we were depending on the power of three, she had me weave the three hairs in three separate spirals up and about the line, exactly three turns each, and always making certain to keep them an equal distance apart from one another, even though they twisted ’round the rope. It practically made me dizzy, but she said patterns are important, and if it made me dizzy, then think what it would do to the Pooka. We chatted about this and that while she guided and I worked.—Say, did you know that her father Renaud was in Lord Roulan’s manor when the black wind came?”
“Ah, then,” said Borel, “perhaps the Widow Marie isn’t a widow after all.”
Flic frowned. “Your meaning?”
“Just this: since Chelle is yet alive, then there is a chance that others within the manor are alive as well. Of course, that presupposes the vale was carried up and away by the wind, rather than being turned to stone.”
“Ah, even so,” said Flic, “if there is a chance the others survived . . . Perhaps I should fly back and tell—”
“Oh, Flic, I think it better to not get anyone’s hopes up in case I am wrong.”
“Very well, my lord,” said Flic.
They sat a moment without speaking, and then Flic said, “What about the constable? What did he say when you told him of the Pooka?”
“He was shocked, to say the least. He wanted to get an armed party together and run down the beast.”
“Did you tell him that anyone who killed a Pooka would be cursed forever, and that the entire area would be blighted?”
“Oui,” said Borel. “I also told him that I had a plan to rid the area of the Pooka, and he was most glad to hear it.”
“Well, my prince, let us hope your plan works, whatever it is.”
Two candlemarks before sunset, Borel and Buzzer and Flic set off upriver, the Widow Marie and Daughter Renée and Constable Moreau the only ones to see them off.
As Borel strolled along the trace of road paralleling the bank, Flic said, “Tell me, my lord, you say that you must court a woman and get to know her before you know whether she is really your truelove, right?”
“Oui,” said Borel.
“Well, then, what of love at first sight? Do humans not experience such?”
“Humans oft fall in love at first sight,” said Borel.
“What of courtship then, my lord?”
“Then, Flic, it is very swift,” said Borel.
“Ha! No different from Fey, eh?”
Borel laughed, but made no reply.
After a moment Flic said, “If you insist upon doing it, haven’t you been courting Chelle and she courting you in your dreams?”
“Although it appears that way, Flic, I think one cannot truly court in a dream unless both sleepers are aware they are dreaming, and even then I wonder. You see, dreams are ephemeral, and though in this case I am aware in the dream that it is such a thing, Chelle is not, and therefore is subject to its whims, both during the dream and afterward. Hence, when she wakes, just as with any dream, courtship or no, she might not remember it at all. She might also be an entirely different person awake from what she is asleep. As I said before, in dreams inhibitions are greatly muted, and one can profess love for a total stranger and believe it to be true, and yet upon awakening will know such a thing to be entirely false.
“And so, my friend, I think it is only in our waking life that we might know of true love . . . and even that is not certain, for true love seems to be rare, as wonderful as it is.”
Flic snorted and said, “Humans: the hoops you jump through to find a mate. Me, I’d rather be a Sprite. Besides, I’ve found my truelove, though I’ve only known Fleurette for a brief part of a single day.”
Borel strode on upriver, both he and Flic pondering the oddities of the other’s Kind, each
knowing
the “one best way” for trueloves to find one another.
And the farther Borel walked, the louder came the rumble of the raging water ahead, until at last—with the sun setting and twilight drawing across the land—they came to the long, steep slant of the White Rapids, where the river narrowed and roared between sloping stone banks to thunder over rounded boulders and great jagged crags and slabs of rock as it plunged down the perilous incline.
Above the thunder of water hurtling apace, Flic said, “There, by that big rock—yes, that one there—that’s where the Pooka submerged.”
Borel strode up the slope and stopped opposite. “Here will I wait, and when night falls, here will I become a fool.”
“Remember, my prince, whatever else you have in mind, make him submit immediately.”
“Oui, Flic, I will try.”
Flic took to wing, Buzzer with him, and the Sprite hovered before Borel and said, “As soon as I get Buzzer settled, though she will be asleep in the night, I will return to watch over you, my lord.”
Borel shook his head. “Flic, for my plan to work, the Pooka must think I am alone. Any suspicion that I am with others, and he will become chary and thwart what I have in mind.”
Flic frowned in exasperation but said, “Oh, very well.” He looked about and pointed toward a tall sycamore nigh. “I will remain hidden high in the branches unless you are in great peril, in which case Argent and I will come to aid.”
“Argent?”
Flic patted the épée at his side. “My silver stinger. Renée named it so. It is a formidable blade, and all such require names.”
“Oh, Flic, I would rather you stay completely out of it. I don’t want you to get injured.”
“Nor would I see you hurt,” said Flic, his chin jutting out stubbornly.
Buzzer, orbiting about, sensed the tension and flew to hover at Flic’s side before Borel’s face. At this redoubtable show, Borel smiled and said, “Very well, Flic, you may come to my aid, but only in the extreme.”
“Hai!” cried Flic. “I’ll stab him in the eye.”
With that, the Sprite flew to the high branches of the sycamore, Buzzer following.
And Borel stood alone upon the bank and waited, the thundering rapids falling further into shadow as twilight slid across the sky, dragging the train of dark night after.
And as the first stars began to appear, up and out from the furious churn came a sleek, black horse with a long flowing mane and tail, and cruel, sulphurous yellow eyes.
And Borel, his tricorn askew and pulled down to the point where his ears stuck out and his forehead all but vanished, began trudging upslope along the stone bank and singing a tuneless air, his hands worrying a short length of slender line. And he took no note of the dark steed, ebon as night, standing but fetlock-deep in the midst of raging white water, though the bottom itself was fathoms down, the savage rapids having no effect whatsoever upon the jet-black beast.
And the raven-dark creature trotted through the fury and made its way toward the shore. When it gained the bank, it paced after Borel, a seemingly oblivious fool. And when it reached this unaware dupe, it paused at the man’s side and softly nickered.
Yet Borel continued to sing tunelessly and plod on.
The Pooka snorted, and trotted ahead and stood across the simpleton’s path.
Borel collided with the horse, and looked up. “Oh, my. A horse. Are you lost? So am I.”
The Pooka presented itself, inviting the imbecile to mount.
“Um, um . . .” Borel dithered from foot to foot. “What do they say? What do they say? Ah, yes: always look a lost horse in the mouth before you take a ride. Yes, that’s it; I am sure that I’ve got it right. So, my gone-astray steed, I am going to look into your mouth, and then I’ll go for a ride.”
But the simpleton, the nit, the ninny, he began walking toward the Pooka’s hindquarters, mumbling stupidly about having to look in the horse’s mouth.
The Pooka turned about and faced this fool.
“Now, now, Sir Lost Horse, I do need to look into your mouth. I am certain I have to see your teeth before I can go ariding with you.”
Once more the tomfool dullard started for the rear of the Pooka, and once more the Pooka turned ’round to face the gull.
“Listen to me, Lost Horse, I cannot ride unless I have a look in your mouth.”
For the third time the idiot human plodded toward the creature’s hindquarters, and, snorting in exasperation, the Pooka whirled to face the goose of a twit. And this time it showed its teeth.
“Oh, my, silly me, are these what I’m—”
In a flash and before the Pooka could react, Borel jammed the loop into the Pooka’s mouth and ’round the lower jaw and into the gap and jerked the slipknot tight, and leapt to the creature’s back and grabbed the mane and hauled hard against the rope.
A piercing scream of pain and rage rang through the night, for the Pooka had never before been fooled, and never before felt such pain.
And it leapt into the river and submerged, for it would drown this fool.
Borel barely had enough time to take a breath as they plunged into racing water, and he held the mane tightly in his left hand and hauled with all his might on the Gnome-made line.
And again the Pooka screamed in pain, but it dove for the bottom.
And the current buffeted and hammered at Borel, but he held on and haled back against the line, jerking again and again.
Yet he needed to breathe, but there was no air, and his diaphragm pumped, trying to take something into his lungs, be it air or not.
Screaming in agony, the Pooka raced through the water as if it were nought but ephemeral atmosphere, and, just as Borel knew that he would of a certainty drown, back onto the shore and into the woods galloped the creature. Borel breathed in great gulps of blessed air, even as the Pooka raced across the ground and crashed through thickets and slammed up against trees and rocks, trying to knock this deceitful person from its back.
But Borel hung on to the mane as well as the Gnome line, and he slid from side to side to avoid the boles and boulders and such, and he hauled hard against the rope.
“Submit!” cried Borel. “Submit!”
But the Pooka was strong and stubborn and enraged, and in spite of the pain it galloped on.
Of a sudden it transformed into a monstrous, hairy Bogleman with the head of a black goat. And it bit down on the line and shrieked in agony, for, with the three Pooka hairs woven throughout the rope, it was as if it were biting itself.
“Submit, I say!” cried Borel, even as the Pooka reached for the line to tear it from its own mouth. But Borel leaned back and threw all of his weight as well as all of his strength against the rope.
“Eeyagha!
” shrieked the Pooka, and it flung its hands wide and became a great dark vulture and took to wing.
Up it flew and up, skreighing in agony, the rope through the vulture’s beak, Borel hanging on and fiercely haling back on the line and shouting for the Pooka to submit, while the slipknot clenched tighter and tighter.
Yet the Pooka did not give in, but instead it rolled over and over in the air, trying to shake loose its tormentor, trying to make him plummet to his death ’gainst the ground far below. Yet the only thing that fell away from the Pooka was Borel’s long-knife, for earlier, on a run through a thicket, the keeper had jolted free, and now as the Pooka repeatedly spun upside down the weapon slipped loose from its sheath and tumbled away, bronze glittering against the starlight to vanish in the night.
Above his own shouts for the creature to yield, Borel became aware of Flic shrieking. The prince looked over his shoulder and against the starry night sky he saw the tiny Sprite, swift as an arrow, overtaking the great black bird. And as Flic neared he cried out, “My lord, my lord, if he goes much higher, the air will get too thin for you to breathe and you will lose your strength and swoon.”
Now Flic drew his épée, and—“Yahhh!”—he dove at the head of the monstrous scavenger and stabbed him with Argent, the vulture to
skraw
in related hurt.
And Borel hauled hard at the rope, and agonized screams filled the sky.