Once Upon a Summer Day (30 page)

Again and again, Flic stabbed at the hideous bird, and again and again Borel jerked at the rope and called for the Pooka to yield, and at last the creature began spiralling downward.

It landed in craggy mountains and transformed into a huge black goat, and it began dashing its flanks against icy crags and pinnacles and massifs and hurtling in great leaps and bounds up and down sheer slopes and across deep chasms. And Borel shouted at Flic to stay back, else the Sprite might be smashed between creature and stone.

Borel hung on and wrenched the jaw loop even tighter and shouted for the creature to submit, but still the Pooka screamed in agony and rage and slammed into rock and ice, but Borel held on and slipped from side to side to avoid being crushed. Now the black goat leapt down the vertical steeps of the mountain toward the vale below, landing in a series of bone-jarring jolts in an attempt to dislodge this vile human from its back. And Borel, exhausted and battered, knew that he had not the strength left for another transformation and wild ride. And even as they reached the vale and Borel was certain the creature would win, the Pooka transformed back into the black steed with its sulphurous, burning yellow eyes, and it stopped and stood still, trembling, its sides heaving as it moaned in pain.

And then, its words muted by the rope ’round its jaw, it said, “What is it you wish, O Man?”

“ I
t is not a wish I desire, but rather aid in reaching a place,” said Borel, yet grasping the lower-jaw rope.

“Where, then, is it you wish to go?” said the Pooka.

“The Endless Sands,” said Borel.

“Endless Sands?”

“Oui,” said Borel. “A desert of sand stretching forever, or so the tales would have it be.”

The Pooka snorted. “I am a creature of the water. What would I know of deserts?”

Borel gave the rope a tug. The Pooka moaned and cried out, “Spare me, my lord, for I am telling the truth. I know nothing of any Endless Sands.”

“He is of the Dark Fey, my prince,” said Flic, waving his silver épée. “He might be trying to trick you, to trick us. Let me jab him with Argent, and then he’ll tell the truth.”

Borel shook his head and said, “Non, my friend, I would not have you prick him, at least not yet.”

“Oh, pox!” said Flic, clearly disappointed.

“Pooka,” said Borel, “the Lady Wyrd sent me to master you, and so I have, and you will—”

“Skuld?” asked the Pooka. “Skuld sent you after me?”

“Indeed,” said Borel.

The Pooka shuddered and said, “Then, my lord, I must speak the truth, and I have: I know nought of the Endless Sands.”

“My lord, please let me jab him,” said Flic. “Argent will puncture his lies.”

“Sprite,” said the Pooka, “I swear by the Lady Skuld, I am telling the truth.”

“I believe him,” said Borel, “for none can tempt the Fates by taking their names in vain.”

Flic frowned and sighed and sheathed his épée and said, “Well . . . if he truly does not know, and since Lady Skuld sent you to triumph over him, perhaps you are to keep the Pooka as your mount.”

“
Je vous en prie,
non, my lord,” said the Pooka. “Oh, please, I beg of you. Were you to take me as your mount I would die.”

Borel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Die?”

“I cannot withstand the sun.”

“You could ride him at night,” said Flic.

“Do not heed the Sprite, my lord,” said the Pooka, “for every nighttide as dawn draws nigh I must return to water ere the sun rises, and water may not be at hand if I serve you as a mount.”

“Well, then,” said Flic, “if that be the case, I say let him die in the sunlight, for he is a murderer.”

“No, I am not,” said the Pooka.

“What of those three men who drowned?” asked Borel.

“They were foolish enough to pursue me,” said the Pooka. “In spite of my warnings, nigh dawn they chased me into the rapids and were caught in the flow. I was helpless to aid them, for the sun was then rising.”

Borel frowned. “If I cannot use you as a mount, and if you know not where the Endless Sands lie, then why would Lady Wyrd send me to master you?”

The Pooka said nought, but Flic volunteered, “Perhaps it is as she said: to give aid to those in need, and the steads back nigh the rapids are certainly in need of relief from this Dark Fey.”

“Non, my friend,” said Borel. “Recall what she actually uttered: ‘You must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed to find the Endless Sands.’ ”

“Skuld said that of me?” asked the Pooka.

“Oui,” replied Borel. “Hence you must know of the Endless—” Borel’s eyes widened in revelation. “Ah, wait, you must know of them or know of someone who does.”

“My lord, it is as you say, for although I do not know of these sands, I do know of someone who might.”

“And that would be . . . ?” said Flic.

“The King Under the Hill,” said the Pooka.

“Oh, my,” said Flic. “Someone even more dangerous.”

“More dangerous?” said Borel.

“More dangerous than the Pooka, my lord,” said Flic.

“Nevertheless,” said Borel, “I would speak to this King Under the Hill. Where will I find him, Pooka?”

“I do not know, my lord,” replied the Dark Fey.

Borel yanked on the lower-jaw rope.

“My lord, my lord,” cried the Pooka. “I swear, I do not know, but I know of those who do.”

“And they would be . . . ?” said Flic.

“The Riders Who Cannot Dismount,” replied the Pooka, groaning in pain. “They would know, for the king himself cursed them.”

“And where can I find these riders?” said Borel.

“They frequently pass through the Glade of the Mere,” said the Pooka. “And
that
I can show you, for therein lies a water refuge.”

“Then let us go,” said Borel.

“Wait, my lord. What of Bu—what of our bee?” said Flic, the Sprite unwilling for a Dark Fey to know any of their names, not even the common ones.

“We must fetch her,” said Borel. “I would not abandon our companion.” He leaned forward and said to the Pooka, “I would have you fly back to the rapids, where we have a friend awaiting, and then take us to this Glade of the Mere.”

“It is a long flight, my lord,” said the Pooka, “and if you could just loosen the clench of this rope even if only a bit.”

“No, no!” cried Flic. “It is a trick, and remember, he is a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed.”

“I remember,” said Borel. “Non, Dark Fey, I will not loosen the clench by as much as an iota until we are delivered unto the Glade of the Mere.”

“Very well, my lord,” said the Pooka, and he transformed into a giant eagle and took to wing, Borel holding on to feathers and the rope and locking his knees firmly against the eagle’s flanks.

With Flic now standing in the prow of Borel’s tricorn and hanging on tightly to the brim, and with Borel on the eagle’s back and hanging on just as tightly, over the land they flew, starlight gleaming in rivers and lakes.

The eagle was swift, and soon they came to the White Rapids, where they landed beside the Meander, though in this part of the river it did not meander at all.

Flic flew up into the sycamore, and in moments came flying back, sleeping Buzzer in his arms, the Sprite rather struggling in flight, for the bee was nearly as big as he. Somewhat disturbed by the movement was Buzzer, and her wings trembled, but Flic silently spoke to her, soothing and calming the bee in the night.

On the tricorn Flic landed, and when he and Buzzer were well settled, at a signal from Borel the giant eagle took to wing, and up it spiralled and up, and then shot off toward the mountains. Long did it fly, league after league, and through several looming twilight walls of Faery, passing over farm fields and inlets; above long stretches of tundra, where herds of antlered animals grazed; over stretches of snow and ice; above vine-laden jungles; over villages and towns; over open prairies with shaggy beasts standing asleep in the night; and across other realms as well.

Finally, even as the waning crescent moon rose into the sky, above a great forest flew the eagle, now slowly gliding down through the air until at last it spiralled ’round and ’round to come to rest nigh a small lake in an open glade.

There were no riders on horses within.

“Here is the only place where I know the riders come,” said the Pooka, even as it shifted back into the form of a dark horse with sulphurous yellow eyes.

“There’s no one here,” said Flic, his hand moving to the hilt of his épée. “Perhaps this is just a trick.”

“No,” said the Pooka. “Did I not swear on Lady Skuld?”

“Well, there’s that,” said Flic.

“Pooka,” said Borel, “a vow taken in the name of Skuld is one not to be broken.”

“Indeed, my lord,” said the Pooka, his voice yet laced with pain.

“Then, ere I loose you,” said Borel, “there is a pledge I would have you make, a vow—”

“Oh, my lord, loose me now,” said the Pooka, “loose me now. I will swear the vow when I am free of this agony.”

“No, no!” cried Flic.

Borel said, “I know, my friend: he is a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed.”

The Pooka sighed. “What is this vow, my lord?”

“Ere I tell you the vow,” said Borel, “three men died because of your rampages, Pooka. I ask you, what would be a fitting punishment?”

“None, my lord,” replied the Pooka. “They did not give me my due, and I justly destroyed their fences and gave some of them a ride. They themselves are responsible for their own deaths, for they chased me into the rapids, trying to kill me, but instead got caught in the flow and drowned of their own accord. Hence, no punishment is warranted.”

“Hmm . . .” mused Borel. “Your rampage against them is still not defensible. Even so, they tried to murder you.”

“Yes, yes, murder me,” said the Pooka. “That’s absolutely correct. That’s why no punishment or vow is due.”

“Not so,” said Borel. “Here is what I would have you swear on the names of Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd—”

“All three Fates, my lord?”

“Yes, Pooka, all three. A more binding oath I cannot imagine.”

The Pooka sighed and said, “Yes, my lord.”

“Here it is then,” said Borel: “You must altogether leave the realm of the White Rapids and never rampage on men again—”

“Not rampage? But they did not give me my due.”

“Pooka!” snapped Borel. “What you name as getting ‘your due’ is nought but obtaining by threat that which you desire. It was not yours to begin with, and you did nought to earn it—no labor nor services rendered. And so would I have you swear.”

“My lord,” said the Pooka, “if I cannot rampage against men, then what, pray tell, will you allow?”

Borel sighed. “I would have you act as your more gentle Pooka brethren: you, like they, can take men for wild rides and dump them in muddy ditches and quag holes, just as long as they will not die or sustain any but superficial injury.”

“My lord, I cannot merely—”

Borel gave a yank on the jaw rope.

The Pooka moaned and said, “Though you yourself are obtaining by force and threat that which you desire—an offense you accuse me of—I will take your oath.”

“Have him also swear to leave us unharmed,” said Flic. “You, the bee, and me, my lord, for I do not trust him.”

Borel nodded. “You will swear by the Ladies Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd all of these things I—we—demand.”

The Pooka sighed and spoke the oath, as elaborated upon and administered by Borel.

At last Borel dismounted. And he loosened the lower-jaw rope and set the Pooka free. With a sigh of relief the Pooka worked his jaw and lips, feeling of them for residual hurt. But with the three Pooka hairs now out of his mouth, miraculously it seemed there was none. And the Pooka said, “My lord, you fooled me by playing the dolt even better than any third son could, and I applaud you for it. You were too clever for me by far. Yet heed: never again will I be duped by such a trick or even one closely linked.”

Borel smiled and said, “All I ask of you is to keep your oath, Dark Fey.”

“Oh, that I will do, else who knows what the Fates would have in store for me?” The Pooka shuddered and added, “Perhaps they would assail me with even more of your kind.”

With that the Pooka transformed into a great bird and flew away in the starry moonlit night.