Dennis McKiernan: Once upon a Summer Day

Borel held up a hand. “Cease. Cease. I will consider what you have said. But for now, let us forget Hradian, and instead enjoy this fine meal, and afterward retire to the ballroom and hear Camille sing, Alain, too, and then perhaps all of us can round up some of the household and form an orchestra and partners and dance the night away.”

“Splendid idea, Borel,” said Alain. He stood and stepped to the pull cord and gave it a tug. “Anything to take your mind off this mad plan of yours.” Moments later a slender, grey-haired man dressed all in black appeared. “Lanval,” said Alain, “please begin recruiting musicians and dancers from among the staff. We’re going to have a soiree this eve.” As Lanval bowed, a corner of his mouth briefly twitched upward, and he stepped out to gather folk for a spree. When Alain resumed his seat he said, “Besides, Borel, a frolic might well lift this darkness from you o’er that dream or sending you had.”

In the ballroom of Summerwood Manor, lords and ladies and maids and lads all engaged in dancing the complex quadrille, and the slow and stately minuet, as well as the prancing rade, and the lively and vigorous caper of the reel. Before and after each dance, Camille sang arias, and she and Alain sang duets-she in her clear and pure soprano, and he in his flawless tenor. And highborn and low-alike all raised their voices in the cascading roundelays. The evening was filled with gaiety and laughter, yet in the early going oft did Camille and Liaze and Celeste and Alain glance at Borel to see if his glum mood persisted. As far as they could tell, he was enjoying the night immensely, and so they cast their concerns aside and gave over themselves to the merrymaking.

Long did the festivity last, and it was in the wee hours when all finally went to bed.

And none were awake in the faint dawnlight, when Borel and his Wolves slipped like grey ghosts through the mist of the morn and across the grounds of Summerwood Manor… and up the far slopes and beyond.

As he reached the top of the rise, Borel paused and looked back at Summerwood Manor, where ethereal mist twined ’round the great mansion and across its widespread grounds in the silvery light of the oncoming dawn. His Wolves gathered about and pricked their ears and looked intently this way and that, or raised their muzzles into the air, seeking to know why their master had paused, seeking to hear or see or scent what he had sensed. Borel then turned and with an utterance somewhere between a word and a growl, he spoke to the pack, and then, Wolves to the fore and aflank and aft, they all set off at an easy lope through the summer woodland as day washed across the sky.

Into the leafy forest they trotted at their customary pace for long journeys, one they could maintain for candlemarks on end. And long gleaming shafts of morning sunlight arrowed high across the tops of the trees and crept downward with the rising sun. Neither cloak nor vest did Borel wear, for here in the Summerwood the days were warm and the nights mild, and little was needed for comfort. Even so, those garments were rolled atop his pack, along with warmer gear, for Autumnwood lay ahead, with chill Winterwood beyond. Yet for now Borel went lightly dressed, as through the woodland they passed.

All that morn they ran at the easy pace, with small game and large scattering before them or freezing motionless so as not to be seen, while limbrunners scolded down at them from the safety of the branches above. Borel and the pack passed among moss-laden trunks of great hoary trees and wee Fey Folk among the roots or behind the boles or in a scatter of stone looked up from their endeavors as the Prince of the Winterwood and his escort loped by. Across warm and bright fields and sunlit glades burdened with wild summer flowers did Borel and his entourage run, where the air was alive with the drone of bees flitting from blossom to blossom to burrow in and gather nectar and pollen. Butterflies, too, vividly danced across the meadows, occasionally stopping on petals to delicately sit and sip. Hummingbirds burr ed through the air and drank of the sweet liquid among floral bouquets, and now and again Borel did see a gossamer-winged sprite playing among the blooms. Yet all this was but glimpsed in passing, for the prince and his Wolves paused not in these burgeoning glades. Instead, they pressed on through forest and field alike, only stopping now and again at sparkling streams to slake their growing thirst.

As the sun rode through the zenith, Borel halted under a broad oak at the edge of a grass-laden meadow, and there he took a cold meal of bread and jerky, while his Wolves foraged in the field at hand for mice and voles and other such ample fare.

After a short rest, again they took up the course, and miles fled in their wake as across the Summerwood they ran, the cool green forest shaded by rustling leaves above, with shimmering golden sunbeams dappling the growth below.

Down into a river-fed gorge they went, the lucid water sparkling, greensward and willowy thickets adorning its banks. From somewhere ahead came the sound of a cascade falling into water, and soon Borel and his Wolves trotted alongside a spread of falls pouring down amid a spray of rainbows into a wide, sunlit pool. Here did they stop to drink of the pellucid mere, and in the glitter a handful of Waterfolk cavorted. Two foot long and nearly transparent they were, as of water itself come alive. Webbed fingers and long webbed feet they had, the latter somewhat like fish-tails. Translucent hair streamed down from their heads, as if made of flowing tendrils of crystal. Over and under and ’round one another, darting this way and that they swam, as if playing tag or some other merry game, and though they were completely engulfed in lucid water, still did their laughter come ringing clear above the roar of the cataracts.

Borel and the Wolves, their thirst now slaked, once again trotted onward; and up and out from the ravine they loped and in among the woodland again.

It was nigh sundown when they came to a looming wall of twilight, and this they entered, the day growing dimmer as they went, and then brighter as on through the tenebrous marge they pressed. When once more they reached daylight, they came into a color-splashed forest, the trees adorned in scarlet and russet and gold. There was a nip in the air, for they had left the Summerwood behind and to the Autumnwood had come.

Just after crossing the marge into the Autumnwood, Borel called a halt to the run and set about making a camp ’neath the limbs of an apple tree, its bounty ready for harvest. He put the Wolves to hunting, and shortly there were two coneys spitted above the fire, and several others being consumed by the pack.

Nearby, a patch of wild onions grew along a small rill, and Borel gathered a few of these and washed them clean. He plucked two of the red fruit from above. The apples and onions alike would be replenished overnight, for this was the wondrous Autumnwood, where such things did happen: no matter whether picked, plucked, shorn, or dug, whatever was reaped somehow reappeared when none was looking. Only wild game seemed vulnerable within this forest where falltime ever ruled, yet given the fecundity of such fare-be it furred or feathered or scaled-it would not be long ere whatever was taken came to full fruition again.

Yet Borel did not ponder upon the marvel of the Autumnwood as he set about making his meal, for in this demesne it seemed as natural to him as breathing or eating or sleeping.

Soon the savory smell of rabbit on a spit, with juices dripping into the flames, mingled on the crisp air with the sweetness of fresh apples and the sharp tang of onion. And the Wolves, now finished with their own meals, occasionally turned toward the fire and raised their noses and inhaled the odor of cooking, though for the main they stood alert, with ears pricked and eyes scanning the surround for any sign of intruders.