Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Summer Day

There was yet a good part of the night remaining, and though he did not believe he could fall asleep, along with Flic, Borel lay down to get whatever rest remained, for if the storm was truly gone, then when daylight came, they would be on their way again.

Yet his thoughts were churning-thoughts of Chelle and the lady in white and of Flic and Buzzer and their journey and of Roulan’s stone vale and of pink-petaled shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines and… and…

… and he drifted into slumber.

“Ah, I see you brought your bow again,” said Chelle.

“And, Sieur, I would string it if I might.”

Borel grinned and handed her the weapon.

Somewhere, just on the edge of hearing, a squeaking sounded, or perhaps it was music; it was entirely too faint to tell.

Chelle set the lower bowstring loop into the nock at the end of the lower limb. She grounded that end against the floor and grasped the upper limb and stepped her right leg in between the body of the bow and the string. Taking the upper loop in her left hand, with her right she began to bend the bow. The gap between the upper-limb nock and the loop narrowed and narrowed, yet not enough for her to set the string in place. She relaxed and looked at Borel, the smile still on his face. She blew a stray lock of her golden hair up from her forehead and took a deep breath and gritted her teeth and bent the bow again… and again… and yet again, but try as she might, she simply could not set the upper loop in place.

The squeaking grew, or mayhap the music grew, and now clearly but faintly sounded.

Borel frowned and looked about for the source, but he found nought.

Finally, after repeated attempts, Chelle laughed and relaxed and gave the bow back to Borel. “You said I might find it difficult to string, and I thought I would try.”

The squeaking, the music, was no longer faint, yet Chelle seemed to pay it no heed.

Borel slung the bow by its carrying thong and said, “Well, Cherie, what would you have us do this eve? I am certain I can find a suitable setting, but I would have you choose the deeds.”

In spite of the shadows, Borel could see a shade of red creeping up Chelle’s face. “My lord, often have we come close to making lo-”

From below there came up the stairwell the sound of a door opening.

Now the squeaking became a squeal, or the music grew shrill, and echoed up the stairwell and down.

Chelle gasped, and glanced at one of the windows. “Oh, my Borel, you must flee.”

A door closed somewhere below.

“Flee?”

“ ’Tis the dark of the moon, and Rhensibe said she would come.”

“Rhensibe?” said Borel. “She is here?” He unslung his bow and strung it.

Above the growing shrill music, the growing squeal, footsteps sounded, as if someone crossed a stone floor far below.

“She said she would come on the day of the dark of the moon, to gloat and tell me that there was but a fortnight and one ere the moon rises full.”

Borel pulled a flint-tipped arrow from his quiver.

Now the footsteps started up the stairs.

“You cannot face her, my lord.” Chelle pressed her hands against Borel’s chest and pled, “Flee through your secret door.”

“Let her come,” gritted Borel, “for I will not take flight.”

Much like a wagon wheel grown rusty and needing grease, the squealing, the music, sounded loudly, but above that shrill din the footsteps sounded even louder as they came up the spiral stairway.

Borel moved to the side and nocked the arrow and started toward the well opening, but Chelle flung herself in front of him. “My lord, she is too powerful a sorciere. I beg you to fly through the door.”

“Go,” said Borel, “seek safety beyond the door, while I deal with Rhensibe,” and again he moved to one side, and he drew the arrow to the full and took aim at the opening where Rhensibe would first appear.

“I cannot, my love, for if I do, she will discover that very door and use it to-”

The strident screeching drowned out Chelle’s words, but the footsteps thudded on upward, closer, ever closer, now just a — the screeching rose — the steps grew louder Chelle said softly but clearly, “Find me, Borel. Please find me. And hurry.”

— and of a sudden the walls began to fade, and Borel cried out, “No! Chelle, do not take the dream away! Do not-”

— Borel jolted awake on his feet in the dawn, and in his hands he held his strung bow, with an arrow nocked and drawn to the full.

“My lord, what peril comes?” cried Flic, the Sprite awing and with his silver epee in hand.

“Merde!” shouted Borel and eased his draw and stomped about, cursing, “Merde! Merde! Merde!”

“My lord?” said Flic.

“Flic, Flic, Chelle is in the hands of Rhensibe, and I could do nought to save her.”

“Are you certain, my lord? ’Tis but a dream, you know.”

“Of course I am certain!” shouted Borel, and Flic, shocked, backed through the air and away.

Borel slumped to the dirt next to the fire and looked up to see the Sprite yet flying, Buzzer now hovering at his side. “Ah, Flic, I am sorry. It’s just that I might have been able to slay Rhensibe.”

“In a dream?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

Flic sheathed his epee and settled down opposite the prince, Buzzer alighting as well. “Tell me this dream,” said the Sprite.

Borel sighed and said, “Rhensibe was coming up the stairs of the turret, and Chelle took away the dream before I had a chance to loose an arrow at the witch.”

“Rhensibe is a witch, then?” said Flic.

“Chelle called her a sorciere,” said Borel.

“Ah, then, that agrees with what Charite and Maurice told us back nigh Roulan’s vale,” said Flic.

Absently, Borel nodded.

“My lord,” said Flic, “I think Chelle did the prudent thing, casting you out of her reve.”

Borel looked up. “What?”

“Heed, Prince Borel: had Rhensibe found you in the dream, she is a sorciere and could have done you great harm through magie, whereas I think your arrow-being stone-tipped and not magique at all-would have done no harm whatsoever to her.”

Borel frowned and vented a hard sigh and said, “Perhaps you are right, Flic, but, oh, I would have spitted her neatly.”

“I’m sure you would have, my lord,” said Flic.

Borel sighed again, this time more softly, and he said, “Chelle’s last words to me were ‘Find me, Borel. Please find me. And hurry.’ ”

Borel looked out through the stone ruins of the tower at the yet clouded sky of dawn, and he turned and rummaged within the rucksack and said, “Let us break fast swiftly, and then away, for time grows ever more short.”

To make certain that they were on the correct line, they returned to the edge of the dip in the land where grew the cedar grove, and they found the stand trunk-deep in water. Buzzer flew up and, even though the just-risen sun was not visible behind the cast of the sky, she circled about and took a bearing and then shot off in the direction where the sun would set.

The prince followed at a lope, with Flic once again riding in his customary position in the prow of Borel’s hat.

Across the grassy, rock-laden highlands the prince ran, the cliffs always to the left, with the ocean far below, and still the waters were aroil from the storm, great swells crashing headlong into stone.

On he ran and on, and now and again they passed an isolated farmstead with farmers at work afield and livestock grazing upon the green grass and clover. Occasionally they could see a sailing vessel far out upon the churning sea, making headway either with or against or athwart the waves in the brisk breezes yet blowing.