Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Summer Day

They rode by day and camped by night, and midmorn of the third day they passed through a twilight border and came unto the Autumnwood.

They paused and shed their winter gear and donned clothes suited for cool days and brisk nights. Then they rode on, now accompanied by unseen gigglers down among the underbrush and running from tree to rock to tree.

Chelle was astounded by the abundance within this woodland, and when they camped that eve she simply had to see if what she had dreamed with Borel was true. And so she plucked an apple from a tree in a nearby orchard, and tied a ribbon about the particular twig whence it came. The apple itself was delectable, and within a candlemark she returned to the tree and looked at the beribboned twig, and thereon a ripe apple dangled, just like the one she had eaten. When she returned to camp, Borel looked up, a question in his eyes. “I had to make certain that I had not been befooled by a mischievous tease,” said Chelle, by way of explanation.

“Mischievous tease?” said Borel, frowning, looking about, clearly perplexed. “Who might that be?”

Chelle leaned over and kissed him, but she otherwise didn’t enlighten him.

All the next day it rained, and the rade went a bit slower, the footing more difficult in places along the way, and they rode with their cloaks held close and with the hoods pulled up, as the rain fell from the overcast above.

Past cascading waterfalls and along high-running streams they fared, and through woodlands adrip. And that night they camped on a bit of a knoll, for down lower it was quite wet.

The next day dawned clear, as did the day after, and onward they went, and in midafternoon of the sixth day of travel they rode past a field of grain and up the long slope, and nigh the top sat a huge man beneath an oak, a great scythe across his knees.

As the prince approached, the man stood and doffed his hat, revealing a shock of red hair, and he bowed low.

“Afternoon, Reaper,” said Borel, riding past.

“Afternoon, Prince Borel,” said the man, but he remained bowed.

Borel growled something unto Slate, and Slate in turn spoke the same language to Trot and Loll and Blue-eye, and that trio broke away from the escort and went hunting.

“Conies on the way, Reaper,” said Borel.

“Thank you, my lord,” said the huge man, but he didn’t straighten from his bow until the entire cavalcade had ridden by.

“Who was that?” asked Chelle, when she and Borel were out of earshot.

“I call him the Reaper, for he scythes grain for any who need it. Yet beyond that I don’t know. It seems he has always been there, sitting under that tree, and none I know can tell me his tale, and I feel it improper to ask him, for I sense there is a great sorrow involved.”

They rode a bit farther, and then Chelle said, “Perhaps Camille is right, and sometime long past a bard of the Keltoi told a tale about a reaper sitting under an oak, and he has been there ever since.”

“If so,” said Borel, “then that would make him one of the Firsts.”

“First of his Kind, you mean?”

Borel nodded and said, “And perhaps the last.”

On they rode and on, and Trot and Loll and Blue-eye came running and rejoined the escort, and Borel growled a word and Trot answered.

“Three,” said Borel.

“Three?”

“Conies,” said Borel.

“Your Wolves can count?” asked Chelle.

Borel frowned. “Perhaps. But I know it was three because Trot said they each caught one.”

“Ah,” said Chelle. “Three for the Reaper.”

“Two only,” said Borel. “They ate the other themselves.”

As sunset drew near, they came unto another twilight marge, and they crossed over to come into the Summerwood.

The night was balmy and they changed into still lighter clothes even as they made camp.

The next morn they set out across this forest, the summer day warming, birds singing, insects humming, among them bumblebees. And Borel and Chelle looked for Buzzer, but finally Borel said, “Love, without Flic alongside, these all look like Buzzer to me.”

Chelle ruefully grinned and said, “Me, too.” Then she frowned and added, “I wonder if all humans look alike to bees?”

Borel said, “I think Buzzer came to recognize us as separate individuals.”

Chelle nodded. “We should ask Flic.”

All that day they rode, and toward evening Gerard spurred nigh. “My lord,” he said, “shall we press on, or instead make camp?”

Borel looked at Chelle, and she said, “If I understand the meaning beneath Gerard’s question, I advise we camp, else we’ll arrive at Summerwood Manor in the depths of night. I think that not appropriate for either our staff or that of Prince Alain.”

“We camp, Gerard,” said Borel.

The next day in midmorn they came to a long slope leading to Summerwood Manor below. Gerard sounded a resonant call on a horn, and as the cry echoed throughout the woodland, the rade progressed downward.

As they rode, Michelle studied the estate: the mansion itself stood some four or five storeys in height, though here and there it rose above even that; it was broad and deep with many wings, and even courtyards within. The far-flung grounds about the great chateau were surrounded by a lengthy high stone wall, with gates standing at the midpoints, at the moment all closed. Inside the wall there were groves of trees and gardens with pathways through, as well as a small lake, and “Oh, Borel, a hedge maze.”

Borel smiled and said, “You should try it, love; to find the center is the goal, yet it is the most fun when one gets lost,” and on down the slope they rode.

Several outbuildings ranged along part of one wall at the back of the manse: a stable, a carriage house, a smithery, barns for the storage of grain and hay, and various utility sheds, some large, others small.

It was a great deal like her pere’s estate, though on a much grander scale.

And they rode through one of the gates and along a white stone lane curving between two lines of old oaks standing sentry, their limbs arching overhead and forming a canopy. Across a stone bridge they went, a stream meandering under, with graceful black swans aswimming. They emerged from the oaken canopy, and straight ahead across a broad mead stood the great chateau. And waiting in the forecourt were servants to take charge of the horses.

They dismounted at a large and deep portico, and Borel offered his arm to Chelle, and into the manse they strode.

At the doorway stood a grey-haired, blue-eyed, lean man dressed in black.

“Lanval,” said Borel.

“My lord,” said Lanval, and he looked at Chelle and smiled.

“Lady Michelle, I present Lanval, steward of Summerwood Manor.” As Lanval bowed, Borel added, “Lady Michelle is Duke Roulan’s daughter, and soon to be mistress of the Winterwood, for we are betrothed.”

Lanval nodded, yet this was not news to him, for messages between the Winterwood and the other Forests of the Seasons had flown back and forth by falcon.

“My lord, my lady,” said Lanval. And he gestured and said, “Shall we?” And down the short corridor they stepped to come unto the welcoming hall, where on an inlaid depiction of a green oak in the center of the floor stood a man and three women; and Lanval called out, “My Lord Alain, and my Ladies Celeste, Liaze, and Camille, I present Lord Borel, Prince of the Winterwood, and the Lady Michelle, daughter of Duke Roulan and betrothed of Prince Borel.”

Borel and Alain bowed, and Celeste, Liaze, Camille, and Michelle curtseyed, and then, unable to contain themselves any longer, Alain and Camille and Celeste and Liaze rushed forward, and hugged and kissed Borel and embraced Chelle, and they all talked at once and laughed and drew the Prince of the Winterwood and his truelove down the hall to a sitting room, where tea and scones and jellies awaited. And as all took seat and Camille served, Alain said, “Well, big brother, you and Michelle have a tale to tell, one we are very interested in hearing. But before you begin, I have the strangest dream to relate to you, a dream shared by everyone in this household: it seems you and a masked”-of a sudden Alain looked at Michelle and said-“Oh, my, it was you! You were the masked lady, Michelle. And you and Borel were here at a gala in Summerwood Manor, and you taught us a strange dance you called the bee dance and-”