Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Summer Day

She is real. I know it. Not just a dream but real. How I know this I cannot say, but nevertheless I do. And she is in peril, and there is but a moon left ere something dire comes afoot or awing or aslither or however else it might arrive. I must do something. I must! But what? — Ah, the reaper had it right. A seer. I must consult a seer, a dream seer-a voyant de reves. No, wait. Better yet a diviner of dreams-a devin de reves — and the nearest diviner is Vadun, a day beyond the cursed part of my demesne. I will pass by Hradian’s cote on the way. Two birds with one stone, or so I hope.

Of a sudden the wind gusted and banged one of the shutters to and then flung it wide only to slam the other about. Snatched from his musings, Borel grabbed the boards and closed and locked them and drew the window sash. He stood for a moment in the thin beam of moonlight shining inward through the small gap, and then went back to his bed. Yet he did not sleep again that night, his mind atumble with inchoate thoughts, imperfectly formed and vague… and in the end quite pointless, for he did not know who she was, nor where she was, nor what hazard she faced. He only knew she was in danger, and time grew perilously short.

Tossing, turning, unable to sleep, at last Borel left his bed just as the moon set and pale dawn graced the sky.

“But, my lord, so soon?” asked the steward. “You are not yet rested from your journey here.”

“I must, Arnot. She is in peril, and time is of the essence.”

They stood in the armory, Borel buckling on his leather-armor vest, Gerard fussing about, slipping things into the rucksack, while Jules, the armsmaster, handed Borel his gear.

Arnot, however, off to one side, eyed the weaponry all ’round the chamber: swords, halberds, axes, bows, long-knives, shields, bucklers, war hammers, chain, breastplates, and other such arms and armor, all marked with a silvery snowflake. Would that his lord would take up better weapons and protection-a good war hammer, a bronze breastplate, a helm, rerebraces, vambraces, cuissarts, greaves, and knee and elbow guards, as well as a shield-but Borel seemed to prefer to go lightly.

With a sigh, Jules, tall and dark-haired, took up Borel’s bow-its grip polished ironwood, its limbs white horn, its bowstring intertwined strands of waxed silk-and turned to the prince. “Perhaps, my lord, it was merely the groan of the wind made you dream so. It was quite fierce last night.”

“Non, my friend, not the wind, instead ’twas a sending, I am certain. She is real, and somehow we are linked.”

“And where do you propose to go?” asked Arnot.

“To Vadun. He is a dream diviner-a devin de reves — and if any can unravel her location, Vadun is the one to do so.”

“But, my prince, that means going through the cursed section of the ’Wood, and Hradian lives just beyond the blight. Let me round up some men, and we will go armed with you.”

“Non, Arnot,” said Borel, taking his long-knife from Jules and belting it on and strapping it to his right thigh. “I would not put you or them in peril.”

“Then, my lord, I suggest you swing wide of her cottage,” said Jules.

Borel shook his head. “My sire asked me to find out if the witch yet dwells in her cote; you see, after Alain’s wedding, then will we raise a warband and run her down.”

“But, my lord,” said Gerard, the valet’s voice tight with stress, “you needn’t go nigh; we can send the Sprites to see if she yet resides therein.”

“Non, Gerard. The Sprites avoid the cursed section entirely; they fear to go near. And Hradian’s cottage lies on the far bound. Instead, I must go.”

“Ah, this is a scouting mission then?” said Jules.

“Indeed,” replied Borel, turning aside to take up his quiver, hence his gaze did not meet that of his armsmaster nor his steward nor his loyal valet.

“When do you plan on returning, Lord Borel?” asked Arnot.

“Before Alain and Camille’s wedding three months hence,” replied Borel, slipping the quiver baldric over his head and across one shoulder.

“My lord?”

“If Vadun interprets my dream and it is true, I have but a moon-nay, a day less than a moon-ere the lady must face her peril. At a minimum-twenty-eight days hence-I intend to be with her when that occurs, and I know not how far away lies this stone chamber surrounded by daggers dire. And so, if it takes the full of that time to reach her, and a like amount returning, then I should be back in two moons, well before Alain and Camille’s wedding. Yet I hope that I can find her ere the whole of this moon has passed, for I would spirit her safely away with days to spare.”

Jules handed the bow to the prince and stood back and examined him, then grunted in satisfaction. The prince seemed ready. But then the armsmaster frowned and said, “My lord, concerning this dream or sending-the daggers may merely be symbolic as to the threat she faces. They could represent an army besieging a palace, or other such encircling hazard. If that is true, you may need a warband or even an army to meet the peril beleaguering this damsel. If so, what then, Prince Borel?”

“I am hoping Vadun can tell me what is needed.”

Borel took up his rucksack and stepped from the armory, the three men following. They passed down long corridors to come to the welcoming hall, and thence unto the main entrance and out into the courtyard. And there awaited Borel’s Wolves, yipping and yammering and milling about, for they had sensed that another run lay ahead. How they knew the prince would be leaving this day, none could fathom, yet sense it they had, and they were eagerly waiting.

Prince Borel shouldered his rucksack and adjusted the straps to keep it from interfering with the quiver, then he slung his bow by its carrying thong and, with a final adieu to the trio, he set out across the courtyard at the Wolfpace he could sustain all day.

Shivering with the cold, Arnot, Jules, and Gerard watched until the prince passed over the flat and started down the slope beyond, and then with sighs they turned and stepped back into the warm and comfortable halls of Winterwood Manor.

All that day Borel and the pack trotted through the snow and ice, with gleeful Sprites flashing from ice-clad tree to ice-coated rock to the ice of a frozen mere or pond or lake, or of tributaries, be they rivulets, brooks, streams, or rivers. At some of these places, scattering the Sprites wide, Borel and the Wolves would pause and quench their thirst, but mostly they merely passed over the ice and continued on through the snow-laden land.

They rested for a while as the sun passed through the zenith, and then they continued on. And as they ran, the Ice-Sprites coursed with them. Yet toward midafternoon the number of Sprites dwindled and dwindled, until there was but one yet in their company, for they were nearing the cursed section.

Finally, they topped a rise, and downslope ahead stood a tangled and twisted wood, with barren, shattered, stark trees clawing at a drab, overcast sky. All was black and white and gray, no color whatsoever in the land. Even the evergreens were blasted and dead, needles gone, bleak branches broken and hanging lifeless. And there at the verge of this drear and stricken place, the Sprite flashed ahead and took up station on an ice-laden boulder and, with its face twisted in dread, it frantically gestured for Borel to stop, signing that peril lay in the desolate snarl.

Borel signalled that he and the Wolves knew the hazard of this part of the ’Wood, and trotted past the terrified Sprite and into the appalling blight.

Among the twisted trees they went, did Borel and the pack, Wolves running to the fore and flank and aft-Slate and Dark in the lead, Render and Trot to the left, Shank and Loll on the right, Blue-eye bringing up the rear. And all about was gloom and desolation and chill, a grim and silent wood. And now and again one Wolf or another would pause and raise a nose in the air, seeking the scent of peril in the surround, and then lope forward to take station again.