Dennis McKiernan - Once Upon a Winter's Night

“ Whuff. ”

Borel nodded, then said, “I suggest you travel on with your lady, for the Troll may double back to this place, and he is a formidable foe. Yet whether or no he does, we will be close behind, unless the oncoming storm does thwart.”

“ Whuff. ”

Borel then faced Camille and bowed. “My lady.”

With a curtsey, she replied, “My lord,” as darkness fell once more.

In the dimness he laughed, and then, with an utterance somewhat between that of a word and a growl, he called to the pack. And off they sped, loping back along the track of the Bear and toward the ridge where last was seen the Troll. Moments later there came a long howl; the Wolves were on the trail.

The Bear nuzzled the bedroll and the harness with its bundles, and soon Camille had all packed and loaded. And once again she mounted up as the chill wind blew and foreboding clouds thickened above. And thus did the Bear and Camille set forth in the lees of the night, leaving behind a slaughter ground-twenty-two Redcap Goblins lying dead in blood-laden snow.

Given the blackness of the sky, Camille was uncertain as to whether dawn had yet come unto the Winterwood when spinning white flakes began to swirl down. She pulled her cloak and hood tighter about as the blustery wind strengthened into a frigid blow. More snow fell, and more, as the storm intensified, the wind did scream and hurtle stinging snow across Camille and the Bear. On they went and on, the blizzard worsening with every stride, until Camille could no longer make out the tangle and crags right at hand, as into the brutal blast they did fare. Across that howling morn did the storm savagely rave, as if trying to halt their flight from this frozen, drear realm. Finally the Bear paused, for he sensed Camille’s violent shivering; and, groaning and hissing through chattering teeth, she dropped down. As the Bear shielded her from the direct blow, Camille struggled to fetch a blanket from one of the bundles, her fingers numb and perverse. Freeing the cover at last, with effort, she remounted. As she fought against the wind to wrap the flapping mantle ’round, she called above the yawl, “Oh, B-bear, g-go on, go on, for I would be r-rid of this d-dreadful Winterwood.” And so onward he pressed, stride upon stride, as the storm strove to steal their heat away and leave them dead and frozen in that most appalling place. Yet stubbornly the Bear forged into the teeth of the shrieking gale, and Camille lost all track of time and place in the hurling white, and it seemed as if they went on forever. But as Camille thought to give up all hope of ever escaping this dire storm and dreadful wood, ahead a great dark wall loomed, and of a sudden they came to a twilight border. The Bear did not pause, but quickly passed through the tenebrous marge, to step into an extravagantly bedecked forest with a nip in the air and gloaming all about. And though a blizzard yet raged directly behind, it came not into this twilit place.

Surrounded by autumn and free of the storm, Camille shed tears of exhausted relief as the Bear moved away from the bound and deeper into the color-splashed woodland.

Leaving the Winterwood marge behind, the Bear went onward, and he passed into a forest adorned in scarlet and crimson, and in amber and yellow, bronze, and gold, and in russet and umber and roan. The gloam diminished as he went, until a high blue sky shone o’erhead, with sunlight angling down through the brightly festooned branches above. At last he stopped in a small glade surrounded by great oaks with leaves all vermilion and saffron. Groaning and but half-aware, Camille slid from his back and slumped to the loam; chilled to the bone as she was, she had not the strength to do aught else. She lay back on the yellowed sward, and as the day edged toward midafternoon, slowly, slowly the cold seeped from her, sun-warmth taking its place.

She slept for a while-how long she could not say, but when she awoke evening was drawing down, and she sat up and looked ’round for her Bear, to find him sitting nigh, no longer white, but a grizzled reddish brown instead. “Oh, Bear,” she rasped, “you’ve changed color again.” Her voice was hoarse with thirst, for she had had nought to drink since yestereve when she last sipped a sulphurous swallow or two within the Winterwood. “Is there water nearby?”

“ Whuff, ” said the Bear, standing, and Camille groaned to her own feet, her frame gone stiff from lying on the ground. The Bear led her across the glade and to a rill beyond, and Camille drank of its sweet, sweet run. Refreshed, she rose to her feet, and she scented the odor of apples on the air. Just beyond the stream stood a tree laden with the ruby-red fruit, ripe and ready for harvest. Her mouth watering, Camille stepped across the stream to come under the tree, but the bounty was too high for her to reach. The Bear padded across and reared up on its hind legs and, using its weight, jolted the bole of the tree with both forepaws, and apples fell down all about, while Camille squealed and ducked and covered her head with her forearms to shield against the fall. She then gathered in some of the precious yield and sat by the stream and ate her fill, the apples snapping with each bite, juice flying wide, while the Bear snuffled about under the tree and gobbled down the rest.

Their supper dealt with, Camille set about making camp, arranging her bedroll and laying the basis for a small fire, but she fell asleep before she could set it ablaze. Even so, when she awoke the next morning, warm coals yet glowed in the ring of stone she had laid the night before.

On that second day in the Autumnwood, in spite of the glowing remnants of a fire, there had been no prepared breakfast at the dawning, just as at the close of yester there had been neither a waiting camp with a burning fire nor a cooked meal of fish or fowl or game. Still they did not want for fare as deeper into the forest they went, for, although they were surrounded by woodland, there were runs of what seemed to be fruit orchards-apples, for the most, yet other kinds as well, many of which were unknown to Camille, but were delicious nevertheless: some sweet, some tart, some with a delicate flavor, but all delightful to the tongue. And there were small stands of laden nut trees-hazel and beech, and the like. To Camille’s eye, these groves of fruit and nuts seemed to have been well cared for, for the limbs were trimmed and shapely, but pruned by whom, she knew not, for no cottages nor byres nor other such signs of crofters did she see.

Nigh the noontide of that day, as they topped a hill and emerged into the open, in the low vale before them Camille saw a meadow of ripened grain. The Bear plodded downslope and into the field, to pass among oats and then rye, while alongside and hidden among the teeming stalks, someone or something scampered, and once again Camille heard the trill of elfin laughter, but she caught no glimpse of who or what had made the sound.

When they emerged from the meadow to start up the far slope, then did she see sitting on the hillside with his back to a tree the figure of a man-or it looked to be a man-dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be, and a great reaping scythe rested across his knees. As they approached, he stood, the scythe in one hand, the blade grounded; Camille gasped in apprehension, for the man was huge, seven or eight foot tall, and for a moment she thought the Troll had returned. But a Troll he was not as was clear when he doffed his hat, revealing a shock of reddish hair. And as the Bear padded by, the man, the crofter, the reaper of grain, bowed low in respectful silence. “Bonjour,” called Camille, uncertain as to what else to say or do, but by no sign did the huge being respond to her call, and he remained bent in an attitude of obeisance. The Bear grunted in seeming acknowledgment of the individual’s deferential bow, and the crofter then straightened and watched as the Bear and his rider passed without stopping, continuing on up the slope. And when they topped the rise at the far end of the vale to start down into the valley beyond, Camille looked back to see the man-if a man he truly was-once again sitting with his back to the tree and the scythe across his knees.