Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Ah, I see, this is the one marked EF. ”

“Oui,” said Celeste. “And if what that crofter said is true, then EF might mean ‘enchanted forest.’ ”

“Are there such things?”

Celeste smiled. “This is Faery, my love.” She took another bite of cheese.

“Ah, yes,” replied Roel, then frowned. “But, say, aren’t all things in Faery enchanted, be it a forest or field or stream or whatever else might be?” Celeste nodded. “Oui, yet some things are more charmed than others. And when something is particularly Faery-struck, then it is said to be truly magical. Hence, the EF on this map might indicate just such a place.” Around a mouthful of bread Roel asked, “And what might be in an enchanted forest?”

Celeste shrugged. “Wonderful folk. Terrible beasts.

Magical pools. Dreadful pits. Who knows?” Roel swallowed his bread and said, “Who knows?” He took a sip of water and then added, “Well, I suppose we will, once we reach it. -And by the bye, using your definition, I would call the Springwood an enchanted forest. It has wondrous folk, and it is ever springtime therein. Besides, it has a beautiful princess who rules that demesne.”

Celeste laughed and leaned over and kissed Roel.

“Mmm. . cheese,” said Roel, licking his lips. “I love cheese.”

Celeste giggled and pushed a crust of bread toward his mouth. “Here. Make your meal complete.”

“I’d rather have another taste of cheese, if you don’t mind.” And he embraced her and they kissed again, and two hearts began to race.

“Love,” said Roel, his voice husky with desire, “this grass is as soft as a bed.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied, her own voice laden with want.

Unclothed, they made reckless love amid the tall blades and stems and heads, flattening all in a wide and nearly circular swath. Breathless at last, lay they on their backs side by side. A sheen of sweat drenched Roel, beads running down in streamlets. A glow of perspiration covered Celeste, runnels pooling between her breasts and within the hollow of her navel. For long moments the lovers looked up through the limbs of swaying willows at swatches of blue sky above, and listened to the shush of the soft breeze whispering among the leaves and the murmur of the stream as it wended its way toward a distant sea. Finally, Celeste sprang to her feet and pulled Roel to his, and laughing, she jumped into the clear-running flow, and waist-deep, she splashed water upon her knight. “Oho!” cried Roel, and he leapt in after the princess.

Dressed once more and riding onward, Roel said,

“Speaking of enchanted forests, I believe that willow grove arear now qualifies, for certainly you enspelled me. ’Tis a wondrous glamour you have.” Celeste said nought in return, though the contented smile on her face perhaps conveyed more than words.

On they rode, the land continuing to rise, and in the distance to the fore a range of snowcapped peaks came into view.

“Ah,” said Roel, “the mountains the crofter mentioned. Are they on the map?” Celeste unfolded the chart, saying, “I don’t remember any thereon.” She glanced at the vellum. “Non. They are not on the map, but it is rather incomplete, or so Florien said. It gives mostly directions in which to fare and landmarks to find at the twilight crossings. Little else does it convey, other than the obscure letters at each bound.

I’m not even certain that the chart is to scale, for no scale was given.”

“But didn’t you say the marge was three days away?”

“I was merely relying on the crofter’s words,” replied Celeste.

“Ah.”

That night they camped in the foothills at the base of the range, and cool mountain air flowed down from above.

In the dawn, Roel and Celeste fed and watered the horses, and then took a meal of their own. As the sun broached the horizon, they saddled their mounts and laded the pack animals and got under way. As they rode to the crest of a hill, “There,” said Roel, pointing ahead,

“that must be the pass.”

To the fore a rocky slot carved its way up and through the range, heading for a col high above.

“Oui. It lies directly along the course we bear,” said Celeste.

“Mayhap a good place for an ambuscade,” said Roel, peering ahead while lifting his shield from its saddle hook. “I suggest you prepare your bow, cherie.” Celeste smiled unto herself, for even as he said it she was stringing the weapon.

Roel pulled his spear from the sling and couched it in the cup on his right stirrup. Then he looked at Celeste.

“Ready?”

“Oui. Ready. .”

. . And toward the pass they rode, Roel in the lead, trailing a packhorse, Celeste coming next, her own pack animal in tow.

Inward they went and upward, and sheer stone walls rose on both sides, and the slot twisted this way and that. The pass narrowed and deepened, and soon but a distant slash of sky jagged above, the depths below enshadowed and dim. And now and then stone arched out overhead, and here the way grew ebon. In these places the chill air turned frigid, and to left and right lay unmelted snow and ice, the sun unable to reach into the depths. But still the way continued to rise, as up toward an unseen crest the pair rode. Echoing hoofbeats clattered upslope and down, and Roel wondered if he shouldn’t have enwrapped the animals’ feet to muffle their sound. Black pools of darkness clustered in splits and crevices and slots along the walls, and little did the light from above penetrate these stygian coverts. The air smelled of granite and water and snow and ice, and whatever breeze might have been had vanished altogether.

In places the way grew even steeper, and Roel and Celeste dismounted and led the animals. Often they paused, allowing the steeds to rest, but ever they pushed onward, unwilling to spend any more time than absolutely necessary in this cold and shadowy place, with its stone walls rearing up hundreds of feet overhead and seeming to press ever closer, for at times it was no more than two arm spans wide, and mayhap as much as a thousand feet high.

They came into snow lying in the pass, for the most part quite shallow, though in places deep drifts stood across the way, and there it was Roel broke trail for the steeds, his breath coming harsh with the effort.

They reached the crest nigh midday, where a cascade of melt ran down from above, and there they stopped to rest and feed and water the horses and to eat some hardtack and jerky. But shortly they were on their way downward, Roel saying, “I’d rather not stay at these heights in the night, where the cold will plunge beyond withstanding.” Down they went and down, now on the sunwise side of the pass, and water ran freely along the way, dashing down the slopes, and at times they splashed across shallows or waded through the swift-running flow. And still the way wrenched this way and that, and the walls yet soared upward on each side, and at one point they had to unlade the packhorses and hand carry the goods through, the cleft too narrow for the animals to traverse with the supplies upon their backs, and the chill water was deep, hindered by the slot as it was.

At last the walls began to recede, and late in the day they came out from the pass and into wide rolling plains.

Roel glanced back at the twisting slot. “If that were a main thoroughfare, then someone long ago would have placed a high, gated wall somewhere within and charged heavy tolls to pass through.”

“At least there was no ambush waiting,” said Celeste, now unstringing her bow.

“Non, cherie, there wasn’t. It is a splendid place to defend, the way narrow such that a small force could hold off a much greater one. But as a place for an assault, I think it lacks the means for the assailants to spring an ambush upon the unwary traveller; after all, the way is strait and the walls very high, hence giving little chance for waylayers to lunge out from concealment in a surprise onslaught. And, just as a few could hold off many, so, too, could travellers hold off an attack.”