Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Roel laughed and said, “Ah, me, but the crofter’s words of warning of a terrible forest filled with strange goings-on and mystifications have put me on edge.”

“Foxes,” said Celeste, giggling, her own heart yet arace. “You should have trapped one, love; ’twould make a fine nervous dog.”

“Celeste, there is but one edgy dog here, and it be named Roel.”

Dawn came at last, and Roel awakened Celeste. Neither had slept well, and both were somewhat glum and untalkative as they fed rations of oats to the steeds. But a meal and a hot cup of tea quickly returned them to good spirits, and they laughed at their reaction to the visit of the foxes in the predawn marks.

Shortly they were on their way again, and Roel asked,

“How far to the twilight bound?”

“We should reach it just after the noontide, but then we must find the arc of trees, and I know not how long that will take.”

And so on they pressed into the forest, EF on their chart.

Through long enshadowed galleries they rode, leafy boughs arching overhead, with dapples of sunlight breaking through in stretches, the radiance adance with the shifting of branches in the breeze. And across bright meadows they fared, butterflies scattering away from legs and hooves. Nigh a cascade falling from a high stone bluff they passed, the water thundering into a pool below, and therein swam something they could not quite see, though the size of a woman or man it was. “Mayhap an Undine,” said Celeste, and then went on to explain just what that was.

Roel frowned. “A female water spirit who can earn a soul by marrying a mortal and bearing his child?”

“Oui,” said Celeste. “At least that is the myth. In my opinion, though, ’tis but wishful thinking on the part of hierophants and acolytes who would have mankind be the only beings with souls, hence favored by the gods above all other creatures. Yet I believe souls are a part of all living things.”

“All?”

“Oui. And some nonliving things as well.”

“Such as. .?”

“Mountains, rivers, the ocean.”

“The ocean?”

“Oui. Vast and deep is its soul.”

“Celeste, are you speaking of spirits and not souls?” Celeste frowned. “Is there a difference?”

“Mayhap; mayhap not. Perhaps they are two sides of the same coin.”

“Souls, spirits-whether the same or different, I believe all things possess them.” Roel smiled. “Even Undines?”

“Especially Undines,” said Celeste, grinning, “hence I’ll not have you volunteer to marry one so that she can obtain a soul.”

Roel laughed and then suddenly sobered. “Oh, Celeste, what of those whose shadows have been taken?

What of their souls?”

“My love, I believe your sister yet has a soul, though most of it is separate from her.”

Roel nodded and said, “And for those children born of a person whose shadow has been taken, Sage Geron says they are soulless.”

“Perhaps so; perhaps not. Perhaps each one has a soul that is but a fragment of what it should rightly be. And unless the gods intervene, I know not what can be done for them.”

Roel’s eyes turned to flint. “Celeste, we simply must rescue my sister ere she can bear a child, for I would not have any get of hers to be so stricken.” Celeste nodded and they rode onward in silence, their moods somber.

They fared across a mossy field, and a myriad of white birds flew up and away, flinging apart and then coalescing and swirling away on the wind, each no larger than a lark.

Tree runners scampered on branches above and scolded the passage of these intruders in their domain.

And down among the roots and underbrush, small beings fled unseen.

And as the noontide drew on, Roel said, “ Hsst!

Ahead, Celeste. Listen.”

And they heard someone cursing and muttering, and among the trees, and in a small clearing they espied a stick-thin hag dressed in rags and standing amid a great scatter of dead branches strewn upon the ground. In her knobby fingers she held two pieces of cord close to her faded yellow eyes, and she cursed as she tried to knot the twine together. Beyond the crone stood a small stone cottage with a roof of sod and grass growing thereon. A tendril of smoke rose from a bent chimney.

“Take care,” whispered Celeste, loosening the keeper on her long-knife.

“Fear not,” replied Roel.

They rode a bit closer, wending among the trees, and when they came to the edge of the clearing, “Ho, madam!” called Roel.

“Oh!” shrieked the hag, and she fell to her knees and held her hands out in a plea. “Don’t murder me! Don’t rob me! I have nothing of worth. I’m just a poor and widowed old goody.” She sniveled and sobbed, mucus dripping from her hooked nose.

“We offer you no harm,” said Roel.

“But you have that big sword at your side,” said the crone as she glanced at the sun and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“It will remain sheathed unless danger presents,” assured Roel.

“You seem to be in some distress,” said Celeste, riding forward.

“My string, my wood,” wailed the hag, holding up the cord and gesturing at the scatter of sticks. “How can I cook my meals if I cannot gather wood? And how can I gather wood if I have no string to bind it?”

“Madam, let me help,” said Celeste, springing down from her steed.

“Cherie,” said Roel, an edge of warning in his voice.

But Celeste took the twine from the hands of the crone and quickly tied it, and then gathered the branches and woody twigs in a pile and swiftly bundled them. “Roel, would you please bear this into yon cote for the widowed goodwife?”

With the frail hag yet on her knees, Roel looked at Celeste and noted the keeper on her long-knife was loose, the weapon ready should there be a need. Sighing, he dismounted, and took up the sheaf and bore it into the cottage. Even as he passed through the door, the goody again glanced at the sun.

“By the mark of the day, I name you Verdandi, I name you Lady Lot, She Who Sees the Everlasting Now,” said Celeste.

A shimmer of light came over the hag, and of a sudden there stood a matronly woman with golden eyes and yellow hair, and there came to Celeste’s ears the sound of looms weaving.

“Clever, Celeste,” said Verdandi. “How did you know? I could just as well have been a witch.”

“When we first espied you the sun was just then entering the noontide, neither morning nor afternoon, but in the place between, the time of the Middle of the Three Sisters. And the moment you first glanced at the sun, I became suspicious, for my family somehow seems bound to you Three, and I knew I had to act.”

“Ah, no mystery, then?”

“I was not certain until you glanced at the sun a second time. And of course I now see you as you are and I hear the looms.”

Verdandi smiled and said, “Perhaps you see me as I truly am, but then again perhaps not. Regardless, I have come to aid you.”

“Say on, Lady Lot.”

“You must first answer a riddle, for that is a rule we Three live by.”

Celeste nodded and said, “Might we wait for Roel?”

“He will not be coming,” said Verdandi. “ ’Tis yours alone to answer, and to you alone will I give my rede.” Celeste sighed. “Ask the riddle, then.” The sound of looms increased, and Verdandi said:

“Without being fetched they come at night, Without being stolen they are lost by day, Without having wheels, yet they wheel, It is their name you must say.”

Celeste’s heart sank, and she despaired. Oh, no, I’ll never get- But then, without a moment of pondering, she blurted, “Stars, Lady Lot. Stars. They come at night without being fetched, and are lost by day, and they do wheel through the sky, and so ‘stars’ is the name I say.”