Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

Both Flic and Fleurette kept a keen eye on the limbs of the trees and the air above. And almost immediately they noted an absence of crows, for those killers were massed at the starwise border, it seemed. After running a league or two, Flic called out,

“Prince Regar, see you any of the murdering black birds?”

“Nay, they seem to be all gone.”

“Then let us stop and call my kindred, for they have messages to bear.”

. .

Luc and Maurice hurtled through Valeray’s duskwise marge to find themselves running sunwise in the Autumnwood, and a mass of crows sprang into the air to churn about as the riders plunged on. Soon the crows settled back to their perches and waited as they were told to do by that strange person who flew on a brush-ended broken-off limb.

And the knight and guide raced deeper into the woodland where eternal autumn lies upon the land, a place where crops afield remain ever for the reaping, and vines are overburdened with their largesse, and trees bear an abundance ripe for the plucking, and the ground holds rootstock and tubers for the taking. Yet no matter how often a harvest is gathered, when one isn’t looking the bounty somehow replaces itself. How such a place could be-endless autumn-was quite strange; nevertheless it was so.

Of course, how three other allied realms of this woodland could be-one of eternal winter, another of eternal spring, and one of eternal summer-was just as peculiar.

Yet these four realms supported one another: the Winterwood somehow gave all needed rest; the Springwood, awakening and renewal; the Summerwood, growth into fullness; and the Autumnwood, fruition. Even in Faery, where mysteries are commonplace, the existence of these four was odd in the extreme.

And it was into the realm of everlasting largesse that Luc and Maurice raced, and soon they were out from under the dark swirling cloud of birds.

And just as had the other knights, soon Luc called a halt to summon winged Sprites and give them their messages to bear.

Then on they galloped, heading for Autumnwood Manor.

Riddles

It was yet early morn as Laurent and Edouard rode atrot through the snow-laden bottom of a gully, when in the distance ahead, where the walls curved inward to make the passage strait, stood an old woman, her hands raised in a gesture bidding them to stop.

“ ’Ware, Edouard,” said Laurent. “For all we know, this could be an ambush, or might even be the witch herself.”

“Sieur, it might also be someone who offers aid,” said the lad, used to the ways of Faery.

Laurent grunted a wordless reply, and he took up his crossbow and cocked it and set a quarrel in place, all the time his gaze sweeping along the somewhat overhanging rims above for sign of foe, but all he saw was white hoarfrost and overburdening snow and dangling ice.

And as they neared the crone, “Make way, old woman,” called Laurent. “We ride in haste.”

The hag did not move, and, in spite of his urgings, Laurent’s mount came to a halt, as did Edouard’s, the remounts in tow stopping as well.

The crone gave a gummy smile. “In haste you say? Heh! You don’t know what haste is.”

“Heed, old woman,” said Laurent, “we are on an urgent mission. Now give way.”

The hag moved not. “Have you any food? I’m hungry.” Even as Laurent shook his head, Edouard tossed her a half loaf of bread. “Madam,” said the youth, “we truly must needs ride onward. Will you please give way?”

“Well at least there’s someone here who knows courtesy,” snapped the crone, glaring at Laurent. She held up the bread. “I need something to wash this down.”

Laurent ground his teeth, but unloosed a small wineskin from his cantle. “Here,” he growled and tossed it to her, the old woman spryly snatching it from the air.

And in that same moment a shimmering came over her, and there before the knight and his guide stood a beautiful demoiselle with silver eyes and silver hair, and she was clad in a silver-limned ebon robe. And the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.

As Edouard gasped, Laurent sprang from his horse and knelt before the maiden. “My lady Skuld, forgive me. I knew not it was you.”

“Whether or no it was me, still you should not have abandoned all courtesy, Sieur Laurent.”

“Indeed, I should have not, Lady Wyrd.”

“Ever proud, my knight. Someday your arrogance will do you ill if you do not mend your ways.”

Without a word, and yet on his knees, Laurent nodded.

In the snow behind him, Edouard now knelt, and in a small voice asked, “My Lady Who Sees the Future, have you come to give us a message?”

“Indeed, and since you each have done me a favor by giving me bread and wine, I can do so, yet under the rules I follow, first you must answer a riddle.”

“Say on, my lady,” said Laurent.

Skuld took a deep breath, and the sound of the looms swelled.

. .

“Glittering points

That downward thrust,

Sparkling spears

That never rust.

Name me.”

As Skuld fell silent, and the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Laurent’s heart fell. Edouard started to speak, yet Skuld gestured him to silence and said, “This is for Laurent to answer here in the Winterwood.”

Laurent looked up at her, his gaze narrowing in speculation, and then he glanced about and finally up at the overhang above.

He grinned and pointed and said, “My Lady Wyrd, the answer is icicles.”

Now Skuld smiled. “Indeed it is.”

“And the message you would give us. .?”

“As you might have heard, Sieur Laurent, I can only render aid in riddles.”

Laurent nodded but did not speak.

“Heed, then,” said Skuld. Once again the sound of weaving intensified.

“Swift are the get of his namesake,

That which a child does bear;

Ask the one who rides the one

To send seven children there.

At the wall there is a need

For seven to stand and wait,

Yet when they are asked to run,

They must fly at swiftest gait.

The whole must face the one reviled

Where all events begin:

Parent and child and child of child

Else shall dark evil win.”

And as the timbre of looms fell, Laurent frowned and said,

“But, my lady, I do not understand. Can you not say it plain?”

“Non, I cannot,” replied the silver-eyed demoiselle. “But this I can tell you for nought: If you do not give this message to the one for whom it is intended, then all will be lost forever.” And with that dire pronouncement, again the clack of shuttles and thud of battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Skuld.

In the Springwood, Summerwood, and Autumnwood, Sprites took to wing, and as they flew through these three forests, more and more of these tiny beings were alerted, and each of these fey creatures warned two more, and each of those in turn warned two, and so their numbers doubled and doubled and redoubled again, until all were bearing the alarum throughout the woodlands.

And some went to the Root Dwellers, while others spied from leafy surround upon the crows massed along the starwise borders, and they counted the numbers of the ebon-feathered birds and noted the trees where they waited and ferreted out the most likely roosting spots therein. Back and forth among the Forests of the Seasons flew the wee messengers, and plans were laid, even as long, slender thorns were harvested and given to all who would engage.

Then some of the larger Root Dwellers, those the crows would not attack, slipped through the starwise twilight bound and relayed those plans to the Sprites of Valeray’s realm.