Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“You will find me in beds, in friendship, in love, But not in enmity or cold winds above.

I come from without, and I come from within; I am oft shared among good women and men.

From hearts and hearths, though not quite same, You will say I arrive; now tell me my name.” As the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Fleurette cried, “I know, I know,” yet Verdandi pushed out a hand to silence the Sprite.

As Blaise’s heart fell, Verdandi said, “It is Sieur Blaise’s to answer here in the Summerwood.”

Here in the Summerwood? What is it about the Summerwood that makes it another clue? Blaise looked about, seeing full-leafed trees amid lush and verdant undergrowth, and a greensward leading down to the stream, and he heard birds singing in the distance, and the sound of the brook as the clear water tumbled o’er rocks on its way to a distant sea. Yet none of these fit the words of the rhyme. This domain, where everlasting summer lies on the-

“Warmth, my lady,” said Blaise. “It is found in beds, in friendship, in love, but not in enmity or cold winds above. It arrives from hearths without and hearts within, and is often shared by good women and men.” Blaise fell silent, and waited with bated breath for Lady Lot to speak.

“Indeed,” said Verdandi.

Even as Blaise gave a sigh of relief, “I knew the answer,” whispered Fleurette to Flic.

“I didn’t,” said Flic.

“My lady Lot,” said Regar, “the rede you are to give us, is it a riddle as well?”

“Oui. By the rules my sisters and I follow, we can do nought else.”

Again Flic groaned and Blaise braced himself, as did Regar.

Only Fleurette seemed eager to hear the rede.

Once more the sound of weaving intensified, and Verdandi intoned:

“Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast.

Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.

Summon them not ere the final day

For his limit to be found.

Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.”

Verdandi fell silent, and the clacks and thuds diminished.

And Blaise looked at Regar in confusion, and received a shrug in return. Flic shook his head in bewilderment, and Fleurette turned up her hands in puzzlement.

“My lady Lot,” said Blaise, “can you not-?”

“Non, I cannot,” said Verdandi. “Yet this I can tell you for nought: Heed my rede, all of it, and make certain you do not send word prematurely, else the world will be fallen to ruin.” And with that dreadful utterance, again the sound of shuttles and battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Lot.

Just after the noontide, Luc and Maurice came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, in which a rich stand of grain grew. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a very large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Luc and Maurice slowed to a trot and headed for the scarlet- and gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.

Luc called out, “Bonjour, Reaper.”

“Bonjour, Prince Luc,” the Reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.

Luc reined to a halt next to the large man and dismounted, and Maurice followed suit, and both knight and guide began changing saddles to remounts.

“What news, my lord?” asked the Reaper.

“Ill word, I’m afraid, Moissonneur.”

“Ill word?”

“Oui. It seems the witch Hradian has come into possession of a token to set free the wizard Orbane from his imprisonment.”

“That is ill news indeed,” said the Reaper.

“If so,” replied Luc, “we will need all the aid we can summon.”

“My lord, I will come when the time is right.” Luc frowned at this odd turn of phrase, yet he said, “We will welcome you,” and both he and Maurice mounted up.

Luc then saluted the Reaper, and the huge man bowed in acknowledgment and watched as the two galloped away.

Then the Reaper sat down with his back to the great oak and positioned his huge scythe across his knees and smiled unto himself.

After Laurent and Edouard galloped away, the Ice Sprite they had enlisted flashed from his icicle to the frozen mere where many of his kindred played, and he relayed the message to all. They in turn spread throughout the Winterwood, alerting their kindred as to the dreadful news. And as they went from icicle to frozen stream to ice-clad trees and boulders, unlike their winged kindred, they did not seem to cross through the intervening space at all; instead they were here, and then they were there. Hence, the word spread much more swiftly throughout this realm than through the other Forests of the Season, for it seemed as if an Ice Sprite could cross enormous distances in the blink of an eye.

And winged Sprites briefly came from the Springwood and Autumnwood and Summerwood, and they paused just long enough to tell of the plans for dealing with the crows ere fleeing back to their more hospitable domains.

And as in the other realms, the Ice Sprites spread the word from hamlet to hunter, from cottage to fortress, from snowy vale to icy mountaintop, and to all beings wherever they found them, as long as ice was at hand.

And they, too, alerted the Root Dwellers, and they spied upon the crows massed along a section of the starwise border, waiting for winged Sprites to come flying through.

And the Root Dwellers harvested long, slender thorns, and they plotted and planned among themselves.

And while that was in progress, Ice Sprites went through the twilight borders along particular sectors of the Winterwood, to cross into other frozen realms, and they alerted their kindred, and the reindeer herders, and the seal hunters, and the woodsmen hewing trees, and other such hardy beings, and these folk, too, were dismayed to hear of the appalling news. Yet they clenched their jaws and straightened their backs and promised they would be ready.

And as the Ice Sprites bore the warning onward they also sought Raseri the Dragon and Rondalo the Elf, but this day it was in vain.

Down into a fog-laden vale plunged Roel and Devereau.

Their passage caused swirls in the clinging vapor, as of ghosts flying through the mist. But soon up a long slope they surged, and back into the sunlight of the Springwood they ran, the air among newly leafed-out foliage bearing the scent of the forest, fresh and full of promise. Yet old were these trees, some of them, their roots reaching deep, their great girths moss-covered, their branches spread wide and interlacing with others overhead. Oak there was, proud and majestic, and groves of birch, silver and white; maple and elm stood tall, with dogwood and wild cherry blossoms filling the air with their delicate scents. And down among the roots running across the soil, crocuses bloomed, as did small mossy flowers, yellow and lavender and white. Even though much of the woodland seemed aged, here and there stood new growth-thickets of saplings and lone seedlings and solitary treelets, all reaching upward in the search for light, their hues more vivid than those of their ancient kindred. Birds flitted among the verdant leaves, their songs claiming territory and calling for mates. The hum of bees sounded as they moved from blossom to blossom, and elsewhere beetles clambered along greening vines and stems. Overhead, scampering limb-runners chattered, and down among the grass and thatch, voles and other small living things rustled.