Once Upon a Summer Day (23 page)

“Good night,” said Borel, and he took up the blanket and climbed the ladder to the loft. And even as Madame Vache out in the byre quit bellowing now that Maurice had come to relieve her of her milk, and as Brun took station under the table and turned ’round several times before flopping down, Borel fell fast asleep.

 

In the faint breeze, water lapped softly against the shore. The just-risen half-moon cast a long glimmer of light across the rippling surface. “I thought we might take a stroll by this lakeside,” said Borel.

“Oh,” said Chelle. “I was rather hoping this night I would see the Winterwood.”

“Perhaps another time, my love,” said Borel. “You see, I would rather take you there when I find you at last.”

Chelle laughed. “But I am not lost, my lord. Must we play hide-and-seek ere you show me your demesne?”

Borel’s laughter joined hers. Still, he did not dare say more, else she might wrench them both back into the turret, wherever it might be. He closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. “I think there is a small skiff just past this stand of reeds. Would you join me in a row?”

“Oh, yes, my Borel. I would.”

Borel frowned a moment. “Ere we go out onto the water, I need to ask: can you swim?”

“Indeed,” said Chelle, and of a sudden she stood unclothed on a bluff above the lake, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight, her firm young breasts high, her aureoles pale, her narrow waist gracefully flaring into slim rounded hips tapering down to her long slender legs, a golden triangle at her cleft. Borel’s breath shuddered inward, for she was splendid. Laughing, she dived outward and down into the pellucid waters of the lake.

Borel found himself naked beside her, his blood pulsing, a fire in his loins, and in the water he took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily as they sank below the surface, his erect manhood pressing against her—

Borel wrenched himself awake, and he groaned softly in his desire. Yet—
Great Mithras, what have I done to Chelle? Is she trapped in a place of my making? I must return to that dream. I must!

Borel tried to will himself to sleep, yet he could not force slumber, and he lay with his mind racing, wondering, anxiety gnawing at his viscera, his breath rasping in disquiet.

Down from the loft he clambered, and as he crossed the floor he glanced at the table—
Flic is missing. Buzzer is here, but Flic . . . ?
Borel looked at the open window, moonlight shining in.
Mayhap he has gone outside to relieve himself.

With Brun at his side, Borel stepped into the yard, his mind yet churning in turmoil, his gaze irresistibly drawn toward the mouth of Lord Roulan’s vale. He glanced at the waning half-moon, now risen some four fists above the horizon—
Two candlemarks past mid of night
—its light angling across the slope and foothills above and the mountains beyond.

Shaking his head, he turned and walked out to the byre, Brun running ahead. Madame Vache stood inside adoze.

Yet Borel couldn’t keep his mind off his beloved, and he looked once more at the vale.
Not only might she be cast adrift in a dream of my own making, but somewhere in Faery, or mayhap not, she is lost to me as well, and I need to find her. And there are but some twenty-one days until the moon is full again. Oh, Michelle, my Chelle, where are you?

Then Borel saw a faint glitter flashing through the air . . . nearing.
What can that . . . ?

He watched as it drew close, a tiny flickering luminescence, or perhaps moonlight glancing off—

The Sprite sped toward the stead, and then veered toward Borel. Now Brun saw the glimmer, and he set up a din at this strange—

“Brun,” said Borel, and then a guttural word, and the dog immediately stopped.

Flic flew down and alighted on Borel’s shoulder.

“I thought it would be worth a look,” said the Sprite, “yet I found it unchanged, nought but stone.” He sighed in dejection and said, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what, Flic?”

“I’ve heard tales of enchanted people and places and things that only reveal their true form or can only be seen or only show up in moonlight. It seems Lord Roulan’s estate is not one of those. Either that, or perhaps this moon is simply not full enough for the vale to appear.”

“Y
ou flew over the vale?”

“Yes, and along it, too. I went there to see if all would reappear in the light of the moon. And as I said, it did not.”

“Ah, then, that’s why you had me open the window. Why didn’t you tell me what you planned?”

“I didn’t want to raise any false hopes,” said Flic. He sighed and added, “Would that my own lifted hopes had been realized, yet they were not.—But you, Lord Borel, what are you doing out and about?”

“My dream got away from me,” replied Borel. “I’m afraid I might have stranded Chelle in a place of my making.”

“How so?”

“I nearly did that which I said was unprincipled: bed her on the whim of a dream. When I realized what I was about to do, I wakened. And so she may be—I don’t know where—lost in my dream as well as in reality.”

“Gracious me,” said Flic. “Well then, you’re just going to have to go back to sleep and rescue her from the quandary of your making.”

“I tried, Flic, but sleep now eludes me. That’s why I am out in the night, trying to achieve a measure of serenity so that I can fall aslumber. But my mind is racing helterskelter, and stillness of my spirit eludes me. What I need is”—Borel turned about, searching—“Ah, I see.”

Borel stepped to a woodpile, where an axe stood embedded in a upright stump. “Fly, my friend,” he said. “Labor will tire my body and perhaps my mind.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Flic, and he launched himself from Borel’s shoulder and into the air and flew ’round the cottage and in through the open window.

Borel wrenched the axe free from the chopping block and took up a billet. “Step back, Brun,” he said, adding a guttural, and the dog moved away.

Shortly, the night air was filled with the sound of hewing as Borel split logs and stacked wood. Maurice drew aside the curtain on the bedroom window and peered out, then he turned to say something to Charité as he let the fabric fall back.

The moon had risen another two fists when Borel embedded the blade of the axe once more into the chopping block. He sat long moments in the cool air while gazing at the moon, and then went back into the house, Brun following. Into the loft he crawled and lay down to sleep, yet he tossed and turned fitfully, and did not dream again that night.

 

“My lord prince,” said Charité as she fixed a great breakfast of eggs and sausage and warmed up the biscuits, “I want to apologize for our fearful behavior last eve. You may call us foolish for being in such dread over . . . er . . . um . . . the magicien who shall not be named, but strange things happen in Faery, such as the duke’s valley turning to stone and such. And so, we know firsthand, do Maurice and I, that terrible things can come about when sorcières and magiciens and other such are involved, to say nothing of strange creatures, like Trolls and Ogres and Goblins and—”

“Madame Charité, give it no second thought,” said Borel, “for you are right in fearing Orb—Pardon me, in fearing the magicien who shall not be named.”

“Well, Maurice and I, we just thought it best to not tempt fate,” said Charité.

In that moment, Maurice came through the door, Flic riding on his left shoulder, Buzzer on his right, another bucket of milk in hand. “Madame Vache, she seems full morning and night,” he said as the Sprite and the bee flew to the table. “It means more butter and cheese and curds to sell in town . . . and buttermilk,” he added, as he covered the pail with a cloth and set it by the churn.

“The cream, it’s quite delicious,” said Flic, and glanced at Buzzer. “And she agrees.”

“Good morrow, Monsieur Maurice,” said Borel.

Maurice bobbed his head and returned the greeting and said, “I thank you, my lord, for setting aside a goodly amount of wood.”

“Did I wake you? If so, I am sorry. I was working out a problem.”

“A problem, my lord?”

“Yes. You see, I thought that I had reached an impasse, a cul-de-sac, but as I wielded your axe, I realized I hadn’t. At least, not quite. I will go to the town and see if there is something of truth to the rumor you spoke of, something that might send me on my way. Perhaps I can find someone therein who knows ought of Lord Roulan and Chelle, or where this Rhensibé might dwell.”

“Oh, my lord prince,” said Charité, as she ladled out great spoonfuls of eggs and slid sausages onto Borel’s plate, “ ’fi were you, I wouldn’t have ought to do with Rhensibé. But as to perhaps finding Lord Roulan’s estate and the duke and his daughter—assuming the vale and all were carried away by that black wind—well, that’s a noble goal, and we wish you good fortune in that.”

Her eyebrow cocked, Charité looked at Flic and slightly lifted her platter of breakfast fare, but he waved her off, saying, “None for me, thanks. I’m full of rich cream from Madame Vache, and so is Buzzer.”

“As you wish, Sieur Flic,” Charité said, and she spooned out eggs and sausage to Maurice, while he passed the biscuits to Borel.

Charité looked at wagging-tail Brun and said, “You can have what’s left over, Monsieur Dog.”

 

“Come look!” called Maurice.

Borel placed four copper pennies on the table, and then took up his bow and stepped through the back door to join Maurice and Charité.

They stood behind the cottage and watched as Flic and Buzzer flew over the fields of crops and the byre and cote, over the pond and well, and over the green pasture where Madame Vache grazed contentedly. They could hear the Sprite calling out something or mayhap even singing, Buzzer’s humming wings accompanying Flic. Yet what the Sprite cried or sang, they could not quite hear, though it was definitely lilting words of a sort, mayhap in a language unfamiliar.

Finally, Flic and Buzzer came spiralling down and landed on Borel’s tricorn, and Flic said, “There, I’ve blessed your entire stead, Monsieur Maurice and Madame Charité. What good it’ll do, I cannot say, for I’ve not done such a thing until now.”

“Oh, Sieur Sprite, we thank you, we thank you,” gushed Charité happily, beaming in gratitude. She elbowed Maurice in the ribs, and he humbly added his own thanks as well.

Borel made a slight bow and said, “Madame, Monsieur, I thank you for your hospitality, and if I am ever back this way, Maurice, I will tell that tale of my père and mère’s enchantment and how Camille managed to dispel the glamour. But now we must hie to the town, for Chelle is entrapped somewhere and I would set her free.” Borel then turned to Brun and spoke a word or two, gutturals mixed within, and the dog seemed to take heart, and his tail curled up o’er his back.

Charité rushed into the cottage and then came running back out, a cloth sack in hand. “There’s biscuits and boiled eggs and dollops of honey in a jar and apples and cheese and a bit of salted bacon. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry on your way to town.”

“Mother,” said Maurice, “town is but a half a morn away, and I am sure they won’t starve ere they get there.”

“Well, you never know, Maurice,” snapped Charité. She turned to Borel and her voice softened. “What with enchantments and magiciens and sorcières and Fairies and other such strange things on the road, you never know.”

Borel tied a length of rope to the top of the bag and looped the improvised sling over his head and across one shoulder. Then he raised Charité’s fingers to his lips and kissed them, she to simper coyly. The prince shook hands with Maurice and turned on his heel and stepped ’round the cottage and through the gate and set off down the trace toward the river gleaming in the distance, Maurice and Charité following him to the fence and calling out their adieus, proud Brun barking his own farewell.

Borel strode onward; after a while he looked back to see Charité scattering grain for the chickens, and Maurice in the bean field plying his hoe.

 

“What was it you called out as you were flying about and blessing that stead?”

“Oh,” said Flic. “I was merely singing an old song about the richness of the land and the luxury of the rains and the goodness of those who husband the crops and care for the beasts and tend such. Whether you can call that a blessing, well, I couldn’t say. And whether or no it will do ought whatsoever . . . hmm . . .” Flic shrugged a shoulder and fell silent and Borel strode on for the river crossing, he, too, saying nought, for he knew nothing of blessings either.

In later days and thereafter, though, it would be said by those who should know of such things that Maurice and Charité had the most fertile and prosperous farmstead in the realm, no matter the seasons or weather.