Once Upon a Summer Day (34 page)

He sat up in the dawn as hundreds of strange wild beasts like an engulfing, dark flood raced past the acacia grove, but whether running from or to, Borel could not say.

 

Somewhere in a distant aerie, a Great Eagle awakened disturbed.

L
arge as cattle they were, though leaner, these racing animals with oxlike heads and horns curving down and then up. And their manes and beards and long, tufted tails blew in the wind of their passage. Around each side of the grove they thundered, the thorny stand nought but an island in a sea of running darkness. Long did they hammer past, and among them ran spindly-legged calves; and dawn fled with this uncountable herd, for when the last animal pounded by, through the swirling clouds of the dust of their passage the new-risen sun could then dimly be seen standing ruddy red on the horizon.

Flic, upon the very top branch of the tallest acacia, with Buzzer just below, called out, “What were they, or, rather, what are they?”

“I don’t know,” said Borel, “I’ve never seen such before.”

“Well, they numbered in the thousands, I think,” said Flic.

“More like in the tens of thousands,” replied Borel, “if not ten times even that.”

Long did Borel watch as they receded, while the whirling motes blew away on the wind, then he turned and peered the way they had come; in the very far distance down through a shallow, league-long swale and up the gentle slope beyond, he could just make out a group of ocherous beasts crouching ’round something, as if tearing at a victim and feeding.

Borel strung his bow.

Then he sighed and turned to the camp and said, “Come, let us break our fast and then be on our way.”

 

All day Borel ran across the savanna, passing large herds of grazing animals: some were dark-and-light-striped, others dun and cream, or brown and white, or black and brown. Once Borel paused to watch a spotted cat of some sort run with amazing speed to haul down a small but agile deerlike creature. And then he took up the run again.

They stopped in the noontide to take a meal nigh a broad pond. And when Borel stepped down to replenish his waterskin, he did so quite warily, for opposite and watching him one of the tawny hunters lay in wait.

After the meal, Borel took up the Wolftrot again, oft passing through herds of widely scattered animals, and for the most part they seemed to pay him no heed, but he knew they were watching. Now and again one would be directly in his path, and, as Borel drew near, the animal would dash off a short way and then stop and eye him skittishly, as if wondering if he would pursue, for here it was that hunters lurked ’round the edges of the hunted, and this two-legged thing might be either. They were plains animals all, and so the veldt teemed with life and pursuit and occasional death. But Borel himself did not stop in this field of plenty to bring down any game whatsoever, for he would not spare the time.

Even so, he loped with his bow strung and an arrow always at hand, for large predators were numerous.

All day he trotted o’er the savanna, and when sunset drew nigh and they still had not come to a twilight border, Borel began looking for a place to encamp. For in this part of Faery, at the heels of sunset swiftly came night, a time when the bee would grow dormant, and Borel would lose his guide. He found another thorn grove, and worked his way within, Flic and Buzzer already therein and waiting in a tiny clearing nigh the center of the stand.

 

As they finished their evening meal, Flic looked up at Borel. “My lord, the Pooka said something I did not understand, and I would have it explained.”

“Say on, Flic,” said Borel, uncorking his waterskin and taking a drink, then offering the Sprite some as well.

Flic cupped his hands and drank a droplet or two, then again he looked up at Borel. “When the Pooka said that you had been as clever as any third son, just what did he mean by that?”

Borel laughed. “Ah, Flic, in many a tale told in Faery, a family has three sons: the eldest is often quite the warrior; the second son, a warrior as well, though perhaps not as puissant as the eldest; the third son is always considered the fool, and not good for much at all. In these tales, some problem besets that family.

“Usually the sire will choose one of his sons to resolve whatever ill or trouble is beleaguering the family, be it as complex as wooing a particular maiden, or as vexing as discovering a miscreant, or as simple as laying by the heels a rogue of sorts, or any number of other difficulties, setbacks, or puzzles.

“And so, the father most often sends the eldest son forth to deal with the issue, and in these stories that son utterly fails, at times merely to his embarrassment, occasionally to his complete disgrace, and still other times he falls to a deadly doom.

“Then the second son tackles the problem, customarily following directly in the footsteps of the eldest, with nearly identical results.

“Finally, the third son, fool that he is, begs the father to let him try. With his sire expecting no better results, and with his brothers—assuming they survived and returned home—demeaning him, he is allowed to go out to deal with the trouble, and no one in his family or among his neighbors or among the townsfolk—if there is a town in the tale—believes he has even the slimmest of chances.

“But what the others don’t know is that he is truly quite clever, and either through stealth and guile, or through various ingenious means, he triumphs where others have failed. Oh, occasionally a third son is truly a fool, yet he succeeds in spite of himself, but a third son being an actual simpleton is the exception to the rule.

“By the bye, Flic, many tales take on this form, though mayhap only a handful are true. People, you see, find them amusing or sometimes useful to make a point, and so they embellish them to suit the occasion of the telling.

“Regardless, in all of these tales a third son is oft considered foolish when he is quite clever instead.”

“I see,” said Flic, grinning. “So, when you walked toward the Pooka’s hindquarters saying that you had to see his teeth, you were acting as would a so-called third son, right?”

“Exactly so, my friend, and for that you can credit my sire. There is an adage he always stressed: ‘Clever trumps Force nearly every time.’ ”

“Oui,” said Flic, yawning. “As it did when Valeray dressed as an old crone of a soothsayer to fool Nefasí into showing him where Orbane’s weakness lay.”

“Stealth, cunning, and guile,” said Borel. “My sire is renowned for all. Even so, there are times when force is the only option, and then my sire says, ‘Strike first and strike hard, and if you don’t get to strike first, then strike even harder.’ ”

“That saying does not sound like a hero’s way to me,” said Flic, his eyelids beginning to droop. He yawned again and added, “Oh, the last part about striking harder, that’s all right. But the part about striking first, well, it seems somehow . . . low.”

“Perhaps so,” said Borel, “yet it’s quite effective against vile foe.” He paused and poked at the small fire and lay on another branch. “Let me ask you this, Flic, if faced with a hulking Troll or a vicious Redcap or a wild Ogre or even a malevolent, seven-headed Giant, if you had the means to do any one of them in, would you strike first or would you let him have the initial blow?”

Flic didn’t answer, for he was sound asleep.

Borel smiled and picked up the wee Sprite and placed him on the leaf beside Buzzer, then he settled down and drifted into slumber himself.

B
orel stepped across the stone floor of the dark turret and took Chelle’s hands in his and kissed her fingers. Yet holding on, he said, “Tonight, ma chérie, I would have you choose what to do, though it is I who must choose where to go, for the secret door opens only to those places.”

“As to what to do, Borel, I have enjoyed all your choices. The flight on the back of the Great Eagle was marvelous. And the strolls through the Summerwood and Autumnwood and Springwood were lovely. And I liked the lake and the boat and the island.”

“Nevertheless, my darling,” said Borel, “what would you have?” He released her hands and made a sweeping gesture toward the deeply shadowed wall. “Our hidden door awaits.”

Chelle canted her head, her brow furrowed in thought, though Borel could not say what look dwelled in her eyes, hidden as they were by a shadowy band. “Archery,” she said at last. “Either that or échecs.”

“You play échecs?”

“I do.”

“Très bien!” exclaimed Borel.

“My père taught me long past,” said Chelle.

“So did my père teach me,” said Borel, smiling. “My sisters and my brother as well. My mère plays, too, as does Camille, my soon-to-be sister-in-law. Occasionally, we have tournaments, and there is much laughter, especially when we play heartbeat échecs.”

Chelle’s brow furrowed. “Heartbeat échecs?”

“Oui. Each player must move within ten heartbeats following the other’s move. If you and I were to play, Chelle, I would count for your moves, and you would count for mine.”

“A very fast game, I see,” said Chelle.

“Indeed, and with many blunders,” replied Borel, grinning. “It is much fun.”

Chelle smiled. “It sounds quite gay. Even so, I think I’d rather test your skill first.”

“Oho! You would then duel?”

“I would,” replied Chelle.

“Very well, Demoiselle,” said Borel, and he bowed.

“Then, Sieur, let us have at it,” said Chelle, curtseying.

“Have you a setting, Mademoiselle, where you would like to hold this contest? Perhaps I can conjure one up.”

Chelle said in mock haughtiness, “I remind you, Sieur, it is a duel; I named the weapons, hence you must choose the site.” Then she broke into laughter.

Borel’s laughter joined hers, and he said, “Very well.” He stood a long moment in thought, and then looked up and smiled and said, “I have just the place, where hunters and hunted do dwell—a site most fitting for our deadly duel.”

He closed his eyes in concentration a brief moment, and then offered his arm and said, “My lady.”

Grinning, Chelle hooked her arm through his and said, “Let us away, my lord.”

They stepped through the enshadowed door to emerge—

 

—in a small clearing in a thorn grove on a savanna, where bright stars wheeled through the black sky overhead, and a narrow crescent of a waning moon rode above the far horizon. A modest campfire burned bright in an earthen ring, and on the yellow grass beside the fire sat an échiquier, the pieces thereon of ivory and ebony.

“Oh, Borel, how unique. Where are we?”

“I am not certain, Chelle, but it is a wondrous place. In daylight you can see thousands of animals aroam in vast herds, with perilous predators lurking ’round the fringes.”

As if to underscore Borel’s words, a deep roar sounded in the distance, as of a beast enraged afar.

Chelle turned in the direction of the bellow. “A hunter?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” said Borel. “Yet here we are well protected by the thorns; do not be afraid, my love.”

“I’m not,” Chelle replied calmly. But then she gasped. “Oh, look, Borel, a winged Sprite asleep on a leaf next to a bumblebee.”

“They are my companions,” said Borel. “It is the bee that the Sprite and I follow, for she is our guide.”

“And where is it you are going?” asked Chelle, turning to face Borel.

He took her hands in his. “We are looking for you, my love.” Before she could reply, he kissed her fingers and released her and said, “Come, let us play.” Borel stooped and took up the white and black queens, one in each hand, and put them behind his back and pretended to shuffle them. He held out both hands, a queen hidden in each fist. “Choose.”

“Dextral,” said Chelle.

Borel opened his right fist; in it lay the ivory queen. “You move first,” he said, smiling. He gave her the white queen and handed her down to the grass on the ivory side of the board, and then stepped to the ebony side and sat.