Once Upon a Summer Day (21 page)

Again Borel paused for a bite of jerky, and at mention of blood yet dripping, Flic had turned completely ’round and now faced Borel, eagerly awaiting the next part of the story.

“The king from the West then entered the city and rode his horse to the palace, where he dismounted and approached the guard and asked to pay his respects to the king in the East as well as to his daughter. Learning from the guard that this petitioner was a powerful king from the West, the king in the East bade him to enter, and all the courtiers and advisors made way, and into the audience chamber the Western king strode.

“There on a throne of her own near her sire’s chair of state sat the princess, the most lovely creature the king from the West had ever seen. For her part, the princess was taken by this handsome man, and once again she regretted the pledge she had made in a fit of pique so long past, a pledge that her cruel sire would not let her rescind and who enforced the consequences with the keen edge of a headsman’s sword.”

Borel paused, and Flic demanded, “What happened? What happened?”

After another bite and a long chew, with the Sprite fidgeting about and barely able to contain himself, Borel went on:

“ ‘I ask for the hand of your daughter,’ said the Western king, and all the courtiers gasped, and tears welled in the eyes of the princess, for she knew what fate awaited those who failed, and she would not have this man die on her account. And so she warned him that no man could answer that which she asked.

“Nevertheless, the Western king insisted, and so she had no choice but to pose the question to him.”

Borel took a bite of black bread and chewed, while Flic jumped to his feet and demanded, “The question, the question, what was the question?”

Borel smiled and chewed and Flic huffed and dithered from foot to foot, and finally the prince swallowed.

“And so, the Eastern king called his headsman to the chamber so that there would be no delay when this latest suitor failed. And when the black-hooded man entered bearing his great curved sword, the king turned to his daughter and bade her to pose the question.

“Sighing, the princess, her voice as lovely as that of a lark, again begged the Western king to reconsider, but he insisted, for she was even more lovely and wise than he had ever dreamed. And so she posed her question: ‘What is it that women want?’ ”

Borel paused once more, and Flic screamed, “The answer, the answer, what was his answer?”

Borel smiled and said, “Have you forgiven me, Flic?”

“Yes, yes, but I must have the answer! Tell me now or I will burst!”

“Oh, well,” said Borel, “we can’t have you bursting all over the place. Buzzer might take ill to such a thing, and I would not have her enraged.”

“Then tell me!” shrieked Flic.

“Why, what would your own answer be, my tiny friend?”

Flic flung his arms wide and shrilled, “How would I know? How would
anyone
know? Isn’t that the mystery of the ages?”

“Indeed it is, Flic, but you see, the Western king knew the answer.”

Flic hopped from foot to foot and demanded, “And . . . ?”

“The Western king simply bowed gracefully to the princess and said, ‘My lady, what all women want is to be masters of their own fates.’

“Tears of relief sprang into the eyes of the princess, and she turned to her sire and said, ‘As you know, Father, that is the answer I am seeking.’ ”

Flic’s mouth flopped opened in surprise. “That’s it? That’s the answer to the mystery of the ages?” Then he knitted his brows together and plopped down and peered at the ground and said, “How utterly simple. I never would have thought of that.”

“The tale is not yet done, Flic,” said Borel, “for an even more perilous challenge lay ahead for the Western king.”

Flic’s head jerked up. “What? Not done? Something more perilous?”

“Indeed,” said Borel.

“Well, then tell me, tell me.”

“ ‘That is the answer I am seeking,’ said the princess. But her sire ground his teeth in rage and slammed his fist to the arm of the throne, and he growled and said, ‘Bah! Indeed he has guessed the answer to
your
question, but now you must pose to him the dilemma
I
set.’ And all the court gasped, for they did not know there was a second response needed to win the hand of the princess, for no one else had ever gotten this far.

“Once again tears sprang into the eyes of the princess, this time tears of sorrow, for at last here was the man she had dreamed of—young and handsome and wise and a king in his own right. Nevertheless, she assented to her sire’s demand, and of a sudden she changed into the most repulsive creature anyone could imagine. Members of the Eastern court fell in swoons or ran away screaming or dropped to the floor begging for mercy. Yet the Western king stood staunchly and said, ‘Speak the dilemma, my lady.’ And the monstrous creature croaked, ‘I will take on this form half of the day’—and she changed back into a lovely maiden—‘and this form the other half. You can have me at your side during the daylight marks as a lovely companion, lending your court elegance and wisdom, but in your bed in the nighttime marks you will have me as this’—and once again, she changed into the horrid monster. ‘Or you can have me at your side as a hideous thing in the daylight hours, sending all in your court screaming away’—she shifted again to the beautiful princess—‘but in your bed you will have me as you see me now. And so, if we are to marry, which will it be?’ ”

Borel paused again, and Flic said, “Oh, my, oh, my, what a dilemma that truly is. Which did the king choose?”

“Were you in his place, Flic, how would you choose to respond?”

Flic’s face twisted in an agony of indecision. “Loathing by day and allurement by night? Or allurement by day and loathing by night? Oh, oh, oh, Prince Borel, I simply could not choose.”

“Exactly so,” said Borel, smiling, “you have hit upon the answer.”

Flic’s eyes flew wide. “I have?”

“Indeed, for the Western king said, ‘Either way I would love you, my darling, and so the choice is yours.’

“The beautiful princess laughed and ran down the steps to the Western king and threw herself into his arms and said, ‘Then I choose to keep this form both day and night.’ But her enraged sire shouted in fury, for the Western king had again responded correctly. And, black in the face, the Eastern king leapt up from his throne and hurtled down to the headsman and grabbed the great curved sword, and as he raised it to slay them both, of a sudden he clutched at his head and screamed and fell dead of wrath at their feet.

“And so, the Western king and the Eastern princess became rulers o’er two lands: one in the East, one in the West, and they lived in happiness the rest of their lives.”

Borel fell silent, and Flic said, “I never would have thought of either of his answers, Lord Borel. I didn’t know what women want, and I certainly couldn’t choose between day and night.” He looked up to see Borel smiling faintly, one eyebrow cocked. Flic sighed and said, “You told me this story for a reason, didn’t you.”

As he packed away their goods, Borel nodded and said, “I did at that, my friend. You see, just as the Western king knew that women need to make their own free choices—and that’s what the tale is all about, making free choices—so do I know that as well. In the dream we share, Chelle is somehow ensnared, and so I think she has little choice concerning what occurs. But as for me, I do have choices, and I will not force them upon her, no matter that it is just a dream. And when we set her free, awake or asleep, it will be the same.”

Borel stood and looked toward the foothills and the mountains beyond and said, “Time to go.”

Buzzer flew up and ’round and then arrowed off toward the range. And Borel, with Flic riding on the prow of the tricorn, loped o’er the land after.

 

It was late afternoon when Borel swam and Flic flew across a meandering river and came in among the hills. And although they had passed scattered farmsteads here and there, still Borel had not veered from the course set by the bee. When they reached the distant bank, Borel could see at an angle upslope a league or so away the mouth of a narrow vale. It was the dell of Lord Roulan’s estate, or so he believed.

As he redonned his clothes and took up his belongings from the driftwood log he had used in making the crossing, Borel said, “At last, my friend, thanks to you and Buzzer, we have come nigh the goal. Yon leftward upstream and well beyond that distant croft lies the town I remember, and at the top of this long slant is the vale of Roulan’s manor and gardens.” He shouldered his quiver and said, “Yet now we must deal with the daggers, whatever they might be.”

“I will scout ahead, my prince,” said the Sprite, “and seek out hidden dangers, and warn you of peril, should there be any.”

“Well and good, Flic. Yet ’ware, for hazard may lurk unseen.”

Flic darted up and up, gaining height before winging toward the dell.

Borel continued his Wolftrot, angling up and cross-slope, the mouth of the vale ever nearing. In less than half a candlemark he had drawn almost even with the gape, but Flic had not yet returned, and a feeling of foreboding gnawed at the edges of Borel’s mind, for surely the Sprite should have been back by now.

And so the prince nocked an arrow and slowed as he reached the shoulder of the ridge forming one side of the valley.

And then he heard weeping, and rounding the turn he came upon a desolate Flic sitting high upon a boulder, Buzzer at hand. As Borel stepped close, the Sprite looked up, tears in his eyes. “Oh, my prince, Buzzer says this is the place, but we have flown the entire length, and there is no manor, no gardens, no pink-petaled shamrock nor blushing white roses nor thorn-laden blackberry vines. There is nothing at all.” Once more Flic burst into tears.

His heart pounding in dread, Borel stepped forward and ’round the shoulder of the ridge and gazed down the full of the dell, his eyes seeing nought but a bare stone vale, as if the land had been stripped down to raw bedrock, with nothing else whatsoever therein.

S
tunned, Borel stood long moments staring into the stone valley. Finally, he said, “Perhaps there is a glamour on this vale to fool any would-be rescuers.” With arrow set to string, the prince walked into the barren dell, its surface hard and rough, solid, uneven. Down the center he walked, on a line along which he remembered Roulan’s manse to be, and if this place were enspelled, then soon or late he should collide with the mansion. Deep into the vale he strode, all the way to the end, and no unseen manor, gardens, trees, or blackberry briars did he come upon.

Yet he was convinced that this was the place wherein such things should be, for this was Lord Roulan’s dale, of that he was certain.

But now it was nought but bare stone, nought but bedrock, the entire valley stripped.

Despairing of ever finding Chelle, he stood long moments in dejection, his head bowed, his heart in despair. But then he straightened his shoulders and turned on his heel and strode back toward the mouth of the dell.

When he came to Flic and Buzzer he said, “There is yet a fortnight, a sevenday, and part of one ere the moon rises full. We will find her yet. Let us go to the nearest farmstead and speak with the crofter. Perhaps it is common knowledge what has happened herein.”

Flic dried his eyes and silently spoke to Buzzer, and they took station on Borel’s tricorn.

Down from the stone vale Borel strode, following the trace of a road, now overgrown with weeds and grass, as if no cart, no wagon, no horse had traversed it for years, and by the time they came upon the farm and its dwelling, the sun lay low in the sky and cast long shadows o’er the land.

Out to one side and slightly back of a thatch-roofed cottage stood a coop for chickens. Beyond the coop sat a small byre, a single cow within. Fields of crops stretched away left and right and aft. Even as Borel passed through the gate and stepped toward the doorstone of the house, he heard the ringing of a bell—likely a dinner bell—and off to the right he saw a man carrying a hoe walking through a bean field toward the humble abode, a brown dog racing ahead and barking.

As the man got closer, Borel called out a greeting, and in the cote a window curtain was pulled aside and a ginger-haired woman peered out and then withdrew. Moments later the door opened, and the woman stepped onto the stoop at the same time the dog arrived, its hackles up. Snarling, it stood between Borel and the woman.
“Brun, se taire!”
she commanded the dog, but the animal continued to gnarl. Then Borel growled a word, and the dog whined and promptly sat down just as the man came and stood beside the woman, and they both sized up this stranger. When their gazes fell upon Flic, their eyes flew wide in amaze, and the woman managed to say, “Oh, my, a Sprite. A Field Sprite. Have you come to bless our farm?”

“I would be pleased to do so,” said Flic, “though I’ve not done such before.”