Once Upon a Summer Day (37 page)

Borel dropped a dab of honey into the jar lid and said, “I’m going to explore this ruin. Perhaps I can find why the woman in white leapt to her death.”

“Woman in white?” said Flic.

“When we came through the storm, as I neared the ruins, a white-gowned lady jumped into the sea.”

“Hmph,” said Flic. “More likely a ghost, if you ask me.” He gestured about. “I mean, look at this place. It’s a broken shell, and hasn’t been lived in for many seasons.”

“Nevertheless, I’m going to look,” said Borel.

“As you will, my lord,” said Flic. “Buzzer and I will stay and watch the fire.”

In the driving rain, Borel clambered through the ruins, yet he found nought that indicated anyone had lived therein of recent.
Mayhap Flic is right. Perhaps ’twas a spirit torn with grief . . . someone who lived in this tower long past. On the other hand, it could be a dweller from nearby, someone with a broken heart.

Borel stepped to the brim of the precipice and again looked into the rage below. There was nothing to see but furious water achurn.

He scanned the skies. All was dark clouds for as far as his gaze could reach, both inland and asea, though they did ride along and perhaps pass through the twilight border he and Flic and Buzzer had just yester crossed.

He went back to the chamber where the fire burned, and he shed his cloak and sat down and added a bit of wood to the blaze, and thereafter he broke his own fast.

 

All day it rained, and the wind lessened greatly, though the clouds did not diminish one whit. And Borel took to pacing back and forth within the limits of the remains of the room.

“My lord, if you keep trodding to and fro you will be most weary should we set out soon,” said Flic.

Borel flung himself down next to the blaze and said, “Ah, Flic, you are right, yet I cannot but know that time is fleeting, and Chelle is yet a prisoner.”

“Still, my lord, we need Buzzer to guide us, and she cannot in these conditions.”

Borel took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. Then he lay back and tried to rest. Yet within a quarter candlemark, once again he was on his feet pacing.

 

Night fell—

And still it stormed—

And Buzzer fell dormant.

Borel and Flic made ready to sleep.

 

With Flic tugging on his ear and hissing—“Wake up, my lord, wake up!”—Borel roused.

“Wh-what is—?”

“Shh, my lord, look,” said Flic.

A ghostly figure, a weeping woman in white, descended a spiral stairway that was not there. An ethereal aura glowed dimly about her as ’round she came and down, and in her hand she clutched a letter, or so it seemed. As she came to what had once been the ground floor she let the letter flutter from her hand, and as it fell away she headed for the remnants of a doorway, her grief beyond measure. She passed straight through piles of rubble instead of climbing up and over and down. It was as if the wrack were not there, as if the floor were yet in place, and the walls and the tower still standing as it once must have been.

Weeping inconsolably, out to the edge of the cliff she went, and she cried out a name: “Valmont, Valmont, oh my beloved Valmont.” She extended her arms toward the raging waters and then stepped over the brim and fell away.

“That was your lady in white?” asked Flic, his voice yet a whisper.

Borel nodded. “It was.”

“I told you she was a ghost,” said Flic.

Borel stood and stepped across the chamber to a pile of rubble.

Flic added, “It seems she is a spirit doomed to, um, to relive her sorrow.—That is, if ghosts can be said to ‘relive.’ ”

“Repeat,” said Borel, lifting away stones. “She is doomed to repeat.”

“Ah, yes,” said Flic. “That is the word I was searching for.” He watched Borel paw through the rubble, heedless of the rain falling upon him. “Speaking of searching, Prince Borel, what are you looking for?”

“Here fell the letter she was holding,” said Borel. “Perhaps can we find it and burn it, no longer will she be trapped in an endless cycle.”

“Endless cycle? Do you think she is in an endless cycle? Perhaps she only does this when there is a storm at sea, or maybe just during a certain time of year, or—”

“Aha!” said Borel, and he held in his hand a fragment of parchment. He stuffed it into his jacket and continued to dig through the wrack. Yet nothing else was found.

Borel returned to the fire and dried himself off with his own cloak. Then he took the vellum from his jacket. “Hmm . . . it’s torn, and much is faded beyond recall, weathered, no doubt. But this I can make out:

“That’s all,” said Borel. “The rest is too weatherworn, too faded by the elements to read. Yet from what I gather, I ween that Valmont’s ship was lost in a furious storm, much as is this one, and he was drowned. I think the lady in white leapt into the sea to join him. And so, my wee friend, perhaps you are right: it could be the lady only appears during a raging storm to repeat her sorrow.”

“And you think if we burn the remains of the letter she will, um . . .” Flic’s words faded to silence.

“Be released from her torment,” said Borel, finishing the thought. Then he said, “I would we had a hierophant to tell us what to do, perhaps to bless her, yet we don’t.”

“Well, my lord, if I can bless a crofter’s field, surely you can bless a spirit. I say we do what you suggest.”

And so Borel added wood to the fire and knelt before it with the remnant of the letter in hand. “Mithras,” he softly said, “let this torment end.” And he thrust the letter into the flames, and it caught and burned, and its glowing ashes swirled up in the wind and flew away—

—and the rain abruptly stopped.

 

There was yet a good part of the night remaining, and though he did not believe he could fall asleep, along with Flic, Borel lay down to get whatever rest remained, for if the storm was truly gone, then when daylight came, they would be on their way again.

Yet his thoughts were churning—thoughts of Chelle and the lady in white and of Flic and Buzzer and their journey and of Roulan’s stone vale and of pink-petaled shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines and . . . and . . .

. . . and he drifted into slumber.

“A
h, I see you brought your bow again,” said Chelle.

“And, Sieur, I would string it if I might.”

Borel grinned and handed her the weapon.

Somewhere, just on the edge of hearing, a squeaking sounded, or perhaps it was music; it was entirely too faint to tell.

Chelle set the lower bowstring loop into the nock at the end of the lower limb. She grounded that end against the floor and grasped the upper limb and stepped her right leg in between the body of the bow and the string. Taking the upper loop in her left hand, with her right she began to bend the bow. The gap between the upper-limb nock and the loop narrowed and narrowed, yet not enough for her to set the string in place. She relaxed and looked at Borel, the smile still on his face. She blew a stray lock of her golden hair up from her forehead and took a deep breath and gritted her teeth and bent the bow again . . . and again . . . and yet again, but try as she might, she simply could not set the upper loop in place.

The squeaking grew, or mayhap the music grew, and now clearly but faintly sounded.

Borel frowned and looked about for the source, but he found nought.

Finally, after repeated attempts, Chelle laughed and relaxed and gave the bow back to Borel. “You said I might find it difficult to string, and I thought I would try.”

The squeaking, the music, was no longer faint, yet Chelle seemed to pay it no heed.

Borel slung the bow by its carrying thong and said, “Well, Chérie, what would you have us do this eve? I am certain I can find a suitable setting, but I would have you choose the deeds.”

In spite of the shadows, Borel could see a shade of red creeping up Chelle’s face. “My lord, often have we come close to making lo—”

From below there came up the stairwell the sound of a door opening.

Now the squeaking became a squeal, or the music grew shrill, and echoed up the stairwell and down.

Chelle gasped, and glanced at one of the windows. “Oh, my Borel, you must flee.”

A door closed somewhere below.

“Flee?”

“ ’Tis the dark of the moon, and Rhensibé said she would come.”

“Rhensibé?” said Borel. “She is here?” He unslung his bow and strung it.

Above the growing shrill music, the growing squeal, footsteps sounded, as if someone crossed a stone floor far below.

“She said she would come on the day of the dark of the moon, to gloat and tell me that there was but a fortnight and one ere the moon rises full.”

Borel pulled a flint-tipped arrow from his quiver.

Now the footsteps started up the stairs.

“You cannot face her, my lord.” Chelle pressed her hands against Borel’s chest and pled, “Flee through your secret door.”

“Let her come,” gritted Borel, “for I will not take flight.”

Much like a wagon wheel grown rusty and needing grease, the squealing, the music, sounded loudly, but above that shrill din the footsteps sounded even louder as they came up the spiral stairway.

Borel moved to the side and nocked the arrow and started toward the well opening, but Chelle flung herself in front of him. “My lord, she is too powerful a sorcière. I beg you to fly through the door.”

“Go,” said Borel, “seek safety beyond the door, while I deal with Rhensibé,” and again he moved to one side, and he drew the arrow to the full and took aim at the opening where Rhensibé would first appear.

“I cannot, my love, for if I do, she will discover that very door and use it to—”

The strident screeching drowned out Chelle’s words, but the footsteps thudded on upward, closer, ever closer, now just a—

—the screeching rose—

—the steps grew louder—

Chelle said softly but clearly, “Find me, Borel. Please find me. And hurry.”

—and of a sudden the walls began to fade, and Borel cried out, “No! Chelle, do not take the dream away! Do not—”

 

—Borel jolted awake on his feet in the dawn, and in his hands he held his strung bow, with an arrow nocked and drawn to the full.

“M
y lord, what peril comes?” cried Flic, the Sprite awing and with his silver épée in hand.

“Merde!” shouted Borel and eased his draw and stomped about, cursing, “Merde! Merde! Merde!”

“My lord?” said Flic.

“Flic, Flic, Chelle is in the hands of Rhensibé, and I could do nought to save her.”

“Are you certain, my lord? ’Tis but a dream, you know.”

“Of course I am certain!” shouted Borel, and Flic, shocked, backed through the air and away.

Borel slumped to the dirt next to the fire and looked up to see the Sprite yet flying, Buzzer now hovering at his side. “Ah, Flic, I am sorry. It’s just that I might have been able to slay Rhensibé.”

“In a dream?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

Flic sheathed his épée and settled down opposite the prince, Buzzer alighting as well. “Tell me this dream,” said the Sprite.

Borel sighed and said, “Rhensibé was coming up the stairs of the turret, and Chelle took away the dream before I had a chance to loose an arrow at the witch.”

“Rhensibé is a witch, then?” said Flic.

“Chelle called her a sorcière,” said Borel.

“Ah, then, that agrees with what Charité and Maurice told us back nigh Roulan’s vale,” said Flic.