Once Upon a Winter's Night (27 page)

“Have another,” said Camille, yet holding out her tin, “and tell me what you know of a place east of the sun and west of the moon.”

“No, no, mam’selle,” said Jotun, “no more pepper. Three grains I asked for and but three will I have. They’ll last me quite awhile as it is.” Camille started to protest, but Jotun added, “As to this place you seek, I’ve not heard of a site so strangely located, nor do I know where it might be. And so another pepper grain would gain you nought, and I would not dupe you so.”

Camille sighed. “It would have been but by chance alone had you known of such; even so, I had to ask.”

“Perhaps some of the wise folk in Ardon will know,” said Jotun.

“Ardon?”

“The town on the far side of the range.”

“Ah,” said Camille, “a town will be nice, for I would sleep in a bed again. Yet for now, Jotun, ’tis a camp I must make, and then we’ll have a meal—if you would join me, that is. I have some rabbit- and marmot-jerky and some nuts and dried berries and roots—wild carrots and parsnips, in the main . . . a bit of wild onion, too. What say you?”

“Is the jerky peppered?”

Camille nodded, adding, “And spiced with other seasonings as well.”

“Ah, then, there is a nice glade within the grove, where a fire will not be easily seen. Still, with me about, you wouldn’t have to worry overmuch concerning brigands and such.”

As Camille gathered up her things—“Brigands?”

“The Serpentmen from the grass plains below sometimes come up this way”—Jotun puffed out his wee little chest—“especially when I am elsewhere. They pursue any poor folk caught within their demesne. You were fortunate that they did not see you, for they are quite cold-hearted, I say.”

“Oh, but they did,” said Camille. “—See me, I mean; or at least one did.” She held out her hand. “May I carry you to this glade of yours?”

Jotun stepped to her palm, and she set him to the shoulder away from the sleeping sparrow. Holding on to a tress, he directed her toward the center of the grove. As she wended through the trees, Jotun said, “The Serpentmen saw you? And you got away?”

“Aye.”

“Well, then, you are most fortunate. The last one that tried to cross over from the Summerwood was slain. A woman, I believe, or so it seemed to me, as I watched from here on my mountain. I would have helped her, but they were done and gone ere I realized it was a woman.”

Camille sucked in air through clenched teeth.
Was it the poacher’s wife, I wonder? Oh, and it was I who sent her to her death. I shouldn’t have suggested that she be exiled from—

“How did you escape?” asked Jotun.

“I don’t know,” said Camille, glad for the diversion. “The Serpentman may have actually run away from my sparrow.”

Jotun snorted. “Unlikely.”

“Well, then, I cannot explain it.”

“What exactly did you do?—Oh, wait. Here we are.”

Camille set Scruff to a nearby branch, the sparrow peeping an irritated chirp or two at being so disturbed ere falling back to sleep. Camille cleared a patch of ground, then gathered up fallen branches and suitable stones for a ring. Within half a candlemark altogether she had a small fire ablaze.

She shared out the jerky and some of the dried berries; Jotun took but a tiny portion of each, a mere nip by Camille’s standards. As they settled down to eat, again Jotun asked, “What exactly did you do to evade the Serpentmen?”

Camille shrugged. “As they rode past, one of them must have espied me, there where I hid in the grass. As the others raced away, that one turned and came back, him with his long, cruel whip. He came at me, ready to strike, but then he fled away. I looked down and from my high vest pocket”—Camille tapped the one near her left shoulder—“Scruff was peering out. It seems he hides there when danger is nigh. Regardless, the Serpentman cried out in fear and galloped away, and that’s all I know.”

“He just fled?”

Camille nodded, and took a bite of jerky.

“And you did nothing else at all whatsoever?”

Camille turned up her hands.

They sat without speaking awhile, placidly chewing before the small fire, Jotun savoring the tiny jot of spiced meat. At last they finished their meal, and Camille yawned sleepily. “I must rest, for I am weary, having walked uphill all day.” She rolled out her bedroll, but as she did so she said, “Oh, I remember, but I don’t see how it could mean aught.” She reached over and took up her garlanded walking staff. “When the Serpentman came at me, I thought I might fend off his whip with this.” In the light of the fire, Camille thrust the stave out before her, holding it like a quarterstaff.

Tiny though they were, Camille saw Jotun’s eyes widen in revelation. “Where did you get that?”

“It was a gift from the Seer by the Mere.”

“Lady Sorcière?”

“I do not know her name.”

“That is who she is,” said Jotun, “or so I do believe. Ha! It is no wonder the Serpentman fled. It was the staff he ran from . . . perhaps believing you were the lady herself.” Jotun laughed. “Ah, but what a gift it is you bear, for many know of that staff, and some fear it. Certainly the Serpentman did.—How came you by it?”

“It is a long tale, sieur. Perhaps I can tell it on the journey to come.” Camille yawned again.

“Oh, pardon, Mam’selle. I did not think. On our journey will be most acceptable.” Jotun stood. “Sleep well. And worry not in your slumber, for if danger comes in the form of Serpentmen, or aught else for that matter, I will stomp them flat.”

Camille laughed and took to her bed, and in the flickering light of the dying fire she was asleep in but moments, a smile yet lingering on her lips.

 

“Shall I change now?” Jotun piped in his tiny voice. “But I warn you, you might find it quite fearsome.”

“No, no,” said Camille, grinning. “I like you just as you are, my wee friend; that way you can ride on my shoulder, just as does Scruff—he on the left; you on the right. Or would you prefer a high vest pocket?”

Jotun sighed. “As you wish, Mam’selle, and the vest pocket high on the right will do, for there I think it will be easier for me to listen to your tale.”

“My tale?”

“How you came to be on this strange quest of yours to find such an odd place as might lie east of the sun and west of the moon. Also, tell me how you came by Lady Sorcière’s stave.”

“Ah,” said Camille, taking Jotun up in her palm and letting him scramble into the pocket. She slung her bedroll and rucksack over her left shoulder and set Scruff there as well, then began the trek through the high-walled pass. As she strode forth, she said to Jotun, “I am a mere farmer’s daughter, and I thought I would always be, yet one winter’s night as a blizzard was howling there came a loud knock on our door . . . .”

 

“There it is,” said Jotun, pointing down the slope at the lights of the village in the near distance. “I will leave you here, for I do not wish to frighten the townsfolk with my presence. And, Camille, I have so enjoyed your company these last thirty days, coming across the mountains as we did, especially your singing. And I will always be your friend, and I cannot but wish you the best of fortune in finding your Alain. I do believe that Lord Kelmot was right: seek the advice of merchants and travellers and traders and mapmakers and such—especially the elders, for they are most likely to know where lies this strange place you seek. Let me down here, for I would say my au revoir now.”

Camille smiled as she set the wee mite to the slope, though tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, Jotun, would that I could take you with me, but Lady Sorcière, if that is her name, said I must go alone, though unlooked-for help would come along the way, and it certainly did, else I would have wandered about in those mountains for who knows how many years? Merci, my little Twig Man, for guiding me through, else Scruff and I would not be here now.”

“Go,” said Jotun. “Else I will be blubbering giant tears, and to see a Giant cry is a terrible thing. So go and go now; your destiny awaits.”

With Scruff asleep in the high vest pocket he had claimed as his own, Camille turned and started down the slope. As she went she heard Jotun call down after, “Though I will always treasure the days we spent together, I only wish you had let me change, for we would have been here much the sooner.”

From behind there came a great
whoosh
ing outpush of air, icy cold, as if all the heat, all the power, had been sucked from it. Camille turned and gasped, for looming up toward the stars themselves stood a giant of a man. Fully two hundred feet or more he towered upward in the night, and by light of the waning gibbous moon, Camille could see he was dressed all in green and had brown hair, and she knew his eyes were brown, as she had discovered Jotun’s eyes to be in the sunlight of thirty days past. The Giant waved down to her a sad good-bye and then turned and strode away over the mountains, heading back the way he had been borne.

“Oh, Jotun, you really were, really are a Giant,” whispered Camille to herself. “Only in Faery,” she added, as she turned and made her way down the long slope and toward the village below.

A
s Camille savored her first hot meal in more than a moon, she glanced about the common room of Le Sanglier, the only inn in the village of Ardon. Illuminated by lanterns set in sconces along the walls, the chamber, though modest, was rather large for such a small thorp, or so Camille judged. Perhaps that in itself held out the promise that travellers and traders oft came this way. The room had but one fireplace, unlit, on the far wall to the left. A handful of oaken tables, with chairs about, sat here and there—one of them occupied by four men drinking ale and playing cards. More or less in room center there were two long tables, common benches on either side, also made of oak. A modest bar sat nigh the back wall, three or four stools in front, two of them occupied by elderly men who spoke across to the innkeeper as he washed earthenware mugs. On the back wall stood two doors, and Camille knew they led into the kitchen, for it was from there the servingwoman—the innkeeper’s wife, it seems—had fetched Camille a trencher filled with slices of roast beef smothered in gravy, with bread and cabbage and beans. Camille herself sat at one of the smaller tables, there along the front wall, and to her right beyond the foyer stood an archway leading into a vestibule, where a set of stairs led to the rooms above. It was the first inn Camille had ever seen, and her gaze roamed here and there, taking all in.

As she studied the wild boar’s head mounted over the fireplace, one of the doors to the kitchen swung open and out bustled the matronly innkeeper’s wife, bearing a tray laden with a teapot and cup and small pitcher of milk and a small pot of honey. “Here you are, mam’selle, freshly brewed.”

“Merci, madam,” said Camille, smiling. “And madam, if you are not too busy, I would ask you to sit and tell me: do you have any travellers or traders staying at your inn? I am trying to find a place, and I know not where it lies.”

“Oh, Mam’selle, just call me Jolie; everyone else does.”

Camille took up a piece of bread. “And my name is Camille.” She took a bite and chewed.

Jolie smiled and called to her husband to bring her a mug, then sat down in the chair across and poured Camille a cup of tea. When her own mug arrived, she waved her husband away, and then poured herself some tea, adding milk and a bit of honey. She took a sip then said, “This place you seek, Lady Camille, has it a name?”

Camille shook her head; she swallowed her bite and said, “East of the sun and west of the moon is all I know it by.” Camille sliced off a bit of beef.

Jolie frowned. “I have not heard of such, and—Oh, my, but is that a bird you have in your pocket?”

Camille grinned and nodded and said around the chew of beef, “Scruff. A sparrow. Asleep for the nonce. He is my travelling companion.”

Jolie shook her head. “A young fille like you, out on the roads alone with nought but a wee sparrow for company. It is quite dangerous, you know, what with villains and thieves about, Spriggans and such, ghosts of Giants they once were—the Spriggans, I mean. Tell me, aren’t you afraid to go about without a strong guard at your side, a knight or some such?”

“I have no choice. I must travel alone, though I can accept help along the way.”

“Alone?”

“Aye. Lady Sorcière so bade me.”

Jolie’s eyes widened at the mention of that name; even so, she took it in stride. “A quest it is, then?”

Camille nodded, chewing.

“I take it you are bound for this place east of the sun and west of the moon, but where did you come from?”

Camille vaguely gestured. “Through the grass and over the mountains, I came from the Summerwood.”

“Oh, my. All the way across the land of the Serpentmen and then through the les Montagnes Sans Fin?”

Camille frowned in puzzlement. “Why do you call them the Endless Mountains?”

Jolie shrugged. “Although I’ve never entered the chain, it is said that the range is only one hundred miles or so across this side to that, yet I am told the ways within are so twisted that one could travel endlessly and never make it through. The merchants mostly go around.”

“Around? But the chain seemed quite long to me; the way through quicker.”

“Ah, but there is a twilight border somewhat down the road”—Jolie pointed . . . south, Camille thought—“and beyond that marge one can go ’round, for there are no mountains there. No Serpentmen plains either.”

How can that be?—Ah, I know: ’tis Faery.
Camille sighed. “Well, I went through, and endless they did seem. It took thirty days altogether; and even with careful rationing, I ran out of food on the last day, though Scruff had no difficulty in finding a meal.”

Jolie
tsk
ed and shook her head, saying, “You were fortunate, for even with a guide who knows the way, they say one will travel three or four times the distance—days and days and days of travel, just as you did, simply to get from one side to another.”