Once Upon a Winter's Night

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Across the Summerwood they went, as the sun traced an arc through the sky, and late in the day they came to the pool where the Waterfolk-otters had played, but they seemed wholly absent this eve, for none whatsoever were in sight. Even so, remembering, Camille did not shed her clothes to swim or bathe. At this place, as well, a camp awaited them, pheasant on the spit above the fire. Once more she and the Bear shared a pleasant repast, and then the bear waddled up to the dewberry briars on the hillside above and again sat among them and feasted.

  The following day just after sundown, they came to the twilight border where the Summerwood ended and the Autumnwood began. Here another firelit camp awaited, with another meal on the spit above: several trout, altogether enough for Camille, though the Bear afterward rooted about ’neath fallen logs for whatever under there it was he ate.

  The next morn they entered the Autumnwood, where the Bear’s fur became grizzled reddish brown, and they passed back along the way they had come months agone, and they took sustenance from the plentiful harvest. As evening fell, no campsite awaited, for, in this realm, game acook above a fire was not needed, or so did Camille reason.

  On the second day in the Autumnwood, as the Bear topped a hill, on another knoll in the near distance stood a white Unicorn. “Oh, Bear, look there’s a Uni—”

  With a toss of its tail, the Unicorn snorted and spun and trotted away, disappearing down the far side of the knoll. Tears welled in Camille’s eyes, for now she truly knew what Fra Galanni had meant about being unsullied, and what Agnès meant about being pure; no longer having her virgin’s blood, Camille was dismayed by the Unicorn’s rejection, and it seemed somehow unfair.

  On this day as well, at the top of a vale above a field of grain, they again had passed the huge man sitting with his back to a tree, a scythe across his knees; and, as before, he had gotten to his feet and bowed low as the Bear and Camille had passed.

  In midafternoon of the third day within that demesne, they once again reached a twilit border, this one leading into the Winterwood.

  The Bear stopped at the bound, and he whuffed when Camille asked if they would make camp at this place. She spent the dregs of the day finding a suitable stream to fill the waterskins she had insisted on bringing, for, as she had told the Bear, she would not abide again the brimstone-foul water of the ice-clad pools within the realm to come.

  The next dawning Camille awakened to the cold nose of an animal nudging her cheek. “Bear!” she shrieked as she bolted upright, only to find a Wolf shying back. Laughter rang across the daybreak, for Borel and his pack had come. Yet chuckling, Borel said, “Best put on your cold-weather gear, Sister mine, for where we go ’tis quite chill.”

  Into the Winterwood they fared, into that tangle of twisted and broken trees, the skies above dismal, the light dim, ice and snow and shattered rock and crags looming alongside. The Wolves ranged fore and aft and on the flanks as well. Occasionally the Bear, his fur now white, paused and sniffed the air and grunted, but what he may have scented, if aught, Camille did not know. Even so, with a Bear and a Wolf pack and Borel—he armed with a long-knife strapped to his thigh and his bow in hand, arrows in a quiver at his hip—Camille felt quite safe.

  “Still,” she asked, “why do we come this way?”

  “It is the most direct,” replied Borel.

  “And you say that other places in the Winterwood are quite beautiful?”

  “Aye, Camille. Only in this region is the land cursed.”

  “Cursed?”

  “Indeed. Cursed long past, but by whom, I know not. ’Twas all part of some enmity against my sire, I deem, mayhap by those responsible for his and my dam’s disappearance.”

  “Oh,” said Camille, as onward they went, the dim day growing old.

  Just ere sundown they stopped to camp, and Borel set his Wolves on guard, then made a fire. Camille discovered that the water in her waterskins had frozen solid through, all but the one she had been using, and that nearly empty. But in a pan from one of the bundles Borel melted snow, and the water, although not sweet, was not brimstone-tinged either.

  Beyond the stark mountains the sun fell, and night came over the icy realm. Something, some glimmer, plucked at the edges of Camille’s mind, yet she couldn’t quite capture the elusive thought, and it slid away un-snared.

  She sat awhile talking to Borel, and ghostly tendrils of a spectral ice-fog coiled in among the broken trees to encircle the campsite . . . the icy wisps barely held at bay by the fire.

  Of a sudden there came a thin wail, and Camille looked about, trying to locate the source. And then—

  “What’s that?” she cried, leaping to her feet and pointing.

  Rising up from the snow-laden ground came creeping a nearly transparent hand, claw-fingered and grasping, followed by an equally lucent arm.

  Borel snatched his bronze long-knife out from its scabbard and slashed through the emerging limb, but the knife slid right through with no effect whatsoever, and still upward came whatever it was, the transparent top of a head now showing, wearing a cap faintly tinged with red. And then its face broke through and a terrible cry wailed forth from its snag-toothed mouth.

  “Oh, sweet Mithras!” cried Camille. “ ’Tis a Goblin come out of the ground!”

  The Bear roared and clawed at the being, with absolutely no consequence as it continued to emerge. Dodging the Bear’s slashing swipes, Wolves, too, darted in and back, fangs gnashing through with no result.

  “Borel, another!” cried Camille.

  And behind them a second transparent Goblin came forth from the frozen soil. And another and another and another, all oozing up, all unkillable, all wailing, all—

  “Mithras, oh Mithras,” cried Camille, now knowing what had eluded her mind, “we’ve camped on the killing ground of months past; these are Redcap ghosts!”

  Borel snatched up a burning branch from the fire and lashed it through the spectres crowding ’round, yet it, too, had no effect.

  In spite of the fire, the long-knife, the roaring, clawing Bear, and the leaping, slashing Wolves, still the wailing wraiths crowded closer, for nought seemed to affect them at all.

  And a wave of weakness whelmed over Camille, and she staggered back against a twisted tree, clutching it merely to remain upright; it was all she could do to not faint. And still the ghosts ghoulishly crowded ’round her, and she felt as if her very life was being sucked away on the shrill and ghastly keening. “We’ve got to flee,” she called out, her voice feeble, but her legs would not obey. “Flee,” she repeated, now mumbling.

  But then a bitch Wolf stopped her leaping and slashing, and she looked at the spectres and cocked her head this way and that and listened to their ghostly wails; and then she raised her muzzle into the air and began to sing, her mournful howl cutting across the frigid night. And the nearest wraiths flinched away. Another Wolf began to sing, his voice joining hers. Ghosts reeled back. A third Wolf took up the refrain, and one more and another, and soon all nine Wolves, the entire pack, were singing in the night. And the spectres mewled in agony and clutched at their heads, slapping their hands over their ears, their own ghastly wails dwindling, dwindling; and even as Camille lost her grip on the tree and swayed and fell to her knees in the snow and then collapsed onto her side, ghosts about her began sinking back into the frozen earth, unable to withstand the mournful dirge of the Wolves driving them down and away. The last thing she saw was the Bear standing over her as blackness took her mind.

  Camille became aware of a gentle jouncing, and she came to on a travois being drawn by the Bear. At her side walked Borel, his face haggard and wan. Dismal daylight seeped down from the gray sky above.

  She tried to raise up but fell back, and feebly whispered. “Where, what—?”

  “Be still, Camille. They nearly did you in,” replied Borel.

  “But how?”

  “They say ghosts steal life from the living, as if trying to recapture their own, and they were primarily clustered about you.
”

  “What of you, the Bear, the Wolves?”

  Borel managed a weak smile. “Oh, I was leeched, yet not as were you, for even though my long-knife did them no harm, I ween ’twas their memories of blades apast kept most away from me.”

  “And the Bear, the Wolves? Did the wraiths steal the force of their lives?”

  “Nay, Camille. It seems ghosts prefer pure Humans.”

  Camille’s eyes closed and she whispered, “But I am not pure.”

  “What, Camille?”

  Her voice was now faint, fading. “Ask the Unicorn.”

  When Camille next came to, she was lying on a bed of evergreen branches. At hand a warm campfire burned, and a brace of rabbits cooked above the flames. Dizzily, she sat up and looked about. The Bear, now black, sat nearby, as well as Borel and the Wolves, some of the latter alert and warding, others quite sound asleep. New green leaves swayed in a slight breeze above, and water ran down the slope and toward the valley below. While upslope and to the rear a wall of twilight loomed.

  It was early morn, for the sun was just edging up over the horizon, and they were in the Springwood.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Borel.

  “Thirsty,” said Camille, struggling to her feet. “And I need to relieve myself.”

  She tottered into the woods, and awhile later came out, and Borel had a waterskin and a cup waiting.

  As she drank, the Bear came over and snuffled at her, and she gave him a hug. That seemed to satisfy him, and he padded to the opposite side of the fire and, grunting, lay down.

  After quenching her thirst, she asked, “How long was I unaware?”

  “But for a brief moment yester, a night and a day and another night all told,” replied Borel. He looked back at the Winterwood behind. “I should have known that the curse on that sector would be more than just blighted woodland.”

  Camille also looked back at the cold and twisted and shattered forest darkly seen beyond the tenebrous marge. “This curse, can it not be lifted, the region returned to normal?”

  Borel shook his head. “We have tried, just as we tried at—” Abruptly he fell silent.

  “Just as those mages and witches and warlocks and other such tried whatever they tried at Summerwood Manor?” softly asked Camille.

  Borel glanced across the fire and nodded. He then drew a deep breath and said, “Time to eat coney.”

  As they took the rabbits from the spit, Camille heard a heavy breathing, and when she looked—“Oh, goodness, my Bear is asleep.”

  “ ’Tis no wonder,” said Borel. “He dragged you here without stopping.”

  “Did you stop?”

  Borel shook his head and bit into a coney leg. Around the mouthful, he said, “I did sleep last night though, when we reached this camp.” He chewed a moment, and then glanced back at the path through the Winterwood. “I’ve a good mind to get me a sword of iron and lay those wraiths to rest once and for all.”

  Camille paused in her eating. “But Renaud the smith said that iron was not permitted in Faery. Is it not banned?”

  “Not quite,” replied Borel. “A few who sail the seas carry weapons of iron, of steel. It protects them from some of the monsters of the deep. They seldom bring it onshore however, and then but in direst need.”

  “What of a magic sword, Borel, an enchanted blade? I’ve heard tales of such weapons as being within the realms of Faery. Would one of those not lay these ghosts by?”

  “Oh, Sister mine, enchanted blades are quite rare, and perhaps worth more than the wealth of all of the Forests of the Seasons combined. But you are correct, an enchanted blade would do the deed.”

  “Rrhmm!” suddenly chuffed the Bear and raised up his head and glared about, then settled back down to sleep.

  Camille set a finger to her lips, and they ate the rest of the meal in silence.

  They did not move onward that day, but spent the whole of it resting, recovering, regaining vitality—through the full of the night as well.

  The next dawning, Camille awakened quite refreshed, much of the effects of the spectres allayed. During a breakfast of biscuits and tea, she conferred with Borel, and they decided that she and the Bear would go on, while he and his Wolves would return to the Winterwood. “But I and my pack will be here a twelveday hence and await your return, Camille, to escort you along the cursed way, and this time we’ll not stop to rest in a place where phantoms lie.”

  As Wolves yipped and yammered and postured and circled and nipped and fawned, gathering for the return, Camille embraced Borel, then climbed upon the Bear, and down the long slope and into the sheer-walled valley she rode. She turned to wave adieu, but Borel and his pack were gone.

  Down into the wide, deep gorge went the Bear and Camille, and far to either side rose vertical walls of granite, though here and there in niches and nooks high upon the steeps did trees manage to cling, their vibrant spring greens in sharp contrast to the pale grey of the stone. Far ahead and to the right, many separate waterfalls cascaded over the brim and down, thundering into streams below, which wended across the gorge, the runs to combine and combine again into larger flows, all to join together at last and course into a rift at the base of the rock wall on the far side. And all about Camille and the Bear, new branches and old held vivid green leaves, and spring blossoms bloomed amid the fresh grass growing across the leas.

  In late afternoon they came alongside the pool at the base of the high cascade plummeting down the sheer wall at the far end of the vale, there where the switchback path led up the stone and out. As they started up the narrow way, Camille laughed in joy, for Waterfolk, nearly transparent, cavorted in the churn below, male and female alike, and they chased one another as if playing tag, and they raced and grabbed hold of ankles and wrists and waists, some nipping, some giggling, others kissing, while yet others paired off and engaged in—Oh, my!—Camille blushed and looked away, as on up the path the Bear did go.

  Two days later, as the tide of dusk drew over the land, they came to the final twilight bound; the Bear padded on through and into a warm summer’s eve within the mortal world beyond. And Camille gasped, for where her Papa’s cottage once sat now stood a brightly lit mansion, with many carriages drawn up beyond; and lively music drifted across the field to fill the air with song.

  15

  Homecoming

  The Bear, now a rich brown, growled and stopped. Camille slid from his back and looked across the field at the brightly lit mansion and the carriages and teams in harness. “Oh, Bear, it is not at all what we expected, is it?” Camille frowned. “I wonder who lives there and where my family has gone.” She took a deep breath and let it out, and said, “Well, we’ll not learn a thing simply by standing here. Let us go and see.”

  As Camille stepped away, “Rrhmm,” rumbled the Bear, and he did not move.

  “What is it, Bear?”

  The Bear raised its nose into the air and snuffled.

  “Is it the horses? Or, instead, the men?”

  The Bear gave a soft whuff.

  “Ah, well, as for the horses, I know you do not wish to frighten them. And as for the men, I don’t blame you, for, knowing the ways of mortals, they might take it in their heads to go hunting after you, my Bear, yes?”

  “Urrmm.”

  Camille frowned, for she did not know how to interpret that answer, one which might mean No, though in this case it might also mean something else altogether, such as Let them try.

  “Never you mind, Bear, I’ll go on from here, and see who lives there, then press on to wherever Papa and Maman have moved.” Camille donned her cloak and tied a modest drawstring purse to her belt, a few coins therein—some gold, some silver, some bronze. She loosened a pair of bundles from the rig.

  She hugged the Bear about the neck, and said, “In a sevenday, I’ll meet you at this very place and you can carry me back to my beloved prince. You will remember, eh?”

  “Whuff.”

  She gave the Bear another hug, then s
houldered her bundles and set out across the field, and the Bear watched her go.

  Toward the mansion she went, and tall weeds and grasses swished ’round her boots and leather pants, thistles and burrs and bristly leaves clung to her cloak, and dust and weed pollen rose up ’round her in clouds. Oh, my, but the land lies fallow, overgrown; Papa would be so disappointed at the new owners.

  On she strode through the oncoming nightfall, the music getting louder, and now she could hear voices and laughter, and she could see the window sashes were raised wide to let in the summer breeze, while yellow lantern- and candlelight streamed outward. When she reached the manse, she turned and looked for the Bear, but she saw him not in the gathering darkness. Gone into Faery, I suspect.

  Faced with waiting rows of coachmen, she paused long enough to cast her hood over her head, then took up her bundles and rounded the end of the mansion. Past idle drivers and horses and carriages she went, some of the conveyances quite elegant, a few of these with footmen as well. On toward the portico she strode, and as she came to the front landing, “Ho, lad,” called out one of the drivers. “If they toss you a bone, save a knuckle for me.” Others laughed at his jest, but Camille paid no heed and stepped onto the porch, where the door stood open as well.

  “Here now, boy, and just where do you think you’re going?” demanded the doorman, stepping into her path. “Off with you, and be quick about it. We want no beggars, no bindlestiffs here.”