Once Upon a Winter's Night

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “I think I’ll never go away again, or at least not to visit my mère.”

  “Why so, love?”

  “Oh, Alain, she made the visit quite terrible.”

  “But it should have been enjoyable instead.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Again I ask, why so?”

  “Mainly because you were not there, my love. And every night she presented me with an already-filled dance card, and I was to charm those partners for Maman’s advantage. And, ugh, every night I had to dance with Lord Jaufre.”

  “Who is Lord Jaufre?”

  “An old roué, that’s who. I had to fend him off at every turn, as well as a number of others, rakes all.”

  Alain smiled, his grey eyes dancing behind his indigo blue mask. “Though I can hold them accountable for being boors, Camille, I cannot fault them for their splendid taste in women, for you, my love, are quite fetching.”

  “Oh, you,” said Camille, tapping him lightly on the arm with her white fan.

  They came to the hedge maze, and this night it was illuminated by lanterns within. “I thought we might step therein,” said Alain.

  Camille took one of Alain’s wrists in her two hands and, turning backwards and tugging, said, “Oh, let’s do, Alain,” and, laughing, she pulled him into the maze.

  Along the labyrinthine rows she went, haling Alain after, laughing at dead ends and twice-trod paths and at finding the entrance again, Alain enjoying her play.

  When they came to the entrance for the third time, Alain said, “Love, would you have me show you the way?”

  “Ah, tchaa, sieur, think you I know it not?”

  Alain shrugged, and Camille said, “I have been toying with you, my lord. Come. Follow me.”

  And straightaway she led him to the statues in the center, missing not a turn.

  “You, my dear, are a devious wench,” said Alain. “I shall remember the next we play at any game.”

  “Games, my lord? Would you play at any game with me?”

  He took her in his arms and said, “There is but one game I would play here and now.”

  “Then, my lord, play away.”

  “They are my sire and dam,” said Alain, now reclining on the grass, his arms wrapped about Camille, she in nought but petticoats, he in but his shirt and mask. Her white gown lay on a stone bench at hand, while his breeks lay on the sward amid the scatter of shoes. No moon stood in the night sky, though a spangle of stars wheeled above.

  Camille looked at the pale marble likenesses. “Though handsome, I think I rather like the portraits in the game room more. Even so, these are quite admirable. If they had color, they would be quite lifelike, though color would ruin the beauty of the carving itself. Who shaped them and when?”

  “My sire engaged a sculptor from the mortal lands, a man from Latium, I believe. It was long past, ere I was born. I know nought else of the carving, though perhaps Lanval could find some records if you so desire.”

  Camille shook her head, saying, “I was just curious.”

  They fell silent for long moments, and then Camille said, “Oh, my,” and then giggled.

  Alain looked up at her, behind his mask a question in his grey eyes.

  “I was just thinking, love,” said Camille, “of your parents standing there and watching as we, well . . .”

  Alain laughed and said, “If it would make you more comfortable, we can move to the other side to continue this tryst.” Even as he said it, Camille could feel him quickening to the idea.

  She sat up. “My love, as much as I desire, the bed will be much softer than grass and ground, and the bed as well will not further stain my petticoats should you, as an alternative, suggest that.”

  Alain’s mouth pursed downward in mock disappointment, then turned upward in a grin. “Then it’s off to bed we go,” he replied, releasing her and sitting up.“But first, let us dine, for although love alone is quite satisfying, other needs of the body intrude.”

  “Though your eves were not as you wished, did you not find relief in the day? Did you not catch up on all the news with your sisters, your sire, your brother?”

  In the dark, Camille sighed deeply. “Some. I did enjoy talking with Giles and Papa. Felise was quite taken with her husband Allard—a rather handsome fellow, and pleasant enough. Colette is engaged to Luc, but I didn’t meet him, for he was away in Rulon on business. The twins—Joie and Gai—ah, they are such fun, as is Giles. But in spite of the small amount of agreeable times I had, Maman and my sister Lisette made much of my day unpleasant as well.”

  “How so?”

  “Because every day my mère and I argued over—” Abruptly, Camille fell silent.

  For a long while Alain held her hand in quietness, yet she spoke not. Finally he said, “Argued over what?”

  Camille took a deep breath then said, “Over the fact that you and I are not yet wed.”

  Alain cuddled her in his arms and murmured, “Oh, Camille, you are my life, my love, my heart, and though we are not formally married, we are as wedded as any two could ever be. You are truly my wife, beloved, and I will love you forever.”

  Camille sought his face in the darkness and kissed him deeply. And then she lay with her head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

  At last he said, “When the geas, the curse, is lifted, then will we formally wed.”

  Camille felt her heart clench, but she managed to resist a shudder. Geas? Curse? So that is the problem. Ah, me, there is magic involved here, and I know nought of such. In fact the only true magic I’ve even heard of concerning the Summerwood was when Alain told me of that trace of a spell left behind when his parents disappeared.—No, wait! On wind-borne words did I hear that terrible Troll Olot say something about a geas. But what would that have to do with Alain? Of a sudden, Camille’s eyes widened in startlement at an unexpected thought: Oh, my, perhaps Alain was the man I saw standing there on that ridge with the Troll. But why would he have been in the Winterwood?—Oh, Camille, that matters not. What is of importance is that my beloved is cursed. And what could it be, this curse? Oh, Mithras, what could it be?

  Over the next several days, Camille spent time in the great library reading of magic and spells, of curses and geases, and of numerous other things arcane. Many were the legends and tales, and several fables told of heroes and heroines who, through their wits, resolved dilemmas dire. And one or two of the legends spoke of mysteries which required a lad or lass to solve a problem on their own by revealing an answer that was staring them in the face all along.

  What if this is one of those? What if it is I who have to find an answer, something plain to all others but me? Most certainly, the folks here at Summerwood, Alain’s kindred, the mages and witches and warlocks and such, they all know what’s afoot; indeed, everyone does know but me.

  Every day, on she read, gleaning for clues as to what she might do on her own to resolve whatever curse, or geas, lay over Summerwood Manor. And she said nought to any as to what she was about, not to Alain, not to Blanche, not even to her beloved Bear.

  Every night she and Alain played échecs or dames or croquet by lanternlight, or sang to one another or read poetry or danced. And they made love tenderly and passionately and even wildly at times.

  And she shared with him all the details of her visit to her parents—both the joys and the disappointments—speaking of everything but the discussions pertaining to Alain’s masks and her mère’s idea concerning the stub of a candle and matches. These she kept to herself, for a glimmer of a notion was taking place in her mind.

  The resolutions to many of the fables are quite simple at base. What if my mère was unwittingly right concerning Alain not being able to show me his visage, but rather my seeing his face for myself? What if he has given me the only clue he can, and now it’s up to me to act? What if my seeing his face on my own would break the curse which hangs over my beloved? Mayhap it would return his parents to the Summerwood from wherever it is they’ve vanished
. But even if that is not the case, mayhap my mère is right, and by my seeing Alain’s face he could abandon his masks altogether.

  Camille dithered, not knowing if she were right or wrong, not knowing whether such a simple act would bring about the alleviation of the curse . . . or perhaps make it worse. And then one day, her heart beating frantically, she took up her drawstring purse in which was held the fat candle stub and box of matches, and she went along the corridors to Alain’s quarters and slipped them into the bedchamber. There she secreted them away, then slipped back out and ran lightly down the hall, praying to Mithras that none would see.

  Several nights running, she waited until Alain was asleep, but she could not summon the courage to fetch the stub from its hiding place and light it. Two nights, though, she held it in her hands, and yet put it away unlit, for she felt as if it were somehow a betrayal of his trust.

  But then one night—It is such a simple plan, just like the ones in the fables; what, pray tell, can go wrong?—she struck the match and set the wick aflame and in the glimmering light turned toward her beloved Alain . . .

  . . . and gasped . . .

  . . . and tears sprang to her eyes . . .

  . . . for he was beautiful, so very beautiful: no scars, no wens, no gapes, no pits, no birthmarks, no—Camille smiled through her tears—no, ooo, bony skull; his features were completely unmarred by anything whatsoever, lest marred by beauty instead. And he lay innocently sleeping.

  She sat on the edge of the bed next to him, Alain on her left, the candle in her left hand the better to see, and somewhere a wind began softly to moan. And she sat beside him a long while, studying his beautiful face, as if to store up the sight of it for all time. And still there came the sound of the wind slowly rising, as if a storm brewed.

  Long did she look, but at last, unable to resist, Camille leaned over to kiss his sweet lips, and as she did so, a great blob of hot wax spilled from the hollow of the fat candle stub and splashed onto Alain’s bare chest, and he bolted upright and looked at her in horror. “Oh my love, what have you—? What have you done? The curse, the geas. Now I must—” But his words were chopped off, and there came the moan of a great wind rushing throughout the manor, a wind filled with screams of the living, a wind filled with screams of the damned. A churning darkness came over Alain, as of shadows alive swirling all about his form, and within the dimness his shape began to change, to alter. Camille stumbled up from the bed and hindward, her own mouth gaping wide in shock. And the raging wind shrieked along the halls and hammered upon the doors, the very walls shuddering under the thunderous blows. And all about Alain, blackness swirled, and then he was gone, the huge brown Bear now in his place. And he roared in rage, and Camille reeled back, a soundless scream trapped in her throat. His ashen eyes mad with fury, the Bear rose up and raised a massive claw as if to strike her. Camille shrilled in terror and cowered down, throwing up an arm in futile protection, the candle falling from her grasp to roll and lie on its side. In the flickering shadows the Bear loomed above her, his deafening roars bellowing out over the howl of the wind, and in that moment Camille knew that she was going to die at his claws, just as had the Redcap Goblins. But then the Bear turned and dropped to all fours and crashed out through the door, and the howl of the wind yawled as if in victory, the wails within shrilling in terror. The shrieking wind rose in screaming crescendo, up and up and—

  —Of a sudden the terrible wind vanished and a profound silence fell as the candle guttered and went out, leaving nought but blackness and weeping Camille trembling in the still room behind.

  17

  Desolation

  Yet weeping in the darkness, Camille fumbled her way to the mantel, to find the lantern there and a striker. A yellow glow illuminated the sleeping chamber, the bed curtains torn where the Bear had ripped his way free, the satin covers ajumble.

  Sobbing and barefooted and in nought but a negligee, Camille stumbled across the broken-down door and into the corridor beyond, and there she found more wreckage: hallway and alcove furniture lay atumble; plants were overturned, their pots shattered and dirt strewn along the passage; tapestries lay where they had been ripped from the walls, along with paintings, frames broken and lying askew.

  “Lanval!” she cried out amid the wrack as she made her unsteady way along the hall. Down a stairwell she went, only to find devastation there, too.

  A profound silence filled the manor.

  “Lanval! Blanche!”

  No one answered, the stillness oppressive, broken only by her anguished cries of distress. On into the darkness she struggled, lanternlight revealing nought but ruin.

  “Lanval! Blanche! Anyone!”

  Camille began to run, and as she ran she called out for someone to answer, someone to be alive in the ruin, and everywhere she went, every room she burst into, every corridor she fled down, every hall and chamber she entered, there was nought but total disarray, terrible damage done by the terrible wind that had howled throughout the manor:

  Chairs were overturned; tables displaced; pottery smashed—wreckage and litter and shatter.

  Books and papers and pamphlets and journals were strewn about the great library, and many of the freestanding shelves had toppled, their volumes and tomes and manuscripts and scrolls flung wide.

  In the large kitchen, pots and pans were scattered, some dented nearly beyond recognition, and dishes and cups, bowls and saucers and platters were smashed, shards of porcelain and glass cutting into Camille’s bare feet as she stumbled through, and she left bloody tracks in her wake as she ran onward, calling out for someone to answer.

  Like webs of strange spiders, yards of cloth and yarn and thread draped about the sewing chamber, though most was on the floor. Baskets were smashed, and tambours lay broken, some yet clinging to remnants of embroidered scenes.

  The game room was in a shambles, with the taroc cards and dames and échecs sets strewn, and the portraits of Lord Valeray and Lady Saissa lay up against overturned tables. Camille wept to see such ruin in that special place she had come to love, and though she did not right the whole of the chamber, she did rehang the portraits.

  And everywhere, candles were smashed, as well as lanterns, the oil running to pool, or to soak into precious carpets.

  But nowhere did Camille find anyone: no Lanval, no Blanche, no Jules, no Renaud, no Andre, no Cook, no seamstresses, no footmen, no member whatsoever of the household staff. And certainly no Alain, not even as the Bear.

  The entire manor was utterly deserted of everyone but Camille.

  She was alone in the shards of her own doing.

  She was alone amid the wrack.

  She was completely alone.

  Completely.

  Alone.

  It was as if the wind itself had—

  Camille gasped in revelation and burst into tears anew, for running through her mind, running through her mind, running again and again—The screams. The screams. All those I love, those I love, the wind, the screams, the raging wind, oh Alain, gone, all gone, carried off by the wind.

  And I did not go with them.

  The screams.

  The wind.

  Dawn came.

  But Camille did not see it.

  Exhausted by grief, by guilt, by ruin, she had fallen asleep upon her own bed amid the wrack of her suite. But even in sleep she now and again sobbed, though tears failed to come, for they were exhausted as well.

  The sun rode up in the sky, finally to shine down through the shattered skylight above. A breeze gently blew, and it set the ruin of the skylight shade to swaying.

  tick . . .

  tck . . .

  clk . . .

  “Alain!” she cried, starting up, not knowing where she was. Not knowing what had awakened her.

  tck . . .

  clk . . .

  And then she saw the wreckage, and memory came crashing in.

  For three days Camille lived in the ruin of the manor, and much of those three days she spent
cleaning, sweeping, uprighting, straightening, and other such onerous chores. But the mansion was vast, and she could only deal with a small part of the whole, yet it gave her something to do while she tried to decide her course. The silence was oppressive, though now and again something sounded: a creak of settling, a pop of a beam, a clatter of some precariously balanced thing finally falling, and other such noises. And at every sound, Camille would run to see if someone, anyone, had returned or had come to call, yet no one was ever there.

  Perhaps I should go to the Autumnwood and find Liaze, or to the Winter- or Springwood, where Borel lives, or Celeste. They would know what to do. But I know not where within their demesnes they dwell. And, oh, the Winterwood is cursed, at least a part of it, where dreadful things do lurk.

  Should I instead try to make my way home, make my way back to Papa’s mansion? But once there, then what? Wait for Alain to appear? Wait in a place where Maman and Lisette would do all they could to make my life wretched. And, oh my, if Alain does not come, the tithe of gold will stop, and Papa will lose the mansion, and poor Giles will fall into ill health again.—No. I did this thing, and I will do all to set everything to rights.

  It was as she was straightening Alain’s suite that she came across a grey mask, and as she held it, only then did she realize—

  Oh, but what a fool I have been. Alain’s eyes and those of the Bear are the same ashen shade of grey. I should have guessed. I should have known. One was never about when the other—Camille, you were and are an utter imbecile! And as you once thought, the man on the ridge with Olot the Troll that terrible night in the Winterwood: that had to have been Alain! What did Olot say just before he and the Bear went to the ridge? “Hear me, then, Bear: you spurned my daughter, and you refuse to yield this tasty morsel to me. I have you in my power, just as did my child, and as she has done, so will I do.” Surely that meant his daughter had laid a spell upon Alain, for he was already a Bear when Olot set his own bane; hence, it must have been the daughter who cursed him so.—Oh, Mithras, now I recall more of Olot’s wind-borne words of that terrible Winterwood night: “. . . she will fail, and then the geas . . .” Those words could only mean that I would fail, that I would seek to see Alain’s face, and should I ever do so—