Crack!
“Oh!” Camille emitted a squeal and scrambled to her knees.
Crack!
She whirled about and saw coming toward her on his serpent-horse one of the riders, a long, lashing whip in hand. And again Camille screamed, for it was not armor he wore, but gleaming scales covered his body, and it was not a mask, but a gargoyle-like face instead.
The whip lashed out—Crack!—the panting serpent-horse jerking its snakelike head up, flinching at the report, yet coming onward. And as Camille sprang to her feet, the rider’s dreadful face leered at her, his long, forked tongue licking out as if to taste her scent. Hissing laughter sissed as he slowed his steed and drew back his whip for a strike.
Cringing inside, but bracing herself and raising her meager staff in defense, Camille prepared for the blow, yet the rider’s eyes widened, and, gasping in alarm, he wrenched the reins about, the serpent-horse squealing in pain. And jabbing long, thornlike spurs into the steed’s side, away he galloped, shouting out something to his now-distant and on-riding band as he fled across the plain after.
“Wh-what?” Camille blurted. And she looked down to see Scruff peering out from her pocket and watching the rider hammer away. “Ah, Scruff, is he frightened of nought but a wee little bird?”
Of a sudden Camille’s legs gave way, and she fell to her knees in the grass, her whole being shaking with released dread, her breath coming in gasps.
Scruff looked up from her pocket. His tiny brown eyes upon hers. “Chp!” he chirped, as if to ask, Why are you trembling? They’re gone, you know.
Camille burst out in hysterically giddy laughter, and it was long ere she gained control.
The next day Camille awakened to an empty waterskin, and she walked all that morning, her thirst growing. And still she saw no sign of habitation, nor did she espy any of the serpentlike riders, though she did wonder if they were the reason why there seemed to be no homes.
In midafternoon, far to the south, or so she believed it to be, another storm built, and she hoped it would come this way, as on toward the mountains she trudged.
But by the time night fell, the storm had taken its gift beyond the horizon and away. And Camille had come across no rill, no mere, no water of any sort at all.
In the noontide of the next day, her lips cracked, her throat parched, Camille watched as another distant storm swept over the grassy plain, this one toward mountains far off to her left.
“Oh, Scruff,” she rasped, “would that the rain come our way and drench down on us instead of falling on ground so removed. And we have happened upon no streams at all, nor springs, nor ponds, nor lakes. Where do you suppose all the water—” Of a sudden Camille slapped a hand to her forehead. “Ah, fie! And me a farmer’s daughter. Of course!” Camille plopped down in the grass, and as Scruff awkwardly fluttered to the ground beside her, she pulled a stem loose at the lowest stalk joint and chewed on the pale end revealed; she was rewarded with a drop or two of moisture. Another stem she pulled and chewed, and another stem, and another, while Scruff dug and scratched in the soil and snatched up insects.
Long did it take Camille to fairly quench her thirst. “Ah but, Scruff, what will you drink?”
As if recognizing the name she had given him, the wee sparrow looked up to her, a wriggling grub in its neb, then hopped across the litter of long grass stalks lying ’round Camille and laid the succulent tidbit at her feet. She burst out laughing. “No, no, my friend, merci, but all the juicy grubs are yours to, um, drink. For me, until we find a pool or stream, it will be these water-bearing stalks of grass.”
In all it took Camille a sevenday to reach the foothills, and by this time she was completely out of food, but where she came to the slopes, there she found a stream, and she and Scruff reveled in the luxury of water, drinking and bathing, both.
Her stomach growling, she looked back at the grassland, where it seemed no one at all dwelled, for no settlement of any kind had she seen, not even from the tallest of hills did she espy any. As to life therein, in the days past, several rabbits had scurried away, and raptors had soared in the skies—three redtail hawks and a dark falcon—much to Scruff’s anxiety. The riders had appeared once again, thundering down the grassy plain, though the second time she saw them, they were quite distant and did not draw nigh. Whether they were the same serpent-folk, she knew not, nor did she care to know.
And with the lack of friendly dwellers in the grassland, she had decided that she would cross the mountains, for there was a col ahead, perhaps a pass through the range. And so Camille spent the next nine days snaring game—five coneys and two fat marmots—and she thanked sweet Mithras that Giles three years past had taught her how to rig a snare. And though she was quite hungry, she began by baiting her first four traps with pieces of a dug-up wild carrot she otherwise would have eaten whole. The first animal she caught, she cooked and ate nearly all, for she had gone some three days without a substantial meal. Most of the remaining game she used for jerky, cutting and seasoning the thin slices of meat and laying them on racks made of branches set well above glowing coals. Scruff was quite pleased with the suet she spared from rendering the fat from the meat. As the slices slowly dried in the heat, she grubbed for more roots and foraged for berries and nuts and other edible vegetation—pausing occasionally when the times came to turn over the meat strips to dry the opposite sides. And thus she spent the days, storing up food for the trek to come, now that her initial stock was gone. And even as she did these things, still she begrudged the time. “Oh, Scruff, our journey will take even longer should we have to live like this off the land.”
Scruff cocked his head and chped as if to ask, What is so hard about that?
Camille laughed and said, “Well, my cocky little friend, if we both could survive on nought but a few bugs and a handful of grubs and a worm or two each day, then perhaps it wouldn’t be very difficult at all. Yet alas, worms and such are not to my taste; besides, it would take—ugh!—a great heap of the slimy little wigglers to keep me going. Merci, Scruff, but the worms and bugs are all yours.”
When Camille deemed she had enough food to last for a fortnight or so—more with careful rationing—she made ready to set out. But even as she packed her rucksack, a torrential downpour came, and Camille and Scruff huddled under a blanket swiftly rigged much like a tent on a rope tied low between saplings; still, in spite of her all-weather cloak, she became thoroughly drenched by blowing rain and water dripping through, though she did manage to keep the wee sparrow dry by huddling over him. Yet Scruff chirped mournfully, and shifted his distressed wing a bit, as if he were in pain. “Ah, Scruff, ’tis the dampness, eh?” As she had done every day, Camille applied a tiny bit of salve to the injured joint, then she slipped Scruff inside her jerkin, hoping to yield up some warmth to him.
All day it rained, and water rushed down through the foothills from the steeps of the mountains above, and the knoll she camped on became surrounded by a hurtling flood.
The following day the sky cleared and the water slowly subsided, and Camille and the bird basked in the warm rays of the sun as her clothing and blanket and rope and other gear dried out. The sun shone the next day as well, and they lazed in its warmth again, for they were yet trapped by rushing water. Scruff seemed quite pleased to do nought but peck about on the ground; Camille, though, fretted, for now they had lost three days to the storm, and she was anxious to get on with her search for a place east of the sun and west of the moon, wherever it might lie. Whether or no I am even going in the right direction, I cannot say. Oh, would that this land had someone in it other than those dreadful serpent-folk, someone whom I could ask. But there isn’t anyone. Oh, Alain, Alain, where are you? Where are you, my sweet love?
The day after, with Scruff perched on her shoulder, Camille waded through the runnel of water yet surrounding her hillock and at last began her trek up a long vale and toward the high col ahead.
Up and into the high valley she strode, the land rising before
her, pines growing along the slopes, as well as silver birch and aspen, the leaves of the latter trembling in the faint wind.
All morning she hiked upward, wending among the trees as she climbed up toward the pass. She stopped in the noontide to take water and food—rabbit-jerky, for the most part—while Scruff dug about for grubs and beetles, as well as pecked away at the grass seeds Camille had thought to bring. But the pause was short, for she felt the need to go forward, and so she took up the sparrow and onward they pressed as the sun rode down the sky.
Twilight was drawing across on the land when she at last reached the crest.
“Time to make camp, Scruff,” she said, as she angled toward a small aspen grove in the throat of the col.
But even as she reached the stand of white-barked trees, a tiny voice squeaked, “Who dares tread in the domain of Jotun the Giant without paying a proper toll?”
20
Giant
“Wh-what?” Camille looked about in the dusk, yet she saw no one. “Who is there, s’il vous plaît?” Again the voice squeaked out. “Jotun the Giant. And still I ask, who dares tread in my domain without paying the proper toll?”
Now Camille turned about and about, seeking to see the speaker. On her shoulder, Scruff, drowsy in the twilight, emitted a soft “pip” as Camille faced a small pine among the aspens.
“Stay away from me, you beady-eyed sparrow,” piped the tiny voice. “I am not for you to taste! And you, mademoiselle, control your bird, or I shall have to stomp on him!”
In spite of not seeing this Jotun the Giant, Camille laughed. “Scruff? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.—No, wait. That’s not right, for he would indeed eat a fly.”
“See! I told you!”
“Stay calm, sieur,” replied Camille. “Scruff will behave. Besides, he is nearly asleep, and quite well fed, I assure you.”
“All right,” grumped the wee voice, somewhat mollified,
“but see that you keep him in hand, for I might stomp you by mistake.—And now about the toll.”
“Toll?”
“Are you planning on going through my pass, Mam’selle um ... ?”
“Camille. My name is Camille. And, yes, I seek to go beyond this range, and I hope to find someone to tell me where might be a place east of the sun and west of the moon. Would you happen to know, by the way?”
“First things first, Lady Camille,” replied Jotun, still unseen. “My toll.”
Camille sighed. “I can pay. What will you have? A bronze, a silver, a gold?” The moment she said it, Camille gritted her teeth in silent admonition, for though she had the coins, still she should not have admitted such to a total stranger.
“Pah! What need have I for bronze or silver or even gold? Instead I would have something of more value.”
“And just what might that be, M’sieur Jotun the Giant?” asked Camille.
“Have you any pepper?”
Pepper! And here I thought it might be jewels he would demand. “I have a wee bit, m’sieur.”
“Fine-grain or coarse or peppercorns?”
“Coarse-grained, sieur.”
“Then it’s one grain to pass through my col; for another grain I will give you directions to guide you beyond; or three grains in all, and I will conduct you through the range myself and to a town beyond.”
“Done!” said Camille, unslinging her bedroll and rucksack and setting both down and laying her staff aside. “Would you have me pay you now?”
“Indeed,” piped Jotun. “Else how would I know you have the fee?”
“Very well,” said Camille, and in the fading light she rummaged through her goods and drew forth her small lantern and unscrewed the brass oil-keeper-cap from the wick and struck a match and lit it. Then she found her pepper tin, and asked, “Have you canister or some such to store it in?”
“Of course,” replied Jotun. “Right here.”
“Where are you?” said Camille, looking up, yet unable to locate the speaker.
“As I said, right here,” querulously replied Jotun. “On the pine.”
Camille held up her lantern the better to see, and her eyes widened in wonder, for stepping forth along a needled branch came a tiny being but an inch or so high. Dressed all in green, a miniature man he seemed. Brown hair, he had, that much Camille could discern, but as to the hue of his eyes, she could not say, for in this dim light they were entirely too small to see any color in them at all. In his hands he held a very tiny canister.
“M’sieur Jotun the Giant?”
“Yes,” he replied.
Camille burst out laughing.
Jotun frowned. “Why do you laugh, mam’selle?”
Camille managed to gasp out, “It’s just that you name yourself a Giant, when it is plain to see you are a Twig Man, or so my love did describe such as you.”
“Twig Man, ha!” scoffed Jotun. “I merely take on this shape as necessary, for, you see, this way it is much easier to find food and such to meet my needs.—I would change into my true form, but I am afraid it would frighten you quite witless.”
“Oh, m’sieur, no need to change,” said Camille, yet giggling. “I’ll simply take your word for it.”
“All right, then,” said Jotun. “Now about the pepper. Will it be one grain, two, or three?”
“Oh, three certainly,” said Camille, opening her pepper tin. “I would have you lead me across these mountains to a town beyond.”
She held out her tin, and Jotun searched through the contents as if examining a great pile of gemstones, and he stirred the pepper with a twig now and then, and one by one he carefully selected three large flakes. “The best of the lot, I think,” he murmured, stowing away the grains in his own wee canister.
“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 t
he 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.
Once Upon a Winter's Night Page 20
