Now that the lynx was beyond the twilight, flapping and scrambling, one wing held awkwardly, the sparrow managed to clamber out from Camille’s vest pocket and to her shoulder.
Camille glanced at him sidelong. “What do you think, Scruff? Left? Right? Straight?”
“ Chp. ” The sparrow cocked his head and peeked ’round her chin to look into her eye.
Camille grinned. “Ah, but you are no help. For me, I think we’ll go straight ahead, for to the left I see nought but grass forever, and to the right I deem a storm is brewing. Aye, straight ahead we’ll go; perhaps if foothills lie along the mountains, we can climb a tall one and be high enough to see some sort of town or farm or the like, if one is nigh, a place where we can ask directions.”
And so she set out toward the mountains, travelling generally westward, she thought, yet in Faery, in spite of the moon and sun and stars, none could be sure of directions, or so she had been told by her pere, though how he would know, she could not say.
Across the early afternoon she walked, trudging- swish, swash — through the heavy grass, her rucksack and bedroll and waterskin slung, her festooned stave barely aiding. At times she came to hidden swales, dips in the land, and down she would go into the dint, where the plants were taller than she. It was difficult travel, for the grass did sorely impede, dragging against her as it did, slowing her considerably.
Of a sudden in midafternoon, “ Chp! ” chirped the sparrow, and, pulling on a lock of Camille’s hair, down into the high vest pocket he fluttered, where he chattered frantically and tugged on her tress.
“What is it, Scruff? What is the matter?” Camille looked all ’round, yet she saw nought but empty plain. But then a shadow glided across the tall grass, and she glanced up to espy a red-tailed raptor soaring in the sky above, sweeping to and fro in a hunting pattern.
“Ah, I see. First a lynx and now a hawk. Perils dire, eh, Scruff?”
Yet she received no answer from the sparrow, the wee bird silent and hiding in a pocketful of golden hair now that the hunter was near.
“Peril to you, indeed, Scruff, but peril to me?… I think not,” said Camille, smiling, as she strode onward.
Suddenly, the hawk stooped, its wings folded, only the tips guiding, and just ere striking the grass, it flared. Camille continued to watch as she walked onward, and sometime later, up struggled the raptor, and in its talons it bore the remains of an animal-rabbit, marmot, or what, Camille could not say. “Well, Scruff, there is life herein after all-hawks and small game though it be.”
When the raptor could no longer be seen, once again Scruff scrambled to Camille’s shoulder, as across the plain she went.
In the far distance to her right-north, she thought-the dark clouds now towered into the sky, and lightning stroked the ground and flashed from cloud to cloud, at times illuminating the darkness from within. Distant thunder rolled across the grass, a mere grumble from afar. And rain fell down in long grey streaks, like wind-driven brooms sweeping o’er an endless plain.
“Oh, Scruff, let us hope the storm does not come this way to drop its bounty on us, for there is no shelter for as far as the eye can see.”
But Scruff made no comment, and Camille pressed forward, glancing now and again at the remote storm, too far away to be of immediate concern. Too, it seemed to be moving away, or so Camille hoped-northward, she believed.
On she went and on, the mountains seeming no closer, and when the sun stood in late afternoon, regardless of the distant storm, she stopped awhile to rest and to take a meal, stamping down the grass all ’round to make a space to sit. Then she plopped down and set the sparrow to the ground beside her.
“Some nest, eh, Scruff?” she asked, as she rummaged through the rucksack for hardtack and jerky. But the sparrow was busily nipping seeds from the felled grass, and pursuing an insect or two, and he answered not.
As she ate, Camille wondered if only hawks and small game and insects dwelled in this grassland, for she and the sparrow had so far seen nothing otherwise. And there was no smoke on the horizon to indicate a dwelling or community.
Time passed, and Camille fetched a cup from her rucksack and filled it with water. After she had drunk, she again filled the cup, but this time she offered it to Scruff. The sparrow hopped to the rim and dipped in his beak and raised his head to swallow, then did so again and again until his thirst was quenched, then he hopped into the cup itself and fluttered and flounced in the water. Laughing, Camille said, “Oh, Scruff, I suppose I’ll not drink from that vessel again, at least not until it is washed. Yet I know how you feel, my sparrow, for would that I, too, had a bath. But I couldn’t very well bathe in front of Lord Kelmot, now could I? Nor you in front of his lynx. And since you and I have been on our own in this land of grass, we’ve not come across a stream or pool. Mayhap we’ll find one when we reach the foothills, or the mountains beyond.”
The sparrow hopped out from the cup and fluttered and shook, though awkwardly with its injured wing. Camille again applied salve from the jar on the injured joint. “Oh, wee Scruff, but I do hope you’ll be able to fly again someday.”
Finally, she packed all away, and once more they started across the grassy plain, the storm in the north receding.
When darkness fell, Camille made a fireless camp mid the grass, and, in spite of furtive rustlings in the nearby surround, she fell quite soundly asleep.
By midafternoon of the following day, although she had kept up a steady pace, the mountains seemed no closer, and the foothills, if any, were not in sight. And still Camille had seen no significant life, but for the hawk of yester. Oh, not that she had seen no other life whatsoever, for there were insects, aye-beetles and hoppers-and worms and grubs as well, all unearthed by tiny Scruff during their pauses for meals. Yet they had seen no farms, no towns, no habitation of any kind there on the broad, green plain, and yet it seemed that such should be Of a sudden, Scruff chirped and grabbed a tress and dove for the cover of the vest pocket. Camille looked into the sky, yet no hawking bird of any sort did she see. But Scruff repeatedly tugged on her hair and chattered in alarm, and so Camille slowly turned about, her gaze sweeping across the grass, searching There! What is-? Riders! Far off. Coming this way.
And still Scruff twittered madly and tugged on her lock, as if trying to pull her within the vest pocket as well.
Camille frowned and glanced down at the bird then up at the riders again, apprehension now in her gaze. “Very well, Scruff,” she said, and knelt down. “I will wait until I see what they look like, and then decide whether or no I should stand revealed and ask them for direction or aid.”
But Scruff yet chattered and pulled on her tress, and Camille crouched a tiny bit lower.
On came the riders and on, and now she could see “Oh, my, those are not horses.”
Hairless were the steeds, scaled instead, glittering green, with pale undersides, and long, lashing, whiplike tails, the mounts an impossible crossbreed of serpent and horse, as only in Faery might be. And the riders Camille flattened herself in the grass, lying lengthwise to present the least target, praying to Mithras that none would run over her.
— the riders, too, were serpentlike, or so they seemed… either that or they wore hideous gargoyle masks, and armor scaled much like the serpent-horses they rode.
And the ground trembled as onward they came, and Camille flattened herself even more, taking care to not crush Scruff, the bird now silent with dread so near.
And then riders thundered by, the steeds hissing and blowing and grunting with effort, the ground shaking as they passed. And riders sissed cries as onward they plunged and away, the shuddering earth slowly subsiding. Yet Camille did not rise, but instead lay with her face buried in grass. And the tremble of the ground became a quiver, then a shiver, and then was still once more. And yet Camille could hear a blowing, as if nearby 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 chp ed 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 plait?” 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?”
Once Upon a Winter's Night fs-1 Page 19
