Once Upon a Winter's Night fs-1

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “I remember calendars from when I lived in the mortal lands,” said Jolie, yet bewildered, for she had no idea whatsoever what three hundred and sixty-six had to do with Camille, nor a whole moon beyond, for that matter. Jolie shook her head. “But there are no calendars here. Not in Faery. Time touches not this place.”

  “Ah, but the sun does rise and days do pass,” said Camille, “and moons do wax and wane. Oh, Jolie, I now know I cannot wait for a knight-errant, but instead must be on my way, for the days are truly numbered.”

  “Well, you’ll break your fast ere you go,” snapped Jolie, “for I’ll not send you out on the road astarve.”

  Two candlemarks later, with her staff in hand and her bedroll slung, along with her replenished rucksack and waterskin, and with wee Scruff perched on her shoulder, Camille set out down the lane, a twilight border somewhere in the distance ahead. The entire village turned out to see her off, many calling out “Bonne fortune” and “Bonne chance,” but others cautioning her to beware of brigands and thieves and ghosts and other such evil beings. The last to bid au revoir were the sisters Vivette and Romy, and they embraced Camille and kissed her, Vivette saying, “I do hope you find your Alain,” and Romy adding, “Seek the Lady of the Bower, and ’ware the Spriggans.”

  A full two days later-with another pair of blossoms withered and gone-in early midmorn, Camille and Scruff came to a looming, twilight border and stepped into yet another realm of Faery beyond.

  22

  Everted

  “Oh, Scruff,” said Camille, a tremor in her voice, “I am not at all certain I like this place.”

  She and the sparrow had stepped through the twilight to come into a dismal mire, bogland left and right of the road, with cypresses and black willows and dark, gnarled oaks twisting up out from the quag, some trees alive, others quite dead. And from these latter, long strands of lifeless gray moss hung adrip from withered branches, as if the parasite had sucked every last bit of sustenance from the limbs, hence not only murdering the host, but killing itself as well. ’Round the roots and boles of the trees and past sodden hummocks, scum-laden water receded deep into the dimness beyond, the yellow-green surface faintly undulating, as if some vast creature slowly breathed in the turgid muck below. Ocherous reeds grew in clumps and clusters, and here and there rotting logs covered with pallid toadstools and brownish ooze jutted out at shallow angles from the dark muck, the swamp slowly ingesting slain trees. And from within the bog there came soft ploppings and slitherings, but what made these sounds, Camille could not see. And the road itself twisted onward, into the shadowy morass ahead.

  “Well, Scruff, there’s nothing for it, but that we must go on, for somewhere in this realm the Lady of the Bower dwells, though I do hope it is not in this quag.”

  “ Chp! ” answered the sparrow, its head turning this way and that, its tiny body slightly atremble.

  Forward stepped Camille, the tip of her walking stave striking the soft earth of the road: plp… plp… plp…

  She had taken no more than a half dozen strides when a whirling cloud of whining gnats and blood-sucking mosquitoes came buzzing out from the mire to swirl about and attack any and all exposed flesh, and to attack wee little Scruff as well. Swiftly, from the rucksack, Camille donned her gloves, and she slipped Scruff into her vest pocket, then drew her cloak about and pulled up the hood. For the most part this thwarted the blood-mad insects, though Camille then had to enwrap her face and forehead and neck in a scarf, leaving only her eyes exposed. Still, the most voracious mosquitoes managed to pierce the cloth and suck life regardless. And the gnats buzzed about her eyes, dancing motes gyrating in air. And though Camille brushed her hand back and forth before her face, it did little to drive them away.

  The day was warm, and Camille began to swelter, en-wrapped as she was. And this seemed to bring on more mosquitoes, more gnats, and in addition there came biting flies. But still she trudged on, sweating beneath her garb, a whining cloud all about. Yet the insects could not penetrate the leather of her pants and boots and gloves, nor the cloth of the all-weather cloak, and so, uncomfortable as she was, still Camille shed nought to be cooler. In the darkness beneath her cloak, Scruff had gone to sleep, though the wee bird was overwarm as well.

  Just ere the noontide, and above the whine of insects, Camille thought she heard someone wailing, and the shrill of an animal too. And as she rounded a bend in the road, ahead she saw a bent crone holding the end of a frayed rope and tearing at her hair and howling. In a boghole at hand, a swayback nag grunted and wallowed and squealed in panic, mired up to its ribs in the muck.

  As Camille approached, she called out, “Madam, may I help?”

  The crone turned, and her eyes widened in fear. “Keep away,” she croaked, cowering back and making an arcane gesture.

  “Madam, I shall not harm you.”

  “Then why is your face hidden if not to rob me of my goods and steal my mare?” snapped the crone, now belligerent.

  Rob her? And she dressed in nought but rags and her horse mired belly deep. “I am no brigand, madam,” said Camille, casting back her hood. “I but wear this because of the-” Of a sudden, Camille realized that the mosquitoes and gnats and biting flies were gone. She unwrapped the scarf and tucked it away in her rucksack.

  “Why, you’re just a chit of a fille,” said the crone, cackling in glee, revealing the stained snags of but three widely spaced teeth: two above and one in between below, her gums empty otherwise. But then like quicksilver her demeanor changed once again, and she held up the frayed end of the rope for Camille to see and gestured at the floundering nag and began to wail once more.

  By this time Camille had reached the crone, and the stench from the churned-up quag was dreadful, much like rotten eggs. Near to gagging, but now breathing through her mouth, Camille looked at the poor animal, its shabby white coat splattered with mud, and she said, “Fear not, madam, I’m sure we can get your horse out from there.”

  “But how?” wailed the crone. “The rope is too short to reach my mare, and she’s too stuck to come closer.”

  “We’ll think of a way,” said Camille, looking about. “Perhaps we can use that broken limb yon to snag the end of the rope I see yet attached to her harness.”

  The old crone laughed merrily and danced a bit of a jig, and she called out in a singsong chant, “How clever you are, ’tis easy to see, my beautiful young fille, to fetch out my filly for me.” And then she smiled slyly and added, “But not clever enough, my tender sweet, else you’d release the bird ere he dies of heat.”

  Camille’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you kn-?”

  “Never you mind. Just do as I say.” The crone’s tone was quite matter-of-fact.

  Camille opened her cloak and wakened Scruff, his little beak wide and panting. He seemed quite exhausted, but after many sips of water from Camille’s cup, he recovered somewhat, though not quite to his usual chipper self.

  “I was protecting him from the mosquitoes,” said Camille.

  “Sometimes the cure is worse than the ailment,” angrily barked the crone, her mood changing quicksilver again.

  “But the blood suckers seem to be gone now,” said Camille. “Mayhap it is the stench.”

  “What stench?” asked the crone a bit fearfully, the whites of her eyes showing as she looked about as if to see the very odor manifest itself as some wraithlike being.

  Camille sighed, and then fetched the fallen limb. After several unsuccessful tries, with the crone sneering in derision behind her and ineffectually telling her just how to go about it, at last Camille managed to snag the rope and draw it from the watery muck. She tied that end to the one the crone held, and, calling for the mare to come forward, together they pulled, but the nag seemed to drag against them.

  The crone hurled down her end of the rope and began to snivel and moan. “This isn’t working,” she blubbered, then snarled, “You need to come up with a better scheme.”

  Camille took a deep
breath and looked at Scruff, the sparrow now pecking after something tiny with legs. “Have you any grain, or a carrot or apple or some such we can use to lure the animal forth?”

  “Do I look as if I have a garden or orchard hidden in my fashion wear?” snapped the crone, flouncing her tattered clothes.

  Camille gritted her teeth, yet she managed a smile. “Nay, madam, you do not. And neither do I have aught in my rucksack to use as a lure.”

  “Well, then, dearie,” sneered the crone, “that’s no plan at all, now is it?”

  “Madam, perhaps I should simply leave you and your horse to your own devices.”

  At this the crone wailed, and once more the nag began to flounder.

  Gritting her teeth, Camille whipped off her gloves and cloak and dropped them onto her rucksack, her vest following swiftly after. “There’s nothing for it but that I must wade in and push from behind, while you pull from the front. But I’ll not do it in my clothes.”

  The crone was astonished. “You would wade in for me?” “More for your horse, I believe,” replied Camille, plop-ping to the ground and jerking off her boots.

  Camille shed her clothes quickly, snatching her jerkin over her head and stripping away her breeks, both jerkin and breeks turned inside out in her haste. At the sight of such, the crone’s mad eyes widened and spittle flew from her gaping mouth, and as Camille disrobed, the crone danced about and in her crackling singsong she chanted:

  “For some ’tis like a terrible shout,

  When all are worn the wrong side out,

  Including cloaks to withstand the weather,

  And breeches and vests made of soft leather,

  As well as a fine silky-smooth jerkin,

  And two leather gloves made for working.”

  With each thing named, the crone shuffled her feet and hopped up and down and took up the associated garment, and if it was not then inside out she turned it such and laid it down just so.

  “But not a pair of good sturdy boots;

  These you must wear upon the wrong foots.

  They quail before the horrible sight,

  And many will run in headlong fright.”

  With this, and jigging to and fro, she set the boots side by side, with the left one on the right, and the right one on the left. Then wild-eyed she looked at Camille, the girl now completely undressed, and the old woman crooned:

  “Even when night lies on the sward,

  Wrong-side-out stands sentinel ward,

  Much like iron for a wicked few,

  Better than iron for me and you.”

  With that her chant was finished, and she twirled ’round and ’round and crowed madly at the sky.

  “Madam, take up the rope, for I am ready,” said Camille, and she gingerly stepped into the dreadful-smelling mire, then waded forward with purpose, slogging through the slime and water and churned-up muck and the squishing sludge beneath. Nearly to her armpits in the reeking quag, and pushing a turgid wake before her, Camille struggled to the rear of the nag. She turned and put her shoulder to the beast’s hindquarters and called out, “Pull!” while at the same time shoving with all her strength. The animal leapt forward, and Camille fell flat on her face into the evil-smelling slough and plunged completely under. Up she came, spluttering and wiping her eyes, and on the shore the crone hooted and pointed at Camille with one hand while slapping her thigh with the other. The nag, now free, stood on the road behind her.

  And even as Camille, grinding her teeth, pushed toward the shore, a sluggish wave preceding, the crone leapt to the swayed back of the animal and called out to Camille, “Be thankful for my gift, and remember what I told you!” She dug in her heels and away trotted the nag.

  Gift? What gift? And what did she tell me, other than the ludicrous babblings of someone quite daft?

  When Camille scrambled onto dry land, she looked down the road after the crone and mare, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Where…?-That broken-down nag simply wasn’t that fast, was it?

  Sighing, Camille turned back toward her inside-out clothes and noted for the first time just how they were arrayed: with the reversed-left-right boots standing, and the wrong-side-out cloak upon the ground behind them, the hem toward the boots and the hood away; the inside-out breeks were stretched out on the cloak, legs toward the boots, with the inside-out jerkin just above and dressed in the wrong-side-out vest; the inside-out gloves lay on the ground at the ends of the jerkin sleeves. It was almost as if all the garments had been laid out to represent a person. Shaking her head at the old woman’s madness, Camille wondered just how in sweet Mithras’s name she would ever get clean enough to don the clothes again. She looked down at her slime-slathered, muck-laden body, and that’s when she discovered the leeches.

  The bogland echoed with a prolonged scream, followed by some well-chosen words.

  After wafting floating scum aside, Camille washed herself in fairly clean water from a pool she found along the opposite berm; then using some of her coursing rags, and a bit of the salve from the jar, she finally stanched the bleeding. With that done, she turned her clothes right-side-out and dressed. In spite of the scent of blood in the air, no mosquitoes nor gnats nor biting flies came to call. “Perhaps, Scruff, it’s the dreadful stench of the churned-up quag. Then again, perhaps not. Another mystery of Faery, eh?” She knelt and opened her rucksack and looked behind the secret panel; just as with her money belt, all was there. “Well, Scruff, at least the old crone wasn’t a thief,” said Camille as she closed the rucksack again, “though I was a fool for undressing and wading into the mire without thinking that she might be. Why, she could have run off with everything I own, and I could have done nought about it. And this after the warnings in Ardon that thieves and such lie along this road. Indeed, I was a fool.”

  Camille slung her goods and took up her stave and set Scruff to her shoulder, and smartly down the road she went, completely free of blood-sucking mosquitoes and whining gnats and biting flies, though they swarmed in the sloughs at hand.

  Slowly, so slowly, the road ascended, and the mire to either side diminished. In early afternoon, Camille paused for a meal, and she augmented Scruff’s diet of slaughtered insects with a bit of millet seed. But soon she pressed on at a quick-march pace, for she hoped to be free of this dreadful and dismal quag ere the setting of the sun. And still the land continued its gradual rise, the swamp slowly retreating, though here and there stagnant pools did yet lie, where clouds of gnats and mosquitoes and biting flies swarmed, though they bothered not Camille and Scruff.

  Toward evening, at last Camille emerged from the bogland and came into a forest, the road now wending among the trees, the land rising here and falling there and running level for stretches. As twilight drew down on the land “Oh, Scruff, did you see?”

  — flickering among the trees there sped a flash of white.

  Is that a rider? The old woman on the swayback? Ah, no, it moves entirely too fast to be that broken-down nag.

  Then the white flash was gone.

  Camille continued on a bit more, and she came to the edge of a rugged hill country.

  “Enough walking for today, Scruff. Night draws nigh.”

  Scruff didn’t answer, sound asleep on her shoulder as he was.

  Camille stepped into a small clearing just off the road, and therein she made camp. And she fell aslumber while eating her meal beside a very small fire.

  “Oh, Alain,” Camille murmured, as he ran his hands up under her blouse and slipped them about her waist. Whatever else she might have dreamed, only that one thing did she remember when she wakened chill in the night, her cloak gone, her jerkin pulled out from her breeks, her money belt gone as well. Gasping in alarm, she sat up, and, by the light of the waning half-moon and the yet-glowing coals of her fire, she saw that her rucksack and Lady Sorciere’s stave and her waterskin and bedroll were gone as well. Even as she started to call out to Scruff-the bird fast asleep on a nearby branch-in the silence of the nig
ht, she heard soft laughter, and the sound of some one or ones scrabbling off through the underbrush in the deep moonshadows, fleeing with the ill-gotten gains.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” gritted Camille, and she leapt to her feet and took up Scruff and slipped him into her high vest pocket, the sparrow chirping softly once or twice at being handled in the night. Then, following the furtive sounds, Camille quietly ran after the one thief, or several.

  Through the rugged hill country she followed, scrambling up steep slopes and down angled slants and across rocky streams. And now Camille knew that there were more than just one, for as they had gotten farther away from her meager camp, they became boisterous, laughing away at their ill deed, and jabbering at how easily it was done, no longer attempting to be quiet.

  The moon slid down the sky as through winding canyons and across shale-laden hills and past thickets and briars they led her.

  But at last they scrambled up a boulder-strewn slope, where high on its flank Camille saw the glowing mouth of a cave, lit from within by a fire. And she gasped once more, for in the light streaming outward she then saw the forms of the thieves: six altogether there were, and small, three or so foot tall at most, with spindly arms and legs. Their clothing was quite ragged, and, when one turned to look at another, by the firelight glowing forth Camille could see that he was wholly ugly.

  “Goblins?” she whispered to herself, wondering. “Or perhaps-No wait. Spriggans, they are. Just as Vivette and Romy described.”

  “Ho, we’re back!” cried one as he stepped inside, Lady Sorciere’s staff in hand.

  “With booty, too,” called another, Camille’s cloak draped over his arm, with a third Spriggan and three more following, each bearing an item of hers-money belt, waterskin, bedroll, and rucksack.

  A babble of voices responded, and then Camille knew that this was a den of thieves.

  “What will I do, Scruff?” she whispered. “There seem to be many within.”

  But Scruff answered not from the vest pocket, sound asleep as he was.