Once Upon a Summer Day (13 page)

Borel squatted at the edge of the cleared ground and smoothed over the loam.

Flic flew down to the bare patch, Buzzer following. Flic looked at Borel and said, “Shamrock with pink blossoms, white roses with a pink blush, and blackberries, right?”

Borel shrugged but nodded.

Flic sank to his knees and somehow spoke to the bee, and Buzzer began a peculiar wiggling, buzzing dance, Flic paying rapt attention. Back and forth in a straight line the bee wriggled, pausing now and again to thrum her wings. And then Buzzer began dancing in a different direction, and again and again she buzzed and wriggled and paused. Once more and again and several times thereafter she changed the course of the dance, each on a separate tack. Finally, Flic turned to Borel. “Buzzer knows of a number of places with all three things, some closer than others, but all of them quite far. Is there ought else you can tell me? Other flowers? The lay of the land? An orchard? A lake? Anything?”

“The manor with its gardens sits in a dell along with a small lake,” replied Borel. “A league or so beyond the mouth of the vale a river flows, a town upon its banks.”

Again Flic conversed with the bee, and Buzzer took up the dance once more, now wriggling and buzzing and pausing, this time in a single direction.

“Good,” said Flic. “She has it narrowed down to a definite place, though it is across several marges of twilight. Still, it may be that this is not Lord Roulan’s estate, but one very much alike.”

“It isn’t as if we have another choice,” said Borel, groaning to his feet.

Using his hat and river water, Borel quenched the fire, and made certain it was out. He then placed the various work rocks, the shards of flint, the arrowheads, the moss, and finally the blossoms into his quiver, all cushioned from one another by layers of grass. He slung his bow by its carrying thong, and slipped the quiver over his head and across one shoulder and said, “Let us first stop by the arrowwood and then be on our way.”

Borel cut and trimmed some ten shafts from the viburnum stand and shimmied them down through the layers of grass and blossoms and moss and skin and flint and rocks. He looked at Flic and nodded.

Flic spoke to Buzzer, and the bee flew up and ’round.

Flic said, “She’s sighting on the sun.”

How the Sprite could tell was a mystery to Borel, yet the prince did not question Flic’s word.

And then Buzzer took off in a beeline, heading straight up the steep hill.

Borel groaned, but followed after, Flic no longer flying but riding on the prow of the tricorn. By the time the prince had limped to the top, Buzzer had flown back to see if anyone were truly following.

 

The way was rough and the going slow and often did the bee return to make certain the prince was yet on course, and it seemed Buzzer was somewhat impatient and vexed. Flic assured the bee that indeed they really meant to go to the place Buzzer had remembered. And then Flic laughed and said to Borel, “Buzzer says that we could go much swifter if you would simply give up this walking and fly instead.”

Yet at times they came to an obstacle Borel would have to go around—a bluff, a ravine, or the like—the prince cursing all rocks and his bruises and soreness, saying that were he in better health these barriers would be but minor impediments. At these places Flic would take to wing and find a place Borel could manage, and whenever such a detour took them significantly off course, Buzzer would take a new sighting and then streak away.

Occasionally they would cross a glade wherein flowers bloomed, and at these places they would pause while Buzzer gathered nectar. “Flying takes a good deal of vigor,” said Flic, “hence, much nectar is needed.”

During several of these pauses and with his flint knife, Borel fashioned his arrows: trimming the shaft to length, nocking one end, notching the other; cutting a thin strip of rabbit hide. And when they came to a stream, he wetted the thong and stretched it taut, and then set the base of the flint arrowhead in the notch of the shaft, and tightly wrapped the thong about shaft and base both.

Flic looked on with interest. “Why do you wet and stretch it, Lord Borel?”

“It will shrink when it dries, Flic, and thereby strongly clinch the head to the shaft,” said Borel, grunting as he forcefully tied off the thong. “Too, the sun will cure it a bit as it dries.”

When that one was well cinched, Borel took one more arrowhead and set it in the notch of a shaft, and as he wrapped another thong about, he said, “Tell me, Flic: this dance that Buzzer did, how does it speak of flowers and directions and distances?”

Flic grinned. “It is something I learned from honeybees and taught to Buzzer. You see, when scout honeybees find a source of nectar and pollen, they return to the nest and use the dance and buzzing to tell other members of their colony which way and how far to go.”

Borel grunted and then said, “The dance the direction, the buzzing the distance?”

Flic clapped his hands. “Exactly so: direction with respect to the sun; distance with respect to the hive, or, in this case, from where the dancer dances.”

As Borel cinched tight the thong, he said, “You tell me you taught this to Buzzer, yet didn’t she already know?”

“No, my lord. Except for Buzzer, bumblebees do not use the dance at all. But when I explained it to her, she adopted it right away.”

In that moment Buzzer came flying back, and they took up the journey again.

 

Taking advantage of these pauses for Buzzer to feed, by the time twilight fell, Borel had trimmed out all of his shafts, but only three had arrowheads. Those three had silken tails instead of fletching to aid them in flying true.

And with one of these new-made shafts, Borel had brought down a grouse to dress out for his meal.

As the sun set and the day came to an end, they set camp in sight of a twilight border lying ahead. Yet, battered as Borel was, they had gone but some fifteen miles altogether throughout the whole of the day, much to Buzzer’s disgust.

Even so, even though it was well short of Prince Borel’s usual pace, still it was fifteen miles closer to a vale where grew pink-petaled shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines, a place where a slender young demoiselle would be found. . . .

. . . Or so did Prince Borel hope.

A
gain Borel used his bow, the carrying thong, and a slightly hollowed rock cupped in his hand to steady a straight stick to spin against a piece of dry bark laden with dead grass to start a fire. And soon the grouse roasted above the flames, and Borel knapped out a flint arrowhead and started on another.

“How do you manage that, my lord prince?” asked Flic.

Borel looked up and frowned.

“The shaping of the stone, I mean,” said Flic.

Borel shrugged and held up the piece he was working on. “Flint has what I would call a natural direction for shaping, and all one need do is carefully chip with the grain instead of across, else the piece will be ruined. Precise sharp raps with a knapping stone break small flakes away from the flint and leave a matching hollow behind.” Borel grinned. “The trick is to gradually strike away everything that isn’t the arrowhead.”

As Borel continued chipping out the second point, he said, “Hummingbirds, butterflies, and bees are your friends, Flic, but who are those that pose a threat to you?”

“Various creatures that slither and crawl and walk and fly.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Meat-eaters for the most: spiders, snakes, shrews, some birds, some insects such as praying mantises. Oh, and now I can add Goblins and Trolls.”

“Yet you carry no weapons?”

“Buzzer protects me well,” replied Flic, glancing at the bee, sleeping on a nearby leaf.

“But not at night, it seems,” said Borel. “What if a night-hunting creature comes upon you when you are aslumber?”

“Buzzer and I deliberately select a place where something moving on the branch or across the leaves will cause enough of a tremble to waken me, and should that happen I would then take up Buzzer and fly away,” said the Sprite. He pointed at the clear sky above Buzzer’s resting place. “And we sleep where there is no overhang for a spider to come dropping down by thread, or other such to leap upon us from above.”

Borel nodded and then said, “Even so, Flic, at first opportunity I will get for you a weapon that you can wield. The brooch of my cloak has a long silver pin which will suit you fine as a sword. Yet I must find a way to fashion a hilt and cross guard to make it into a proper blade.”

“Hai!” said Flic. “Then Buzzer won’t be the only one with a sting, eh?”

Borel laughed and continued to chip away flakes of flint.

The point fashioned at last, Borel paused in his crafting long enough to eat the entire grouse, insufficient as it was, and then fashioned two more arrows, using flint heads bound to the shafts with thongs of rabbit hide, and though he now had grouse feathers he instead cut silken strips from his shirt and tied them to the arrows as tails to aid them in flying true.

Finally, he washed his face and hands at a nearby mere and drank deeply, then added more wood to the fire and bade good night to Flic and settled down for the eve, telling himself over and again to look for daggers in his sleep to know he was dreaming. He was yet mumbling of daggers when he drifted away.

“What is it you do, my lord?”

Borel looked up from the great arrowhead he now fashioned. Across the chamber stood a slender, golden-haired demoiselle dressed in sapphire blue and white. There was something strange about her eyes, as if a dark band lay across.

“I need a great arrow to slay Trolls,” said Borel.

“Trolls, my lord?” She glanced at the stairway going down. “I think there are no Trolls herein.”

Borel set aside the great melon-sized knapping rock and struggled to shove the massive piece of flint from his lap. After a moment the tiny arrow point tinked to the floor. Borel stood. “The Trolls are at the door, and we must escape out the window.” Hefting the great loop of rope over his shoulder, Borel stepped to the sill to see . . .

Borel dropped the rope and turned to the demoiselle.

“My lady, are you Chelle, daughter of Lord Roulan?”

“Yes, my lord, I am. And you are . . . ?”

“Prince Borel of the Winterwood.”

“Oh, Borel, my love, are you here to help me escape?”

Borel found himself back at the window, the rope and grappling hook in hand. Even as he set the tines against the sill, the daggers darted forward. Borel stepped back.

The hook vanished along with the rope.

Borel stepped close to Chelle and took her hands in his and looked closely into her face.

“My lady, where are you?”

“Why, here in the turret, Borel. And please, stand not on formality; you may call me by name.”

“And where is this turret, Chelle?”

Chelle frowned. “On my father’s grounds.”

“Ah, good. Then I am on my way to find you.”

“But you are here, Borel. You have found me.”

“This is but a dream, Chelle. Somehow we are linked.”

Chelle looked about. “A dream? Linked? I do not understand.”

“Neither do I, Chelle. Nevertheless it is true. Do you not recall warning me of the oncoming Goblins, and telling me I must waken?”

Hesitantly, Chelle nodded.

“At the time I was in a prison, unconscious, and you came to me then.—Or rather, I came to you, for it was here in this chamber you cried out the alert that Goblins were coming down the stairs. I wakened in time to fend for myself. Hence, we are dream linked.”