Once Upon a Summer Day (26 page)

“Anyway, Pookas are of several natures: some are merely out for a lark, while others are a bit more destructive, and still others are on a rampage.”

Borel grunted and said, “It seems as if the one beyond the rapids is on a rampage.”

“Oui,” said Flic, “for it is killing men, rather than merely swooping them up for a terrifying ride through bogs and briars and such and then dumping them in muddy ditches or quag holes.”

“That’s what I’ve heard of Pookas,” said Borel. “They are tricksters, and they fool people into thinking they will go on a pleasant ride when instead it is quite the opposite. But that is all I’ve heard of them. This one, though, the clerk said, destroys crops and raises havoc at night.”

Flic nodded and said, “Oh, yes, my lord, Pookas do such things. In the night it roams the countryside and tramples crops and tears down fences and scatters cattle and sheep and other such. Why, they even say that should a crofter’s fowl—chickens and geese in particular—merely catch sight of the creature, they entirely stop laying. Too, they can cause livestock to sicken or sour their milk or cause a number of other wicked mischiefs.”

Borel frowned. “It would seem that if the Pooka were doing most if not all of these things, the constable would know that it’s not merely a wild horse running amok.”

“Perhaps none in this town nor in the steads ’round have ever heard of Pookas.”

“Either that,” said Borel, “or they are afraid to acknowledge that one of the Dark Fey is responsible for the killings.”

Flic knitted his brow. “Perhaps the Pooka was wronged by someone herein, or wasn’t given its due.”

“Its due?”

“Aye. At the end of the harvest, long strips of standing crops are left behind by the reapers specifically for the Pooka. It is his share.”

“And if the crofters do not do such . . . ?”

“Then the Pooka rampages,” said Flic.

“Ah, then, perhaps here we have the motive for this destruction,” said Borel.

“Even so, my lord, it does not justify murder.”

“No, it does not. But tell me, what else is there about Pookas? If we are to stop him, I need to know.”

“Well, Pookas are also shapeshifters: most of the time they take the form of dark horses with burning yellow eyes, but they’ve also been known to become huge and hideous and hairy Boglemen, sometimes with goats’ heads and horns, at other times they become great black goats in full. Pookas can also transform into a variety of enormous birds: vultures, eagles, crows, ravens, and the like, all with wingspans as wide as a barn, they say, however wide that might be.

“Oh, and there is this: they say Pookas are nearly impossible to kill, but should someone do so, he and all his kith are cursed forever. Not only that, but wherever a Pooka might be slain, great storms rise up, especially along sea-coasts and waterways and lakes. Too, wherever the Pooka dies, the land for leagues about is blighted for a hundred years or more. That is what I have heard, my lord. Whether it be true, I cannot say, though I do believe it to be so.”

“Then I shall not try to kill the Pooka,” said Borel. “After all, we need its aid, or so Lady Wyrd implied.—Is there ought along those lines?”

“Indeed,” said Flic. “Though it be rare, it is said they sometimes help people by prophesying or giving guidance.”

“Ah, then, this is why Lady Wyrd uttered what she did,” said Borel. “We must get the Pooka to give us aid.” Borel frowned and looked at Flic. “Tell me, how does a Pooka do so?—Give aid, I mean.”

“Why, my lord, it speaks,” said Flic, turning up a hand.

“In a human voice?”

Vexed, Flic snorted and said, “And in the voice of the Fey, too.”

“Sorry, Flic, I didn’t mean to omit the Fey.”

Borel then stood and, dripping, stepped from the tub and took up a towel from a shelf rather than from the rack where Buzzer rested. As he dried off he said, “And just how are we to stop this rampage and gain the guidance we need?”

“By riding him until he submits, my prince, and perhaps by giving him his due.”

“Has anyone ever ridden a Pooka to submission?”

“Just one, I think: a man—a king of the Keltoi, I believe—but I don’t recall his name. There was some trick to it. If I can remember how it was done . . .”

“I hope you do, my friend,” said Borel, now donning a robe. “For Lady Wyrd says I must triumph o’er a cunning and wicked and most deadly steed, and every trick will help.”

Even as Borel looked about for the attendant, the man appeared and said, “Your clothing will be ready ere the noontide, Sieur.”

“Good,” said Borel, “Just in time for a midday meal.”

After eating, Borel, with Flic and Buzzer riding his hat, went to the dry-goods store, where he purchased a bedroll and a rucksack and a good length of rope, to add to his Gnome-given things. Next, he stopped in the farmers’ market and bought supplies for the trail, including another jar of honey. With his rucksack full and the bedroll atop, he went to the smithery, and though the metalworker had no blade on hand to fit Borel’s long-knife sheath, if the lord would only leave it behind, the blacksmith promised he would have a keen, proper-sized bronze blade within it by morn.

As they left the smithery, Borel sighed and said, “Perhaps we’ll go after the Pooka this night, and come back for the blade in the morn.”

“My lord, I would have you go armed with a good bronze blade rather than the one of flint.”

“So would I, Flic, yet the moon does not pause in her path, and I would not tarry one moment longer than necessary.”

“Lord Borel, take it as an omen that your blade will not be ready till the morrow. Besides, I would scout the place ere we go, else we will be in unknown territory with peril about. And we yet have a fortnight and seven till the moon rises full.”

Borel sighed. “Again, perhaps you are right. You need to scout, and we need to go fully armed. And speaking of weapons, let us hie to the milliner’s.”

“Weapons? The milliner’s? Why so?”

“You will see, my wee one.”

 

In the small shop on a side street—Marie’s Millinery—Borel examined a silver needle, one just the size to fit Flic as a sword.

“Demoiselle, have you a silver sequin?” he asked.

“Oui, Monsieur,” replied a
fille
who had just begun to blossom, she the daughter of the milliner. At a table to one side sat her mother, fixing ribbons to a hat.

“A sequin that is not holed?” asked Borel.

“Oui,” said the daughter.

“Ah, good. And I see by your sign without that you make minor repairs to jewellery.”

“Small things. Nothing major.”

“Can you puncture this sequin in the very center with the silver needle, and then slide it up to the eyelet and fix it in place?”

“What’s that for?” asked Flic.

“Your needle will act as an épée or a foil, and the sequin as a bell,” said Borel.

“A bell?”

“A guard for your hand,” said the proprietress, looking up from the beribboned hat.

“Madame, you are familiar with épées?” asked Borel.

She nodded. “Although I am known as the Widow Marie, a mere milliner, I am well acquainted with fencing blades. My Renaud—bless his departed soul—was a maker of fine épées and foils for going out into the world, as well as fine rapiers. He even made a colichemarde or two.”

“Colichemarde?” said Flic.

“The ancestor of the épée,” said Marie. “For you, though, my tiny Sprite, I would suggest an épée.”

“Why not a colichemarde or a foil?” asked Flic.

“A foil, I think, is not stiff enough,” said Marie, “and a colichemarde is a bit on the heavy side for one as small as you.”

“Ah, then you know what it is I want for my wee friend?” asked Borel.

The proprietress stood and stepped to the counter. She eyed Flic, and glanced askance at Buzzer, and then said, “Sieur, I think a finer choice than a needle would be a silver hatpin or, better yet, a man’s scarfpin; they’re a bit sturdier, less likely to snap. Of course, I’ll need to remove the ornamental head; it would just get in the way. And with the bell fixed in place and the grip properly wrapped with my finest silver thread it will be a weapon worthy of this Sprite.”

At Borel’s assent, she selected several of her scarfpins and held each up next to the Sprite, finally selecting the one that best fit his stature.

“He will need a baldric,” said Borel.

“A matter of a few strokes of needle and thread and a ribbon,” said the milliner. “Step here, Sprite; my daughter will take your measure.” She turned to the demoiselle. “Renée,
s’il-te-plaît
.”

Even as the mother passed through an archway to a back room, “But, Mère, he’s naked,” said the daughter.

“Demoiselle Renée, it’s not as if I am going to ravish you,” said Flic.

Though she reddened, the demoiselle laughed and said, “Wee little thing as you are, I do not feel threatened.”

“Ah,
ma chérie
, I might surprise you, for I am Fey.”

“Oh!” Renée exclaimed in startlement and backed away.

With an eyebrow raised, Borel looked at Flic, and the Sprite laid a finger alongside his nose and gave Borel a slow wink.

“Fear not, Demoiselle,” said Borel, grinning. “I will protect you.”

Somewhat assured, the young lady stepped to the counter once more and, reddening again, began to measure the Sprite for a baldric.

“Will this interfere with my wings?” asked Flic. “I do need to fly, you know.”

“Perhaps a belt would be better,” said Borel.

“A sash about the waist,” called the mother from the room beyond. “We can fashion a scabbard as well.”

Blushing furiously, the daughter wrapped a thread as a gauge about Flic’s tiny waist, trying to see what she was doing while at the same time trying not to look at Flic’s maleness. Despite their manifest disparity in size, under the blushing demoiselle’s gaze, Flic, grinning, began to respond.

“Oh, my,” blurted Renée, and quickly she pinched the thread at the right length and pulled it free and turned her back to the Sprite.

In that moment the mother stepped in through the arch, the scarfpin free of its bauble and with a pierced silver sequin affixed as a bell.

Flic’s response vanished.

“Though it is not quite ready, let me see how this fits,” she said, and handed the miniature épée to the Sprite.

Flic took the tiny foil in hand and, eyeing the silver shaft, said, “It has no edge.”

“It is meant to stick, to impale, not to cut,” said the Widow Marie.

“Ah, like a bee sting, then,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer. “I like that.”

To judge its fitness to his size, Marie had Flic strike several poses. She closely looked at the grip and Flic’s grasp of it, then held out her hand for the weapon and said, “It seems to suit you well enough. Come back in the morning. It will be ready by then.”

As he gave over the foil to her, “My belt, too?” asked Flic.

Glancing only sideways at the Sprite, the daughter nodded.

 

“I need to get a mate,” said Flic, as they emerged from the millinery. “I mean, after all, she was fifty times my height.”

“More like twenty-seven or -eight,” said Borel, grinning, “and much too young for you.”

Flic laughed.

“What?” asked Borel.

“Never let it be said that I don’t like tall girls,” replied Flic. They both laughed, but Flic sobered and said, “I repeat, I need to find a mate.”

“Someone to love?” asked Borel, a smile yet on his face.

“That would be fine, but at least someone eager for passion,” said Flic.

“Ah,” said the prince.

As Borel strode on toward the inn, Flic said, “You know, since neither of us will be properly armed until the morning, I think I’ll just fly out to the fields and flit about the flowers for a while.”

Borel broke out in a guffaw, and said, “Luck, my little man.”

Flic and Buzzer took to wing and gained altitude, then shot away, following the river upstream. Borel watched until they were out of sight, then turned and continued on his way to the inn. Once inside, he settled in to a dinner of roast beef and scallions and bread, all washed down with a hearty dark beer.
After all, if I fail with the Pooka, this just might be my last good meal.

 

Borel sat out on the veranda and sipped an unpretentious after-dinner brandy and watched a number of people on the street hurrying home or running errands or strolling leisurely to somewhere. Nearby, the Meander River flowed past, and when the air got still Borel could hear a distant rumble, as of water hurtling apace.
The White Rapids, no doubt.
As the sun set and twilight drew down, Flic and Buzzer had not yet returned. Borel raised his glass to the deepening lavender sky and said, “May you have found what you seek, Flic, my friend, be it a lasting love or nought but a brief liaison.”