Once upon a Summer Day

1

There is a place in Faery where eternal summer lies upon the land; it is a region of forests and fields, of vales and clearings, of streams and rivers and other such ’scapes, where soft summer breezes flow across the weald, though occasionally towering thunderstorms fill the afternoon skies and rain sweeps o’er all. How such a place can be-endless summer-is quite mysterious; nevertheless it is so.

Separated from this magical realm by a great wall of twilight is another equally enigmatic domain, a region graced by eternal autumn, and here it is that crops afield remain ever for the reaping, and vines are overburdened with their largesse, and trees bear an abundance ripe for the plucking, and the ground holds rootstock and tubers for the taking. Yet no matter how often a harvest is gathered, when one isn’t looking the bounty somehow replaces itself.

Likewise, lying past this realm, beyond another great wall of half-light, there stands a land of eternal winter, where snow ever lies on the ground and ice clads the sleeping trees and covers the still meres or, in thin sheets, encroaches upon the edges of swift-running streams, and the stars at night glimmer in crystalline skies.

And farther on and past yet another twilight border lies a place of eternal springtime, where everlasting meltwater trickles across the ’scape, and trees are abud and blossoms abloom, where birds call for mates and beetles crawl through decaying leaves and mushrooms push up through soft loam, and where other such signs of a world coming awake manifest themselves in the gentle, cool breezes and delicate rains.

These four provinces are the Summerwood and Autumnwood and Winterwood and Springwood, magical regions in the twilit world of Faery. They by no means make up the whole of that mystical realm. Oh, no, for it is an endless place, with uncounted domains all separated from one another by looming walls of shadowlight, and with Faery itself separated from the common world by twilight as well.

But as to the four regions, a prince or a princess rules each-Alain, Liaze, Borel, and Celeste-brothers and sisters, Alain and Borel respectively having reign o’er the Summer- and Winterwoods; Liaze and Celeste, the Autumn- and Springwoods.

They got along well, these siblings, and seldom did trouble come their way. Oh, there was that difficulty with the disappearance of Lord Valeray and Lady Saissa, and the two curses leveled upon Prince Alain, but Camille had come along to resolve those problems, and everything had then seemed well in order, at least for a while, though there yet was a portent of darker days to come. But at that time joy lay upon the land, with Camille and Alain betrothed, the banns posted, and preparations for the wedding under way.

Yes, all was well in these four realms, or so it seemed.

But then…

… Once upon a summer day…

Out in the gazebo upon the wide lawn of Summerwood Manor, Borel sat and watched four black swans majestically gliding upon the wide, slow-running stream, the graceful birds keeping a wary eye upon the Wolves lying asleep upon the sward, all but the one who kept watch and eyed the swans just as warily, though a predatory gleam seemed to glint in the eye of the grey hunter. A balmy breeze stirred the silver of Borel’s shoulder-length locks as he leaned back in the wickerwork chair, his long legs stretched out, his soft-booted feet resting upon a padded footstool. From somewhere nearby came the hum of bees buzzing among garden blooms, and lazy clouds towered aloft in the cerulean sky and cast their quiet shadows down.

How peaceful it was on this gentle day, and Borel closed his ice-blue eyes, just for the nonce, his mind drifting along with the building clouds. How long he remained thus, he could not say, yet there came a muted sound of… he knew not what.

Borel frowned and opened his eyes, and then sat bolt upright, for the gazebo was changing, the floor turning to flag, the open sides to stone walls, even as he looked on in amaze. And beyond the windows of the now-stone chamber a seemingly endless number of free-floating daggers filled the air and blocked the light and cast a gloom o’er all.

Opposite from him in the dimness stood a slim young lady, as if in meditation or prayer. Her head was bowed and her long golden hair fell down across the white bodice of her flowing dress. Her delicate hands were clasped together just below her waist. Across her eyes lay a black, gauzy cloth or mayhap a band of shadow, as of a dark blindfold, or so it appeared.

And the lady quietly wept.

Borel stood and stepped closer. “Demoiselle, why do you weep?”

“Aidez-moi,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “Aidez-moi.”

Borel jerked awake and found he was on his feet, and the wind blew hard and moaned through the filigree, the late-afternoon sky dark with the oncoming storm. Then the summer rain came thundering down, and Borel’s Wolves took shelter within. And while black swans sought refuge in the overhang of a streamside willow, Borel looked about, seeking… seeking, but not finding, even though it seemed there came to his ears an ephemeral echo of a desperate whisper flying past on the weeping air: “Aidez-moi.”