Slowly the clouds above parted, and the sun crept up into the sky and glared down upon the swamp, the mire steaming in response; and it seemed as if the air itself became too thick, too wet to draw a clean breath. The marsh heaved with gasses belching from slimy waters, bubbles plopping, foul stenches drenching the air. And Borel had no idea how far he had come, nor how far there was left to go. Yet he pressed onward, following the bee, for he had no choice but to push on through if he were to reach the place where grew pink-petaled shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines.
As the sun reached the zenith, Borel paused to give Buzzer and Flic some honey, and to take some jerky for himself, and only the stench of the blackstool permitted the trio to eat, for insects swarmed even more thickly here in the heat of the day. And then Buzzer took to wing, and Borel pressed on, his thirst held in check by sips of water from leaves adrip, for he would not drink from the torpid sloughs of the mire.
It was midafternoon when the quag began to repeatedly quake, rhythmically, as if jolted and then jolted again and again and again, with measured regularity.
“What is it?” asked Flic.
“Something this way comes,” said Borel. “Something large.”
“I will see,” said Flic, and he flew up and away as Borel continued following the beeline.
Long moments passed, the jolting of the ground getting heavier with each quaking thud, as of something enormous striding across the bog. Of a sudden Flic came winging, panic on his face. “My Lord Borel, you must hide! You must hide!”
“What is it, Flic? What comes?”
“I do not know, my lord, but all creatures flee before its steps, and yet it remains unseen, though its passage is marked by great gouts of splashed water and the bending away of boughs. And even though it is not visible, it is gigantic, for at times whole trees fall in its path, as if smashed down and crushed merely for being in the way. Oh, my prince, you must hide.”
In that moment, the quaking stopped, and there came through the air a great snuffling, and then- Thd-d-d!.. Thd-d-d!.. — the massive steps resumed, now drawing closer.
“Oh, hide, my lord, it has caught your scent!” cried Flic.
“How does one hide one’s scent, especially when covered with blackstool?” said Borel, and then he knew. And he stepped back to a great, wide bog hole he had passed ’round but moments before and waded into the putrid sludge until he was waist-deep; and great bubbles sluggishly rose to the surface and splatted open, reeking of the sulphurous stench of weeks-old rotten eggs.
THD-D-D!.. THD-D-D!.. The massive steps neared, and louder came the great snuffles.
High above, Flic darted back and forth and screamed, “Look out, my lord, oh look out, look out!”
And the trees before the quag hole bent aside as something unseen and unseeable pressed through THD-D-D!..
— and stopped — and snuffled — and silently Borel took a deep breath and submerged completely.
Long did he stay down, and he knew the monster stood somewhere above, turning its unseen head, if it had one, this way and that, snuffling, taking in air, trying to catch his scent. And Borel’s lungs began to burn, to cry out for air, his diaphragm pumping uncontrollably, seeking to breathe in anything, air or not.
And just when he knew he could hold out no longer THD-D-D!.. THD-D-D!.. THD-D-D!.. THD-D-D!.. thd-d-d!.. thd-d!.. thd!..
— the unseen monster moved away, the jolting quake of its steps diminishing with every stride.
Borel surfaced and- Ghhhuh! — took in a great lungful of air and stood panting, drawing in the stench of rotten eggs with every sweet breath taken. And as he wiped his eyes free of quag, Flic came flying down.
“Oh, my lord, that was so close. I thought you gone for certain.”
“Flic, my lad,” said Borel, as he waded out from the sludge and sat down on the sodden shore, “although I appreciate your concern, it does little good for you to shriek ‘look out, look out’ when there is nought I can do.”
“My lord?” said Flic, puzzlement on his features. “I was screaming?”
Covered with muck and mire, Borel began to laugh so hard he fell over backwards.
In that moment Buzzer came flying back to see what was the delay, and Borel pointed at the agitated bee and laughed all the harder.
As he made his way toward one of the stagnant pools, Borel noted the tracks of the creature, though, in the mire as they were, much mud and silt had oozed back into the depressions, and even as Borel looked on, the spoor vanished altogether. Whatever the monster had been, it had walked upon massive feet, yet whether it was beast or fowl or something altogether different, Borel could not say. The prince shook his head and said, “Here is something I hope never to meet face-to-face, unseen or not.”
He went to scum-laden waters, where he sloshed about and ducked under to rinse the quag-hole muck away, and, after picking off the leech that had fastened to his cheek, he washed out his quiver and rinsed off the arrows. Somewhat cleaned of the muck, Borel resumed the trek, and biting, stinging insects swarmed about, the cloud of them maddened by the odor of blood seeping from his leech-wounded face. But then Flic returned with another blackstool, and the swarm was held off by the putrid stench of the snotlike salve.
And the day pressed on, and the sun slid down the sky, until long shadows fell across the bubbling, steaming mire. And as twilight came on, they still hadn’t reached the far margin, and Buzzer came flying back and settled on Borel’s hat.
“My lord,” said Flic, “Buzzer says night comes and it is time to sleep. She has settled in for the eve.”
“But we’re not at the border yet,” said Borel. “Can she not fly until we reach it?”
“Non, my prince, ’tis the way of bees.”
“Then we will gamble,” said Borel, “for I would not spend a single night in this swamp, most especially this one, with its unseen monsters lurking.”
Lining up landmarks along the beeline, Borel slogged onward. And as the dusk deepened, ghostly blobs of light rose up from the swamp in the oncoming night and drifted among the waterlogged boles of dark, looming trees.
“Will-o’-the-wisps,” said Flic. “Follow them not, for they would lead you to a watery grave.”
“Corpse lanterns they are,” murmured Borel, and he waded onward by the light of the stars, for the waning moon was not yet risen.
With both Flic and Buzzer sound asleep in the turned-up brim of his three-cornered hat, it was nigh mid of night when Borel reached the twilight wall. Exhausted, he pressed on through the marge to emerge into a broad grassland, the plants waist-high and slowly nodding in the wind. He took no steps onward, for had he strayed from the line, they would need to pass back into the mire once more for Buzzer to locate the way; and given the vagaries of twilight borders, a misstep in either direction could lead them to an entirely different place. And so, as the half-moon rose o’er the distant horizon, Borel flattened out a great swath of grass right next to the looming dark wall. Then with the Gnome-gifted thread, at the edge of the trodden area he bound together the tops of a great number of still-standing stalks and carefully set his hat with its precious cargo over the tip of the living sheaf, where ground-dwelling shrews and such could not get at them. Finally, yet slathered with the snotlike gel of blackstool, giving off a horrid stench that should drive most creatures away, he stretched out nearby and lay his head down to sleep.
21
“And where are we now?”
“In the Springwood, Chelle.”