“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
“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?”