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Authors: Dennis L. McKiernan
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back on the yellowed sward, and as the day edged toward midafternoon, slowly, slowly the cold seeped from her, sun-warmth taking its place.
She slept for a while—how long she could not say, but when she awoke evening was drawing down, and she sat up and looked ’round for her Bear, to find him sitting nigh, no longer white, but a grizzled reddish brown instead. “Oh, Bear,” she rasped, “you’ve changed color again.” Her voice was hoarse with thirst, for she had had nought to drink since yestereve when she last sipped a sulphurous swallow or two within the Winterwood. “Is there water nearby?”
“ Whuff, ” said the Bear, standing, and Camille groaned to her own feet, her frame gone stiff from lying on the ground. The Bear led her across the glade and to a rill beyond, and Camille drank of its sweet, sweet run. Refreshed, she rose to her feet, and she scented the odor of apples on the air. Just beyond the stream stood a tree laden with the ruby-red fruit, ripe and ready for harvest. Her mouth watering, Camille stepped across the stream to come under the tree, but the bounty was too high for her to reach. The Bear padded across and reared up on its hind legs and, using its weight, jolted the bole of the tree with both forepaws, and apples fell down all about, while Camille squealed and ducked and covered her head with her forearms to shield against the fall. She then gathered in some of the precious yield and sat by the stream and ate her fill, the apples snapping with each bite, juice flying wide, while the Bear snuffled about under the tree and gobbled down the rest.
Their supper dealt with, Camille set about making camp, arranging her bedroll and laying the basis for a small fire, but she fell asleep before she could set it ablaze. Even so, when she awoke the next morning, warm coals yet glowed in the ring of stone she had laid the night before.
On that second day in the Autumnwood, in spite of the glowing remnants of a fire, there had been no prepared breakfast at the dawning, just as at the close of yester there had been neither a waiting camp with a burning fire nor a cooked meal of fish or fowl or game. Still they did not want for fare as deeper into the forest they went, for, although they were surrounded by woodland, there were runs of what seemed to be fruit orchards—apples, for the most, yet other kinds as well, many of which were unknown to Camille, but were delicious nevertheless: some sweet, some tart, some with a delicate flavor, but all delightful to the tongue. And there were small stands of laden nut trees—hazel and beech, and the like. To Camille’s eye, these groves of fruit and nuts seemed to have been well cared for, for the limbs were trimmed and shapely, but pruned by whom, she knew not, for no cottages nor byres nor other such signs of crofters did she see.
Nigh the noontide of that day, as they topped a hill and emerged into the open, in the low vale before them Camille saw a meadow of ripened grain. The Bear plodded downslope and into the field, to pass among oats and then rye, while alongside and hidden among the teeming stalks, someone or something scampered, and once again Camille heard the trill of elfin laughter, but she caught no glimpse of who or what had made the sound.
When they emerged from the meadow to start up the far slope, then did she see sitting on the hillside with his back to a tree the figure of a man—or it looked to be a man—dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be, and a great reaping scythe rested across his knees. As they approached, he stood, the scythe in one hand, the blade grounded; Camille gasped in apprehension, for the man was huge, seven or eight foot tall, and for a moment she thought the Troll had returned. But a Troll he was not as was clear when he doffed his hat, revealing a shock of reddish hair. And as the Bear padded by, the man, the crofter, the reaper of grain, bowed low in respectful silence. “Bonjour,” called
She slept for a while—how long she could not say, but when she awoke evening was drawing down, and she sat up and looked ’round for her Bear, to find him sitting nigh, no longer white, but a grizzled reddish brown instead. “Oh, Bear,” she rasped, “you’ve changed color again.” Her voice was hoarse with thirst, for she had had nought to drink since yestereve when she last sipped a sulphurous swallow or two within the Winterwood. “Is there water nearby?”
“ Whuff, ” said the Bear, standing, and Camille groaned to her own feet, her frame gone stiff from lying on the ground. The Bear led her across the glade and to a rill beyond, and Camille drank of its sweet, sweet run. Refreshed, she rose to her feet, and she scented the odor of apples on the air. Just beyond the stream stood a tree laden with the ruby-red fruit, ripe and ready for harvest. Her mouth watering, Camille stepped across the stream to come under the tree, but the bounty was too high for her to reach. The Bear padded across and reared up on its hind legs and, using its weight, jolted the bole of the tree with both forepaws, and apples fell down all about, while Camille squealed and ducked and covered her head with her forearms to shield against the fall. She then gathered in some of the precious yield and sat by the stream and ate her fill, the apples snapping with each bite, juice flying wide, while the Bear snuffled about under the tree and gobbled down the rest.
Their supper dealt with, Camille set about making camp, arranging her bedroll and laying the basis for a small fire, but she fell asleep before she could set it ablaze. Even so, when she awoke the next morning, warm coals yet glowed in the ring of stone she had laid the night before.
On that second day in the Autumnwood, in spite of the glowing remnants of a fire, there had been no prepared breakfast at the dawning, just as at the close of yester there had been neither a waiting camp with a burning fire nor a cooked meal of fish or fowl or game. Still they did not want for fare as deeper into the forest they went, for, although they were surrounded by woodland, there were runs of what seemed to be fruit orchards—apples, for the most, yet other kinds as well, many of which were unknown to Camille, but were delicious nevertheless: some sweet, some tart, some with a delicate flavor, but all delightful to the tongue. And there were small stands of laden nut trees—hazel and beech, and the like. To Camille’s eye, these groves of fruit and nuts seemed to have been well cared for, for the limbs were trimmed and shapely, but pruned by whom, she knew not, for no cottages nor byres nor other such signs of crofters did she see.
Nigh the noontide of that day, as they topped a hill and emerged into the open, in the low vale before them Camille saw a meadow of ripened grain. The Bear plodded downslope and into the field, to pass among oats and then rye, while alongside and hidden among the teeming stalks, someone or something scampered, and once again Camille heard the trill of elfin laughter, but she caught no glimpse of who or what had made the sound.
When they emerged from the meadow to start up the far slope, then did she see sitting on the hillside with his back to a tree the figure of a man—or it looked to be a man—dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be, and a great reaping scythe rested across his knees. As they approached, he stood, the scythe in one hand, the blade grounded; Camille gasped in apprehension, for the man was huge, seven or eight foot tall, and for a moment she thought the Troll had returned. But a Troll he was not as was clear when he doffed his hat, revealing a shock of reddish hair. And as the Bear padded by, the man, the crofter, the reaper of grain, bowed low in respectful silence. “Bonjour,” called
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