grove.
When Borel’s waterskin had been replenished, Buzzer spiralled up and took a bearing, then flew away, heading for the place where the sun would set that day, and Borel, with Flic atop the tricorn, loped after.
Long did he run throughout the morn, occasionally passing through herds of tan grazers and those of dark brown, and now and again seeing dark-maned hunters and that very swift spotted cat. He saw a small pack of round-eared, doglike animals, and a few of the heavy-boned creatures of the kind that had tried to invade the camp.
On he ran and on, pausing occasionally for a drink of water, offering some to Buzzer and Flic as well. As for Buzzer, she had finally learned how fast-or rather how slow-Borel loped, and so she flew but a twenty-five or so of his paces in the lead, and she seemed less impatient with him.
As was their wont, they stopped in the noontide to take a meal, and they sat in the shade of a strange tree, with a fat trunk that narrowed the higher it went, with no limbs up its length except at the very top, and that’s where all of the branches were, and they spread out in a flat, circular manner, rather like the roots of an oak, only these were where leaves grew.
“In shape, it looks somewhat upside down,” said Flic, licking honey from his finger, then dipping it again into the bit Borel had dribbled into the jar lid. “Rather like a carrot, roots and all, turned on its head,” added Flic.
Borel laughed around his mouthful of jerky and glanced at the tree above. “I agree, Flic: upside down it is.”
With their noontide meal done, they were on the move again, Buzzer showing the way.
And as the sun slid across and down the sky, in the distance ahead Borel could see a trace of dust in the air. “It does not appear to be a stampeding herd,” he said.
“Shall I fly forward and look?” asked Flic.
“Not yet, Flic. I think it will resolve itself soon.”
And onward Borel loped.
Another league went by, and now Borel could make out what was raising the dust: “I ween it’s a caravan.”
And as they drew closer, indeed they could see it was a slow-moving train of trudging camels and horses awalk and men afoot and “What in Faery is that?” asked Flic.
“Though I’ve not seen one before, ’tis a tusker, I think,” said Borel, for in the mid of the long line a ponderous grey creature plodded.
“It looks to have a small tent riding upon its back,” called Flic.
“ ’Tis a seat of sorts,” said Borel. “Or so the tales tell.”
“A what?”
“A seat fitted with a canopy and railing, and some have curtains all ’round.”
On flew Buzzer and on trotted Borel, slowly overtaking the procession, the caravan travelling on nearly the identical heading that Buzzer flew. If both maintained course, Borel would pass on the right some twenty paces wide of the long file.
A half candlemark went by, and another league receded behind Borel as he slowly closed with the unhurried procession.
At last Borel came alongside a tassel-bedecked camel at the rear of the train. Borel called out to the rider, a black man, “Know you where the Endless Sands lie?” The man shrugged and called back that he didn’t know.
To the next rider he came, and he shouted out the same question, with the same result.
Camel riders he passed, and those upon horses, and guards afoot, and riders and walkers alike were all black men. And they wore loose-fitting, colorful silks and turbans with face-veils lightly fastened ’round, and wellcrafted boots shod their feet. They were armed with bows and scimitars and lances, and their mounts were gaily caparisoned, tassels and ribbons swinging with each stride.
Now Borel passed the giant grey creature lumbering serenely along; its massive head-with its broad, flapping ears and lengthy trunk-had great curving tusks, the long ivories each capped with a golden ball. A man with a hook on a staff walked alongside.
And as Borel trotted past and called out his question, a slender black hand drew aside the silken curtain of the canopied seat atop the tusker, and a dusky maiden of incredible beauty peered out, and she gasped at the sight of the handsome runner and the Sprite riding atop the man’s hat.
But Borel did not pause, for none knew the answer to his question, though they did understand Common. And so he jogged on, and soon he had passed beyond the plodding train, and he ran on and on, until he was out of sight.
And the black princess called unto the nearest guard, and swiftly he came running. “What did they want?” said the princess.
“He asked after the Endless Sands, Princess.”
“How odd,” she replied.
“Indeed, my lady, yet even odder, he seemed to be chasing a bee.”
Long did she laugh, and on the spot made up a tale of the handsome fool-with his wee companion riding atop his hat-who ran across the Endless Sands pursuing a bee… the fool a third son of a potentate, once rich but now poverty-stricken because of an evil djinn. Naturally, in the end the fool succeeded where his two sneering older brothers along with others had miserably failed, and, of course, having triumphed, this most handsome and clever third son married a most wise and demure and beautiful princess, much like she herself was.
Even as the sun was setting, Borel and Flic and Buzzer came to a twilight border, and as they stepped through, they came into stony green highlands with a tang of salt in the cool air, and in the distance leftward came the undulating boom of rollers breaking hard upon vertical cliffs.
39
After making camp within a wind-twisted cedar grove down in a dip in the land, Borel left Flic on guard and in the twilight strode toward the sound of the waves. Within a furlong or two he reached the brim of high stone cliffs stretching away for miles, and they loomed above a darkling sea. The ocean itself was tumultuous, as if a violent storm raged somewhere beyond the horizon, one so powerful that its effects were being felt even here. Borel scanned the waters to the limit of his vision in the failing light, and he saw only luminous whitecaps rolling in, and no ships of any kind asail. He breathed in the bracing air laden with salt of the sea, and he reveled in the tang of it, for not often did he come to the tempestuous oceans of Faery. Finally he turned and as he did so, far to the right along the cliffs Borel could just make out a pile of stones, perhaps the remains of a tumbled-down tower, a remnant of elder days, perhaps to keep watch on the sea. Borel briefly considered walking there to see, but night was upon him, and morning would be soon enough. And so, instead, he made his way back toward the cedars, reaching there as darkness fell absolute… but for light from the stars above and the tiny campfire within.
Flic was yet awake by the small blaze and finishing off the last of the honey from the jar lid. Buzzer was adoze on a nearby green-needled branch. Borel dropped down by the earthen-ringed fire, and he fished about in his rucksack for jerky and hardtack.
“Have you ever seen the wild waters of Faery?” he asked.
Flic looked up. “Do you mean the ocean?”
“Oui.”
“Non,” said Flic.
“Well, my wee Sprite, they lie not two furlongs yon. You might want to take them in.”
“In the morning,” said Flic, yawning. “All this travel makes me weary.”
“What?” said Borel as if taken aback. “With you aride on my hat?”
Flic grinned but then sobered and morosely said, “You know what I mean.”
Borel shook his head and frowned. “Just what do you mean, my friend?”
Flic shrugged. “I don’t know. Or perhaps I do. It just seems that nothing happens.”
