The Arthurian legends are a wonder of the past and present. They buoy our spirits, unchaining us from many of the restrictions of modern life. The legends call to us across the centuries—a call we cannot ignore. We can know Lancelot, and love him for his sins as well as his valor, as if he were our own companion.
How we cherish the legends! Never, perhaps, will we know them with complete understanding. Many writers have tried, using pens of many mettles. I am faithful only to my own dreams of what happened so long ago. The Arthurian tales handed down through generations have been embellished and embroidered so much that we can never be sure of the truth—and we don't really need to since the legends now sustain themselves.
Even more liberty is granted to the writer of a sequel. The author need only back up against the past as he holds the future at arm's length—in his pen. Though many of the adventures and descriptions of my novel are new and original, some are not so new and unexpected. This happens when one must draw upon the legends of the past for continuity; but, like the spring, legends belong to everyone.
Yes, I, too, wept when the dream ended, but there are other dreams, other voices to be heard now. We now have the liberty to extend the legends for every whim. Yes, we, the readers and writers of the continuing legend, have the grandest of all quests now laid out before us. But, the quest can sustain us and nourish us like food from the Grail—even those of us who seemingly exist in perfect harmony with the local Universe, who might otherwise lie down and die, astounded with too much knowledge, were it not for the adventure of a quest. Yes, the quest's the thing—the thrill of the quest! Keep the flame alive.
Review
Our Story: Camelot, once a city of marvel, now stands tarnished. The lands are dry with drought. Mordred has taken the throne. Must any more time pass without relief. Are Arthur and his knights up to the job? The battle on Salisbury Plain draws toward its conclusion as Arthur's small but brilliant army of knights overcome a hundred fold of Saxons
The Battle
Arthur has slain a hundred men with Excalibur; Prince Valiant has done in seventy-five with the Singing Sword; Lancelot has reappeared from monastery life and, using ordinary metal, has ended the lives of sixty men; Percevale, Arn, and Galan each bring a close to the careers of fifty Saxons. Lesser knights also do their chores well. But the price of victory is dear and only Arthur, Percevale, and the immortal enemy, Mordred, remain alive on the field as we join the action.
Mordred raises his lance and Percevale prepares to move against him. “No, Percevale,” cautions King Arthur, “his armor cannot be pierced by metal which has been forged on the earth. It is my destiny to meet him.”
“And die?” questions Percevale.
“And die,” answers the King. “It has been revealed to me in a dream from Merlyn—my life belongs to the future—to legend.”
Mordred is confident in his golden armor as he puts his lance through Arthur, wounding him; yet, Arthur raises Excalibur and sends it through Mordred's invincible armor as if it were butter. “You forget, Mordred, that Excalibur was not forged upon the earth and that only I may wield it, for the good of man, that I may stop you only by giving my life too.”
Birth of the Last Knight
Mordred dies and Arthur lies gravely injured, but alive. Arthur bids Percevale to his side. “Now you are the last knight, Percevale. You must see to the kingdom's, see that its treasures, including my crown, remain hidden; and see to Guinevere and make her comfortable; and carry on, alone, but with courage.”
“The hell with that, Arthur! My King, I will join you in death—there is no place for me in the world now—a knight without companions is a man who ceases to exist, for there is then no reason to live.”
“Percevale, do you remember what I said when you delivered the Grail to me—when I drank from it and it turned crimson and brought spirit back?”
“You said: ‘One never knows how empty is the soul until it is filled.'”
“And do you remember, Percevale, how you found the Grail?”
“Yes, I do. At every crossing and fork I took the most impossible path!”
“Then you must do so now, Percevale, for your path is most impossible and your heart is empty, and, as such, you know not what you say when you court death to join me. I have long suspected my destiny—that my life was not my own. Now, finally I travel to that place where my life can be my own. As for you, your life is here. There are still some battles to be won—indeed, you will have your magic, too. I do not have long now.”
The Sword
Arthur continues, “Take Excalibur and return it to the gods. Find a pool, one that is clear, calm, and deep, and throw the sword into it.”
Percevale leaves but returns without throwing the sword in the lake. “What did you see, Percevale, when you threw the sword in?”
“I saw nothing, my King, but the wind on the water—I could not throw it in! Excalibur cannot be lost!”
“Do as I command, Percevale. The sword belongs to the gods. One day a king will return, in the earth's darkest hour, and the sword will rise again. When you come back I will tell you a secret. Go now. I am fading fast.”
Percevale takes one last look at the sword from the stone and throws it to the Lady of the Lake. Her arm is clothed in white samite and the sword is soon taken under the water.
Percevale returns and sees Arthur being borne away to the Isle of the Blessed on the ship of the three Graces. “Arthur!” he cries; but Arthur rides into the crimson sun—and takes the secret with him.
The Lonely Road
The last knight has some physical wounds: a broken leg and severely bruised rigs with some bleeding. Percevale takes the grisly inventory of the knightly dead as he heads off the battlefield to find a healing ground. There is no sign of Prince Valiant's sons, Arn and Galan, he notes as he retrieves the Singing Sword from Prince Valiant's lifeless body. Next to Valiant lies Lancelot, dead. Their real conquerors were old age, thought Percevale. Both lived fine lives and neither one was cheated of life's good years. As for Prince Valiant's sons, they may have been consumed by the lake.
Peasants soon swarmed over Lancelot's body and carried it on a long pilgrimage to where he would be buried next to Galahad, his son.
Percevale retrieves his spent shafts from the enemy bodies. Suddenly the battlefield seems a strange place to be and the last knight takes to the loneliest road of all. Three late-arriving Saxons block his path ahead. He turns to avoid them but they follow him like vultures. Percevale draws his feathered shafts against the bow and the sting falls true to its mark. A deadly dart fells the second one. The power of the Singing Sword remains and it cracks the chest of the third, for the Saxon's sword is as dull as his wits.
Percevale takes one last look back, then rides forward and proclaims to all, “The King is dead, King Arthur is dead.”
Relapse
Our Story: History has never recorded the fates of Sir Percevale, the knight who discovered and returned the Grail to Arthur, and Guinevere, once Queen of Britain, after the battle which took place on Salisbury Plain. For, apparently, it was only they who survived that last battle there in which Arthur and his son by incest, Mordred, embraced, at last, after so many years, on each other's sword. That day, too, Lancelot died in Arthur's arms, a knight once more by Arthur's forgiveness: “A knight you are today, Lancelot, and much more—for you represent what is good in all men. Yes, Lancelot, Guinevere is well, and all has been long forgiven.”
Remembrance
Of course, many others died as well during the great battle—all of those who hadn't perished earlier during the quest for the Grail. Would that they could have known that it was Percevale's destiny to find the Grail, and his alone, for he was the purest and truest knight. Now the Land was left with neither knights nor enemies.
Percevale's next quest, too, was preordained, for only Guinevere survived as a link to his past, and this was the only way that a new quest could begin. He knew it, and he felt it to be so, and, as always before a quest, he repeated these words, “Please allow me to be the victor, but if I am not, let me at least be brave and true in the attempt.” Guinevere, meanwhile, had left the convent, no longer feeling so much guilt over her adulterous ways, especially after Arthur's forgiveness—and—she was no longer Queen.
Arthur left no legal heirs—no one reigned. But, the land without a King was now at relative peace, a peace never known to many of those yet alive, even the old people. Leaf and flower had returned to the land, and Percevale had retired to the forest to heal his many wounds. He rested near the very place where he had first met Lancelot and had become his squire so many years ago—when he was just a squirt of a lad. If he only knew then what he knew now! For many years Percevale had viewed the world through Lancelot's eyes. Perhaps, too, it was his destiny to follow in Lancelot's life steps, or perhaps it was just Percevale's dream and ambition to do so—which, would either make it his destiny or consume him alive.
Percevale remembered his last days as a knight's squire, when because Lancelot was late due to his self-inflicted wounds, Percevale almost had to champion the Queen in his stead. Arthur had hastily knighted him that day, since a squire may not champion a Queen (nor may a King). Percevale wondered, “Would I have been good enough then? And now?”
Percevale had long since learned to take to the greenery to heal his wounds. They were deep, but he would certainly survive, for it was his desire to be healed. He was weak, though, and could barely even move about. For three days the Grail supplied him with food, its last bounty—the bread and wine of the gods; and it did not last long.
So many companions had he lost: Sir Bors, Sir Tristan, Sir Gawain, Sir Uriens, Prince Arn, Prince Galan, Sir Kay, among many others, some too painful to remember. So hastily were they taken to the Shades! Or to who knows where! Probably to Purgatory. But, this was a time for healing—through the quiet peace of the forest and by the more wondrous memories. That then was the remedy which was to sweep away the thoughts of that horrible battle. Though, could he ever forget? Did he really want to?
Percevale had now long overcome the brashness of his youth, and it was replaced with the confidence of a man well over thirty. He knew now that his wounds would heal in time and that he would hear the voices of new companions, and feel the touch of new loves. And because he knew it, it would come to pass. Sometimes, he thought, one can create his own destiny, although oftentimes one must be carried on the wings of fate as well. However, there was no apparent magic which could carry him through now since Merlyn was either gone or dead, and as Merlyn had said, “These are no longer times for gods, but for men.” These were lonely thoughts.
Percevale inspected his rabbit trap—good! a catch! Today he would eat meat after many days without. The odor of the feast to come so whetted his appetite that he thought that he might burst the threads of his wounds, and so he slept against a tree, knowing that he would awake on time, or thereabouts. Ah, asleep in the forest, in the place where he was born and had spent his youth. Percevale had, at last, come home.
He dreamt of magic, magic as black as that son of the Devil, Merlyn, could make it. He remembered the time when the whole sea was green fire and white foam with singing mermaids in it—when The knights rode their way from one wave to another by way of the lightening flashes. The old days, of course, were now gone forever, he realized; but, on windy days, one can still see white horses riding the waves as wave-crest surf in the wild raging sea.
Once awake, he eased himself back into the reality of the now steaming summer by eating the rabbit, cooked to a tune. Again, he thought, he was on his own for once. And there really wasn't any magic which could aid him now. He was back down to earth, to the earth that he loved so dearly, especially in the forest, for this was his home. Where had he been all of these years since his childhood?
Percevale, the poet, thought: I should like to write a poem and a melody that is so vibrant and intimate that everyone would adopt it as if it had sprung like a dream of prophesy from the land's memory. As if no one had written it but earth itself. And my song, my dream, would travel along the streams, and then lift into the air and pass from bird to wing, to tree to breeze, and then through the sky and back down, to men's hearts, to their breath, and into song from their lips, because a song, like a dream, belongs to everyone.
Thinking about the song was even more wonderful than writing it, but if ever he did, Guinevere might like to hear of it. Perhaps, she yet lived and they could talk of the past. Ah—all of those years he had loved her from afar, heard stories of her from Lancelot when he was so privileged to squire that Knight of knights. He had never really hoped to think that he could ever truly know her, for to do so would mean that many great tides had swept over the land. And so they had. The last great war on Salisbury Plain had healed the earth with blood, the blood of the Grail. Blood soaked into the earth, deeper and deeper, until it reached the depths of even those earthy souls in hell. And that day, that God-awful day, Arthur died in his arms. Arthur had asked but one last oath of his last knight—an oath that would be easy in some ways, but more difficult in other ways—it was: “Look to Guinevere, bring her back alive from her shame—all is forgiven—take care of her so that she might be Queen once more.” Percevale swore an oath to do so, but really, it was the truth of an dream!
Rebirth
Percevale's only companions in the forest were the birds and the insects. The birds, afraid at first, ate the remains of the bread from the Grail, stale as it was. He threw some of it in the stream to soften it and so some was obtained by the fish as well.
Percevale drifted into song again: Once, I did know, long ago. How did I forget holding you so closely? How I moved; just to have me glance at you and know how you did move me! Ah, but these were memories of so long ago, but crisp and so clear, for Sir Percevale had one talent which escaped most men: he retained his memories; he seldom forgot. It helped that he wrote things down; forgetting was a doom that he would never suffer. How the people and nations of the earth did suffer because they forgot! And for a while Percevale's memories alone would have to sustain him. His companions had taught him well, cherished him as a tender bud. Nevermore could he live on the edge of a smile; on the edge of life; on the edge of an adventure! Now he was the last knight, the only knight. Since there were no other knights, the title meant little now, for it was the companionship that made the knights what they were. But, it still meant something to him and perhaps to one other in the world. Where was she? Where was Guinevere?
Days had shone into nights many times now since Percevale had retreated to the woods. Some life now began to shine into this knight, and it was the glimmer of many shining moments past and yet to come. But never, it seemed, could it outshine Camelot, for those moments were, like the gleam of this night's full Fisher moon, looming and lovely in the knight sky of his memories.
Percevale explored the area surrounding his camp since there was little else to do. He still moved rather slowly, nursing his healing wounds as he walked. He came upon an entrance to a misty cave, went in and, somehow, floated down to the bottom of a very deep chasm, alighting there as if he were a feather. It was very misty and also quite damp down there, and water dripped from the ceiling. What caused the mist? Could it be that cool air sliding down the sides of the crevices hit waves of heat rising through a stream of bubbling lava and formed a mist over the sluggish flow? Or did someone weave this mist, someone trapped here long ago? Perhaps it was but wishful thinking, a dream, but a lovely one at that.
Percevale seemed to feel the presence of an old magical friend. Through the swirling mist Percevale caught a glimpse of some imps high upon a ledge above rivers of orange stone. Ah, it was only their presence and nothing more—what cruel tricks the imagination doth play! But still he wore the hope-stone of his faith, for one must always have hope. At one time hope was all that Percevale had—Sir Uriens had given it to him as he died when he convinced Percevale to continue the quest for the Grail.
A blast of fresh air cleared the mist near Percevale's feet. A single broken tombstone appeared. A hand reached out to Percevale's leg, the hand of Merlyn! “My old friend,” said Merlyn, “I have little power left—it is barely enough to get me back home, and once I leave I cannot return for many ages. It was your love of life and your mourning that awakened me. You brought me back—but I must go soon; you will not see me again upon the earth. However, I do bestow on you a minor enchantment to last for a year. Enjoy it. Use it. Now, Percevale, mark my word, for this is my prophesy: one day, far from now, we will subdue the devil together.”
Merlyn placed both hands upon Percevale's shoulders and said, “Greetings, well-met fellow, hail! And farewell—the Dark Ages have ended. Now is the time for the gods to leave you—look for them always in the night sky. I bring my light now to other worlds that are as dark as the night. It is a new time for earth, and there are other kingdoms that I must visit. Look! See there, the third star in Orion's belt, that's it! That's where Excalibur shall be found, and he who pulls the sword from the scabbard stone—he—shall be king! It's the stuff of future legends. I'm gone, into the night sky!”
And he was gone! He was gone—
“How many gods have we lost to the night sky? Now we are losing the half-devils as well! Goodbye Merlyn. You have served us well.”
No sooner had Merlyn left than a band of demons leapt from the soil and flew in the direction of his wake, and pursued him as raging devil-hounds, he, their straying child and their prey.
Rain-Song
And for three weeks it rained, oh how it rained, for grief had made the young season cry. And when it didn't rain, it was foggy, misty, and gloomy—for the salty tears of the ancient magicians hung heavy in the air. The mist moved out and covered the Land, and the sun shone nowhere on the earth. We all wept when the magical dream ended, and the earth was cold for a time. Yes, it was for Merlyn that the skies cried.
Percevale thought of the old saying that went, “Even the blackest night must die under the fiery wheels of Apollo's golden chariot.” And so it probably would after enough tears were shed; but Percevale was desperate, and after a while he cried out a Sun Dance:
Come back, fire in the Sky.
Shine upon us once more.
Just to have me look at you,
Just to feel your warmth raining down,
I would dance the darkness away.
Percevale awoke early during the next morning-song, a glint of sparkling armor in his eyes, for the sun returned. For a few minutes he was nearly blinded to the dawn's light until his eyes became accustomed to the glare. During this time he thought of his farewell to Merlyn, that half-man, half-devil. Percevale even dared to think that Merlyn had certainly done more good for the earth than God had done. Merlyn served neither the Devil nor God, much to the dismay of each. Merlyn served only man. Well, how do we know this anyway? It is because the legends tell us so.
Yes, it was time to go, on foot for awhile until he could retrieve the horse that he'd let go, although any other would do for now. He found straight away a half-wild bay mare which took to him well—there were many good riderless horses still wandering about long after the battle.
Percevale rode through the day, but with no real sense of urgency, taking to his travels in a rather leisurely fashion. That night the clear skies uncovered a hidden wonder, the pale Unicorn full moon that marked another month gone by. There it was, plain as day, in the twilight sky. There too, memories danced again to yet another time.
Percevale felt so very content now, content with this day of sunshine and moonglow. Yes, the Lion-sun rules the toiling day, but the Unicorn-moon brings wisdom and calm in the night. At the magic times of dawn and twilight, when the lion and unicorn battle together to capture the heavens, only beauty and goodness in men and women can ensure the victory of wisdom.
What lay along the road ahead? Why, adventure, of course, that old song that had to be sung by the knights! Ancient magicians like Merlyn seem not to directly crave these things, but we do—it is the curse and blessing of the knights. And how we knights love to bring back these tales of adventures to that Round Table of our fine companions. To whom shall we bring our tales and our writings now? To you, dear reader, to you.
Back on the road again early the next morning, Percevale could not help but lapse into daydreams to wile away the time. Daydreams, he thought later, were actually continuous dreams, much like those of the night, which surface now and then out of our souls through the noise of consciousness; perhaps they came from the gods. They were the elixir that made one alive and kept one alive—a subterranean life-flow of desires and regrets seldom shared—for so intimate they were—plays within plays, dreams within dreams. It felt somehow strange to be observing these events in oneself—these bits and pieces of emotion and random feelings that are recorded within our memories, which might otherwise go unnoticed. These thoughts, these observations of thoughts, was this the rare working of the rational and the emotional in tandem? All this Percevale thought and later wrote down in the Celtic Chronicles.
Of Lust and Fate
Percevale was primed now. Whomever appeared to him next would be his friend, for it would be good for the soul not to be alone now. This, he felt. Then, too, this new enchantment of Merlyn's demanded some service to those of the world. Good deeds were not passé. And yes, he thought, we are all condemned to death on the day we are born—that is our fate, ever in our minds; but, oh, how we would love to have a divine destiny—so we create gods in our own image. But too, almost surely, that dreadful day comes when we realize that neither we nor the gods are really so divine as we thought. Then we must face that ultimate humility: that we are but one of a species, and held together by physics. Yes, one of a kind, a special kind, but nevertheless, just bundles of joy and folly pursuing a rather lucky existence, and feeling so alone in a world of a hundred thousand people. Doomed to death, we fall—well, it's been said before but is hard to act on, “we might as well enjoy the fall on the way down instead of screaming, or we will live life as an illusion, forever hiding from ourselves.” For nothing ever seems to hurt if you are willing to experience it Only when we resist do we feel the pain, and do we ever. Again, fact and feeling in tandem? It is hard to think about this without becoming emotional and clouding the issue with feeling.
Suddenly, Percevale came upon a huge Serpent (again) with a lion in its clutches, and, as before, he favored the lion and quickly slew the snake with Prince Valiant's Singing Sword.
A maiden appeared and harshly cursed him for a time, but, luckily, curses were no longer as effective on earth. Percevale explained that he had again favored the gentler of the two beasts. Finally, she said, “The unicorns will be happy this day.” After some wine, they lay down upon the spine of the dragon—the ground. Percevale made the sign of the cross as usual but she did not disappear, for she was no fiend, and Percevale was virgin no more in body but was still pure in spirit. And yes, it was a time come for men! And for women, too.
And just as suddenly, she had to be gone for a time but promised to return soon. But who was she? Her name was Alexis, a pagan name. Where had he seen her before? Or had he seen her face in everyone? Did he, Percevale, still belong to everyone, to the world at large? Did she resemble some ghost of the past? She seemed to be part French. The thought of her familiar features was to haunt him for many weeks to come. A daze was soon to come—a year of enchantment—Merlyn's last gift to him.
Percevale felt the flush of the enchantment still rushing over him. Clouds of smoke hovered in the air and not would they scatter; it was a daze, a mist all about him, and it cast an eerie gleam. During this time of enchantment Percevale was to belong to the world, not to himself. Like the chess super-knight, he could now move as the Queen moved, but more importantly, he could move in any direction as desired by the currents of the world. Although, with this type of enchantment one's freedom was somewhat restricted, many had always clamored for the privilege.
There was the late summer sun, already setting early over the sea—there was that green flash as usual, for those who cared to see it. How the sea did mesmerize him! And why? Why was he still here at this Inn of Mariners by the harbor, he of the Land who liked to feel the earth beneath his feet. Why was he writing these memoirs?—so passive as it was, so active would he be! Well, there was still time to remember! And so there would always be.
Today the sea was uneasy, churning, ever churning—the waves did not know which way to go, so they went every which way—the way of Percevale's life at the moment. Suddenly freed from years of battle, which way could he go, would he go?
Bird-song filled the morning as he packed up the camp. Before leaving town he made provision for two. Alexis returned, not saying where she had been. Since they were still strangers to each other, Percevale did not press his inquiries. Why Alexis wished to accompany him now, he really did not know or yet care. She claimed to be a waif, abandoned by her kin at an early age, her guardians killed by Saxons early in the Wars. For years, ever since, she had lived by her wits and by her charm here and there. Soon Percevale fell under her charms.
Percevale did not talk much about his past, his knighthood, for he felt that he had to bury those days and those thoughts so he could begin to adapt to the new enlightenment, the new style of life. Also, it would allow the new romance to start fresh, with neither one very much biased by the foolishness that is everyone's past.
However, the more Percevale kept his secrets to himself, the more Alexis pried, but she soon tired of this and inquired no more. Percevale was still determined that they start anew and not be swayed or carried by swells from the past. And yes, Percevale was stubborn, because it is the past which makes us what we are today, as we are the summation of all things past—and is it not the sharing of secrets that cements friendships?
Stubborn as he was they nevertheless were to become close during the days and nights to come on the seaside trail down the coast. Well, these things happen in April and September, sometimes even in May and December, but especially in that lusty month of May. But, this was September, and it was the warmth of her life that kept the cold away now. It was a sad day too, for it was the autumnal equinox, the last day of summer. Today, all over the earth, the sun would shine exactly twelve hours.
They were well along the trail now and running low on food. Tonight they had but chicken soup—it was all that was left of the hen whose neck they had wrung the other night. Alexis pulled a broken wishbone from the broth. What did it mean? Did the gods still give signs? Had they no wishes left or was Alexis day-dreaming when she made the soup? Or were they beyond wishes, beyond fate?
Ah, but wise she was in the ways of the Wood. In fact, Percevale learned much from her even though he was born in the woods. She taught him how to find salt left by evaporated ocean spray in the dried hollows of the sea-rock. Under her tutelage, Percevale finished his schooling in the ways of nature—no longer would he pass through life hardly aware of the stir of the insects and the birds and what they could tell him—and they could all be heard now without the clatter of the Horses of the Hill. Lately, Percevale had only experienced these things in his poetry, for without poetry life was as flat as stale wine. Now, life was almost too real to be true, but he was a good student. Still—she was the master.
Percevale became evermore entranced with Alexis, somewhat younger than he was she, but in his heart of hearts he still yearned for Guinevere and pulled to her even more than his oath demanded; somewhat older than he was she, but not too much so, for she was a child Queen.
Alexis asked, “Where do we go now. Do we have no purpose?”
Still engaged in daydream, all that Percevale could manage to say was “My Lady, I ride as fate leads me,” a slip of the knight tongue—a reversion to the old ways of the quest. It was then that she knew his identity for sure, for she had heard the tales told and retold many times at her great father's knee. But, who was her father?
Revelation
Alexis awoke very early that next morning, being careful not to awaken Percevale, for she felt that she had to leave this knight who would not share his past with her. It was her nature to leave as quietly as possible, for she traveled with the flow, seldom trying to force things one way or the other—it was the way of the Wood—and her way.
She marked the stir of far away grasses as she performed her morning ablution. The shadow of darkness lifting was cold as it crossed her heart, and daylight was but a dim wash of grey mist; the sun would not shine very bright this day. The weather suited her mood, and her sadness hid her happiness. The morning bird-song remained but a few bowshots away as she left. A solitary owl still called. Then she was gone. Confrontations could begin only after time had tempered thought. Besides, she had a date with a tomb and anniversaries never waited. Then the songbirds suddenly stopped. Percevale awoke, a note pinned to his chest:
Sir Percevale:
The day weeps with rain in sorrow for the summer sun gone south, as do I for us. Though our warmth was that of a thousand suns, you hold back the tales of your past hopes and dreams fulfilled, and you can speak only of fate leading you. You try to suppress your knighthood but it drives you still. Would that I could encourage some new-found hope—fate can be twisted you know. Now I shall be your quest—find me if you will. One never knows how full the heart is until it is empty. Yes, I see that there is still a thirst in your blood that must be quenched. It seems to be even more than that which could be stilled by just having the earth roll by under your horse, although that itch, too, is ever so strong. Then, too, I must go to pick the white flowers for someone who was very dear; that's a clue for you.
—Tout a l'heure, mon ami
No sooner had Percevale finished reading the note than did the sharp point of a sword press tight against his heart—it was the sword of Mordren, the last child of Mordred's—Arthur's illegitimate grandchild, the very last of the great King's bloodline. Percevale's first thought was to try to deflect the sword thrust with his left arm after the sword was brought back for the kill, but, Mordren prepared to speak. Percevale thought that while a good knight would hear one's last request, the best knights did not dally long. He further thought that surely his left arm would shatter on the sword and only prolong his life but for an instant. Then what? He could not reach down to his ankle dagger, for he had not taken Alexis' advice to wear it always, since it had begun to chafe him. Silently he cursed himself for his new found foolishness and also for the fact that Sir Valiant's Singing Sword lay nowhere nearby.
Mordren spoke, “My dear Sir Percevale. How empty was the promise of your beloved Grail—for the prophecy was that all of my father's children should die by the hand of Lancelot. Yes, most of them did, but now your beloved Lancelot is dead and I remain very much alive. Perhaps his ghost still walks the earth to threaten me! But, I am not afraid of ghosts. I am here to avenge upon you the death of my fine brothers, for you were Lancelot's closest companion and must now bear his sins. How easy it was to overtake you; you were so preoccupied with your lost lover.”
Percevale again cursed himself for never looking back. There were many times on high ground when he could have easily spied movement in the valleys below. But, alas, he had not. That was then. The time was now. There was never any time now but the present.
Mordren continued, “I should have expected more from Arthur's last knight. Hah! I even read the note pinned to your chest as you slept. Now, your heart is to be broken twice in one day! How easy it is. And how simple it will be to seize the empty throne in the land without a King. Indeed, my father, Mordred, seized it twice while Arthur was yet still alive! I shall have it even easier, for people are easily swayed, and though I am a bastard, I am of the bloodline, the very last one qualified. And Guinevere, she shall be my Queen!” Percevale winced at the thought. Mordren's sword drew back as Percevale prepared to execute his meager plan of defense. A knight does not die easily, he thought. And then the fates of his chances answered to none other than the chance of his fate. Her dagger sang through the air, singing the tune of the gods, and found its mark between Mordren's wings. A look of anguish, and then puzzlement, swept Mordren's features as he twisted about in death to see the one who gave him so much pain. He saw Alexis standing there as he groped for the waiting earth which came up to meet him in his death fall.
She spoke to the dying Mordren, “I am not a friend of fate, but the prophecy of the Grail seems to have come true—for I am the fruit of Lancelot's lust! He was my father! And I destroy you! And send you to Hell! You see, Percevale, I, too, have favored the gentler of the creatures.”
Suddenly, another man lunged at Alexis from behind, but Percevale's dart caught him in the heart with a deathly sting. There was a third man but he soon ran away.
“Thank you, but I must go, Percevale, as you well know. For I, too, have kept some secrets which now you know too much about. Time will be the salve for our wounds. My destination is one that you may now very well guess, and then can find me there.”
Percevale said nothing, as he knew her words to be true, and bade her a fond farewell with a kiss on the cheek as he considered the clues of her letter. A bright light shone from the pack bag, and then the Grail hovered in the air but for a moment before it rose into the sky, burning away the mist, and taking away their sins, just as Mordren gave up the Ghost.
That day there were two suns, and well after twilight time until midnight the sky stayed crimson—blood red with streaks of orange. It was seen all over Britain as the Land was bathed with a lurid glow which did not totally disappear until morning. It was the day without a night.
Triumvirate
The story of Mordren's death was spread throughout the Land by one of Mordren's men who turned and ran when their leader fell. The story grew with each telling, and many secrets became well known although some others were invented along the way. It was the stuff of current legends. It became known that the Grail rising to Heaven was the reason that all of the leaves of all of Britain retained their red and orange hues through the winter, not falling until the spring. Now the earth belonged to man, all gods and devils having departed to more crimson pastures.
Alone, Alexis made her way to what was to become a yearly rendezvous. Since it was still several days away, she made an camp at twilight so as to replenish her energies. She was rather troubled now about questions of fate and free action, and of the reliance of one upon the other. Somehow she had known about Mordren's threat, even before she saw him hiding in the grasses that morning. But how had she known? Did she have the sight?
Soon after twilight had gone, the October moon of the Harvest rose in the east, looking much larger than it really was. Alexis now did not feel so alone as she had thought, with that man-in-the-moon looking over her shoulder. She felt somehow protected by that lonely sky face. It was so bright that the only darkness about her was her shadow. She entertained the thought that there were but three at the camp tonight: herself, the moon, and her shadow—a thought that everyone someday entertains on the most moonlit of nights. The moon, which often seemed coldhearted, was warm tonight. Wherever Percevale was that night, she knew that he would see it too. She drank the last wine of the Grail, now a part of the legend.
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(1) Some two centuries after the time of Alexis, Li-Po, of China, would write, “I take a bottle of wine and I go drink it among the flowers. We are always three—counting my shadow and my friend the shimmering moon. Happily the moon knows nothing of drinking, and my shadow is never thirsty. When I sing the moon listens to me in silence. When I dance, my shadow dances too. After all festivities the guests must depart; this sadness I do not know. When I go home, the moon goes with me and my shadow follows me.”
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Not realizing at first the direction that Alexis would take, even though the clues were there, Percevale retired to an ancient inn, the Red Lion, which was also a winery in those days. There was much activity at this time of the year as they brought in the vines and grapes. Would that he could stay longer, for even a day, but it was no day for rest.
Guinevere, none the worse for her years of alternate banishment and rescue, continued to find solace in the arms of every-man. It was an itch in her blood to find life's passion at every turn, but there were no more knights left to entertain except for one. She began her pilgrimage also, traveling many miles up the coast, and sampling man's humanity to women along the way. She came to the still hidden entrance of the shrine grounds, and went down a short but steep embankment and saw a crumbling stone house. Behind the house were a series of staggered wide stone expanses, one after the other, like steps. Water ran down the steps, falling from one to the next. She took the side trail and traveled ever downward, being careful of the slippery path, now and then grabbing hold of branches. She found her old walking stick where she had hidden it. She circumvented the waterfall of the last ledge by staying up along the banks of the water pool and traveled through the forest awhile until she came to the crystal stream. An old abandoned well house still stood there where the stream began at the bottom of some more waterfalls.
Meanwhile, Percevale had left the inn with a new sense of purpose, surmising now his destiny. Now and then along the trail he saw some indications of the prior presence of Alexis. He was reassured to know that she still seemed to care, albeit from a distance. That night he observed the Harvest moon in the sky, and in it saw a hybrid face containing the features of Arthur, old Arthur. It was said that when Arthur died, Merlyn rearranged the mountains of the moon to resemble Arthur's face, not as he now appeared, but as how he might have appeared had he ever gotten old. Alexis could not hardly miss the moon this night, he thought, since it really dominated the scene.
Percevale rode through the night to make his next day's appointment, but he was blocked by a deep blue lake, its other side clouded with mist. Magically, he rode across the water, as if on Pegasus. This cloak of enchantment was a strange thing, but was good in that it could not be used only to serve one's self—but—the mystery of the lake ride could not yet be solved. Was he near the legendary Avalon?
Finally he saw the hidden shrine entrance and made his way down below the falls, jumping his horse from one ledge to the other with ease. He rode behind the waterfall and came to an old abandoned well house. He followed the path next to the stream, sometimes riding the stream when the path disappeared and jumping some minor fissures in the rock bed. There was a deep pool from the stream a mile down, but a trickle of the stream continued into a misty moss-green forest, its bed strewn with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Here he had to leave his horse. There were rocks everywhere, the stream carving into them. Years ago, at the west edge of this land, miles away, was the quarry used for Camelot. Another mile of walking down the creek and there it was, carved out of the stone—the Tomb of Lancelot! Already, many white flowers, some with but one black spot, lay about the tomb area. The location of the tomb was gradually becoming known—the Tomb of the Whyte Knyghte of Joyous Guard. Atop the tomb structure were two women. Percevale, though still at a distance, could tell by their similar mannerisms and clothes that they might be related, sisters perhaps. As he came closer, a wave of horror swept over his mind, but then he thought it strange to feel that way, for he had not known. How could he have known? But, he silently cursed himself for being so blind—for it was none other than Guinevere and Alexis atop the tomb, mother and daughter.
He hid in the bushes, not wishing to intrude upon a secret, a secret that perhaps Alexis would have shared with him had he not himself overly shared some of his yearnings for her mother Guinevere when he'd first met Alexis. Then again, Alexis' keen eyes must have spotted his movements above the tomb by now. However, she departed, leaving only Guinevere at the tomb.
Percevale approached and related his recent adventures to Guinevere, excepting his oath to Arthur. They disappeared behind the tomb and there Guinevere took Percevale into her arms. Each felt content, feeling that they had finally come home, home to Camelot, or to what was left of it. They told some stories of their adventures and of their desires for each other and of some recent romances. For a timeless moment, Percevale was backed up firmly against the past, Lancelot's tomb, but had his arms wrapped around the future, Guinevere. He could have been given no greater present than the time.
“What next?,” said a little frog as his tail fell off!
After more stories, some about Alexis, Guinevere wished to give Percevale his freedom and told him that she, too, could hardly endure such a triangle of love, and tried to send him away.
Said Percevale, “That I cannot do, my Queen, for I swore an oath.”
“Then I release you from your oath,” said Guinevere.
“That, even you cannot do, my Queen, for the oath belongs to the King and I—to us alone.”
Guinevere replied, “Then, perhaps, in time, we shall both love you, I from beyond your years, Alexis from afore your years; each of us supporting the others, and giving life—a triumvirate, with all of us as rulers, and all of us as subjects.” And stop calling me your Queen, for I am no longer a Queen of anything. Yes, there was a time when I was party to an entire kingdom of earthly delight, when every knight was at my beck and call; but now I am forgotten and presumed dead. More than a few years did I spend rotting in prisons and nunneries. Now we have but each other, perhaps the greatest blessing of all. I knew this to be true when I heard your life-song from afar, an effect of Merlyn's enchantment on you I would surmise.”
Alexis returned after a discreet time, and also implored that none shall ever leave the other—like the autumn leaves (which, this year, were to be firmly attached until mid-winter). Soon the warm night covered them all like a blanket as they drank yet another toast in front of the tomb. During the toast, a flock of ducks flew high in the sky, barely visible except when they crossed the moon; all heard their honking on high.
“A toast,” Percevale declared: Three glasses were raised to the sky, Percevale having been urged to take the glass reserved for Lancelot in a salute to the White Knight, the Blanc de Blanc. The jewels of Orion's belt twinkled as starlight passed through their glasses—perhaps those three stars were the twinkling of old Merlyn's three eyes, those which could see the present, past, and future in only one glimpse.
“May we all toast again in three places of the Universe,” said Percevale: “Here, where we stand now, then in the old hall at Camelot, and, finally, in Heaven.”
The inscription on Lancelot's tomb read, in French, “Lancelot and his only son, Galahad, lie not buried here, but in your heart and in the hearts of all men who would ride in their good stead throughout the ages.”
Alexis lamented, “My dear half-brother, Galahad, how I need you now—but you are gone, gone to the Isle of the Blessed. Percevale, who will be my brother now? Who will be my brother now?”
This was not really a time for Percevale to answer such a question. He thought, “Alexis, so fair you have become during but twenty summers of age—and indeed I have at times felt much like a brother to you, perhaps due to the differences in our ages; but, at other times the love I have felt for you has been a bit more than brotherly.” Yet he did speak aloud finally and said, “Alexis, I shall try to be all things to you as you require, for my heart and my enchantment allows me no selfishness.”
Falling stars streaked through the night as the October meteor shower began. Merlyn once used this shower to convince people of his magic during hard times, and they believed it. They did!
{Now, you may ask, dear reader, “Where did that damn weak-tailed frog come from that was mentioned awhile back?” Well, meanwhile, back in Orion, Merlyn spit to the ground, and where the spit would have landed, a frog appeared, hopped away and had a nice day!}
Late Fall At the Inn
Following the Harvest, the moon was still a strange sight at 11 AM setting in the west, quite a large chunk missing from its battered orb. Also, there was the sun well risen in the east seeming to balance the moon as its echo.
The trio made their way through a lonely upland wild and still, where October's last zephyrs whispered at will as they prayed for the souls of the dead. Towards evening on a November's day, the first quarter moon rose very early, sitting atop the evening star, but then rose later and later each day, drawing away from Venus and thereby adding light to its own face.
The “second” summer was brief this year and some weeks passed. The now chill winds hastened the approach to the nearest inn as the threesome looked at the rising omen of winter in the very late night sky: “Orion, King of the bejeweled winter sky, backbone of our knights,” said Percevale, “wield your sword above our heads, but please, never below!”
There, in the road a head!—a huge yellow beast dead ahead and growing larger by the second! Right in front of their eyes did it lie! It was, of course, the moon. “I think that the November Frost moon is even more impressive than that of the Harvest—it is so colorful and intimidating.”
The moon rose straight into a thunderhead as an old lady opened the door of the inn. “Tit for tat,” she said as she farted at the thunder.
“We'll need lodging for three travelers weary at the thought of the fast approaching winter,” said the three in unison and in tune at that.
There was a cheerful blaze of wood fire in the stone fireplace and a snug bar where red flowered linen and polished brass warmed the room's oak paneling. Glorious views of the Woodchester Valley and the silvery River Severn were as close as the nearest window. Some Celts insisted on buying them drinks so as to hear the tales of the Wood.
The wars of the centuries had been ever so kind to the inn. The bedrooms were well furnished, many with four-posters. For dinner there was the game of the season: Scotch salmon, wild duck, hare, venison, and partridge. Evenings were always fine and warm at the inn, a much needed respite from frostbite. The whole of the inn shone with loving care. Bowls of nuts, with nutcrackers handy, were placed casually on tables in the living room. The walls were decked with weapons and hunting horns of copper and brass.
The next day was as sunny as the nights were chilly, and much to their surprise, all three travelers were to be found in the garden where tea was served next to a joyous outside bar with traditional red carpet, even diamond-paned windows, timbered ceilings, and a massive black chimney. The threesome stayed out on the garden terrace however, still preferring the sky as their roof.
At twilight they retired to their rooms, once reserved for only the noble. The rooms were warmly paneled, and fragrant with the scent of wood burning on the raised hearth of the massive stone fireplace. They beheld a wealth of graceful furniture such as carved chests. It was enchanting to the last of the fresh flowers in the antique containers and the old oil prints on the wall. The rosy glow of the lamps spread over the velvet chairs.
There was a graveyard out back containing many Saxon gravestones. It had a sort of melancholy beauty. The west still glimmered with some streaks of day, and they all drank that evening sky from old pewter.
Surplus war armor and weapons hung from the walls until needed again. Dinner was a smoked supper with a bottles of mulled port and a hum of pleasant voices. The scent of rare tobacco (which hadn't even been discovered by the world yet) filled the room. A cheerful glow descended as a good time was had by all of the residents of the inn.
Who were these residents? Well, in the first room of the inn resided an aging lady torn apart by all of the violence of the wars. Furthermore, she could no longer understand the younger generation, although she came to tolerate them. She may have been young once herself. She was of Finnish descent and called herself Doriana.
First across and down the hall was a young flaxen haired Saxon girl, a very lively young light who brought joy to all who beheld her. It was she who brought the inn people together with adventure, showing them all how to be young again in spirit. It was said that a man could fall in love with her after a mere gaze. Indeed, many men sought out potions from magicians to lessen their enchantment so that they could get about their daily business. She was but a temporary resident of the inn and would leave in the dead of winter, never to be seen again upon the earth. She came to be known only as the Flaxen Saxon. Perhaps she was an angel, an angel of life itself living in a perpetual sunrise of joy that was ever moving to mortals.
Now and then an aged wise man was seen entering then leaving the room of the Flaxen Saxon. He was as old as she was young. He was the senior citizen of the inn and all looked to him for advice on many diverse matters. He never gave his age but was thought to have been born long before the Dark Ages began. At dinner he would always perform the magic trick of producing wine from thin air; then, during dinner, he would make the wine disappear. They simply called him the old man. One day he'd take them on a tour of the emotional underworld.
Next to Doriana's room resided the last remnant of the Devil come to earth, evil incarnate, but ever suffering from a reduction of cursing power since the Grail was located. From time to time he even appeared somewhat normal. But to eliminate all evil from the world would be a farce because without evil good would have no contrast and could not very well exist either. Rooming with the Devil was a silent scribe. On the right hand of the Devil was a man of many tales. There was never a moment when he was not retelling a previously told tale or two. The tales struck fear into the ears of all within earshot but it soon faded into a background noise. They called him “graveyard Joe”.
Next to the old wise man was a little old gnome of undetermined gender who was given the right to bare arms by the King long ago. He doubled as the Innkeeper and attempted many brave deeds on behalf of the residents. Then, suddenly, one day he was gone into the ground. Across from the gnome lived a giant of a man, at least eight feet tall, so very straight and very narrow, stalwart, lithe, and growing taller by the minute. He was the keeper of the gnome, a full time job until the gnome went home. Little was seen of the giant; he kept to his room most of the time because he hated to hear noise. Across the hall from the old man and the Flaxen Saxon, and between the devil and the giant, there resided a writer/scholar named Geoffrey, one who wished to record the stories of the times, and so it was he who recorded some of the tales of Percevale and of many others He wrote of knights and chivalry and of adventures and of country inns where there resided a writer who wished to record the stories of the times—He wrote best under the influence of the many great wines bequeathed by the old wise man. So when he wasn't writing, he was to be found in the inn's great dining hall washing down his wine with some food. The little time that he had left was spent being the shadow of those who were enchanted, such as Percevale; but, this moonlight shadow job could be attended to but rarely, so, many times, the enchanted had no shadows at all!
We almost forgot someone, a soldier of misfortune, a woman-child just beginning to feel her way through the world, one who was sometimes very likable, sometimes not so, but ever entertaining. She was to become the first woman knight and achieve great honor in the years to come.
So much for the residents, the rest were mostly transients. All will play little part in our story, but they were part of the atmosphere, and so I've told about them, and what a crew they were, all of them taking the time to live in life, rather than working through life as a chore. The opulence of the inn paled in comparison to the joy that was caught as it flew near the residents.
The next day—I believe it was the first of December—was clear. And Venus could even be seen even in the daytime as it was coming close to Earth. Venus seemed to be in the path of the early setting first quarter moon and was even brighter than that moon. Sure enough, the time came when that moon gave birth to Venus after its eclipse and they both set together, a wonder of wonders to Percevale's eyes.
No moonlight streaked through the window cracks that night as Alexis slept with the man of her daydreams, a new acquaintance, as did Guinevere as well, having met a man. Percevale too, located damsels as he was now wont to do. In fact, the triumvirate saw little of each other during the first days at the inn, spreading out socially among the residents, but they were still loving each other from a distance.
The morning brought the dragon's breath, sleet, and hail-balls. All hearts sank as the first real impression of winter iced the last wisps of the summer wind. A lament was constructed by Percevale:
Bring me a zephyr to float on,
A river of sparkling diamonds
Seen through a rosé colored glass,
A love up hot and rising—
On a summer's afternoon.
The mist turned the moon blue as they supped on blueberries. Then, without a whole lot of warning, the mist lifted, pierced by Orion's sword.
Orion was now Merlyn, perhaps. Well, who could blame Merlyn—he had an idea that worked time and time again: nursemaid to kings, link to the netherworld, guider of life, dragon caller, force user, legend creator, and magician. Oh Beelzebub, I think you have lost your son Merlyn from your clutches forever! It seems that his good side has become dominant. But then the old Beezler himself attempted a feeble comeback in the next section.
07-06-2007 09:20 PM 
