On a cool May day the earth was opened to receive Guinevere's body. Her longing to be with Arthur had finally consumed her spirit to live. It was not a sad day, as all knew that she would finally be able to live in peace with Arthur now that their debts to the future had been paid, for they would live together not as King and Queen, but simply as husband and wife.
Percevale's vigil lasted throughout the night and he was not surprised when the Ship of the Three Graces came and hovered in the air but for a moment before bearing away Guinevere's soul to Avalon. Yes, all this was Percevale's duty to bear. He chanced a gentle touch and then she was gone, washed of all her mortal cares and woes.
Percevale remembered the day when Arthur was borne away to the sea by the same ship: Percevale had just returned to the shore after throwing Arthur's sword to the Lady of the Lake in a pond that was cool, still, and deep, when he spotted Arthur's ship drawing away, and he had called, “Arthur, Arthur!” He had called until none but the sea gulls floated out on the day's bloody tide.
Today he called, once more, silently to the winds, winds laden with the scents of ginger, jasmine, and plumeria. The sky rolled with soft May thunder as dark grey floating beasts of clouds sped up their lumbering pace. Guinevere had lived as well as any woman could, he thought. She was our Eve. Our dear love.
The populace came from afar to place flowers on her tombstone, for they adored her as much in life as in death. ‘Twas the end of an era.
Taliesin released a message by pigeon to the Misty Isles—it was one of his best birds; he flew it right off his left shoulder.
The King disappeared into the woods, alone—for none dared to follow.
Wild Flowers and Wildebeest
Well, there are those that say that a King should never travel alone nor should he engage in single combat, but, these days, King Percevale traveled alone, partly in sorrow in sorrow for the Queen, but also because the time was right for an overdue quest, for the winter had passed and there was not a lot for a King to do in times of peace. He rode on.
The flowers of the woodland were still ever present, even with the coming of the tree leaves that spelled their doom by their shade each spring. The forest floor was strewn with ox-eye daisies, viper's bugloss, dog-tooth violets, larkspur, bloodroot, fairy-lanterns, and lizard-tail—wildflowers all.
The first day's ride was uneventful, but was worth it for the exercise alone. On the last night of winter Percevale had sensed the night creatures wandering in the lonely hills, but now they were all out and all friendly and well. How different were the woods now; what a difference the seasons make in one's outlook!
Planets already bejeweled the upcoming summer sky if you stayed up late to see them. Saturn and Jupiter escorted Spica across the heavens, and the great spring Kite sailed high in the sky, pulled along by Arcturus, while the Great Hook dredged up islands from the sea in the south. Orion was behind the sun, cutting off Merlyn's last whiff of influence. But the Great Bear had come out from his winter's lair of the Northern Crown.
This is the relief man needs now out here in the country, thought Percevale. As King his mental roots had begun to wither since they no longer went down into nature's soil.
At night's camp, a creature suddenly came out of the brush and headed straight at Percevale. It was half boar—the other half unknown; it was, of course, the feared Questing Beast. But, surprisingly, on this night it tamely ate remnants of tasty dinner morsels from Percevale's hand, because someone, somewhere, had tamed the Questing Beast. Who did it? Who could have done it?
Night Walker
How fine it can be to walk at night and own the world, thought our King. Percevale picked up a walking stick and walked about the woods after he had set up his first night's camp. At night, walking the trails, our thoughts are as clear as the sky.
Percevale recalled the oath of the triumvirate of he, Guinevere, and Alexis to meet someday in the old hall at Camelot—it was now an impossible oath gone to the three winds, for Guinevere was dead. The time of man is now and then, not in the future, he concluded.
On these nights the Virgin part of the sky was sprinkled with galaxies as carefree and generously as the small wayside flowers of May, and Castor and Pollux hung like a set of eyes just above the fading twilight. However, a storm was rising and moving in quite fast from the south. Percevale made it only halfway back to the camp when he felt the quiet lull of the storm-front cover him with its stillness, as if a breath of evil was hovering all around.. The lull before a storm was prayer time allowed by the Sky God. His campfire beckoned from afar, a beacon in the night.
He ran, but an old lady was walking down the trail slowly, and so Percevale lent her his arm, but she soon vanished into the night. When he returned to his camp, there she sat, for she was the “wanderer”, and still feared and still friendless, for she could only speak the truth. And thus she spoke to Percevale: “The Road to Rome once more is strewn with the valiant dead as the falling Roman Empire aspires with its last gasp to regain its former glory. Soon the Misty Isles will fall prey to Austinian's last remaining war fleet. None can stop it! Percevale, you and your meager armies are too far away and will be too late. And this time of year the Isles are as misty as ever—the enemy war fleet will not be spotted until it is upon them.”
“There is one”, replied Percevale after a thoughtful pause, “who could be in Britain tonight yet be well along the Road to Rome by morning. There is one and that one is you! You once came to the aid of Galan's father, Prince Valiant, and now you must come to the aid of the son.”
“Then it is done, Percevale!” said the “wanderer”, “for all you had to do was ask. Through your honor of oath to Arthur and your enchantment from Merlyn, the Isles are saved. ‘Twill be my last act before I die, for the trip will kill me.”
The “wanderer” lay dead at Percevale's feet, her spirit gone to those misty jewels of the sea, islands soon to sparkle once more. And so it was that Rome never rose again. It went from aspiration to expiration.
Thunderbolts split the sky, rain pelted the campfire. On such stormy nights one can hear the riderless horses of Arthur and his knights going by, shod with silver shoes, sometimes leaving a silver shoe in the dirt.
Old Haunts Return
Percevale's next camp was high up upon the mountain rock called Kaal. Before him stretched the beloved Uthren river valley. The river shore was actually a coastline since the river was close to the sea and was therefore subject to its tides. On this river was the old haunt of the young knights, a place where Percevale had often wined, dined, and watched the river flow. But, was it still there? So many times it had been sacked and burned! This day it was too misty to tell from afar. Well, I'll check again tomorrow, he thought. Maybe some lights can be seen at night. I hope it has been rebuilt even finer than ever. Percevale sat on the balcony of an old cliff lookout. Years later he told me these stories through his writings:
The Story of the Spyglass
There was no need tonight for my usual spyglass, for before me on the cliff was a glass of the utmost precision, like a gift from the sky. I took the spyglass to my eyes and as on so many nights before aimed it into that Sea of Darkness, this time from high upon the river bluffs but just below the sky's steamy breath. Cursing the fog, I wondered who was it that could weave such a mist? And why?
Suddenly, I was there, in my mind, and my throat and mouth were filled with some creatures of the sea, mostly lobsters and mussels. I cried out for drink and the milk of a German mother did appear. And just as suddenly, the mist broke in two and I spied a beautiful light, the beautiful sight of the place upon the river shore. How I had dreamed to sight you my dear place, just to have me see you once more. Now, the old searcher knight puts away his spyglass and leaves the Rock of Kaal.
Forgotten Swells
I began to move—at first it was just a little tug of memories from so long ago. Then I was floating, flying over the sea-bridge. It was late, nearly midnight. There was no moon as I traveled, faster now, into the darkest night on all the earth. A force drew me down, down, down—like gravity—down the black slide of a road, hundreds of feet down—I was too thrilled to be scared. How would I get back? It didn't matter! Down I tumbled, many other forces drawing me on as well into the bowels of the ruins. Were they still ruins? Blood surged through my heart, the tidewater swells of seas now remembered.
We, for there was another who was a ghost like the mist, found ourselves next to a long wooden table. We ran our fingers along it and saw that it was a wood that was not lumbered anywhere on the earth. Where we had expected ruins, we saw only perfection. It was, somehow, another world. Tonight few knew of its secret, for it had only re-come into being the day before. Although few did know, surely those who cared to know would be here as well. Tonight, and for tonight only, we would own the ruins, ruins which had somehow been “un-destroyed” into a thing of beauty—it was some sort of magical place.
I saw an old lady walking on the water; she was stooping and ancient, perhaps an ancient mariner, but, before I could wonder about her magic, she was gone off into the night again.
Like apparitions of the night, many people had appeared— some from the sea, some from the land, many in Dutch dresses from Europia. But so many from the sea: here a coastal captain in gleaming white, there a tug boat officer—all through the night they came to the docks and piers: sailors, harbor pilots, and all of the mariners of the river sea. I told the Tale of the Spyglass—an unexpected result of which was the obtention of goblets of drink from the wooden table for free, and not a pence did we pay—for tonight we owned this small piece of the world and stood at the crossroads of adventure.
Unbelievably, at one table sat the Captains of three sunken ships; at another table sat three previous English Kings of centuries ago. I again told the Story of the Spyglass, of how I had never dared to hope that I should return to this place so soon. I reached out to pat the back of my great grandfather and, of course, my hand went right through him. I threw my glass into the fireplace.
The songs of the night were so true and clear, as if no one had written them but life itself. I heard a Germanic drinking song and also the call of Scandia from four blonde Duchesses.
Out on the docks I watched the fish jumping out of the water and into the mouths of gulls, who then flew them over to my plate. In each fish were gold and silver rings that people had lost to the sea long ago. A night-buzzard flew high in the air. Suddenly a sea monster leapt out of the water and snatched the buzzard out of the sky.
I'll never know how I arrived back at my camp that night, but I do remember the river again filling with a mist—it was the dragon's breath, I know it was. I saw a young girl, strangely familiar, and somehow I knew that it was the “wanderer”. She had been made young again, given back her youthful face when she had given her life to save the Misty Isles.
“I am the mist of your mind tonight, Percevale”, said she, the new-born woman. “I shall go with you.”
“And I am the King of England,” said I. “Welcome back.”
I boarded her dragon ship and as we sailed under the bridge we toasted that river dinery, its life, its food, its drink, its laughter, and its song. There it shone as we drew away, a lighthouse in the night for mariners ancient and new, ghostly and real.
— Part III —
We have surely seen the infusion and the influence of the ALMANAC(K) into our story. We also have some further inkling of whom the last knights may be—they are us; yes, those who would celebrate the romance of existence, those of us who can still adapt and learn from the simple wisdom dispensed by the Almanac(k)s of our forefathers, those of us who still live in a world of sights, sounds, and natural urges—as opposed to a world of abstractions, generalizations, and disassociation with one's fellows.
The best definition of the word “almanac(k)” is the word itself, that is, ALL MAN's KNACK, or sometimes, ALL MY KNACK. So, find your knack for life herein.
We will continue to sing the songs of life in our pages, for, as long as we do, it will keep us from ever withering, from ever stagnating. The faceless sea will continue to pass us by like a wave around an island as we defend our friendly little paradise and bathe in our beloved river sunshine, fleeting though it be sometimes. Yes, let us be alive with a song that only life itself could write; let us make our presence known with no regrets; let us start a song that we cannot help but to continue to sing.
Do these things and you will never be alone. Recreate the joy of being human, and find wonder in nature and reality, for other seas are dark and cold, with a bitter wind that beats against your face—our wind will be forever warm and caressing us, for we are braced by the calm of nature and the sanity of the earth. Yes, we allow both sides of the brain to coexist.
So, take a good hard look, all of you who pass here. and especially you, dear reader—the last knight. Know thou that the world looks for more from thee than from others.
River Run
Our Story: Percevale has now come full circle—he is with the born-again “wanderer” on the river in her ship. Perhaps he is still in mourning for Guinevere, but we do not know.
The Scene: Percevale and the born-again “wanderer” are romancing on the Uthren river at the Port of Missing Men restaurant in the month of June.
There she stood, so lean, young, and tan—she was of French-Italian descent one would guess.
“Are you still the ‘wanderer'? inquired Percevale.
“No, Percevale, I am no longer the ‘wanderer', although I do have a good recollection of her life; no, I am as I was long ago before the curse was placed on me—a young girl of only twenty-three summers, for I have earned my way back. However, all of my former contemporaries are dead and buried. And I am having trouble remembering my name. Oh, Percevale, I am orphaned on the forgotten seas of time, although returned to my former state by either the blessing or the downfall of some of the older gods. I am so alone now, Perceval. Oh, now you must be the wiser; but, you will be proud of me—for this time around I will live my life much more nobly. Yes, I have been reborn and so I belong to the world now in my service, much as you do as a King. I am taking a new name; now I am to be called Evee, after evening chimes, the new Eve of paradise regained. Oh, Percevale, do you hear the sounds? Can you hear it, Perceval?
“I hear it and it is music to me, for it can only be the Serenade Fish, a voice that out-sings even the nightingale. They say that only the pure of heart can hear it. And I thought never to hear it again, my dear Evee.”
“Hear it and live it.”
“Where did you get this ship, my dear, for it is over a century old!”
“So am I, Percevale, or was. But now I have my life to live over again, a rare privilege—one that many would die for! The river is lonely today, but smell the salty breezes, see the fish jumping over the bow, watch the tide going out, and look at the clouds forming over the mountains. It is a paradise, is it not?”
“Yes, it is, and many do not even know of its existence. Let us stop and have lunch in the cove.”
Percevale had just finished some pork skin when he spotted ship after Viking ship coursing up the once peaceful river.”
“Christian or heathen?” she asked.
“Heathen. But Vikings coming inland? Usually they only hit the sea shore. It is unusual that they would come inland, unless—”
“—unless it was an invasion.”
The Viking ships sailed underneath the cover of the clouds which hid the full Strawberry moon. Soon the first of many river villages began to fall. The first village took the brunt of the attack, and the rest were empty by the time that the Norsemen reached them. An ugly infection was quickly spreading through the main artery of Britain.
“We must retreat for now,” said Percevale, and report to Taliesin all that we have seen, for we are too few here to beat them back, and even at Camelot our knights are all old and toothless. We need a war trick, but none comes to mind. But, still, there is always hope—Taliesin will answer me with his thoughts on the wind. God, it will take the luck of the moon to win this one, but I have not come this far only to see it all crumble in a day.”
The King's guard had now arrived at the river's edge, a good but small force. A message was flown to Taliesin by pigeon stating: twenty Viking ships coming up the Uthren, staying only long enough at each village to load up food and war material.
Taliesin's weather-wise answer came before morning and read: The Viking raiders must be steered up the Severn no later than mid-afternoon—there is a fork off the Uthren river.
“Oh, I've got the trick now, too,” said Perceval. “The Vikings are not river-wise, for they know only the open sea—and this, this is our land—an advantage must be conceded to us here. Let us take to your the ship and unfold the scheme. Run the ship through the fog, my wandering friend, and ease it right around to the head of the Viking fleet, for they've rested on the shore for the night. Don't worry, I know this river well, even at night and I will guide you. Let us be sure to fly the King's flag, for then they will surely follow us through the cutover and into the narrow Severn river. If they take the bait then they will meet an effect called the river-bore—it is a forty foot high wall of water that comes with the tide, one of the highest tide-waves anywhere. It will hit them first, and when you see their ships scattering then head for the shore before it can sink us, and ground the ship on the sand.”
She eased the old ship past the Viking sleeping on the shore, her navigation aided by the full moon, now showing, and by Perceval's river knowledge.
“They don't see us yet, Percevale.”
“Good, we need a little head start, but we shall make sure that they notice. Come very close to them.”
The Viking chief could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the British King's ship appear out of the fog like a dream-vision—it was coming by at full speed as it caught the morning breezes, and it came so close to the shore that it created waves that washed everyone awake when it wet their toes. The Vikings were slow to move, however, being groggy from the night's celebration of drink. The Viking Chief, Thoralf, soon drove them to their ships with a roar, and they were in fast pursuit of the prize that was a King.
The breezes died well after sunrise and so the Viking oar-ships were able to gain on the good King's ship, which relied only on its sail; and towards early afternoon Percevale held but a slim lead as all ships entered the fork to the Severn. Luckily, the winds picked up again, and Percevale's lighter ship could maintain its lead. The monthly tide wave had already entered the back part of the river near the harbor where the young knights dined at The Port of Missing Men, where the warning bells rang and diners lifted their feet, as the high deck were washed by the splashes of the river-bore. Of course, it would be much worse farther down the river—it was a wall of water growing higher and higher as the river channel narrowed in the Severn.
The Viking ships in the rear of the fleet—the older, weaker ships—fell first as the river-tide bore them down—the ships were smashed against the rocks in this very narrow portion of the Severn where the tide was the highest. Thoralf's Viking flagship tried to beat the wave by veering hard to starboard to gain the safety of a river island, but this was a bad move—as the mighty warship was hit broadside and was quickly swamped.
Percevale's ship had no time to make shore, but grounded itself on the river island as they were carried inland by the huge tidal wave. Most the armor-heavy Vikings were drowned or swept away, but towards evening an exhausted Viking Chief began to gain his strength on the island beach not far from Percevale and his party.
The tide-wave bore its way past the Severn Country Inn where Taliesin watched and heard the death screams in his mind, while he gazed over the fields of purple heather waving in the heartland, a land now safe for the time being.
It was a steamy metal night on the river island—not a breeze was to be felt. Sweat dripped on one's cheeks even as he lay still, wrung out by the day's events. Night fell, and was brightened by the perpetual twilight that lasted all night this time of year in Britain and by the bright moon which was only a day past full.
“Goodnight, moon,” said Perceval.
“Goodnight, Percevale,” answered the Viking Chief, Thoralf, from out of the shadows, his axe of hot metal already in hand and gleaming in the moonlight.
“Live and be free,” said Percevale, “or die.”
Thoralf thought but for a second and then threw the axe directly at Percevale, end over end—it glanced of Percevale's sword and knocked it to the ground. Both men just stood and stared at each other. Percevale did not release his hidden darts.
The Viking Chief gloated, “One sword is no match for two Viking axes, but tell me first, before you die, just what it was that was a match for my fleet today. I must know before I split your head in two.”
Percevale replied calmly, “Your fleet has been defeated by none other than your own abandonment of nature and her ways. Your forgot about the moon because it was cloudy and the nights are short this time of year. There is your conqueror, Viking Chief; there, in the sky just over your left shoulder—it hangs there near Jupiter.”
Thoralf chanced a glance at the moon, yet, in that instant Percevale retrieved his sword, and spoke, “Each month the full moon and the sun conspire to raise a forty foot tide down the Severn.
The Viking Chief just walked away, moonstruck perhaps. Percevale did not attack him, but wondered: Perhaps there comes a time in an evil man's life when he wonders what he has become and of the terrible deeds that he has done. And so Percevale threw his dart into a nearby tree as Thoralf walked off into the night. Well, these were the tides of life and death that swept through men's hearts from time to time—they could take you to new highs or lows, and now and then you stayed there, and sometimes you fell back.
It was well after midnight now, and Leo had already duve into the west. Mars was passing Saturn, and Antares, the heart of the Scorpion, was already rising in the southwest.
Verdant Solitude
It was close to Prime when Percevale's party broke camp. It was an idyllic day, once that we work so hard to appreciate—it was a day of reckless mirth and celebration in the Celtic forest, where the heat could not penetrate, where every leaf reached for the sun.
The point men were given new orders: “Find a path in the grass barely seen, a path to verdant solitude, where the quiet will breed deep thoughts and joy, for I have had enough of pain and death.”
By noon they came to a clearing in which an older man was tending a garden. There was something familiar about that man. They passed on to a little house wherein they inquired about lunch. A lady took them in at once and offered them food. They tried to pay her, but she resisted it.
“I have been here before,” said Perceval. During lunch Percevale asked about the old man in the garden by saying, “My good lady who treats us so well, I thank you. I am King of the Britons by some little known birthright, and so we have cleared the Vikings from your doorstep. Now, about that old man in the garden—although his clothes are tattered and hang about him like those of a peasant, I couldn't help noticing what appeared to be some threads of a knight tunic pretending to be a sleeve. Who is he and whence he came?”
Replied the lady, “It is a sad story. The man has no memory of his past. He has been here some time now, and when I received him, the lump on his head told me that he'd probably been knocked unconscious and senseless. He soon recovered all but his memory, and took well to the garden. We've found some solace in each other's arms, growing old, as we are, together.”
“Perhaps I can refresh his memory,” said Percevale as he went out for a walk in the half-light dusk. He walked a once familiar path and saw again the stones that he'd used as a child to sharpen his darts. Suddenly Percevale was young again. This was his forest home; this was where he had first spied the knight-gods riding by. Oh, how he'd wished to become one; but here his mother had wished to shelter him from the world's evils. Percevale remembered when he saw the fist knights. He thought them angels, and they had called him the fool, but he persisted and eventually became one of them as we have seen.
Percevale was jolted back to the present when the old man walked by, the old gardener—the man patched with a knight's cloth. Percevale then, with wistful eyes and a quivering heart, came to the realization of the old man's identity, and shouted as the gardener walked by, “I WANT TO BE A KNIGHT!”
The old man stopped in his tracks and though for awhile, and then began to look up slowly, as wave after wave of lost memories returned and swept over his mind. Then he nearly fainted and had to sit on a rock. It was some minutes before old Gawain could compose himself to speak, “Percevale, how many years ago was it that I called you the young fool here when you wanted to become a knight. Ha, now I am the old fool here. What is this magic you have, my boy! Look at me now—I have exchanged my sword for a garden hoe! Ha, perhaps this is what I would have become if not for knighthood. Indeed, my boy, you have a magic about you.”
“Gawain, Merlyn left me with a touch of magic, or so he led me to believe. But, not matter, for you have returned. You are welcome to retire to my castle to live out your years in peace.”
“I've found peace here, Percevale, but still I will come to your castle one last time to train your new generation of knights for you.”
“It was you, Gawain, that tamed the Questing Beast, wasn't it?”
“Yes, Percevale, it was I.”
— Part IV —
The Cornish coast is famous for its climate, for it is so much gentler than the rest of Britain—soft and sunny even in winter, and with sea mists in spring and fall; and a site of megalithic monuments from far earlier times, a place where armor could be worn with ease and even some comfort in the cool weather. It was the home and seat of King Arthur, and now to our own King Percevale.
These are the lands that inspired the English writers as they walked the countryside—and they were all walkers! Their poetry and flowing prose remain our common heritage, as does the land. We can know both when we walk. To walk is to cure all ills, both mental and physical. Cornwall, the peninsula pointing westward into the Atlantic—so inviting to friend and foe alike, as we shall see. And we'll do some walking too.
A few years have passed in Percevale's time for which we have no records. There are gaps in the medieval chronicles and some of the stories are missing altogether for this time period. However, some fragments of the chronicles remain, and I will use these as best I can to reconstruct the events of a mostly happy period.
The chronicles begin again in earnest during wartime (don't they always), a war the likes of which this Almanac has not yet seen. But, we get ahead of ourselves. This is what we can deduce from the small scraps and legends handed down by word of mouth in royal families: 1) Percevale solidified his reign and began to build up Wales' defenses, but by no means were they adequate—due to the continuing shortage of able-bodied men. Rebuilding of Camelot began. 2) The period was nationally quiet and peaceful and the King continued to know the young born-again “wanderer” privately. 3) A Viking invasion force was massing, preparing to invade Britain at the worst possible time: when the men could not be spared from the harvest and when the upcoming winter weather would favor the cold-hearted Norsemen; when help was far away; when Celtic men's hearts were happy and thus not prepared for war; that is, when the invasion was most likely to succeed.
Our Story: So, it is still summer, in fact mid-summer, but some years have passed for Percevale and for his scribe as well. We can assume that the missing years were pivotal and well spent: some forts were built, repaired, or begun; meager armies trained a bit better, romance continued with the young “wanderer”, one that both knew could never last but enjoyed anyway, a peace would be broken as the final enemy appears. Yes, finally this Almanac must speak of war although we have managed to avoid it so far, but first we must make the transition from happy times to a somewhat more desperate period.
Walk, Don't Ride
The centuries have formed the body for walking and moving, not just for sitting around. Walking seems to give more than it takes. To walk is almost to float along, having achieved a balance between forward momentum on the one foot, and gravity on the other—it is as easy as falling forward!
It is hardly possible to walk without some stimulus to thought—the very movement seems to stir the mind into action and to loosen ideas, giving them a chance to rub against each other and mingle As hostility and other interfering emotions fade away—all solutions soon become crystal clear.
The King now did most of his thinking on his feet. And, as we readers walk, our muscles literally milk the blood back to our hearts and to our every extremity—our body and mind tingle with alertness.
Whenever the King was sad or mad, he would set out to walk the feelings into resolution, to gain new perspectives, to know the real world first hand, not second hand. And so the King announced today that he would again walk down to the training field to look in on Gawain's military exercises. However, a new squire heard this, and, not knowing the King's walking habits, made the mistake of offering to fetch the King's horse or carriage.
Replied the King later in good humor, “On the way to the training field this morning on the footpath there were the merry songs of the titmouse, song sparrows tuning up on the alder bushes, a gurgling brook with its fresh smelling loam, lichen wet with the year's last dew, long shafts of early light, pigeons flashing white wings, and fine toadstools. Had I taken my carriage and ridden down to the field I should have had only a fleeting glimpse, or none, of all these fine sights. Above the noise of the wheels or the pounding of the hoofbeats how could I have heard the sea-dirge of the pines? True, I could have ‘saved' about twenty minutes of my priceless time. But for what? For the sake of a more sluggish digestion, of a wider girth beneath my belt, duller thoughts in my head, a posture grown by that much older. For this I should waste a fresh and living experience? Time is a replacement for barter beads; time is an opportunity to live before you die! So, a man who walks, and lives and sees and thinks as he walks, has indeed lengthened his life by that experience, for the time will come when the winter will ask you, ‘What were you doing all the summer?'”
Suddenly, Late Last Summer
Our Story: It was still a peaceful time. Waves of contentment swept over the country and over the visage of our ruler, Percevale. He had been keeping to the company of the young, born-again “wanderer”, who, as we remember from an earlier chapter, received her youth back but still retained the worldly education that she had gained in her role as the “wanderer”.
(And Viking oars began to cleave the wine-dark seas!)
At first Percevale was confused by her eerie combination of youth and common sense knowledge but he came to love her in a way that wavered between sisterly and knightly. He was pleasantly surprised, but not taken aback, at the many times that he had ended up as the student and she as the master. Aye, but the dreaded day was soon to come when he should know where her youth and laughter must go: to live and laugh as only girlhood can. Only now did Percevale realize that the time was near.
The King still preferred the sky as his roof and he walked along the riverside path next to the Severn, the “wanderer” at his side as usual. They could not keep pace with the current and did not try to. The water was muddy as it carried away the dust of mountains after a late summer storm. He thought: forever is a long time but all does eventually wear away. Percevale, though, felt as young as his friend. Their friendship seemed so natural that both treated it unconsciously as “that which could be no other way”. Yet, in deference to her youth, they remained somewhere between friends and lovers, not a bad place to be if the friendship is to be long-lasting. What did the runner of the woods, say?—: “Take from her only that which you need for survival—leaving her heart in the same delicate balance as you had found it—beating in perfect rhythm to heaven's thunder.” Well, her spring of joy was contagious to Percevale in his summer of contentment and neither of them knew anything of the autumn of care or the winter of death.
They walked through the fields as a yellow bird darted by as if to sanction the bliss. “There is nothing else like the smell of the clover,” she said; “it is the maidenly breath of summer; it suggests all fresh, bountiful, rural things.”
“Like you,” glowed Percevale. “Indeed, one might ransack the heavens forever before finding another place as good as the earth.”
(And as he spoke, Viking oars clove the wine-dark sea.)
“And how long is forever, my wandering friend?” asked Percevale.
“Well, it's a long time. Hear this demonstration: Every hundred years or so a white bird flies over a mountain; on some of those occasions a feather falls from the bird onto the mountain; when the mountain wears away—that's forever.”
(And as she spoke, oar after Viking oar plied the wine-dark sea.)
“Once I was young”, said Percevale.
“I know,” she replied, “and once Old Autumn was young too.”
“And once you were old as the ‘wanderer'.”
For them the long summer twilight sat brooding during that time which seemed to be neither here nor there—the time between the bright crackling day and the crashing cold night—a time between peace and war.
(But still did Viking oars cleave the wine-dark sea, as they rounded the coast—.)
And after some days, the summer gave way to autumn.
Once I was Young
Each year, in October, Jack-in-the-Green has a rendezvous with Old Autumn who colors the leaves that Jack made so verdant in the spring. They meet out in the middle of the woods, although never in the same place, for the seasons come and go and meet as they may. This year Old Autumn was a little late, so Jack-in-the-Green sat down on a tree stump to wait. He began to ponder his disappearing green youth, for it was evident that someday he would have to take Old Autumn's place and perform all of his withering tasks.
A few days later Old Autumn came by and gave Jack a cheery greeting and an embrace which marked summer's end. He gazed fondly at Jack, his younger self, and saw the vitality that was once his; then said, “Once I was young; once I was you!”
“I know,” said Jack, “Do you remember how I refused to believe it?”
“Yes,” remembered Old Autumn, “it was like the time that I met Old Man Winter on a snowy day long ago. He told me then that he was my older self—and I didn't believe it! Yes, I was already feeling my age, but after seeing that ancient white-haired geezer I felt young again! Of course he knew me very well.”
Swallows twittered in the skies as Jack-in-the-Green picked a ripening gourd and gave it to Old Autumn.
“Well, Jack,” he encouraged, “you won't have to meet the Old Man until you take my place, for only I can see him after I take down the last of the oak leaves. For now, the Old Man sends only his errand boy, Jack Frost, your twin brother. Hi ho, here he comes now! Aye, this is the rarest of days, for the three of us can be together but twice a year.”
“The Old Man is lonely, is he not?” asked Jack-in-the-Green, “for he sees only you.”
“Yes. Old Man Winter lives cold and alone. He never sees the dear maidens of the spring who reinvent the natural world each year.”
There is a chill in the air as Jack Frost arrives and sings out a greeting: “Hello my brother! Hello Old Autumn! It's going to be very cold tonight; we are going to have our first hoar frost, but don't worry—it won't harm the pumpkins any.”
Old Autumn sighed and replied: “Good. Now the leaves will crack and fall all the sooner due to the ice in their veins; yes, they'll fall like the last illusions of my youth. Soon you'll see me ‘lying carelessly on the granary floor' and ‘on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, drowsed with the fume of poppies'.”
Composing himself, Old Autumn continued: “And for those of you who think that ‘warm days will never cease', let us ever remember dear Johnny Keats who died so young; however, he lived and saw much more than many of us might hope to do in a lifetime.”
A shiver ran through Jack-in-the-Green, and he spoke: “I must go now.”
I, the author, who knew just a little of the above, ventured outside at 4 AM on a dark frosty October morning to get an early preview of the stars of winter.
It was so quiet that I could sense the spirit of the cosmos as it played rhythm to my fast beating heart. Oh, Orion! You are so high in the sky—you hang there only for the astronomer's eye—as the meteors fly by.
Then I heard a rustling sound in the leaves around me—a skunk perhaps—but no, it was the sound of falling leaves. I knew that it must be him, Old Autumn; he was out there somewhere.
Then I sensed him going by, for some of the leaves on the tree right in front of me broke loose and floated away, hitting some other leaves on the way down and making that rustling sound that I'd heard earlier. Then it stopped, but soon it started up on the next tree, and then the next—and so I could very well follow the path of Old Autumn making his rounds in the misty morn.
Cleaving the Wine-Dark Sea
The seas were turning red, red with the leaves from a northern autumn already long begun, and red with the blood of Viking enemies. At Cornwall's northernmost coastal watchtower the old sea-searcher again carefully searched the sunset sea, for it was feared that the attack would come out of the sunset to spread panic and confusion in the night's darkness.
Care resided in the eyes of old men, reasoned the King, when he'd installed none but old men in the watchtowers spaced along the coast—two men to a tower for company and in case one man died. Why not young men? Well, they can't sit still long enough and their eyes are always on the ladies. Though young men's eyes were better, it was old men's eyes that would see more in this case. Why the watchtowers? Well, Percevale knew that one day the Vikings tribes would regroup, consolidate, and return. And so the old men sat in their watchtowers day after day but seeing nothing. Now, old men like to sit around chatting anyway so why not install them in watchtowers. And there they sat, bound to duty, but it was easy duty and many pleasant conversations were had. Now what good would a watchtower warning do? Wouldn't Percevale know soon enough of an invasion? Wouldn't it merely delay the inevitable slaughter by a day or so? No, there was a plan—You see, the new knights were young and untried and the coast could not be defended because the remainder of the able-bodied men were needed in the fields to take in the harvest. Of course, the Vikings would attack at this worst possible time for Britain. And who is more used to cold weather warfare? That's why the attack was expected now, in late autumn. Then in the spring the Vikings would take over the farms and enslave the Celts to supply food—the same old story.
The old searcher in watchtower number two saw them first—he saw oarship after oarship cleaving the wine-dark sea! The magnitude of the invasion shocked the old searcher, for the Viking invaders were more than three times a match for Percevale's armies. And baggage ships too, thirty of them. And women too. And building material. Certainly the Vikings planned not only to remain through the winter, but forever. This was Thoralf's dream.
War Plans
Bonfires blazed the message across Cornwall's hills to the meadows, where riders took it from town to town, and, at last, to the King. As the messenger entered the King's glade with haste, Percevale already sensed what the bad tidings would be. He gave the young “wanderer” a last embrace. As the “wanderer” left in one direction, war approached via the other.
The news was bad: half the Viking nation was coming ashore. Percevale was not unprepared. This he told to me: “All those times you saw me seemingly walking without a care, well, I had cares, and I made plans. That time you thought me sick for two weeks, that was when I went to Ireland dressed as a peasant to enlist the aid of my old friend, Rory Mor. Yes, I knew that he had no love for Camelot, but I knew that he had even less for Vikings, and some for me as a fellow Irishman. We have rebuilt Camelot, by the way, for our final stand. The war scheme is all planned out in such a way as to save as many lives as possible. What also helps me is Merlyn's blessing, or perhaps it is a curse: that is, to wit: I feel the deaths of all Britons, but I also feel their joys.”
Even now, prearranged plan number one would be going into effect, thought the King. The leader in that sector, Corticus, had ultimate authority for the first few days of the invasion. Corticus was in the right spot, placed there by the King along the most likely invasion route. Indeed, this time the Vikings had stayed well away from the Severn and its river-bore. Corticus, half Roman, half Celtic, was the leader of the Marshmen. But both Percevale and his regional field leader, Corticus, knew immediately that this was not an invasion that could be met head on. The immediate plan was as follows: evacuate the coastal towns through the marshlands at a right angle to the direction of the main road and burn the towns to deny their products and shelter to the invaders. Percevale remembered his words to this effect to the young knights just before they left: “This will be the hardest duty you will ever perform—to enforce a retreat, to route people from their homes and herd them out of their beloved towns, to burn the towns behind you so that the Vikings may not gain sustenance. You must resettle the people in the deserted Saxon towns of the interior. Then, draw the Vikings into our very heartland and offer no immediate resistance. The price of burning is always dear, but homes and farms can be replaced—lives cannot.”
This would be a good time for Galan to retake Scandia, thought Percevale. But could he possibly make it there before the waters froze? Or would he meet the floes of a cold icy death during a treacherous voyage through the ice-fields? Let's hope for a warm northern winter, thought Percevale, and hope that Galan's mighty ships are already asail in the misty seas.
The heathen Vikings left half their armies at the shore to guard the boats and to make a base camp. The other half, still much more than a match for Percevale's combined forces, made ten miles the very first day, stopping only because the baggage trains could not keep up the pace. Those residents too infirm to flee were butchered by the invaders. Others who would not leave their homes died bloody deaths. The Vikings were as barbaric and violent as the legends had warned. Retreat orders were issued again and again by the regional commander, as planned. Many requests for relief came in, but the orders were firm: the men can not be freed from the harvesting tasks or Britain would soon starve. Many men had been lost in the Saxon Wars and Percevale was not about to lose the remainder and the crops as well. Percevale's war-plan was well planned and patient. He wanted it all. He would play it piece by piece.
Many men received a summons from the King to sit at the Round Table that night, since the King was to explain the latest amendments to the battle plan. Gawain had come out of retirement, as had many others. When all had been seated, the King began: “—too many battles, too many wounds, too many dead—” The full speech has long been lost, but we do know that someone's secret existence and his special mission was not revealed.
Secrets, a Flashback
The Scene: Some weeks ago in newly fortified Camelot. Percevale is reading the now “lost” copy of Aristotle's best and final writings on metaphysics. A guard detects an unannounced visitor: “Sire, someone has artfully walked through the quicksand of our ‘mucken mire', traversed the rear outer walls, the maze, and the tunnel, and he now appears at the Merlyn gate, a gate which he has managed to open, a gate unused for years.”
“Unused for years,” said Percevale, “because all who know its secret have long been dead, with the exception of myself, Gawain, and Galan, who are all accounted for elsewhere. Thus, I suspect that it is someone very dear to me and to the Kingdom. Bring him to my chambers.”
“Sire?”
“Bring him here. He wears the red horse on his tunic, does he not?”
“He does.”
“Then another of the last knights has returned to us.”
(Prince Arn is led into the King's chambers.)
“I seem to be seeing ghosts,” said Percevale; “you were presumed dead after being missing for two years. I welcome you dearly, Arn.”
A: And you, too, my knightly friend. I am well, but trouble brews among the Viking heathens—I can sense it.
P: Yes, we expect invasion.
A: I have kept my existence a secret, even to my brother Galan, King of the Misty Isles. As you may know, I was smitten by the hound-woman, Maeve. For years after the Great War I searched for her but to no avail.
P: Well, as we know there was great disruption and movement of families after that war.
A: And I now return to your service but I do ask that you keep my secret.
P: But, as eldest son you are the rightful King of the Misty Isles.
A: If discovered, I should abdicate. My life is here or better yet, in Scandia, which is yet occupied by heathen Vikings. Besides I am under a spell and I cannot help but to pursue Maeve—although I like to consider it more as a blessing, which it truly is. Have you ever been smitten, Percevale?
P: Oh yes, many times, but all came to naught for one reason or another. However, I would not trade in any such experiences. Yes, I know the feeling well. It is so easy to fall in love when you've been out of it, but so difficult to fall out of love when you're in it. Sooner than later it comes to dominate your every thought and movement.
A: And so it is.
P: Sit down, last knight. Let us talk. I have a plan to regain Scandia from the heathen. Take it as repayment in kind for your families' good deeds to us.
A: I have never forgotten Scandia—the shame, the fear. Should we retake Scandia, then by law I must serve as King there. This, I would do and give anything for—perhaps even Maeve, I'm not sure. If I could see her, I would know.
P: And then also by Scandian law, the secondary kingdom, the Misty Isles, would go to the second son, Galan. And all would be well?
A: Yes.
P: Tell me about Maeve. How did you first meet her?
A: Long before I received my knighthood, which was to be delayed by Arthur due to my supposed “treason” with Maeve, I was sent by Arthur to investigate a Viking landing on the Isle of Man. There I saw the huntress Maeve leading a hundred hounds. I was smitten on sight, and it was said she was related to an enchanter. Her hair was jet black and she wore a red hunting cape over a black vest. Her eyes were as bright as the sunshine. She could move through the woods like lightening. She rejected me many times; this was but the first. She set the dogs on me and I was brought into town to fight old “Sawtooth”, the fiercest dog. To my surprise I beat the dog and won the right to freedom, or rather, expulsion. But to lose would have meant death. This was but the first of Maeve's tests. As I sailed away her wistful eyes met mine. Her lonely figure remained at the shore until I was out of sight. A last wave from her gave me hope. It was a mysterious time and I was confused by her signals. Some months later I returned and tied a piece of my tunic to the tail of a fox. It was not long before her hounds picked up my scent. We fell into each other's arms. No words needed speaking as we kissed. She again sent me away, however, telling me that I must never know her dark secret. Thus, she became more mysterious than ever to me. She gave me more hope however: she bid me to return when I had earned my spurs, my knighthood, that is. However, Arthur overheard me speaking of her one day and forbid me to see her again upon penalty of treason. But, I did see her and I learned her secret, and I was convicted of “treason” and banished from the kingdom before I could explain. So, I stayed away for some time and tried to forget her.
P: But you returned to us on Salisbury Plain and were cleared by Arthur and knighted by him on that day. Now you are the last knight.
A: Yes, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding and all then became well, but I lost track of Maeve—I have long ago given her up for dead.
P: She lives, Arn. When I visited the wounded up north I saw her of which you speak. She matches your description. However, I do not know what became of her. This was some time ago. Her injuries were serious, but not deadly. She spoke of her love and this seemed to give her strength. Welcome home, last knight. Come, hear my plan for you, for Maeve, for Scandia, and for this land of Arthur's that we both love so dearly.
Arn's Quest: the Final Spur
Arn, son of Prince Valiant, was the very last of Arthur's knights. He was directed by Corticus (the only one, in addition to Percevale, who knew Arn's secret) to act as rear commander during the retreat and evacuation of towns and villages. To Arn and his men befell the horrid duty of torching the homes. Arn, whose existence had been kept a secret by his own choice, as we have heard, was now the last knight. This almanac has had several last knights, but Arn is the last from Arthur's time, that is, the last to be knighted by King Arthur himself. As the last of the homes was torched, Arn gave his men their leave and their safety. He took a last look at the town before he left. It was so empty, empty as the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thought about the Kingship that he had renounced and was as sure as ever that he'd done the right thing. Smitten by Maeve, he had located her finally, only to be separated by that last great war on Salisbury Plain. He had not seen her since. And now her passions seemed farther away than ever. A new war had started. He thought of the Viking crest on his tunic; he thought of Scandia's civil war when his royal family was turned out—and he had never forgotten the shame and fear when his grandfather was driven from Thule, as they called it then; he thought of his new mission, he thought of Maeve.
Suddenly Arn's mount whinnies in fright! On instinct Arn pivots in the saddle, striking in a broad arc. There were three Viking after him. The first attacker falls from Arn's sword, but there were two more, one with an eager arrow ripe at the bow. Arn coaxes his mount with his legs and reins, and in selfless loyalty the animal rears up, stopping the arrow in its heart. Arn slips free of his stately war-horse as it conducts a stately dance of death between him and the bloodthirsty Vikings. Shielded now by the animal's heaving bulk, Arn draws an arrow from his quiver—and let's it fly into the second attacker as the beast slumps in final agony. One left. The third Viking advances with whip and mace. The air sings as leather thongs entwine Arn's legs like vines. The Viking pulls hard, sending Prince Arn down into the dust that may be his final resting place. But, as he pulls, Arn severs the whip with a sword that he has been careful not to drop. A surprised Viking hurtles backwards into the dirt. Arn is quickly upon him and in a moment the foe lies still, his life cut short by Arthur's last knight.
Arn thought, “Why did I survive this attack?” But he knew the answer to that: it was his training. But the more proper question was: “Why did he want to survive?” For Maeve, he knew. The fear of losing her by losing his life had given him that extra edge. Horseless now, Arn sets off into the brush on foot, walking, walking. As the first Viking units pass by, Arn realizes that he has made it behind enemy lines, where he is caught between the Vikings and the wine-dark sea. But, this was the purpose of his mission. He must climb the ridge that parallels the road and so is spotted by the advancing Vikings. The Vikings recoil and then roar at the sight of Arthur's dreaded knight. A detail of twelve men is dispatched up the hill after Arn. Halfway up the slope Arn removes his armor, since he cannot slay an army and needs speed afoot. He removes the armor quickly but calmly, as if danger were still far away.
With the towns burned behind them, the remaining Viking units had to camp in the marshlands beside the road. There they awaited their baggage trains and began the hunt for Arn, from whom they would like to extract information. Arn climbed the hill quickly now, gaining on the heavily loaded pursuers. He came to an abandoned hut and picked up a bit of rope, some old rusty hooks, and large piece of moth-eaten cloth to use as a night blanket. As he walked he formulated several plans and thought deeply: was this to be the end of his youth and laughter, to be hunted down like an animal in these woods? But Arn had an advantage over these twelve Vikings: these were his woods, not theirs. Also, he was a trained knight, and one of Arthur's best.
The first three Vikings met their maker in a deer trap that Arn had recovered and reset. This angered the remaining nine to the point that they were no longer able to think clearly. So they split up, walking ten yards apart, combing the woods impatiently. Arn waited behind a likely tree next to a path, and there a Viking met hard steel and died silently. Arn now stalked the pursuers. Walking silently, like so much wind and moonlight, Arn surprised three more Vikings in similar fashion, but their cries of anguish were heard by the remaining five, who came running. Arn's three remaining arrows found their mark and the last two Vikings ran back with the story of horror of the woods.
Arn rigged up the rope and string around his camp for an alarm system and slept soundly under his blanket and the stars. The next morning he discovered a partner who had been even quieter than he. “Now you are mine”, Maeve whispered, and he fell into her embrace for a long time.
Said Arn to his love, “I've been looking for you so long, and now that I can finally have you after so many years of searching—I cannot, for I must do the knight's duty one last time.”
“Choose me or war!” answered Maeve.
“Knights serve no particular person or nation,” replied Arn, his heart breaking at every word; “they serve but the good of mankind and there will not be a good life for any of us, Maeve, if we should lose this war. The King has given me a mission as a part of his war-plan, a precarious plan yes, but any would be in these grave times. So, I must choose war.”
“Then you have truly won me, for I was testing you and your spirit,” replied Maeve. “Had you chosen me now, you would have lost me forever. Now, we must both go and do what we must for our country. I will meet you here when all is well again and we shall be as one for all eternity.”
“Then I have chosen well,” replied Arn.
“Yes. Now, for your mission. You speak the Norsemen's language, do you not?” asked Maeve.
“You know that I do.”
“Then I know your plan. Godspeed, I shall be with you in your heart.”
“And I in yours,” replied Arn.
And so Prince Arn made his lonely way to the coast where he would impersonate a heathen Viking as he did so long ago on the Isle of Man where he was first smitten by the huntress Maeve.
Arn reached the coast a few miles down from the invasion site. He located a boat that could barely float and rowed blindly into the heathen Viking shore camp as the waters hungrily devoured the last splintered beams of his boat.
So far, the rouse had worked. Arn fabricated a story of stormy seas, a story of shipwreck, one of few survivors, of his dedication to the Viking cause. For days they questioned him, but Arn withstood the inquiries. They saw that he was well-bred—this he could not hide—but after a week or so their suspicions died away and he became one with them, or so they thought.
The Odds
(back at Percevale's castle)
“I have released the message birds to the Misty Isles, Sire”, said the poet-astronomer, Taliesin.
“Well, Taliesin”, said the King, “at least the waiting is over—the war now begins and I may finally prove my worth in the new Kingdom. The plans I have made are now in action—we shall see.”
“We must be patient, Percevale.”
“I know, I have waited and planned for this day, for the Viking Empire must fall, lest wild seed be planted. What are the chances, Taliesin?”
“I cannot see the future now, Percevale, because the odds are about equal. In the balance it comes down to you and your plan; but you are the deciding factor. It is to your credit that the odds have even become even; however, your plan is complicated and requires that seven or eight of the independent sub-plans come to pass. There is little margin for error unless you have planned for alternatives when sub-plans fail. Percevale, it is wise to send Galan on a direct route to Scandia? Could he not help us here? Why do you want it all?”
“It is his homeland, Taliesin, or was. Besides, his navy is no match for the Vikings at the shore and he can't really help us out in the interior. If we can hold out in the autumn and early winter, then we'll have the dead of winter in which to rest and perhaps gain some assistance. This is the time for Galan to retake Scandia if there ever is such a time. Then, from that base he may aid us. If we ask him to come overland to Britain then he'll surely be stopped by the snow. Even so, the heathen Vikings would just retreat to their ships and go back to Scandia. How would we stop them? No, let us entice the Vikings into our very heartland, deprive them of their own land, and then do them in once and for all.”
“Perhaps”, replied Taliesin, “although I be Merlyn's son, I am now hard put to see the future, but I have given you the odds. It can go either way.”
“Well, Taliesin, we'll have to deplete the treasury in order to hire the colorful Picts if we can, though I don't like using bad men for our cause, but, there is no choice. Besides, the Picts are good compared to the invaders, and remember, the Picts' lands are threatened too. We must pull out all the stops and gain an everlasting peace once and for all. Otherwise, all of Arthur's deeds go for naught.”
“How do we know that the Vikings will not just simply spread out along the coast?”
“This is no simple coastal raid like before, and I have left the roads to the interior open, have I not?”
“Yes, Percevale, for we both know that it is you he is after now.”
“A grave miscalculation.”
“Yes.”
Vikings for Breakfast
The indolence of the summer was but a memory now and the crispness of late autumn was in the morning air. It was an uneasy time between contentment and the upcoming winter of death. It was a time of sober aging for Corticus, now growing old.
This was the moment that Corticus had waited for: a large assemblage of Viking units was camped in the marshes. The Vikings were dumb, but not dumb enough to let him pull this trick too often.
The Vikings made another ten miles the second day and could have gone further but again waited for their supply train since no supplies were to be found along the way. The Celtic woods were empty and the smoke of burned villages was in the air and in their eyes. Having made some progress, the Vikings camped early and began their celebration. They celebrated heavily although they were still quite weary from walking the land on sea legs (no horses were to be found—the evacuating residents had taken them all; it was part of the plan).
Corticus looked to the starlit sky. He thought of the wars he had seen, the wars he had led, the kingdoms he'd won and lost—many changes he'd seen since his early Roman days. But the stars, they were different—the stars were among the most enduring features of the world—and they were of the world to those who noticed them. Long after all else turns to dust the stars will still shine. Now it was time for the Marshmen to shine, the army of Corticus. They had all come, slipping through the woods on their iron-clad feather feet.
False dawn came and went. Torches on angel's wings now filled the sky as the Northern Lights flickered in the electric night.
The taunting of the Norsemen began near dawn as Corticus' bowmen set their feathered shafts to the sinew and drew them taut. Noiselessly the arrows flew into Viking hearts, and confusion spread through the ranks of the groggy camp. As the Vikings had not brought pleasure to Britain, neither did the Marshmen deliver any in return. Three Viking units were thoroughly destroyed. Then the bowmen melted back into the woods from whence they came: their woods, their home, where one fights best, in one's own territory, something we can learn from animals in nature. A report of the victory was sent back to Percevale, and he posted it on the castle wall.
.............
Men of Clay
The Marshmen caught two more Viking units the next night in the same manner but a few men escaped and the remainder of the Viking units wised up. Even so, fully a fifth of the Viking forces had now been destroyed; however, the remainder strengthened their resolve and were not to be caught unaware again. They soon replaced their fallen comrades with units from the shore camp.
A trick had to be devised to stall the Viking incursion until the men could be freed from the harvest—a trick that would cost no men.
Said Percevale to his war chief: “Remember that old castle we used for the centennial celebration about ten years back, the castle which we cannot now man for lack of men, the castle that contains the ceremonial statues—our men of clay? Send a few men over there and set up the statues as if they were castle guards, and indeed they will appear so from a distance when the Vikings arrive. Be sure to move the statues about from time to time, and hang out the King's flag as if I am there. Leave but one man to keep the fires going as a sign of life: the steamy warmth of the cold lives of statue armies and legions of scarecrows will protect us! Yes, the Vikings will then stop and mass for awhile until they discover the deception. At least we'll know where they are—a distinct advantage to us.”
So, finally, after waiting some weeks, the Vikings storm the castle and conquer an army so scared that it has turned to stone and skeletons! For many days after this, the Vikings were badly shaken, but eventually they pushed deeper into Cornwall and ever closer to Camelot.
07-06-2007 09:34 PM 
