I have never seen a bluer sky than that of October. Perhaps it is because of the cool dry air. The vision is but enhanced by the foreground of the colorful orange tree leaves. This is the last true blue that we shall see for some time; it's only fitting that it be the best of times, the bluest of times.
(There are some missing chronicles for this period.)
No leaves, no warmth, no sky, no snow, November. November is a most difficult time. The glory of the summer and of the leaves is gone; it seems like it is gone for years. Yet the spirit of the holiday season is not yet at hand. The grey and rainy skies are a stark contrast to the dry blue skies of October. There is no snow yet for winter sports and the land remains barren; the land is dead, and the very year itself continues to die in the night. The day is so short that when one gets home for dinner it already seems time for bed. Time for hibernation perhaps. To these feelings, add the specter of a long, drawn-out winter war. Now we even long for February. Come December, we await, when auroras will set fire to the polar heavens to give us color to our lives during the festival of the Yule.
(Here the chronicles fall silent for awhile.)
The Ice Men
The snows came early this year as had been predicted to Percevale by his forecaster. For now, the war's victor appeared to be the winter.
Some weeks ago Galan's ships of the Misty Isles had begun their journey to Britain on the safer, but longer inland routes. They followed the old Roman wall to the lovely Danube, and thence to the mighty Rhine. The war-fleet crossed the channel and then headed west, taking the long way round to Scandia as they had to avoid the fast forming ice-packs in the east. The only hope was to find the gulf stream and its warmth as it flowed up the west British coast. However, pirate fleets now ruled the seas, now that Percevale and the winter had called the navies inland for conversion to armies. So, the best warships of the Misty Isles plied the inland seas and rivers, finally reaching the Severn, and passing Camelot. There was no time to stop, for the green flags were out and this meant “Go”.
Arn's sabotage had gone well and flames burned half of the Viking vessels. Thoralf watched helplessly as Galan's fleet sailed north on the gulf stream, north to Scandia. Arn had planned his escape well and skippered one of the faster Viking scout ships, drawing further away from Maeve with every gust of wind, but drawing closer to his brother and to Scandia where they would spend the winter, landlocked, but finally, at home. Who would they find left alive in Britain in the spring?
And Thoralf. He soon realized that now he could never go home again. So he gathered his men, abandoned the shore, and headed inland, leaving the coast to the migrating sea birds.
Rory Mor's Irish rouges now took to the rough winter seas. The only enemy they had on the sea now was the winter ice. Even the hardy pirates had now abandoned the churning seas. Ice winds filled their vacuum.
Scandia was brought under control in a matter of weeks. It was then that the ice men and women, Arn, Galan, and Alexis, found themselves drawn back to Camelot; so they began an unprecedented wintertime journey by overland routes via the high British north country.
Siege at Camelot
Now we are almost even, thought King Percevale; now the battle can soon begin, perhaps in a month or so when the enemy is worn down by the cold.
A month passes. Camelot was prepared for the dreaded siege: sheep and cattle were headed inside, water was hauled up, the nearby forests were cleared to make the winter's fires, and the moat was prepared with spikes.
Half the winter passes. On many days the armies are completely immobile, but at least Percevale's army remains warm in the castle while the Vikings shiver outside, although they're supposed to be used to it.
“We have the enemy just where we want him”, said King Percevale. “But many gambits have apparently failed or will come too late. This war will be all too close.” The King sits dejected; the winter ice is thick and men from New Scandia cannot yet return, and Rory Mor is tied up with remnants of the rear Viking units, although he is winning. The Picts had ceased their support as quickly as their pay had run out.
Percevale walks the dusty crumbling outer wall late one night and bemoans the Pict's retreat, although he had never expected honor from them. Well, the treasury was gone now, thought the King, so we might as well look for silver in the snow. A squire went by and the King instructed him to go and look for silver in the snow. The squire thought him mad but did so out of duty to the King. And there, in the deepest darkest part of winter, just as the legends had said, Arthur and Guinevere came riding by in their ghostly carriage, going once around Camelot's outer walls, their horses leaving silver horseshoes in the snow. So, with the silver, the Picts were rehired. And Rory Mor arrived up the Severn. And the New Scandian snow-troops arrived overland just in time.
Alliances between youthful friends had now become alliances between nations against their powerful and common enemy. Winter turned into spring for a day. Suddenly the drawbridge thunders open. The only thing that the Norsemen fear is now at hand: the charge of the mounted knights. Lance-points reach out ahead of the pounding hooves—last knight Percevale leading the first army—last knight Galan leading the second army—last knight Arn leading the third army—last knight Gawain leading the fourth army—Alexis leading the fifth army—Taliesin leading the sixth army—Rory Mor leading the seventh army—
Victims of their own greed, the Vikings lost the war and became a people without a country. And so the Viking remnants scattered to the seas with the few ships that they had left. Since they couldn't reach Scandia or expect to retake it, they headed west and discovered Greenland, from where they later discovered America.
Suddenly, Last Winter
(In which winter wages her last battle, an old friend returns, the post-war period begins, and the riddle of Maeve's birth is revealed.)
The battle ends as Percevale's war-plan of daring, patience, and friendship succeeds. Losses and wounds are few, and war-horses and men must be tended to. There is no celebration— there is only weariness and numbing cold. Winter returns and her icy breath reaches all. A knight peers out into the darkness.
Wrath of the Gods
Joy is a strange bird, just so much fragile bone and feather. It seemed nowhere to alight on this frozen night as Arn lent his warmth to cold castle stone. A hundred hounds or more could not keep Arn and Maeve apart now were they to meet. But the dogs do keep the retreating Vikings at bay as their paths cross Maeve's out in the woods of Camelot's villages. The winds carry the sounds of the dogs' warning to the castle itself, and to the cold ears of Arn, King of Thule.
The wrath of the gods continues to pour down on the defeated Viking heathens in the form of winds now gusting to gale strength and sleety breath laden with the cold icy sting of retreat. The Vikings gaze at the forest huntress Maeve, but do not realize that she is soon to become their Queen and Mistress in New Scandia.
The storm intensifies and she sees the last of them as they knock on the door at Valhalla's ice palace. Alarmed by the intensity and rage of heaven's thunderbolts, the hounds scatter in the near hurricane-force winds. Maeve, already worn from the day's long journey into night, collapses into a hunter's stick shelter. Her dogs seek protection in the deep woods but do not find it there, for winter now plays her worst hand. There is no refuge. In the night's darkest hour, Maeve's shelter completely blows away. She struggles on, traveling with the wind at her back as it veers around to the north. The chronicles relate that more than one gives his precious body heat and heart's strength to the shivering night.
Second Sight
A solitary knight, yet weary and worn from war's injury and love's yearning, nevertheless departs Camelot's crumbling fortress late into this mid-winter's night. Arn must walk, for it is too cold for horses' war-torn and unprotected leg bones; nor will the horses venture into a storm. But Arn continues, for good sense and love do not always mix. As Arn crosses the drawbridge he notes that the moat has finally frozen. And not a day too soon, for during the war Percevale had ordered valuable salt into the water to keep it from freezing and thereby allowing the Vikings to cross it. Arn walks across his last battlefield and notes that it, too, has been salted: taken into the earth now was the salt drained from the sweat of warriors. How rare is a moment's peace.
One last quest to perform, thought Arn, as the winds try to warn and push him back to the safety of the castle. But he heads into the wind and the storm marks him for her very own. Well down the road now, Arn's eyes meet those of a man old and coatless, a man seemingly older than time itself, but somehow strangely familiar. Arn looks to him with a knight's gesture that says: “May I assist you home?”
The centurion merely shrugs and replies that indeed he is almost home. Arn is startled when the man reads his mind and says: “Hurry boy, she's waiting there for you! And don't underestimate the north wind that brings her to you—and remember this: it sends you to your death as well.”
Love-Search
Arn searches the city's outskirts in utter darkness that night, for no torch can stay lit in the storm except the feverish glow of his love-quest; however, the search is also apparently in vain.
Half alive, Maeve somehow reaches the stables near the town square and lies down in the straw, wavering between death and sleep.
Half dead, Arn is now hopelessly lost in the blizzard. He misses Maeve by just a few minutes, and now, nearly frozen to death, his life's candle nearly out, he must, after vanquishing all other type of foe and fiend, concede defeat to the unbeatable storm. He falls to the snow and covers himself with it for “warmth” from the ice winds, but the snow will not stay put in the wind, and his life-wick begins to flicker and spark out. Arn gets up but can only seem to travel in circles since the snow is blinding. The sight of one of Maeve's hounds spurs him on, but alas, the hound is too scared to guide him and it disappears in a swirl of snow. And once again, the winter begins to claim another lover in her cold embrace.
Sleep and Death
Arn readies himself for death, but then the old man's words come blazing back to him: “—the death wind is from the north—”
Only by the grace of the steady north wind's direction and the old man's words does Arn deduce and find his way south to the gutted town and its square. He finds but scant shelter in the pillaged White Hart Inn. Barely alive, he realizes that only flame and sleep can save him now, for fire is winter's fruit and rest is her bounty. With fuel gone to the war, the inn is cold—colder still without the warmth and blushing beauty of Maeve. Arn burns his bed in the fireplace and falls asleep on the hearthstone. At the door, the Great Reaper waits impatiently to collect winter's spoils.
Meanwhile, Maeve's favorite hound finds her and lends his warmth to her.
Slowly now, the balance begins to tip for Arn and Maeve, ever so slightly, from death to death's younger brother: healing sleep. The Reaper departs.
Sleep. That wonderful time when one is freed from all worry and treated to the priceless spectacle of one's dreams—the ultimate gift from the gods. Sleep. When we can do as we please, a time when all debts are paid. We are only awake for but a few of eternity's moments, for just a few ticks on her timeless face.
Twilight Time
—Neither Arn nor Maeve awake until the next day's evening twilight—
The storm is long gone, and is just a memory now. The day, though nearly over now, had been bright; Helios has warmed the hearts of the victors. Twilight now welcomes all.
Twilight. That graceful hour after sunset—when people love to stroll the square's pavement. Foot soldiers now stand at ease beneath the lamps as the lights of men and lamps flicker back to life after the war. Twilight. That magical mellow hour of the day sought by lovers after chores are done—the hour which, by its tender blending of the fading western light with the glimmering candle lamps answering one another in the windows, casts a veil over the crudeness of the town, restoring the injuries of Time and War.
Arn paces the smooth pavement of the square, adding but a little to the centuries of wear to this mirror of life. The Square—where all must pass eventually. Then he sees her. She sees him at the same instant. The old man sees them both. And the old man leaves to seek out the Powers of the Night, from which he will again ask for youth. For without youth, of what good is immortality?
The Riddle Solved
Maeve had loved Arn for himself long before he had been revealed to her as Crown Prince of Thule. Also, long ago, Arn began a quest to prove that Maeve's heart was gold even though she was a known relative of Morgana, the witch that had played a part in the trapping of Merlyn in his crystal cavern “forever”. Maeve had survived all witch hunts and finally, with Arn's help, had at last proved her worth plainly to King Arthur shortly before his death. For, years before, she had sent Arn away time after time only out of her love for him and for his career. But she was more dear to him than his career and Arn was convicted of treason upon seeing her and so had to flee Britain. Maeve's vindication arrived on Salisbury Plain with Merlyn's dream appearance to Arthur. It was a dream that was the final inspiration before that great war against the Saxons. Arn also arrived that day, won his spurs, and was so knighted by Arthur—all misunderstandings being resolved.
With Merlyn still trapped, Arthur had stood at Stonehenge the day before the war and asked of the wind: “Merlyn, where are are you? How I need you now! If only you could see me wield Excalibur one last time before we must return it to the gods!” It was then that Maeve turned against her mother, Morgana, adding all of her magic and power (and thus becoming mortal) to that of the father, Merlyn, allowing him to escape spiritually, if not physically, from the eternal cavern and to appear to Arthur's men in their dreams as an inspiration—a dream to some, but a nightmare to others—
Fulfillment
Arn and Maeve met in the middle of the square, together at last, melting into the night, and melting into each other, dissolved by their love.
— Part V —
This almanac remains a vehicle for examining and enjoying the changes in the weather and seasons of earth and men's hearts. Life was not easy in the Dark Ages. One was lucky to make it through the day alive and gain a good meal. And so, perhaps, pleasure was worth a little more then, relatively, than it is today.
Sometimes we look back to the “good old days” of fifty years ago which we always think were better than today, and perhaps they were in some ways, but they were also the times of polio and long working hours. I prefer to look neither forward nor backward, and like to think that today is the best of all days. When we walk the woods there are always some who look only down the road at where they will soon be, and when they get there they are found to be looking further still. Here and now is the moment. We can seize the moment or let it pass, but it is seldom fruitful to attempt to run after the moment and recapture it—but memories are a different matter, they are sweet, and we shall not forget Camelot, for it is a part of us now.
The Gathering
A gathering takes place in Camelot, the likes of which has not been seen in many years. It is a combination victory celebration and belated Christmas festival. All of our characters are present, including the old man who we suspect is Merlyn.
Winter has returned in force and as seems to happen on winter's deepest nights, a carriage drawn by horses wearing silver shoes appears and travels once around Camelot, and this time, because it is a special time, it enters the great hall through the King's gate, a forbidden gate to all but kings.
Arthur's spirit appears in Camelot beside that of his beautiful Queen Guinevere. They are together at last.
Prophesies
Merlyn takes to the floor, and all recognize his three-headed staff, however, his aged body is beyond recognition. Arn knows Merlyn as the old man who had helped him through the winter storm and he drops to his knees. Memories from over a half a life ago return and flood the great hall like a warm blanket.
Arthur is both resplendent and ghostly in his crimson robe and smiles at the good progress that has been made since his death.
Merlyn speaks in an old rusty voice: “I have come for Arthur and Guinevere, come to take their spirits to Excaliba, a world far from here. Do not be concerned when my decrepit shell of a body crumples to the ground as I leave—I must also travel in spirit. Perhaps the powers of the night will once again give me youth. Meanwhile I have but my immortality. Now I shall address you all, one by one:
“Percevale, once squire of Lancelot, Grail Knight, inheritor of Arthur's throne, nephew of Arthur, Knight of the Round Table, King and lover of all in this nation—your search for love continues, but beware of the witch! Three witches remain in Britain, one is good, two are bad. And remember that it is not easy for a King to pursue a woman—they covet your power and throne—it is hard to know their hearts. Soon your friends must leave, and you should take on a squire and continue to train the next generation of knights, for there may be troubled days ahead in ten years or so.
“Alexis, daughter of Lancelot and Guinevere, Queen of Lancelot's lands in Gaul, Queen of the Misty Isles, wife of Galan—do you remember the pledge you made atop Lancelot's tomb with Percival and Guinevere: to meet again in the great hall and also in heaven? Well here you are in the great hall! Only heaven now remains! The pledge that once seemed impossible is now quite possible.
“Arn, King of New Scandia, King of Thule, son of Valiant, knight of the Round Table, brother of Galan, husband of Maeve, once squire to Gawain, take care of my daughter Maeve and beware the danger that awaits in Thule.
“Taliesin, my son, I leave you what little power and virtue I have left. From my own demon sire I gained my power, but my mother was a saintly woman, a nun in fact, and it is from her that we've received our virtue and thus we have used our powers wisely.
“Maeve, my daughter, restorer of Merlyn, Queen of Thule and New Scandia, wife of Arn—my virtue remains in you as well and I wish you well in your chosen mortal life.
“Galan, King of the Misty Isles, brother of Arn and son of Valiant, once squire to Gawain, knight of the Round Table, husband of Alexis—you have found contentment and it shall forever be yours.”
And now Merlyn's voice begins to fade as he pulls Galan aside and says: “It is time for the Singing Sword to be passed. So it has gone from Valiant to Percevale to you, it must now be passed on to Arn. Twin to Excalibur, the gods have let us keep it!”
“This I have known, Merlyn, you take the words from my very mind!”
“Gawain, child of the sun, knight of the Round Table, breaker of women's hearts and men's heads, the finest knight alive, defender of heaven and protector of earth—you have outlived all the original knights and your remaining days shall be pleasant.”
Merlyn's last words are now spoken: “Remember the four greatest things of value: first—people, second—the natural earth, third and fourth, inseparable—adventure and love. If we know not these things of value, then life has nothing for us but dread and drudgery. Years from now when this castle turns to dust, this castle that I built by magic, remember Camelot! When the journey seems too long, remember Camelot! Savor these moments together! When the shadow of death is near, remember Camelot! When you are faced with evil vs. good, remember Camelot! It is the doom of man that he forgets. Goodbye, I leave you now.”
The celebration ends as the spirits fade from sight. Some days pass and many prepare for journeys that will take them from our story for many a day.
Percevale gives good Prince Arn, now King of Thule, a last embrace, knowing well that the coming duties of kingship are more than enough of a burden for any man to handle
The visitors now depart through Camelot's seven gates. Percevale is atop the highest parapet. He looks out and is proud, for these are all his friends and it is good to have lived.
The Wake of Summer
The great gathering in the house that Merlyn built has ended and the last knights sail away on the four winds. Merlyn returns to Excaliba, taking Arthur and Guinevere with him.
The winter has been too long and too hard. Men's minds begin to wander to the lost warmth of summer. A young man, Bogar, the new squire of Percevale, attends the services of a lost friend. It is said that Bogar's mother was a goddess and his father a barbarian. It appears that he will someday make a splendid knight.
Taliesin constructs a lament for summer's passing.
Lament
Long since have the winds scattered the leaves of the trees to make of them a burial shroud for the flowers that died grieving at summer's passing. Even that time called autumn is now nearly lost to memory. Winter is summer's ungrateful heir, squandering his riches and abusing his gifts. Summer lies underground now, forgotten, silent, and crusty, covered by winter's stern mantle. Only April's tears can make his grave green again.
Taliesin and the Chickadee
Percevale's new squire, Bogar, must first study under Taliesin and learn the ways of nature. As they walk together Bogar hears the tinkling of sleigh bells and looks all around but there are no sleighs to be seen; however, he fails to look up, a victim of two-dimensional thinking.
Responds Taliesin to Bogar's dilemma: “They are not sleigh bells, Bogar, but the chickadees; their highjinks make them resemble a group of school children at play. The loon takes a vacation to the south of Gaul when the weather turns cold, but the chickadee always stays with us, a beloved friend, no matter how stormy it gets.”
They will study until the spring, when Bogar is to receive his first quest.
Death to Arn
With his last gasp of determination and brutality, Thoralf the Viking collects the elite of his battered troops and gives one last order before sailing to Greenland: “Kill Prince Arn before he can reach the safety of the Throne of Thule. He will not suspect you, for in Thule the rebel Vikings have the same appearance as the Christian Vikings. Go now and be off! Commit no other deeds but this! Go straight away!”
Meanwhile, the two brothers, Arn and Galan, have traveled together to meet the British coast where they must part. The North Sea and Thule beckon to Arn, while the southern climes of the Misty Isles call to Galan.
The Sword Passes
“Take the Singing Sword now, Arn,” says his brother, Galan. “I know that you would never have asked for it, but you shall have need of its services. Merlyn has told me this.”
Arn replies: “The Horrit witch said to our father, Prince Valiant, that he who has the sword shall never know contentment, yet Valiant could have had contentment any number of times, and he chose adventure instead.”
“That is true, Arn. Valiant chose; it was his free choice. While I have owned the sword, I have known much happiness. So take it, take the ‘accursed' weapon—it can only be used for good causes anyway.”
On the Seas
The brothers part and take to the seas, Arn with the Singing Sword.
Arn travels with no guards or men-at-arms in his ship, wishing to be alone at last with Maeve—perhaps a fatal mistake. However, Arn's guards and men-at-arms will follow closely, but under separate sail.
Galan's fleet takes to the mighty Rhine, thence to the lovely Danube, along the old Roman wall, to the Adriatic and Aegean seas, to home.
The elite vikings take to the seas as well, after Arn, and are filled with the blood-lust. Halfway across the channel, a storm arises and Arn's ships are driven apart. Arn's ships make a landing where they can, but far from the appointed spot. Fate brings Arn's enemies very near
Death Comes
Arriving at the mighty coast of Thule, Arn and Maeve unload their horses quickly and take to the inland road. But all roads now lead to death! A band of rebel vikings wait for Arn and they soon come thundering on behind. Maeve takes a dagger in the back, and Arn takes her to his horse, son of Arvak; and speed of horse takes them ahead of their pursuers to a narrow bridge, the place that Arn has chosen to make his final stand. He sets Maeve in safety a short distance away. Her wound is not severe but without attention she will bleed to death so Arn quickly pushes a part of her cloak into the wound.
Arn sets up at one end of the bridge, just beyond the narrowest part. The Singing Sword comes whispering out of its scabbard. Arn can feel that it is alive and singing the gods' tune. The Vikings cringe at the sight of the sword, but, nevertheless, they press forward, hoping to overcome it by sheer numbers.
All morning long the terrible blade rises and falls, hacks and hews, gleaming wet in the sunlight with the heathen blood, and above the roaring of the waters and the clashing of arms can be heard Arn's rousing battle-cry, “For Maeve!”
Only two vikings are left at noon, but Arn spares them so they can report their failure back to Thoralf. Indeed, the Singing Sword is a powerful master. Arn wonders: Does the sword really have charm and power or does its possession merely inspire confidence? He sticks it into the ground and kneels before it as a cross and then notices the sword's motto, which reads:
— Entering Hell to Kill the Devil and Save Truth and Beauty —
Wake, wake from sleep, ye Dark Ages past,
your secrets over my Muse be now cast!
(A rather long chapter in which an impossible quest is called, in which Percevale takes two squires, abandons his Kingship, and becomes a knight-errant; in which a long long journey is begun and many strange new lands are visited, discovered, and named.)
Our Story: Arn gains the throne of Thule aided by use of the Singing Sword. Spring is sprung and the shadow of the Dark Age turns from black to grey when the battle in Asia swings against the Huns; also, the Vikings have been driven into to sea as we have seen. The Danes are quiet and feuding between the minor English kings has subsided to the minimum that is necessary for excitement and entertainment. Camelot is nearly empty, all other knights having departed to supervise the spring planting at their fiefs or to aid the fight against the vanishing race of Huns. The Singing Sword's journey is now complete—from Val's boyhood friend, Arn, after whom Val's son Arn was named, to Prince,—no we must now say—King Arn. Many pages will turn before we hear of Arn again! The born-again “wanderer”, who had no name at all, has taken the name, Evee. It is derived from “eventide” (evening time), but with an extra “e” added at the end to differentiate it from the Eve of the Garden of Eden.
Squires East and West
Meanwhile, two squires-to-be (they were still in training, but still called squires) converge on Camelot, one from the east, and one from the west—each bearing a message that will help turn a page of history. The squires are named Bogar and Hargrave.
Bogar had been sent to Carleon to complete his training, while Hargrave had been taken under Gawain's wing as his squire at Castle Orr, now ruled by Gawain and called his home—as Gawain had finally conquered matrimony after all his years of romancing.
Hargrave and Bogar meet on the last leg of their journey to Camelot on the south road. Hargrave has never seen Camelot and is therefore full of questions and anticipation. Both squires are rather nervous, as this is their first real assignment. They pray that they and their urgent messages will arrive at Camelot intact. And so they ride on all through the night, stopping only to change horses, moving silently and swiftly through forests of great oak, passing over broad heaths glowing silvery under the moon, and coming ever closer to Camelot about which they'd heard many tales of wonder. And which, with every forward step, Hargrave grew more eager to see!
“Not yet, Hargrave—patience, patience,” Bogar smiles, seeing Hargrave straining his eyes through the darkness. Bogar was an expert on Camelot because he'd been there once for a brief moment! At last they round the brow of the last hill and cross Rhododendron bridge over a small gurgling creek. Suddenly Hargrave gasps. For there stands Camelot—a sight that can hardly be taken in one glance. Spire on spire, turret on turret, it soars into the clouds, with walls and buttresses, postern gates, and battlements built to last until the end of time—a shining beacon in the Dark Age of terror. From the loftiest pinnacles fly pennants crested with the royal heraldry of Arthur and Uther Pendragon, the kings who had come before Percevale. Gleaming and glistening in the morning sunlight, it seems to the squires' eyes not to have been built by man but by magic, and indeed it was—by Merlyn. More than just a castle, it was a city of marvel!
They ride up the low approach hill, closer and closer, until again they stop aghast. For now, the castle is towering above them, beautiful beyond imagination, music frozen in marble. Blue shadow cloaks the great battlements shouldering up from the glittering moat, then tower after tower soars into the sky all aglow in the in the light of the golden morning sun. Yet on the ground, dawn has not quite yet fully broken. As they watch they are startled when from the Squires' gate the great drawbridge comes crashing down to the sound of bugles. Both draw a great breath and ride inside the castle of their dreams to deliver their separate messages.
Wanderlust
“Hi, ho, Taliesin!” calls Percevale the King, “I feel the wanderlust coming over me. It seems I've been doubly imprisoned by the winter and by my Kingship. I've been thinking of Merlyn's words: ‘that it's not easy for a man of power to find love and true friends!'”
“Yes, Percevale, as one rises higher and higher in the ruling world, he does seem to lose touch with the real world. And wealth and power relationships only compound the problem. You must find what has been lost, and become one again with the land. Shed your crown for a time and roam the world at will or you'll never be happy, and you will never improve in your kingship!”
“I'll go to Ireland where none will recognize me.”
“The trip is sooner than you think, Percevale,” says Taliesin. “I sense it now and I have seen it coming.”
Then, as he spoke, the squires, Hargrave and Bogar, arrive with their urgent messages, and are asked to read them before the King and his poet-magician, Taliesin.
Two Messages
The first message is read, and King Percevale is greatly grieved to hear of the attack by Thoralf's men upon King Arn but is relieved that it did not succeed. “Thoralf must die!” thinks King Percevale. The second message was found in a bottle which floated in from the sea. The reading of this message brings many tears to the King's eyes. It seems that Thoralf, sea king and barbarian, took the maidens Evee and Melody for his entertainment as he escaped from Britain. Evee and Melody: the two people in all the world who are most dear to Percevale. The two sides of a most beautiful coin of great value and charm were now captives of evil, taken into cruel bondage at such a young age.”
“Truth and Beauty must be preserved!” says the King. Percevale knew that he would have but a few minutes of clear thinking before rage overcame thought, yet in that time a plan was formulated, a desperate plan. Then he took his rage to get it out of his system: “I will have no rest or peace until Thoralf is dead and the maidens are delivered!” cries Percevale. A quest is called! Who is here to answer it?”
The words fell but upon the two squires, Bogar and Hargrave, for Camelot was empty of knights now.
“Come squires, let us visit the Hall of Champions and see who is available for quest by noting whose shields are present on the wall.”
Empty Pegs in the Hall of Champions
When a knight arrives at Camelot, he hangs his shield on a peg in the Hall of Champions to indicate his presence and availability for a quest. Often Arthur would smile to see the shields of his favorite knights hanging there on the wall. Yet, no such joy would greet Percevale this day, for he knew that the pegs were as empty as his heart.
The threesome enter the Hall of Champions, with Taliesin drifting along behind as always does a shadow. “There,” points the King high up on the wall, “is the retired section, where still hang the shields of knights dead or retired. To see their shields assures us that they are yet with us in spirit. There is Arthur's shield of the Three Golden Dragons and next to it on the right is Lancelot's White Eagle. To the left is Valiant's Crimson Stallion and next to his hangs Tristam's Winged Lion, then Galahad's White Lily, and Bors's Unicorn.
All now change their glance back to eye level and see naught but a row of empty pegs containing no shields save one at the very end of the hall. After all, knights these days are few and they are mostly at their fiefs to supervise the spring planting that will mean the very life of their people. The remaining knights and legions have been sent to help push the Huns back deeper into Asia. Among the missing shields are Gawain's Golden Falcon, Galan's Trident, Arn's Red Stallion, and numerous other assorted and well known crests.
To the end of the hall they are now drawn and see only the shield of the Golden Chalice, King Percevale's shield, adorning the wall of empty pegs, for Percevale had been used to hanging it there in the old days, and there it remained on a non-central peg.
“I see there is only one available for quest,” states the King, “so, by default, the quest is his! In the name of King Arthur, I give myself this quest!”
“But sire,” reasons Bogar, “a land without a King is easily preyed upon! It will be difficult to conceal your absence.”
“Then I shall travel secretly.”
“But Thoralf could be anywhere west of Britain, in thousands of leagues of ocean and unknown territory—you may never find him!”
And so it was that all of the following conditions contributed to the need for a quest: the need to be free, the urgency of the quest, the lure of spring, love, revenge, escape from winter's chains, staleness; yes, all of these conditions now combined to cause a quite rare happening: the King himself to become a knight-errant!
“Well,” said Taliesin, “I understand. At least there is one thing in your favor: Thoralf does not know that the maidens are dear to you, and so he will not anticipate pursuit. However, the quest is well nigh impossible.”
“Impossible?” asks the King.
“No, not impossible, just well nigh.”
“And so I'll have a chance to succeed?”
“A hellish, torturous route to the unknown lies ahead. I have never explored the seas in which you are to travel. And Thoralf is a crafty sailor for which we have no match. On the sea, he rules! Even if you conquer the sea you may be but delivered to Thoralf's ocean stronghold as a prisoner beyond all help. You will be entering a hell of revenge to kill the devil! Suppose you even manage to do so. How does one then return from such a hell?”
“Why I'll simply use the fire escape!”
“It's good that you have retained your humor, for it will prevent madness from taking over your soul! But, are you driven by love or revenge? That will tell the story.”
“Both, now. I feel both.”
“It is a curious mix. Be careful that you yourself are not kidnapped by madness of the mind. If this happens, no one can save you.”
The Truth of Night and the Beauty of Day
And now Taliesin, you who are the beauty in the back of all our minds, relax us by telling the squires about the two maidens—
The poet began—“Long have the troubadours sung of the beauty of Evee and Melody. The loveliness of their form and spirit is still told in song everywhere, from Brittany to Athens, from Dublin to Paris. But the songs, as beautiful and as lyrical as they are, do them but scant justice and are only shadows of truth and beauty. The maidens are two sides of the coin of love, alike, yet different.
“The beauty of Evee is like that of a starry night. Even her name, Evee rings of evening chimes. Her soul is the beacon of eternity's beauty. Indeed, men cannot forget her influence, and her name yet rings in their hearts like a bell. Her dark eyes make aged men perform great deeds that they had once meant to do, and, at the very sight of her, young men are robbed of peace forever. The spirit of life is awakened in them and is not forgotten.
“And Melody is all golden sunshine, laughter, and lilting song. It is said that springtime follows at her dancing heels, that it is her pet, that is goes wherever she goes, that all who she touches are lighted with life's strong flame; that the sun at evening leaves rays entangled in her yellow hair, causing her to outshine all evil.
“And now, perhaps, their life-songs have been stilled forevermore. Even as poet, I can say no more—I must tear up my verses before I can fully describe the maidens' complete and utter beauty. One must see it, live it, and be touched by it to know its truth. You must hear the voice of music that thrills the ear and gaze into the truthful eyes that makes the spirit glad!”
“I do believe I'm in love with Melody!” exclaims Bogar.
“And I with Evee!” rushes Hargrave.
“But you've not even met them,” replies the King sternly, “and it's not likely that you will, for they are gone now.”
It was then that the squires made a request, practically a demand: to be included in the quest. Percevale looks deep into their eyes and notes that their fire burns deep in their souls, that of such men, knights are made, that there is resolve and determination, youth and hope, goodness and honor in them.
Departure
“And now we must go, Taliesin, before the trail grows too stale. I'll take Bogar and Hargrave along on the quest.”
“But they're not ready!” interjects the Keeper of the Squires. “Why, but a month ago they were still on the list of page boys, and they've not yet completed even half of their squire's training!”
Replied the King: “I tell you, Keeper, lend me your “page boys” for my journey and I will one day bring them back as complete squires fully trained and seasoned as men!—For we can train along the way, but more importantly, I sense in them a spirit and life, something more fundamental than training. Yes, they will make mistakes, certainly they are yet immature in some ways, but we can learn from each other: in them I can see my younger self, in me, they gaze at their older selves. Friendships between the old and the young often reach a happy middle ground, an unexplored but stable and exciting territory, as the old grow younger and the young grow older. We have all to gain; it unifies the generations.
“Yet, I give the squires one last opportunity to recant their hasty request and remain at Camelot, for the quest will be a dangerous one, and remember, the maidens are my dear friends, and Thoralf has become my personal enemy—so, you squires may take your leave and think it over—return in an hour.
“Any clues, Taliesin?”
“Bring your lute and sing some Irish songs,” advises Taliesin, “and seek information from the three witches that Merlyn spoke of, and fetch copies of our “unknown-sea” maps from the archives and—”
“—And your ship, Taliesin, the one made of wood of the tree of knowledge brought from the garden of Eden?” asks Percevale.
“Of course, Percevale, you should take it. It is of a new design built for sailing and can be manned by just a few good men. The boat is at Tintagel. And bring five of our famed and feared English longbows.”
“Then to Tintagel we ride,” declares the King, “and as far as the world is concerned I go to Tintagel as usual to meet the spring and stay for the lovely Cornish weather. Rule the kingdom while I'm gone Taliesin; you're the only one who can.”
Love's Plea
The squires accept the quest and are sent to the armory to be fitted with armor and traveling clothes. The threesome forms and they take the travel packs that are kept ready for departure at a moment's notice. They untether three great stallions and soon leave Camelot behind.
“One thing,” remembers Hargrave, “my master, Gawain, who obtained the message from the sea bottle, and read it, requests that, if a quest is to be given, that it be his.”
The King does not reply, as he knows that Gawain has only recently found a wife and much happiness as well. Amazingly, Gawain's wife now arrives on the scene and reports that Gawain is even now packing his gear in preparation for the quest. She pleads with the King to deny Gawain's quest request.
“Adventure was always his first love,” replies the King, “and if he asks to attend the quest I can hardly deny him, but, his remaining days are few and he deserves the happiness of his home with you, whether he realizes it or not, so—we will leave without him—I hope that he will understand. There's no time to wait for him anyway.”
“Thank you.” replies Gawain's wife, “thank you.”
The Mirror Breaks
They gaze fondly at the safety of Camelot and take one last look at the Usk river. There is no tide either way. The river is perfectly flat and placid like a mirror—it is a mirror almost! One can look into it and see birds flying in the reflected sky. One's mind is almost convinced of its reality. It is a rare sight: still water on a river. To happen it demands no wind, no tide, and no boat's passage for hours. Bogar absentmindedly throws a pebble into the mirrored river sky. The ripples do not die out but reach the shore and rocks. They then reflect and encounter ripples still on their way from the center of the disruption. The river mirror is ruined by but a small pebble as far as the eye can see, and Bogar feels ashamed that he has destroyed such a rarity of nature.
“Don't feel bad, Bogar,” cheers the King, “we are all pebbles now but such shall be our influence upon distant shores. It is a sign. A good omen.”
Asks Hargrave: “And so you suspect that we will travel far?”
“I fear that we will have to.”
“But, “Bogar adds, “how will we know where to go?”
“We'll have to look for the trail of evil, for signs, portents; perhaps even consult witches and oracles, use our senses, gather clues—in other words we do not know where we are going—we only know that our enemy is somewhere to the west of Britain.”
The Road to Tintagel
They have outfitted themselves with finely meshed coats of mail under their garments to provide themselves with both warmth and security. Then the rains come, and the reality of the quest hits them hard. The sun reappears after a day or so and they all know that the best way to dry wet clothes is to ride in them.
Cheers Bogar: “Thoralf has but a month head start. Perhaps the late winter ice in the northern seas will hold him for us in its grip.”
“Yes, Bogar, that may help to close the gap, but first we need more information on him, and you squires need more training. So, at night, when time permits, there will be training and instruction in arms and in nature's ways. For now, Bogar, if we encounter a challenge, stay close on my left—and you, Hargrave, on my right.”
The squires begin to look solemn—and they must be reminded not to lose their humor because—life is full of constant challenges and apparent worries—if one waits until they are out of the way to be joyous—then joy will never come, for there are always worries—they never end.
At the Grail Castle they swear an oath on the hilts of their swords: Raising their swords into the air they swear that they shall not return until the maidens are safe and Thoralf is dead, that until then they shall have no peace, no rest; that they shall not return to the soil they love without success—or they will find peace in death beneath a foreign soil.
Passing Avalon, home of the mother goddess and the Lady of the Lake, the protective magical mists part but for a moment and they can see the legendary island. It is another good sign.
Every night, when time permits, there is more sword and shield practice, and the squires learn quickly, as is often the case, when spirit and desire attend.
The Witch
They take an overgrown side-path to the haunt of a known sorceress. The signs say ‘Enter all who welcome death!' but still they continue. The witch meets them at the outer gate and bids them to enter. They gallop to the entrance of the evil place but as they arrive they see her to be already inside, a trick, but enough to unnerve any squire who knows not of the use of doubles and twins. The abode is crawling with Tarantulas; it has the desired effect on Bogar and Hargrave. “Oh!” says Hargrave. “Woe!” says Bogar.
“Do not believe all that you see,” whispers Percevale to the squires; “Merlyn has revealed many magic tricks to me.”
“We seek Thoralf the Viking!” announces Hargrave.
“Purchase the spear that bleeds.” reveals the witch. “It is but one link in a long chain that may strangle you or save you! And seek the land of ice and fire!—it is far to the north—there you may find Thoralf's wake that will take you to him across the ocean desert of despair. And you, Percevale, you would have found love on a foreign soil—However, you will not survive to use the clues I have given you!”
And with that admonition, all sink to their knees and thence to the floor, overtaken by the fumes coming from the witches pot. The fumes are not deadly, for the witch does not derive power from killing men, but only from controlling them. No, this witch rules by chemistry: the very air is drugged with gases. The price of information is sometimes dear, for she means to enslave them. The squires cry out as their heads fill with visions of demons and creatures so hellish as to defy description on this printed page. Logic and good sense are stilled, as terror reigns and begins to take over the squires' souls. But, the King's heart is tested and grown strong. Before reason escapes altogether, a calmness of thought occurs to Percevale: “if that which cannot happen, does indeed seem to be happening, then one must be experiencing a non-reality—a dream perhaps or something akin to it—” To test his theory Percevale closes his eyes. “Aha! The demons are still there.” They are but in his mind, he realizes, and are hallucinations induced by potions, not really very different from night dreams. The Knight King arises calmly from the floor, ignores the visions, grabs the two squires, and exits the hovel, holding them firmly in the night's embracing chill until their minds have cleared and their lungs are free of the witch's potion.
The witch's slaves and legions are not allowed to follow, lest their minds be cleared as well. “Why is it,” thinks Percevale, “that those with second sight and such rare powers, those who could be so useful to the world, often fail to use their powers wisely. He turns and stands before the witch's hovel and vows to someday find the power to return and destroy it!
They ride through the night without sleeping, for their hearts are still beating quickly. The morning finally dawn on the squires and they see that nature is new and that the grass is now green. Renewal is at hand; nature is reinventing the world.
The Rites and Wrongs of Spring
The trio comes to a road that is blocked by the passing of a spring carnival. It is the annual “Rites of spring Celebration”, doubly raucous this year because it also celebrates the recent victories of war. There are tumblers, troubadours, circus acts and the like, and it is well attended with drunken revelry.
A vendor on Bogar's right is selling sacred objects for unbelievably low prices and Bogar takes opportunity of the journey's pause to investigate the bargains. His attention is first brought to a piece of the venerated wood of the true cross, brought here by the vendor himself after he had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and secretly excavated the hill of the Holy Sepulcher at night whilst a cathedral was being built over it. Bogar parts with some valuable coins and buys a worthless piece of wood. He also purchases a nail from that same cross. It is still incrusted with Christ's blood. He buys also a portion of the actual crown of thorns, a shredded part of the tablecloth used at the last supper, a bone from St. Peter's arm, a piece of the manger, some drops of the Virgins own milk sealed forever in a glass vial, and a tin cup used by Joseph of Armithea to catch the blood of Jesus on that first Good Friday. Having spent all of his riches, he is about to return when he spots a golden box with a crystal lid, containing a purple cushion on which lays a piece of rusted iron, triangular in shape.
“This,” said the vendor, “is the tip of the spear that pierced the side of the Saviour!”
After much consultation with Hargrave, Bogar obtains a loan and makes the final purchase. The riding junk-pile returns and Percevale examines the haul with horror.
“Throw all of this rattling junk away!” the King insists.
“But most of this is from the true and holy cross, sire!”
“Squires,” replies Percevale, “I've seen enough pieces of the true cross to construct twenty fine sailing sloops of war and still have enough wood left over to build a bridge over the Usk river. What is that cup? Good God, we've found the Grail again! Fling it to that beggar by the creek who is sipping water with his hands!”
The squires quail at the King's rage and let their treasures fall to the ground, but the King is laughing on the inside at the squires' folly and soon they all break into hearty laughter. But the laughing stops abruptly as they all notice that the box containing the spear tip is now quite full of blood.
“Keep the spear tip,” replies Percevale with haste, remembering the words of the first witch, “and attach it to a fine and sturdy stick, for the Crimson Spear has been returned to me when I need it most.”
Journey through Legend and Symbolism
After the silence of the continuing journey becomes too much, Hargrave inquires: “What is the origin of the Grail? And its purpose?”
“Well,” replies the King, “it was the actual chalice used by Joseph, stepfather of Jesus, to catch Christ's blood as he hung on the cross. It was passed down through his family and was god-sent to Arthur by the Mother Goddess of the Holy Isle of Avalon. When Arthur would hold the Grail, and only Arthur, it would turn red, and it was first called the Crimson Chalice. Arthur himself is a symbol of the Savior and is said the be seven generations descended from the Savior. We knights are Arthur's disciples, modern day priest-soldiers out to make the world a better place. But then the Grail was lost and you know the rest of that story. Guinevere is a symbol of Eve, temptress of men, and of paradise regained. Taliesin is a symbol of the beauty of our pure souls. And the Lady of the Lake, she is a mother to us all, as we are all from her descended. But, to answer your question more completely, the Grail symbolizes man's harmony with nature and with the gods, which are really one and the same with us. All is of a whole. God and nature are not without us, they are within us. When Arthur received the Grail back he again became one with the Land. I found the Grail by shedding my armor, a symbol of my pride.”
View of God
“In what kind of God do you actually believe in then?” asks Bogar.
“Well,” answered Percevale, “there is no doubt that Jesus, Merlyn, and the spirits of the Holy Isle of Avalon are either gods or messengers of the gods, for they are real enough and many have seen them—but we touch only the hem of the mysterious garments of mystery in which the universe is clothed! That there are mysterious forces beyond our comprehension, I do not deny—there are mystics and magicians with senses beyond our own—it is called second sight. And there are many forces that tug on us from beyond the sky. However, my God cannot be separated from all that is. There are forces of physics in the universe, immutable and unchangeable. That the universe has our well being in mind is proved by our very existence. However—The most preposterous notion that humans ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and ruler of all the Universes, wants the adoration of his creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, their begging for favors; and becomes petulant if he does not receive this flattery. This God of mystery, this vengeful God who will allow no other gods before him, who exacts homage from us, this God of the sky I cannot see or understand or believe in! Men have invented this God to their liking in their own image. These men could not simply accept the fact that man and nature and all that exists in the natural world could spring from noplace without cause. These men saw complexity in the world which they could not explain by any other means but by this God. They refused to believe that the world simply was, that is, either always was, or that it made itself. ‘Who made the world?' they ask. So this God was invented to explain their world. But a God invented by man is infinitely more complex than the world, which, next to this God, appears relatively simple. And these same men who would not accept the world without explanation now accept a more complicated idea, that of God, without any explanation. Or they're more than happy to reason that God always was or that he created himself. But now we're back to the original quandary. So where did God come from? Who made him? The mystery has only grown larger. So—save a step, and accept that the world simply is! Otherwise, we are merely begging the question, that is, answering a question with an even more complicated question, compounded by the silly fact that we are then satisfied with the answer! Look for God within nature and yourselves, not without. Know that the universe has our well being at heart only in the general sense, and not in the personal sense. Do not curse the rains that nourish the land, the worms that cultivate the soil, the winds that blow hard and carry the seeds—without these things the world would not have survived. We're all in this together—you, me, the rain, the winds, and the worms. What kind of super-being would create creatures, a god who knows all, knows our folly to come, and then expect praise and glorification from people begging for favors and blessings so that they can have an easier life? Let our goodness of heart and our good deeds be our God. They are real; they can be seen. We are of the world; that is our origin, like it or not. The world can be made a better place through action, not through passive praying. And so you may think what you may, my squires, but that is my opinion, and I do not preach it, but if I am asked, I give it. And since forming that opinion I've later come to conclude that we should not worry about that which we can never know, and so I no longer do so anymore.”
History Lesson
They arrive at a tavern and celebrate their good fortune. In the midst of the celebration, an apparently sick man arrives at the door, coughing and sputtering. “Drink up men,” he says, “there is cause for joy, the Huns have been driven back to Mongolia—Asia is free!” But then he falls to the floor and Percevale approaches cautiously.
“It is the Red Death,” cries the King; “burn this tavern and the boat he came in on!” And all are thrust homeless into the windy night, running from the howling fire!
“By the time we return, squires, a third of Europe may be dead—the Dark Age does indeed continue!”
“Tell us of how and when the Dark Age began?” ask the squires.
“Well, fifty years before Arthur began his reign, the Roman legions were recalled from Britain to help defend the realm. They never returned! This is when the Dark Age began, but Britain, being an island, was not as greatly affected as Europe was, though we were headed in that direction. When Arthur came to the throne the land was divided, but he brought it together under his rule. Chivalry flowered and Britain became a light in the darkness, the last burning torch of freedom in all of Christianity. For many years we kept the flame alive. Years later, I rode with Arthur, at the height of his glory, triumphantly into Rome as his armies cleared a path through Europe and drove back the Visigoths and the Huns to Europe's edge.”
The Ring of Time and Motion
They soon arrive at the sacred Ring of Stones that signals the approach to Salisbury Plain. Here they rest, just beyond its perimeter, for the horses will not go near this magic place. A priestess approaches them. “This place, Stonehenge, is constructed to the measure and motion of the sun, moon. and stars. I welcome you, for your hearts are pure and good. I tend to Britain's calendar and this is a great day, for the night and day are of equal length, thus indicating the start of our new year. Come join our New Year's feast—You will witness the equinox upon awakening. And—Ireland calls you, Percevale, to further your quest—heed my clue, for I am a priestess.”
(note: Yes, the year did used to start in March, at the equinox—thus the numbering of the months—SEPTember(7), OCTober(, NOVember(9), DECember(10). The Caesars Julius and Augustus took QUINTus and SEXtus and renamed them July and August.)
Upon awakening, they enter the astronomical wonder of stones at Stonehenge and re-dedicate their swords to St. Michael, St. George, to God, to justice, and the British way.
“We'll be back here by the day that the sun rises directly over the heel-stone,” rallies the King, “but in his heart he suspects that they may never see this place again!”
The long and flat Plain of Salisbury seems endless and brings bitter memories of the Great War which we shall not discuss here. Nearing the coast they run into Scotti raiders on the shore “Couch lances,” directs the King, and they meet the charge, barely ready. The squires get their first taste of battle and the threesome stays together and leaves together. “They will be bolder if we meet them at sea,” says Percevale, “but they do not perform well on land.”
Tintagel
Finally they reach Tintagel and transfer the horses, water caskets, and themselves into Taliesin's ship; it is now perhaps a ship of fools. The King makes his knight-errancy official: “The shield of the Golden Chalice stays here; I shall use the shield of the White Horse, the usual shield for jousting by any challenger who wishes to remain unknown.”
The squires spread forth the broad white sails of their youth—so exuberant, so sure that their lives will never fail, their broadswords yet so keen and bright. They are an inspiration even in their naivete.
Lonely Tintagel, guardian of the coast and birthplace of Arthur, is left behind as they leave English soil on a short voyage to Ireland; for King Rory Mor was the last to see the Vikings flee to sea and may know their direction.
To the Land of Ire
Percevale notes the pursuit of his vessel by a small one-man sailing craft but says nothing to the squires, wondering if and when they will notice. They don't, but they do notice an approaching storm after a half day more and call it to the King's attention. Then they see the small craft.
“King,” they cry—but Percevale interrupts them.
“The King remains at Tintagel, squires, watch your words or you'll give me away. I travel now as a knight-errant, not as King.”
But Hargrave continues: “Percevale, a small craft follows us to our rear, and it is too far out to sea and much too small to survive the swells that will be generated by the upcoming storm.”
“Yes, Hargrave, I too, when I first spotted the craft, wondered who could be following us in such a hopeless pursuit, but I kept coming up with the same answer! Drop our sails and prepare to take merry Gawain aboard. Knowing him, he is already quite seasick. We need his big heart and his experience. They say he has conquered all that faced him except matrimony and the sickness of the sea. It is still true, but I guess he endures the sea.”
The old knight Gawain is taken aboard and still cuts a dashing figure. “Thank the gods I've found you, boy,” Gawain calls to Percevale, “for I am the key to your journey. Merlyn said that my last days would be happy, and joining three damn fools set to sail off the end of the earth must indeed mark the beginning of my last remaining days!”
“And so you have picked a good day, Gawain, for this is April Fools' day. But your wife, Gawain! I promised her that you would stay home.”
“Yes, Percevale, I love her, but to love all of me she must let a part of me go, for a part of us all belongs to the world—to King and country, to personal growth and to adventure—to enjoy the pleasure and passion of existence. Now bring me aboard your skip before my tongue becomes even further entangled with such glib nonsense.”
Irish Spring
After a rather short voyage, the haunting cliffs of the Emerald Isle come into glorious view. The wingéd musicians of spring fly out to meet the ship. It is a time of coming home for migratory birds and for men as well. Ireland is a joyous place, for the very lushness of the Isle has entered the people's souls.
“My mother was Irish, my father was Celtic,” states the King as he kneels on her grave. “She died some years after I left the woods. Knightly duties kept me from seeing her as often as was required. I never knew my father—he was slain before my birth. Nor could I be all things to Evee and Melody. The duties of Kingship kept me from being fully theirs. But I suppose that we must all share love and adventure with everyone as Gawain said, else we would certainly dry up from lack of diversity and stimulation. Now, let us find good King Rory Mor and tighten our search pattern for Thoralf the Viking.”
07-06-2007 09:39 PM 
, NOVember(9), DECember(10). The Caesars Julius and Augustus took QUINTus and SEXtus and renamed them July and August.)
