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 heathen Vikings 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.
“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 that will be his end.”
“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.
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.
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 is 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 thundereds 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 and Canada, but there is a glorious knight’s tale about that, too, perhaps the best of all, as later on we shall see.
(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 the 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 off 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 the 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 disallowing 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 now.
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 can send 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 but for 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 there 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 yet 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 patiently 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 but 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.
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 must 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 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 early spring, when Bogar is to receive his first quest.
Death Threat
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 do 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 guard 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, suspends 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 the 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 to 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 yet 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, a poem in stone. 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, “why did I let him walk?”. 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, “for that’s what they represent”. 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, alyhough 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.”
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.”
