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 back the Grail 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 brilliant humans, 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 own 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 or needs 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, who 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.”
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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 the priestess here in Merlyn’s name.”
(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, for Arthur died therein, but will perhaps review later. 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.”
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 old 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 almost still true, for 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 belonging fully to anyone. 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.”
Two Kings, a Holyman, and an Oracle
As they ride inland through rolling green hills, their path is soon blocked by a gathering in a meadow which overflows onto the road. They observe a man addressing the crowd, and, growing curious, sit down to listen and soon ask about him. He is a great Holyman, called Patrick, another crack in the armor of the Dark Age. He speaks of goodness and charity among men, of its rewards for the doer—and he has penetrated the iron hearts of men, having become sort of a local hero. As he speaks, the roads suddenly fill with snakes leaving town for good. Rory Mor is among the crowd at the great happening. He recognizes the English King but does not address him as such for he notices the thin disguise.
The two Kings embrace and Percevale inquires of the Viking pursuit. The wild, red-haired Rory speaks and provides many clues: “When the Vikings were driven out of Britain, I put a garrison on shore and sea to insure that they could not make a landing here in Ireland. Nevertheless, they raided some villages, butchered some of our citizens, and I ordered pursuit to the very limit of the northern ice. For a week we pursued them, running far into strange and unknown waters. Simultaneously, we both reached and discovered a land of ice, which, for lack of a better name, we called Iceland. Here the Vikings attempted a stand, but we bested over half of them. The other half, in just three boats, escaped to sea. Unfortunately, Thoralf was in one of them. However, the encounter with us delayed his departure for a large number of days.”
“And he was attended by two maidens?” hopes Percevale.
“Yes, how did you know? Anyway, this place called Iceland is a land of fire and ice to the northwest. The fire is volcanic and the ice is glacial. Let us keep its existence a secret! So, fearing that the Vikings would return and use and use Iceland as a base to raid us, I pursued the Vikings at sea. Then Thoralf did the unthinkable: he headed west, out into the open and unexplored sea towards the edge of the world! And I knew that all of his oarsmen would never be able to bring him back against the terrible westerly winds that blow there—so, you see, Thoralf is as good as dead and that your quest for him is surely over. You need go no further.”
“I make no such assumptions, Rory. I sail to Iceland on the morrow so as to make sure that I am assisted by the very same winds and currents that swept Thoralf into the unknown sea toward the edge of the world.”
“Well, if you must pursue,” adds Rory, “there are some fine sailing men here now who wished to pursue Thoralf, though, as I said, I disallowed them, but they are yours now—I can spare but five of them.”
The great holyman finishes speaking and Rory invites him over. “What advice do you have, Patrick, for those that pursue the devil into hell to destroy him?”
“Only God can guide you, my son; and beware the river of ice that pours down from the north, you will have to detour south around it or you will not have a snowman’s chance in hell! And Percevale,” whispers Patrick, “the world is round—fear not the edge!”
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It was a curious force that sets sail for Iceland. The voyage takes several days, and the men spend the time keeping fit and telling stories of the sea. The ocean spray is cold and salty, and the mens’ very life rests in the caskets of fresh water.
“We’ve seen giant fish in the sea up north,” states one of the sailors, “monstrous forms that break out from underneath the sea and blow water from holes in their heads! Their numbers increase as one sails west into the great unknown sea.”
“Are you not afraid?” asks Bogar.
“No, not any more. Our life is on the sea. And yes, we were afraid to sail north before we discovered Iceland, for we had heard many strange stories of fire mountains and demons. But, when we landed we found it to be just another part of earth.”
And so Iceland is reached. The crew stays only long enough to restock supplies. Then they, too, do the unthinkable: they set sail for the open sea! Two sailors refuse to go and are to be left behind, but as they look back, the flames from the volcano rise and scorch the skies, and the two sailors hastily climb aboard.
Pursuit to Nowhere
Percevale follows the currents for many days until the great river of ice increases. Then they detour south, as Patrick had said, hoping to make up much time on the pursued Vikings who will take much longer to come to the southern conclusion.
There, amazingly, they spot Thoralf’s ships on the horizon, and try to keep him there to avoid detection, but Thoralf’s men are wary and have sharp eyes.
“It moves as we move, Thoralf,” says one of his men. “Could it be a sea-mirage, a reflection of the west in the east, like that of twilight at sunset.”
“I keep wondering who could be following us.” worries Thoralf nervously. “And I keep coming up with the same answer! “Head into that fog-bank for cover!”
“But we may crash in the fog!” exclaims Thoralf’s helmsman.
“Head into it, heed my order! It will shield us and save us. I’ll use my sea skill and daring to evade them; why should I lose any more men in battle.”
However, the “mist” is not a simple fog-bank, it is the front of an oncoming storm. And the storm only brings the two ships closer together, for Taliesin’s ship is better equipped to take on the side-wind and Thoralf’s oarsmen are useless in the large swells.
For a brief moment the ships are side by side and Percevale sees Melody’s lovely face shining in the storm’s breath, but then the ships begin to separate, perhaps forever. A wave from Evee indicates that all is well. Bogar and Hargrave catch a glimpse of the pair as well and are immediately cast under their spell.
“The spear!” cries Percevale, “get me the bleeding spear!” It is forthcoming and he throws the Crimson Spear firmly into the side of Thoralf’s skip. Luckily, it goes unnoticed by Thoralf.
The ships are indeed separated and the night seems very long, during which time Percevale heads slightly south. At dawn they head north until they reach water that is pink with the spear’s spreading blood. Then they turn and follow the red stream as Thoralf pulls away, for the wind has shifted and Percevale’s ship must tack and zigzag, while Thoralf’s oarsmen can row straight into the wind—but the bloody crimson trail remains as a link.
Hargrave, still seemingly in love with the description of Evee, is now haunted by the elfin smile and two gray eyes of Melody. Bogar is similarly confused and feels that his heart is about to burst for love of Evee.
“Beware squires,” warns the King, “you are building golden shrines in your hearts for the love of maidens that you don’t even know!”
Days pass.
Thoralf lands in an amazing land where the north star is practically overhead at night, yet the land is still green. For lack of a better name, he names it Greenland. He heads inland and begins construction of a fort of tree and stone, for his men refuse to sail on any further.
(Greenland note: during these times Greenland was still green. Within a hundred years however, the glacier appears and turns it white, thus precipitating a permanent Norse exodus to Vineland and America.)
Percevale, Gawain, and crew spot Greenland, too, but return behind the horizon to wait for nightfall, at which time they will land silently in the dark, downwind from Thoralf’s landing so that scents and sounds can not carry.
Night falls and so they land, and move through the woods like so much shadow and moonlight towards the encampment. Thoralf’s men are too many in number to fight head on, so a trick is devised. They begin to weaken some trees next to the path that runs from Thoralf’s guarded ships to his fort. Then they all stay out of sight until well after dawn. Finally Thoralf and his men come down to the shore together to retrieve goods from the ships. The sea king is attended to by the false love of the maidens. Their act is quite convincing. The weakened trees are nudged and now come crashing down to the ground to separate Thoralf from the bulk of his men. With the maidens and a handful of men that made it past the barrier, Thoralf races to his escape ship lying out in the water—well guarded and ready to sail at a moment’s notice. Then the English longbows take their terrible toll and Thoralf has barely enough men to man the oars, yet, he escapes and again does the unfathomable, he sails west to certain doom at the sea’s end, leaving the last known bit of land forever behind.
However he is back at sea where he reigns supreme! His other two ships do not follow. Two knights and two squires and a crew of fine sailing fighters engage the Viking remnants on land to insure that they can not follow, but a better plan is born and Percevale calls a retreat; however, Gawain remains. That’s the end of Gawain, they fear, but when they look back they see that he is even carrying the fight to the Vikings. Most of the Vikings are blockaded by the trees across the road, but some make it through and Gawain stays back to engage them and to buy some time for his friends’ escape. He fights bravely, one against many, and promotes most to the grave before his wounds sap his strength. A gentle word to his mighty steed and the war horse takes him to the safety of the shore, where he slides from his horse to the sand and awaits his end and the maker’s hand. During the retreat Percevale’s men shoot fire arrows into the remaining unmanned Viking ships and they go up in flames. Thoralf has discovered the bleeding spear, removed it, and has left it on the beach. Bogar spots it and gathers it up. A final long-range shot from the sturdiest longbow sets Thoralf’s rear sail aflame, but his frightened rowers more than make up the difference and pull safely away as the sail is dumped into the sea.
Two come to take Gawain away: Death and Hargrave. Hargrave revives him to the point where he can walk and Death departs for now. “To the ship!” cries Gawain. “To the ends of the earth and beyond!”
The crew gives long hard thought to his words as they board and leave Greenland behind. The bloody job of sewing Gawain’s wounds begins. He flirts with death as with ladies alike, but he is a most dynamic fellow. For now he collapses into sleep’s misty sea. Death’s ship sails closely behind, awaiting Gawain. Percevale, who had sewn up Lancelot many times as his squire, now makes use of that skill and goes to work on Gawain, trying to heal the last knight. Grinning Death yet follows in his ghastly ship, now coming closer, now drifting back, but he is ever waiting, sitting atop his throne of skulls and smiling, ever ready to take Gawain to the damp and cheerless grave.
“Oh! Thank the gods for life!” cries Gawain.
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Days pass on the seemingly endless sea and Thoralf’s crew is becoming uneasy, for they are pursued by crazy men, and their ship is headed to who knows where. Yet they are still dedicated to the task at hand, sailors to the last.
Percevale’s crew is also wary, but he senses this and raises a challenge to them: “Behind lies death, ahead lies the unknown; Merlyn proved to me that the world is not flat and Patrick the Holyman has confirmed it; do not fear. The world is round, like a ball.”
Evee tells Thoralf’s crew that they sail on a doomed ship, that once a knight makes a pledge it cannot be revoked. And Thoralf’s crew begins to place a slightly higher value on own their lives, but continue to row, pulling away from their relentless shadows through days and nights of endless sweat and toil that take them farther and farther out into the unforgiving sea.
Blind rage is upon Thoralf’s face as he looks at the maidens and surmises that they are the cause of his ill-fortune. Melody rises calmly, but with the knowledge that her luck, such as it was, has run out! She prepares to reach for the dagger on her leg, so that Thoralf may follow her into death. Evee stands also. Thoralf walks toward Evee and Melody with sword in hand. But Melody begins to sing, as always she did in the face of danger—and her song reaches the once unfeeling hearts of the evil crew and searches their souls for the love hidden so long by hate. The face of Thoralf, one that had been so commanding is now a mask of despair; but fury is still in his eyes. A sudden lunge by him sends Evee and Melody to the deck! But from the throats of the crew comes a hoarse growl, low and menacing! Thoralf grips his sword, but then he hesitates and the crew stands in Thoralf’s path—they will not allow such a beautiful song to be stilled forever by death’s smothering hand, for although dressed in rough clothes and sprawled unconscious on the deck, Melody is still as graceful and inspiring as the new moon. At last the crew know the inklings of true beauty and goodness! And it feels good! There is almost a mutiny, but Thoralf cuts down the crew’s leader. However, Thoralf does not dare to cut Melody or Evee down, and they live, as does Thoralf—for it is a standoff and the voyage resumes with Thoralf, mighty sea king, now something of an outcast among his men, although still in control through his knowledge of the sea.
Melody’s song is so vibrant and so intimate that it is picked up by the birds and taken far on the wing, from where it is carried by the breeze to the hearts of knights and squires, whence it finds its way to breath and thence back to song on the lips of men; a song so joyful, as if no one had written it but life itself; because, after all, a song belongs to everyone!
“Do you hear it, men?” joys the King of Britain. And her song rings in their souls.
“We hear it! We drink the music from her ruby lips! It touches a sympathetic string in our spirits!”
“Then take the clue and bear to the south from whence it comes!”
On the Endless Sea
The sky is dark at night on the endless sea, but eternity’s lights shine brightly in the utter blackness. At night they must navigate by these stars to keep their heading to the south. There is Arcturus, orange, and anchoring the spring kite. Regulus is upon high in the very heart of the Lion. Spica rises in the east, an ear of wheat in the hand of the Virgin Virgo. Red Betelguese sets in the west. Gemini’s two eyes peer over the horizon. The Winter Cross is setting.
“Farewell to winter and hail to the spring!” says Percevale.
“Have you a favorite star, Percevale?” asks Hargrave.
“I have two, Hargrave, Betelguese in Orion and Antares in the Scorpion.”
“But the Scorpion bit Orion and they are enemies!” retorts Hargrave.
“Yes, Hargrave, and so the gods have separated them, placing them in opposite parts of the heavens—it is now impossible for them to be in the sky at the same time—and so I am always guaranteed to have a favorite star in the sky at any given time of the year!”
To The New World
“I could have done away with Thoralf,” reveals Percevale, “that time when he washed up on a river island after the river-bore on the Severn destroyed his fleet, but, I thought that I sensed some good in him. I was wrong. The good are at a disadvantage in such situations since there is always hope for rehabilitation of evil men, but I suppose that I am wiser now and no longer totally believe this.”
“Well,” said Gawain, “at least good men can put trust in other good men, but the evil man can not trust other evil men, for they must be always on their guard.”
“Land ho!” cries Percevale. “There is a land of vines to the west; perhaps our enemy lands there! For lack of a better name, let’s christen it Vineland. They begin the tedious process of searching the coast with all of its inlets. “If Thoralf has sunk his boat and gone inland we’ll never find him”, laments Percevale, “but then again, he is a Sea King yet, is he not? And so he will attempt to master us at sea.”
A day goes by without success, and hearts are sinking, for now all may be lost as valuable time is taken to search the shores. Then, even worse happens! The voyage has been a strain on Taliesin’s ship and the main-sail finally can take no more and rips down the center. What a setback; is the trail is to be lost again! The ship limps to shore on its side-sails. Tender and supple vines are gathered and the long repair effort begins. Desperately, Percevale and the two squires espy a mountain that meets the sea and climb it to its highest point. The last streaks of gray are fading from the sky and they still can see no sign of their quarry. The men stand dejected, each alone with his own thoughts, embraced only by the blackness of the night of loneliness. But then a light is seen, for Evee has managed to set Thoralf’s ship on fire and make it look like an accident by having titled a lantern precariously, deep within the ship. It is eventually doused, but the crew is alarmed and they again sail out into the sea as the currents carry them south and away from Vineland—but the mighty Viking flagship is crippled and must soon land somewhere. Our good ship follows, like the day follows the night. Another week passes—
All ships begin to run out of water. The thirst begins to affect Percevale’s crew and they cry out for a drink. “Press on,” commands the King, as he studies a scrap of the old sea maps from Thule, written in the hand of one he can trust.
“But there is land to the west, a new found land, the birds come from that way,” points one of the crew.
“We dare not stop now, even though we are near the coast of a new land. Thoralf will not stop either. I know that man well now.”
And for lack of a better name, the newly found land is to be called Newfoundland and to be just as quickly forgotten.
They sail on.
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The good ship turns west, rounding the point of the new land—as this is just what Thoralf will do, for he cannot sail forever without water and won’t find it in the open and salty sea.
“Get me a drink of water from over the side of the ship,” says Percevale to a member of his crew.
“My god, it is fresh!” cries the crew member.
“We’ve got them now!” exclaims a renewed Gawain, “for this fresh water flows out to sea and the current will stand against their mighty rowers! We sail in a monstrous river mouth to the sea thence wew follow it back into the heart of the new world!”
Some days pass and finally Thoralf’s fire-disabled ship comes into sight. The once mighty Viking flagship is falling apart at the seams.
“The English King is some kind of a sorcerer!” raves Thoralf when he spots his relentless pursuer. How does he know my every move!”
But Thoralf, not knowing that the water is fresh, lands ashore, for his ship is nearly sinking. A great island presents itself. Thoralf rams his vessel onto the shore to gain time to set up an attack. Onshore, he sets up with his men to make a stand, but when the English ship also comes crashing ashore, he thinks better of it and deserts his men and runs into the woods, carrying his two battle-axes, one in his hand, the other on his belt.
Death Amid Truth and Beauty
The maidens are rescued and taken into the care of the squires (or perhaps it is the other way around) and many of Thoralf’s men lay down their arms. The remainder are sent to the stead of the dead at hell’s gate.
Evee points the way of Thoralf and so Percevale runs into the woods after his nemesis. Revenge seems out of place now as the fresh winds make love to the flowers of May and the woodlands sing with joy! But Thoralf has brought death to many and must be taken.
Thoralf climbs a cliff hill to his last battlefield. He thinks himself free at last but looks down and sees the resolute figure of the English King steadily mounting the hill after him. The first battle-axe is thrown down the hill and it knocks Percevale’s shield away.
They reach the vicinity of the edge of the cliff together. Beyond is the new world in all in spring beauty, and far below, the waters pound against the cliff-side in fury. The terrible roar of the maelstrom fills their ears. They stand but twenty feet apart, eyeing each other and catching their breath. Percevale draws his sword from its scabbard and Thoralf takes his remaining battle-axe from his belt.
Thoralf, mighty chief of all the Vikings, has never stepped back from any man, but, the English King has pursued him relentlessly, and it has given Thoralf much pause to think. Percevale begins to walk toward him, but suddenly stops and looks at the fear-haunted figure. Can this be the mighty sea-warrior of lore and legend? Thoralf’s life flashes before him as he realizes its folly and its meaninglessness. Thoralf assigns and takes his penance bravely, his first and last noble deed of his life. For the first time in his life Thoralf steps back from an adversary and so is taken into the crashing sea below. He screams on the way down into the yawning chasm and his soul takes the opportunity to attempt an escape. The consuming flame from hell’s fire ascends, a deadly flambeau light, and licks at the soul that tried to flee eternity’s treadmill and soon that soul is pierced by the burning spear of hell’s master.
Now Percevale stands alone amid all of the terrible grandeur of the scene, drained of all the high resolve, that flaming determination that had led him halfway around the unknown world; for the impossible quest has succeeded and has come to an end.
But the contest has not gone unnoticed; an indian squaw, a runner of the woods, takes the news to her tribe.
Savages
Evee relates of how Thoralf’s crew came to the aid of the maidens when Thoralf threatened them and so Percevale lessens the crews’ sentence. “They have certainly sought to do us harm but they have now found goodness, so, their punishment is not death or captivity, but banishment—so let them live and settle this new land, never to set foot in the old world again!”
A shelter is constructed and they begin to make repairs to their ship, for it is a long way home.
Suddenly, one morning, they are surrounded by near naked savages with their arrows and stone spears and hatchets poised at them! The men seem to be red with anger, for this is their island. How sad for our crew to have come half way around the world only to find death. Bogar has an idea! He stands forth, ready to take their arrow in his hidden coat of mail! Percevale considers Bogar’s plan: “the red men will think him a god when the arrow bounces away—unless it catches him where there he has no mail—but this is the germ of a better plan—Percevale holds up his hand, as if it will stop the assault, which, curiously, it does, and asks that Melody be brought out of the shelter. She appears, and the red men fall to their knees, for they have never seen blond hair before and they think her a sun goddess! Gawain now cements the alliance by giving them Thoralf’s gleaming metal axe and a fine crafted longbow as a gift; it is well appreciated, for all the red men had were stone axes and simple stick bows. Peace is made and a breakfast feast begins.
Sweets and Friends
Now, it said poetically in the chronicles, that we roam at ease, drink sweets in every flower and feel balm in every breeze, threading the lovely radiant web of life that affection’s finger weaves so finely; this way, now that way, around and about with friends, knights, squires, and maidens; and all now sit on freedom’s great throne, snuggling deep into each other’s being and drinking draughts of life’s delight.
“What shall we call this great island?” queries Bogar. “I’m getting tired of these simplistic names that we’ve been assigning to places!”
“How about ‘Quebec City’, after the Indian Chief?” says Hargrave.
“Fine, and so it shall be ever known.”
Return
Gawain considers the sea maps: “Well, we can’t go back the way we came because the winds and currents will be against us, but, since we are so far south anyway, I think that we but need to go a little further south and we shall find a wind-backed route at lower latitude; however, there are no islands on my map so we must load plenty of extra water.
They do so, and depart after some weeks. They soon find storms pushed by the great wind, and darkness reigns for weeks. Suddenly a great light fills the sky, seemingly emanating from an eye-like beacon which is too bright to look at directly, too bright for mortal eyes! Indeed, the penalty for looking at God is blindness. “What is it?” worries Hargrave. “The grail?”
“No,” calms Bogar, “it is just the sun. Had you forgotten it?”
And the great orb of day careens majestically along the zodiac as the good ship continues its long voyage home— …
Below the waves lies the sunken land of Atlantis, the land of the Celt’s forefathers.
Many weeks pass, and the badly battered vessel finally limps toward the Irish coast—a coast still infested with pirates. It is not long until a pirate ship spots its prey, Percevale’s vessel, and starts to close on the apparently hapless vessel.
It is written in the chronicles that the Crimson Spear had been lost overboard in a storm during the voyage and that it now rests and rusts in the depths of the all consuming sea. So, although Percevale is without his best weapon, there are many tricks known to the sailor. A bucket of charcoal is launched on a string toward the pirate vessel. Then an arrow is shot into the charcoal package and soon the pirate vessel is in flames, now having learned the power of Greek fire.
Landfall is made in Ireland, where a toast is made:
For you my friend, and you my friend,
and all of us together—
Here’s a toast to life and to laughter and song.
Good cheer my friend, good cheer my friend,
through every kind of weather—
Take the bells and ring as we sing loud and strong.
We’re up to throwing steins again,
with foam on every lick.
We’ll give it a go and shout Ya-Vo!—
Here with friends we drink,
and let the world wait.
May we drink to love all our live-long days.
It is a short way, now, from Ireland to England.
A figure arises from the sea—it is the Lady of the Lake and she is holding the Crimson Spear, and says, “Percevale, I believe this belongs to you.”
We Are Home
They pass the golden vales, wherethe romantic hills abound, and suddenly Crown, turret, and tower arise—the brave city of marvel lies ahead, gleaming in the skies! Camelot!
Gawain’s wife awaits: “Well I’ll be damned, here comes the ghost again, the vagabond, the snow yet streaking your hair. You burst on the scene already a knightly legend, then you strayed into my heart.”
“And there I intend to stay!” retorts Gawain. It all comes back so clearly—I love you dearly.”
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And so we continue to fill our heads with the best from nature, from adventure, from winter, spring, summer, and fall; from the world of sights, sounds, and natural urges; from fantasy, magic and mysticism, folklore and legend, from science and astronomy, and from romance—mixing it all together into a book for all seasons, that is, into this Almanac!
Another mainline theme of the Almanac is that of life with nature. For my education in this matter I can only thank John Burroughs. In his great literate style he has brought the revelations of nature to us. But if the Almanac is many things, perhaps even a hodgepodge, then so is life—and if we are to be persons for all seasons, then we must become well seasoned in all the areas of the Almanac, for all seasons are interrelated and woven of the same basic universal thread.
As for Percevale, though he has become rather a pater familis to us, he remains the focal point of the Almanac, for he has finally come into his own, a King for all seasons.
Several Impossible Challenges
Our Story: Summer is warm but not yet indolent; it is the lovely month of June, perhaps the greatest month of all since many are free now and still excited about the upcoming summer. Victorious knights return from both the Asia frontier and from the great Unknown sea. But sadly, St. Patrick has died, and all Ireland is in mourning. King Percevale receives a summons from the Avalon Lady of the Lake.
Avalon Calling
A King may receive a summons from but one person and place: the high priestess of Avalon—the Lady of the Lake herself, the distant power behind the fables and fortunes of Britain—the Mother Goddess who reigns wholly and supreme, with the assistance of “The Merlyn”. If “The Merlyn” be the power behind the throne, then the High Priestess of Avalon is the power behind “The Merlyn”.
And so our Percevale again takes the shield of the White Horse and slips unnoticed out of Camelot during the height of the summer festivities.
Percevale rides to Avalon, a land forever shrouded in the mist that separates it from the world of mankind. Many have been lost trying to cross Avalon’s impenetrable swamps, so Percevale waits patiently at the edge of the foggy lake. He brings the Crimson Spear, for this is surely a gift from Avalon, as was Arthur’s Excalibur and Price Valiant’s Flamberge (the Singing Sword, or “Flame Cutter”.)
Avalon is flooded with water during summer, and with treacherous ice in winter. And there is always the fog, which only the priestesses can wave aside, for they, and they alone, know the underwater paths for the horses. Many adventurers have fallen into the gloomy depths of despair and death trying to find these trails, so Percevale awaits his guide.
Only once in a great while is a King summoned to Avalon, for most of Avalon’s effects are not direct, but long range, and even so, are often carried out by “The Merlyn” or “The Taliesin”, the only residents of Avalon who are allowed to mingle with those of the mortal world.
The guide arrives, and Percevale, without a word, steps into her canoe, for she is a novice and is not allowed to speak. She waves the mist aside and they approach a castle in the water and then enter the Lady’s mysterious secret chamber.
The Story of Avalon
The Lady of the Lake appears, old now and perhaps dying. “Thank you for your rescue of my daughters, Eve and Melody. They are my second and third born, respectively, and may someday have to rule this isle if for any reason my first-born cannot. Now, Percevale, name your pleasure and it shall be yours! Anything you want.”
Percevale replies: “I ask no pleasure but that of continued life. There is one thing, however—I should like to gain the power to destroy a witch, to free those poor souls who are enslaved by her! For I swore an oath to return there one day with the power to succeed.”
The Lady of the Lake, Mother Goddess, now finally growing old with age after many centuries, first speaks to our hero about age and the ancestry of the Round Table before answering him: “Here in Avalon, the Royal Line consists solely of women. Soon, my first-born daughter will take over for me, as someday, her first-born daughter will take over for her. Only a women can be sure of maternity—paternity is never certain; who knows who one’s father might be! Thus, a royal line of first-born sons of Kings really does not make much sense for us here, but we tolerate it in your world. Here, we seldom even keep track of paternity, but, in your case, and in the case of many of the knights, an exception was made in order to try and save the wretched world. When I was young four hundred years ago, I played with Merlyn, who was also a child at that time. I happen to know that he and I are the great great great grandparents of yourself and of many of the knights, making most of you third and fourth cousins—indeed, Lancelot was born here as my last son, thus his full name, Lancelot du Lac. And so in this way we passed our holiness on to man in a last desperate hope of ending the many centuries of the Dark Ages. “Merlyn” is not really a man’s name, though it has come to mean his name—it is actually a title, “The Merlyn”, of our only male officeholder, a position that Taliesin will soon inherit and hold. The office of “The Merlyn” is the only link between our two worlds aside from the rare summoning of a King. I am the power behind “The Merlyn”—But I cannot interfere in everyday matters, for then man would not have his freedom, would he? We can only do long range planning, thus your throne and your bleeding spear. We of Avalon are not actually gods, but Druids descended from the many supposed gods of old. We are all that is left of the great Atlantis! Avalon is soon to be forever removed from the world of mankind—this we have known and feared—so, we have passed our legacy of love and goodness to you and your knightly cousins. As for your witch, she was once one of of us, but has since gone astray. That’s how she knew about your bleeding spear and why she fears you. As we may not interfere directly, we may not slay her. But, you have asked for the power to destroy her and so we will see that you have it in the form of your spear and in the strength of yours and Taliesin’s minds when combined. This but makes you her equal. Success or failure will still come from within your own strength and goodness. But bring the Crimson Spear! Indeed, you would be doing us and the world quite a favor if you were to succeed in destroying her. And beware, she once held the high title of Death-Crone, and she will undoubtedly place a curse upon you. Just remember this: never give up hope, and know that every curse has an escape! But how sad that she was once one of us and is now out of control!”
The Curse of the Death-Crone
(posted previously so not repeated here)
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, NOVember(9), DECember(10). The Caesars Julius and Augustus took QUINTus and SEXtus and renamed them July and August.)