“My lord,” said Gawain gently, “your lance is yonder. Shattered in a joust.”
“Hey there, sir. Do you mean to fight?” Parzival asked, seeing Gawain for the first time. “You’d best beware. I’ve knocked one or two men off their horses in my day.”
“I have no wish to joust with you,” Gawain answered. “There is encamped just over there a king and his lady with all his court. I wish to guide you to them. I promise no one will attack you if you come with me.”
“Who are you, gentle knight, and who is your king?”
“I am the son of Lot and nephew to King Arthur, who is encamped here. Perhaps you have heard of me as well. My name is Gawain.”
“Ah, yes, Sir Gawain,” Parzival replied. “They shall not credit me with special honor for being received kindly by you. It is well known that you receive everyone with kindness. And still I thank you, but I cannot go to Arthur’s court. I was there once before and on my account a lady suffered humiliation. Arthur’s steward beat her as though he were felling a tree. Until I can make amends for that, I will not appear before the king.”
Gawain laughed despite himself. “You have paid that account in full,” he said. “The steward lies now in Arthur’s tent with a broken arm and a broken leg. He was your second conquest of the morning. Sir Segramors, who is no mean fighter either, is in his own tent nursing a wounded pride. Now come with me, good sir, and give your greeting to our gracious king and his lady.”
Parzival could not bring himself to speak to the kindly Gawain of his cousin’s curse or the shame of Wild Mountain. He took off his helmet and followed as he was bid.
As Gawain and Parzival approached the camp, the Lady Cunneware saw them come. Even though his face was still filthy from rust and perspiration, she recognized Parzival. “You have sent three knights, one of whom was my own brother, to protect me, and today you yourself have made amends for that unjust beating the steward gave me,” she said as she greeted him. She kissed his grimy cheek and ordered her serving boys to see that he was bathed and provided with rich clothing.
When Arthur heard who the strange visitor was, he was delighted. He ordered the meadow in the midst of the camp to be cleared of snow in the shape of a great circle, so it would seem that his knights and their ladies were feasting at a giant Round Table. That night, Parzival was seated at a place of honor and all (except perhaps Sir Kay) rejoiced that the handsome Parzival had returned. Even Queen Guenever forgave him for the death of Ither, for, if the truth be told, there were few ladies in Arthur’s court who had not felt a fondness for that bold knight who had died so shameful a death—pierced by a javelin in the hand of an untutored boy. Duke Orilus begged forgiveness for the sins he and his brother Lahelin had committed against the kingdoms that belonged to Parzival and pledged full restitution.
Parzival was glad to pardon all who asked, even King Clamide, who had wronged his wife. He had no appetite for revenge that night when he saw how graciously they all received him.
Indeed, Parzival’s heart was lighter than it had been since the day he rode out from Queen Condwiramurs’s castle. Despite his cousin’s curse, he had made amends both to the duchess and to the Lady Cunneware. He could almost forget Sigune’s anger and the shame of Wild Mountain as every knight and lady drank to his good health and praised his skill and courage.
But his joy was not to last one single night.
“Son of Uther Pendragon!” A shrill voice pierced the merriment of the feast like a lance through a shield. The whole company turned to see, on the edge of the circle, a huge mule, saddled and bridled like the most noble of horses. Its rider, too, was dressed in a beautiful robe with a peacock hat, but the face under the hat made them all shrink back in repulsion. It was a woman, but what woman would want to claim her for a sister? Her black plait falling down her shoulder was as coarse as pig’s bristles. Her nose jutted out like a dog’s and her teeth were like the tusks of a wild boar. Her skin was like wrinkled leather and her nails like the claws of a lion.
Even those who had never seen her before knew at once who she was—Cundrie, whom some called the Sorceress, but perhaps should rather call the Prophetess, for she had never been known to tell an untruth.
“I do not greet you as king, son of Pendragon,” she said to Arthur, her voice grating as metal scraping against metal, “for you have allowed a malignancy into your circle. The Round Table is corrupted. Like a fruit with a worm in its heart, it will be destroyed from within. And you, son of Pendragon, have welcomed this worm into your bosom. I cannot greet you; you have lost all honor.”
Before the astonished Arthur could reply to this strange salutation, Cundrie rode her mule into the circle and stood directly before Parzival. She stretched out her clawed finger toward his face. “You call yourself the son of Gahmuret,” she said. “I would deny it except that I know that your pure mother was never false. Still, how are you his son? That man of honor. He has another son whom you would call an infidel—a son he had of a Moorish queen. Yet that son, infidel though he may be, is as noble as Gahmuret before him. While you, you—you have earned Hell eternally,” she cried. “May it begin for you here on earth. You were taken to Wild Mountain so that you might release that wretched king. Where was your compassion, son of Gahmuret and Herzoloyde? How could you fail to ask the question that would give Anfortas peace at last? You saw the bloody lance, the silver knives, the Grail itself, and yet you failed to ask. Woe, that I should be the one to say that matchless Herzoloyde’s son has so fallen from the height of Heaven’s honor to the lowest shame of Hell.”
Cundrie began to wring her monstrous hands in despair and weep so that great tears crisscrossed her hideous features. “Alas, Wild Mountain, that you have lost all hope of consolation.” With that, Cundrie left Arthur’s circle and disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
There was no more feasting that night. The joy of Arthur’s court vanished like the moon behind dense clouds. Parzival took leave of his friends. When Clamide asked him to plead with the Lady Cunneware on his behalf, he did so, and perhaps it was a little comfort to Parzival to know that Cunneware would have a noble husband to protect her now.
He himself sought out the king. “What the Lady Cundrie has said is true,” he said. “Although it was not my intention to cause harm. Perhaps I took the good Gurnemanz’s teaching too much to heart. Many will mock me for a fool, I fear, and I blame no one who despises me. For my part, I must leave your company. Somehow I must find the Grail again. That is my only aim now, to go once more to Wild Mountain. To this quest I will devote my life to the very end of my days.”
They all sorrowed to see him go. Lady Cunneware had her own pages dress him and bind his armor. She was grateful to him, not only for her restored honor but for a royal husband. “May God preserve you on your way,” she said.
“God?” Parzival answered. “What is God? If God were all-powerful, none of this terrible misfortune would have happened. Today I quit his service. Let him be angry with me if he will.”
And with those terrible words, the wretched Parzival rode forth alone.
five
The Lost Knight
OVER thousands of dreary miles, Parzival rode and rode, this way and that, across the world. Whether on the sorrel’s back or on a ship borne forward by wind and waves, he saw nothing to cheer him. When challenged, he raised his lance or drew his sword, but why mention those savorless struggles as though they had been adventures? There was no honor for him now in conquest. He never knew defeat. He must not. He did not care for his life. That was of little worth to him now. He fought only to rid his trail of an obstruction, dogged as an ancient wolf on the scent of its last quarry. This one thing I will track down; then lay me down upon the earth to die.
Four years and more he roamed the world, his bones aching with weariness, his heart sick with longing, his soul heavy with despair. Searching, searching, his eyes strained in searching for a castle that would not let itself be found.
He did not
know the year or the day or even whether it was night or day when he came upon a tiny house, more like a cell, freshly built in the wilderness through which he rode. There was a light at its one small window, which drew him toward it. Perhaps, he thought dully, I should ask directions, for, as usual, he had no notion of where he was.
“Is anyone there?” he called.
“Yes.”
Hearing a woman’s voice, Parzival dismounted, tethered the sorrel to a nearby tree, and unbound his sword. Then he went to the window.
Inside he saw a woman at what seemed to be her prayers. When she saw him there, she rose from her knees and came to meet him at the window grate. She was dressed like one who has given her life to God, but on the hand that carried her Psalter, Parzival saw a ring with a sparkling gemstone, not the kind of ring a woman sworn to poverty would wear. He must be careful, he thought; this woman is not what she appears to be.
As he stared through the bars of the window into the cell, he saw no cooking pots or utensils, nor was there any garden where food might be grown.
“Madam,” he asked, “how is it you can live here alone in the wilderness?”
“You need not worry about my food. Every Saturday, Cundrie the Sorceress brings me food enough for a week from the table at Wild Mountain. Alas, if food were my only concern—”
At the mention of Wild Mountain, Parzival’s long-dead heart gave a shudder. The lady went on: “I see, sir, that you stare at my ring. It was given to me by the knight I was pledged to marry, but to my eternal grief, he was killed before we were wed. In God’s eyes, nonetheless, I am his bride and will be so forever. That is why I continue to wear his ring. He body lies below that very spot where you espied me on my knees in prayer.”
When Parzival heard this, he realized that the grief-aged woman in the cell was his cousin, Sigune. He took off his helmet, and she recognized him as well.
“You are Parzival,” she said. “Well, Cousin, how has it fared for you? Do you know by now the meaning of the Grail?”
“I have found nothing but unhappiness in that quest,” he said. “Cousin, if you knew how much I have suffered. I have been parted from my wife, who is more to me than life. I have lost honor with my fellows. Do not go too hard on me.”
“I no longer think of you as my enemy,” Sigune said gently. “It is plain to see how much you have lost by failing to ask wretched Anfortas the question.”
“God himself was against me,” Parzival said. “Or I would have fared other than I did. But tell me how it goes with you. My burden is so heavy, I will not even feel it if you lay yours upon me as well.”
“Dear Cousin,” Sigune said. “I pray that God, who is the source of all comfort, will comfort you.” To this Parzival did not answer. Sigune continued, “Would it be possible, I wonder, to follow a track to Wild Mountain and thus find your way there once again? Cundrie the Sorceress was here not long ago. The track of her mule is still fresh in the underbrush, if you follow it—”
Parzival took hasty leave of Sigune, mounted the sorrel, and found the hoofprints of Cundrie’s enormous mule. He followed them through the woods along a narrow path that wound high above a deep chasm. Perhaps—his heart was now full wakened in his breast—perhaps today he would find that cursed castle—
“Halt there!” A knight was barring the path. “Who are you who dares beat a track through my lord’s forest?” he cried out. “Don’t you know that you court mortal danger when you come too close to Wild Mountain?” The knight was fully armed and rode a great black warhorse. From the turtledoves embossed on his shield, it was clear that he had come from the castle itself.
There was no room on the path for a proper joust, but the knight came charging toward him nonetheless. They struck lance upon lance and backed and charged and struck again until in one final charge, Parzival knocked the castle knight off his horse into the chasm. But in the lunge, Parzival could not hold the sorrel back, and it plunged off the path as well. As horse and rider fell into the chasm, Parzival grabbed the branch of a tree and hung there, watching helplessly as his beloved red sorrel rolled and crashed against the scrub and through the underbrush, to break its neck at last on the rocks in the bottom of the crevasse. Meantime, the castle knight clambered up the opposite bank, headed, no doubt, for the safety of Wild Mountain and the comforts of the Grail.
Sorrow upon sorrow. Now his only companion was dead and he no nearer the end of his quest than before. Slowly and painfully, Parzival climbed up the slope to the path, and there, waiting for him, its reins dangling down as though in invitation, was the great black warhorse from Wild Mountain. Parzival swung up into the saddle. He had lost his lance, his sorrel, his hope, but he clung to the powerful flanks of the warhorse, and in the rhythmic stride and proud head he found a true friend for many a year to come.
Wild Mountain itself was not to be found. Another winter came. He and the warhorse slept close together, each body saving the other from a freezing death. Food was scarce for man and beast and hope more meager yet. The sun rose, the sun set, but there was no counting of the days. The world seemed a cold and endless wilderness. A man might ride forever and never come out into the sunlight or into sight of a great castle that refused to show its face.
So it was that on one of these nameless days, Parzival was riding to nowhere. There was a light snowfall and Parzival in his cold armor sat shivering in the saddle. He saw coming toward him through the woods a gray-bearded man, followed by his wife and two young daughters. They were dressed in sackcloth and their feet, despite the weather, were bare.
Parzival greeted the family with due courtesy, for their bearing was noble if not their attire. The old man greeted him in return, but with a rebuke. “I see, sir, that you are a knight. Why is it then that you do not observe this holy season? Why, in God’s Holy Name, do you ride armed, when you should, indeed, be walking barefoot?”
“There was a time,” Parzival answered, “that I knew the name of one called God. I even vowed him my service. But in return, this God gave me nothing but sorrow. So I do not look for help from that source anymore.”
“Do we speak of the same God?” the pilgrim asked. “Do you mean the one who came to earth born of a virgin? Do you mean he who died for our sins upon the dreadful cross on this very day? Do you mean the God who gave his life that all might live?”
Parzival did not answer.
“Follow us,” the pilgrim said gently. “There is a holy man not far from here. To him you can confess your misdeeds, and he will help you find forgiveness.”
The daughters were, to tell the truth, more interested in Parzival’s handsome face than in his sins. They persuaded their father that they should share their food with the knight and urged their parents to find a place where the poor fellow might warm himself. But Parzival thought, It will not do for me to go with these good folk. I no longer serve the God to whom they are devoted. So he thanked the pilgrims for their kindness and went on his unknown way.
Now, though, his mind was churning and his frozen heart began to break up like river ice in the thaw of spring. He recalled from his distant childhood echoes of his mother’s teaching and began to wonder. Who was it hung the stars and spread out the earth? Was it indeed the one called God? If such a one was powerful enough to create all things, might he not be able to grant comfort to a sorrowing soul? “Oh, God, if you can help,” Parzival cried out to the dark forest, “if you can help, then help me now.”
There was no answer from the silent trees, but in the stillness, Parzival felt a tiny stir of hope. “If,” he said to himself, “if God is so great, then he has the power to guide both man and beast. If he wishes to help me, he will guide my horse to find such help. Now,” he said, throwing the reins over the horse’s ears, “go. Go where God chooses.” With that he spurred his horse into a gallop.
Within minutes, the warhorse of Wild Mountain had borne him to the mouth of a cave where there dwelt a holy man, a hermit named Trevrizent. When the good man heard Parzival�
��s greeting, he came out. “Sir,” he said at once, “has some desperate encounter forced you into armor on this holy Good Friday? Dismount, if you will.”
Parzival did so. Then he told the hermit how his horse had brought him there and added, “Sir, if you can, guide me. For I am a sinner.”
“Tether your horse to yonder tree; then come in with me, for I can see that you are bitter cold.”
How good it felt to take off that icy steel and warm his limbs before the fire. There was no wine or meat or bread in that cave, but kindness makes a feast.
When Parzival was warmed, the hermit said, “Tell me, my son, why have you come to me?”
“There was a time,” Parzival said, “when my life was full of joy. I vowed to serve one called God, but he is the grandfather of all my troubles. It is said that God will help, but where was his help for me? He has given me nothing but sorrow.” In his anger, Parzival stood up. He began to pace back and forth before the hermit’s fire.
The hermit sighed. “First, sit you down,” he said. “I would that you could trust God, for he can help us both. He it is that both made the world and saves it by his grace. The angel Lucifer rebelled against God, and then, again, the first man that he made. But God is lover yet of all, and will, I know, be your true help. First, my son, tell me why you have such anger against him.”
“My greatest sorrow is for the Grail,” Parzival said. “And then for my wife. I long for them both.”
“It is fitting that a man should long for his wife,” the hermit said, “but it alarms me that you long for the Grail. That is arrogance itself. Don’t you know that no man approaches the Grail of his own will, but only he that the Grail bids to come? I know this because with these eyes I have seen that holy thing.”
“You were there in the presence of the Grail?” Parzival asked.
Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight Page 5