Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight

by Katherine Paterson

  “I was,” the hermit replied, but Parzival could not bring himself to say that he, too, had seen the Grail.

  “I do not boast,” the hermit continued, “for it was not by my deserving that I saw the Grail but by God’s grace. Guard against pride, my son.” Trevrizent stirred the embers so that they danced up. He seemed not to see the pain in Parzival’s eyes. “I shall tell you an unhappy tale of pride. There is a king called Anfortas, whose pride has brought him to the most terrible agony. In his youth, he pursued vain honor and the admiration of pretty ladies. These things are not in accord with the Grail. Now he lies there at Wild Mountain guarded by the knights of the Grail, who do not let anyone enter there, except”—and here the hermit sighed—“one callow youth, and for him it would have been better if he had never come. He failed to ask about the king’s wound and so rode away bound in sin.”

  He turned now to look Parzival in the face. “But I digress. Anfortas was son and heir to that castle, but he was not content to follow the direction of the Grail. One of the castle knights had met his death in a joust and lost his armor and warhorse thereby to a knight named Lahelin.” His eyes narrowed. “Your name is not Lahelin, is it? I ask because I saw on your horse’s saddle the sign of the turtledove, which is the emblem of the knights of Wild Mountain.”

  “No,” Parzival answered. “I am the son of a man who died in battle. I beg you remember him in your prayers. His name was Gahmuret. I am not Lahelin. I never stripped a corpse but once, when I was a green youth who knew no better. I should confess this crime to you. I slew Sir Ither, the Red Knight, with a javelin, and when he was stretched out dead, I took from him his armor, his weapons, and his horse.”

  “Then you are Parzival,” the hermit said. “Alas, poor nephew, you have sinned more than you know, for you are blood kin to Ither, whose blood you have shed. And more than that, my dear sister Herzoloyde has died for sorrow that you left her side.”

  “Don’t tell me that!” Parzival cried. “If you are my uncle, tell me in truth. Tell me that I have not killed both my cousin and my mother.”

  “I cannot lie,” the holy man said. “You broke my sister’s heart when you left. Another sister, the mother to that unfortunate Sigune, died at her daughter’s birth. Our youngest and last remaining sister serves as mistress in Wild Mountain, where my poor brother is king but has no joy in that title.

  “Your grandfather, King Frimutel, died when we were young, and my brother Anfortas became his heir. But when the first bristles appeared on his cheek, he sought out many loves and bold adventure, careless of the life that must be lived by one who is protector of the Grail.

  “A heathen king approached, determined to win the Grail for himself, and Anfortas, arrayed in pride, rode out to joust with him. The heathen king was slain, but my brother carried back to Wild Mountain the point of that infidel’s lance and part of the shaft, buried in his side. He was so pale, we thought that he would surely die, but the physician probed deep into that wound until he drew out both lance point and bamboo shaft. In gratitude, I gave up all knightly honor on that day and gave myself to God.

  “ ‘Who will be protector of the Grail?’ they asked, for my brother’s wound had festered. But I did not believe that God would let him die. We carried him into the presence of the Grail, and indeed, he did not die. But his continued life proved affliction greater than death would ever be.

  “We sent to every part of the world for herbs and balms and antidotes, but there was nothing found that could ease his pain. At last, we fell down before the Grail and on our knees asked for some sign that his agony would have an end. We were directed to a certain ancient writing. A knight would come, it said, and ask the question, and all our sorrows would be ended. But no one, man, woman, or child, was to prompt the knight. He must ask the question out of his own compassion or else it would prove harmful to the king, causing him pain more terrible than before. If the knight should fail to ask the question, then so would fail his power to heal. But if he should ask the question, then that same knight would become king and all sorrow would cease. Anfortas would be healed, but he would be king no more.”

  For a long time, the hermit was silent. But Parzival could not speak.

  “We waited,” the hermit continued, “for the coming of this good knight. We nursed my poor brother’s wound as best we could, though nothing eased the pain. At times, the stench from the wound grew so terrible that we would carry him down to the lake so that the wind would carry away the odor. Those who saw him there thought he had come to fish. It was from this that people came to call him the Angler.

  “After several years, I left Wild Mountain and came to this place to pray that the knight would hasten. My prayer was heard. A knight did come. The one I told you of earlier. Would to God that he had left my prayer unanswered. This knight was led to the castle, he saw my brother in his agony, but he did not ask the question. He left in shame.”

  The hermit got to his feet. “Enough of these sad tales,” he said. “We must find nourishment for you and your poor horse. It is too bad that snow lies so late upon the ground. I have none of the fodder of Wild Mountain to offer, nor its rich foods. We shall have to gather bracken and yew tips to feed your mount and dig roots for our own supper.”

  After prayers, they ate the humble supper the hermit had prepared. “Nephew,” he said. “Pray do not despise this food.”

  “I have never tasted better,” Parzival answered.

  They went out to where the horse was tied. The good man stroked his nose. “I apologize, my friend,” he said to the horse, “for your poor meal. If you were at home in Wild Mountain where you belong, you would be feasting now.”

  At this, Parzival could hold back his secret no longer. “Dear Uncle, I have come to you in my extremity and you have received me with all kindness. Please, I beg you, do not cast me out now, or I will be completely without hope. I swear to you that I was wholly without evil intent, but that man who rode to Wild Mountain, who saw the Grail and the sorrow, and who still asked no question—I was that man.”

  The hermit was unable to contain his grief. “What are you saying? Where were the five senses God gave you? How could you be in the presence of Anfortas’s agony and not cry out in compassion?”

  Parzival covered his face and began to weep. “There is no hope for me. I have killed kinsman and mother and failed the quest ordained by God. I curse the day my mother brought me into the light!”

  “Do not despair, my son,” the hermit said gently, laying his hand on Parzival’s shoulder. “Though every human voice should curse you and every human heart harden itself against you, the mercy of God knows no bounds. God himself will not abandon you.”

  Then Trevrizent drew the grieving Parzival back into the cave and gently urged him to do penitence for his wrongdoing and to put his trust once more in God, , who creates and saves.

  “But still, Nephew,” he said, “you have not told me how you came to be riding a horse from Wild Mountain. I pray that upon your other sins you have not stolen something that belongs to the Grail.”

  So Parzival told him about the joust with the knight from Wild Mountain.

  “You did not kill a knight from that castle!”

  “No, Uncle, I saw him safely away, but my own poor horse lay dead and this warhorse I won by fair battle.”

  His uncle was content. For a week or more, Parzival stayed there with Trevrizent, learning more of the mercy of God and the depths of his love. He was happy to share the roots and herbs that the hermit ate. He still did not know the way to Wild Mountain when he rode forth from that holy cave, but his heart was cleansed and full of hope.

  Six

  The Grail Ring

  PARZIVAL did not know as he rode forth so hopefully from Trevrizent’s cave that the greatest battle of his life lay just ahead. An infidel king, whose ships lay at anchor in a nearby port, was riding out alone, bent on adventure. When he saw Parzival approach, the infidel raised his lance in challenge. This time, P
arzival was not mooning over drops of blood on the snow. He saw the strangely appareled knight at the same moment as he was seen. The two of them spurred their mounts forward and charged.

  The infidel was amazed. Never had a knight kept his saddle under such a charge. Both knights renewed the attack, galloping toward each other again and again and again until the mouths of their great warhorses were afoam and both beasts too weary to continue.

  The two warriors leapt from their saddles. It was Ither’s sword that Parzival drew from its sheath. He had left the sword from Wild Mountain with Trevrizent, for it seemed too heavy a burden to bear.

  The infidel matched him blow for blow. Both helmets were badly dented. Both knights could feel warm blood flow beneath the cold steel of their armor.

  At last, with one mighty stroke, Parzival brought Ither’s sword crashing down upon the infidel’s helmet. The blow toppled his opponent to the ground, but Ither’s sword broke off at the hilt. The blade went flying off into the underbrush.

  The infidel jumped to his feet, his sword still in his hand. Parzival steeled himself against one last fatal blow. It did not come. Instead, his enemy spoke: “I vow. You are the kind of man who would keep fighting without a weapon. But how could I gain honor from such a victory? If we stop fighting now, you will lose no honor, for I swear if your sword had not broken, you would have made chopped meat of me. I propose a truce—at least until we can catch our breath and rest our bones.”

  The weary Parzival nodded, and both men sat down against a grassy mound. The infidel spoke first. “Who are you, bold knight? It is not hard to guess that you come from noble parentage.”

  When Parzival hesitated, the stranger went on. “No,” he said. “I have been discourteous. I will not force you to reveal yourself. But let me introduce myself to you. I am Feirefiz Angevin, king of many lands, but they are far from here.”

  “You cannot be called Angevin!” Parzival said. “I am Angevin, heir through my father of Anjou.” As he spoke, he remembered something Cundrie the Sorceress had said that terrible day when she had cursed him in the presence of Arthur’s court. “Still, there is one other who might call himself Angevin. He lives in heathen lands, but he may be my brother. Sir,” said Parzival, rising to his feet, “if you would take off that helmet and let me see you, I could tell if you might be he. Don’t fear, I shall not attack you unhelmeted.”

  The infidel laughed and stood up. “You could hardly attack me at all without a sword, unless you mean to wrestle. That would hardly be a fair fight, as, on your first hold”—he pointed his sword at the buckle on Parzival’s breastplate—“I could take my sword and part you flesh from sinew. Here,” he said, hurling his sword far into the bushes, “now we are even. Tell me about this infidel brother of yours.”

  Parzival told the strange knight what Cundrie had said. “So,” he concluded, “he is neither black as a Moor nor white as an Angevin. He must rather be pied, a mixture of black and white, though I’m not sure how that can be.”

  Again Feirefiz laughed. But then he took off his helmet, and, indeed, he was neither wholly white nor black, but something between the two. When Parzival saw that the strange knight was truly his brother, he took off his own helmet and embraced him.

  Feirefiz was overjoyed. “Take me to see our father,” he said. “All my life I have longed to see his face.”

  “I, too,” said Parzival, “but, alas, he died before I was born. But come, I will take you to Arthur’s court. There you will meet kinsfolk aplenty.”

  When Sir Gawain heard that Parzival and a stranger were riding for the place where Arthur’s court was presently encamped, he rode out with joy to meet them. He greeted them both and took them to his own tent so they might bathe off the grime and rust of battle, and he gave them fresh garments to wear.

  Again, the king ordered a feast where Parzival and his new-met brother would be the guests of honor. Feirefiz was deeply touched by the king’s warm hospitality. He sent word to his ships that gold and jewels should be brought. These he distributed to everyone, so that even the strolling entertainers left that place rich as nobles.

  In the midst of the feasting, a horse and rider appeared. The rider was a woman dressed in rich black samite. Her robe was decorated with a flock of turtledoves embroidered in fine gold thread. No one could see her face because it was covered by a heavy black veil.

  She rode into the middle of the circle to where King Arthur and his queen were seated. She greeted them both. “Son of Pendragon,” she said. “I have come to beg forgiveness for a great wrong that I have done to one of your noble guests.”

  Immediately, she turned to Parzival, who sat beside the queen. She climbed off her great black horse and fell on her knees before him. “Son of Gahmuret,” she said. “For the sake of your good mother, grant me pardon for the wrong I have done you.” Parzival realized then that the woman was Cundrie the Sorceress.

  “Your curse has given me much pain,” he said. “But the sin was mine alone. I bear you no malice.”

  “Oh, happy man!” Cundrie cried out, and when she stood, everyone could see that it was she. “God is about to show his grace through you. You are destined to be the Grail King. Already God’s mercy is at work. Your wife, Condwiramurs, had twin sons soon after you left her. They are now lusty lads—five years old. Kardeiz shall one day rule over Anjou and Waleis and Norgals, which are yours by birth, but as for Lohengrin, he shall be your heir at Wild Mountain.

  “Now, my lord, choose one companion whom you trust with all your heart and follow me. For I am sent to lead you into the presence of the Grail.”

  With joy, Parzival asked his brother Feirefiz to go with him, and as soon as they could make themselves ready, the Lady Cundrie led the two sons of Gahmuret to the castle of the Grail.

  There was no joy at Wild Mountain. It was the time of year when Anfortas knew the severest pain. He longed for death; indeed, he would have died, except that his people brought into his chamber the Grail, whose dreadful power kept the wretched king alive.

  “If you had any love for me,” Anfortas groaned, “you would not bring it near me. You would leave me free to die. What good am I to you? I can no longer rule, for I myself am nothing more than slave to this most grievous pain. Pray, let me die.”

  Still they would not remove the Grail. “If you do not let me die,” the king cried out, “I will stand before the throne on the Day of Judgement and curse you all before Almighty God.”

  His people were sorely tempted to release him, but they clung to that faint hope, once dashed, that a deliverer would come. So even as he cried and railed against them, they daily brought in the Grail and forced the king to live against his will.

  They were not pitiless. They nursed him as tenderly as they could, anointing him with precious oils and rubbing his body with powders ground from the horns of exotic beasts. They brought in spices and burned incense from distant lands, seeking to cleanse the noxious airs that rose from the king’s gangrenous wound.

  But the king could only curse their ministrations, and all, all was sorrow in that dread place.

  And then one morning, as the guards of Wild Mountain rode out to patrol the forests of the Land of Wildness, they spied the Lady Cundrie accompanied by two knights. A shout rang out and sounded and resounded through the forest.

  Feirefiz was alarmed as an armed troop of men on black horses appeared to block their way and he urged his brother to the attack, but Cundrie caught his reins. “They are the Knight Templars of Wild Mountain,” she said, “come to escort us.”

  When Parzival and Feirefiz reached the courtyard of the castle, they were offered baths and fresh garments, but Parzival would not wait. He took off only his helmet. “Lead me to the king,” he said.

  At the great door, he hesitated, for there, propped against his pillows, lay Anfortas, shivering beneath his furs. Burning incense could not hide the stench that permeated the air. The king looked across the hall to where Parzival stood, but he did not seem to rec
ognize his nephew. His face was so drawn and contorted with pain that it looked to Parzival as one carved onto a crucifix. Poor, wretched man. Why did no one come to his aid?

  Tears sprang to Parzival’s eyes and he cried out, running as fast as his heavy armor would allow. He fell on his knees beside the king. “Dear Uncle,” he said, through his sobs, “what is wrong with you?”

  “God be praised,” the king said. “You have come at last.”

  The Grail Knight had come. He had in his compassion asked the question, and King Anfortas was healed. But as the writing foretold, Anfortas was no longer king. Gladly, he gave his crown to Parzival and became one of the Templars whose life was devoted to the Grail. Feirefiz, too, rose to great honor. He married Anfortas’s sister Repanse de Schoye, the very maiden who had been deemed worthy to bear the Grail in her own hands.

  But before these things happened, the two of them went forth, Parzival and Feirefiz together, to meet Queen Condwiramurs and her twin sons. The reunion between Parzival and his lady was, for all its tears, so joyful that it cannot be told here with any justice. Just say that the brave and compassionate pair grew wiser and more loving with every passing year and that their praise was sung in many distant lands.

  This is not the end. There are many stories left to tell—of Feirefiz, the Noble Infidel; of kindly Gawain; of his fellow knights and their beloved king. Young Lohengrin himself went forth one day from Wild Mountain, bearing the secret of the Grail. But that, too, is another story, to be told another day.

  About This Legend

  SOMETIME in the latter part of the twelfth century, there was born to a Bavarian family of the lesser nobility a son who was destined to become one of the greatest German medieval poets. Wolfram von Eschenbach became a knight, serving a number of feudal lords, and then, during the early part of the thirteenth century (probably between 1200 and 1210), this knight who claimed that he was illiterate wrote a 25,000-line epic poem that has endured for nearly eight hundred years.