Crash!
The rusted helmet upon which Percival sat collapsed beneath him. He hit the dusty ground with a body-jarring jerk. The choking, dry earth rose around him like a cloud. Dust filled his nostrils. Dust stung his eyes. Rusted metal poked into his flanks.
Overhead, red flames crept across the gloom of the steely-gray ceiling of Hell. To either side lay his exhausted, hopeless comrades. Sir Lancelot sat against a tree stump. Thorny prongs had sprouted from the trunk and skewered him. Blood ran down his face and body. The once-noble Sir Gwaine wandered in winding circles, babbling like a suckling and waving his arms, as if attempting to fly, his sanity fled. The rest of the company were just as bad. Of Sir Kay, there was not even a sign.
Worst of all, noble Arthur himself-who had once been the Once and Future King-had tumbled face first into sucking mud, if that black oozing substance was mud.
The raucous laugher of their demon tormentors, mocking and belittling their once-bright hopes and conceits-rang true in Percival’s ears. Its sting was even more painful than the prongs of their pitchforks.
For it was true. Look at their proud company now.
Lost, broken, mad, fallen.
But these wounds, this madness, being lost, even suffocating in mud, none of it mattered. By morning-or, perhaps, brightening would be a better word, for nothing as fine as dawn came here-they would all recover, and torments would begin anew.
For all time. The entire once-proud company of the Table Round: damned to Hell for all eternity.
Dropping his head into his hands, Percival wept.
How had it come to this?
One Period of Unchartable Time Earlier, in the Dream-Like Void Beyond the Edge of the Universe:
Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi undulated in the Ever-Changing Waters, bored as a shoal-dweller could be. For some time now, it had been seeking a new diversion, but everything refused to divert. Watching the drams in the hard bubbles had become predictable. Performing in the play-plays brought no new tides. It had dextrovabopped until its dextrovaboppers were sore, but one could only pspangle in higher dimensions for so long. As for recreation, it had recreated with every type of living entity capable of entering into intimacy, but even that had lost its luster.
Truly, there was nothing new under the Uttermost Sea.
Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi swam for a bit between time and dibble, darting around a fugue. It headed was-ward, then changed its mind and did a backstroke in the will-ward direction. But this, too, failed to quell the strange feeling inside.
It almost felt…
Though Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi would never have gone that far.
And yet…
If only there were…
…something…
…more.
Thought-light flashed against its zucone reflectors. The message was from Sparme-filsam-sadpol. For ease of conversing, Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi settled on a shape, a male feldlivipool with fushia guide pads.
It flowed into a he.
Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi was very good at shapes. He had even worked as a shapetaker in a was-ward current.
Sparme-filsam-sadpol drew closer, spoobilating with excitement. “Did you hear about the new gig?”
“New gig?” Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi’s receptors twerked.
“Something totally new! New as tomorrow-come-yesterday.”
“What is it?” Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi could not deny that he was curious.
Could this be it?
The… something… that would fill the emptiness?
Sparme-filsam-sadpol plurted out, “We’re going to play at the hardies! Like in the bubs.”
Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi’s gall-flaps slumped. “I’ve performed in play-plays with hardie themes all-myriad of nows. There’s nothing new in that current.”
“Come on! The theme’s Camelot. You know you love King Arthur! It’s our favorite. The noble nights. The Holy Coop.”
“Not interested.”
“But we can’t do a great Arthurian play-play without you! You’re one of the best! You’ve been Sir Percival! You’ve been Sir Gwaine. You’ve been Sir Bors loads of times. You were even Lancelot once. The closest I’ve ever come to being Lancelot was that I once got to be understudy to his squire.”
“As you so glibly point out, I’ve done it all before.”
“But this time…” Sparme-filsam-sadpol paused for emphasis and then floojoliated shoreward. “We’re going there!”
Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi spun and looked shoreward. Beyond the Ever-Changing Waters, beyond the shoals and the dream-islands, beyond even the silver and gold sands of the Endless Shore that was the only border of the Uttermost Sea, the enormous glowing globes of hardness hung in the endless dark. Upon each globe, thousands of millions of living beings eeking out lives of un-changingness. If one whirbled the current correctly, one could watch their goings on, the drams—or dramas—of their lives.
“Going there?” Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi gasped. “To the hard bubbles? Is that even possible? You would have to be a shapetaker of leet and glorious skill!”
Sparme-filsam-sadpol quirrelled gleefully, “Want to find out?
And so they had formed a shining company.
They dreamed up an island—above the Sea and yet beneath the black lightning of the Ever-Storm—upon which to hold their court and practice their shapes. They had sung together, until they had raised up a castle, complete with its own Table Round. Seated at that august table, they had feasted on foamcakes and goblets of sky brine, while boasting bravely of the derring-do they planned to perform when their preparations were done.
They swore great oaths and vowed great vows. The words of these were taken from Arthur drams glimpsed among the hard bubs, so the brave court did not understand all of what they swore; however, that did not keep them from pronouncing their lines with gusto and mirth.
“By Zounds, I swear to do my best!”
“Never shall I commit outrage nor murder, this I vow!”
“Nor shall I by any means be cruel nor refuse mercy where requested!”
“Nor shall I ever do battle in wrongful quarrel!”
“This do I swear, by King Arthur, and by the god of King Arthur!”
And this they followed each time with a great cheer of:
“Might for Right!”
To prepare for their daring quest, they performed feats of strength and speed. They raced fierce sea horses, daring each other to be the first to touch the silver and gold sands of the Shore. They jousted and exchanged fierce sword blows, the winners aiding the losers in reattaching their lost limbs. They shot arrows… on days when they could find enough curious bystanders willing to take turns at being the arrows.
It was a grand and glorious time!
Sparme-filsam-sadpol was now bold Sir Kay, whose culinary skills rivaled his skill at arms. A crafty plew-player from the playscape of the Great Dreamer Hrugnir had claimed the role of noble Sir Gwaine. He soon proved their best archer. He even kept his own flock of killi-wends who were willing to play the part of arrows. A flame-herder from the ever-floatings of the Great Dreamer Bergelmir won the role of Sir Lancelot. No one could beat him at feats of arms—though after they changed the rules, and he was limited to only two upper limbs, a few of them came closer. Finally, a renowned lead-current, whose reputation for bringing justice to the court of the Great Dreamer Hrimfaxi was wide-renown, accepted the role of valiant King Arthur himself.
In similar fashion the other roles were filled. The history of the one who assumed the role of Sir Mordred no one knew, though it was rumored that he had come from Caer Rigor, where the Exile lived. Not that anyone believed such rumors, of course.
As for Ar-Lu-Viavorn-Askavi, he had chosen the role of his favorite knight, Sir Percival.
Back in Hell, the garish red among the gloom of steel gray grew brighter above them. Sir Percival found himself standing up among the whole company of his comrades. Sir Kay was back. Sir Gwaine blinked sanely. Sir Lancelot was whole. No mud-or anything other foul
residue-marred the face of King Arthur.
“Another day,” muttered Kay.
“Apparently, I am not to be granted even the tiny mercy of being allowed to remain mad,” sighed Gwaine. He stretched his arms behind his head.
“’Twould be a lie, were I to boast that I am dismayed that I am no longer stapled to a tree,” mused Lancelot. “Though likely today holds yet greater torment. Mayhaps we will again be set upon by snake-headed wolves, or eaten from within by worms, or burnt alive in molten lava.”
“Or given a feast that turns to dust in our mouth,” said Kay. “Or wine that burns our throats like acid.”
“Or shown a door to the world above that grows ever farther away, as we run toward it on bare feet, across molten lava and broken glass,” said Gwaine.
“Please,” King Arthur spoke gravely, “Let us make the most of this brief respite. Though, in truth, the dread of what will come is worse than the reality when it arrives.”
Looking back, it had been Mordred’s idea, though no one had realized it at the time. He had come to them privately, suggesting different aspects of his plan and then talking each of them into proposing to the others. And each of them, eager to appear as daring and bold as their role required, had thanked him.
They would do it!
They would learn to walk on the Shore!
They would enter the hard bubbles, which—they had learned from King Arthur, who knew about such things—the natives called worlds.
Then they would find Ivan the Magnificent, the emperor of all hard bubbles—or worlds—whom they knew lived somewhere among the many enormous spheres. They would demand that he undo the terrible decree that kept the inhabitants of the hard bubbles trapped as slaves forever, that forced them to toil their entire lives, unable to leave the awful stillness of their pitiful existence.
They would demand that he revoke the law of gravity!
So naïve had their company been of the ways of the hard bubbles that it was a wonder they ever survived crawling up onto the Endless Shore, much less that, amidst the millions of worlds, they had actually found the emperor. Though, looking back, that must have been Mordred’s work, as well. He had whispered useful tips to each of them, helping them “discover” what was needed at just the right moment. Perhaps, the rumor that he had come from Caer Rigor, said to be the one solid place in the Uttermost Sea, was not so far-fetched.
After all, hadn’t the Exile who dwelt there been exiled from the hard bubbles?
Slowly, the company had mastered holding their shapes. Then, they had learned to walk. Legs were odd and spindly things, especially when you couldn’t add tails or jets or wings or galiwhirls to help steady the balance.
Getting the hang of keeping their outer shape, however, was nothing to the rigors of holding an inner shape. To survive in the hard bubs, one had to have working inner organs, each of which did a different function. Keeping that all in mind was inordinately difficult. A few members had to bail because they could not master this. They were replaced with folks from among the ranks of shapetakers, who had experience in these areas. Sir Gwaine was one role whose actor changed. The plew-gamer and his killi-wends returned to Hrungnir’s playscape, and an old comrade of Percival from his shapetaking days took the part. This newcomer was skilled at producing fangs and venom, which was not useful for this venture in and of itself, but the same kind of careful thought was needed for working hearts and stomachs.
Conquering the difficulty of inner solidity became a quest in and of itself. All their powers of boldness and cheer they now focused upon this new goal. When one of their company fell, the others gathered around whomever had stumbled, calling upon him to try harder.
“In the name of Camelot, do not lose heart!”
“By the Table Round, a knight of Arthur never yields to discouragement!”
In this way, they good-naturedly encouraged one another to press forward, to overcome each new hurdle.
And overcome they would, the fallen one rising with the cry of: “By Zounds, I swear to do my best!”
In their dusty corner of the inferno, Percival had been listening silently to the others, as they spoke glumly of past torments and of tortures to come. Now, he glanced down at himself and gasped with joy. “Behold! My armor!”
He held out his arm. His once-rusty gauntlets shone like burning mirrors. His breastplate gleamed. Across his entire body, his armor was again hale and whole, free of rust. Looking around, he saw all the company were now arrayed with equal splendor. They stood as proud and shining as when first they had walked, dripping, out of the Uttermost Sea and onto the silver and gold sands of the Endless Shore.
“Our armor is repaired!” Percival cried. “And our swords! With these, we might finally escape! For armed and armored thus, we could take down that abhorrent beast that guards the…”
A strange noise sounded like raindrops striking dry earth. The shining silvery armor rusted before their eyes. Flakes of metal rained to the dust, until their gear was even more broken and corroded than the helmet that had snapped beneath Percival’s weight.
Percival let out a heavy sigh. “More fool me. I am ashamed that I fell for such a simple trick. That, after all this time, I would allow myself hope.”
“Hope springs eternal,” King Arthur replied gravely, bowing his head. “Above, this is what staves off despair. Here below, it is what guarantees it.”
Once they actually entered a hard bub, keeping their inner organs still became much easier. Their challenge, however, was that now they could hardly change, even if they desired to. They lost two of their company to improper shapeholding. These knights’ internal organs failed to work as required, and they went stiff and motionless. No attempts to rouse them to do better succeeded. They both had to be thrown back into the Sea.
That had been unnerving for Percival.
Usually, when someone loses at a play-play, they eject naturally, without their companions having to carry them to the perimeter of the playscape. This time, even after being thrown back, their stiff companions sank like stones. The company had looked on with concern but had assured each other that surely time in the Ever-Changing Waters would thaw their lost friends again, and all would be well.
Mordred had taken that moment to remind them that all this difficulty was because of the tyrannical rule of gravity.
Their fervor for their noble quest was kindled anew!
With raucous screams, a flock of demons dived out of the steel gray sky and circled the company. Eerie disruptive music accompanied their wingbeats, music that aided in disturbing the mind.
“Hope,” snorted the fat red demon who led the flock. He poked King Arthur in the back through the now-gaping hole in his armor. “Still? After all this time? Aha! Aha!”
“Aha! Aha!” choired the other members of the flock of winged fiends, in their grating, sing-song voices. Percival did not know what this chorus meant, but the demons often used it to punctuate their declarations.
“You think they would learn,” chortled a skinny black one, who stuck his trident into a yelping Sir Kay. “But then, had they been able to learn, they would not be here, would they?”
Ivan the Magnificent had met with them in his throne room upon Mount Eternal. He listened graciously to their demands, though Percival had felt certain the emperor was laughing at them behind his calm demeanor. Many of the lords of his court were not so gracious and openly snickered at the brave companions.
“I fear I cannot do as you require,” the emperor said.
“Cannot? Or will not!” cried Lancelot, the boldest of them. “Yield to our fair request or meet us upon the field of glorious battle! For we shall face you, be you willing or nigh. This do I swear, by King Arthur, and by the god of King Arthur!”
“Might for Right!” cried the company.
“Tell me,” asked Ivan the Magnificent, “Have you ever been to battle?”
“Certainly, I have battled troll armies! And giants!” cried Lancelot, who was a veteran
of many adventurous play-plays.
“And the armies of the Krueg!” cried another member of the company.
“And the squid of Lorador!”
“And willy-waglors! Gerryumphing willy-waglors!”
“I… see.” The emperor did not seem to know quite what to make of this. “And were you victorious?”
“Always!” shouted the company together. “Might for Right!”
“Always?” the emperor looked dubious.
“By King Arthur and the god of King Arthur, I vow it is true!” cried Lancelot. “No knight of Arthur’s utters lies!”
“Indeed,” Ivan the Magnificent pursed his lips. “Still, I cannot do as you request. For a higher emperor than I has decreed the law you wish revoked. You shall have to apply to Him, if you wish it changed.”
“And who is that?’ challenged King Arthur.
Ivan the Magnificent smiled slightly. “Why the one you have called upon twice now: the God of King Arthur.”
Sir Percival and the others had questioned the emperor about this gravity-imposing tyrant, whom Ivan referred to as God. They realized the emperor must be describing the Great Dreamer running the hard bubbles playscape, a being who stood to these changeless worlds the way Hrimfaxi or Bergelmir or dread Hrungnir stood to their enterable-dreams that the denizens of the Uttermost Sea called play-plays.
Ivan the Magnificent had tried to warn them that this was not so, that this being was something else entirely, a Creator-King whom King Arthur and his knights—the real King Arthur—had willingly served. This Creator-King had created everything, claimed the emperor, even those from the Uttermost Sea were His creations.
Sir Percival and his fellow knights had laughed him to scorn, spouting witty jests about how deceived these hard bub folks were—not even being able to tell the difference between a “creator” and a Great Dreamer.
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 33