Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  The following days were strange ones for Patrick. Marcus was correct when he said he would ask all manner of questions. And strange questions they were. At first Patrick did not see the point in them. Then he came to realize that they were a form of evaluation of his character by way of example. These often took place while on long walks around the outer wall. The weather was improving, and outdoor activity was becoming the norm.

  One such question: “Gawain, if you were walking down the street one day and you came across a young girl whose kitten was stuck in a tree, would you stop to help?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you are in a hurry, the king awaits your audience.”

  “Is the girl crying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would stop to help.”

  Another time, while Marcus accompanied the Irishman on walks with steeper paths to challenge his health, the Englishman asked; “Gawain, you catch a man robbing your house, but he is not stealing valuables, only food, for he is poor and his family is starving. What do you do with the man?”

  “I let him take the food.”

  “But you are poor yourself.”

  “But I have food, and he does not. I am not as poor as he.”

  And then; “Gawain, you are in combat and you see your liege fall under the attack of many. What do you do?”

  “I ride to his side.”

  “You have no hope of survival.”

  “Better dead than a failure.”

  Marcus looked at Patrick curiously. The answer was quick and the Irishman looked sternly forward, deep in thought, saying no more.

  And so the questions went on for days. Patrick felt that he answered most of them wisely. The ones he had doubts about, he wagered that it was best to tell the truth, what he would really do in such a situation. He also answered many questions about his family, his reasons for leaving home, his travels in the Holy Land, and his general point of view on life. Marcus seemed to find him interesting, and once, he said, a little difficult to follow.

  “An Avangarde must have stability, a strong grasp on reality,” the tall knight emphasized.

  Patrick did not mention the robed Apparition that had paid him visits.

  His fighting ability was tested the day after the questioning. This took place at the base of the walls that formed the inner battlements, higher up on the island where there were trees and rocks, and not so many people about. There was much sunshine now. The demonstration of fighting skills was much easier than the questioning. Marcus only demanded simple demonstrations of the different defensive, offensive, and passive use of the weapons with which Patrick was already familiar. The two men fenced. Patrick found Marcus a capable fighter.

  “Your methods are unorthodox but effective,” Marcus pointed out.

  Patrick gave a light smile, while stroking away at his sword with a sharpening stone when the sparring was complete. “I have seven brothers and three sisters, remember? They were a quarrelsome brood.”

  The third day began with Marcus bringing Patrick to the location where they had fenced and placed a rather large rock on Patrick's head. He told him to balance it there until he said otherwise. Then he went and laid down under the shade of a tree, stretching out his arms and putting them behind his head.

  After an hour of sweating in the sun and listening to the sound of insects buzzing in the sparse grass among the rocks, Patrick tossed the rock.

  “You know what I think?” the Irishman asked.

  Marcus opened his eyes. “No, what might that be?”

  “I think you have no intention whatsoever of telling me when to put the rock down. You want to keep me guessing. To perdition with that.” Patrick folded his arms, as if to challenge any response Marcus might have.

  Marcus clapped his hands. “Very good, my Celtic warrior.”

  And that was the end of that.

  #

  The following day Marcus told Patrick that he did not want to see him. He wanted to confer with his entourage about the matter.

  The morning after that, however, Patrick awoke to find the knight standing over his bed. “Congratulations. You are an Avangarde reserve now.” He then poured the pitcher of water over the Irishman. “Get dressed. Let us break our fast.” And then he went out the door, laughing.

  Patrick sat there pulling at the soaked sheets, shocked by the total irreverence of it all.

  After they broke their fast, there was somewhat of a ceremony. Patrick was asked to recite the oath of the station and was touched on both shoulders by Marcus's blade.

  “I pronounce you a reservist of the Avangarde,” Marcus said, and followed it with something in Latin that Patrick did not hear clearly.

  And finally it was time for Marcus Ionus to leave.

  “I must be getting back to my duties,” he said. “I consider myself very fortunate that I came across you here. You have cut my journey in half.”

  He gave Patrick a small leather volume with incredibly small print. “Read this. It is the basis for all the Garde as well as the establishment that it protects. All Garde and reservists alike must know it thoroughly. You should have enough time to finish it before you arrive at Avalon. As for getting to Avalon, take this.” He handed Patrick a rolled scroll of waxed parchment with a seal on it. The seal was of a swan. “Show it to any fisherman of Cornwall. It will be recognized.”

  “Fisherman?”

  “Yes, fisherman. Whatever you do, do not break the seal. It is your only way through the mist.”

  “What if I accidentally break it?”

  “Take care that you do not. The fisherman will take you to where you need to go. From there, you will meet a man named Wolfgang von Fiescher. With him you will finish your journey.”Marcus mounted his horse. “Good luck, young Sir Irishman.”

  “Will I see you at Avalon?” Patrick asked. Marcus gave that now-familiar smile.

  “No, my days in Avalon are done. I work for it on the outside now. My next destination is London, then finally Rome where I maintain certain correspondence for the Misty Isle. Someone has to do it. Do not worry, I will send word of your arrival.”

  With that, he gave a salute and a farewell, and rode away with his men. That was the last time that Patrick Gawain saw him.

  #

  Patrick stayed a few more days at Mont St. Michel. He started to read the volume that Marcus had left. Although small, it proved to be long and tedious reading and though he was fortunate that his mother had sent him to the parish school, he was not a proficient reader. Before putting it down out of frustration, he got a better glimpse of what was in store for him: The pages reiterated the Avangarde’s singularity, but he was unsure if his duty was to guard the inhabitants or to keep them happy. The little book mentioned again and again the Avangarde’s presence with the guests as well as the maintenance and protection of the establishment. Patrick expected that all would be made clear when he arrived. With that, he put the little book down.

  When it was time for him to leave, the monks gave him a hearty farewell.

  “I will really miss you, too,” he said under his breath as he rode out the front gate. It was easy to find passage to England, although he detested the sea journey. It seemed he would now and forever hate water.

  He landed on the coast of Land's End in Cornwall and wasted no time getting on with the journey.

  At Cornwall he sold his horse. From what he understood, he would not be able to transport it on the fisherman's boat, but he kept the saddle, tack and harness. He went down to the docks, introduced himself at the first boat he found, and showed the sealed scroll to the captain.

  “Do you understand what this means?” Patrick asked.

  “Why, yes, m’lord,” the man replied. “I would be happy to oblige yea.” He gestured for Patrick to get onboard. Before Patrick stepped on, he turned and looked to the direction from whence he came. He was about to make another life changing decision. He could feel it, just like he felt it when he decided to leave home so long a
go, and again when he decided to join the Crusade. What was going to happen this time? When was the wandering going to end? Was he making the right choice?

  He had no answers. He seldom, if ever, did.

  “Do you have a problem with rats on board?” the Irishman asked.

  “M’lord?”

  “Never mind.” And Patrick stepped down onto the deck of the single-masted fishing vessel. He sat on a bench in the aft of the boat and stayed out of the way so the fishermen could go about their business.

  And then suddenly, as he turned to watch the port slip away behind, he thought about the ghostly Apparition that had been appearing to him during his sickness. He mused that if the thing was indeed a spirit, then it could not follow him, because legend said that evil spirits could not cross large bodies of water.

  #

  He was wrong.

  For there it was. Staring at him. The thing suddenly stepped forward and smoothly made its way to Patrick's position. The knight gave a start, closed his eyes, and curled up on the bench, stricken with fear. Although still a little weak, Patrick knew he was mostly recovered and had been for quite a while now. Therefore, he no longer had any reason for the visions. He could no longer blame it on fever. He was haunted―a dead man.

  And then suddenly, miraculously, the boat stopped its violent pitching and the clouds broke.

  “All clear, Sir!” one of the crew members cried.

  “And thar be the mist!” another yelled. There was scurrying about the vessel.

  Patrick looked up tentatively and saw that the Apparition was gone. When he saw this, he stumbled to his feet and leaned over the railing, and vomited violently into the water.

  “Where is the Sir?” the captain called.

  Somebody responded, “He be over here, feeding the fish.”

  “Best tell him to get ready. His ride is here.”

  Patrick looked up and saw that the fishing boat was now traveling in a placid ocean under a crystal-blue sky. A wall of pearly mist stretched as far as he could see in either direction.

  A small rowboat with a single oarsman was coming out of the mist.

  “M’lord, yea best be gathering yourself,” somebody suggested. The man sounded eager to be seeing him gone.

  I will really miss you, too.

  Patrick wiped his chin and picked up his belongings and headed to the front of the boat. As he did, the crew cleared a path for him as if they were afraid. Patrick could see it in their eyes. He handed his belongings to the ferryman and then climbed in. The ferryman threw a small leather bag to the captain of the fishing boat, who caught it and gave a slight nod. The dinghy pulled steadily away from the fishermen.

  Just before the mist obscured the sight of the fishing boat, Patrick Gawain could see the crew making the sign of the Holy Cross.

  Chapter Two

  Traveling through the pearly, wet mist took some time. During the journey, Patrick’s only company was the sound of the creaking oars splashing into the water over and over again.

  He tried making conversation with the boatman, but the man, garbed in the same simple wool and leather clothing as the fisherman he just left behind, did not speak much and only made curt responses to Patrick's questions.

  “Are you Wolfgang von Fiescher?” the Irishman asked. The man gave a quick bemused shake of the head, as if to say of course not.

  And so the journey went, long enough for Patrick to go over and over in his head what he would say to von Fiescher after meeting him.

  Eventually the mist gave way to bright sunlight and crystal-blue sky. Ahead was land, a rolling mass of green that rose only slightly above the sea. Whether it indeed was an island was difficult to ascertain because the shore extended for some length to either side. In any case, it was large. Patrick found it difficult to believe that such an extensive mass of land could go undetected for so long, so close to the lands of Britain. He looked around. The mist on this side was not as wall-like as it had been when he arrived on the fishing boat. In fact, it was now hardly discernible, giving way to a glassy ocean.

  “So this is Avalon.” Patrick meant it more as a statement rather than a question. The boatman bobbed his head with a smile. They moved on steadily, long enough for Patrick to take in the scenery some more until reaching the shore. Here was a sandy beach, which separated from the water sheer cliffs not unlike those at Cornwall. Several docks stretched from the land like fingers extending from a hand. They seemed sturdy enough and could accommodate a larger vessel than the simple boat in which the Irishman had arrived.

  The boat was moored at a ladder and the rower offered to help Patrick and his belongings up onto the dock. He accepted the help, and when he was well established on dry land, the rower climbed back into the dingy, unmoored it, and started to row away.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” the Irishman called. The man waved farewell. Patrick cursed. This was all very unusual indeed. Everything from the manner of Marcus Ionus' introduction to his arrival on Avalon was strange.

  “Sir Gawain.”

  He turned in the direction of the voice. Just at the end of the dock was a man sitting astride a great horse with a second horse and a pony in tow. The man dismounted and approached. Patrick made his way towards the man, struggling with his gear.

  As the two drew nearer to one another, Patrick noted that the man was taller and stood ramrod straight. He walked with natural authority, and his gaze suggested that he had every right to. He was dressed as a knight with silvery mail, a dark surcoat with a border of white, and an equally white swan symbol emblazoned on the surcoat. Girded about his waist by a thick belt was a broadsword, held in a scabbard criss-crossed by strips of leather. His face was lined, and he had a large, silvery-grey drooping mustache the same color as his full, bushy head of hair.

  “You need not have brought your saddle, young sir,” the man said as he clasped hands with Patrick. He had a Teutonic accent. “One will be provided for you as well as a horse.”

  Patrick looked at his saddle with displeasure. Carrying the saddle had been annoying, all the more so now.

  “I had not asked Marcus Ionus about the matter. Perhaps I should have,” Patrick pointed out.

  “It is of no consequence,” the man said.

  “You must be von Fiescher,” Patrick stated.

  The man nodded. “That I am. And you are Sir Patrick Gawain of Galway, in Eire.”

  Patrick gave a courtly bow.

  “Do you have the invitation that Marcus Ionus gave you?”

  “Sir?” Patrick was puzzled for a moment, and then he remembered the scroll with the swan seal. He placed some of his belongings on the ground in order to search through his bag. After a moment, he retrieved the scroll and handed it to von Fiescher.

  Patrick’s jaw dropped when the seal glowed and made an audible pop when opened by Wolfgang. Von Fiescher looked over the parchment, seemed satisfied, and stuffed it in his surcoat while exclaiming “Welcome to Avalon, Sir Patrick.”

  #

  The other horse that Wolfgang von Fiescher had brought was for Patrick. It was a warhorse, a powerful chestnut stallion at least seventeen hands high. Von Fiescher called the animal Siegfried after the hero of the Volsung saga.

  Patrick felt undeserving of such a fine beast, though von Fiescher told him not to feel indebted. All Avangardesmen and reservists got a good horse. “But do not become too attached,” he warned. “They belong to the Order and are only yours during your service.” The pony was to carry any of Patrick’s belongings. In addition to his traveling bag, there was the old saddle with its tack, his bedroll, shield, helm, and few other miscellaneous things. He was wearing his own suit of mail covered by his family's surcoat of green on which was sewn a gold dragon. His long sword was at his hip. Draped over his shoulders was the great-cloak, still damp from his sea journey.

  Patrick placed the bulk of his equipment on the pony and then climbed into Siegfried's saddle. He then followed von Fiescher's lead. The horse was fearsome loo
king, but was actually friendly and had wanted to nuzzle his hands before he mounted.

  “He seems to have taken a liking to you, young sir,” Wolfgang pointed out. Patrick was happy. It was the first truly nice gesture anyone had made towards him in quite a while, and he could not help but wonder how long it would be before Siegfried decided not to be his friend, like David and the others. He tried to banish the thought from his mind. Instead, he made conversation and asked questions.

  “So, please tell me, Sir von Fiescher, what is your function with the Avangarde?”

  They were trotting up a dirt path from what Patrick now realized was a sort of tiny harbor. This path ascended to the point where it was level with the top of the cliffs.

  “You might say that I am the Grand Master of the Order, yet that is a rather crude description, for there is no one Grand Master. The control of the Avangarde is divided amongst myself, the staff of the Keep at Greensprings and, of course, the Patrons on the outside. I am mostly charged with training the members of the Order.”

  Von Fiescher rode straight in his saddle and looked ahead from beneath bushy brows with an ever-searching gaze. He looked very serious, and Patrick surmised that this was his usual posture.

  “What is the Keep at Greensprings?”

  Wolfgang seemed somewhat puzzled by this question. “Did Marcus Ionus not tell you of it?”

  Patrick replied, “No, he was somewhat ambiguous about the whole nature of the Order. It appeared to me to be somewhat of a secret and was to remain so until I arrived. Therefore I did not question much. I was just happy to be accepted.”

  Now Wolfgang was amused and muttered something about his protégé slacking off. “The Keep at Greensprings,” he explained, “is the stronghold for the Avangarde as well as the establishment that accepts and houses our charges, our Guests if you will.”

  They left the sea cliffs behind and passed through fields of tall sword grass that swayed in the wind. Off to the left near the cliffs were several long rows of standing stones. The arrangement suggested that they had been placed there deliberately. The stones were of a black, crude rock that was different from the neighboring rock. In his lifetime, Patrick had seen many such arrangements in his homeland in Eire and had heard of others in Britain, Brittany, and Normandy. Some were set by men of Patrick's own ancestry a few generations back, but others were incredibly ancient. Indeed they were often called the bones of the earth, and no one was quite sure who placed them or for what purpose. Some said they were not placed by human hands at all but by the Fey, the Fair Folk, before the coming of man. Others maintained that they were created by magic. The great circle of Salisbury called Stonehenge was thought by many to have been erected by the magic of Merlin. The standing stones on the western shores of Gaul were thought to be the remnants of an army turned to stone by magic.