Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  “Have you seen these books?”

  “No,” replied the librarian. “Though I have the key to the vault that houses them, I respect wishes to let them be.”

  “These books concern Avalon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have no desire for books, but I do wish to know more about this island that I find myself on,” Patrick said.

  Father Benis nodded and gave him a whimsical smile. “You must be referring to the Bush Beating that stirred up the Huntsman.”

  Patrick was surprised at the man's nonchalance. “It doesn't amaze you?”

  “On the contrary, I find it very, very fascinating. But you must understand, I've been here for a while and have seen a thing or two.” Father Benis shrugged. “There are many such manifestations. You must have heard as much from your Avangarde friends who venture outside these walls more than I.”

  “But what are they?”

  The priest was thoughtful. “I believe that they are images of days gone by. Echoes of ancient events.” At Patrick's confused look, the librarian said, “Metaphysically speaking, they are like the ripples on the surface of a pond. Though you can no longer see the stone that dropped into the water, you can still see the movement that it caused.”

  “I can almost believe that. But images of goblins and legendary figures? Does that mean that they actually existed, then? What happened to them?”

  The priest withdrew a Bible from his robe pocket. He thumbed through it until he came to the verse he sought. “Genesis, Chapter Six, Verse 1.'When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.'“ Benis lowered the Book. “That could be interpreted as the servants of God—angels perhaps—marrying mortal women.” He raised the book and began to read again. “‘Now there were Nephilim or giants in those days. And during these days when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and bore children by them, they were the heroes of old, the men of legend.’” The librarian raised his thumb to his mouth, chewed thoughtfully on the nail, then continued. “In the myths and pantheons of ancient civilizations, the giants are always the antagonists. Even in the Old Testament, there is the mention of David fighting Goliath. Were giants once otherworldly servants of God who lost their faith and were cast from Heaven, much like Lucifer? Were they doomed to roam the earth for their impudence? Or were they misbegotten hybrids?”

  “If so, where are they now?” Patrick interjected.

  Benis shrugged. “There are many references to them sleeping beneath the earth, their movements causing the earth to shake as it does in some regions.

  “If the daughters of men bore children to the Sons of God, I'd imagine they would be men of legend indeed. That would explain the likes of Samson, his incredible strength. That would also explain Hercules and Thor in their respective myths. Perhaps eons ago, these men were viewed as gods by us mortals. Especially to those mortals who had not yet heard the word of God, who turned to anyone or anything that would protect them. But these men, calling themselves Zeus, or Odin, or Marduk lacked the wisdom of God, and still were ultimately human, however powerful they may have been. They were subject to the vanities and passions of mortals. They did terrible things and demanded tributes and offerings from their mortal worshippers. The temptation must have been incredible.”

  The Irishman put up his hand. “But I was speaking of goblins and ogres, not gods.”

  The librarian smiled. “Don't you see my meaning? Goblins and ogres could have been lesser offspring, or a different form. Creatures turned twisted and ugly as they hid from the light and grace of God, living in caves and under bridges.” He chuckled. “Perhaps some children's stories are more than they seem.”

  “But what of fairies and elves? I thought they were supposed to be fair,” Patrick said.

  “They, too, could be lesser offspring. The product of a loving union between mortal and immortal. Perhaps God took pity on these creatures that did not belong in either world, and created an intermediate world for them on earth, which was later called 'Faerie' by common folk.”

  This seemed to make sense. Patrick had never thought much on the subject. Being a scholar had its advantages, he guessed. “Then what has become of them? Do they, too, sleep beneath the earth?”

  Father Benis was thoughtful once again. “I'm not sure. It seems to me that the giants were waylaid souls who chose unwisely not to follow the Lord, but as for the Fair Folk, perhaps they were innocent offspring. Who knows what became, or is becoming,” he raised his eyebrows, “of them. It seems their realm of Faerie is diminishing with the advent of man. I think Avalon is a surviving portion of their world. I think that Morgana did dwell here. After all she was called Le Fey—the Fairy—because of her ancestry. I think this isle is full of ghosts that show us a glimpse of what life must have been like before man and the one true God came along and drove them into hiding.” Benis was silent for a moment, looking down with a sad and vacant stare. “Or maybe, I'm just a silly old man with some crazy stories. In any case, I wouldn't worry about the manifestations. They are harmless. The worst that they can do is frighten.”

  It was Patrick's turn to be thoughtful. He surmised he was as safe here as anywhere in Avalon.

  “There you are,” McFowler's voice came from the library entrance. “I've been looking for you. Mark is eager to play chess with you.”

  I'll wager he is, Patrick thought gloomily. The appearance of the Highlander suddenly reminded Patrick that he may not have to worry about Avalon much longer anyhow. Regardless of how he felt, he put on a smile and strode forward to meet King Mark. He met Jason at the door and Father Benis spoke to the Scotsman. “McFowler, I haven't seen you in a while. You know, I still think it would do you good to learn how to read.” Jason grunted and crossed his fingers at the librarian as if to ward off evil spirits. The priest smiled and waved to Patrick as the two withdrew. “Come again, Irishman, and let me look at your skull.”

  #

  Mark sat across from the Irishman at the game board, silently. After the initial greeting and other pleasantries that commenced the game, conversation ceased. Even the normally quiet Patrick tried reviving it, the silence was so pervasive. He asked simple questions of the golden haired-knight, mundane things. When did he become a knight? What kind of accent is that? How did he come to Avalon?

  Mark tactfully declined to respond to almost all of them. Especially those that revealed anything about his past. In Patrick's mind, this bolstered the rumors that Sir Mark was actually a prince in exile from Constantinople.

  When Patrick took the hint that he was traveling a dead-end path, he fell silent again and waited for the barrel-chested king to make his next move. The game had commenced quickly enough, with both of them maneuvering pawns, but once the infantrymen took up their forward positions; the two players took their time in moving the noble pieces.

  Mark cleared his throat several times and seemed extremely tense or nervous. Perhaps this was going to be just as hard on his superior.

  “There has been talk,” Mark commenced, “that you are unhappy here in Avalon. But you don't say anything.” He didn't look up, but rather continued to scrutinize the board.

  Another silent moment passed. Patrick choked down a swallow. “I imagine it would appear that way.”

  “You know then?” Mark looked up.

  “If the rumors don't reach me directly, then I can surmise from the behavior of others.”

  “Are you unhappy? There certainly have been no complaints about your basic duties, but naturally, as you know from your training with Wolfgang, there is more to being an Avangarde than meets the eye.”

  Patrick sighed heavily and sat back in his chair, mirror image of Mark’s posture. He then explained how he felt, or at least, did the best he could do.

  He told Mark about the feeling of alienation and the sensation of lesser status that came along with being a Reservist. He f
elt useless not knowing exactly what he was meant to do. He felt like he didn't have the right or the authority to impose his will on the Guests, let alone the other staff and residents. He was an outsider looking in.

  “...or maybe I'm just not meant for this. Maybe Ionus made a mistake in choosing me,” Patrick finished.

  Mark leaned forward and moved a knight in a non-linear move, his brow furrowed in concern. “I can understand much you are saying, but I tell you this: you are only different in status by name alone. I'm sorry you feel otherwise. As for Ionus, he is an incredibly good judge of character, which is why he is charged with the task that he has. He saw something in you...”

  “...which you don't see,” Patrick offered.

  Mark shrugged. “I see something in you. I'm not sure what and I don't want you to leave, but I admit that something has to be done.”

  Patrick nodded gravely while positioning a bishop to discourage Mark’s knight. “Do you have any suggestions? I can't think of anything.”

  Mark stood up, stretched and went to gaze out the window. After a moment he said, “It seems you are happiest when you are actually doing something specific, accomplishing something. Routine life among the men in peacetime is difficult for you...”

  “Yes.”

  “You need a task that will satisfy this need and at the same time give you some recognition that will, in your eyes, elevate your position.” Mark turned around. “You need a quest.”

  Patrick laughed. “As I recall, the last 'quest' I went on resulted with me landing on top of your head, a piece of broken ladder in my hands.”

  They both laughed for a moment, maybe harder than the memory deserved. “Well, I was thinking a bit more on the serious side,” Mark said. “The villagers in Aesclinn were mightily disturbed after the last Bush Beating. They are claiming that more occurrences are troubling them. That they are afraid of something more dangerous than just some spooked chickens. They say a wolf prowls the hills and takes some of their sheep. They would be happier if one of the soldiers from Greensprings did something about it.” Patrick leaned forward, intrigued. “I know you are no huntsman, but I think that the presence of one of the Avangarde would make them feel more secure. All you need do is patrol the area. Stay about a week, then come back with a report and we'll see what else we can do. I don't know, perhaps set up some sort of rotation among the Reservists to sheriff the region. That will give you all something to feel useful and proud about. But I want you to be the first to pioneer the situation. Is that acceptable to you, Patrick?”

  Patrick was absolutely jubilant inside, but kept his composure. “Why, yes, quite.”

  “Good then. This may not solve your problem altogether, but I believe it will make you a happier person, thus strengthening you to becoming a more effective Avangarde. Let's have you come back tomorrow evening after supper, and we'll go over it in more detail. The following morning you will depart. Agreed?”

  The Irishman nodded.

  Mark smiled. “Oh, by the way, checkmate.”

  #

  The following evening there was cause for a special dinner. It seemed that any occasion was a good occasion for the denizens of Greensprings to outdo the gala before. Mark's announcement of the Irishman’s quest was one. Another was the arrival of a special Guest, the Mademoiselle Amy du Lac of Normandy, Sir Geoffrey’s fiancée.

  Patrick sat on one side of the doe-eyed woman and Sir Geoffrey on her other. Patrick couldn't help but notice that the Lady Christianne Morneau sat nowhere near the trio.

  “So, tell me Sir Gawain,” asked the new Guest, “are you any relation to the Sir Gawaine of King Arthur's court?”

  The question usually annoyed him, but tonight, little could get his spirits down. He wasn’t sure which was bolstering him more, his upcoming mission, or the sight of Christianne sitting across the hall, her mouth set in a grim line and toying with her food. In any case, the Norman noblewoman had a charm about her that made him not mind talking.

  He laughed. “No, not at all. And you? Are you of any relation to Sir Lancelot? His name, if I recall, was also du Lac.”

  “Of course,” she replied, laughing.

  Watching the chamber lights glisten off her silky hair made Patrick wonder what she could possibly see in the rogue Geoffrey. Does she know? He wondered, sneaking another glance at Christianne from across the room, her head now down. He decided not to worry about it and drank his wine. Life was a fickle woman that traveled down strange paths. And besides, at this time tomorrow he would be away from the court, away from its intrigues and its silliness.

  #

  The following morning, Patrick trotted up the muddy path from the stables atop Siegfried. The weather was drizzly, but he didn't mind. Some people had actually come to see him off. Sir Jon and Aimeé were among them. He waived. Aimeé came to the front of the group and threw a couple of flowers at him, like the throngs of Guests who had thrown flowers at the Avangarde when they departed for the Bush Beating.

  “Maybe it will be a tradition that will catch on some day,” she said.

  Sir Jon had helped the Irish knight saddle and supply Siegfried, and now slapped the horse’s hindquarters. “Patrick, you're a lucky dog. What did you do to convince King Mark?”

  Patrick shrugged, “It’s a surprise to me too.” He could see Christianne Morneau in the courtyard, though she hadn't come down to the crowd. Jon noticed this and remarked, “She seems somewhat put out now that the Lady du Lac is here.”

  “Serves her right,” Patrick chided, and then urged the black horse forward. He waved goodbye and clopped noisily across the drawbridge, out of Greensprings. The air felt fresh, and the sun peeked out every now and again to produce some fantastic rainbows. He wondered if there were any treasures at the end of them.

  #

  He spent much of the day trotting down the road that meandered between the harbor and Aesclinn. When he came to a fork in the road, he read the simple wooden sign post with its accompanying pictures graven in wood. To his left a sign pointed with the words “Inland road”, with a picture of an evergreen tree, and to his right (though actually more straight ahead than anything) a sign below the first pointed with the words “Cliff Side” and a picture of a sea cliff. He took a deep breath. There was the smell of salt in the air and the sound of ocean waves crashing against rocks. Siegfried snorted and shook his mane as if questioning.

  “No, not there yet, friend.” Patrick said, noting that there were sheep grazing in the grass on the hillside. The springlike showers made this side of the island very green; perfect for putting sheep to pasture.

  He urged Siegfried forward to the right and followed the ocean sounds. It wasn’t too much longer that the road veered left as it approached the edge of the isle, and then paralleled a cliff overlooking a gray sea. The very same body of water that had borne him to this fabled land.

  That seemed like an age ago.

  Patrick roamed up and down this stretch of land, noting the sheep on the inland side and how the road seemed to go on forever along the water side. When he was satisfied that he was in the right place, he decided to dismount and make camp.

  Patrick removed Siegfried’s saddle and let him loose, not bothering to hobble the beast. Siegfried was as loyal as they came and would not wander too far off. Patrick wished he could say as much for others in his life. He made a simple lean-to with a length of wax treated canvas and set his saddle, saddle bags and travel purse in it. Wrapping his great-cloak tighter about him, he decided to survey the area by foot while in search of firewood.

  It was sloping hills on one side, which in itself was nothing more than moorland coming to an end and finishing at high cliffs above the Western Sea. Patrick walked along this cliff, throwing sticks and rocks over the edge. The sea gulls hovered above him, crying plaintively, as if he was invading their kingdom. The entire scene reminded him a little of his own island home, but the sheer cliffs reminded him more of the shores of Cornwall. There was plenty of wood about from
scraggly old evergreen trees that were wind-bent and sparse in needles. They seemed to have willingly and frequently parted with their branches which littered the short grass that had been well manicured by hungry sheep. Once he had a sufficient amount of wood, he returned to his camp, finding nothing better to do. As he set about to making a fire, it began to drizzle again, but he didn't mind the dampness; he had been through worse on his journeys to the Holy Lands. Much worse.

  #

  He spent the next couple of days in this manner. Other than the constant sea breeze whispering through the sword grass, the land was silent. He sat up nights waiting for the signs of predators, but found none. Only in his dreams did he hear the howl of a wolf.

  When his food rations started getting low, and he thought he might die of boredom, he decided he would stay one more night and return to Greensprings.

  It was about then that a farmer and his boy paid him a visit. He was sitting against the tree that made the focal point of his camp, whittling a piece of wood that was slowly taking on the shape of a horse’s head. This he hurriedly put under his horse blanket with a couple of other carvings―a castle tower and roughly person shaped figure. He didn’t want to give the man the impression that he had only been making chess pieces this whole time.

  “Bon après-midi,” the man said in Norman-accented French. Patrick was familiar with it from the Crusade. He approached with broad smile and hand in the air as a greeting. Then remembering his manners, he removed his hat, which had a long pointed bill, and bowed deeply.

  “Good afternoon to you,” Patrick replied in French.

  The boy, perhaps the age of eight or nine years, peeked shyly from behind the man. When noting this, the man grabbed the boy by both shoulders and gently moved him before the Irishman.

  The boy bowed as well and mumbled, “M’lord.”