Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  Siegfried was nearby, unsaddled, and grazing on grass. There was a broad leaf with mushrooms on it at his side. He held up one of the fleshy fungi and sniffed it. He then gulped it down hungrily, not caring whether it was edible or not. His stomach demanded it. After he had finished all of them, he limped over to a gurgling brook and drank. When he sat up, he was confronted with a large swan.

  The fowl and knight stared at each other. After some moments had passed, Patrick said, “Are you a magic or holy swan like in all the stories that concern Avalon?” The swan only rooted around in the mossy patches for food. “Well, if you are, I'd appreciate some help.” The swan started to wander off. When it had waddled so far, it stopped as if waiting for the knight, bobbed its head and began to waddle away again. “Do you want me to follow?” It kept waddling. Patrick saddled Siegfried as fast as he could manage and followed the bird.

  It waddled further into the woods, in the direction the Irishman didn't want to go, but he followed it anyway, feeling that the plan was just as good as any. After a short journey, the swan stopped on a trail and pecked at some moss. Patrick approached it and saw blood on the ground and wolf tracks.

  “No, no. No more wolves. I want to go home now. Do you understand? Home. I want to go home.” Patrick began to pace back and forth. “I'm talking to a swan,” he murmured. Why not, yesterday you were talking to a wolf, and the day before that you were arguing with your horse.

  “It's not finished, yea know,” rasped a voice.

  Patrick looked up. The bird was gone and in its place was the crone.

  “Why can't I just go back? The wolf assuredly is done for. Can't I just leave now?” Patrick no longer knew what was real or fantasy. He had spent years in the Crusade’s hard realities. Now he was living in a child's tale. Nightmare, more like it. He didn't know which was worse.

  “Yea can't run away from everything all your life, Patrick Gawain of Galway. If yea start something, yea must throw yourself wholeheartedly into it and finish it. Yea must face your fears.”

  “I do!” Patrick threw up his hands. “I've never run away from anything in my life!”

  “You are whining, Sir Knight.”

  Patrick turned in frustration, but the crone was gone. He was left alone on the trail with Siegfried. He almost wanted to cry. Not knowing what else to do, or what other direction to go in, he decided to pursue the wolf.

  #

  The blood spots became more frequent as the trail drew closer to a cave, the wolf’s lair.

  Patrick dismounted and left the warhorse untied, lest he not return. He removed his flint and tinder box from the saddlebags to fashion a makeshift torch from branches and his ragged surcoat. He lit this, said a quick prayer and entered the mouth of the cave. All was still dreamlike. He swayed to and fro and braced himself with a steadying hand to the walls. It was then that he noticed that they were covered with crude paintings. He hadn't looked long at these pictographs when a howl, followed by a burst of wind, came down the cave. The gust caused the cobwebs to flutter in the wind like phantoms, and another howl caused Patrick to stop in his tracks for a long pause. Nevertheless, he proceeded, torch in one hand, sword in the other.

  The cave came to an end around a corner, and there, lying on a glorious mound of coins, jewelry, arms and armor of exquisite craftsmanship, was the wolf. The monster looked sick, and mixed with its slaver was blood.

  It turned its gaze upon the Irishman. Patrick thanked the Lord that he was feverish after all, for it numbed his senses and eliminated the fear he normally would have felt.

  “So, you have come to finish the fight, have you?” it taunted. “You can't beat me. You can damage me, but you can't defeat me. I've survived far worse at the hands of greater than you.” The wolf labored to its feet, and crouched. “Was it worth it, manling? To throw away your pitiful life without anybody knowing your fate, here in the darkness that is not even your world?” It leapt.

  The wolf was slowed by its wounds. Patrick struck out with sword and torch, fighting as if in a nightmare. The mind would not obey the will no matter how hard he tried. The wolf tore and bit, but he bludgeoned back with the torch, and the cavern was close with the stench of burnt hair. Patrick stabbed at the creature with his sword, wearing it down until one final stab penetrated deep into the chest cavity and the beast shuddered and went limp

  Patrick slumped, and then cast himself away from the carcass with what strength he had left. The wolf was dead but he knew that he was not far behind. The thing had bit deep into his leg, and he was positive that it was venomous after all, for now he had no control of his body. He lay there listening to his breath wheeze slower and slower in tandem with the dying torchlight. He was dying, and the only thing going through his mind was the wolf's last words; was it worth it?

  When the light had died out, Patrick was sure that he was dead. But a light began to fill the cavern. It was no torch. It was far more brilliant and pure than any worldly light. The paintings danced on the walls―images of battles and warriors, a sword, a cup, a boat, and swans. These images blurred, and a golden haired woman appeared before him. She was tall and lithe with skin whiter than bone. Her cheekbones were high, her brows arched, and her eyes at first seemed dark, but were a green so luxuriant they matched the darkest evergreen, and at their centers they bore brilliant sunbursts.

  “Well done, Gawain of Galway,” she said. Her voice was music.

  “Who are you? Are you an angel come to take me away?”

  The cavern filled with laughter that sounded like chimes on the breeze. “No, not at all. I am no more angelic than thou and I will let thou decide just how angelic that is.” Her smile was genuinely caring, as she brushed a damp cloth against his forehead. “I am your kinswoman.”

  “My kinswoman?”

  “We are of the Tuatha De Danann, the children of Dana, the Hill Folk. Do you not see it in your own eyes?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “The blood pulsing in your heart still sings, though softly, of the Old Ones. You are special among men.”

  Patrick frowned in puzzlement, but decided not to dwell too much on the strange revelation. His vision had begun to swim even more and chill wracked his body.

  The woman sighed. “Your wounds are great. They will be mortal soon.” She turned and Patrick could hear the clink of treasure. But when she returned, she bore a simple wooden cup. Its base was convex and as wide as its open mouth; its stem was almost non-existent, giving the goblet an hourglass shape. She also produced an earthenware jug, which she used to pour water into the cup. She poured the water from the cup over his wounds, and when she did, the cup turned into a golden chalice. His pains melted away. Then she made him drink. The water tasted sweet and clean, and all his internal pains vanished, leaving him feeling warm and drowsy. Now his vision really was swimming, and all was becoming dark again.

  “We thank thee, Gawain of Galway. We no longer reside in this existence as we once did, and could not banish the wolf. That it claimed this sacred place as its own is an abomination. You are still of the world, and could, and did, destroy it. We thank you. Take care, and remember to face thy fears, kinsman.”

  Patrick drifted off into the sweet arms of sleep like he never had before. He dreamed of white swans.

  #

  Sir Corbin brought his mount to a halt and held up his hand, to signal the other Avangarde in his patrol to do likewise. He turned to the others, pushed up his helm by his nose guard and asked, “Is that who I think it is?”

  “It sure looks like it,” Sir Waylan said.

  Coming down the valley of apple orchards was Sir Patrick trotting at a leisurely pace atop his great black warhorse. He wore a blank gaze. What was left of his armor, surcoat and other gear was filthy and tattered. Rolled and slung across the back of his mount was a giant wolf's pelt.

  Sir Bisch exclaimed, “Good! Good!”

  The patrol of Avangarde hailed him and waited for him to approach. He didn't seem to take any notice
of them and the knights looked at each other quizzically. Sir Corbin trotted up to Patrick's mount and took it by the harness, for Patrick was in the process of passing them by.

  “Whoa, Siegfried,” he said. “Patrick, how do you fare? Are you wounded?”

  Patrick did not respond.

  Bisch scowled. “Bad. Bad.”

  Patrick stared ahead. The Englishman waved his hand in front of the Irish knight's face. “Hello, hello? Are yea there, Sir Patrick?” No reply. Corbin resorted to shaking Patrick. The Avangarde circled.

  Patrick finally shook his head and blinked as if waking. He looked upon Corbin as if seeing him for the first time. “Corbin! How are you?” he almost shouted. “Waylan! Bisch!” Patrick was smiling now. The knights looked at one another once again with renewed curiosity.

  “We'd better get you back to Greensprings,” Corbin said, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Though I see no injuries on you, you don't seem to be altogether well, Patrick.”

  “Looks to me like he ran right out and killed the wolf, then spent the next few days shacked up in some cottage with the farmer's daughter instead,” Waylan declared. The Avangarde laughed. They all started back to the Greensprings.

  Patrick's brow furrowed. “Days? I thought that I was gone for weeks.”

  Waylan laughed. “Must have been some farmer's daughter!” There was more laughter and good natured jeering.

  “Well, the way things have changed since you left, one might think that it has been weeks,” Corbin said.

  “How's that?”

  “Well, the Lady du Lac found out about Sir Geoffrey's extra efforts, packed up and left, and Geoffrey has been in a confessional booth ever since. And you'll never guess who has been spotted holding the Lady Morneau's dainty little hand out in the gardens at night.” Corbin had one arm thrown over Patrick's shoulder as he recounted the current gossip. When did his return commence? He couldn't quite remember the last few events that led to his arrival.

  He was nonetheless curious. “Who?” he asked.

  “Why our very own King Mark! Do you believe it?” He didn't. Corbin changed subjects. “But enough of idle talk, it looks as if you have a tale to tell.” He tugged on the rolled pelt. “What shall we do? Go to the pub at Aesclinn first? Or would you rather go straight to your room and clean up?”

  Patrick smiled. “I think I would like to see the librarian.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’d like him to take a look at the slope of my skull.”

  Chapter Five

  Of course there was a celebration banquet, but it was not long before it became old news and he was once again just Sir Patrick Gawain, Reservist. But somehow he didn't mind as much. He couldn't entirely remember what happened, but something told him that it had been overwhelmingly good. He was unofficially relieved of his duties in order to recuperate.

  Patrick now sat in the window of his room overlooking the keep grounds. He had his eyes closed and a cool breeze washed over his face. Off in the distance he could hear the laughter of Guests and the sound of paper kites diving and shuddering in the wind.

  The day was a perfectly clear Avalon day, with its aquamarine skies.

  No sooner had he begun to truly relax, however, than the weathercock atop the watchtower turned suddenly in the wind.

  #

  Aimeé rolled the fluffy dough with skill and care. Once it was exactly twice as thick as pie crust, she began to cut expert little shapes out of it with a paring knife. The portly maidservant Anna approached her from behind and placed her chin on Aimeé's shoulder.

  “What are we making, lass? That doesn't look like what Rosa Maria assigned to ya to be making for tonight's supper.”

  Aimeé shrugged. “What fun is working in the kitchen if you can't make it fun?”

  “Well, if I were you, I wouldn't wear my heart on my sleeve so much,” Anna said holding up the heart shaped dough. “...Or in my dough. Still lovesick, are yea?”

  Aimeé threw more flour on the dough and rolling pin listlessly. She also took back the heart. “I'm just sad, that is all, Anna. The men around here are either young weakling servants, uppity knights and noblemen who don't know I exist or care if I do, or old married villagers. It's not fair.”

  Anna shook her head sadly. “I wouldn't worry about it, girl. It will pass. There is somebody for everybody out there...uh-oh!” She suddenly grabbed for the heart shaped dough while looking over Aimeé’s shoulder, but Aimeé pulled the heart away.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” she cried.

  Before Anna could reply, the kitchen Madame Rosa Maria walked up and snatched away the heart. “What this?” she exclaimed in her barely understandable Italian accent. “This is not breadstick.”

  Aimeé hung her head. “I'm sorry, Rosa Maria, I have been distracted from my duties.”

  Anna was giggling, and the other servants looked up from their tasks. Rosa Maria held up the heart so that she could look at it better. Her face lightened. “Ah, the girl is in love!” She placed the heart over her own breast and danced around. All in the kitchen laughed.

  Aimeé's face turned bright red, but she was smiling. She was glad that Rosa was not terribly angry with her, otherwise she wouldn't be poking fun at her like this.

  When her dance was finished, Rosa Maria placed the heart back on the counter. “I know we would all rather be making love right now, and not breadstick, but we must make breadstick. Back to work you,” Rosa looked into Aimeé's flour bowl. “You need more flour, get more off the shelf, and close that window while you’re at it. My joints are aching; I think a storm is coming.”

  Anna laughed. “Don’t be silly, it’s beautiful out there.”

  #

  Outside the keep, even the Guests on the verge of adulthood played like children. Jason McFowler dozed at the edge of the kite-flying throng, sleeping through his own history lesson on how kites had been used at the Battle of Hastings as communication devices. This was one of the many reasons he was favored among the Guests; he was lax and more fun than the scholars and priests who gave the majority of lessons.

  Jason snored heavily. Two of the youngest Guests tickled his nose with a cattail just to watch him swat at it in his sleep.

  “He is so adorable when he's asleep, isn’t he? He looks like a big furry bear in hibernation,” commented Lady Clarice, who was several years older than the two girls.

  “And his feet are stinky,” said one of the girls, and giggled.

  “Well, look what I made for you two,” said Clarice. She held up a delicate kite of reed and parchment paper. In the center of the kite she had painted a stick figure in water colors. The figure was of a smiling man with bright red bushy hair and beard, and who carried a sword. “Who do you suppose he is?”

  “Jason!” They exclaimed. “Let's fly him!”

  They stood and ran up the hill, waving the kite overhead until the wind caught it. Yarn unspooled behind it, and it soared higher, flapping merrily in the air.

  They giggled as Elaine, one of the younger students, pulled on the string to make the kite dive and swirl.

  “Let me try,” said Rachel, the other younger student.

  As Elaine started to hand it over and Rachel reached for it, the yarn pulled through Elaine's hand viciously. She cried out as she snatched her hand back and looked at it as if it had been bitten. Rachel caught the string just before it disappeared into the heavens with the kite which was now thrashing in the air.

  “I can't hang on!” she cried, a quiver in her voice.

  Clarice reached over to control the device, but was soon struggling herself as she pulled with both hands and leaned back on her rear foot. With a scream of surprise she lost hold of the kite and fell backwards, knocking her comrades over and landing on top of them.

  Heavy dark clouds roiled into existence like ink drops as on the clear sky, and the sun vanished. Fat droplets smacked the ground and left large wet spots on the Lady Guests' gowns. The rolling mass of clouds flickered w
ith lightning.

  Guests were crying out and laughing as the rain and wind came down harder.

  “Alright everybody, back into Greensprings,” McFowler called, stumbling to his feet.

  “But why, Sir Jason? It's only rain,” said a little boy who was standing on Jason's foot and clutching his leg.

  The Highlander reached down and picked him up. “The rain is fine, but I don't think Father Hugh or King Mark would be too happy with me if you were suddenly fried by lightning. Though I'm sure you would make a tasty treat.” Jason tasseled his hair and the boy laughed. Jason once again called for all Guests to go inside.

  As they rushed in through the Back Door, one kite remained behind. It was Clarice's, which caught in a tree. A branch had impaled the stick figure, and the figure's smile was now blotted by the rain. The paint that made its red beard was running like blood.

  #

  Father Benis, the librarian, put down a tome he was reading and looked up at the window shutters. They had been chattering in a strong breeze. He moved to close them, and when he did he noticed a marked difference in the weather. Rain was pelting the tiles on the buildings and towers, and the entire courtyard below was shoe-deep in water. He shook his head sadly, closed the shutters, and turned from the window.

  But he had accidently caught his prayer beads between the shutters. When he turned, the beads snapped and broke from their string, falling all over the floor in a noisy shower.

  “Oh, my.”

  #

  The violent wind guided a black ship towards the isle. The ship was a great longboat, with the effigy of a flame-tongued dragon at its bow. Black sails were fat with wind.

  Whereas seafarers on longboats normally enjoy the windy elements offered by most such open-aired vessels, this particular craft seemed more designed for concealment and separation from the world. This was evidenced by a single ark-like structure that occupied the majority of the deck. Monstrous oars bristled from its sides and beat the water, moving effortlessly to a drum beat somewhere within the belly of the ship.