Percival's Angel

by Anne Eliot Crompton

  “We thought you might. So, Lili, what do you think of the Kingdom?”

  This is too much to tell!

  I begin slowly, sipping water between thoughts. “I could say I hate the Kingdom…All that dirt.” Niviene nods. “Fury…Gods, so much noise! No Human, no animal, doing their own will.” Niviene nods deeper. “All like…worker bees. Even Spirits seem drawn into Human frenzy.”

  “What Spirits?”

  Why does Niviene ask that? Surely, she sees them too. “Mostly ghosts; some dead, some yet alive, Alanna comes around Percy…Percival, he wants to be called…morning and night.”

  “Most like, when she prays for him.”

  “Mother ghosts, live and dead, hover near their small children. Dead ghosts drift about every hut and street. I meet very few fairies.”

  “The massive Human aura is too strong for them.”

  “Sometimes Gods appear, beating wings like windy clouds.”

  “Angels. Take care with angels. Not all of them are kind.”

  “They guard Arthur’s chapel. And I saw one in a Human hut, where they gave us their bed and most of their dinner.”

  Niviene finger-talks, That would draw an angel.

  “But all these spirits seem concerned with Human doings. No more free than the Humans themselves.”

  Why did you come out here, Lili?

  I crumble bread, lick crumbs off my fingers. Sip water.

  “I came here to find a Human Heart.”

  Niviene laughs.

  “Truly. Merlin told me the Human Heart is the World’s Greatest Magical Power.”

  “Even so, I would not go searching for it! Any more than I would walk into a plague-haunted house! I threw away my own, Fey heart, long ago.”

  That reminds me. “Niviene, the Lady counseled me to chastity.”

  Good counsel. Though she does not herself follow it.

  “Are you chaste, Niviene?”

  I am.

  “But…what of the Goddess, and Her sacrifice?”

  Does pain flit across Niviene’s cold face?

  Nay! That must have been a trick of firelight.

  Calmly she signs, I sacrificed once to the Goddess. Once was enough. She can demand no more of me. As for you, you have time enough for that.

  Think about this later. “And has this chastity strengthened your Power?”

  Niviene raises and jabs both thumbs at the glowing coals on the hearth. On the instant, hungry flames leap high. Niviene continues to point. In the flame, Percival appears. “What do you think, little one?”

  Fully armed, sword held upright before him in both hands, Percival kneels before the high altar in Arthur’s chapel. In dark air above him Alanna’s pale face, pale braid, shine softly.

  “See, Niviene! Alanna is there.”

  Pointing, Niviene cannot finger-talk. “There; but not aware.”

  “She doesn’t know she’s there?”

  “Most likely she dreams.”

  Ah. So even Humans travel in dreams!

  We watch Percival nod, sway, and jerk upright again.

  “Holy Gods! Must he kneel there till dawn, like this?”

  “His own choice, Lili.”

  “Not so! He must follow the rule!”

  “His choice to follow the rule. His choice to be a Knight.”

  I sigh. “Poor Alanna! Tomorrow her long nightmare comes true. Percival truly becomes a true Knight.”

  A voice from the dark behind us says, “If she ever hears of this, Alanna may well leap off the Cliffs.”

  We turn toward the back of the hut. Merlin emerges from the dark.

  Robed in white, crowned and cloaked by his huge white aura, he advances nimbly to hunker down between us.

  “Hear that?” Niviene says to me. “Throw herself off the Cliffs! That’s what a Human Heart will do for you!”

  She lowers her pointing thumbs, and Percival fades from the fire. The flame sinks back down into coals.

  “No question,” says Merlin, reaching for bread. “The Human Heart is itself the price of its magic—a heavy burden to carry. As for the magic, the owner must know how to handle it.” Bite, chew, swallow. “Fortunately for us, most Humans have no notion how to handle it. They let it handle them. Thus, such confusion reigns in their world that they must leave us alone!” Grin; wink.

  Somewhat confused myself, I say, “I seek a Heart. But Percival seeks the Holy Grail.”

  “The Holy Grail?”

  Merlin’s gnarled fingers pause, breaking bread. Niviene’s dark eyes darken.

  Merlin asks me, “He is not content to attain Knighthood, itself? Now he wants the Holy Grail?”

  I tell them about Lord Gahart, his daughter, lands, herds, men, and so forth. “All this he will give Percival in return for the Holy Grail.”

  Niviene gasps. “But, Arthur! Percival’s allegiance is to Arthur! How can he hand over the grail to this…Gahart?”

  I explain. “Gahart says that Arthur is better off without the grail. As a Christian, he should rightly have no dealings with magic.”

  “Magic?” Merlin breaks his bread. “What magic?”

  “Gahart says the grail is a magic dish that brings forth whatever food and drink is desired.”

  “Hah.” Pop bread in mouth. Swallow hard. “The grail is the Cup of the Last Supper.”

  Last supper?

  “Christ’s last supper before His death on the cross.”

  Confusion floods!

  “But,” Merlin adds, chewing, “it matters not.”

  Matters not?

  “No questing Knight will ever lay earthly eyes on the Holy Grail.” And Merlin laughs.

  Niviene and I bow respectful heads to this true laughing prophecy.

  “As to your Percival…” Break the last bread; share it around. “Your Percival will never see the grail with any eyes at all, so long as he is made of ice.”

  ***

  Percival woke, still upright; sword still upstanding between numb hands.

  The sanctuary lamp glowing softly on the altar reflected on the golden door of the Tabernacle. Percival understood, now, that God lived behind that golden door. Earnestly, though foggily, he gazed at the door, and tried to send thoughts through it to God—Who seemed to sleep.

  I come here from far away. I come from a Fey forest, where I knew nothing. Now, in this coming morning, King Arthur will knight me. I will become a Knight of the Round Table! I, Percival; I, who knew nothing! Lord, do You hear me?

  The sanctuary lamp flickered in darkness.

  Then, Lord, come spring, I will quest for the Holy Grail! I who have come so far will go farther. I will find the grail, and I will take it to Lord Gahart, who taught me much. You will be glad of that, Lord; for King Arthur, my liege Lord, should not deal with magic. It is not Your will that he should do so. Am I right?

  The lamp dimmed. Maybe the oil’s low? Nay, not so. I am falling asleep.

  Lord, let me not sleep! This night I must meditate on my life to come, on adventures and virtues and heroisms…

  When I take the grail to Lord Gahart, he will give me all that he has.

  Not all at once. I will share it all with him while he lives. But Gahart is old, Lord. Soon he will go on to You in Heaven, and leave me his fields, his flocks and herds, his shepherds and plowmen…

  Visions of Gahart’s lands swam like dreams through Percival’s mind. He saw raucous, violent men thoughtlessly obedient to him. He saw flagons and barrels of ale, constantly refilled; the very Holy Grail itself would belch honeycakes and fine, soft bread at a word from him! No need to hunt my rich woodlands; roast grouse will fly up out of my grail!

  But I will hunt, if only to keep myself strong. And I will fight at the King’s call, all days, all seasons. And King Arthur will have no finer Knight th
an me, Sir Percival. Glad he will be forever that he knighted me! Lord, do You hear this?

  Behind the golden door, God slept.

  Kneeling stiff and still as a wooden statue, Percival sent his thought like a battering ram at the golden door.

  Lord God, You have ever slept when I sought you! I never found You in the forest, I have not found You in the Kingdom, and now I find You not in Your own golden Tabernacle! Lord God, I look at You! All my life I have looked at You, and never once have You looked back at me! Look back at me now! Look back at me now!

  Again, Percival swayed and caught himself.

  You sleep. But I must not.

  Some say I am made of ice. You, God, are made of rock!

  He let his drooping eyes roam the dark.

  Over there…the Mary statue. Bigger than Alanna’s. But the same.

  Like Alanna’s Mary, this one held one compassionate hand out to Her petitioner. Her Christ son rested on Her other, open hand. This Mary was also robed, crowned, and haloed; and Her paint had not worn away under rain and snow, but still reflected golden lamplight.

  Yet She’s the same…

  Dreamy Percival drifted near the statue in Mary’s Clearing.

  Below him, Alanna’s snowy garden waited for distant spring. A humped, shapeless figure huddled before Mary. It seemed to hug itself, sway, and weep; but Percival, though seeing clear as by daylight, could hear no sound.

  A second figure moved below him. Old Sir Edik bent to the huddled form, hugged and patted and raised it.

  It turned and embraced him, and raised unseeing eyes to Percival.

  Percival thought, Mother, never fear for me! King Arthur will have no better Knight. This has been prophesied with laughter.

  But lo, Mary’s Clearing had vanished.

  Percival knelt alone, stiff and numb, before the mild glow of sanctuary lamp and Tabernacle. Around him hung darkness.

  ***

  Windy clouds chase winter sunshine across Arthur’s Dun.

  The mages and I are far from the only ones come to see Percival knighted!

  Disguised as a short Human lady in Ranna’s gown and my “invisible” cloak, I must have begun to feel the part I acted; for I have let myself become part of a gathering, smelly Human crowd. Now here I stand in the middle of it, I who would rather peek like a mouse spy from roof or drain!

  Along Percival’s path from chapel door across to King’s Hall door stand Round Table Knights—Gawain, Lancelot, Cai, Bors, Bedevire, Gareth, and more—their squires and servants behind them.

  Except for Lancelot’s small, brown squire, Mell, who grins and chats in Lancelot’s ear.

  Gwenevere waits by the great doors to King’s Hall, with a small contingent of bright-robed ladies.

  Servants, traders, beggars, slaves, wives, and children block the street both ways, peering over shoulders and between cloaks, as I should do, myself. Somehow as the crowd gathered I lost myself in it. Now I stand in the front row across from Merlin and Niviene, perfectly visible from all sides, “invisible cloak” or no, and crowd-trapped.

  I should be terrified, but Victory dangles by my heart. And Ranna’s magnificent gown disguises me. And of course, Bee Sting hangs by my hand.

  This is a new art I learn here; if you cannot be a shadow, or a bush, be a respectable Human! There may be some safety in that.

  Clouds chase sunshine across the Dun; when a dark cloud sweeps over, auras shine out. Quickly, I glance around.

  Over there by King’s Hall, Gwenevere’s small, green aura clings close and bright. One strand reaches out and streams across wind, toward…Lancelot.

  Lancelot’s orange-green aura reaches toward Gwenevere; and the two auras meet and circle and converse, while all eyes are locked on the chapel door.

  But…Gwenevere is, what’s the word, wed, to Arthur. Not to Lancelot. Think about this later.

  I pass on to Squire Mell. Something unusual about Mell…he is beardless, though certainly adult. His constant smile is close-mouthed, tight-lipped. His narrow, cautious aura like a soft rainbow…

  Lancelot’s Squire Mell is Fey!

  He may be the Lady’s lost son, Lugh!

  Think about this later.

  Side by side, Merlin and Niviene shine steadily, grandly, like two huge stars. But I remind myself, the Humans around them do not see them shine. Alone in the foremost crowd they sport no jewelry: no necklace, bracelet, earring, finger ring, buckle, or brooch proclaims their worth. Only the stern message of their white robes and mistletoe crowns keeps the pressing crowd a little away.

  Sun chases shade; auras fade.

  The quietness of this crowd surprises me. Where I find Humans gathered I expect noise. But these folk are almost silent, eyes on the chapel door, faces…solemn. Looking up into these big, still faces, I almost feel thoughtful minds behind.

  Aha! A murmur runs like a gentle stream down the street.

  The chapel door opens.

  Within is darkness; within the dark, a golden flame; within the flame, a Human figure.

  The crowd sighs, admiring.

  Can Humans see auras after all?

  Maybe they can sense auras, as I sometimes sense deeply invisible Spirits.

  Percival emerges from darkness into winter sunlight. Sunlight devours and quenches his golden flame. Tall he stands on the top chapel step; big and broad and bright—all the things we Fey laughed to scorn. These Humans murmur admiration.

  Percival! You came to your right world!

  Grave, radiant, he steps down into the path left open, and progresses—that’s the world—toward King’s Hall.

  First Gawain, then Lancelot, moves to escort him. One on each side they lead him between the mages and me, past Gwenevere, to the King.

  For while we all watched Percival, King Arthur has appeared on the top step of King’s Hall.

  Big and dark, bright-bejeweled, he awaits Percival, sword naked in his two gloved hands.

  Naked sword? Why does the King need a sword?

  Sudden dread shivers up and down my spine.

  Nothing is so strange that Humans will not do it.

  Maybe at this ceremony the King decides whether Percival is worthy to be a Knight; then, depending on his decision, he either knights him, or slays him on the spot.

  I haul Victory by her thong up out of my gown.

  As I have done before, I point her at Percival’s back, pouring Power into Percival.

  Nay! If there were real danger, the crowd would emanate excitement. And the only excitement I feel here is reverent joy.

  And my Percival can well defend himself, even without Bee Sting, which he has so foolishly laid aside.

  Pouring Power on Percival between concealing fingers, I look again at Arthur.

  In glowing, growing sunlight, King Arthur’s triple aura shines red as new-shed blood closest to his rugged form; farther out shimmers a wide orange band; and farther yet—higher, wider than the doors of King’s Hall—a faint gold band twinkles like sunlit water.

  I have seen the King’s aura before; but not magnified and solemnized by ritual, nor enriched by the crowd’s pooled Power, as now I see it.

  Holy Gods! I drop Victory back down inside my gown. Not even Victory can defend against such Power.

  Who ever guessed a Human could shine like that?

  ***

  Close, closer, to the King.

  Arthur stood on the top step of the King’s Hall door, sword in hands, watching Percival’s approach.

  Goddamn! My hour is come!

  Percival had always believed it would. It had to come, this hour of triumph, vindication, and final acceptance. From his forest meeting with Sirs Friendly, Suspicious, and Wounded, he had never for a moment doubted that this was his appointed fate.

  But now, as the crowd stood aside for him;
now, as his friends came beside and escorted him; now, as the King awaited him, he marveled. Saint George! How is this possible?

  For I came here Nobody, from Nowhere, a fool in a soup-kettle helmet. And now after two short seasons of learnings and adventures, I am to be knighted! A few moments, and I will be truly, rightfully, Sir Percival of the Round Table.

  Pure astonishment assailed him.

  Eyes on the King, he hardly saw the faces he passed. But one small lady on the right, gowned in red-embroidered blue, drew the corner of his eye. That one looks familiar.

  He passed and forgot her.

  Power punched the small of his back like a treacherous fist. He faltered and almost missed a step.

  Then, beautifully, the Power moved through him.

  What ailed me before? This is right, this is perfect; doubt, now, at this high moment, would be sin!

  They were come to the first step below the King. Lo, how he shines!

  Another moment, and he will knight me.

  This is the King I will follow faithfully, worship, die for. For him I came out of the forest. For him I will find the Holy Grail and place it out of his reach, for it might harm him.

  The sun itself seems to shine from him. Am I seeing his aura, as Lili would?

  Now, this one gesture I have dreaded.

  But this is not hard. This is easy, because it is right.

  Percival knelt on the step below the King.

  Arthur raised his sword.

  Goddamn! True Knighthood comes down like a falcon, like a harrier—

  Down came the sword and rested flat, like a friendly hand, on Percival’s right shoulder. Joy burned down Percival’s right side.

  The sword rose, arced over his head, and descended on his left shoulder.

  Angel Michael, Saint Hubert, Saint George, let me not faint for joy!

  Joy flowed like molten gold through Percival, crown to toe.

  From above, Arthur’s great voice called out to Percival, to the crowd, to the Kingdom, “Rise, Sir Percival!”

  And Sir Percival rose.

  There rose around him joyful babble from the crowd; and from somewhere in the back, men’s voices joined in song; and a shriek.