“Father,” the girl said, clearer, “I’ll scream.”
If Percival had the strength, he would laugh.
Strangely, Gahart stepped back away. Stranger, he gave off stabbing Percival’s right side. Wondering, Percival hung on to Gahart’s sword wrist with all his fast-ebbing strength.
“Father,” she’d said.
Goddamn! Gahart’s daughter. Lili told me.
Daughter. Stray words from his new education flashed like lightning through Percival’s head. “Sin”…“obligation”…“duty”…“rights.” “Daughter.”
Holy Michael, I’m in the wrong! He’s caught me like a thief in his treasury.
“Father,” the girl said, wrestling with Gahart for control of his sword. “I’ll scream. I’ll wake them all up. They’ll all know. Father, let him go!”
Panting, Gahart turned back to Percival, who still gripped his dagger wrist. “Goddamn you, go! Before—”
Blood flowed warmly down Percival’s right side. He muttered, “Arms. Clothes…”
“Go. Now.”
But. What happens to Ranna? That’s her name. Knight of the Round Table must protect the weak. Even the guilty weak?
“I’ll go now, Sir. But don’t kill her.”
“You argue with—”
“I’ll scream—”
Once more, this silly threat weakened Gahart. He growled to Percival, “You come back, kill you.” His teeth glinted like daggers. “Only way you come back, with Holy Grail.”
“I’m going. But don’t—”
“I get grail, you get girl. Girl for grail. Get it?”
So. He won’t kill her.
Percival glanced at her past Gahart’s trembling, thirsty dagger. Face whiter than moonlight. Eyes like empty platters.
She must know her father. Maybe…maybe all this has happened before!
Percival gasped, “Sir, I’m letting go. I trust in your word.”
“God’s balls, man, go!”
Percival let go of Gahart’s dagger wrist.
Gahart lost balance and staggered back.
Swift and smooth like a Fey, naked Percival ducked out of the bower into moonlit orchard.
***
Naked Percival slumped over his horse’s neck.
As soon as he escaped from Gahart’s sword and dagger, his wounds began to hurt. Percival had little experience with pain, but instinct told him that soon this hurting would cloud his mind and fill his world.
Quickly, while he could still think, he made for the stable where his red charger was stalled. Thank blessed Mary! If he were out to pasture, I could never catch him.
He had neither strength nor time to saddle the horse. He bridled and led it outside, then climbed up from the mounting block. Out of here…away…
The red was used to spurs and whip. Feeble kicks from naked heels barely moved it along the track. Now and then it would stop and graze; and Percival, fainting into its mane, would wake and kick and haul on the reins till it moved on. We must be past Gahart’s border…Pray God we’re past his border…
Through the night they plodded, through fields, along forest tracks, past herds and flocks. Percival sank into a sea of pain and dreams. His right side seemed paralyzed. He could not lift that arm. He ached up and down and deep inside. His muscles contracted, bunched and rippled, as if to shake off pain. Now and then blood leaked down his side, warm against shivering skin. He could scarcely breathe for the fire of pain in his ribs.
Light came around them. Dawn.
The red stopped; lowered its neck—Percival almost slid down over it—and burbled. Drank.
Water. We’re standing in water…if I could drink…if only I could drink…but I’d never get back up here.
Percival hung on to the red’s mane, slumped, and dreamed.
He dreamed a dawn-bright lake, reeds, teal, and geese flying up in flocks before the charger’s wading hoofs.
He dreamed a boat bobbing, not far out in the lake—gaily painted, blue and red; one fisherman, about to toss a net, stood in the boat.
Lili held the red’s bridle. Lili, you’re here! When I need you, you’re here!
She waved to the fisherman in the boat.
He sat down, took up oars, and turned the boat.
Help. Help coming.
Percival dozed till he heard the boat grind ashore. Feet splashed. A man’s voice asked, “What ails you, son?”
Percival almost awoke. The fisherman stood at the charger’s head—an old man, gray-bearded. He took hold of the bridle; and strangely, the charger permitted this. Tame as a plow horse, it neither shook head nor arched neck nor stamped warning.
Percival took burning breath to murmur, “She’ll tell you…”
“Who?”
Fey Lili had disappeared. As always.
Barely awake, Percival stared down into a familiar face. Calm. Concerned. Kingly.
“What ails you that you ride all bare like this…” Kind gray eyes widened. “Holy saints, you’re hurt! That wound…We must get you to the boat.”
The old man came around the horse’s side and lifted fatherly arms to help Percival down.
Fatherly arms…first ever…
Fainting, Percival fell into them.
***
Strong arms.
They raised and held Percival against a broad, warm breast. Cool water dribbled between parched lips. Blessed water! He swallowed, then gulped. Slowly, the arms laid him down again.
Alanna.
She bent above him, grave and strong. Not weeping, earnestly, she looked him over, and did not weep.
Strange. Before, you wept. No reason. Now you weep not?
Alanna laid a quieting hand on his good, left shoulder and murmured, “Sleep, son.” He slept.
Later, he felt his left side bathed. Firm, damp pats cleansed and cooled from shoulder to ankle. He waited for his right side to burst into pain like fire; but something held it still, constrained, unmoving, and dulled pain.
He slit eyes open to see a gold-haired boy child sponging his left foot: heel, arch, toes, between the toes. See how he droops, poor brat! That iron collar too heavy. Much too heavy. He’ll grow crooked.
Percival’s right shoulder ached as though weighed down with iron. He closed his eyes to shut out pain.
While the child dried his foot he asked himself, Who am I?
In and out of darkness, alone and during treatments, he asked himself, What is that gentle, constant noise? And who am I who hears it?
Pain diminished; answers rose like fish in the dark pool of his mind.
I am a body in pain. I am a soul in pain. A forest Fey?
No. That one’s wrong.
I am a…Knight. Of the Round Table. Yes.
Aha! Arthur has no better Knight than me, I…Percival. Yes.
And that noise in my ears? That street noise. Heard in town streets…
Pictures glowed out of darkness. He saw himself all in red, on a great, red horse. He saw a Knight armed all in red, wait for him with drawn sword. But he only used the hilt on me. He thought I was harmless…
He saw his poisoned dart in the Knight’s astonished eye.
Who is this friend I drink with? Richly robed. And I myself, richly robed.
Dark girl. Small, Tender. Sets a ring on my finger. “Victory,” she says. “Her name is Victory.”
All these things I have lost. Red armor. Drinking companion. Girl. This last loss the heaviest.
I was Arthur’s Best Knight. Now I lie here wounded, in pain (though much less pain than before!), like an ordinary Knight. An ordinary Man.
I am a Man.
And that noise goes on and on! You hear that in streets, near huts, wherever there are men…
I am a Man, one of the Human horde. I am made of flesh
and muscle, bone and blood, and all of them hurt. I have made other men hurt; and now, goddamn, it’s my turn!
My guardian loved and protected me. She’s gone. I lost her, and everything else.
What is that chatter? And, Angel Michael! Where am I now?
Percival awoke.
He lay as in bonds, his right side trussed and bandaged, on straw in a small, neat hall. The fire pit in the middle held only glowing embers. Summertime, it is!
Sleeping mats and chests stood against wooden walls. A rough table with stools, a settle, a bench, furnished the hall—and in one corner, a small table covered by a tapestry.
Burning lamp. Covered dish. Horn grail. Aha! Mass altar.
A holy man, a Christian hermit, lives here.
Naturally. Who else would save me?
Slowly, Percival turned his head left, toward the source of light. If I can turn the rest of me…
He managed to roll halfway over toward the light. Herbs crackled and warmth oozed under bandages. That’s salve, I’ll be bound. Not blood.
Summer light poured through great, wide-open doors. Like Arthur’s doors at King’s Hall! And there’s the noise, itself…
Hens minced in and out of the doors to cleanse their feathers in a sand hollow just inside. “Bathing,” they clucked and gurgled contented conversation.
Wondering about that noise kept me here in this world!
Beyond, broad bright water winked in sunlight. In the shallows bobbed a red-and-blue boat. Ashore, spread fishing nets dried.
A shadow moved in the doorway. Clucking hens scampered out of its way as it entered. Percival almost rose on his left elbow.
Mug in hand, the hermit came to his side, a brown-robed, bald graybeard with a familiar face.
“Think you can drink this yourself? I’ll hold you up.”
Familiar strong arms raised Percival. Sitting up, hurtfully, he held the mug himself.
“My name is Father Fisher,” the hermit said in his ear. “Call me ‘Father.’”
Resting between sips, Percival croaked, “Have you been caring for me, Father?”
“Cedric and I.”
Cedric. “Slave-collar boy?”
“Aye.”
“Collar…too heavy.”
“I can’t file it off with these hands.” Percival glanced down at the gnarled, swollen hands locked at his waist.
“Thank you, Father.” Percival drained the mug. A new sensation opened like a trapdoor in his gut. “I am hungered!”
“Aha! We’ve been waiting to hear you say that!”
The first nourishment Cedric brought to Percival was a bowl of white liquid. Thirsty for ale, Percival gazed suspiciously down into the white drink. “What’s this?”
Cedric looked surprised. “Milk, Sir.”
“Milk? What babes live on?” Horrible milk that peasants drink.
“Father says you drink it, Sir.”
“Aaargh!” Unwilling, Percival sniffed at the milk. “Ugh!”
“Father says it will heal you.”
“Ah?” Heal me? Then it is medicine. No surprise if it smells cursed.
“He says, drink that, and you get to eat.”
Eat!
Percival lifted and drained the untasty stuff in one decisive motion.
His reward was a smidgen of hard bread with fish. The fish was delectable.
In the following days his meals remained the same—bread, eggs, and fish, with herbs. But he received a bite more each time, till at last his wooden trencher arrived full and overflowing. And each time, he was obliged to drain a bowl of milk. He grew used to that.
The first walk Percival took was to the Mass altar in the corner.
He had stood up before, dragged on a patched linen tunic, and hobbled around his straw bed, with help. This time he rose up and dressed alone. Fixing his gaze on the Mass altar, he set out to reach it.
Father Fisher’s hall had been built long ago for gentle living; but now the altar, with its bright vessels and tapestry, was the only touch of wealth and rank left. Percival had lain in bed long enough, wondering at it. Now it offered a goal, an incentive, to move his pain-frozen muscles.
Get close enough to see the tapestry. Then I’ll quit.
Left foot, right foot, ahhhgrrr! Left foot. Right foot. Uuuuh!
Up close, panting, right side aching fiercely, he leaned against the wall.
Just see…What I came for…Tell Father what I see. Prove I came this far.
Much of the tapestry was hidden under horn grail, covered dish, or lamp.
If I could move this stuff…
Nay! Christ Himself lives on this altar.
Every morning at sunup, Father Fisher said his Mass here. He broke the rough bread Cedric baked, blessed it, and turned it into Christ Himself. Cedric would bring Percival his share, and the three of them partake. What might be left went back into the covered dish. Goddamn, can’t touch that!
Reverently, then, and painfully, Percival bent to see what he could of the mysterious tapestry.
White fallow deer pranced all along the golden border among flowers larger than themselves.
Look on top. Under the sanctuary lamp.
Under the lamp walked a tall, willowy maiden carrying a…Don’t touch the lamp!…a burning candle.
Behind her, mostly under the covered dish that holds Christ Himself! a second maiden carried a…spear. Dripping blood, goddamn!
The blood dripped handily into the huge, gold-thread cup grail held up by a third maiden. Must be heavy for her as Cedric’s collar! The three moved as in a dance, or procession. Jewels winked thick as snow-flakes in their flowing hair and gowns.
Seen it! Can describe it.
Percival would have fallen, but hands seized his elbows from behind and held him up.
He gasped, “Didn’t touch a thing, Father.”
“That’s well. Can you make it back to bed like this?”
“Give me your arm…”
Safely back on his pillows, Percival asked about the tapestry. “King Arthur has nothing grander in his hall!”
“It’s very old. Been in my family for generations.”
“Looks new!”
“That’s because of the air.”
“Air?”
“This is a sacred spot, son. All things do well here. I myself am older than you might think. Anywhere else, my Cedric would have died of his injuries. I found him hurt worse than you! Anywhere else, you yourself would have died.”
“I know it is your healing Power—”
“Not so much mine, as that in the air. Our holy air is healing you this moment. Before long you will stand and walk outside with me. By Saint Peter! Before long, I’ll take you out in my Josephus!”
“Josephus?”
“My boat. We’ll go fishing!”
True to the father’s word, a few days later Percival stepped among fluttering chickens out the great doors and into sunshine.
There stretched the lake, almost as far as he could see. There rocked the blue-and-red boat, Josephus, on breezy wavelets. Swan and teal winged windily over reeds. Farther along the shore, a great red horse grazed beside a brown goat. Both animals moved free as the wind, untrammeled by hobbles or halters.
Father Fisher cupped his gnarled hands and honked, “Ru-uu-udy! Ho, Ru-u-u-udy—Oh!”
The red horse lifted its head and looked toward Father Fisher. It turned toward him. Goddamn! He’s coming! It came at a trot. Close and closer the red horse trotted, earth echoing its hoofbeats. It came up to Father Fisher and dropped its nose into his hands.
“Should have brought some bread for him. Wait for your bread, Rudy. Stand.”
Father Fisher went back inside the hall.
Percival stared, unbelieving, at the red charger he had never named
, this friendly creature he had never befriended. Rudy looked fatter and calmer now than Percival had ever seen him, although ungroomed.
The brown goat trotted up beside Rudy, full udder swinging.
Father Fisher reappeared, bread for both animals in his hands. Feeding them, he said to Percival, “Nanny’s milk healed you, along with the air.”
Nanny. The brown goat gave the medicinal milk Cedric had brought twice a day.
“He thanks you,” Father Fisher told the goat. “Though he won’t say the words, he thanks you.” To Percival he said, “Look out at the island.”
Island? Ah, yes. That little smudge out near the middle. Rocks and three trees.
“That is our Holy Isle.”
“Holy?”
“As Nanny here gives milk, so Holy Island gives blessed Power. You can see the oaks?”
“I see three trees.”
“Oh, to have young eyes! Mine can barely make out the island, itself. Those trees mark a spring of holy water that rises from the depths of the earth. The water flows down three narrow streams into the lake and sanctifies the lake. The lake sanctifies the air around it. This Power is healing you, Son.”
Percival drew a deep breath of holy air. Gratefully, painlessly, his lungs took it in. Something is healing me. Why not this air?
Lili would believe it. No question.
***
Percival and Father Fisher rowed close past Holy Isle. Evening light glowed in the lake. Holy Isle’s three ancient oaks shone golden.
The father’s aged hands could still cast a net, if not mend it. Two nets drifted behind the red-and-blue Josephus. Father Fisher rowed slowly, patiently. Percival could not row until his side mended entirely. Meantime, Father Fisher’s arms worked harder than his hands. And those arms still retained a quiet strength, a shadow of youthful might.
“Father, what makes the spring on Holy Isle holy?”
Lili would say it was holy because it comes out of Mother Earth, Father Fisher will say something else entirely.
The father rowed slowly. “A druid told me the spring is the Goddess’s footprint.”
“What do you say, Father?”
“When my ancestor, blessed Joseph of Arimathea came here, he drove his staff into the earth at that spot. Maybe the spring rose up then. Maybe the spring was already here. But his staff sanctified it. My ancestor Joseph sanctified this place.”
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