The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

My new line of sight soon cleared to a pastoral backdrop in the midst of a rolling landscape. No coldness laced through the air in this part of my journey, which was a welcome alteration in climate from my previous jaunt into the unknown. The sun’s tepid rays quickened my footsteps across a hilly terrain, and I progressed with the fluidity of a west wind scurrying through an uncluttered field. If this environment was any indication of the splendors yet to come, I was content to remain here for as long as my thoughts deemed it necessary.

  The verdant grasslands appeared unmarked by previous footsteps for more miles than I was able to accurately survey. I hiked as if I was a shepherd touring the countryside for strays from his flock. But there was nothing apparent to stir my movement toward anxiety. A fragrance of wildflowers delighted my senses, and twittering birds added a serene quality to the atmosphere. At one point, I stopped to admire an assemblage of flourishing bluebells licking the hillsides like sapphire flames. Although I felt no urgency to tamper with this respite, I couldn’t deny a compulsion to march onward until arriving at my predestined marker. In this case, that amounted to another four hundred paces to a natural recession between the hillocks, which soon reversed itself into an elevated pasture dotted with the evidence of human intervention.

  On the highest portion of this land, I spotted the framework of at least thirty windmills. Their massive sails whirled in the constant breeze, functionally designed to provide energy for the millstones. My modest interest in these structures endured only until I set eyes upon two other figures on the bluff about fifty feet from where I stood. At least one of these men seemed to survey this scene with a tentative vigilance. I already had resigned myself to avoid startling either of these two travelers, for there were no obstacles other than the scattered windmills shielding my path to them. As I sauntered a bit closer to the gentlemen, I determined that they were both saddled on horseback. But after progressing within twenty footsteps from them, I realized that the stridden animals weren’t exactly what I originally surmised.

  The ganglier of the two men appeared to have chosen a nag as his transporter. This dilapidated beast’s legs nearly buckled out from under it as it stood shakily upon the field. The other gentleman, who was disproportionately stouter than his sidekick, rode atop a humpbacked mule. My eyes immediately trailed back to the elderly knight perched upon his barn horse. This knight brandished a lance that was not as straight or pointed as it should’ve been. He had gaunt stature, giving him the form of a tin-plated skeleton rather than a man equipped for jousting. His partially rusted armor undoubtedly squeaked like the bones encased within it. The helmet he sported seemed borrowed from another time, a relic of a medieval warrior that had been battered in combat once too often. The headgear’s makeshift beaver was obviously pasted on and constructed of what looked like plaster of Paris. Yet the knight who adorned his head with this gear seemed oblivious to his own façade.

  No more evidence was required on my part to identify my present location. The grizzle-bearded knight glared at me as if I had pounced from the furnaces of hell itself. I had apparently trespassed upon this landscape just as he was set to engage in a fierce battle with the massive windmills. Of course, if this indeed was the delusional man I presumed, he was more likely to brand me as an adversary to his errantry.

  “Unfold thyself, unknown caitiff,” the old knight bellowed in a voice more hoarse than harrowing. “Defy my command with another step hither and I shall run thee through with my gallant steed Rocinante in full stride.”

  As directed by the doddering knight, I halted my position and raised both my hands to display the peaceful nature of my visitation. I was now close enough to both this knight and his squire to hear them deliberate my fate. The latter and fatter of this duo studied me as if I was sandstone of hieroglyphic writing. But in spite of his illiteracy, he seemed much sounder in judgment than his counterpart.

  “Senor knight,” he observed excitedly, “this man approaches us unarmed. He has not even a horse to carry him forth.”

  “Be mute, my brother Sancho, for ye art not yet keen to the cunningness of giants,” his elderly companion advised.

  “But as I told you before, Senor, me-thinks there are no giants on this field.”

  “Hush, my friend. I forgive thy callow-mindedness,” returned the other. “Since ye can’t yet see’st more than what thy eyes reveal, conclusions art oft stated in haste. But fear not, my loyal squire, the blessing of knightly vision doth cometh in time for those pure in quest.”

  The banter between this unlikely pair was mildly amusing, but I couldn’t yet comprehend my purposes for calling upon their assistance to my own plight. At the risk of being charged upon by the brittle but feisty knight, I decided to step one foot closer and introduce myself without being extended an invitation to do so. My hands remained raised and open as I bent to one knee upon the field, crushing a patch of buttercups with my courteous gesture. My motions couldn’t have possibly been misconstrued as a threat by anyone possessing a reasonable level of intellect.

  “Senor knight,” I called out to the thinner of the two adventurers. “I’ve walked for miles on these fields today without a drift of danger neither high nor low. My name is Corbin Cobbs from Willows Edge. My purpose here is as gentle as the wind that blows the purple sashes knotted to your armor.”

  Despite my earnest pledge, the elderly knight didn’t look convinced. He turned toward his companion and remarked, “No man of flesh and blood traverses plains of battle without a weapon or clew. Apparently, this interloper hath channeled the dark magic of Freston to pacify my wit with pernicious tricks. Giants art prone to such foul deeds.”

  “Forgive my intrusion, Senor knight. But in respect to your judgment, how could you classify me as a giant when you’re doubtlessly taller than I am?”

  The oldster snickered assertively as if he had already unraveled the enigma of my existence. “Thou may’st be as shrewd as Merlin’s spells,” he declared sharply, “but he who walks unabated among giants must relate to their kind, as ravening wolves correlate among each other before an attack upon a flock of sheep.”

  The senile knight obviously referenced my unhindered passage between the windmills that he had already designated as his immortal foes. If I had any chance of avoiding an assault, his corpulent sidekick served as my only hope. “Senor my worship,” the squire interjected. “What you see’st as giants are merely houses to harness the wind’s energy. The windmills’ sails are not arms anymore than their foundations are shanks.”

  “Listen to your wise squire,” I added, more so for the old fellow’s welfare than any damage he might have inflicted upon the windmills or me. “I can assure you that I’ve never encountered a giant in my lifetime. Now, if we cannot converse as civilized men, let me be on my way.” Still unsatisfied, the fifty-year-old knight grappled his lance more doggedly and aimed it squarely in my direction. Only the blockage of Sancho Panza’s bloated frame upon his ass prevented a full charge, (which would’ve amounted to a third of that) from the rickety Rocinante.

  “Didst thou hear those vile words trip from his tongue so inelegantly?” the elderly knight gasped to his squire. He then said to me, “How dare ye speak as a ruffian to a knight-errant? By heaven, I shouldst hast thy head upon a pike. It’s akin to blasphemy to do as ye hast done. Another decree in this manner shall prompt me to vanquish ye at once, or I will eternally forfeit the appellation of Don Quixote de la Mancha.”

  “Now we are all properly known to one another,” I remarked boldly, unafraid of the consequences of this acquaintance. “Let us now join as allies in order to make sense of our adventure. Because, Senor Don Quixote, though you may well be an exalted knight of errantry, after I’ve revealed my intent I don’t think you’ll see my pursuit so unlike your own.”

  “Let it now be heralded,” said Don Quixote, “that in spite of thy honorable pledge, I still perceive ye as a pestilence. Thou still couldst be a mill giant incognito.”

  Once again, an unlikely voi
ce of reason came from his unwearied squire. “Senor my master, since he carries no weapon or even a glimpse of malice in or between his eyes, why can’t we accept the man for who he claims himself to be?”

  “Peace, my friend Sancho,” Don Quixote admonished his portly partner. “Thou shouldst be mindful of the wily habits of giants, for if this vermin indeed turns out to be what he appears not to be, then he may’st brandish a power to undo our quest at this premature juncture.”

  “If necessary, I can readily prove that I am not a giant of any sort,” I suggested.

  “And how wouldst thou proceed to do as much?” inquired Don Quixote.

  “It’s very simple,” I returned. “Consider it a direct challenge. I ask you to step down from your majestic steed and then compare your height to my own. After we determine that you’re at least a head taller than I am, we will be able to remove any suspicion on your part that I am a giant. Because, by definition, a giant must be taller than anything that perceives it as such.”

  Don Quixote mused over my analogy as if I had laced it with arsenic. His bony fingers twisted at the straggled hair poking from beneath his visor’s lopsided edge. I knew that he was well versed in the chivalric code that governed all true knights’ behavior, but he still referred to his squire before making a decision.

  Sancho Panza, while fidgeting atop his plump mule, extended the following advice to the man he followed without prejudice: “Senor my splendid ruler, it is customary for a knight-errant to accept a test of any nature from a challenger. Therefore, the rules for engagement are already in place.”

  “Prudent reminder, indeed,” Don Quixote mumbled to his squire. His attention then centered on me again. “Although I fault thy claim, I’m obliged by the customs of my trade to concede to thy request.”

  If it was possible, without further pretense, Don Quixote clumsily lifted his weighted leg just high enough to dismount his sagging nag. Both Sancho and Rocinante showed expressions of relief as the unbalanced knight plopped to the ground and clanked like a discarded pile of metal scraps. Once he regained his composure, (if in fact he had any to begin with), the ambitious codger stood upright and verified my theory as I knew he would.

  “Is there any doubt in your mind now that I am not a giant?” My victory was short-lived, of course, because Don Quixote had developed an aptitude to dispute almost any sensible notion. He contemplated the quandary as though he was a sage of the higher order before justifying his taller stature.

  “It wouldst be quite natural for thee to view thyself as victorious in this present circumstance,” he noted. “But just as giants will appear as windmills to an impure eye, these lurid leviathans may’st indeed adjust their heights to look smaller than those who they prey upon.”

  As it was with most men who opted to lead others through the murkiest scenarios, this oldster had a disarming way at making the implausible sound palpable, at least to the ears of his faithful squire. I, however, didn’t plan to feed his malnourished observations so copiously. “Your argument doesn’t make any sense, Senor Don Quixote,” I decried. “If giants minimize their height purposely, they wouldn’t induce the same terror from those who first viewed them as enormous.”

  The delusional knight attempted to conceal his mirth by shielding his face behind his gauntlet, for it would’ve been uncustomary for such a pioneer of piousness to patently mock the stupidity of others. “Ye art as green as these spring fields,” he said whimsically. “Yet, because I am sworn by oath to educate as well as eradicate those who err, I shall provide thee with an answer to resolve this quandary once and for all.”

  The knight then gestured to his squat-bodied squire, who still straddled his mule with a mortified expression. “Doth thou concur with my belief that my brother Sancho, if he ever relieved his ass Dapple for a spell, couldst call thee a giant in comparison to his own posture?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It does seem that your squire is significantly shorter than I am.”

  “Ah,” Don Quixote exclaimed eruditely. “So ye confess that thou hath the ability to interpret height without proper tools of measurement. This is a black and ancient art indeed, crafted by the minions of brimstone pathways.”

  Neither Sancho Panza nor I had the stamina to contradict Don Quixote’s warped viewpoint on this matter. The knight’s insistence that I belonged to a family of goliaths germinated in his mind like rank weeds in the boggy earth. At least the squire showed an expression of gratitude when I attempted to cultivate our conversation in another direction, albeit one that may have been even closer to Don Quixote’s passionate disposition.

  “I am just a man seeking knowledge,” I announced. “It is an odyssey that every man must embark upon at one time or another. Of all men, Senor Don Quixote, I cannot think of another who’d be more qualified than you to assist me in this search.”

  “What doth thou quest?” Don Quixote asked.

  “The most elusive of all things cherished, of course,” I replied without a trace of arrogance.

  “Why he must be after the Grail!” Sancho remarked exuberantly.

  “No. It’s something far more precious than that,” I disavowed.

  “Keep us in suspense no further, Corbin Cobbs of Willows Edge,” said Don Quixote.

  “I’m searching to find the source, if one truly exists, that provokes a woman to love a man unconditionally,” I avowed.

  No sooner had I finished with this declaration then Don Quixote’s entire visage underwent a miraculous transformation. It was as if a beckon borrowed from the most luminous portions of heaven cast solely upon his concaved cheeks. I, as well as Sancho, hardly needed to surmise what illuminated the oldster’s countenance, but there was nothing more excruciating than listening to him pontificate about the raptures of courtly love.

  “A noble man’s mission in life dost indeed include the procurement of a beauteous maiden’s hand. Even now, as I prepare to wage battle unyieldingly against the behemothic infidels stationed on this field, my unfettered affections stray eternally toward the lady Dulcinea del Tobosco. No deed that I submit to in order to rescue her from her plight is too valiant or robust.”

  “It’s obvious that you must adore this woman beyond compare,” I stated. “I consider her a fortunate damsel to have a man such as yourself champion her. If I may ask, Senor, when will you be reunited with your love?”

  “No sooner or later than is required for me to cleanse this land of the scoundrels that infect it.”

  “We’ve yet to encounter the lovely Dulcinea,” added Sancho Panza.

  “Contagions art oft more pronounced than they first seem,” Don Quixote scolded his squire. “Acquiring the company of such a gracious vision requires fortitude and faith, but since thou art not knighted, as I have been by Senor Castellanoi, I shall excuse thy ignorance on this point.”

  “Oh, thank you, Senor my worship. I’m blessed to have found such a wise and humble knight to follow.”

  “Never ye mind,” returned Don Quixote. “More urgent issues assail our ears.” The knight then directed his lance at me again and stated, “If thou dost seek the nectars of love, then what talents have ye to demonstrate to woo a despaired damsel?”

  “I have no extraordinary skills,” I admitted, while sinking to one knee to show my rehearsed reverence. “If truth be known, it seems that I’ve lost my ability to love a woman in a manner where she feels it crucial to reciprocate.”

  The knight’s face reddened as if blistered by sunlight, but after a few seconds he straightened his posture as if a millstone was unhitched from his shoulders. He extended his squire an assertive expression, one that reflected the perseverance he manufactured for his pending quest.

  “As a knight-errant, ‘tis my obligation to address any request, providing that thy inquiry is presented earnestly.”

  “You have my word on that, Senor,” I responded.

  “Very well,” said Don Quixote. “Since I’ve already translated the cipher of equitable love by the painstaki
ng deconstruction of sonnets and lyrical poems, thou shouldst listen to me as thou wouldst mind a man of Holy Scripture.”

  “All that you say to me,” I stated, “I shall follow as faithfully as your squire does you in your own quest.”

  “My worship won’t deny you a single snippet of his unprecedented wisdom,” Sancho Panza assured me.

  “Peace, my friend Sancho, for I never agreed to expose all the courtly wisdom of my ilk. But, because Senor Cobbs of Willows Edge seems so destitute for a woman’s touch, I shall grant him the luxury of a few delicacies on this matter.”

  “He is at the mercy of your supreme guidance,” Sancho Panza affirmed. “I will be mute until your offerings are fully recited.”

  Don Quixote assumed the pose of one who had just rescued a hamlet full of peasants from the Bubonic plague. Admittedly, where he had polished his armor most zealously, it gleamed like burnished silver in the sunlight. He looked more like a robotic monument than a man of unproven valor. Yet, whether I wished to accept his assertions as valid or not made little difference to his obedient squire. Sancho buried his own smile in his hand as his knight delivered a chivalrous sermon on the subject of my inquiry.

  “If thou hope to make a fair heart smitten, then ye must be a man seduced by action rather than words. Therefore, it must be noted that if ye claim love, then thou must embark upon a spirited journey to prove thy worth in ye maiden’s eyes.”

  “But what sort of quest must this be?” I asked him.

  “Any that puts thy own life in constant, unmitigated peril,” he answered.

  “Then, if what you say is true, I can only attain a woman’s love if I show her that my life means less to me than her own?”

  Don Quixote nodded his chin and then straightened it toward the sky as if posing for a sculptor’s rendition of his consummate nobility. “Can thou conceive a more plentiful reward for thy sacrifices?”

  “In respect to your observations, Senor Don Quixote, doesn’t such a mission outweigh the one she exchanges for me? After all, if I fail in my quest, as you may in your own, where does that leave the women we cherish?”

  “If ye submit to defeat at any phase along the passage, then thy journey is already compromised. The pure knight never falters; it stands to prove that the love he grants shall not be bested.”

  Despite his earlier pledge to keep his thoughts contained, Sancho Panza’s enthusiasm took precedence over his tongue. “My dauntless master makes it sound so simple that it’s a sheer marvel any suitor befitted with such knowledge is ever jilted by a damsel.”

  “Your squire makes a salient point,” I noted, much to Don Quixote’s displeasure. “You are now looking at a man who has been impaled in his heart by a lance sharper than the one you point in my direction. I once thought of myself as a decent man, Senor, perhaps not one without fault, but unquestionably one without malice. At one time, the woman I love treated me as though she loved me with unconditional acceptance.”

  Don Quixote looked at me with the same fatherly compassion he sometimes cast upon Sancho Panza. He raised one of his bony fingers and wagged it in my face like a decrepit dog’s tail. “Once the victor dost not twice define the knight,” he cautioned. “Perennial affection, like the succulent blossoms gracing these fields, requires replenishment oft. Never abandon ye spring of nourishment in the presence of a seeded or unseeded garden.”

  “A simple ploughman knows as much,” Sancho Panza interjected, which merited a modest chuckle from Don Quixote.

  “If this is really a solution to my strife, gentlemen, then it’s safe to presume that my quest will never cease,” I pondered aloud.

  “Art thou not prepared for such an undertaking, Senor Cobbs?”

  I couldn’t answer Don Quixote’s question immediately, at least not with the certitude he expected. What man among us truly sought an incessant fight for love? No seasoned man stood grander and stronger than his younger counterparts throughout the decades. Eventually, he conceded to the vitality of those who once looked upon him for guidance. Perhaps Don Quixote suspected that my eyes had dulled to a degree where I no longer possessed the wherewithal to conquer any opponent for my lady’s devotion.

  In any event, another tranquil breeze wound its way over the beveled terrain, which caused the windmills’ colossal sails to rotate sporadically. The agitation of these sails incited the elderly knight’s fury once again, and he reverted to his decision to terminate the pestilence from this landscape forevermore.

  “If ye be not a disciple of giants,” Don Quixote proclaimed, “then stand aside and bear witness to my moment of glory. I shall vanquish these towering tyrants one by one until the ground is cleaned of their company.”

  I realized that my purpose here had expired. “I’ll leave you to your duties now,” I assured the knight. “Besides, we both have many battles yet to fight.”

  Admittedly, I was tempted to stay behind and serve as a witness to Don Quixote’s ill-conceived assault upon the windmills, but other business prompted me to move forward. I managed to progress only a few feet farther before the elderly knight reassumed his position atop Rocinante in order to make his charge. I was not certain if the sun’s glare blinded me momentarily, but it appeared Sancho Panza was standing on the grassy hillocks without his mule anywhere in sight. I couldn’t resist confirming this oddity.

  “Sancho Panza,” I called out across the field. “Have you suddenly lost your mule?”

  A pause followed, but eventually the paunchy squire tipped his sombrero at me and hollered, “Yes, Senor Cobbs, it seems I can’t hold onto my own ass for very long. But fret not, Dapple will be back again as surely as the pages in a well-plotted book flip.”

  At this point neither the squire nor his senile knight required further assistance from me. Despite the calamities that awaited them, they were still in a far better place than where I wandered. After all, those who cared to study such lore already knew the destinies of these two characters. But my excursion had no clear vision, and I traveled the terrain in isolation, searching for answers that were obscured in the dusty nooks of my brain.

  Chapter 26

  9:26 A.M.