Milo
and the
Dragon Cross
© 2017 by Robert Jesten Upton
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Upton, Robert Jesten, author.
Title: Milo and the Dragon Cross : a novel / by Robert Jesten Upton.
Description: Santa Fe : Sunstone Press, 2017. | Summary: “A curious
fifteen-year-old boy, a cultured talking cat, and a Magical Scavenger Hunt
lead the reader into a world of sorcerers, wizards, and witches in this
tale about the struggle of good over evil, loyalty, life lessons, and
friendship”-- Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017006291 (print) | LCCN 2017026074 (ebook) | ISBN
9781611395105 | ISBN 9781632931771 (softcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Good and evil--Fiction. | Magic--Fiction. | Treasure hunt
(Game)--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Grail--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.U69 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.U69 Mi 2017 (print) | DDC
[Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https
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Dedicated to my sister,
Joan Upton Hall,
who read to me before I could
read on my own.
The Grail contains that which is precious to the human heart.
It holds the Spirit and the hopes, dreams, fantasies, and the Truth
Which nurtures the best of the human condition.
What is the Grail?
Our stories.
Whom does the Grail serve?
The Grail serves us all.
Preface
I was on the top of a high mountain pass. In the Pyrenees. Spain stretched out beneath me. History surrounded me. At that time I knew nothing about Bori and Milo, who you will meet as you begin to read this book. Our paths had yet to converge. But I would soon discover that the pilgrim’s path, the one I was beginning that day, has a way of tying the present and the past together into a sensation of timelessness. The physical present—very physical, walking mile after mile after mile—becomes saturated in the awareness of those who have come that way before through ages of history and before history when only the faintest trace of them remains. As you walk, you feel them as though they were walking shoulder to shoulder with you in the moment.
Twelve centuries before my own arrival on this spot, Roland and his companions had made their last—and heroic—stand protecting Charlemagne’s extraction from Moorish Spain. That was long ago. Since then, this pass has been the cross-over point for thousands and thousands of pilgrims on their way, as I was that day, to Santiago de Compostela, the sacred interment place of Saint James, who was one of Jesus’s twelve disciples, the patron saint of Catholic Spain, and its Reconquista from Moorish domination. But even before that, and well before Roland, this had been a pilgrimage for much earlier travelers who called it the Milky Way, the earthly Path of the Stars. They followed it all the way to Finisterre, land’s end, at the westernmost point of Europe where the Atlantic Ocean puts an end to the earth. It was their pilgrimage to the End of the World.
Standing there I was overwhelmed by so much history, the vast landscape, and the layered traditions threaded through the centuries of evolving culture that had guided all those pilgrims from the rest of the continent into Iberia. As I gazed over the leagues I had to cover, by foot as pilgrims must and as so many have, my anxiety struggled with the thrill of adventure, for I was setting off into a land where I knew not a single soul, did not speak the language, and knew nothing about what lay beyond my immediate line of sight. In short, I was a pilgrim.
Milo and Bori introduced themselves to me several years later. I was noodling around with paper and pen, and I began to describe a town like the many I had walked through during my trip across Spain. I knew how this town I was conjuring up looked, and smelled, and sounded. I knew that it was called the Kingdom of Odalese. Then I ran into Milo and Boriboreau. Milo had that day become a contestant in an event called the Magical Scavenger Hunt and I soon was, too.
Although I had not set out to write a fantasy novel for young people—and not so young people who appreciate the imaginary—Milo and Bori insisted in taking me with them. It was an undertaking which, frankly, I found to be intimidating. Many of my favorite books and authors have appealed to the same readers but I wasn’t sure that I was ready to enter their league. Besides, I was working on a science fiction novel at the time, expanding a novella I had written which had won a writing contest (and is still awaiting my attention). But Milo was persuasive. He had a story to tell and it was my job to give it a voice. So, off I went.
It was a pilgrimage. I followed the Road of Stars that took me into ages of myth where I met fascinating fellow pilgrims and puzzled my way through intriguing plot twists. Like my descent from the pass in the Pyrenees, I had no more than a vague idea that somewhere ahead lay a final destination. Day by day and page for page I had little more than line-of-sight to guide my steps. But Milo and Bori gave excellent companionship and encouragement.
Not that it was easy. Halfway through the novel I realized that I had taken a wrong turn. We had to backtrack. I threw out all the pages I had written, down to the first half dozen or so, and took the trail that would eventually lead us back to the Kingdom of Odalese and Thomas Jefferson.
How does one recognize the right path if the signs are down and no butterflies appear to show the way? I recall a quote from Don Juan (years ago I was an avid reader of the Carlos Castañeda books about his experiences with the old Yaqui sorcerer) who was a traveler of paths. He advised which ones to choose. “Does this path have a heart?” he asked. “If it does, the path is good; if it doesn’t, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn’t. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it.”
What wonders might you come across as you travel a path with a heart! Milo was my guide; he knew instinctively which way had the heart. Because of that, he could feel the draw of what lay beyond the line of sight, and he took me there.
It was a lesson I had discovered as a pilgrim. Like the day after climbing higher and higher into the mountains of western Spain and arriving at yet another pilgrim’s chapel built centuries before. And there, inside the cool, dim, and incense-scented interior, bathed in the glow of smoky candles, was the Grail. THE Grail! The most precious relic of the Arthurian Mysteries, and I was standing before it! A mythical heirloom passed down through the stories from that time lost in the mists of legends of King Arthur and his Knights.
It was beautiful, but a simple cup, nothing really so very special. The local tradition explained how it had come to be there after disappearing from the environs of ancient Logres and brought for safekeeping to this remote corner of Iberia where it was secreted in plain view in this humble little chapel.
The question is not, however, if that chalice is authentic or not; the que
stion is, as always, “Whom does it serve?” That is the Grail Question.
Milo, following the mysteries of the Magical Scavenger Hunt, was not the first seeker to be baffled by this question. It is a quest, a question about bafflement. And it has been a question that has haunted me ever since my sister—older and wiser than I—read me the tales of King Arthur, Lancelot, Perceval and so on, as they wrestled with the illusive meaning of the Grail.
So, okay; what is the Grail Answer?
Generations of storytellers, artists, and mystics, each of whom has confronted the enigma in his own way, have been haunted by what that answer might be. At least part of the problem comes out of the frustration of what the Grail is. Is it an actual vessel, like the one I encountered in the pilgrim’s chapel? Or is it a profound religious truth? Is it Celtic, is it Romantic; is it an invention of the medieval troubadours? What does it do?
As I confronted the Grail in the tales from the Arthurian legends or the more recent mystics of esoteric lore, or even the surprise encounter of facing it in the factual every-day world, it remained ever-elusive. Something not unlike the question of the pilgrim: why pilgrimage?
Everyone who takes up the pilgrim road does it for her own reasons, but everyone who completes the task has a similar experience. Whatever the reason for starting the pilgrimage, it becomes trivial compared to the accomplishment of entering into the fellowship at the finish. It is not where the path leads that counts, it is the process of getting there. It is the Quest that defines the Grail. The Grail is for the seeker, the pilgrim, to find. To find something you must first seek it, and then recognize it when you find it. You must first ask the Grail Question before you can know the Grail Answer. The purpose of my long walk across Spain was not to arrive in Santiago de Compostela or Finisterre, it was the walk, day by day. Milo’s return to the castle of the Fisher King was the result of his quest, the Question, as the culmination of all he had encountered to get there—his recognition of what he had done.
I found my Grail in a pilgrim’s chapel. Milo faced it by looking into his own heart. Don Juan said, “For me there is only the traveling on the paths that have a heart, on any path that may have a heart. There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge for me is to traverse its full length. And there I travel—looking, looking breathlessly.”
Milo and I want to share what we found. So now, it’s up to you, the reader, to follow your path in your own way. We hope we may find ourselves to be companions on your journey. As you stand at the top of the pass, deciding if you wish to step down into the landscape, we know you will travel, looking, looking breathlessly.
What is the Grail? Our stories. Whom does the Grail serve? The Grail serves us all.
Oh, and by the way, check your pockets; do you have a Jefferson/Buffalo nickel?
1
Milo in the Kingdom Of Odalese
Milo sketched out the shape of the cat, a tall, almost vase-like pose with its tail looped over the ledge where it sat. Its whiskers sprayed out across the page in his history notebook and he drew its ears to turn at an angle so it could hear two directions at once. He took extra care with its green eyes. Their slant suggested an otherworldly origin, challenging him to puzzle out their secrets. And then, just as he adjusted the second one, to his amazement, the cat winked at him.
“Milo!”
History class jerked him back into the present, vaporizing the image of the cat.
“Can you answer the question, please?” Ms. Mayfield demanded, arms folded in impatience.
“Uhh...what was the question again?” Milo stammered. It was a rotten answer. The scowl that his American History teacher wore deepened and snickers rippled through the tenth grade class. Milo wondered if Ms. Mayfield had ever thought about anything more...engaging...than attentive students. Ms. Mayfield drove down the snickers with a stern look. Milo stared into his notebook as if the question she’d asked might be located there somewhere. It wasn’t.
“Milo?” Though peeved, Ms. Mayfield’s tone took a slightly sympathetic tone. “What are we going to do with you?” Though her exasperation overlay her tone, this was a somewhat kinder comment than usual. Would she send him to the principal’s office—again—or would it be the counselor this time? The counselor had diagnosed Milo’s wandering mind as a “learning disability” while the principal preferred to identify it as a “behavioral problem.” His mother tried to persuade them that Milo had a “very active imagination,” pointing out that he was really very bright. Milo considered the whole thing unfair because his teachers always asked him questions when they knew he wasn’t listening.
This time, apparently, Ms. Mayfield decided not to waste more time on him. She opened the question up to the class. “Who was it that sent Lewis and Clark out to explore the West?”
Crystal’s hand went up. It had black polished nails today. “Thomas Jefferson,” she stated. “He was the third President of the United States.” Her hair was blue. Milo thought she was interesting even if she pushed the goth thing kind of hard. And her general hostility to just about everything and the withering glance she threw him, told him that she considered him a doof.
“That’s right, Crystal,” Ms. Mayfield said, her tone sweetened. Milo winced. Crystal was usually as distracted as Milo. “They were hoping to find a Northwest Passage, the Grail of western exploration.” It was an exact quote from the text book. He remembered it because stories about the grail were among his favorite.
As she took Lewis and Clark off on their grand adventure, Milo settled down again into the sketches in his notebook. The cat had come up during his day-dreaming about an imaginary place called the Kingdom of Odalese.
The Kingdom of Odalese wasn’t really a kingdom at all, Milo considered, because it didn’t have a king. It had a mayor. If that made its name odd, it was okay because towns have all sorts of names. Milo knew of a town right in his own state called Truth or Consequences. An odd name for a town in Milo’s opinion since there was nothing unusually truthful about it, and as far as Milo could tell there were no consequences, either. It was just a name. So it was for the Kingdom of Odalese.
He imagined that the Odalesians didn’t think the name of their town was odd at all. They liked their town and the way it was, built on a hill above the River Dulcy—he was drawing that in now—with stone houses two or three stories tall lining narrow streets. It had shops for the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker where people could shop, meet, and visit each other. Right down at the foot of the hill there was a broad, grassy park with lots of old oak, sycamore, and chestnut trees. The grass was worn in places, because the Odalesians used their park a lot. The younger ones played games like hide-and-seek or chase while their parents and grandparents took strolls on nice sunny afternoons, catching up on the latest with their friends and neighbors.
But just now, it was a place with a number of campsites set up, because the Kingdom of Odalese was hosting its big event. It was held only every ten years, and was called the Magical Scavenger Hunt.
Milo puzzled over this for a while, wondering what that really was. He knew it had something to do with an odd feature of the Kingdom of Odalese, because of the magic part.
He speculated that the Kingdom of Odalese wasn’t the sort of place you could find on a map, and if you didn’t know how to get there, you’d never just come across it, like you can other towns. That’s because it was a place of the imagination. Or a place where imagination is the map. Any direction you take away from the town, you can go on and on, from one adventure to the next, meeting any kind of person in any sort of landscape.
That’s not to say it wasn’t real, it was simply that it belonged in an imaginary, magical realm. If you didn’t use your imagination, you couldn’t get there, and if you reject magic, there would be no point. Furthermore, to be a contestant in the Magical Scavenger Hunt, you would have to use your imagination, so the requirement of using your fantasy to get there in the first place would automatically weed out anyone who wou
ldn’t be any good at the MSH. Milo thought that was really a clever qualification.
He checked in with Ms. Mayfield’s lecture to see if she might be setting him up again, but she wasn’t. She had Lewis and Clark taking flat boats up the Missouri River and wasn’t asking questions, so Milo felt fairly safe in returning to the Kingdom of Odalese.
To be a contestant in the Magical Scavenger Hunt, first you’d have to get to the Kingdom of Odalese. He thought about that real hard, trying to envision how it could be done and picturing every detail of the place so he could draw it. It would look like some places you can visit even today, with cobblestone streets closed in by houses built wall to wall the way medieval towns were built and can still be visited in places that have yet to be plundered by the requirements of automobiles. He imagined the scents from the flowerboxes hanging in windows from the second floors where the shopkeepers lived, of fresh hot bread in the bakery, and the fainter smell on the breeze from the woods behind the hill. He pictured himself arriving for the hunt, fantasizing more and more vividly, in ever greater detail what the town would be like. He imagined the streets just before dawn, empty since the villagers would still be in bed. He could see only a cat slinking alone in the shadows of the empty streets, and a pink and gold light brushing the clouds above with the first touch of a new day.
As he conjured all this, he could actually smell the scents and feel the cool, fresh morning air touch his skin. He blinked, then blinked again. Sixth period History class had vanished. The houses were there all around him and he could feel the worn cobblestones of the street beneath his feet. To his shock and surprise, he had arrived in The Kingdom of Odalese.
Milo stood there dumbstruck. Surely this illusion would pass and be replaced by the teacher’s question and he’d have no idea how to answer. No matter how real it seemed, this had to be an illusion. But it didn’t pass. This is really getting out of hand, he warned himself, starting to agree for the first time with his teacher. But it didn’t pass.
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