The Trials of Lance Eliot

by M. L. Brown

  Praise for M.L. Brown

  and The Trials of Lance Eliot

  “The way Lance told his own story was both humorous and thought-provoking, and I felt connected with the character and wanted to find out what happened to him. The pace of the novel was excellent, with enough action and suspense to keep me turning pages and enough introspection to make the action scenes meaningful.”

  — Amy Green, author of Quest for the Scorpion’s Jewel and Escape from Riddler’s Pass

  “True-to-life characters and somewhat sardonic wit, combined with Brown’s gift of imagination, make this page-turner a joy to read.”

  — Mark Sommer, Book Review Editor for HollywoodJesus.com

  “I enjoyed my journey into the past with Lance Eliot. Ironically, I was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court at the same time; I enjoyed Brown’s tale as much as Twain’s.”

  — Bob Staples, English Department Chair for Bethel College

  “Vivid imagery, great metaphors, good overall pace. Entertaining and meaningful.”

  — Melissa Bond, math teacher

  “The Trials of Lance Eliot is an epic tale that drew me in to every character and situation. The descriptions are palpable and the personalities definite. It takes you on a journey you will never want to leave.”

  — Maia Manchester, Editor in Chief for Maadi Messenger

  “A wonderfully adventurous novel filled with colorful characters and suspenseful events. It is enough to make a fantasy reader out of anyone.”

  — Melissa Payne, blogger

  “M.L. Brown is not just a master storyteller, but a master of the English language. Brimming with British wit and charm, this book is a delight to read.”

  — Greg Coles, author of Against the Current

  “This brilliant mix of peril, chivalry and wit will ignite the hero in every reader.”

  — Natalie Backhaus, blogger

  “While still a teen, M.L. Brown began his writing career earning awards for his stories. This is a young author to keep your eye on.”

  — PeggySue Wells, co-author of The Slave Across the Street and Holding Down the Fort

  S.D.G.

  To Tim and Ruth

  Alas, why is it common to complain

  Of God or Fortune, who so often deign,

  Hiding their foresight under many a guise,

  To give us better than we could devise?

  - Geoffrey Chaucer

  And thence we came forth to see again the stars.

  - Dante

  Editor’s Note

  THE FOLLOWING NARRATIVE WAS written by the late Lance Eliot. After his death, I received a bundle of handwritten papers in the mail with a note explaining they had been found among his personal possessions in a box addressed to me. This was no surprise. Lance and I had been close friends for many years; it was not unusual that he should leave me one of his manuscripts. I began to read, expecting an academic paper. I was astounded. The document contained a ludicrous story of magic and adventure in the style of a memoir.

  At first I thought it was a joke, but I soon abandoned the idea. Lance had an unshakable standard of honesty and an admirable sense of humor. If the document was a joke, it was neither honest nor humorous. My next guess was that it was an allegorical biography or fictionalized retelling of true events. However, the author of the document insisted his story was literally true. This led me to a third, tragic conclusion: impending death had driven my friend insane.

  I finished the document, if only out of respect for my dear friend, and then locked it in a drawer and forgot about it.

  Then the world was rocked by the discovery of the Lancelot Manuscript. A team of researchers had uncovered a crypt beneath the ancient fortress of Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland, England. The crypt contained, among other artifacts, a document purporting to be written by Lancelot, the legendary knight of Camelot. The vellum on which the document was written was tested and found to be more than a thousand years old.

  Amid the frenzy of the media, experts deciphered and translated most of the document. It consisted of theological reflections (supporting the legend that Lancelot became a monk after the downfall of King Arthur) and genealogical records, in addition to a brief but intriguing autobiographical anecdote.

  I followed the discovery of the Lancelot Manuscript with interest and was quick to read the translation when it appeared online. A particular passage, the aforementioned anecdote, seemed inexplicably familiar. Only after reading it numerous times did I make the connection: every detail of that passage corroborated the document Lance had written.

  I removed his papers from their drawer and read through them again, paying close attention to certain elements of the story. At the end of my investigation I had a new conclusion. Either both documents were part of an elaborate hoax, or else both were true. Rather than state my own opinion concerning the truthfulness of these documents, I submit them to you, the reader, and leave you to your own conclusions.

  In this book, Lance Eliot recounts the first of three adventures. I have interfered with his material as little as possible, merely correcting grammatical errors and making minor alterations for the sake of clarity. I have also Americanized the spellings, divided the narrative into chapters and added chapter titles for the reader’s convenience. A translation of the relevant passage of the Lancelot Manuscript has been included in this book as an epilogue.

  - M.L. Brown

  1

  LANCE ELIOT TRAVELS TO AN UNFAMILIAR PLACE

  I’M AFRAID I’LL BE dead by the time you read this. It’s a pity. I would have liked to have told you my tale in person, but the rider on the pale horse is catching up to me, and the only way for my story to be told is for me to write it down.

  Where to begin? I suppose my story starts in a pub in Oxford. No, it starts before that, in the sepulchral office of a professor known among his students as the Skeleton. He was a thin, pale, wispy-haired chap who slumped in his chair like a corpse the murderer forgot to bury. The thing that really clinched the resemblance to a skeleton was his grin, which was one of the ghastliest things I have ever seen.

  About fifteen years ago, when I was just a lad of twenty-one, I sat in the Skeleton’s office on the last afternoon before the Christmas holiday, scribbling away at a piece of paper and sweating like an ice cube on a hot day. Every few minutes I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. Time was running out. I wrote faster. The Skeleton coughed, and I paused just long enough to flex my fingers and glare at him.

  I was annoyed with him. He was practically blackmailing me. I was studying literary criticism, you see. I’ve always loved books. The Skeleton, however, was one of those super-intellectual idiots who make literature more systematic than mathematics. Annoyed by my subjectivity, he refused to give me a passing mark unless I accepted remedial help.

  I had no choice. The Skeleton was praised in academic circles (probably by people who had never actually met him) as Peter M. Williamson, eminent author and literary critic. Without a good mark in his class, I had no chance of achieving success in my field. I submitted to remedial study in his office once a week.

  The Skeleton rejected the fine Oxford tradition of making students write academic papers. In his opinion, they gave students too much creative freedom. My professor detested creativity. He preferred his students to answer lists of questions, rather like exams, in the stifling confines of his office. I suspect he was a sadist.

  So I found myself in his office on that cold afternoon, inventing answers to questions about archetypes, causalities and other dreadful things. With less than half a minute left on the clock, I finished writing and handed him my paper. “There you are,” I muttered, scowling. “Happy Christmas, s
ir.” I turned to leave.

  At that moment the Skeleton gave a quiet but pointed cough. I heard that cough and trembled, for I was sore afraid. I considered feigning deafness and making a run for it, but he coughed again and I knew escape was out of the question.

  “You coughed, sir?” I said.

  “Mister Eliot,” said the Skeleton in a rusty sort of voice, “you’ve left a question unanswered.”

  It was impossible. How could I have made such a blunder?

  He held up my paper and there it was: a blank white space where my answer should have been. I felt myself pale to the approximate shade of the paper. “I can’t think how I could have missed it,” I said.

  “How you missed it is irrelevant. It is enough to know that you did, in fact, miss it. In consequence your paper will be marked down considerably.” The Skeleton frowned—a sight to make the bravest of men cower in fear—and added, “I think you and I need to have a discussion, Eliot.”

  I felt like a prisoner condemned to execution. In fact, execution was probably preferable to a discussion with my professor. I made a brave attempt to smile. “But sir, I only missed a question. Hardly worth talking about, is it? Even the best of us make mistakes. Just look at Napoleon.”

  “You’re babbling, Eliot.”

  “So sorry, didn’t mean to babble. But do you really think a discussion is necessary?”

  Of course he thought a discussion was necessary, but if there was even the slightest chance of escape, I would go for it.

  “You put so little effort into your work, Eliot,” said the Skeleton, putting his fingertips together. “You seem to understand the material we study, but your work is slipshod, your observations obvious, your analyses utterly subjective. Why is this?”

  What was I supposed to say? I decided on the truth.

  “I believe literature is meant to be enjoyed,” I declared. “Not picked apart and scrutinized under a microscope.”

  He raised his eyebrows in shock or disdain, but I plunged on. As long as I was spiting him, I was going to make the most of it.

  “Take Dickens,” I said with rising passion. “I don’t read Dickens to discern some abstract political or philosophical or psychoanalytical meaning. I read Dickens because I enjoy reading Dickens. I’m not going to put all literature through the wringer to squeeze out every last drop of meaning.”

  “That’s exactly why you’re here,” said the Skeleton. “To extract meaning from literature. If you can’t do that, you may abandon all hope of passing this course.”

  At this point my courage failed me.

  “I understand,” I mumbled.

  The Skeleton looked at the clock. “I have an appointment elsewhere, but I am not yet finished with you. Come to my office tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  It was as though a great weight were lifted from my shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving Oxford this afternoon,” I said, trying to look penitent. “I’ve already booked the six o’clock train for Reading. For the holiday, you know. I won’t be back for three weeks.”

  My professor grimaced. “Very well,” he said. “You will see me in my office the first day after the Christmas holiday. I will not forget, Eliot. You may go.”

  “Yes sir,” I replied, then turned and fled.

  I stepped out of the building, cringing in the gale that blasted from an iron sky. I had escaped the dragon’s den and was a free man—but only until the holiday was over. An image of the Skeleton’s cadaverous grin passed through my mind, and I shuddered. I thrust my hands into my pockets, stumbled down the steps and took off down the sidewalk. I needed a drink.

  There were several pubs in the neighborhood, all packed with chattering students. I might have joined them under happier circumstances, but the session with my professor left me desperate for peace and quiet. A sudden gust threatened to snatch away my hat and send it spiraling into the sky. Drat the wind, I thought, holding the hat to my head. Drat literary criticism, drat the Skeleton and drat his wretched grin!

  In this gloomy state of mind, I happened to glance down an alleyway and notice a large sign hanging over the street. The Red Lion Public House was emblazoned on it in bold red letters. I strode to the window and peered inside. There were only a few customers, none younger than sixty. My annoyance vanished instantly, supplanted by an urgent desire for a hot Scotch and lemon.

  I burst through the door, drawing disgruntled looks from two old men playing dominoes in a corner. The proprietor peered irritably at me from behind the bar. “What do you want?”

  “Hot Scotch and lemon,” I said, laying down a few coins. I took my drink, found a booth by the window and sat down. It had begun to snow. Checking the clock above the bar, I realized my train wouldn’t leave for an hour and a half. I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, lit one and gulped down the smoke. Except for the gentle click, click, click of the dominoes, all was silent.

  Perhaps I’ll stay here a while, I thought. This pub is cozy and warm, and there’s no need to fetch my luggage immediately and wait on a freezing railway bench when I can pass the time comfortably indoors. Laying down my cigarette, I took my cup and raised it in a toast. Here’s to a long holiday, I thought. With that I closed my eyes, lowered the cup to my lips and disappeared from the sphere of this world.

  The moments that followed are difficult to put into writing. There was an overpowering roar. Alarmed, I opened my eyes and watched the pub dissolve into shadows. The ground fell away from beneath my feet. I seemed to be suspended in a void, dim shapes and glints of light passing by in a rush. The jumble of light and sound made me feel sick. I closed my eyes again.

  The roar grew louder and then faded away to silence. As the noise died away, I became aware of something solid beneath me. It was very uncomfortable. I opened my eyes, sat up and groaned. My vision was blurred and my body felt weak. What in blazes had just happened? Was I drunk? I didn’t recall so much as tasting my Scotch and lemon.

  If I haven’t finished my drink, I mused, this would be an excellent time to do so.

  My surroundings came slowly into focus. The first thing I noticed was a sack of flour slumped on the floor nearby. Further investigation revealed strings of onions hanging from the ceiling, barrels standing in a neat row, jars of vegetables lining shelves and other foodstuffs lying about the room. It was evidently a storeroom of some kind. My Scotch was nowhere to be seen.

  A gasp rang through my aching head. I turned around. A young woman of eighteen or nineteen stood a few feet away, staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and shock. She wore something like a Japanese kimono. My muddled mind couldn’t quite reconcile it with her hair, which was auburn, or her eyes, which were blue.

  We gaped at each other in silence, and then she spoke in an unfamiliar language. I shook my head. Two things happened at that exact moment: a hand grasped my shoulder and a jolt of energy pulsed through my body like electricity. I gave a shout. The hand released my shoulder.

  Then, to my amazement, I distinctly heard the woman ask, “Are you Lancelot?”

  “Ugh?” I replied.

  “Are you the hero Lancelot? The knight of Camelot?”

  “No,” I said. Then, to break the silence, I added, “My name is Lance Eliot.”

  “Oh,” said the woman. There was a pause, and then she burst into tears.

  “Pardon me,” said another voice. A man stood at the back of the room, gazing at me with an apologetic expression. “There has been a mistake,” he said.

  “You don’t say?” I mumbled.

  “Please wait a moment,” said the man. He walked to the back of the room, opened a door and spoke with someone outside.

  At this instant I fell—finally—into merciful unconsciousness.

  2

  WHAT LANCE FINDS THERE

  I AWOKE ON A small cot. My head hurt and my throat was dry. If I get up, I thought drowsily, I might find something to drink. Simple. With an effort I lifted myself off the cot, stood for a moment and then collapsed on
to the floor. It took four more attempts to stand. Leaning against the wall, I rubbed my hind parts and looked around.

  The room was built of pale gray stone and furnished with a table, two chairs and the flimsy wooden cot. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling above the table. I looked in vain for a bottle or pitcher. No drink. I staggered to the door and tried the knob. Locked. I turned my gaze to the walls. No windows. I cursed and reached into my pocket for a cigarette. Empty. I cursed again, lurched to the cot and lay down. My headache began to fade away.

  I had just begun to doze when the door crashed open. I sprang to my feet, swayed like a tree in a strong wind and fell back onto the cot. The man who had spoken to me earlier had entered the room and stood opposite the table. “I am sorry for startling you,” he said. “I did not mean to make you fall over. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” I growled. “I landed on the cot—this time.”

  “Your strength will soon return,” said the man. “In the meantime, would you do me the honor of accepting a cup of tea?” He motioned toward the table, where someone had set a teapot and two cups.

  I can hardly describe my surprise. His request wasn’t strange. It was rather commonplace, in fact, but to hear such an ordinary question under such extraordinary circumstances was bizarre. It was as though a native in a remote Amazonian village had asked to borrow five pounds. Unable to reply, I opened and closed my mouth several times like a goldfish.

  “Excellent,” said the man, taking a chair. “Please sit down. I must apologize for confining you in this room. It was a necessary precaution, I assure you.”