by Dyrk Ashton
A dozen Deva Firstborn are scattered about, chatting, lounging on benches, some playing what looks like a form of bocce ball, others croquet. Even with all that’s happened, and the danger they and the whole world face, it’s like a typical day with friends and family in the park. How do they do it? she asks herself, then considers, They’ve done it all before. Faced death and war, horror and loss. She doesn’t know if she could—if she can, now. Then she realizes how calm she is, when she should be freaking out. Maybe there is something to being Firstborn.
She comes over a rise and more of the valley spreads out before her, less manicured, more wild grasses and native flowers with carefree rabbits and birds, entirely unafraid of her.
A white gravel path winds down to an area a few hundred yards away, near the vague shimmering wall of The Buffalo Woman’s protective barrier. There, Fi sees a grove of trees interspersed with black fingers of rock. She makes out the roof of a small building and heads toward it.
On her way, she spies Cù Sìth and Kabir, standing well off the path in the grass, gazing into the distance. In Cù’s hand, hanging at his side, he holds a single yellow flower. He nods to her, then wanders further away. Kabir walks to the path and approaches.
“What’s that building?” Fi asks, pointing to the grove.
“The baths,” Kabir answers. He notices she’s watching Cù Sìth. “Do not fear him,” he says. “It never hurts to be careful, but I trust him.
“But he knows when he’s not wanted too close,” Fi observes. Kabir nods and continues on his way.
Fi follows the path through the rocks and trees to a single-story building nestled in a small clearing. Steam rises on the far side and drifts out on the wind. A sign on the shingle siding reads Baths in Norwegian. On the gate of a low picket fence hangs a sign that says Occupied in the same language. Then she hears something that makes her smile. Edgar, softly singing “Amazing Grace.”
Mol comes around the back of the building, wagging his tail, as she quietly shuts the gate. She leans to scratch his ears. “Shh,” she tells him, a finger to her lips. He watches her, curious, while she sneaks to the back corner, then he lies down to curl up in the sun.
Fi has no interest in seeing her uncle naked. Yargh. But she’s rarely witnessed him in his private time, or just got to sit and talk with him lately other than when he would bring her breakfast on Sunday mornings, and then not for long. She’d like to get to know him better. Especially now. And she has to admit, some of her old mischievous self itches to have some fun. Holding her breath, she peeks around the corner.
A ridge of dark rock lines the far side of the clearing, and she sees the source of the steam. Hot springs bubbling into rock pools. An awning of wooden slats interlaced with flowering vines provides shade while also letting in sunlight, which dapples the flagstone patio with soft spots of light. A fire burns in a small brazier off to one side of the patio, and near the back edge, Edgar leans back in a white stone tub filled with water from the springs, a damp towel on his forehead and eyes, singing to himself, his fingers tapping the sides of the tub with the measured beat.
His braid is undone, which Fi has never seen in all the years she’s known him, his hair cascading over the back of the tub and falling nearly to the ground. She’s also never seen his skin beyond his neck, face and hands. Pale and slightly loose, like an old man’s skin should be, but what strikes her are the scars on his shoulders and arms. Some small and pink, others broad, dark and deep. And she knows he’ll have more from the bullets he took to protect her.
She can’t imagine what he’s been through in his life, her Uncle Galahad. Not only his grueling search for the Holy Grail, which she’s read at least some about, but the whole of the Middle Ages, all those centuries, at their best and worst. How many battles has he fought? How many times has he been injured, close to death, and alone? A melancholy almost overcomes her, but she staves it off. He’ll never be alone again, if she can help it.
She steps around the corner. “Hey.”
Edgar nearly leaps out of the tub, whipping the hand towel off his face, but catches himself before revealing his full naked glory and splashes back down, hunkering in the water. He peers at her over the rim, completely flustered, and spouts, “Fiona!”
She grins. “Hi.”
“Good Lord. Can’t you leave an old man even the smallest amount of dignity?”
“Nope.” She starts to come closer.
He hunkers lower in the water, holding out a wet hand to stop her. “Don’t you dare, young lady!” He points to the back of the building, where white cotton robes hang on pegs. “If you aren’t going to leave, at least have the common courtesy to hand me a robe.” Mol pokes his head around the corner. “Molossus! Some sentry you are. You were supposed to warn me if anyone approached.” Mol barks at Fi then looks back to Edgar. “Incorrigible hound.” Mol flashes a floppy-tongued doggy grin and walks back out of sight.
Fi retrieves a robe and stands as far away from the tub as she can to hand it to him. He snatches it. “Now look away.” Fi turns, pleased with herself. Edgar mumbles while he rustles into his robe, words like “preposterous” and “today’s youth” and “no respect.”
“Ready?” Fi says, turning back without waiting for a reply.
Edgar swiftly tugs his cincture tighter. He grunts, throwing his loose hair back over his shoulders and closing the top of his robe further. “What on earth can I do for you, then, that it couldn’t wait until I was decent?”
Fi watches him a moment, seeing him in a way she can’t recall having seen him before. He’s a person. Not her iconic Uncle Edgar, or Sir Galahad, Knight of the Round Table, but a real person. It makes her sad she’s never thought of him like that before.
Something in her eyes calms him, and he sighs. “Let’s sit by the fire, then, shall we?”
He tosses more pieces of split birch into the brazier, then pulls up a chair for her and one for him. He sits, careful not to expose anything, and though he covers his legs as much as he can with the robe, Fi sees more scars on his legs and feet. He’s covered with them.
On a stool near the tub is Edgar’s bathroom kit, including a brush and the bands he uses to hold his braid. Fi retrieves them and pulls the stool up behind him, which makes Edgar nervous all over again.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“You’ve taken care of me my whole life. Let me do one thing for you.”
“Have I a choice?”
“No. Duh. Now lean back.” He grudgingly obeys, but his shoulders are tense. Fi tugs on his hair. “Relax.”
He makes a show of taking a deep breath. “Better?”
“Not much.” She runs the brush through his hair, gently working out the snarls, and notices the scent. “Is that lavender?”
“Yes it is,” he says defensively. Then less so, “And sandalwood oil. Compliments of the bathhouse supply cabinet. Anyone can use it.”
Fi smiles. “It smells lovely.”
“Yes, well, thank you.” After a minute, he asks, “How are you holding up, dear? All this must be quite overwhelming, to say the least.”
“I’m okay. How about you?”
“Me?” he says, as if surprised she’d ask, or concerned she would worry about him at all. “As long as you’re safe, I’m as good as can be.” He knits his brow. “Of course, ‘safe’ is a relative term under the circumstances.”
“Are you worried about this whole Maha yuga end-of-the-world business?” she asks.
“I am not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I trust in Peter, and if he believes this world will be the last, that is the presumption under which I shall proceed.”
“But what if he’s wrong?”
Edgar takes another deep breath. “Either way, fretting won’t help the matter. It never does. I agree with Mac Gallus. What will be, will be. And as you know, whatever may come, I trust in God.”
“Then I guess I won’t worry either.” She knows
that won’t last and she’ll worry plenty, but she’ll worry about that later. She shakes her head at her own ridiculous thought pattern. Still a dork.
She’s quiet for awhile as she tackles a particularly stubborn tangle. “Remember when you used to brush my hair?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I... wasn’t comfortable with it, I suppose, and you were of an age when you could do it yourself.” He pauses. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You never have to be sorry.”
He says, “Yes, dear,” but in a way she doesn’t believe him.
“What was it like when you were a kid?”
“Dirty, mostly.”
Fi laughs. “No, really.”
“Schooling. Training. Quite rigid and grueling, to be truthful. There was war, though I saw little of it as a child. I squired, long hours. There were peaceful times, too, and entertainments. We didn’t have the distractions of television, movies or video games, of course, but there were music performances, feasts and festivals. People talked a lot more back then, and read books, though our library was limited. And the skies, oh my. You can’t imagine what a daylight sky can be without trails from airplanes, or the stars at night with no light from the cities. And no traffic noise, ever.”
“You grew up in Camelot, right? That had to be pretty grand.”
“Camelot wasn’t the shining palace it’s made out to be. More of a rough stone fortification. But parts of it were grand.”
“What was your father, Launcelot, like? And your mother? You never talk about either of them.”
Edgar gazes at his palms. “There’s not much to tell. I never knew my mother. She was a peasant girl, not worthy of marriage to one of my father’s station. He and I weren’t close. That’s part of the reason there is little to tell. He wasn’t cruel to me, but men in those days were often more distant with their children. The landed nobility, the lords and knights, especially. And on top of that, he was a prince by birth.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took after his father. Myrddin Wyllt, as you know. And his wicked ways. He shamed us both through his indiscretions. With his best friend’s wife, no less. Arthur trusted him like a brother, and he betrayed that utterly.” Edgar rubs the callouses on his palm. “There are many versions of how he died in the legends. That it was in battle, fighting beside Arthur until the very end. That he went back to France, the land of his birth, got married, had more children and lived out his life as a family man. In truth, he died a hermit, ravaged by guilt, wasted away from shame.
“I forgave him long ago, and have been praying for his soul since. I have made my peace with his memory.” Edgar’s voice grows softer. “Treachery runs in my family, Fiona. I have dedicated my life to changing that, to changing me, and what I feared to become. I have tried to be good, pious and humble. Humility is the hardest part, of course, to which I am sure you can attest from your experience with me.” Fi chuckles, then smiles, though he can’t see it, and continues to gently brush his long hair. “When it came to caring for you, I was surprised how naturally my aptitude for deceit came to me. To pretend I was something I was not, to feed you lies about yourself, and hide so many truths. To my shame, I believe I enjoyed it for a time. The charade. I am truly sorry.”
Fi kisses him on top of the head. “I forgive you.”
“Thank you. You’ve no idea what that means to this old man. Well, if you actually mean it.”
She tugs on the braid she’s begun to make. “Of course I do. You calling me a liar?”
“Oh my, no.” A smile slowly blooms on Edgar’s face. “I would have you know, dear, these years with you have been the best, the happiest of my life.”
Fi scoffs. “You must have had a pretty miserable life,” which brings a laugh from him.
“On the contrary. I cannot complain. Though I do, as you know.”
“Why do you sing when you fight?”
“I sing all the time.”
“That’s true, but it seems important to you.”
“I began my weapons training in the yard when I was just a young lad, and I was terrible at it.”
“Seriously?”
“Very. I was fine physically, but I had an awful time focusing my attention, on concentrating on what I was being told to do.”
“Galahad has ADHD?”
“Apparently so.”
“Good. Just like me.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me, but yes.” Edgar pauses before proceeding. “My father saw my troubles one day and approached. I thought he would punish me for being a fool, but instead, he told me to try singing while going through the training exercises, or humming if I wasn’t comfortable with singing, even in my head if need be. It’s the one thing of value he gave me, and it worked. I’ve been doing it ever since. The others focus their power with words. I draw on mine, including my faith, with song.”
“I heard Pratha trained you later, though. As a knight, I mean. How to ride, and fight.”
“She did indeed. I had no idea who or what she really was, of course. I knew her as the Lady Lyne. She looked much like she does now, but spoke every bit the Englishwoman. She dressed a bit more respectably, too. Though not much.” Fi laughs. “Toward the end of my instruction, she is the one who first told me about The Pater and the Firstborn, as well as my true lineage. Though she never did tell me she was, in fact, The Prathamaja Nandana. It is a great honor to have been trained by her.”
“Myrddin told me something.”
Edgar stiffens. “Believe little of what that Madman might say.”
“I think he’s sorry. For his behavior when you were young. I think he’d like to make things right.” Edgar is quiet. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Pratha was in England, training knights, of all the things she could spend her time doing?”
“Not really. I supposed it was simply something she wanted to do, as is her nature.”
“Come out of whatever self-exile she’d chosen, give up whatever crazy experiment, just to train some Englishmen?” Edgar doesn’t respond. “Myrddin asked her to.”
“He did not.”
“He did. In fact, he begged it as a favor, of The First Daughter, no less.”
“That is no small thing.”
“Nope. And he did it for you.”
Edgar sits silently, staring at the fire. “Does Pratha corroborate this?”
“Yup.” She leans forward, fingers effortlessly plaiting the braid. “He’s suffered too, you know. Maybe you should give him a chance.”
“We shall see.” He thinks for a moment. “Have you spoken to Peter?”
Fi takes a while to answer. “No.”
“Perhaps both of us should practice what we preach, ay?”
“You know I hate it when you’re right,” Fi grumbles. “I’ll think about it.”
“As will I.”
The last thing Fi expected was to have the conversation turn back on her, so she changes the subject. “Uncle?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions?”
“Hush. What’s your favorite color?”
He laughs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I might.”
“All right then. It’s pink.”
“What?” Fi snickers.
Edgar rushes to his own defense. “In my day and society, pink was a martial color, representing robust health and vigor, courage and honor, but also faith and humility. I wore a pink sash at the Round Table, you know.”
“It still blows me away you were a knight. The knight.”
Edgar stares at his hands again. “It was just a table,” he says quietly.
Fi sees he’s still uncomfortable discussing that part of his life. “Pink, huh? No wonder you always gave me pink things. Even a big-ass pink backpack.”
“I thought it was your favorite as well.”
“I hate pink.”
“Oh dear. Why have you never said anything?�
�
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me, Fiona. And I doubt you ever will.”
Fi knows damn well she’s disappointed him plenty of times, and probably will again, but at the moment, she hopes with all her heart it’s true.
Edgar launches into a history of the color pink, with great detail, in his true Edgarian way. Its different meanings through the ages. How it has only been considered a gendered color for baby girls or women since quite recently (recently from Edgar’s point of view, that is).
And this time Fi doesn’t zone out at his story, but listens with a smile. Hearing his voice, working his hair with her hands in the warm comfort of the baths, with the sounds of the bubbling springs and crackling fire, she’s entirely content. Maybe even happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
NORWAY
GALAHADS
Having finished braiding her uncle’s hair, Fi leaves him to dress and pray as requested, scratching Mol as he lies on half-assed guard duty on her way out the gate. Not far from the baths she spies Cù Sìth, sitting on a rock, looking extremely uncomfortable as a cow stands in front of him, sniffing and flipping its tail with curiosity. He’s most likely amazed it came that close instead of running the other way in terror as soon as it saw him, Fi imagines.
Fi reaches the rise and meets Mrs. Mirskaya, Sekhmet, and Akhu coming up the path. “There you are,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “Have you seen Edgar?”
Fi thumbs back down the slope. “He’s in the baths. I wouldn’t go down there though. He almost shit the tub when I walked in.”