by Lavie Tidhar
‘I am saying that this, here… This is the octopus.’
*
In the morning the sun shines and they pass through the trees and reach gentle grasslands. There’s an apple tree and Lancelot reaches for a low branch to pluck one before the crawler knocks the red apple out of his hand.
‘Don’t. Eat. Anything!’
After that they walk in silence, and no birds sing. The field they pass through is dotted with white milkmaid flowers and daisies, bright yellow kingcups, bluebells and pink foxgloves. It’s all so ordinary, innocent, sublime. The air is sweet with nectar. He listens to the sound of bees but there are none.
It’s so peaceful. The sun plays in the leaves of the distant trees. The breeze ruffles the blades of grass. The sun’s so warm. The air’s so clear. The sky’s so blue. White feet whisper through the grass towards him. Long shapely legs, a white sheer dress, her black hair’s down, her eyes twinkle in the sunlight, she comes towards him, she reaches her hands, her lips curl in a smile, he’s suddenly as hard as anything—
‘Guinevere,’ he says, enchanted. He’d dreamed of this moment, how often have they been together, just the two of them, and not a word between them, nothing but glances, all in the eyes, but he knows, and she knows, and that knowledge of each other is forever between them. ‘Guinevere, I—’
She reaches for him, he can see the swell of breasts, her taut stomach, her lips so red and full, ready for kissing, she reaches for him, her lips move without sound, whispering his name – he goes to her.
‘Don’t you fucking move!’ the crawler shouts. Somehow he had loaded his crossbow and now an arrow flies sure and true. It hits Guinevere in the chest and she bursts apart, becomes a cloud of white butterflies with dark spots on the wings.
The cloud hovers there as though uncertain, for a moment it attempts to reform and Lancelot can see the curves and lines of his secret love redrawn, the secret sorrow in her eyes. He tries to go back to her, then, but the illusion breaks, the lines become jagged, and the cloud of butterflies disperses to the skies and is gone.
‘Motherfucker, what did I tell you?’ the crawler, Gawain, says. ‘Don’t eat anything, don’t touch anything, and for the love of your countryman Christ, don’t try to fuck anything in the Zone!’
Lancelot whirls and catches him with his fist. The crawler staggers back, regains his balance, stands there.
‘You did!’ Lancelot screams.
The crawler’s fist smashes into Lancelot’s face.
Lancelot lets it.
He falls back, assumes the first position of the Praying Mantis school.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he says.
Gawain says, ‘You look ridiculous.’
They trade stares like two men over a crooked game of dice.
Gawain starts to laugh. Lancelot lowers his hands and straightens.
‘That’s years of practice,’ he says defensively. ‘I once killed three men with just a reed pen.’
‘Sounds like a waste of a pen.’
‘It wasn’t a very good pen.’
He laughs. He does feel a little ridiculous.
‘I just wasn’t expecting that, you know?’ he says.
‘Who was she?’
‘A… a friend of mine.’
‘The lady from the court?’
Lancelot nods.
‘Seemed nice.’
‘She is.’
‘You two…?’
Lancelot shakes his head. ‘She’s married.’
‘Ah.’
Gawain looks at him with some curiosity. ‘And that bothers you? That she is?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Come on,’ Gawain says. ‘The Zone’s too reactive at the moment. We should be safer when we cross the water. If you see any other manifestations ignore them. Can you do that?’
‘I… Yes.’
‘Good.’
Gawain hefts his bag and then they’re back on the path, and soon the field is gone and they are back in the trees. It gets murky and humid again and the sweat irritates Lancelot’s skin. But soon he can hear the sound of rushing water.
When they come on the river they do so abruptly. The ground ends and falls down to a raging torrent of black water. White jagged rocks like teeth peek from just under the surface.
‘The Big Water,’ Gawain says, and slaps Lancelot on the back. ‘Come on.’
They follow the river for a while, until they come to a place where some vast oak had fallen down in time past. Now it overhangs the two sides of the river, the branches black and twisted, and Lancelot suppresses a shudder at the sight.
‘You have got to be joking.’
‘I’ve used it in the past. It’s a real tree. Solid. It’s been on this land for far longer than there’s been a Zone.’
‘It could be riddled with worms, and hollow.’
‘Only one way to find out.’
With that, Gawain simply climbs the fallen tree. He makes his way cautiously but swiftly above the black river, bare-footed, holding on to the thinner branches that poke out from the trunk. Only moments later he’s across.
‘Well?’
Lancelot breathes, exhales, and runs across the bridge. And he remembers one winter, high in the Sirion, that grandfather mountain that looms over the Lebanon: the master had taken him there in pursuit of some ancient relic. There had been a monastery there, on the highest peak, held by the priests of Ba’al. The only access was a narrow plank across a chasm. The master trained him in the art of cloud walking but the very sight of the abyss made Lancelot falter, and he almost fell, there, at the end.
Then there had been the whole question of the relic, its authenticity or otherwise; and the master got into an argument with the priests of Ba’al, and he and Lancelot had to fight their way out, flaming arrows chasing their escape, the blood of priests hot on the blades of their swords.
‘There you go,’ Gawain says. ‘See? Not so bad.’
Lancelot turns, and he regards him with suspicion. Where is this man really taking him? Lancelot had learned from the master that those who wish to lead us astray nevertheless may lead us where we want to go. And so he follows in the footsteps of this crawler, and knowing all the while that there is a plan in place for him – a trap. The secret to getting out of traps, the master taught him, is to know they’re there.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘No problem.’
‘Come on. There’s a place nearby where we can camp for the night.’
They walk until they reach the place. It is night by then. Three blackened tree stumps in a row mark it. A ruined stone house stands on the site. It hovers precariously over the precipice, above the Big Water. The bricks are blackened on the inside, as though some enormous fire had erupted there at some point in the past. As they approach, Lancelot can see a small campfire burning in the ruins.
A dark cowled figure sits hunched near the flames.
But Gawain strides confidently. In moments more they arrive in the circle of light and the figure raises its head and looks at them mournfully. Lancelot beholds an ancient face, heavily lined, with a thick beard streaked now in white.
‘Oh, crawler, it’s you again.’
‘Hermit.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Man from Camelot.’
The hermit’s eyes are still bright and clear; and they turn on Lancelot with newfound interest.
‘From the king’s court?’
‘Yes,’ Lancelot says. He sits beside the fire as Gawain stows their equipment in the ruins.
‘How is the dear boy?’ the hermit says. ‘It’s been so long… What are the latest fashions? Do men still style their moustaches with beeswax?’
‘Beeswax?’ Lancelot says.
‘Is that not a thing?’
Lancelot shrugs. ‘The king is fine. I do not know about moustaches. And the fashion is as it always was, or so I presume – drinking, fucking and picking fights. Are you…?’
‘I was.�
� The man smiles. It doesn’t make him look any younger. ‘The name’s Pellinore. I served the old king, Uther.’
‘But that… You must be…’
‘I’m pretty old. I’m not that old,’ Pellinore says. ‘Which reminds me, is Merlin still around?’
‘He is.’
‘He’s a bit of a shit, really, isn’t he.’
Lancelot laughs.
‘He is,’ he says. ‘I’m Lancelot, by the way.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you.’
‘Care for a drink? I boil water infused with a lily that grows only in the Zone. It’s most calming. And you can taste colour.’
‘No… Thank you.’
‘No problem. So what brings you here, Lancelot? You’re not the usual type Gawain brings into the Zone.’
‘How so?’
‘For one… You’re still alive.’
The old man chortles.
‘I’m here on behalf of the king.’
‘Is he still fighting his wars?’ Pellinore says. He sighs. ‘Sometimes I miss it,’ he says. ‘Old Uther was always fighting. Would have died fighting, too, only his guts gave out.’
‘Oh?’
‘Poison.’
‘Oh.’
‘There is nothing here your king could use, you know,’ Pellinore says. ‘This isn’t how the story’s written. There’s no happy ending for kings. They become by beating or killing the competition, then they rule, then…’ He makes a chopping motion. ‘Another upstart comes along. And he’s young, and he’s hungry, and he’s just a little bit more vicious and he’s not scared to die. The king is dead. Long live the king.’
‘You know something I don’t, old man?’
Pellinore chuckles. ‘Word filters in, even here. Heard a name, recently. You know it, perhaps?’
‘Mordred.’
‘So you have.’
‘He’s a nobody.’
‘Wasn’t Arthur a nobody?’
‘He was the son of a king!’
‘Word is this Mordred is also the son of a king.’
Silence falls between them. The fire crackles in its ring of stones. There are no stars, the clouds have amassed in the skies above.
‘Besides, what is a king but the last guy to take power?’
‘Why do you say there’s nothing here?’
‘You’re searching for a weapon?’ Pellinore’s shrewd eyes examine Lancelot. ‘Even if there was one, you can’t kill everyone. People will come here. They will continue to come. If it isn’t the Angles or the Saxons it will be other people, at other times. Europa’s just there, beyond the water. What are you going to do, kill them all?’
‘Maybe, yes.’
The old knight shakes his head. ‘There’s no profit in it. And very little humanity. But listen to me blather on. I’ve grown old and the world beyond seems often like a dream to me. Somehow, the Zone is more real.’
‘What is the Zone? And how is it that you’ve survived in it so long?’
‘Accommodations have been made.’
‘I… I see.’
The old knight laughs. ‘Relax! You worry too much. I know why you’re really here. It’s the mystery that captivates you. You want to know. I think, like me, you had a harsh master.’
‘I… Yes.’
‘And love? Do you have that?’
‘I… Yes.’
The old man relaxes. ‘Then that is sometimes all you have,’ he says. ‘Ah, Gawain, there you are.’
The crawler reappears out of the shadows. ‘Went scouting ahead,’ he says. ‘But all is clear.’
‘That is good, that is good,’ Pellinore says. He yawns. ‘I will sleep now. See you in the morning…’
He turns and lies down on his side. In moments he’s asleep, his chest rising and falling, loud snores escaping from his lips.
‘Go to sleep,’ Gawain says shortly. ‘We’ll start early tomorrow.’ He moves into the shadow of the ruins.
Lancelot ponders. He stares at the flames. But the fire’s dying and the night’s long and dark. He settles on the hard earth. He slows the beat of his heart. He summons sleep. For just a moment he allows himself her face in his mind. She turns and the sunlight sparkles in her eyes.
It’s all he needs.
*
In the night he wakes abruptly. He cannot breathe.
Opens his eyes to see Gawain’s face above his; Gawain’s hands round his throat, choking the life out of him.
65
Lancelot flails wildly. His training’s lost. Thumbs press into his windpipe. Gawain seems to be using the classic Green Frog Crouches on Ground hold. Lancelot struggles to emerge out of sleep and fear. Gawain’s face swims before his eyes. For one moment it changes, and he sees Guinevere.
Lancelot knife-hands Gawain in the neck. Gawain grunts but keeps the pressure on. Lancelot twists on the hard ground. Raises a kick and spins up in the air. He lands on his feet.
‘Motherfucker!’
It comes out as a croak.
Gawain comes at him with the same unchanged face. The hermit snores softly on the ground. The fire’s dead in the ring of stones. Gawain’s fists flash, once, twice, Lancelot counters with the Arimathean Sand Spider. He sweeps Gawain’s feet and the flying sword, Secace, comes to his hand. He raises it and strikes.
Gawain comes apart at the blow.
A thousand tiny black spiders scatter away from the blade.
Lancelot sees the real Gawain appear through the trees then, a bewildered, angry expression on his face.
‘What are you—’
The false Gawain reforms around the blade. It pulls it out. Its face remains expressionless. It launches a vicious attack then, driving Lancelot back, he whirls and falls to avoid the apparition’s fists. His sword flashes and it cuts the false Gawain in half but does no damage. He launches the Monkey’s Paw and the King in Yellow and the Turn of the Screw but the thing that is wearing Gawain’s face pays them no heed and it pushes, pushes—
Too late, Lancelot realises what’s happening. He loses his footing and hears the rumbling of pebbles—
The real Gawain appears behind the apparition and knocks it over the head with a rock. The thing falls on Lancelot, who reaches helplessly up—
For a moment Gawain catches his hand, but then the weight of the apparition pushes him down, down, and he falls, and the false Gawain breaks apart into tiny spiders again and Lancelot hits the cold dark water.
The impact’s like hitting stone. He cries out and then the spiders reform and the apparition drags him down, down under the surface. Lancelot flails wildly. He cannot breathe. He kicks with the Boiling Frog and slams his fist into the apparition’s cheek with simple brute force but it just won’t do, the creature has no real physical form, it cannot be harmed, the air departs Lancelot’s lungs, the blackness crawls like spiders into his eyes.
Then, from above, an arrow falls. It pierces the water. When it hits the surface it bursts into a white, intense flame. The arrow flies through the water and pierces the apparition’s chest.
The thing screams.
It lets go of Lancelot. The fire burns underwater. The arrow’s coated in some material unknown to Lancelot. He kicks desperately upwards. Bursts out of the water, gulps in air. The thing that wore Gawain’s face burns in the river. It screams and the sound travels in bubbles up to the surface. For just a moment the thing changes. For one moment more it wears again Guinevere’s face. Her eyes are filled with agony.
Then the flow of the river pulls and shoves Lancelot away. Caught in the current, he can’t get out. The river carries him fast and far. It’s all he can do to stay afloat. His power wanes. The water tries to suck him back down, to bash him against the rocks. It is an enemy he cannot fight for long.
No stars overhead. It is so dark. But bright yellow eyes watch him from the banks. He is aware of notice being taken. He hears a rumble right ahead.
A waterfall.
Then he does hit rocks; but he go
es over them, and down, down again.
Stunned, weakened, he floats in calmer waters. A rock pool, and reeds. He drifts to the bank. Crawls onto hard ground.
Throws up.
For a long time after there is nothing but darkness. When he opens his eyes again it’s to rough hands turning him over. Blurry faces look down on him. Then they drag him away and, when he weakly protests, someone hits him matter-of-factly over the head with the hilt of a sword and then there’s nothing but darkness again.
*
‘Lancelot… Laaaanceloooot…’
The voice is like a mother speaking to her babes. He can’t remember much of his mother or father. Vague images, without sound. Soldiers screaming. His father with a spear in his chest, blood blooming. His mother is just a presence in the memories, he can no longer recall her face. She holds him close, her arms are soft and warm. Then the soldiers pull her away and take Lancelot and he never sees her again.
They sold him in the great slave market of Yathrib. The traders who bought him had little use for him at first. They crossed the desert in a long caravan, the camel men cursing and the hot dry wind blowing all the while.
In the night he woke up and there was a knife in his hand and it was dripping with blood that wasn’t his.
‘Laaancelohhhtt… Wakey-wakey…’
He tosses and turns. Go away, he wants to say. He doesn’t want to get up. He’s had enough of it all. It’s all so pointless.
That was when the master found him. Dazed and wandering in the desert, alone, nothing but his footprints in the sand behind him, the pale and merciless moon overhead. Bruised, covered in blood… Alive, somehow.
The master was a shadowy figure. Strangely, he’d left no footprints of his own. It was as though he trod so softly on the sand that he was never there at all.
‘I am Joseph,’ he stated. ‘Of Arimathea. And you look like you could use some help.’
The boy who was not yet Lancelot just stared at him mutely. The master examined him closely, then sighed.
‘What tribe?’
The boy just stared.
‘Banu Harith? Banu Shutayba?’
The boy just stared.
‘Al-Kahinan?’
The boy startled.