In all the tangled countryside of the island of ancient Britain, no man was more enigmatic to his peers — mostly mud covered peasants worn and used to working their sickles into the blonde waving grain lengths for sustenance — than the solemn scrawny form of the soot-haired stranger who tilled soil silently surrounded by an ocean of mist.

Morning broke with color upon the verdant English countryside. Those of the fellowship gathered just outside the castle walls with their steeds and squires, lances and banners, all adorned in full to sally forth into the ineffable wilderness.

The Merry Land was woven thick with flora, even on the open plains, and flowers that had been dead all season found their souls returned from the underworld of winter. The three companies of knights had each taken a different route northwards navigating their positions by keeping in view the ruins of the Roman highway suspended above their island, stretching coast-to-coast. The days lengthened ever longer: the season of rejuvenation had come. Forests became thick with bough and leaf, the downs grew soft with flowers and blooming grains, and from all the marble ruins of that forgotten race lichens and shrooms sprung forth.

The flute player was a lanky youth. Unkempt hair and a look of innocent loneliness was draped about him like an ill-fitting cloak, but his eyes… his eyes for some reason were like the sun about to rise. Three days prior, the innocent youth had joined ways with a traveling minstrel-knight and his blue-tattooed companion. He was playing for them now, sharing saddle with the squire who waited on them.

When the days of spring came to a close, the solstice arrove and with it summer rolled into each valley and coomb of the British Isle: vivid plants and vibrant ones dashed swaths of the countryside in hopeful yellows and pinks, mythic reds, whimsical whites, and all the lonely hues that the varied vegetation nurtured in those days. That great suspended highway in the distance, the Tchrelma’Montgomery, seemed almost green in its drapery of climbing ivy and flowers grown rampant since the builders of that marble monolith had faded into history.

As the weeks became fluttering months it came to pass that those knights bearing the crucified James Jesus Christ arrove at the forests surrounding the Falls of Beth Esda, at the very eastern sea-cliffs of the Merry Land.

From grim Castle Montrose, the fields to the north could be seen all hilly with barrows, and the marble Tchrelma’Montgomery in the distance. Long grasses danced in the wind, and around one flowering tumulus a crowd was gathering — of which Sir Sallimaide and Sir Wander-Gogh were two. Before the entrance to that empty grave mound stood a druid in long robes of white, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Sweat flowed in rivers down his face as he spake and sang and made sorrowful but passionate gestures over the shrouded corpse that lay at his feet: the body that once had been inhabited by the King of Montrose.

Insects cried out in the ominous humidity, and the mud stuck to the three knights’ boots as they trodge through the dismal swamp. Loud squelching sounds erupted every time their greaves rose from the mire. Low hanging vines and over-grown plants impeded their way, camouflaged and difficult to see in the fragmented light that was like lightning falling upon a magic barrier made of mirth. The trees there were large, twisted with dark bark and swirled upwards with dense branches through the steamy air, blooming out into a menacing canopy. The spongey surface of the swamp was made both of muddy land and deep dark water, though it was all covered in the pale fuzz of moss and fungus and algae.

They rode along the sullen cliffs in silence. Beyond the stony edge, all they were able to see was the great shifting mass of mist that rose from the rocky beaches where the ocean worshipped the land in eternal cycles of bowing, far below. The mood of the mist was inside all three of them ever since the lives of James and Isaiah had been lost, and within the travellers a faithless mistrust had begun to take root.

Sarah Bellum and the knights departed from her castle that morning. Theirs had been a cheery banquet of reunion, during which Sir Carboniferous made known his heart’s desire to travel this newfangled Merry Land with his granddaughter by his side. Sarah’s portly father was the son of the Knight of the Fern but no knight himself, and he was reluctant to let her travel into the world with strangers. During wine and dinner however, the elderly Fern spoke aside to his son, whispering that his time within this Cycle drew near its end. Thus did Sarah’s father agree to the journey, and he blessed them.

The sun was long absent when the despondent knights led by violet-and-argent Sir Palamander finally roech Darnestowne, a dark settlement of wooden houses and shops on either side of the cobblestone road they long had been traversing. Being the first village these knights had encountered since their weary way from Bidgood’s keep, each knight among them was eager to rest within a hospitable bed. It was quiet.

That same night, yet far from Darnestowne, a similar chill was in the air as the seasons changed. Umber-and-vert Sir Wander-Gogh lay sleepless in his bedroll and counted all the stars that spiraled and winked at him in the sublime depths of the blackest areas of space. He counted until the stars were numbered greater than those numbers that he knew, but he was still far from sleep and thus decided to take just a short walk in the forest.

There came over the traveler a vague sensation of bewilderment and anxiety, but more insistent than that was a deep ineffable ache within him so subtle it was almost an unacknowledged yearning. He felt it in his core and in the ways the world filtered into his perception, and it was a great tiring burden that he bore beyond the veil of understanding. He felt he had been dragging this weight with him since before memory began.

The arias of many birds echoed melodiously in the evening woods where leaves were yellowing with the touch of the first chill fingers of an autumn that probed from the north. Echoing too from bough to bough came whispers of a harp plucked idly, accompanied by the crunch of hooves over the scattering dead leaves. There seemed an early dusk in the woods to the small band of travelers, for a haze hung in the undergrowth punctuated only by the lazy golden raindrops of drifting leaves. A small quail erupted into flight from its hiding place, startling Sir Elisa from his musician’s trance with the jar of a mis-plucked chord. He watched the drab avian pierce the thinning canopy until his lyre’s lingering notes dissolved into bird-song

Evening was approaching the pine-covered mountain when the Lobster Knight disturbed the silence left by Sir Palamander’s mournful reverie. It was without warning that he cried, “I will like to have a thing to eat!”

On a far distant shore where the wind whipped wildly and the ocean broke against her brother the land, the sky slowly began to blush with dawn. The colors of the sun were mirrored in the undulating waves as the cold world slowly woke. Not far from the grey castle lonely on its peninsula was an encampment of dull war tents flapping in the foggy coastal breeze. Long had been their siege upon the castle Tintagel and the men were weary, hungry for victory or forfeit, caring little what should cause their safe departure. These were men capable of stout heart, men who had once joyously conquered for glory and wealth — yet their courage had long since waned as their king’s obsessions blossomed.

Gasping for breath, their three heads crested the waters of the pool now surrounded by neither waterfall nor enchanted mists. Thrashing about in brightness, coughing, they swam towards the shore. The clarity of the mortal world was a comfort to those souls who had lain dreaming in Aerlynd, and all felt woken as if from mystic sleep — yet sorrowful for the end of the vision they had not seen.

Winds harshly swept a desolate mountain, clawing at the ragged vegetation and driving animals to safer locales. The clouds hung dark in the sky, full of storm. Against the rocky outcroppings, seeking what shelter they could, came two slow riders upon a single forlorn giraffe.

For twelve moons in that highest fortress the Knights of Bidgood had smoked the Holy Herb copiously, while Sir Moodye preserved his chastity and partook of none. He had spent his days in his room poring over the Meta-Testament, having read it nearly cover to cover. These past days his eyes had devoured the hymn Yesterday, the missive Dear Prudence, and The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill. Meticulously he made his way through the texts, trying to extract all understanding from the labyrinth of poetry. Yet when the thirteenth moon rose there came a knock upon the Whale Knight’s door. Beneath the dark robes that entered his stonework room was an towering elderly man with tattoos in place of hair.

As they emerged the next day from the great doorway of the Green Gate onto the zenith once more of that sacred stairway, the sun and clear morning sky glent off the newly-burnished armor of the drowsy knights. The priests of the fortress had offered fresh provisions and allowed a last occasion for all to partake of the holy seven-pointed Plant before they departed. At the gathering, Sir Moodye asked the High Priest what he thought they would find within that dearly sought resting-place of the Wreath of Reincarnation.