LIBER PRIMVS
* * *
nam qvaecvmqve homines bene cviqvam avt dicere possvnt
avt facere haec a te dicatqve factaqve svnt
omnia qvae ingratae periervnt credita menti.
qvare iam te cvr amplivs excrvcies?
qvin tv animo offirmas atqve instinc te ipse redvcis
et dis invitis desinis esse miser?
difficile est longvm svbito deponere amorem
difficile est vervm hoc qvalvbet eficias
vna salvs haec est hos est tibi pervincendvm
hoc facias sive id non pote sive pote.
o di! si vestrvm est misereri avt si qvibus vmqvam
extremam iam ipsa in morte tvlistis opem
me miservm aspicite et si vitam pvriter egi
eripite hanc pestem perniciemqve mihi
qvae mihi svbrepens imos vt torpor in artvs
expvlit ex omni pectore laetitas.
*
I
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. Sir Moodye had been to the armory and stables, had chosen a lightweight suit of armor over which he had draped his new sable-and-ivory robes. He had with him also a gift from King Bidgood: a well-muscled giraffe of his own all saddled and dressed with Whale livery. The servants and peasantry had come to see them off, strewing strong-scented lotus petals across the path in hope that they would be lead to enlightenment. In addition to noble giraffes the company was joined by a majestic decorated elephant to which the bulk of their supplies were fastened. This grey behemoth of burden was a staple of the Christian faith and though he did carry their secular items, the beast’s presence was in faith to bear James, the crucified Christian prophet. By the edicts of that religion, every Jesus Christ who made the pilgrimage across England remained bound to their great wooden cross during the hours of day.
“The lowland moors I can see,” said one-eyed James Jesus Christ, “and the towers of London against the morning horizon rise. Invigorating is this air: away at last into the wide Merry Land we soon shall be!”
Sir Intuition surveyed the land through his knight’s kaleidoscope, inspecting the wasteland ahead for difficulties. As his spyglass passed over those distant dilapidated towers, he tugged nervously at one edge of his mustache and looked away. Changing focus, he bustled to made certain raven-masked Pater Obscurus was secure in his saddle behind him.
As King Bidgood himself arrove on a resplendent palanquin to bid them farewell and success in their travels he blessed them with dream-words, and his retinue did sound certain trumpet flourishes for luck. And then as the mighty sun rose over them all the company set out in earnest, Bidgood’s trumpets still sounding, and their own squires answering with their own clarions. So it was that the Knights of Bidgood gave a great cheer, raised their heraldic banners high, and set out upon the road and rode and rode, leaving the castle far behind and approaching the cusps of ominous moorlands. There were shouts of joy and camaraderie between the knights and the squires and mystics and elders, but eventually their revels began to decrescendo. Their path had narrowed to a slight ribbon of solid ground. All took care to not veer from it into the spongey peat that bubbled dismally — that could surely devour the maker of any false move. The dangerous mires spread out flat for miles around the knights like a great green nightfall in which twinkling stars of purple could be seen: heather flowers. A plethora of fossils could now and again be glimpsed dotted throughout the bog, evidence of this wasteland’s fertile past, yet life and learning had withered from these reaches in the years since London’s decay. The band of giraffes marched on, carefully guid by their valiant riders, and the cross-bearing elephant took up the rear. Some unseen insects hummed unevenly in the distance, and moist breezes waned to stagnation. Far distant, beyond even the wreckage of London’s towers, one loop of the ancient Roman highway was visible through the mist.
As the travellers rode between two expanses of fossil-littered mire; as they passed beneath over-grown pillars supporting that sky-spanning marble highway; as stone fingers of the abandoned capital city tilted ominously before them like swamp firs; the motivation of the band’s mirth began quickly to dissipate. A cover of clouds overtook the sun’s domain, casting a pall over the moors and the knights alike. They spoke nothing while their giraffes persevered.
A thrush then swope out of the sky, beak whistling with sweet air-sustaining notes, and it alit upon the Frog Knight’s left pauldron. The bird was grey all over but for its belly which was white and speckled as if from the flick of an inky brush. Sir Sallimaide rose his visor and whistled through his fiery beard back and forth with the curious-eyed animal. The Knight of the Hart turned his gaze from the far-off gatherings of clouds and observed with wonder the peculiarity of this interspecies encounter. It was strange to watch, for the bird did not move about smoothly in the manner of man and beast, instead its movements were sharp and precise and nearly instantaneous. Verily, while the Hart observed, the bird suddenly vanished and returned to the Frog’s shoulder with the body of a tiny snail in her beak. Her hunt had been missed by the barest blinking of eyes. Sir Sallimaide and the thrush exchanged whistles until the bird unanticipatedly vanished up again into the grey flow of the English sky.
Sir Sallimaide said, “She claims to have spied another knight wandering about these moors.”
The mistrustful Sir Plumesprite frowned, “An assassin is here? Sent to find us by some lesser sovereign opposed to King Bidgood? For what other foul business might force him to traipse through the thick of these bogs? I am certain something nefarious is afoot — therefore be on your guards.”
Yet cerulean-and-gold Sir Elisa only smiled and jested, “I should think that any seasoned killer would have the good sense to allow the swamp to swallow us before risking his own life in the attempt.”
From the rear of the group words of uncertainty were uttered by Hesaid Isee. He said, “I do not understand. I thought that knights never attacked their own?” The purple-turbaned mystic was like a bat atop his steed, and sunlight illuminated entwining patterns hidden in the cloth of his robes. “Perhaps, even, it is in our interest to aid this wanderer if we come across him.”
The haughty Peacock retorted, “Or perhaps it is he who will aid us — at sword-point!”
“An assassin is an unlikely assumption,” finally decided Sir Sallimaide. “The wandering knight appears not to be traveling with set direction, according to the amicable thrush. He has been spotted in diverse locales of this moorland several times recently, yea, and this ecosystem hums with news of him.”
“He may be unable to find his way out,” suggested someone’s squire.
Argent-and-umber Sir Intuition wondered, “What cruelty could a lone assassin inflict to a party armed as we? For though I do not agree with Sir Plumesprite’s absurd notion, this knight’s waywardness does not rule out hostility. Though the Merry Land is like salvation, many veteran knights who returned from Nahm are still sorely bitter. Though we live in a kind of paradise, in certain ways it does seem as if chivalry has died anew. It would not be a mistake for us to be guarded regardless of this new knight’s identity.”
And so, as the travelers wandered onward through the seemingly endless expanse of fossilized relics and whispering grey sky-designs, there was a mysterious knight wandering through their minds. Onward they rode, and more and more overgrowth began bordering the circirtuous path. Twisted trees began to encroach upon them, covering the grey mid-day firmament. Leafless branches grew closer on both sides, the trees all supporting mosses or strangled by vines creeping through the obscured undergrowth like stealthy snakes in wait. The clouds above darkened for a moment, and the unease of the travelers seemed thick as bog-mist.
Hesaid Isee looked upwards past the claw-like boughs and quietly calculated the sun’s unseen position before proclaiming “Dusk is near at hand; our first day has nearly ended.”
“What are you suggesting?” squawked Sir Plumesprite. “We cannot camp upon this filthy path.”
“I have a light,” continued the tattooed mystic, seeming to wink with his real eyes and his false ones. “If we choose to ride through the night we can.”
Yet Sir Plumesprite was still unsatisfied. “Let us not do that either,” he said. “The ruins of the capital lie all around us — we should find some unhaunted stone under which to shelter.”
“Pause if you will, Sir Plumesprite,” said James Jesus Christ concerned. “This place was abandoned and sealed for a reason. We must remain on this path lest we are delivered unto suffering. ”
“You are not even a knight,” said Sir Plumesprite shaking the gaudy feathers atop his plume. “Shall we camp upon the threat of this hungry bog, where assasins crouch behind trees? Or shall we find a nook to defend ourselves and sleep in safety? What say my fellows?”
Hesaid gestured to the west and where there was a small island in the mire. “The ruins of a tower lie there,” he said.
“Let us remain upon the path,” said Sir Intuition.
“O? Wherefore?” quoth the Sparrow Knight. “Let us find this mystic’s tower! On the morrow it shall be safe to venture forth again.”
Sir Sallimaide was long in deciding, closing his amphibian eyes and looking back and forth in uncertainty, yet he finally cast his vote with the Hart to camp upon the path. By now the light had noticeably dimmed into bleakness. The scents held by the marsh’s treasures came to life, the insect hum grew to a symphony, and the urgency of setting up their camp weighed upon them.
All the knights had voiced a decision save the Knight of the Whale. The others waited on him expectantly, yet all Sir Moodye could say was, “I do not know.”
“Therefore,” interjected Sir Plumesprite, “that is a vote for safety. We shall go to the tower. O wise Hesaid Isee, won’t you use your light to guide us there?”
And before the pretend-knight could utter a qualifying statement or even begin to think of one, a blue glow began to emanate from the woodsey mystic as he led them to the island in the mire. True to his prophecy, the ruins of a ruined tower graced the sacred space blessed with dry ground — they would camp among the ancient stones. So near were the travellers to ancient London that the golden spires of the central castle could now be seen. One the central hub of all England, the capital’s crown jewel was now tarnished and over-grown like everything else in this bleak wasteland. There was a general dismount and the squires bustled in setting up a temporary camp as bedrolls were laid and food was prepared.
Sir Plumesprite became dismayed when understood that no fire was to be lit — he oftenest ate meat for his meals — and so approached Sir Intuition to inquire about the specifics of their edibles.
“I thought it best to bring only the lightest of foods,” replied the Hart, “thus it is all cereals and grains. That is to say, grains for the giraffes and the cereal for us. We have brought a rather large variety and I pray you find a variety to your liking.”
Under watch of the Jesus Christ, all five of the knights sat in a circle as the three squires and wheezing Pater Obscurus passed out bowls and spoons. A pitcher of milk was brought forth, and it was the young squire Hadely who set about fetching the cereals that each knight requested. Sir Sallimaide partook of Honeyed Oats and also Sir Intuition shared a bowl of the same with his black-wrapped father, the mask and bandages raised to just above his drooping wrinkled lips. Sir Elisa and Sir Moodye enjoyed Puffs of Cocoa, and the Peacock begrudgingly pecked at a bowl of Corn Flakes. James Jesus Christ had remained upon his crucifix, yet when the dark descended complete he was untied. He rubbed his wrists and was given a bowl also of Corn Flakes. When all had eaten, the squires cleaned away bowls and milk. The Frog volunteered to serve first watch, and the Peacock agreed to follow, and all else slipped off to their bedrolls. Yet even in sleep, they were not free from the mystery of the unknown knight.
* * *
I am walking through an aspen forest, and though it is night there are many calls of swans and geese. They swarm around me and the white trunks, a cascading river of birds and feathers. I try to ride through the flurry but it is too thick for my giraffe. I try to walk through the blizzard but I quickly become lost. I can’t see any directions — which way is north and which is south? Where have up and down gone to? Where am I? Within the blizzard of confusion I see another form ahead in the distance, wandering, a dark shape among the whiteout of feathers. Who is that dark shape, could it be me? Did I become lost, seperated from my companions, and am I now following in my own footsteps before me? Who is that stranger knight? The honks and songs of the swans grow louder, the geese flap harder their wings, and the wind rises. The one thing I never understood was —
A rough gauntlet on Sir Moodye’s shoudler woke him to the dawn’s blush. The moors were still as dark as things beyond sight, but the slow morning light had begun tinting the landscape pink. The clouds had dissipated, and the sky was now clear. Wordlessly the other knights were rising, and the squires packed up camp. Sir Intuition and his father had bound the hands of the Jesus Christ to his cross and were now affixing it to the majestic elephant. As the last supplies were packaged and stores, and as they made ready to depart once more, the gold-and-scarlet Frog Knight noticed the dismal mood shared among himself and the other knights. Spending the night in such a strange local, saturated as the wasteland was with painful memories of the past, had been a most ominous beginning to their noble endeavor.
Thus did Sir Sallimaide suddenly say, “O Sir Elisa, I sense anxiety within our camp. Will you not serenade us into tranquility?”
Helping his squire Frontal to secure their saddlebags, Sir Elisa asked, “Do you think it wise? I fain would sing, yet our position would be given away.”
“Come now, look into the dawn,” said Sir Intuition. “One wandering knight shan’t attack a band of many in cheerful song! Let us have your tune while we remain on this solid island, then shall we return to our journey. Come, Sir Elisa!”
And the Sparrow did look into the dawn, at the crumbling wreckage of what had once been their capital, and in those remnants of lost London he found the wings again of his heart. So it was that cerulean-and-gold Sir Elisa unstrapped his lyre while the others made ready, touched his fingers to the strings, and he did sing old lyrics known across the whole realm.
Something is happening here
Its nature is not exactly clear,
A knight with a blade is there
Warning me gravely to beware.
We now must stop — O!
What’s that sound?
Everyone, see the wreckage down.
Battle lines are being drawn,
None are right if all are wrong,
Do young knights speak their mind
And sow resistance from behind?
On a miserable day of summer’s heat
Hundreds march through the cobbled street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Praising only their own side.
Paranoia strikes deep
Into our lives it can creep,
It begins when you become afraid
That if you transgress they shall take you away.
We now must stop — O!
What’s that sound?
Everyone, see the wreckage down.
We now must stop — O!
What’s that sound?
Everyone, see our wreckage down.
And all the knights, much enheartened having gained full bellies and full hearts, secured their belongings and mounted their noble giraffes.
Sir Intuition asked, “A moving melody indeed, wondrous Sir Elisa, and I recall many times listening to some mistrel sing it during the Dark Age, when I was but two centuries old. Yet tell me for I wish to know: do you compose songs of your own?”
And the Sparrow Knight looked crestfallen in his saddle. “Alas my friend,” he said, “Only caterpillars of songs am I now able to write. I have not the inspiration within myself. Yet I know that should I find true inspiration, butterflies shall I play of my own composition.” And he continued to sigh poetic vapors as all rode off the island, carefully across the spongey shallows, and to where the path led them into deeper places of the wasteland.
The farther they rode the denser the vegetation became, the golden towers of the central castle disapore once more beyond dense foliage. They rode within a vast network of trees all gnarled and dead and filtering the sunlight down in sparse beams that cut across the vegetable darkness like a blessed blade. It seemed as if these beams of light were not uncommon here, for in many places where the light hit the plants they were vivacious and thriving. Yet beneath the ever-shade of the towering wooden medusae and their canopy, nothing bloomed and nothing lived, there were only fossils. The stinging smell of the peat wafted to their noses, made far stronger by being trapped inside their helmets, slow roasting their nostrils in the stench of earthy decomposition. In such disheartening settings, the knights began to tire of their journey. Somehow again they had become diheartened — the Sparrow’s song had not held power for long over London’s wasteland. Each of the knights sucked up into his own mind in attempt to dislocate himself from the physical world. They rode for many hours of daylight, until the branches began to move and slither in the periphery of their vision. Their path, no longer wide and smooth apore as little more than a mud trail, sinking deeper the more they rode upon it.
At once, the Frog Knight was nearly knocked from his mount by a passing bough, and he exclaimed “Confound it all! We ride in single file yet these trees still encroach!”
“How fare you, Jesus?” Sir Intuition called to the prophet on his cross.
James did reply his safety, but the squire who drove their elephant said, “It’s almost too thick here for us to pass. The branches are brushing up against this beast, and if the trees get any denser they will surely scrape us up.”
“How could we have lost our way?” wailed Sir Plumesprite. “Did we not follow the path perfectly? I knew all along that this would happen.” He frantically clambered to stand in his saddle and spy some salvation through his knight’s kaleidoscope, but through the other end was only the multitudinous branches of the canopy. His breathing became frantic and rasping.
“Calm yourself Peacock,” spoke Sir Sallimaide. “O Knight of the Hart, you were riding point. Did any unusual thing cross your eye?”
The argent-and-umber Sir Intuition opened his visor and sighed. “In sooth, many paces ago was a slight divergence in the road. The left way was a mere sliver, so I led us down this right-handed path. It seemed a continuation of our direction. I tried to steer us true but alas, we have gone awry.” He pounded one mailed fist against his breastplate with solemnity.
“Awry before we have even begun!” cawed Sir Plumesprite accusingly. “How can you have been so stupid as to lead us from the path? Was King Bidgood not perfectly clear? What manner of buffoon are you to lead us thus to our instant doom?”
Sir Intuition shouted, “Forsooth!” and lowered his antlers in contest. “If you had been riding point — which you did not offer to do — you would have chosen the same. That left-handed path was barely visible; hidden!” Yet the brazen Knight of the Peacock went on whining as if nothing had been said. “You, Sir Plumesprite, have complained for our entire journey, and we have only just embarked upon it. If your tongue can find no useful words then I tell you, stay silent!”
The buzzard would not. “My opinion is just as valid as yours. And I opine that you were a fool for not even consulting with us when we roech the fork!”
But before any other argument could be spoken, Sir Sallimaide rode between them. “This is not the time. We have lost the way back and night is falling. We can settle your child’s bickering in less perilous circumstances.” No sooner than he had finished did a rustling of branches sound — not far enough off for the travelers to continue to yell or remain comfortable. The Frog Knight continued in a whisper, “We must turn back and change directions at the fork. These moors will devour us if we stray. We must use the remaining hours of daylight as best we can! Let us pray that we depart this place before a second nightfall.”
There was an intricate rearrangement of giraffes and riders as they attempted to about face without stepping off the path when, in the spite of their belabored movement and heavy hoof-falls, a nearby clanking and slurping sound caught the knights’ attention. On Sir Intuition’s signal the company halted completely and allowed the rattling sound to approach from the shadows of the tangled swamp forest. Sir Plumesprite put his hand to his hilt. Emerging shakily from the plant-life before them all came the weakly riding form of an unknown mottled knight, ragged and worn, armor covered in muck and dirt, with his visor shut. His banners and heraldry were so filthy as to be illegible.
Violet-and-azure Sir Plumesprite inched his mount towards his squire and whispered for his lance to be readied. Then, loudly to the mysterious rider, he cried, “O stranger knight! Identify yourself and prepare to duel your wits against mine!” The others of Bidgood’s fellowship glared at the Peacock Knight, questioning his perhaps unnecessary pugnacity pointed in the form of his now wielded lance. Yet Sir Plumesprite transgressed even further by not even waiting for a response from the stranger knight. He immediately led his giraffe in a charge — and so the stranger was forced to couch his own spear and joust. At first pass, the two were too far apart and both lances missed. Their giraffe mounts circled around, heads low, eyes narrowing, and then like a jolt of lightning each charged once more. On this pass Sir Plumesprite suffered a heavy blow to his sternum that dented his armor and knocked him cleanly from his giraffe — rolling like a rag-doll before he came to a stop in a large puddle of mossy mud. The still-mounted stranger luft the visor of his helm, exposing the thickly bearded weariness of his face. The Peacock grimaced and stood up slowly, ineffectually trying to wipe the muck from his elegent armor.
Sir Intuition bellowed, “Cease your quarrel! This is no enemy, you fool! Look at his liviry: do you not recall King Bidgood telling us about the Knight of the Manta-Ray? This is Sir Wander-Gogh, our brother!”
And Sir Wander-Gogh exclaimed, “King Bidgood you say? Yea, and I should have been there! I was summoned to your quest, yet it was my misfortune to become waylaid and lost.” He closed his eyes in regret.
Despite this, the Peacock seemed to be of a single mind. He cried out shrilly, “You are still waylaid! Be not so confident in your victory — dismount and fight me!” As he spat these words he drew his blade and charged Sir Wander-Gogh. Charging a mounted knight on foot was against the tenants of chivalry: decidedly unfair and potentially harmful to the animal. As the rule-breaking Peacock came within striking distance of the Manta-Ray’s giraffe, the observing knights also charged to prevent the Peacock’s illegal charge.
And yet, at the last possible moment, Sir Wander-Gogh was able to slip from his stirrup and roll away from his mount — though both were close to taking a wildly slicing sword’s blade. In spite of the Manta-Ray’s weak-kneed weariness, the blows of the Peacock’s sword fell dully upon his quickly risen shield. Sir Plumesprite then found a forebodingly sharp axe confronting him, and though his own blade was nearly not enough to protect against the heavy handed axe laying, a few choice slicings of limbs during the onslaught slowed Sir Wander-Gogh and allowed Sir Plumesprite to topple his adversary. He had gained a hair’s-breadth victory at neck-point.
“Hah!” squawked the plumed knight, drawing a bead of blood from the muddied neck. “Defeated after all! I hold my victory over you, Sir Wander-Gogh.” The name was spoken as if it were an insult.
But the Manta-Ray yawned loudly from down in the muck and mumbled, “How fortunate this folly is ended, if you knights are not hostile. I am in severe need of rest. In the morning I shall vanquish you if you wish it.”
The flamboyant Knight of the Peacock scoffed lavishly. “Defeat me? You have proven weak enough to be vanquished by my hand for I am the stronger knight!” And yet, it was not so difficult to see Sir Wander-Gogh’s claim as truth. After all, he had unseated Sir Plumesprite at the joust, and Sir Plumesprite had pushed a disadvantage. “Poor sea-creature knight,” continued the brazen Sir Plumesprite, gloating. “What a warrior you must be to lose sorely over the loss of an evening’s sleep? Perhaps you should not accompany us after all.”
All seemed appalled but for Sir Wander-Gogh who sighed, “Not one night’s sleep: I have been riding to Bidgood’s keep for many days now. When I was separated from my squire Ichael I became hopelessly lost. I had thought to make up time by riding on through the nights, yet that was clearly not to be. It has been days in the number of fifty-six since last sleep graced my brow.”
There was a silence in the clearing, interrupted only by a single involuntary spasm from the pompous Peacock.
And the Sir Intuition said, “Sir Wander-Gogh… how is it that you are able to stand, let alone fight? I must apologize for the way our Sir Plumesprite had treated you. We have had a long and trying day here in these moors, yet that is little excuse. Let us make up the slight with food and noble company. You must travel with us, and when we are at last away from this cursed wasteland you shall have a lord’s rest at our camp.”
The Knight of the Manta-Ray replied that the offer sounded very agreeable, and so both knights remounted and all travelled together further down the path, and the Peacock Knight seethed and nursed his pride.
As the knightly band exited the thick trees they saw the sky’s light becoming less and less plentiful, and the shadows left by the curling swamp shrubs growing abundant as they choked out the light’s remainder. Insect echoes chirped from both near and far, and with them came the hungry frogs croaking and burping on sweet viscous bug blood. Night was beginning to fall once more. As they rode, the other knights related to umber-and-vert Sir Wander-Gogh the details of their quest and the directions that King Bidgood had imparted: they reiterated all they knew of the mythical Wreath of Reincarnation, the cult at the High Fortress who might know where it now sleeps, and the way to access that mysterious bastion by way of the Silver Spring.
When all had been said, they rode in silence for a time until Sir Wander-Gogh from the front queried, “So where are we going now? And where shall we make camp?”
Sir Intuition’s eyes bulged and he inhaled so sharply that he began to hack and cough and pulled at his reins so suddenly that his steed nearly displaced the riders behind so short did he stop. When his breath was finally regained he yelled to the Manta-Ray, “It is we who have been following you! I thought you agreed to lead us from this place!”
“O.” said Sir Wander-Gogh, leading his giraffe around the group through the murk. “In sooth I was following you, even though I did ride at the forefront. Alas that I have an unfortunate penchant for losing my way; most are loathe to have me lead them. Though, in this case I believe I can help you. I have just recently passed an exit to the swamp earlier this day. Let’s see… yes, yes. The way is directly opposite our current direction.”
Sighs were breathed with noble patience, and knightly eyes were rolled, but everyone held their tongues as they about faced and made Sir Wander-Gogh take point again. And thus were they led, hours later and up to their stirrups in the swamp-water, over a small rise by some trees and finally onto dry land that didn’t sink when giraffe-hooves disturbed it. After searching, the knights acquired sight of the correct path and noticed their spirits beginning to rise with the moon now that they were out of the disheartening moors for good. The very first leg of their outset was now complete.
“Troublesome beginnings,” remarked mystic Hesaid Isee, “yet the worst may be behind us.” And it seemed to all that he might be right, for they rode only a short while more to a clearing, a crossroads, the night enveloping them like thick syrup full of the songs of nightbirds. Dawn was not far enough away for any of their liking, so they set up their tents and campfire as swiftly as possible.
Sir Intuition said to Sir Wander-Gogh, “I mean no hostility towards you, my newfound brother, yet may I ask how you came to be so late to the feast with the good King Bidgood? My father and I live far across the island and still arrove with plenty of time, though once we were waylaid by enemies and had to defend ourselves.”
“Ah,” said the Knight of the Manta-Ray as he washed his mud-streaked face in a pail that Hadley the squire had brought. “It is the same reason why I must make use of the generous Sir Sallimaide’s squire instead of my own. It was little Ichael who held the map and was to help me reach the king’s keep and famous baths. I left with ample time, though travelled we from western Germantowne.”
“Yea, and that explains the axe you wield. A fearsome thing, though perhaps not as useful as a brand.”
“Your swords are good enough, but in case of fearsome terror an axe I’d wish within my palm. Ichael was the perfect squire, he led me through forests black, and howling mountains, yet somewhere in the endless wasteland we were seperated. I searched those tangled trees for him, and only grew more turned around in the investigation. So it was that you found me, lost and sleepless, hurrying… though I knew the feast had surely passed.”
“A miracle then,” smiled the Hart, “that we have found you so near our outset.”
“Indeed,” replied the Manta-Ray, “and miraculous that I, at long last, may sleep.” The camp had been set up, sleeping rolls were filled with their exhausted bodies, and the knights slowly ceased all conversation excepting one on one mental communication with the great glowing horns of the crescent moon.
* * *
I am walking through an aspen forest, and though it is night there are many calls of swans and geese. They swarm around me and the white trunks, a river of birdflesh. In the distance I see the flickerings of a campfire and suddenly I am there. I am sitting across from a man in a large white cloak, inscribed with countless eldritch symbols and prayers that look like fallen feathers. His face is completely obscured beneath his hood except for his familiar eyes and the silvery waterfall of beard that flows from the hood and down down nearly to the layer of spring-frost upon the ground. There is no doubt that he is old Sir Abmasilae, before he was slain by my hand’s incompetence. He speaks past my ears and directly into my brain, telling me that he is a wizard — and not the person I think he is. In the next instant, both he and the campfire are gone. I am looking, searching desperately in the woods. The trees and swans and geese surround me like fingers or like strands of hair. In the vast clouds of birds it is difficult to tell directions apart. What am I seeking? Where are you? When I chance a glance behind me, I am ambushed by the wizard: the man who isn’t Abmasilae. But he has undertaken a malevolent transformation, recalling bloody jungles and scenes of the war within his patterned cloak. The hood has been sewn shut to hide his face entirely, and he flails his magic-spewing arms about, casting all the curses of fiery Nahm. He bellows into my mind, intoning loud and low enough for mountains to hear. “I am the Magician of Time,” he says, and indeed he is. But who is Abmasilae? Is this man truly not he? And who am I?
His eye, my own eye, the infinite eye of our Cycle — winks.
I am awake, back in our camp, surrounded by my bedroll and my companions. I see standing by the fire the flowing robes of the Magician of Time. He looks different than before: his robe is no longer of white, nor grimacing jungle patterns, but of many sewn-together swans and geese. His hood is drawn back and I can see his age and his most distinctive long white beard. Does he look familiar? Does he look the same as Abmasilae? It’s hard to tell. His long drooping necklace rattles, made of the skulls of woodland creatures, and in his gaunt fingers he bears a gnarled staff. Somehow, under his cloak of whole birds, he seems to wear my own heraldic robes of the whale. But how could this be when I also am wearing them?
For some reason, the magician is very sad. He wipes his hand across his face, and it is moist: tears stream up from his beard and into his prismatic eyes. When he speaks, his words posses a strange lilt, as if speaking backwards, but his meaning is clear. He says, “All is love is all… Farewell, O beautiful knights, and farewell you wise seers, I come to you this one last time, tearfully remembering paths you have not yet tread. I have shined my esoteric light on the journeys that are, for you, still yet to come.” The last of the tears slide up into his eyes, and he weeps no more. “Do you yet know what you seek? Do you know yet where you are bound?”
I try to speak but I cannot act. I am no hero to force a moment to its crisis. My tongue is somehow twisted and my words come out jumbled and backwards.
The tattooed Hesaid Isee rises from his sleeping roll and with great effort proclaims, “Great wizard, our quest is to journey to the land known as the Silver Spring. We seek passage through it to the tallest peak of the northern mountains. We seek the all-knowing High Fortress.”
The man who claimed he was not Sir Abmasilae lilts, “And yet you know nothing of the plight you face. My dearest friend Hesaid, that place called the Silver Spring will admit not you nor any, for it slumbers as you shall find when you have arriven there at last. The sacred harvests of the Silver Spring have long been denied to those of the High Fortress. To pass through that sleeping realm you require two keys lost to this world, perhaps more powerful than the Wreath you seek. One key I have given already — or have I still to bestow it on you? — yet only when you find the second key to complete the first shall the way become as clear as I know it will. Though you wanderers may seem to know me but little, I have known you for what all I can remember of my life… and it saddens me that now I must leave you, my most excellent teachers. My timeline stretches ahead of me into ages and strife that have long been put to rest, and I have many enigmas to sow and many prophets to inspire. O wise seers I greet you, and greetings too upon you valiant noble knights, for I have learned that all is love, and love is all. Greetings.”
And with that final word, the prismatic old wizard walks backwards out of our campsite, and vanishes into the first fingers of the rising sun.
* * *
Lashes parting at last, Sir Moodye awoke confused yet refreshed after so many years beneath a crust of toil and and fear and guilt. He was the last of the knights to rise, and when he had slipped on chainmail and robes he saw that everyone already was breaking their fast. The unflinching ever-passive Jesus Christ had already been bound up to his cross, and Hadely and Pater Obscurus were helping to affix the great wooden structure to the side of the elephant.
The Sparrow’s squire Frontal foetch breakfast as Sir Moodye settled with the others around the morning fire. The conversation was heated, and involved the whereabout of Sir Wander-Gogh, for he was missing.
Sir Plumesprite, in his idiom, was furious. “He stole off in the night with our supplies! It is clear: we were a fool to trust him! You were a fool to trust him,” he screeched at Sir Intuition.
“The King expressly told us to expect him!” snapped back the Knight of the Hart, threatening with his impressive antlers. “I made no true mistake, and I tire of you blaming every unpredictable misfortune on me!”
Hadely came to them then and announced that though he had gone through all the provisions twice nothing was missing — save for the food that that had been eaten the previous day and that which they were now consuming.
Thus did the Hart snort, “What manner of thief does not steal?”
“The kind of thief who is not a thief,” mused the gold-and-scarlet Frog Knight.
“Quite so, Sir Sallimaide, yet what sort of knight deserts his party before day has broken?” And everyone understood the gravity, but for a while there was only the noise of chewing.
Then Sir Elisa cooed, “Verily, I dreamed the strangest dream last night.”
“Hah!” coughed the Frog. “I had quite a strange one myself, but I will not hold it against you should wish to speak first.”
This dream cannot be as grand and bizarre as the one I had, thought Sir Moodye, though strange that I remember it so well. Perhaps when they are done speaking I shall tell them of mine. Or perhaps it is not important. The best course is usually silence. I’m no bold hero to contend with the likes of them.
Sir Elisa chewed in thought for a few moments and, gazing intently into the swirling cereal in his bowl said, “I was here, in the moors. Verily was I at this exact campsite, and it was night-time. And there was a strange old man with a long beard who spake of strange things. And you, Hesaid, the both of you spoke, and he told us that the Silver Spring was ‘asleep,’ whatever the meaning of that may be, and he told how two keys might wake it. Now is that not the weirdest of dreams? I suppose that is all I recall of it.” He shrugged and looked up from his flowing cereal only to discover that everyone seemed entranced. The Whale in particular looked as if he were trying see the Sparrow Knight’s internal organs, so fixed was his stare. The Hart’s mouth was agape, and the Peacock seemed fascinated with the task of cleaning invisible dirt from his graven gauntlet.
Sir Elisa looked from one face to the next, puzzled, until the pond-sweating Frog Knight croaked, “I… had the exact same dream, down to the most minute of details. A strange old man told of a sleeping spring, and two keys that become one.” And all the other knights nodded, wide-eyed and silent.
“His movements were… backwards,” blurted the paranoid Peacock.
From beneath the purple hood of his tunic Hesaid said, “This I also recall. I have heard story-cycles of beings who posses great power, who inadvertently or on purpose bend space and time around themselves. Perhaps when this Magician of Time found us, exhausted as we were, his presence was stored in our memories as a dream might be remembered.” With rigid concentration, the woodsey mystic brought his thumb and ring-finger together and gestured profoundly at the sky.
“Yes, yes,” fluttered the Peacock, “and while all this conjecture is curious, should we not instead focus upon this dream’s crucial message? It is telling us to put King Bidgood’s quest aside for now, to search for whatever object might rouse the sleep from the silver Spring.”
“Not necessarily, Sir Plumesprite,” mused the Frog. “The way to the north is long indeed, it may be that we shall discover these keys, whatever they may be, on our journey there.”
The Hart frowned. “Yet it would be useless to arrive only to discover we have found nothing. I believe we shall have to split up. Traveling separately is our only hope of covering so much of the English countryside.” Hesaid was about to give council yet before he could utter a single syllable there was a loud rustling and shaking noise from the forest foliage to the west of their camp. All the knights stood up and faced the furious rustling, and the Peacock Knight drew his cruel sword to glint in the dawn againt whatever threat the disturbance bespoke of.
The disturbance turned out to be only the umber-and-vert Manta-Ray Knight pushing aside branches and brambles, bursting into camp sweaty and marred with dirt.
“Sir Wander-Gogh!” complained the Peacock, sheathing his blade heatedly. “We thought you had run off with coward’s abandon, that the details of this quest had frightened you. Where have you been all this time, and what secrets are you keeping from we honest knights?”
Removing his helmet, making no noise but clanging mail and heavy breathing, the Knight of the Manta-Ray sat heavily to the ground. “In a moment I shall explain. But first I’ve got to have my Pops,” he rasped. The squire Frontal ran up and bestowed a bowl and spoon upon him before rushing off to fetch the puffed corn cereal from one of the elephant’s satchels. The knights resumed their seats and waited intently to see what the Manta-Ray would say. After he had finished his bowl and quaffed the milk, he spoke at last. “I slept well last night, like a man who had not slept for fifty-six nights. I slept deeply. But when the moon was still high in the sky I was awakened by the usual circumstances. This insomnia is not an uncommon occurrence for me, and when I cannot return to sleep I take to walking. It calms my blood. I left the camp and went into the trees, traveling a while by moonlight. On my oath I had not gone far ere I stumbled upon a city most unnatural.”
“I know of no cities in these parts,” said Hesaid Isee, “save our ancient London, and long has that place been sealed and abandoned.”
“The Manta-Ray is a frivolous fraud!” decided the Peacock.
“I tell you a city is what I saw,” insisted Sir Wander-Gogh. “Yet no ordinary city this: it was made all of glass and stone and… strange unknowable things. The buildings were as wide as mountains and as tall as trees, the streets ran in perfect black lines, and every inch of space was packed. People, people, more people than many lifetimes, dressed in as little clothing as possible: flimsy tunics and leggings, immaterial robes… yea, and upon the streets raced wondrous things! There was a multitude of hellish vehicles that sped as fast as falcons — faster even! And upon each intersection of the streets hung magic lanterns whose colors changed all of their own accord and forced these mysterious vehicles to halt sharper than a blink. I speak you sooth when I say—”
But here the Frog Knight groaned, “We have all had strange dreams this night, let us not get ahead of our own selves.”
“But I assure you Sir Sallimaide, I did not dream. In full sooth I gazed upon this city of glass with my own waking eyes. And yet, I tell you for all the oddity of that place, many stranger locations have I arriven in while out for a midnight stroll. Strange sights beyond this I have seen in my days of becoming lost. I do not doubt the veracity of this city I swear I soothly saw.”
“Then you are insane,” retorted the Peacock. “I shall listen to no more talk of this kind at such an early hour. We have this past night chanced an encounter with a true oddity, we have met a wizard of time and of things… according to what the knowledgeable Hesaid Isee has said. Now we must depart and heed that actual magician’s advice. I agree with Sir Intuition for once — it is sound for our warband’s bulk to be split, though I wish not to be grouped with this clumsy wandering lout. I shan’t stand for it. How then are we to be divid?”
So it came to pass that the Knights of Bidgood finished their breakfasts and divid themselves into three small groupings with the aid of the impartial mystic and the just Jesus Christ. And thus did each fraction of the fellowship sally forth separately north in search of that mysteriously alluded-to object that might break the spell on the Silver Spring, and indeed might lead to the Wreath of Reincarnation whatever that artefact might be.
Knights questing among western hills, along eastern coasts, and through fields dead north; the merry morning sun of ancient England clomb high above them all.