*
II
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 sunrise perceived three knights in particular as it rose purple beyond the coast and through the sea-breeze, opalescent rays of light barely breaking through the horizon. Here, atop the eastern cliffs, the thundering of an elephant’s great footsteps emanated far out into the crashing sea. White gulls shrieked and swept across the blue as upon the mammoth beast sat Un the squire staring out at distant breaking waves. Sir Intuition rode point with Pater Obscurus, Sir Moodye followed meekly behind on his own giraffe, and the indignant Knight of the Peacock rode grimly between the elephant and the fens that led deeper west into the English countryside. It had been argent-and-umber Sir Intuition who called for them to search the extremities along England’s coast, for by these cliffs lay the spot to which the crucified James Jesus Christ was being borne. His towering wooden cross swayed in the salty ocean breeze, but the batterings of the one-eyed prophet’s faith no longer bruised him. James inhaled a deep breath and was able to savor his holy pilgrimage though the ropes sorely chaffed his extremities. He knew their destination well: the holy falls of Beth Esda where blessed King Washing was said to have attained enlightenment, where he led the native islanders out of the Unknowing Age and into the cradle of civilization known as the Sleeping Age. Soon now the knightly escort would arrive at the withered old oak where King Washing had meditated for nine days and nights, and James Jesus Christ would leave the care of the noble Hart to journey with another such traveller. Such was the pilgrimage, and such was life for a Jesus Christ in those days of the world.
Riding behind the one-eyed hanged man and the plodding elephant that bore him was sable-and-ivory Sir Moodye, who was again wandering within his own head-chambers. He had grown accustomed to his role as pretend-knight, and was able to put aside occasional pangs of guilt or bouts of anxiety. In spite of the disgrace he felt over not accomplishing a single action thus far on the quest, the seeming fulfilment of his personal dream of knighthood brought more morale to the Whale than the gravity of guilt could crush.
He did much pondering of things both close at hand and hidden from sight, and on this day he was doing just that when his inner monologue was interrupted by the Christ figure before him, who said, “A man of action you are not.”
Sir Moodye thought carefully about this before replying, “I suppose.” Scratching his fresh beard-growth the Whale Knight proceeded tentatively, “The whole world is so intricate about me, there are always thoughts deserving of consideration. Often, my plans and analysations prevent me from taking part in events. Perhaps it is my sin, to lack a hero’s drive.”
Yet James Jesus Christ laughed back and forth on his cross of wood. “Fear not, fear not, not at all do I criticize you. Some men never their spark of enthusiasm can find; they believe that the world is boring, and themselves not. So so much is there to learn, and a gift your inquisitiveness truly is.”
The lanky Sir Moodye’s expression inside his helmet was one of doubt. “Do you not live by the principles of England’s defunct Church? As a squire I was taught of your holy book, your Testament, and there is much you have said that has led me astray. I found no spirit at the heart of your texts, only judgemental edicts. I do not wish to be evangelized anew.”
The half-blind prophet frowned. “That our Testament has brought you harm I am sorry. Good to me it always has been. To bring the Testament’s joyous words to all and sundry is what I seek, verily, just as in the good days when still strove the Church to save mankind.”
“In training for the crusades we all were instructed in the lore and stories of the Church, yet all we learned were some simple reasons to why our equally rough tribe was supposedly superior to the heathen Nahmenese.”
“Alas,” moaned James Jesus Christ, beard and hair blown by the anguished winds. “In sooth Sir Moodye, no such tales and lore does the pure Testament contain. Saddened am I that an improper education by the hands of your teachers was bestowed! Without belief religion is naught, and to a man you cannot dictate what he believes. Only when faith springs from one’s own will does it resonate. Now laid plain shall it all be: nothing more is the Testament than ten rules by ancient seers scribed. Wise and helpful, yet written in Hebrew were they, the forgotten riddle-tongue. Of extreme subjectivity that language is, on context drastically dependent. The meanings are, even by the most bearded of scholars, unable to be entirely elucidated. The poem seperated from the plain meaning cannot be. So countless saints and madmen their own interpretations added, and tales adeed likewise to illustrate some analysis they had within the text imagined. The moral council of which you referred indeed from these Asides came about, and not the Testament true. Seemly and good is most of it, but from mires of meaning parted must it be. And alas, with no mentor, no light do the Asides on the nature of God truly shed. If God the author truly was of the Testament and of our universe, then in the wells of His-and-Her mystery were both crafted. Woe it is indeed that during those epochs of trouble and blood — during the Dark Age — the Asides you learned from those who nothing knew of God’s nature.”
The Whale sighed in his giraffe’s saddle. “Then, why follow any of it? What is the use of the bad if one could follow only the good? I have been taught from birth, yet is it not better in matters of belief to choose what sticks to your own emotions and senses, disregarding all else?”
“It may be, Sir Moodye. Yet though the Church dissolved may be, it’s ways are not. My path, I judge, is the one from which I now hang. That entire writ is my culture and within me engrained so that following it and following my heart are identical. The Testament and its Asides through darkness have solace and wisdom brought to me, and inspired this prophet’s life to continue. To the village-folks comfort and counsel I can bestow. But come, come, if sore the ancient Testament has hurt you… what of its reincarnation do you know? What, O Whale, of the Meta-Testament, and their champion the Master Musician?”
The pretend-knight hesitated. I should his words seem familiar? Is it some new thing I should know? It’s true that during my long labor at the Beverly Farms changes have swept the land. If I am not careful how I answer, my false knighthood might become exposed. Echoes from crashing waves reverberated as Sir Moodye chose his words. “We were told,” said the pretend-knight at last, “that the Testament was the only way to be saved and that nothing else would suffice. The Church lied to our faces, it would seem, and spat us out to the slaughter.”
“Known to many crusaders this second text is,” said Jesus, “therefore strange that to you a mystery it remains. Hark: if an oak there was that died then reincarnated itself stronger and more poignant, the Meta-Testament that second tree would be. Heed: such an oak there grew during at the crux of the Dark Age of crusade. A spiritual protest was the Meta-Testament, and a guide for disillusioned sufferers it was. Passing well its tale I know, and yet… quite curious about you I am becoming. More and more you listen, more and more my curiosity grows. Sir Moodye the skilled observer, silent and listening do you remain. Who are you, Sir Moodye? Of your true self tell me, and of the path you follow. Somehow, unlike you are all these other knights.”
Thankful to be able to shield his young face beneath his visor, Sir Moodye replied at once, “I am an honest knight. I’m the Knight of the Whale, and have been for some time now.”
“Yea, and noticed have I that you knights with animals represent yourselves. Signify something, do they?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Forsooth,” said the prophet, “the knights with whom I pilgrimage to me rarely speak. Few knights converse with prophets who to the peasantry devote themselves.”
The pretend-knight looked out over the purple morning hills, pensively inspecting a series of over-grown marble columns long defunct. At last, he asked James Jesus Christ what he knew about the inception of knighthood.
“Perhaps this tale at last to me shall be told.” Thus did Sir Moodye clear his throat to tell.
The Tale of the Ancient Order of Knighthood
“The story begins with the noble Sir Hadeon, the oldest knight that anyone can remember… and for countless years he was the only knight.” Witnessing the confusion on Jesus Christ’s face Sir Moodye hurriedly explained, “The word ‘knight’ is a title for a person who is learned in the ways of the world. ‘Knight’ comes from ‘to know.’ Before the coming of knights England was overwhelmed in ignorance and violence… though it seems we slipped back into darkness for one bloody age. So it goes.
“Sir Hadeon accumulated vast knowledge and deemed himself superior to the common man, dubbing himself the first knight — the first knower. This was long ago, during even that Unknowing Age. He lived alone with his books in the crown jewel of our derelict London: the Castle Tralfamadore. Among those golden spires he grew in power until, after many years, he deigned to accept the bright Sir Cambrian as a pupil. When Sir Cambrian was ordained into knighthood he overflowed with joys at his wisdom, and decided that it was folly to hoard such newfound wealth between the two of them. How could such treasure be withheld from others? And so Sir Cambrian brought about his friends, highlighting to them the many philosophies that graced the tapestries of his mind. These men were to become Sir Mesozoic, Sir Cretaceous, Sir Permian, Sir Silurian, Sir Pleistocene, Sir Eocene, Sir Wenlock, Sir Furongian, Sir Ypressian, and Sir Boreal — the original Order of Knighthood.
“Yet in those days they were disorganized, leeching off the wealth of Sir Hadeon’s castle, benefitting only themselves. But then, in the midst of the Sleeping Age, Sir Cambrian again had a vision of utopia. He decided that a proper knight should travel forth into the land and spread this great gift of knowing, not sit in a castle and pontificate further and further philosophies from the truth. Wise Sir Cambrian wanted all knights to venture into all parts of England to assist anyone in need of assistance, even serfs and commoners. Too, he thought, what better way to train each successive generation of knight than to bestow squires to the learned ones. These knights-in-training were to venture with thier mentors and learn of the world while in it, and also to study from books and assist their knights to the fullest.” Sir Moodye’s eyes grew soft from coastal seasalt as he recalled the simple squire’s code that he had failed so harshly in the treacherous jungle lands. Sir Abmasilae’s face hovered in his mind’s eye, for some reason overlapped by the eerie likeness of that strange Magician of Time. Shaking his head jarringly, the soot-haired Whale continued his tale. “Yet Sir Cambrian saw that his plan had need of many more knights, and in that there was a problem: already with twelve men in armor it was difficult to tell each other apart, how could a multitude manage? That is why he bestowed upon each knight a different animal totem. Sir Cambrian chose the Salmon for himself, for wisdom, and he re-knighted all of his Order with animals chosen to represent their personalities. All except for Sir Hadeon, who refused to have an animal and was thus dubbed the Knight of No Thing. Grim Sir Hadeon was and would become resentful of chivalry’s spread.
“So the knights proliferated their ideals, and there were many who joined their ranks. And in this time those of the Castle Tralfamadore formed themselves into the Order of Knighthood, holding their council at a great table with twelve sides, so that none of the founding knights could consider himself greater than another. And that is how they came to be known as the Knights of the Dodecahedronic Table. And as ranks swoll beneath him, we transitioned from the Sleeping Age into the Light Age — the regrettable joining of the Knighthood and your Church.”
The crucified man had been listening intently the entire time, and finally mumbled, “Fascinating is this history. Mysterious has your Order always seemed to me.”
“The did keep much to themselves.”
“A trait that, by your inactions, you seem to admire? One that you emulate?” Jesus asked, “Where is your Order now?”
“That is unfair, and their disappearance has nothing to do with my introversion and their collapse was inevitable. I do not blame the Knightly Order, but I have some small hate for Sir Hadeon, that one who fervently ignored England’s protesting masses when his Crusade began in earnest. He was a coward and could not see through the lies he had warped his long life with. The whole war was senseless. Yet I did my part and desire only the ability to move on… thus do I find that I am interested in things that dwell outside common conversation, and that others have no wish to hear me speak. Therefore I find myself alone.”
There was a twinkle in James Jesus Christ’s eye as he said, “Remember that the one in pain is you, and not the place in which you find yourself, or your circumstances. For the Testament’s part in your depression, apologies flow from me. And yet… fain am I to have this tale learned. Thank you Sir Moodye. When the Light Age they ushered in, surely a force for good that council of twelve knights was.”
Sir Intuition had ridden up alongside them then and overhearing Jesus he interrupted, “When in fact, James Jesus Christ, by the end of the Light Age there were thirteen knights of the Order. Shortly before the wise Salmon Knight disapore forever, he befriended a young knight and invited him to share his table. Figuratively of course I mean, for there were only twelve places at the actual Dodecahedronic Table. Thus did Sir Carboniferous, Knight of the Fern, sit upon a small stool off to the side despite him being officially a member of the council.”
Yet the prophet was only further confused by this and asked, “Animals, correct? Animals and plants it is not?”
“Originally,” recounted Sir Intuition, “he was Sir Carboniferous of the Lungfish, yet after a time he claimed the totem did not suit his disposition. He cited the knight of No Thing as example, and entreated Sir Cambrian to change his livery. There are complications in the tale but in any event, I have come to inform you that we shall halt and dismount just ahead. A tremendous view of the highway retreating through ocean mist is visible from a promontory.” Then he whispered, “And that feather-brained Peacock has asked to stop for luncheon.”
And so it was that the knights dismounted and had Un bring them bowls again of cereal. They all sat down among field grasses that grew tall enough nearly to cover them, listening to the roar of the waterfall below the cliffs. Sir Plumesprite had caught wind of the talk of the days of the ancient Order, and while he ate he fondly recalled to the others his own early days of valorous combat. He spoke of the trials he had faced and the victories he had won, at last mentioning with proud nostalgia the battles in which he had bloodily fought during the Crusade.
“It was then,” the Peacock was saying between mouthfuls of Cheery O’s, “that the heathens had surrounded my troupe. Most of my men never left that battle, yet their sacrifices allowed me to prevail against those savage Nahmenese. Ah, what a glorious endeavor was that. What a pile of stinking bodies did we make! What is the matter among you — no cheer for my tale of prowess? I have not misspoken, have I?”
Sir Moodye put down his half-full bowl. “The Crusades were distasteful.”
“Yea and that is no doubt due to your poor swordsmanship, knave knight. Rise now, and I shall show you how to fight.” The Peacock set his own meal aside, and drew to his full height. “Let us duel,” he said as he made naked his blade.
“There is little time for this,” sighed Sir Intuition as he helped wheezing Pater Obscurus to eat. “Do you not think it would be wise to press on?”
But the proud Sir Plumesprite merely squawked, “O you stuffy old knight. How will we ever succeed in our quest if this Whale cause harm? Up, up, Sir Moodye, draw your wound-maker.” With a shrug in the sea-breeze Sir Moodye stood and faced Sir Plumesprite with blade drawn halfheartedly. “Now I see why you did not appreciate our great war,” said Sir Plumesprite, “you cannot even hold your brand!” He walked around Sir Moodye and strictly corrected his stance, explaining how to charge an opponent and how best to slice a sword. But when Sir Pluemsprite bid Sir Moodye to attack him, he met the listless charge with a powerful parry that swept the sword from the Whale’s hands and sent it twirling, glinting, over the cliffs and into the impenetrable sea. “You fool knight!” roared the Peacock. “What have you done?! Who shall recover your blade? O I surrender! You have bested my skill with your incompetence. Let us depart.” And as the Whale gazed longingly over the cliffs and into the roiling sea into which the blade had disapore, Sir Plumesprite quickly mounted his giraffe as raindrops threatened. All the supplies of luncheon were hastily packed and the remaining members of the band struggled to catch up with the violet-and-azure peacock heraldry disappearing into the mist.
What good is a knight without a sword? lamented Sir Moodye. I knew something like this would happen before long. So proud was I to receive that blade from King Bidgood’s armory; so honored. And now it is lost. I might blame the Peacock for this misdeed, yet the fault must be more mine than his. He is a true knight, and I am none.
As they hurriedly packed, Sir Intuition mumbled to the doleful Whale, “Take it not so hard. Combat is not as crucial as the importance Sir Plumesprite has stressed. We are well defended, and bloodshed was abolished during the Summit of Peace. We shall come to no irreparable harm. Look not so down, for I consider you a fine knight. As much as I wish to lose that pompous arrogant fool, it is best that we remain together. The more the merrier, we say in the Merry Land. Come Sir Moodye, let us ride onward.” And ride they did along those cliffs, fleeing vainly from the rain and the night.
“And yet,” sighed Sir Moodye, “what even do we seek? What is this mysterious Wreath that the king wishes us to uncover? What is our quest’s purpose? What is mine own purpose?”
And no one had any reply for the young pretend-knight except sagacious James Jesus Christ who winked his one good eye and cryptically explained, “The act of asking the question the true answer is.”
Though the clouds melted away behind them, the oncoming night proved inescapable and they had to stop to set up camp. There had been no conversation since the disarming, and all had been of low morale. After Sir Intuition and Sir Plumesprite retired to their bedrolls, the Whale Knight still sat by the campfire, peering into it. When James Jesus Christ saw the sorrow on the Whale’s young face, he was quick to slip an unmarked black leather-bound book from one of the satchels upon the elephant, and went to sit beside the pretend-knight at the fire.
The one-eyed Jesus Christ said softly, “Obvious are your discomforts, as is the reason for your distance, yet raise your sprits I can. A shame it is that the minstrel knight went a separate way, for the Meta-Testament’s lessons when sung are best. Yet let me at least to its nature enlighten you.” He held the book up to Sir Moodye’s eyes. It had a nondescript cover that danced in the light of the flames.
Sir Plumesprite from his sleeping roll grunted, “Listen not to this man’s poison discourse. The Meta-Testament is an endeavor in pointlessness for those of feeble faculties.”
“Not so, O Peacock,” replied the prophet, “for in this book the secrets of love and virtue sleep. Perhaps if your constant chastising were paused, learn from it you could.”
“How do you dare!” spat Sir Plumesprite sitting up. “You cannot speak to a knight in such a manner! I for one—”
Yet the Hart butted in with his antlers, saying, “Sir Plumesprite, go to bed. Ignore them if you must, but let the man alone. He speaks softer than you.”
There was an angry squawk from the Peacock’s bedroll, and not until Jesus saw the curiosity in Sir Moodye’s eyes did he continue. “A collection of poems and songs is the Meta-Testament, during the Crusade by four Saints written. It went on to inspire many who hated the war, and even inspired the Master Musician to sacrifice himself atop Mount Woodstock. He was crucified by his God just as we Christian prophets are crucified by ours. But it worked. The Master Musician’s sacrifice, based on the books of the Meta-Testament, saved England from the violent past. In five parts is the doctrine: each by one Saint were the first chapters written, and the tale of a journey is the final book. A journey shared together to bring peace unto the world.” Sir Plumesprite sighed loudly and fidgeted, but all ignored him. “Before you retire, friend Whale, would you one tale care to hear?” He opened his tome towards the end of its pages.
“I should like to hear it only if it is a good tale. Who are these Saints, and what did they accomplish?”
“Heard of them you have not? Reactionaries who protested the Crusades were they, about the merits of peace and universal love they sang. Learned of the Testament, the Saints left it behind and straight did they go to the source of divinity: from that font did their enthusiasm flow. Culminated did their power during the Summit of Peace through the prowess of other fabled minstrel-groups. Already transcended had the Saints, beyond our Cycle and into other realities. By their energies were the Crusades ended and the Merry Land ushered into being. The books of the Meta-Testament are named thus: the Book of Saint John, the Book of Saint Paul, the Book of Saint George, and the Book of Saint Ringo. And now shall I relate to you the fifth book.” A gust of wind passed before their faces and spurred the firelight to whisper briefly, and the Peacock Knight begrudgingly kept one ear attuned to the fable read from those hallowed pages.
The Tale of The Four Saints And the Golden Submersible
“Once, during the darkest part of the Dark Age, when the four Saints were united at the height of their power against the Crusade, there came to the Castle Liverpool a strange man who told of his strange problem.
“This stranger claimed that he hailed from a place called Pepperland, a peaceful nation of music and joy. But alas, to the doom of his people, an evil race known as Blue Meanies had invaded from extra-dimensional space. These vile creatures had declared war against joy itself, and thus opposed the country’s rampant happiness. Lead by the meanest Meanie, they silenced with violence all Pepperland’s merrymaking, brought woeful listlessness, and evaporated every remnant of love. The most fearsome weapon the Meanies possessed could silence music itself, for they felt a melody’s sweetness as a barb in their ears, and so they deployed their savagery against all the musicians and artists of Pepperland. Without their music, the utopia was conquered entirely and fell into crumbling joyless ruin.
“So it came to pass that in their infinite grace and love the Saints agreed to help this voyager in his time of need, and all came with him to his golden vessel. It was part magic and part machine, and it whirred and clicked as it took them deep beneath the mighty ocean. The legends speak of this artefact of Pepperland, a vessel powered by the force of music, and so it was that the gifted Saints played their way on through seas of green and skies of blue into the perilous deep.
“Through that eerie darkness they could only half-glimpse the strange inhabitants of the under-ocean — these were seldom-seen notions that fled from light’s touch yet swam alongside the submersible for a chance to hear its otherworldly music. Through this realm the Saints travelled, singing the entire way to power their golden aegis through the unsettling waterscape.
“When at last they arrove in Pepperland the submariner found his home a changed place. The lush fields had turned grey, the people were morose and unresponsive, and bands of Blue Meanies roamed the territory with their vicious hounds, hunting down and eradicating any little happiness they found.
“The four Saints swiftly made their way to the center of the capital, where the comatose inhabitants were gathered thickest. There they banded together and struck up a lively tune, one written of elsewhere in the Meta-Testament, and with the magic of their music the populace slowly began to revive like blossoming flowers. From their abyss of sorrow the people woke, looking full of wonder and rejuvenated. The resuscitated all rejoiced, and danced for many moons to the music that the Saints made. The Blue Meanies could not compete with the power of their songs, and so all fled shrieking back to lands of shadow… all except for the meanest of the Meanies. He still was feverishly determined to destroy the paradise Pepperland and the infallible saints who defended it — but these men-beyond-men had one final song to play. It was a great paean to love, and this most blue of creatures was overcome by their words and melody and all his wrath and sorrow washed away until he himself in the course of the melody came to love the Saints and was transformed: no longer a Meanie but a bluebird of happiness.
“And so it came to pass in those days of the Dark Age that the Saints saved Pepperland from its peril, and all was well again in the world for then and ever-after… including now and all the ages of our Cycle yet to come.”
James Jesus Christ removed his finger from the sacred page and into the nebula-filled night he sighed, “What thought you?”
It was Sir Plumesprite who answered. “Forsooth it was a bedtime story: a simple tale with impractical truths fit only for a religious fool.”
“Yet more than the mere straightforward story exists,” explained the prophet. “In riddles write the greatest authors, their words twisting until what has been said is precisely parallel to what they meant to impart. In this way, they could speak not to a person’s conscious mind, but deep down into the ocean of their soul. All of your eyes must you use to look upon a story, and in the common stone find magic you must. Dark times indeed the days were when the Tale of the Golden Submersible took place: the very nadir of the ugly war. Sir Plumesprite believes his country nobly fought, though verily the mockery made of human life wrapped nettles round the hearts of all populations until despair the nectar of Nahm became. In my tale spoke I of beings who on wrath and sorrow throve: in those days of the Dark Age all were mean to one another, and blue. Much uncertainty in the hearts of men dwelt, wondered they whether the universe was a place of good or of ill. From out of this contagion the Saints did occur, and no coincidence it is that their Submersible was of gold constructed.
“Hark: what of the ocean is known to you? Deep, dark, many secrets below the surface… no living human could travel that inner space or master its depths. Thus does it symbolize the depth that within ourselves also exists: the abyss of our souls that never can by our waking minds be known. There, submerged and obfuscated, all truths hide.
“So too was the ocean into which the Saints dove a mysterious darkness. Yet safe passage had they: the vessel’s golden illumination from the holy hymns drew force, and harm to the Saints came not. When in Pepperland arriven at last their songs like their golden ship shone, and into void all the miseries of man dissipated. Blueness and meanness into enduring joy was transformed with the salvation of Pepperland; man in the midst of pain found his reason for optimism.
“And all true it is. Only sooth have I ever spake: during the real war of Nahm did this tale occur. It is the true tale of the vessel used by Saint John, Saint Paul, Saint George and Saint Ringo to save humanity from demonic doubts that within their own minds lingered. And when accomplished was their mission — the congregation at lost Mount Woodstock inspired to reform Dark Age England into the Merry Land — out of our world they dissolved into perhaps some other.”
And in the aftermath of that labyrinthine tale, Sir Moodye wondered as he fell into dreaming sleep if his breaths out of this world dissolved into perhaps some other.
The sky is colored beyond midnight and a tone of somberness hangs over all my eyes take in. The billowing branches are the only things capable of smiling, and they do not do it now. I am walking, I have been walking for miles. My legs bemoan the weariness of having journeyed across entire continents. Yet then I see it — there, on the horizon. Three glowing golden spires rise. The spires are significant somehow. Somehow I know this place. It was a long far-fetched journey, have I returned home at last? I study the towers to divine their meaning, yet somehow…