*
IV
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.
“Alas!” cried Sarah spitting out water, wet hair plastered to her alabaster face like seaweed. “So near were we to unlocking the riddle of your confounding Silver Spring!”
“It is well,” replied Sir Elisa though he was as downtrodden as the maiden he cared for. “At the very least we have not drowned. That is comfort enough for me; we shall find our way where we must.”
As the knight, the maiden, and the mystic roech the lip of the pond they were met by the sight of their fearful squire sprinting towards them. “What has occurred?” choked Frontal breathlessly as he helped heave Sarah from out of the chill waters. He said, “On the first moment I saw you enter those strange-seeming mists — and on the next you all faded, faded, faded until only the pool remained! Then the mists blew away, yet you did not return. See: even the waterfall has ceased to spill.” Clasping then Sir Elisa’s arm he withdrew his knight onto the grass beside the now-placid lake and the spire from which fell no torrent.
“Much wonder found we,” the drenched Sparrow gasped for breath. “An undertow pulled us into what may have been some dream, or else I am filled ever with more questions. It was a perilous place in sooth, though beautiful. How long has it been since we left your sight?”
“Why, it has been hours, my liege: you were lost at dawn and all the day have you been absent!”
Hesaid Isee grunted, “That place forsooth was no dream,” as he too was being pulled from the chill waters. “Yet indeed, it was a strange realm like a twin to sleep. In the very truth of it — aye! What is this? Wait, wait Frontal! Let me again into the pool, for I felt an oddity brush against me. Let me go; I shall submerge myself for but an instant!” They watched in disbelief as the tattooed mystic inhaled deep and dove once more down, leaving the others to ponder his fate while looking on uncertain from the grass. They had barely time to worry for his life before Hesaid’s frantic head resurfaced with a splash, and he cried out “Haste! You squire! To our provisions, and return with Yalishamba’s jar! Haste, haste! Go, man!” So ran lanky-legged Frontal to the nearby giraffes and foetch that inscrutable glass sphere — just larger than his head — from its stashing place. Hesaid, taking hold of the transparent surface, dove once more and remained below for long minutes with the wizard’s glass. The sun set by degrees as they waited until at last with a tremendous splash the mystic emerged and lustily drew a long-missed breath. “I’ve done it!” he choked, floundering on the surface with only one free hand.
Sarah fell to her knees beside the shore, holding out her arms, and said, “What strange thing have you done? Was one submergence and drowning insufficient for the wise Hesaid Isee? What has occurred?”
But answer passed not from the mystic’s lips, only a sly twinkle in his eye as he triumphantly raised the splashing magic jug, now full complete. The spherical waters of the pool filled it and sustained the large dark fish held within. As Sarah luft the wizard’s glass from him, peering at the mysterious ichthyic entity and sloshing dribbles from the opening, Sir Elisa holp Hesaid out of the pool and onto the English soil at last where he gasped at the sweet air and whispered dreamily to beloved stalks of grass where he lay.
The others all gathered now around the dewy jar, gazing at their incomprehensible prize. The jar seemed to glow where remaining rays of the sun caught in the water, and they saw that within was a large old salmon of grey and light pink scales. And it looked back at them, silently mouthing with ancient hook-like jaws to cycle water across its gills.
“Why did you dive for it?” asked Sarah without taking her eyes off the beast.
“Think you that this is what Yalishamba intended?” wondered Sir Elisa.
“What even is it?” asked Frontal.
Yet it was not Hesaid Isee who answered, though he had been about to speak. There was instead a warm rich tone that expanded through their minds, much like the way that absent magician had spoken, and the voice of that salmon said, “What kindness is this? Am I rescued? Or have I been captured only for you to make of me a meal? I scarcely hope that my aged bones still would nourish. Eons I have been trapped within that pool, and not one lonely soul has chanced by in all that time. Too small a water it is to contain me, though far larger than this imprisonment. Yea, and what of it? The salmon swam a tight circle within the glass, all that he had room for. Alas that restrained have been all my days. Not always like this was I: ere I was a fish I was once a man… of some significance yet that I have all forgot. In sooth do I say these things to you. Once was I a man, and because I retain a man’s mentality I have a task. Grateful am I to be raised from the pool — and I beseech you eat me not, yet aid me in my task! The task itself is ages old and some reward I promise to you… yet as a fish I know not how I might deliver except to tell that knowledge runs through me like the cold blood within my veins. Help me, and in time your reward shall manifest itself.”
The others were stunned but, “I pulled you from the waters not to eat,” said Hesaid Isee. “I have trapped you for this very information you so freely offer. In your task we will aid if you can but answer our question. We have travelled wide across England, seeking, and even have we visited the mythic realms of Aerlynd, and we have heard that only one being, called Salmon, might know of the key to our quest: the ability to awaken a certain forest. Know you of the Silver Spring? Or are you but an ordinary fish? No harm shall fall upon you whatever your answer, by all old river-gods I swear.”
A mirthful ichthyic laugh echoed in their minds from the fish as it thought, “This request is joy and hope for me — and when you understand my task you too shall know your own. Forsooth there is a place of power, yea, a forest, and all shrouded in deep sleep… and in sooth there is but one being who can bring it wakefulness. In sooth I say that I am your key. Yea, I am the key and you noble knights, wide-scouring knights heir to the throes of the past, you have found me. That forest has slept since the days when wrathful violence roiled in the hearts of englishmen, and all the life therein. Once was I a man, yet when I drowned here I was reborn and became myself. A psion of peace who can break that place from its age-long slumber… if only I could arrive there. As can be seen, my form is limiting in the utmost. All this I knew, yet have had no power to locomote. Will you wanderers bear me nobly to my forgotten destination? When men fall prey to their baser natures joy is sealed for a time. When mankind fell, I became a fish. I recall only that much, and of the yearning for my destination: a region where deep underground streams have broken through the crust of the earth, their cool waters fueling the mystical forest that has grown old around it — O, in the tongue of men it is that same Silver Spring. For the price of sealing golden-age London, the destiny-salvaging Summit of Peace also sealed the Silver Spring. Without this crucial step in the Cycle, not even the Wreath would have the power to sustain our world. Therefore help me to restore balance not only to fair England, but to our entire cosmos! Yea, and curse this fish’s body that knows all this — yet never could act till now!” The Sparrow Knight gasped with psionic comprehension, and in her own psionic surprise Sarah nearly slipped the sphere of the sagacious Salmon onto the swaying grass. Hesaid had the glimmer of magic in his eye, and his grin became the crescent moon as twilight fell.
That night, the companions feasted well on their provisions, swapping stories and song with the salmon late into the wide-eyed night. When the others were sleeping sound, Hesaid Isee slipped outside of camp to offer a small holy ritual of thanks to the names of the elder gods that all other men had forgotten. This was one way the druids of Cymru had blessed this Cycle, for it verily was known among his people that all those hidden names and incarnations were but facets of one being — many gods comprising but one God — a unified entity who created their universe out of and into Him-and-Herself. As the lone mystic chanted in meditation the soul of his words ascended beyond what he knew, just as he knew they would, and were accepted into the aether. He thought himself unobserved, yet within the magic jar there was one who did not sleep.
“You are old. In my fins I feel it. You speak antediluvian rituals and worship nameless Gods.”
“And I have seen younger salmon than you,” said Hesaid softly, still focussed.
“Would that I were one of them. I feel my age as ragged as you, yet I cannot feel my memories. Your recollections stretch beyond the previous age, perhaps longer, yet mine are but an indistinct yawning inside. I always hoped the Silver Spring would cure me of this ache for as long as I knew it existed. Perhaps I have always known.”
“We shall arrive you there, fear not. And fear not your memories: I surmise their nature from the ripples you distort. You need not the name of your former-self, for you are not the same as he.”
“I am not who I once was,” the telepathic fish agreed, “for I have lingered long in the Pool of Washing. The endless swirl of its waters washed me, purified me from the sins of my former-self, and through the scrubbing of my soul I became King Washing, in the flesh once more… though not quite a mortal man. Yea, and I am become the Washington Fish. I have reclaimed the torch-spark of our primordial trailblazer, and I shall accomplish his goals though trapped I may be within my bath. But bear me hence to the Silver Spring and let me wash in those waters as well, and purge the entrapping dreams that were unleashed long ago.”
“O Washington Fish,” praised Hesaid, “wherefore was the Silver Spring made to sleep? What is the nature of that location?”
“And you knew it not? Wherefore do you seek that place, if not to dissolve the dream summoned by the Summit of Peace?”
“How is the Summit of Peace connected? I have heard hearsay, yet I was not there and the rumors of that celebration echo throughout numerous tales in this Merry Land! Speak sooth: was there a secret thing achieved upon Mount Woodstock that day?”
“Yea. And it was a strange Summit to be sure. The only memories that I can remember are of that day… yet I cannot remember when it occurred. It took place when I was not yet a fish… yet no longer a man. What was I then? Yet I know that somehow I was touched by energies from Mount Woodstock, as if by an angelic finger. Whether by intent or by chance my fate was bound up with the fate of the Silver Spring. Had I been there in life? Or was it mere metaphor? Yea, and mayhaps there is no meaning in such things. Yet that it occurred is doubtless. I think that your musicians and sages and merry men knew not what they had achieved, yea, and not even the Master Musician knew it. They found the purpose they had sought — to seal away golden London and the source of the hatred at Castle Tralfamadore — yet in doing so I believe they irreparably altered our world. How? And what did they do? I know these things not, for I am no knight… only a merest fish.”
“Was it the Four Saints? Why would they do such a thing? Or was it Sir Dylan? Or Sir Cross-By, Sir Style or Sir Gnash? Else it was the Master Musician himself, James Hendricks! Who were the ones who cast the spell? Or was it all together? Tell!”
“No more, no more! I know it not! I would that I were a knight who knew things, to walk the world as a man, yet I am but a shadow of my former life. And what even am I? I do not know these people you name, and I am ignorant of their intentions. All that I know is that after they had sealed the ancient capital, the spiritual assembly drifted apart and abandoned the site of their ceremonies leaving once-fertile Mount Woodstock both frigid and barren. Snows fall there that it knew not in ages before. Alas, and that is all I know.”
And Hesaid Isee stayed up as stars circled overhead, puzzling over all the words he had telepathically absorbed. If the wise Washington Fish slept at all that night he showed it none, yet the purple-robed mystic was unable to hold out long against the night’s mysteries, and still pondering he soon fell into dreamless trance of oblation.
In the whisperless morning they set off, allowing the psychic salmon to guide them north towards their destination. Sarah and Sir Elisa still shared a single giraffe, and Frontal had no magic-sense about him, so it fell to Hesaid Isee to carry the Washington Fish. And within that salmon’s very breast was felt the tug of the Silver Spring, miles away. Every footfall of their trot seemed an agony to him in his fish-bowl, as if he was ill and the only remedy was this one direction of travel. So on they rode from out of the autumn-yellow Strathmore Forests pursued by wiry branches, they followed the ravine left by an ancient river-bed that clomb northward, they galloped over rocky foothills, and finally when the ground softened and marsh grasses began to tangle thick they dismounted and trodge onward on foot. When the sun began to slowly sink for the third time, after days of journeying, the travelers sought a place to camp.
Yet the wise salmon sloshed about and said, “We must continue towards the setting sun! This is the way, and we are nearly there. We can be beneath the leaves before nightfall on the swiftness of these giraffe-hooves! Towards the sun!” So long contained within his sphere, he ached desperately for his freedom. Yet cerulean-and-gold Sir Elisa confirmed with his knight’s kaleidoscope that a woods was indeed upon the horizon. So mounted they their steeds and pressed on until the sun fell from the heavens completely, the night air became thin and cold, the moon rose with a pale aura, and the disc of it glent over the edges of the trees when at last Sir Elisa, Sarah Bellum, and Hesaid Isee came to the quiet edge of that most elusive Silver Spring. The trees seemed nearly purple in the twilight half-light; shimmering and silent.
“At last it is discovered,” breathed Hesaid as they formed into a single file.
Out of the moon’s illumination they rode into slumbering darkness, for the spring was densely over-grown with some strange pungent plant that tangled with the trees and choked out the stars. Hesaid plucked one plume from a stalk of the mysterious foliage, and though he was versed in herb-lore he was unable to identify the seven-pointed leaf. Its hazy scent permeated the trapped air, emanating from dense buds and filling the lowland forest. Darkness consumed the sojourners and they were only able to see by the mysterious faintly glowing jar that contained the Washington Fish.
“I can feel it,” thought the salmon to them all. “The heart of the Spring is nigh…”
Yet the way through the thick mud was slow for compounding on their blindness were small unreliable streams that eroded the spongey soil. The Sparrow Knight suggested another dismount to prevent their giraffes slipping on the treacherous unlit terrain, so gripping their reins they went one by one, each separated by their nervous grunting steeds but for Sarah who clung to her Sparrow Knight. The streams were still and colorless, only detectable by the distorted reflections across their stagnant surfaces. All noises were muffled and drowned in the claustrophobic air, and all was as quiet as bones picked clean by hungry hyenas. The scent of the mysterious herb with seven-pointed leaves enveloped the travelers with visions of its vegetable gnosis. The path spiraled in and out of their vision: often did they lose sight of the true path and find they had been following a mere reflection in the stagnant streams.
“Too much of night is there here!” breathed Sarah, but their troupe was otherwise in silence, swimming in it, drowning as they had at the Washing Pool, and their lives were suspended in the noiselessness for it hung thick in the air and made them breathless. Hesaid, in front with the glowing salmon, could barely tell whether or not he led them in circles. The ways of night were strong and silent and subtle, and left each of the travelers in their own thoughts to be eaten away in fear by the woods, and indeed their eyes were wide as they tried to sense some approaching danger, and a chill sweat was upon them as they lead their giraffes. Even a thing so white as Sarah’s samite gown would have been submerged in the ink and lost but for the feeble halo around the saintly salmon in his wizard’s glass. Yet then it was that Hesaid Isee, like a billowing bat in his purple robe, spotted a blemish of fire atop the approaching hill and with a silent ponderous finger he drew their attention to it. Sarah gasped, mouselike. Sir Elisa looked to the crest of the hill behind which the moon rose like great white horns and saw that around the fire were dim human silhouettes. To him it seemed the forms of five men.
Into the undisturbed air the minstrel knight cried, “Halt!” and jarred illegally the law of silence. “I am Sir Elisa,” he called to the campfire, and flustered Frontal blew an unimpressive fanfare. “I am the knight of the Sparrow and my band is friend to any we might meet. Who goes there?” And yet, there was no reply save an echo of croaking laughter. “Who goes there?” repeated Sir Elisa to the vain horns of the moon.
At last, a breathy voice echoed from atop the hill and through the overgrowth. It hissed, “Foul and dim trespassers are you! This foul and dim locale shall be your last! And foul and dim tombstones you shall attain! We are the Knights of the Bearded Vulture, and none who have seen us yet live!”
“Aha,” shouted back Hesaid Isee now, “And we three have not lain our eyes on you! Our Sparrow Knight called out only having seen your shadows across the night… therefore you may not attack on that ground.”
A different knight of the Bearded Vulture spoke in a voice as calloused as stone, perhaps possessing some vocal deformity, and he said, “We see inside of you, O Knight of the Sparrow! For we see into your heart the names of those who travel with you: it is Hesaid there who called out, and perhaps there is the dunce Sir Wander-Gogh who faces backwards on his steed! Your ends are at hand, and no song can save you now unless you fetch to us that one item we require! One key this Silver Spring needs to awaken: this rooty hovel of despair is in great need of… a shrubbery! Yea, and you must return here with that shrubbery, or else you shall never pass through these woods alive! One that looks nice, O Knights, yet one that is not too expensive. And forsooth—”
But a new Bearded Vulture Knight interrupted, and his voice was marred by a strange accent. “O this swampy,” he wailed, “is about to being a place where the we shall killing you! Oui, it is the sad, but that are ways of we! Haw!” A howling fit spilled from the camp of the Bearded Vulture that was like laughter, yet eerie in the grim uncertain stillness.
Hesaid whispered to Sir Elisa, “What is going on? What manner of knights are these? Are they mad? Will they attack us?”
The Sparrow only shrugged and clomb a ways up his giraffe’s neck to take a closer look at the Vultures.
“Lest we end your foolish lives,” hissed the first Bearded Vulture, “I command you to fell the mightiest tree in our forest… with only the power of your minds!” More hooting laughter erupted from the knights on the hilltop, yet it seemed even to Sarah not to be laughed in sadism — mirth in earnest echoed through the gnarled trees and seven-pointed leaves, and the Sparrow from his vantage was able to recognize the baseless illusion that had entranced his group.
The songbird sang out, “O joyful am I to meet with you once more, knights of my own heart! The beards your vultures wore have fallen now that I understand your fool’s voices! Certain am I that lunacy plays not on me — I’ll not wear the moon’s horns that lay so plain across this knoll. I know your voice of many meetings Frog Knight, and perhaps the Hart and the Peacock I heard too? We come to your camp now, shrubbery or no! Deny us if you can, brothers!” Up the hill trekked the Sparrow, and Sarah, and Hesaid. In the light of the flickering campfire they found the songbird’s prediction rang true, and all rejoiced at their joining of ways. But when gazed upon them, they received the first of several jolts; much had changed on their separated journeys. There was first the surprise of Moo’Moo’Um’Ra, no small beast. Sir Sallimaide gave a regal introduction for his bovine companion, introducing as well the two new knights that had not been present in the halls of King Bidgood.
“Many greetings to you, unknown Sirs Ram and Lobster,” bowed the Sparrow.
Sir Sallimaide went on, “I see too that with you rides no Manta-Ray. Wandered off lost, I suppose? And who is this maiden who rides in his stead? In this heavy dark it almost looks as if — yet it is! What strange coincidences visit us this night! Greetings once more, fair Sarah Bellum!”
And at this Sir L’angoustier jostled Sir Sallimaide and strode forwards into the firelight. “O beautifying amour, my Maiden Sarah!” said he. “Too long I have waited of for your the nearness!” Sarah curtsied with a polite laugh, and all wore smiles as they greeted one another and filled one another in on their adventures and the whereabouts of their missing members in the dark.
Sir Moodye was there too, reading his worn copy of the Meta-Testament, struggling to comprehend the seemingly circular logic of a tale in the Book of Saint John, the labyrinthine Revolution IX. Its words were passing puzzling. What is revolving? thought Sir Moodye when he closed his eyes for a break from the chaos. Why is this tale so different than the simple Revolution I? Why are II through VIII unlisted? Saint John wrote so many masterpieces, I’ve read a multitude of them within this tome, why then should he pen something so absurd as this? He continued reading. His words keep returning to it: revolution. Ah, it’s going around. Mayhaps it represents chaos… yet it does revolve around an orderly center. Variations on a theme. Revolving. As the world revolves around me. What am I? Am I the center? I must be my own center, at least. Am I the theme elaborated upon? Or do I merely revolve around the world’s constancy? Is it right for me to know; can I expose myself in that way? Perhaps—
And though he was close to solving his conundrum, his thoughts were interrupted by Hesaid Isee. The tattooed mystic clapped the scrawny Whale Knight on the shoulder and said, “How now, occupied as always? I fain must say that the true mark of the scholar is upon you. Your curiosity is a blessing. And your beard as well is very fair, it suits you better than even a bearded vulture. Well met, O Whale Knight!” As the mystic spoke, the pretend-knight’s questioning eyes came to be fixed upon the glowing Washington Fish. Hesaid said to the general assembly, “I now must speak to a pressing concern: is it possible for us to retire? Our band is weary from riding all day — have you set a camp?” As Sir Moodye dog-eared the page of his book and slipped it into the giraffe’s bag with his other supplies, the final phrase of Revolution IX echoed round and around his brain: If you become naked, smile. So startled had he become by the presence of the salmon that he knew not the words to reply, thus did he only honestly smile.
To answer Hesaid Isee, it was violet-and-argent Sir Palamander who gruffly said, “It is far too muddy in this place to make camp, as can be seen. We have pressed farther into this Spring, yet it becomes even darker the deeper one travels. Any torch we tried to light became somehow quaffed. Thus, blind, we nearly stumbled into the great lake at the heart of this place. The way beyond it is blocked, and every other direction circles back upon itself. We have been exploring the spring since the morning, and when the sun died we had no choice but to to backtrack here. We set this meager fire, yet there is no room to sit or sleep or stay for long.”
“And voila,” said Sir L’angoustier. “When we were bon fire, we did saw you and became Big, um, Vultares, and lurking about the here. Yet why is even named Silver Spring? Is looking as ordinary a forest to the me. But is all blocked, makes me feel alas… but what can done?”
At the french knight’s lament, Hesaid held aloft the sloshing jug containing the Washington Fish, which drew all eyes to its glow. The captive salmon was stirred from his liquid daydreams, and was able to innately sense his location. A psychic emanation of joy was sensed by all those present as it rippled through their minds, and the scales of the fish began to shine palely on the path deeper into the spring, wreathed with the dark bent heads of plants and covered by the canopy of trees weaving together.
“What is it?” croaked a bewildered Sir Sallimaide stroking his fiery beard.
Plucking two cords of his lyre, Sir Elisa said, “It was Yalishamba who spoke to us of the key to the Silver Spring, and here we have it. Hesaid figured it out, somehow.”
That woodsey mystic beckoned the knights with the glowing salmon. “It seems we cannot camp here nor nearby, due to the trudge of the mud. Let us fight sleep until we wake the Spring. Mayhaps some solace then shall come to us.”
“O now we will consider this oui oui very important counsel from non-knight who am taken advice of fishy!” snorted the Lobster.
But then in their heads pulsed a learned watery voice, and it was the salmon’s telepathy that said, “Hesaid Isee spake a valid truth. Lend him your ears and peace. So near have we gathered; let us finish our final steps and unseal this place set aslumber long ago by men. I am returned, the essence that was stolen; I return to my home at last!”
While Sir L’angoustier’s face contorted in confusion, Hesaid Isee strode forward and presented the luminous jar unto the trees. As the aura of the salmon fell upon their bark, silver light began to flow up and into the branches spreading out until each leaf of the canopy was lit one by one. There was little light to see much else, yet every leaf shone as a star or mirror among the transforming canopy.
Hesaid intoned, “The Washington Fish pulls upon a heartstring of mine! Follow me onwards and through!” And so after dousing the campfire the whole group fell into line behind the mystic, leading their grumbling giraffes onwards and through, and Sarah was the one entrusted with Tinkersnow’s care. The silver-tipped trees seemed to close in on the band, twisted claws encroached upon the already narrow way, yet somehow the salmon’s luminance forced back the brambles and vines. His glowing orb bobbed on ahead until the mystic brought them to a vast dark lake that swallowed the path. Utter silence. Utter black, but for the wizard’s glass. The spring’s unbroken surface held reflections of the glowing trees that slowly began to sway and dance. All the knights gathered close to Hesaid Isee at the bank, looking out and wondering if they were meant to cross through these waters and if, indeed, they could.
Sir Palamander complained, “Here is the lake I described, seemingly unable to be forded. This is the culmination of many gatherings of water, and I cannot fathom its depth. How now, druid and salmon?”
Into all their minds burst the gelatinous voice of the Washington Fish, spreading warmly like the silver shine of the trees. As he enthusiastically swirled round and around his fish-bowl, he said, “I thank you fair ones for my safe travel and delivery, and it is here that we must part. I wriggle my tail fins in the pleasures we have had in meeting, yet not ever again in this Cycle of reality shall we meet. Until the next time, then. It has been good to be among humans after all these lonely ichthyic ages, and I shall now perform my best to assist you in your quest, whatever you may find it to be.”
So it was that Hesaid Isee lowered the glowing sphere beneath the surface, submerging its glass lips in the frigid waters of the spring. The glowing Washington Fish slipped from his container like a stroke of lightning, stretching his yearning swimming muscles and dashing and splashing about in his new home. He dove deep and into the sensuous muddy bed, and then leapt up sprawlingly above the rippling water’s edge, crashing down once again into the overflowing underground river. Vibrations of this jubilant dive rippled through the lake, and all the veins of its streams were slowly lit silver. The trees danced more animatedly now as pale blue lights began to glow from them — and each glow was the shell of a snail as large as a human head, with translucent antennae undulating about and tasting the pungent forest. The more ecstatic the spawning salmon’s dance became, the more animals seemed to be wakened by his splashing. When the Washington Fish had completed seven laps around the spring’s perimeter, some bright hummingbirds arrove to flit about in the treetops and also came the far-off echo of other night-birds and other raindrops in the tapestry of nature noise. And even then as light began to bloom around them, below the surface of the dark water the salmon’s shining scales were visible to the knights. The silver trees straightened their branches and boughs, and the seven-pointed pungent plants filled with green and proudly swoll like exiled kings come into their throne anew.
From up out of the center of the mirror-like lake sprung the shining Washington Fish one last time, emanating his thanks and farewell into the minds of all gathered there, and he told them, “You truly may be able to save our world, yea, and bring balance to our fair Merry Land.”
“O Sir Elisa,” exclaimed Sarah aflush, “you must sing with the trees! I somehow feel in the air a hunger for music! This hallucinatory scene is too marvelous for words… you must sing something — like we heard in illusory Aerlynd!”
But the Knight of the Sparrow — though he could feel the same yearning and knew she was right — only stared on, perplexed. “I… I is all too much! I simply cannot think of a fitting song. Yet do you not see how noble the trees and plants, how noble the animals, how noble the life! I love it all! And yet… ” And Sir Elisa bowed his head in shame that nor he nor his lyre could think of a fitting tribute to the Silver Spring.
Yet surprising all, it was Sir Moodye who finally spoke up, barely a breath in the wakened woods. He said, “I have been entranced with a tome on our expedition, if it please you, known to some as the Meta-Testament. The words are very beautiful, yet I never have heard one put to melody, as I am told they were intended to be.”
Some spiritual keenness flecked from the Sparrow’s eye then, and he breathed a great sigh that seemed to shuffle cobwebs off awakening memories of long ago. He begged Sir Moodye of his tome, and when it was given he leafed to a certain page. Sarah held the page before him, for though he knew the song well in his heart, it had been an age since he had played it. He took up his lyre and — backed by the low drone of awakening trees — began to strum chords to the simple melody.
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done,
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung,
Nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game —
It’s easy.
There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made,
No one you can save that can’t be saved,
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time —
It’s easy.
There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown
Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be —
It’s easy:
All you need is love!
All you need is love!
All you need is love, love:
Love is all you need.
And those words he spake rung true, yea, and rung even truer than truth. And when the final echoing lyric became eclipsed by the full breathing of trees and forest animals, and the scent of buds floated thick and humid through the mirror-leafed forest, all the noble knights from King Bidgood’s castle knew that the Silver Spring had been awakened at long last.
* * *
It was Sir Palamander who spoke first. “Shall we try to camp here at the mirror water’s edge, or shall we press on for a short while longer?”
The Lobster said, “Now is too much of silver in a spring! From much’s light of so many snails appears a many times reflection! Night-time, oui… but bright as a day! Only things not a mirrors is that smelly plant — and lot of it is.”
Sir Elisa gave a heartfelt sigh, torn. “Fain would I set a camp here, yet we must trudge another distance instead. These birds and beasts are too noisome, now that the Spring has awakened, for any of us to get any sleep.”
“When we reach the foot of the mountains we shall find some rest for certain,” hoped the Frog, and all the knights did all agree with him.
It was just then that Sarah Bellum gave a soft “O!” of surprise, for she noticed a little cat had emerged from the argent undergrowth and was warily eyeing their group. He seemed merely curious and of no ill intent, and thus it was that Sarah approached in friendship. The cat was full-fed with orange fur, and produced a most profound mewling when the maiden roech out and stroked his head and back.
So Sir Sallimaide did approach the pair and yowlingly besought directions from the amicable feline. Yet there came no immediate reply, for the cat plopped down to groom himself as if he had not heard. Sir Sallimaide mewed once more, yet only after the orange body had been licked completely clean did the creature draw up onto his paws and slink over to a slim opening between glowing brambles. His green slit eyes blunk at the knights, beckoning them.
Thus did Sir Sallimaide gesture to the knights and so they went, leading their giraffes and all, into the narrow woven tunnel to follow the fiery feline guide. So it was that the mirrors of that length of undergrowth spread out about them all. Through the passage of reflections dashed the orange cat; and reflected Frogs were following; and sly Sparrows were flitting behind them; and pallid Sarah Bellums were chasing after them; and spindly Lobsters were scuttling behind the Sarahs with one million leering eyes; and wayward Manta-Rays were soaring off-course behind them; and one ponderous Whale swam uncertain behind them; and valiant Rams ambled onwards in the righteous herd; and behind these multitudes drew uncountable sundry squires; and behind even all of them stumbled a wide-eyed Hesaid Isee, stunned to his breaking point by the infinity of spiraling images. Not one of his wisdoms had prepared him for this. He had once glimpsed through a knight’s kaleidoscope without proper training, and the confusion he saw then was alike to this. Even so, in the swirling orderly chaos he knew he looked on the patterns of his own tattoos. He alone in the passage of reflections was able to see with his extra eyes all the coincidences inherent in the Cycle laid out plain. He saw the knights and their heraldic animals mirrored into infinity and oblivion, and for the first time was able to perceive my form in the patterns of his companions. And he struggled both to keep up, and to align this vision to understanding.
Through silver trees and blue glowing snails they led their mounts frantically following, until finally they exited the thicket into an enclosed glade. Vines from the trees embraced the stone veins of the mountains which here began to rise, yet there was one oddity they had not expected to find. There before them, opposite the mirror woods, were the first massive steps that had been carved into the very mountain-range’s rock: a staircase so tall that its bulk was unseen above the canopy. The stairs seemed to trace up to the very peaks.
In wonder, Sir Sallimaide said, “This must be it, the hidden entrance to the High Fortress! I wondered if ever we would find it.”
“Non, non, is a silly. We cannot be trust every little meow persons we see. And gigantique stairway is not the most a hidden of a things.” Even so, everyone else seemed to concur with the Frog Knight.
“It was secreted away behind strange Silver Spring,” suggested Sir Moodye.
“King Bidgood said at the beginning of all,” explained Sir Sallimaide, “that we were to look for a stairway to the High Fortress! This clearly is our object!”
The Painter of Sendrago, stroking his goat’s beard, reasoned that, “If a bastion of knowledge really does exist nearby, then perhaps they can treat us to the hospitality of beds.”
This was all it took to persuade everyone’s ascent at once, and both squires and all five giraffes were left to camp at the base of the massive stairway as the knights made certain of the gear they planned to take. Solemnly, Sir Elisa bade the fair Sarah Bellum a brief farewell and assured her that she would hear his bird-song soon enough. Her aid had been requested by Hesaid, who stayed behind as well to the surprise of several. He told them in his witch’s ways that he had much to learn by caring for Moo’Moo’Um’Ra in their absence, and that he had partaken of enough of the High Fortress’ sacred plant for twelve more Cycles at least — yet his true malady was what he had seen within the passage of reflections. It had run his mind to the brink of exhaustion, and he felt a great need to meditate without the rigors of a quest upon him. He had notions about the bastion the knights would find atop these peaks. Thus, they all agreed to meet again here when the knowledge of their long-sought artefact had been obtained.
And when the knights felt prepared they all set out together without their mounts or squires or accoutrements, sans all fanfares and banners: Sir Sallimaide, Sir Elisa, Sir L’angoustier, Sir Moodye, and the elderly Sir Palamander.
As the companions clomb the mountain-side stair and into the canopy of the forest they quickly realized that there was farther to climb than it had seemed from the ground. After the five knights tore through the reflective vines and verdant seven-pointed leaves of the canopy, they saw that the steps followed the mountain to its hidden zenith beyond the night-time clouds. The ground and the forest quickly disapore beneath them yet still they were forced to climb. They trodge upwards, exhaustedly seeking bed-spent slumber, yet as they ascended the precarious stairway it narrowed until their path was only the width of a single knight. Up and up they continued in unsteady single file through the edge of the night, step after weary step until at last ever-vigilant Sir L’angoustier noticed the blush of the sun beyond the clouds above. When the knights realized that they had clomb through the dark hours, they gave in and decided that staircase or no staircase they could not be parted from sleep any longer. Each knight claimed his own stone step, and they spread out as far as they could, yet comfort was decidedly sparse in the cloudy morning light. Each of them worried of stirring too far while sleeping, fearing to tumble into the cold nothingness on either side of the ascent. They slept betwixt two identical demises. Yet exhaustion eventually overcame each knight in turn, and all were blessed by a brief blank dreamless sleep.
When wakened uncomfortably by the bright noon sun upon them, the knights saw that the grasping clouds of night and morn had blown away allowing them view of the mountain-range about and below them. Spear-like peaks of grey stone supported sparse trees like scraggled hair, and few bright spots shone on the apices where lay patches of never-melting snow. Their mouths trodge through a meager and silent breakfast on the steps, all caressing spots of soreness left from uncomfortable rest. Finishing their drab Cheery-Os they set forth with lackluster determination, clanking armor echoing through what seemed the entire mountain-range. Far below them, farther away than they had thought possible, the English countryside could be seen spreading out like the maps and scrolls they had consulted all their expedition. Further into the sky the knights ascended.
The entire day did they climb, yet to no avail. It mattered not how they quickened their pace for it seemed they could not outrun the oncoming night, and at last the weary troupe was overtaken by the dark veil. Just as they had the night previous, each marched for long hours through the darkness before submitting to his unsatisfactory rest. None could find the peaceful sleep so deeply craved, not upon this rough-hewn stone.
Comfort was neither found the following day when the Knights of Bidgood verily had to force themselves to set out. Each step was as an anchor, and as the air thinned it grew more and more chill. The sun shone very dim, for it hid behind a blanket of clouds that was not very far above the knights.
They passed some small wisps as they went, on and on, until Sir L’angoustier helplessly moaned, “Confound all this! Is no-place to which we of travel! Died are us and have punishes of walking to a sacre bleu!”
“Come now, Lobster Knight,” bleat a weary Ram. “Such a great task of masonry cannot have been built for naught. We shall uncover its end.” And to himself he grumbled dismally “…this quest is not for a knight of my age.”
Sir Moodye looked across to the next peak over, where hawks flet and mountain goats plucked about searching for flowers of wisdom. He tugged on the wisps of coal-black beard he had grown, musing of the distances. Below almost the wind, he tentatively said, “Perhaps some story or song could inspire our legs.” He was barely audible above the echoing of their armor across the peaks, yet the young pretend-knight caught Sir Palamander’s ear.
The weary Ram, cresting yet another woeful step, commanded, “Let us have some cheer, some verse or some tale — ho!”
And Sir Sallimaide begged of Sir Elisa a song, yet the Sparrow could not play. He cawed, “I am over-exhausted, and I lack inspiration.”
“Perhaps another song from the Meta-Testament?” suggested the Whale.
But, “No, for I have just played the brightest and best,” was the reply.
Yet an idea seemed to form in Ram Knight’s ancient eyes. “Some story or some song?” he bleat cleverly. “This dim occasion calls for both. And in some small way our fortunes shine on us, for I have in mind a concoction that blends the two — though I shall need your help Sir Sparrow. And I say that you shall find your inspiration, for I shall tell unto you a truth about the origin of the Silver Spring’s sealing: the very culmination of the Summit of Peace. This dark and beautiful tale begins not long ago, during the height of England’s darkest age. It begins during the bloody Crusade.”
Yet, “Nay!” harshly croaked the Frog. “What hour is at hand that we must relate of depressing death and gloom? Tales of that war are too obscene, especially now when our hearts are at their weariest!”
And the Lobster said, “Let me am begins the epic of our national hero, O the mayfly Vashazjestampedogah he once was him on sand so much sandy place and wanted him was of everyone. But he didn’t have meant to knock down people village because he love life and he learns us that a ways ahead are free to uses but peoples never know this and look for Vashazjestampedogah and another one travels with him carries une gigantique—”
“Enough,” boomed the Knight of the Ram. “And I apologize to you good Sir L’angoustier, yet we shall have some tale of substance — not of fluff. There is no war-time mentioned in my story, good Sir Sallimaide: it is a tale of hope and love and understanding, and of that which was granted and that which was denied. And since they claim you musician, Sparrow, you too shall know of it. Hearken unto me, you valiant climbers of this cursed never-ending stairway of life.” Thus did Sir Palamander begin to narrate.
The Tale of the Master Musician of Woodstock
“While we waged guilty murder on our distant brother-race, an episode of our history that shall remain distant from memory, there was born to a peasant family a boy. The boy’s hard youth was spent laboring at his father’s behest in the scorching fields, forced to work a slave’s trade though all of us are born with freedom-seeking wills. It was thus because food for the war effort was highly prized, and his father’s farm was then a prime supplier. Long did this boy dreamlessly toil, and yet as all great men, he knew where his passions lay. Thus it was that when simple opportunity aroused him he was able to purchase a lute from a traveling merchant. Some say he was just a merchant, and some say he was a deity in disguise, but it makes no matter. Our protagonist carried this lute with him wheresoever he went, even unto the fields when he performed his grueling labors, and even he wore it when setting down to sup. Both his peers and his ‘betters’ sneered him down, yet he was lost in the dancing of his fingertips upon strings. That was where he found his solace. Yea, and in the fullness of time he became one with his instrument. Some say he had been blessed, and some others say cursed — but what is known for sooth is that at the very first blossoming of confidence he left his life of labor behind and travelled the road.”
It was here that Sir Moodye began to listen in earnest, for he understood the parallel of his situation to this protagonist’s. He began to see in his mind’s eye the Beverly Farms which he himself had left behind.
“In those grim days when the fighting in Nahm still raged, there were many protesters who opposed the pugnacity. Four such ones were the Saints of the Meta-Testament — and in the fullness of time the lute-obsessed youth became a follower of their sect, revering them above all other philosophy. Some say he was of their caliber, and some even say that he surpassed them… yet what is this talk of quality where music is concerned? All divine music bridges the gap between all of us and holds our little race together in the void. Last of all before I introduce this Master Musician, I should like to remark that unlike the Saints he did not allow himself to be defined by his cause, he only wished to shine his soul brightest in order to lift us all from sin. If he perceived his path to fork from the road and into morass or combe he would follow. He forged his own path through his own Cycle of victory and torment. Yea, and he was the Master Musician James Hendricks.”
And it was here that Sir Elisa nodded, for he had guessed this revelation already, and he wold his lyre against despair. His fingers plucked notes that hung strange and frantic, full of all their own alien melody. Within this waterfall of notes, he sang.
Anger he smiles
Towering in shiny metallic purple armor,
Green jealousy — envy — waits behind him
Her fiery green gown sneers at the grassy ground.
Blue are the life-giving waters taken for granted
Who quietly understand
Once happy turquoise armies lay opposite, ready,
Yet wonder why the fight is on —
But they all are bold as love,
They all are bold as love,
Yea, they all are bold as love...
Just ask the Axis.
My red is so confident he flashes trophies of war
And ribbons of euphoria.
Orange is young, full of daring but very unsteady
For the first go round.
My yellow in this case is not so mellow
In sooth I try to say it is fighting like me,
And all these emotions of mine restrain me
From giving my life to a rainbow like you —
But I am bold as love.
O I am bold, bold as love,
I am bold as love,
Just ask the Axis…
He knows everything.
Yeah, yeah.
And when the sung verses ended, the Sparrow tore into an extended instrumental solo unlike anything that Sir Moodye had heard or imagined before. It was not about the speed that the notes were played, but their harmonies and the beauty of the images they conjured. The melodies were strange and mysterious, having both twinges of sadness and the ebullient joy one can compose into music only from reaching the highest peaks of the great intangible mountains of glory, happiness, and tranquility, after having roech them from only the foulest mires of doubt and death. The notes held the hand of sunrise and strung mystical colored light through all the eyes of all the needles of night-time and reshaped the labyrinth of Sir Moodye’s brain as their sound-waves washed over him. The lyre notes rose like an up-flowing waterfall into the truest altitude of pure resonance that the Whale could have imagined, and as the final notes of the song crested over the shore of his brain a sublime understanding of love was all that remained in the silence that was sad for arriving. Whatever had happened, it had been powerful.
And Sir Elisa gasped for air when the lightning solo had come to an end, and he tried to shake the pain from his hands. “I have blistered my fingers!” he winced. All the others were silent, not wishing to disturb whatever lingered of the notes from the echoing breeze. Just ahead of the knights the stairway rose into the clouds of the overcast sky. So high they had come, England far below no longer seemed a quilt of farmland and forest but was in the distance nearly indistinguishable. Chill was the air when all the knights forced themselves into the cloud-head, and as they ascended into that billowing veil all sight diminished around them so far that naught could be seen beyond the still-rising staircase.
Sir Moodye was much touched by the Ram Knight’s tale, and after laborious moments of silence he asked, “Where now does James Hendricks dwell? For I think I had heard of him once. I knew that he was the man who ended the Crusade once and for all, yet did he wither barren and cold like Mount Woodstock? Tell us what has become of him since, for I know it not.”
And a shadow fell over the Sparrow’s face as the Ram continued his impassioned biography. “Where he is now I am not wise enough to say, for not long had he lived ere he lived no longer. After a mere seventy years did he expire, not even to his first century. Alas that the saintly die so soon. Yet there is more tale to tell before we reach that end. More magician than musician became James, for he grew so proficient that he could call great thunderstorms from overhead and siphon their energies through his instrument. Countless people came to watch him perform this feat, some merely to marvel at his prowess, yet others truly felt the man’s soul on display. Yet hordes he gathered to him and soon his wanderings — no longer hardships for him since he had come into his true power — were solitary no more. Men in praise of him would follow hither and thither just to be near his eminance, pushing and crowding James. It was their weighty praise that consumed him. He was left with no peace of mind, forced again into the slave’s trade of performance despite his transcendency. The people made him call down the tremendous musical lightning flashes with abandon, draining his vitality from over-use.
“In the end, many took to the peak of Mount Woodstock to proclaim their music to the heavens in the hope of ending the Crusade. This vibrant concert lasted for days below the listening firmament, and of all the performances James Hendricks was the last. He began at dawn with Message of Love and as he played, stormclouds gathered. Their energies filled his supersonic instrument, and also his body, and his soul. He tore through his well-known Return of the Witch’s Child, and even played a scathing mockery of the anthem of the Order of Knighthood. Yet even these wonders were not enough for the more ravenous of his followers and they continued to demand music from him. More and more when he played he began to abandon melodies written in advance: the music seemed to flow from his soul to his fingers. He stretched too the bounds of stamina as his audience demanded greater feats, until one fateful song that was his last, Mysterious Haze. James Hendricks played on and on, more and more powerfully for the masses, and his music screamed and roared, it sang and summoned, and it was the voice of the dying and the sad and the wonderful and it was all things too beautiful and subtle for speech. He led his sonic child, reared it and boiled it back down into base components, maintaining that perfect melody until the necessary conclusion began to dawn on the enraptured Hendricks… and he was compelled ineluctably to finish it as he knew he must. The bittersweet beauty of the moment caused tears to stream from his knowing eyes as his fingers shone and blazed upon the strings that were no longer a being he felt separate from. Faster and faster he played through his tears until he brought back the final triumphant monoliths that were the notes of his riff, and the final crashing chord — a chord that James Hendricks had invented himself, a chord that only he knew how to play — was endowed with more power than a mortal man could contain. Thus with a starburst concluding his song, the great James Hendricks was consumed in a flare of his own fires and was sacrificed to the will of the masses who adored him. Yea, and that was the final act that sealed ancient London, that sealed too that strange Silver Spring, and that began this Age of Dreams in the Merry Land. That was the sacrifice we had to endure in order to end the Crusade.”
Thus, again, only silence was on the stair apart from the wintery wind and jangling echoes of ascending armor. Feeling for the one who had so long inspired him, the Sparrow Knight in cerulean-and-gold raised his mottled instrument and played a soft song now as they clomb, one full of such notes of mystery that all the knights knew who had composed it once in ages past. And it seemed that there in the ocean of blankness, scenes from the song played out before their very eyes.
O he is walking
Through the clouds
With a circus mind
That runs around.
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams
And fairy tales —
That’s all he ever thinks about —
Riding with the wind…
When I’m sad
He comes to me
With a thousand smiles
And forgets to leave me.
“All is right” he says, “All is right:
Take anything you want from me…
Anything.”
O!
Fly on,
Little Wing.
The knights each lost themselves within the cloud-cover, as they ascended both through it and through their private reminiscences of the harshness of that long-ago Crusade of the damned. So much had changed since the Dark Age, since the gathering at Mount Woodstock, that the past they pondered seemed like another reality. Slowly, slowly, the layer of cloud all about them lost its glow and they surmised that evening was settling in. No further than a handspan could they see on either side of the stairway. Sir Palamander was dismayed that his tale had not enheartened his fellows: though the end was glum, James Hendricks’ sacrifice had helped to transform England to the Merry Land. He had created all that they loved in spite of the terrible cost it took from him. Yet now the knights were dismal. Sir L’angoustier moaned that they should have brought the squires; beds were sorely missed. Lest they fall to arguing there in the clouds, it was decided that they should settle in for another night upon that windy stairway, each tossing and turning upon the harsh rocks. It was either that, or march on and risk dropping from the stairway in exhaustion.
And when sleep grasped him with its light fingers, exhausted Sir Moodye fell into the oddities of another dream.
I am at a great feast, and at this feast, I see the musician James Hendricks. He wears a grin as subtle as the shifting shades of the sky, spread across his cheeks like some seabird’s great wings. His teeth are stars in the night of his face. I approach him at his table and see that he one small loaf of bread laid out before him. I tell him that I am very hungry, and that I would like to partake of some of his bread. He looks at me knowingly, and then there are three slices between us. He asks if I wish to make music with him. I say that I am not sufficiently proficient in any instrument to accompany one as great as he, yet he tells me that my soul will be enough. And so he takes my hand and leads me off through the hills and valleys of a psychedelic sunset.
We ride over jagged hills full of purple dancing flowers spinning like pinwheels and we approach a wise old tree. The tree has eyes of silver and speaks a speech of gold, he stretches his bark and branches producing deep creaking notes to an ancient sad song from days of peace when all trees would sing, and the song twists through the air in strange patterns like hallucinogenic butterflies. We listen to the tree for many verses, many months, many years, then Jimi steps up and begins to play. His notes write colors for the butterflies joined in tessellation, and plays with the tree as if he had known all along the content of the ancient plant’s song. And hearing his notes combined with the tree’s song makes me weep a loud noise of joy from my own unsuspecting mouth, and in coincidence it happens that it is a beautiful singing voice erupting into the audible universe of all the motes and molecules of sound spinning in vast array beyond recreatable memory. And through the noise of our music we are enveloped in swirling colors and a single outline of light in which I can see all of the colors but at the same time appears transparent as if a great film lay across the universe only visible in its distortions, and I know that it means that the light for the color of our band was in the fourth dimension, something human eyes are incapable of rendering in our brains. It is quite a sight.
And in these great vast planes of sound the moon rises slowly and ominously in the monochromatic sky of eyes shifting in immutable ways across the heavens like a creeping snake-skin made of atmosphere. The moon shines with angry dark purple light reaching out sharply with the lightning of the electric waves of the noise of Jimi, and I can not look away for an age.
The night passes in playing, until morning finds me in an emerald field. There are pale pink-barked trees that softly glint rainbow crescents, and in their glimmer I see that all of them are aligned in a great field of blossoms across my vision that slowly blooms in unison. From their bone-colored withering husks come more feathered purple flowers glowing with a thousand shades of the patterns of mystery.
We are mountain-goats; I am a mountain-goat among us. We are climbing this mountain for the flowers upon its zenith — the flowers that shall make us understand. The mountain-goat who makes it to the flower first shall understand. Our rustling halts the calls of birds in the sky, and I am able to feel the sun’s life from another perspective and the emanating energy warms the vein-like crisscrossing inside my climbing legs and
Dawn broke across the stair blowing the tempestuous clouds away, and when the warm sunlight tenderly thawed the chill metal of their armor the dismal travelers all saw that far above them the stairs blended with the peak of the tallest spire rising forlorn and shy away from the rest of the mountain-range. And there, upon the stairway’s apex lay the termination of their climb: a mere spot against the sea of sky, some great stone building… nay, a fortress! Sir Sallimaide was the first to look through his knight’s kaleidoscope and he gratefully confirmed it. All knights breathed sighs, and some few tears were spent. It was truly the dawning of the High Fortress at longest last. The Lobster Knight gave a great whoop, yet nearly lost has balance hand had to be firmly held by the Frog, whose amphibian eyes glared at him most lividly.
Their greedy legs carefully ate up the last of the steps, yet it was not until twilight that they roech the entrance archway. It seemed as if the citadel had been carved directly into the zenith of the mountain, and had many buttresses to support its towers. The only flags that flew high above were tattered and illegible. The last few yards of the staircase tapered to become precariously narrow, only allowing room for one foot in front of the other. It was Sir Sallimaide who cautiously toed ahead while the rest of the knights waited where it was wider.
The nervous Lobster couldn’t help but flex his fidgety mandibles. “And it is the now when am find no person home!” He spat off the top of the world. “Away, away! Back down l’escalier O k-noble k-nights!” This time, the knights ignored him more from fear of his truth than in the spirit of their usual dismissal. Apart, the Knight of the Frog drew a deep hopeful breath before banging his gauntlet against the wood of the double doors. His hollow thuds resounded, and for many moments it seemed as there would be no answer. Yet in the course of time, one tall door swung open and revealed the shadows of the bastion beyond. Standing in the threshold was a pale man whose dark robes fluttered in the mountain’s chill breeze that had frozen all the knights’ armor. From the door flowed warmth and the faint aromas of some unknown incense, rekindling memories of the pungent Silver Spring.
The Frog propped up his glinting visor, proclaimed his gold-and-scarlet standard, and professed “I am Sir Sallimaide, the Knight of the Frog, and these my companions. Far have we travelled, and wide across the Merry Land on a quest from King Bidgood, a pupil of this High Fortress from long ago. That which we seek is the aid of your learned oracles — though we have ascended the entirety of your dread staircase seeking succor and sleep as well, if available.”
With a knowing grin enigmatic as the moon, the feeble cowled man warmly bowed to the Frog and called so all could hear, “Well met, Sir Knights of King Bidgood, and I am called Augnaught. I am a neophyte of this, the Green Gate. We have not received visitors this whole age, not since the Silver Spring fell into sleep and not since this castle was known as the High Fortress. Since this Dreaming Age began we have been able to delve only into reserves of our dried herb, and we have called this place the Green Gate. Yet if you have braved the Silver Spring, does it then follow that our forest wakes? Tell me, Sir. Does the Holy Herb bloom fresh once more? Can our souls be mirrored once again?”
“We found a salmon who woke your wood, and in sooth it more than wakes — the Silver Spring thrives. It is a tangle of mirrored flora and pungent flora and luminescent fauna.”
“Such tidings! The priests shall be beside themselves to hear of it, for we have not harvested our herbs this whole age… and our dried supplies have nearly been exhausted. It shall be good to join again with the fresh herb. You all are much welcome to our hospitality for as long as you desire it, yet it is not for our food and shelter that you have travelled so far. What is the thing you seek?”
“There is an object of power long lost to the hills, and none know where it dwells if the priests of your order do not.”
“Then enter, Sir Knights, enter,” said Augnaught. “What you seek shall be found.”
The rest of the knights teetered on the narrow passage, but eventually all entered to find the citadel in poor lighting though their eyes soon adjusted to the purposeful gloom and warmth. Each knight removed his frosty windswept helmet and held it close to his side. All were nervous at these hushed settings, and still uneasy from the climb. The floors and walls were stone by stone but huge billowing tapestries hung upon them, depicting mysterious scenes of the priesthood’s holy symbol, the distinctive seven-pointed leaf from the Silver Spring. The fortress passageway was lined with meditating ascetics and flaming braziers where blue smoke lithely curled. Sir Moodye breathed in the intoxicating aroma and became entranced by the intricate stained-glass windows on both sides of the hall. One displayed winged creatures of white descending from the clouds and bestowing the vegetable sigil upon reaching hands. Another glass vividly depicted the very Silver Spring as it had been in days of yore, a labyrinth of mirrors. Brilliant windows lined the walls, glowing religious tales long hidden from mortal eyes at the highest location of all. The neophyte led the five knights shufflingly on and into a large chamber where sat a ring of men with their eyes closed, thinking great thoughts on carpets on the stonework. An apparatus of twisting tubes released a thin vapor towards each meditating man, inundating each. Augnaught pointed out two men in cavernous hoods to the outsiders, whispering that they were gas alchemists, and attended to the smoking instrument. The prominent High Priest sat older and wiser than any other in the room, wearing a sable robe and a sable turban, inhaling deeply as the knights arranged themselves before him in their shimmering armors, bowing low in acknowledgment of his knowledge.
Augnaught approached the High Priest and softly announced, “O great seer of visions, I present the Knights of King Bidgood, who arrive here from great peril having awakened our Silver Spring from sleep! They have come seeking a lost artefact, a task from their lord who once lived among us.” The knights bowed lower. The High Priest moved his face away from the tube and sat some moments in silent reflection before expelling the smoky contents of his lungs into the air hazy with wizardry. Smoke serpents lazily danced before dissipating into the scent of the sacred plant.
The High Priest spoke with an old wizened voice full of leather and gravel. “And what assistance did you imagine could be found here, at the Green Gate?” His weary meditative eyes journeyed over all the road-worn wrinkles of each knight’s face.
Sir Sallimaide cleared his frog-like throat and said, “King Bidgood has entrusted us with the acquisition of a mysterious artefact that was known to him as the Wreath of Reincarnation. We have traveled far in the hope that your divinations could attune our senses to its location.”
At this, the High Priest’s wrinkled face twisted into a smirk. “Seek you this Wreath of Reincarnation? A strange sort of king must Bidgood be to send knights in quest of it, yet I have no need to question his intentions if that is the object he desires you find. Small wonder that the Wreath has been lost since before even our whole cosmos’ inception.” The knights looked at one another in confusion, but none held answers. “I shall prepare a searching ceremony,” wheezed the High Priest holding in a cough, “but it shall take a full turn of the moon to prepare. Partake of our hospitality, and of our resources of the Holy Herb, and in thirty-one day’s time we shall impart to you the answers you seek.” And so the knights bowed low in gratitude once again, and when the High Priest resumed smoking they followed Augnaught out the room and down the dim hallway.
The neophyte explained to them that the Green Gate was entirely self-sustaining, and that food and beds would be provided for their stay. As their feeble guide led them about in a tour of the fortress, Sir Moodye was drawn at once to a particular fluttering tapestry that showed a whale placid beneath ocean waters. My own livery is merest coincidence, he remound himself, it was only chance that I discovered these robes, but he could not shake the feeling of kinship he felt with the cetacean woven into the scene. Even if it was random chance over which I never could exert control, I must concede that it has shaped my life. Would a knight by any other animal be themselves? Have I spent too much of this long-winded expedition as an observer? Perhaps I must discover more of myself if I wish to fulfill whatever destiny awaits us. Far away Bidgood said he selected me alone: yet I have been the most dispensable of all these knights. How can I come to prove myself to them? And how can I prove myself… to myself?
When the tour concluded and they were led at last to their rooms, Augnaught sensed the companions’ eagerness to begin settling in to this place and so made to leave.
Yet before he could go, Sir Moodye softly said, “Pardon me… the High Priest made it seem as if we would not be attending our ceremony.”
“I apologize Sir Knight, but only members of the clergy are allowed to attend such a ritual.” Sir Moodye thought for a moment. If I am to fulfill all that King Bidgood intended, I must learn of myself. And if I am to become a true knight as Sir Cambrian intended, I must learn of all religions.
“Is it possible for me to become an… apprentice? Could you teach your ways enough that I might attend the ceremony? As a knight, I have vowed to learn all that I can of what lies beneath the dross of the Cycle.” The other knights regarded Sir Moodye then with a strange curiosity. They had never heard him exert a desire so strongly as long as they had known him.
“Make a neophyte of you?” Augnaught considered. “I suppose there is time enough. A mentor I shall find, and he shall be at your room when it suits him. If you are serious then you must not partake of our Holy Herb until this priest is present, for he shall instruct you in its hidden use.” With that, everyone bowed to everyone else and Augnaught parted ways down the hallway.
There was a group-wide consensus to test the comfort of the beds, and each went to a room of their own, or one that another of the knights had chosen, and then all of them eagerly slipped into a long-sought sleep. All apart from Sir L’angoustier that is, who despite his own fatigue had gone off first to the High Fortress’ feasting places.