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The Wreath of Reincarnation
a novel by alexander klein
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dedicated to the aspect of our universe named Jeffrey Savett
without whose efforts my awareness of language would never have existed
nor would this novel, nor myself as i have known me.
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PROLOGVS
* * *
si qui forte mearvm ineptiarvm
lectores eritis manvsqve vestras
non horrebitis admovere nobis.
*
In all the tangled countryside of the island of ancient Britain, no man was more enigmatic to his peers — mostly mud covered peasants worn and used to working their sickles into the blonde waving grain lengths for sustenance — than the solemn scrawny form of the soot-haired stranger who tilled soil silently surrounded by an ocean of mist. Among these southern fields nearly none of the native farmers had chanced a conversation with him in all his time laboring there, for when the sun at last slunk behind the mountains every evening to rest and the night-time permeated the sky with its cloak, the mysterious youth always seemed to vanish into the ever-present fog: footstep by footstep back to the hovel he had been granted as a dwelling place by the Lord Beverly who owned these fields. Yet the pale stranger ran rampant in their stories. About the tavern he was known as a disheveled wanderer arriven from the exotic war-torn lands far, O, far away to the east. He had murdered his wife and child in a fit of jealous rage, they said. He had stolen the finest steed in all those jungled lands, they said, and when he heard the devil whisper in his ear as he so often did, the poor animal met her end as well… or so they said. Thus when the serfs slipped away tipsy into the night every night, any dark noise beside the road became that stranger lying in wait — having finally cracked once more and bid by devils, they assumed, to boil all their blood. Yet they never said anything to him. There was even less chance to converse during the day, for strict punishments were laid on those who attended not their precious crop. Though food was not yet in short supply, the remaining farms were few and far between in that age of ancient England. Throughout the previous age many farms had been abandoned or put to flame during the long years of bloodshed in the east, but Lord Beverly had spent personal fortune defending these fertile acres and he refused to let laziness interfere with the duty his God had given him.
Farms such as this dim southern landscape, following that ugly Crusade’s cessation, were the last remaining places in the newly-christened ‘Merry Land’ where it could be said that people truly suffered. Though farmers worked the uncompromising soil to provide the realm with sustenance they were able to receive but little in recompense, for one unfortunate lesson of the Dark Age was that those who did the work of peasants were unmentionable and beneath even the common englishman. So it was that many farms across the land had become derelict and left a greater task for those remaining, along with stricter rations and philosophies. So it was that at the farms of Beverly, any airy fantasies the other men held about this outsider were defeated in power by the tangiblest sorts of tortures their masters could muster.
Yet verily, some of their suspicions rang true: the stranger had come recently from the war-torn east, but now was returned home to England, to the Merry Land, from struggling in her own bleak Crusade. He was war-weary and wounded at heart, seeking to live some time in peaceful solitude from his violent memories as a squire. When he had deserted England’s armies, abandoning their senseless slaughter, he took up also a heavy burden upon his soul. The noble knight he squired, his only friend on that apocalyptic battlefield, had been eviscerated in the jungle by a trap insidiously hidden by the enemy. All the youth’s mettle was lost in those dark places. He had shed tears for his lost knight, his lost dream of knighthood, and he found that his soul’s deepest faith in the God of the Church had failed him. From those perilous eastern jungles clanging with rains of fire he deserted back to his country’s farmlands hungry for the drudge of mindless work, to be reclusive from the speech of others and alone in his secret shame, leaving only silence between his lips and the ears of the farmers.
Long has been this stranger’s sleep, even bridging the transition from the Dark Age into the Age of Dreams… yet slowly he began to awaken and to perceive with lucidity the entirety of his illusory reality.
That morning, the illumination of the sun was unable to penetrate through layers of thick mist that loomed over the fields like curtains, having drifted in from the cold southern coast. Under that sustaining orb’s gaze, the fog served only to brighten into opaque whiteness about the toiling outsider. He had nearly finished roughing his field into rows, one of many fields to be tilled before the communal mid-day break.
Spindle-limbed and bare-faced, he was alone in his own personal bubble of light with companionship manifesting only as the long wooden rake he used to agitate the soil. In this thick mist he could only see as far as the edge of the field he was responsible for where the thin road bordered it, but even were this not so, even had he been among proud crowds — shoulder to shoulder in mess with the stench and perfume of wastrels and noble-creatures and the pressures of close living conditions in and out of doors — he would have found his mind operating in much the same way. He was frequently alone in thought, though lost never he was. He wandered therefore within the personal bubble of light in his own head-chambers, far inside the sight-constricting mist that hung stagnant for miles in every direction, just as the island of Britain was sequestered away by encompassing oceans of obfuscation.
The soot-haired outsider kept himself entertained in his thoughtless work by daydreaming, passing unconscious time unknowingly. Visions of vague valorous deeds, of enchanting maidens and the impossible day he might finally achieve knighthood, unburdened him from disheartening thoughts of the bloody Crusade and his own disheartening circumstances. Not only have I failed my noble Sir Abmasilae, he thought, whom I was sworn to guide. Not only was that aged knight cut down in the jungles by camouflaged natives, his blood to mingle with hidden rivers — not that horror only! Alas my guilt, for the entire offense upon that cursed country of Nahm was a blemish in the history of our once-fair England. It was an unjust war, he mourned for the three-thousandth time. The evangelizing Church and the Order of Knighthood waged that damning Crusade together from on high, serving no gain but the gain of death. The only faith I had now lies shattered within my heart. Only in powerless hindsight does it seem as if the Church instructed me to wage war on the very God we worshipped. Alas! Woe! Misery! Of what worth now have I? The stranger sighed deeply in the mist.
Some black shape fluttered in from an indistinct portion of the sky, folding wings and landing near the stranger. The bird absentmindedly considered a nearby seed before plucking it from the earth in her beak, all the while keeping her dark jewel-like eyes fixed on the laboring youth.
“Hello little crow,” said the stranger pausing in his work a moment, leaning against his farm utensil. “Where have you come from and what was it you saw there?”
She replied “Caw,” and with a rustle her slick night-colored form soared into the hungry fog above.
The newly tilled rows in the field stretched out around the youth like the serene ocean ever-lapping at Britain’s coast, though it was dull work to be performed. He saw that he had turned the earth of all but a few remaining rows when he heard ba'da'da'dum, ba'da'da'dum, ba'da'da'dum: a drumming softly in the air like a signal. It called to him continuously from far away but growing closer, it awakened something on the edge of his memory, he took heed and blindly sought to remember something important that he had forgotten. Ba'da'da'dum, ba'da'da'dum, ba'da'da'dum; the shrill coastal wind was almost an accompanying flute. Turning his ear to the left, to the bordering road, he peered out into the mists as if he would be able to part them with the sheer force of the will of his eyeballs as he tried to find the source of the approaching galloping. Rarely was this route used by solitary riders, so his unease was reasonable as he heard the pounding of hooves on the bare path. His curiosity decided to take this opportunity for him to rest in his labors a short while, and he stood there catching his breath as the rider approached.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment felt only the softest sensations of air passing in between his nostrils as he breathed in and then out, slowly becoming aware of the gentle fingers of the breeze that brushed at his face and gave life to his dark mane. He yawned with blind awakening. Standing silently until the sound of hooves was too close to ignore, he heard the clank of armor indicating that this exalted rider was no mundane laborer, and certainly not from these farms of Beverly. Perhaps not from this part of England at all. Yet when the youth parted his eyelids there was nothing there: the mist was still lord of his sight.
First there was only a grey shape serving as the source of the raucous galloping, but slowly manifested as a muddy brownish yellow figure and could then be seen as a knight and his lanky legged mount riding from the west, the mist at last allowing them to separate into two distinct entities in detail. This knight’s brilliant armor was now apparent, as were his flowing robes of gold-and-scarlet. He carried with him a tall and gleaming dueling lance whose worn handle rested swaggeringly upon his left stirrup. The other end, the ornamented metallic tip of the weapon, held the knight’s waving standard of gold-and-scarlet and bore the heraldic insignia of the Frog. This was the knight’s sigil, and was repeated in patterns on his robes and on the dressings of his mount. The steed’s far-seeing eyes, towering above, looked down at the bewildered youth with the strangest flickers of understanding until she and her rider slowed to a mere trot, eventually arriving at edge of the field before the pale stranger’s very feet.
Visor down, the Knight of the Frog laboriously dismounted his tall yellow steed and with the most modest of flourishes began to speak in a deep but comforting voice that rang from his helm. “Hail and well met,” he croaked, “for I am Sir Sallimaide.” He luft his visor, letting loose the sight of his full orange beard and the long longitude lines on his face, giving them access to the open air. He had eyes that were kind like the soft blue paleness of the moon in innocent times — though they now were staring at the laborer with a strange concentration. The gold-and-scarlet Sir Sallimaide patted his mount’s shoulder, and she lowered her serpentine neck until her ear was even with her rider’s lips. The Frog Knight whispered a few whistling words into her ear before the giraffe’s adorned head drew back to its full height. She licked her lips with a sinuous purple tongue, and Sir Sallimaide spake, “I have come for you, Sir Moodye, drab though you may be dressed.”
A hint of recognition and confusion flashed in the pale youth’s pale eyes before he bowed and softly said, “I am very sorry, noble Sir Sallimaide, but I doubt you shall find him out here in Lord Beverly’s fields. If he is a knight, then he is probably off doing great things, just as you must be.” If only I was such a knight as he seeks, he thought. I am no Sir Moodye, yet I once hoped to bear that name in honest knighthood. I once yearned to be Sir Moodye, yet I am not he.
And there was a pause then during which neither of the men spoke but let happen only the noise of the breeze breathing deeply in the fields between them.
Sir Sallimaide broke the silence. “…I have come to take you, Sir Moodye, to the castle of King Bidgood. He is to bestow a quest upon us — a modest congregation of knights — and he has asked for you by name to join us. How far I rode in search of you… for what reason would you not wish to join us?”
The stranger grew tense. Is this some trap? Though I am not yet knighted, that would have been my name! How I once wished to be Sir, and a Moodye for my mother’s sake. So how shall I respond? Shall I call myself a knight? It makes no difference I suppose, for I can not go with him. My place is here alone, mourning poor silver-bearded Sir Abmasilae in the mist. He was kind, and acted like a father to me… how can I abandon the mourning of his memory? Whatever I say to this Frog Knight shall only serve to send him back to his pond. Why not call myself a knight for the duration of this meager acquaintance? He must not linger in this place, for I wish to suffer alone and in silence.
And so the youth lied, “Very well, you have found me. I am he, Sir Moodye... the honest knight. I do not know why you have come or how it was that you found me yet, alas, I cannot go with you. At this moment I am a farmer under care of the Lord Beverly. Am I to so suddenly abandon my position here? Are these lands to go unfarmed? Who will feed our sorrowful island? Sally forth, Sir Sallimaide. Seek some worthier knight and leave me to leave myself where I will.”
But Sir Sallimaide only laughed. “The position of serf is not yours, good sir knight! It is your privilege to go where you will and your Lord will certainly not reprimand one so noble under charge of Bidgood, King of Dreams. Come with me Sir Moodye! Share of my steed and of my tales! Deny King Bidgood if you wish, but you cannot deny me. Sorrowful England is no more, verily must we dwell in a Merry Land of our own making!”
“Hold fast to your own opinions, O Knight of the Frog, for I know that the Church and the Council of Knighthood betrayed us, however it came to pass. Therefore, curse that war and all the hellish eastern jungles of Nahm! All the misery, what was it for? We should never have ventured forth from our island.”
“Come now, young knight. You speak as if you have dwelt for too long and too deep in pits of acrimony. Those dark days have now ended, and the wounds are beginning to heal at last. Join me, Sir Moodye, and give the Merry Land the chance to prove that she is worth preserving.”
“No, no! I care not! I care…” the pale stranger inhaled another breath of coastal breeze and tasted the scents of the strange hiding-places scattered across beloved Britain. There is much that I have never seen… yet I must remain! What is the use of atonement if I only decide I have redeemed myself? I must preserve the story of valiant Sir Abmasilae, I must keep him close to my heart! And yet… how would that old man benefit more: if I toil and waste away or if I do quest out among the common populace? Could it be that this quest from the king is truly a request from on high? Alas that my faith in God has died. And yet double alas, for in a way I have already accepted this quest. Surely the real Sir Moodye would go with him at this point, for Sir Sallimaide is but the messenger. Must I refuse this royal quest in person? What is the use in atonement? Were I in sooth the man I pretend to be, I would go with this Frog Knight. And so it came to pass that despite his trepidation, there was nothing that soot-haired Sir Moodye could do but shrug and fling his plough-rake into Lord Beverly’s field where it blended with the color of the hotly tilled earth. He shook Sir Sallimaide’s extended hand, the plated gauntlet soothingly cool against the pretend-knight’s bare work-worn flesh. When the Frog Knight had mounted his graceful steed, a flutter of anxiety crossed Sir Moodye’s stomach. It seemed to him that to ride this animal would be to enter again the revered world of knighthood, even though he had no intention to stay overly long with the Frog or his king. With a quaver in his voice Sir Moodye remarked, “Not since the Crusade have I ridden giraffe-back.”
“Yea, and I understand. Woe that I am a veteran myself; I too lost much in that grim jungle. A true blessing upon England was the Summit of Peace, and I thank God that all bloodshed was thereafter abolished.” So Sir Sallimaide smiled in his orange beard and took the pretend-knight’s hand, pulling him to rest upon the saddle of the graceful tawny and yellow giraffe.
Standing high in his saddle and clinging to his steed’s neck, gold-and-scarlet Sir Sallimaide peered through his knight’s kaleidoscope and located King Bidgood’s castle on the distant horizon — barely visible to the unaided eye. Once his kaleidoscope was slipped away he settled back into the saddle, took up the reins, patted his giraffe on her neck, and with the whisper of a command word to her they were off: galloping swiftly past the hovels and farmlands on either side, past the reach of the tales of the mistrustful farmers, past the life of labor, work, and toil, and off into the mist-obscured reaches of that island whose concluded Dark Age had been reincarnated into the Dreaming Age of the Merry Land.
* * *
And onwards the two of them rode, quickly propelled by the giraffe’s lanky legs blurring with the speed of their errand. Sir Moodye pondered his predicament as they rode past the orange-lit hovels of Beverly’s farmers and into the mists beyond: he was worried about the uncovering of his deception, as certainly it must come to light when they arrove at the castle to meet the other truer knights. And O, the king! he thought as hills sped by. Surely one so wise as he shall see through my charade. Yet then how can it be that he summoned me by name? Had Sir Sallimaide meant to acquire a different person? Speaking loudly to be heard over the galloping giraffe, Sir Moodye asked, “How is it, Sir, that you were able to locate me? And how were you so certain of my identity?”
The older knight smiled a hidden smile beneath his helm. He replied, “It was not an easy task! For you were not dressed like a knight when I met you, and you are far younger than I would have expected — perhaps even younger than my squire! Yea, and it was a task to find you, Sir Moodye, yet as a child I verily was blessed by a saint whom I had comforted. He then bestowed upon me a certain special gift that may seem strange when first I divulge it. In sooth, I am able to speak with animals of all sorts.”
“Hah!” burst Sir Moodye in mirth for the first time in many phases of the moon. “And so can I speak with animals of all sorts, Sir Sallimaide, yet they simply ignore me and go about their business!”
“You jest but understand me well: thanks to the blessing of that passing saint I do possess a second speech. This is why I consulted my steed before speaking to you, and how I began our gallop without a firm kick.”
“Yet how did this mysterious linguistic ability aid in my discovery?”
Between the giraffe’s hoofbeats Sir Sallimaide explained, “In my search, I found a crow on the wing who was familiar with a man of the unerring description I received from the King of Dreams to whose castle we ride. Though you may never have met him, the sorcerous King Bidgood has read your very soul. So it was that the crow located you and led me to where you tended Lord Beverly’s farms. And my lovely steed Corwindel spaye you from far off with her eyes. You must have heard that King Bidgood with his alchemist’s ways has a mysterious power to find lost and hidden things such as yourself. Yet verily… your spiteful reaction to the summons has me curious. Tell me Sir Moodye, was your desire for simple farming work a reaction to your experiences in the Crusade?”
And Sir Moodye answered only “Yea,” and Sir Sallimaide understood enough that he did not inquire further.
The travelers continued to ride until eventually the mists washed aside and rolling green hills in the distance could be seen. A black spot at the height of one of the hills was their destination: the castle of the great King Bidgood, monarch of southern Britain and seer of visions. After the Dark Age collapsed along with the Church, the old Order of Knighthood, and all London itself, rulership of England was now upheld chiefly by Bidgood’s wisdom alone. It was said that this monarch of the Dreaming Age was perhaps the wisest of any ruler this island had known since the ancient King Washing united their tribes. Bidgood had been a disciple of northern mystics in his youth, and he purportedly spent his reign searching for ever greater insight — according to tales of his renown, he kept within his castle a magic bath hall and spent much of his time submerged in the prophetic waters housed therein.
Sir Moodye breathed deeply of the finally fogless air, and its purity filled his lungs as refreshingly as the grass that covered the hills was green. As they neared the castle itself, faint notes of music hovered in the gently moving air. They were the notes of a lyre that echoed from one of the hills ahead, and as they approached the source a young knight’s angelic voice was heard singing an ode once famous for protesting the Crusade.
O! I know that evening’s empire
Has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand yet still not sleeping;
My weariness amazes me
For I’m branded on my feet
And I have no-one to meet
On the ancient empty path too dead for dreaming;
Take me on a trip
Upon your magic swirling ship:
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel the grip
My toes too numb to step,
Wait only for my boot-heels to be wandering;
I’m ready to go anywhere
I’m ready now to fade
Among my own parade,
Cast your dancing-spell my way
And I promise to go under it.
So take me, disappearing,
Through the smoke-rings of your mind
Down the foggy ruins of time
Far past the frozen leaves
The haunted frightened trees
Out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow;
O! To dance beneath this diamond sky
Waving one hand free
Silhouetted by the sea
Circled by this Cycle’s sands
With all memory and fate
Driven deep beneath the waves;
Let me forget about today until to-morrow…
Just as Sir Sallimaide and Sir Moodye came over the crest of the hill, the final notes of the lyre had begun to die, and they viewed the youth in silver armor sitting atop a tree stump — eyes closed in silent meditation with the humming instrument cradled in his arms. By the embroidery upon his heraldic robes they knew him as the Knight of the Sparrow, and his livery was of cerulean-and-gold.
Sir Sallimaide slowed his steed to stop before the minstrel knight still in post-song bliss when his eyes opened slowly. Lights of recognition lit across them and the rest of his face as gold-and-scarlet Sir Sallimaide dismounted and walked towards the singer with joy in his beard. Sir Moodye studied the musician. He was slight, fair of face, and without helm had smooth brown hair that flowed nearly to his polished pauldrons. Most strikingly, he apore to have two small black star tattoos falling vertically beneath his left eye.
“Sir Elisa,” cried Sir Sallimaide, “it has been too long!” The Sparrow Knight stood, slid his hand into Sir Sallimaide’s waiting gauntlet, and they clapped one another behind their breastplates.
With a lilting voice the Sparrow Knight spake, “Likewise, Sir Sallimaide. It is good to see you.”
“I had not heard your melodies in so long, yet this one echoed in the valley and roech our ears some time ago. It is good to know that King Bidgood has summoned you as well.” When the Frog’s eye caught Sir Elisa’s glance at Sir Moodye, he croaked, “Ah, but of course! Sir Moodye, this is Sir Elisa, a musician of fair fame in parts of the Merry Land, recently knighted!”
Unsure of the correct response and feeling out of place lacking knightly vestments of his own, Sir Moodye said only “It is good to be with you,” and he shook the offered gauntlet.
“A pleasure, Sir Moodye.” said cerulean-and-gold Sir Elisa, bowing. “I assume that the pair of you were on your way to the castle, then? Let us stroll together, for the day is as beautiful as they come, and though I know nothing of the quest on which we shall soon embark, I fear days so beautiful shall be as scarce as the scent of wild flowers in winter.”
“Let us enjoy today, and see how we fare in the wild Merry Land,” said Sir Sallimaide with a hearty laugh. He left the pair for a moment and again patted his steed’s shoulder. The long slender neck bent down to his ear, and Sir Sallimaide whispered to her.
“What a wonder!” marveled Sir Elisa, half to Sir Moodye and half to himself. The pretend-knight wholeheartedly agreed with the half directed at him as the noble beast heeded the whispered words and galloped off in the direction of the castle, leaving the three to walk the remainder of the distance at their leisure.
They strolled onward, over the last few tall-grassed hills of the countryside, sun proudly shining all about them and reflecting from the armor of the two knights so adorned. They spoke of things both relevant and fleeting, but though it seemed to be a blessing for Sir Moodye that he wore only farmer’s rags — both Sir Elisa and Sir Sallimaide had rivers of sweat that flowed across their skin — it was not long before the Sparrow Knight questioned him about his suspicious lack of knightly accoutrements.
Nervously improvising, Sir Moodye said, “I returned to the Merry Land before the end of the Crusades, having found my soul disgusted with the realities of violence. When I left, I left too my armor and weapons behind. I have been a farmer the long years since then.” At least I speak mostly sooth, thought the pretend-knight. The main reason he fled had truly been his distaste for violence and the nonsense of slaughter, Sir Abmasilae’s slaughter had merely been the grand catalyst.
“I do not doubt that good King Bidgood has an armory at his disposal, but surely you did not leave behind your symbolic robes?”
“Of course not,” lied the youth thinking quickly but immediately regretting it. “That is to say, O, it has been many years since I have worn them. I shall garb myself as befits my rank once we reach the castle, if I decide to undertake the King’s endeavor.”
* * *
King Bidgood’s castle rose white and pristine from the grassy hill: a great wall, tall and smooth surrounded the towering turrets that were capped with dancing flags. When the three knights arrove, the drawbridge was down over the moat for they were not unannounced guests. Passing through the outer wall, the knights found that between them and the palace was a growth of well-groomed grass and homes: a nearly bustling village. There the milling lowborn folk lived honestly, unknowing. Their lives are so admirable, compared to ours. It seems as if they have nothing to worry about but their labor. Returning to the farm will be a good thing for me. I look forward to resuming my honest toil.
There were minimal guards, and no one contested the arrival of such nobly-clad gentlemen. When the three came into the cool dark entrance hallway of the palace they were met by the celebratory chatter of two unfamiliar knights who stood there, as well as two men who were clearly not knights by their garments: a black-robed elder in a raven mask and a purple-robed mystic with blue tattoos. Sir Sallimaide and Sir Elisa greeted the two knights and joined in their cheerful banter as soon as they arrove, while Sir Moodye inspected the two men in robes. The one wearing purple was of indeterminate age, pale beneath his turban, and with blue tattoos encircling every inch of his flesh that could be seen — including a blue eye tattooed on each cheek beneath his true orbs of sight. Whereas this turbaned mystic keenly observed the greetings of the knights, the withered man in bandages and midnight robes seemed nearly immobile and unaware, his face was obscured entirely by a blank-faced wooden mask of avian features. Is he even conscious? wondered the pretend-knight of the raven-masked man in black.
After the many knightly salutations ceased, gold-and-scarlet Sir Sallimaide announced, “Noble knights, may I present to you he whom I have travelled far to discover and add last of all to our worthy cause: here is the sought-after Sir Moodye.”
There was some cheering, loudest of all was a mustachioed knight who banged merrily on his shield of argent-and-umber. “Greetings, Sir Moodye! I am Sir Intuition, the Knight of the Hart, and I must say that I look forward to sharing this quest with you.” He was gracious and wore bulky steel armor covered with robes also of argent-and-umber. He wore not his helm now and had an angular lightly freckled face; when he grinned his powerful mustache curled like the horns of a indignant water buffalo.
“I thank you, Sir Intuition,” said Sir Moodye timidly. “But I do not know if, indeed, I shall be accompanying your group at all.”
At this, the unmet Knight of the Peacock shoved in front of the Hart to chide, “What is this? Verily, it was my understanding that we were to venture out together.” As he gesticulated, his violet-and-azure robe rippled and distorted the woven pattern of heraldic peacocks. “Do you mean to say, O Knight of the Beggar’s Rags, that you intend to tarry behind? What use then is your presence here, yea, and why have you even come?” This Peacock Knight’s armor was delicately carved and painted with intricate interlacing vines and leaves and other organic designs. Atop his helm he bore two large and flamboyant feathers, one for each of the colors of his violet-and-azure livery. The visor was a pointed beak below the eye slits, and was currently raised and revealing the haughtiness of his face. His skin was pale and creamy, sharp, and flowing blonde waves curled in ringlets about his piercing glance.
The pretend-knight shrunk back speechless, yet he felt the anxious eyes on him of all the other knights he had met so recently. He stammered, “I…” What shall I say? “…It was during the Crusade that I abandoned my knighthood,” he finally spat, forced to spread his twist of the truth further to suit his falsehood. “I have been living among peasants since then. I am no longer worthy of questing with such dignified men.” He glanced sideways out of his ashamed eyes and wished he had a knightly helm to conceal his face beneath.
“Indeed?” said the Knight of the Peacock. “It is certainly an explaination of your attire, though I attributed that folly to your age. Yet what can you mean? You have ‘abandoned your knighthood?’ Such a notion is notoriously absurd!”
A nervous reply nearly leaked from Sir Moodye but before the words could be assembled, the Frog Knight interjected, “There is no reason for this interrogation, Sir Plumesprite! We are all friends here! And Sir Moodye is not yet convinced: he may accompany us regardless of his current feelings. And if not then that is his choice. Let us meet with the king before we become overly hasty.”
“His choice is inane,” retorted Sir Plumesprite of the Peacock.
The musician Sir Elisa shook his head and wore a grin so slight that any wheeled cart would have remained stationary on its slope. He said, “Truly, Sir Plumesprite? It seems to me as if you have never come across a person who disagreed with you.”
“O Hufflepuff!” swore the highborn Peacock. “Hufflepuff to all of you!” and he turned and clanked off into the palace’s elsewheres. Sir Elisa began to chuckle, and after mere moments the others joined in.
And when the jest had ended, argent-and-umber Sir Intuition stroked his mustache saying, “I hope that you are able to excuse his brashness. He is very proud of his knighthood, and set in his faith. Yet fear not, when we depart to-morrow and the spirit of adventure enters him I believe his fervor shall become a great asset though I have known him but brief.”
It was then that the tattooed man spoke. “Are we not missing someone? I had thought we would be riding with six knights, yet by my count we have only five.” He held his palm to them, where a blue kraken had been inscribed with searching tentacles that ran up his fingers.
To that turbaned mystic Sir Intuition replied, “This is true. I had heard the same, though I know nothing of this other knight or aught of his whereabouts. Truth be told, we are missing an additional other as well — though the one I speak of is not a knight. A prophet of the Christian faith I know, by the name of James Jesus Christ. He is currently engaged in his sermon in the courtyard; I am to escort him to the holy falls of Beth Esda. When we cross paths with one who will meet us there, James shall continue his pilgrimage and I shall rendezvous with the main company once again.”
“How noble of you,” acknowledged the Frog Knight. “Shall your Christian prophet be joining us for the feast tonight?”
“Forsooth, at dusk he is allowed down from his crucifix, and I believe he shall sup with us. Though, prophets do not eat much.”
“He will be a fool to miss to miss the feast,” smiled the melodious Sparrow Knight.
“O. Is there to be a feast?” asked Sir Moodye. Not only was he starved from inadequate farm rations, but he wished to appear friendly and dissolve the notion that he was argumentative — despite Sir Plumesprite having begun the dispute that still rang sore in the pretend-knight’s mind.
“A feast indeed!” laughed Sir Intuition, clapping his hand to Sir Moodye’s shoulder. “The King of Dreams has prepared a noble feast for us all, at which we shall discuss the nature of our quest. And it is a good thing too, for I am anxious to know what sort of journey we ride to. My valor has never yet failed against the misplaced might of my foes!”
“And perhaps the strange absent knight will make an appearance before the night is through,” suggested cerulean-and-gold Sir Elisa.
The knights continued to converse for a time until a servant dressed in white came from deeper within the castle and told them it was not necessary to congregate here, in the entrance hall. “His Majesty King Bidgood has granted full rein of the castle to each of you in the mean time before supper. He is deeply regrets to inform you that he is busy until that time.”
“Regret nothing,” replied Sir Intuition, twirling his mustache. “The King has passing proved his generosity.”
The servant curtseyed and said, “For anyone who wishes to retire until then, a room has been prepared for each of you in which you shall find clean clothes and soap should you have need.”
Sir Sallimaide and Sir Elisa went off to explore the castle, and along with them swope the mysterious tattooed man. Sir Intuition went over to the bench and spoke softly to the immobile elder in raven robes and bandages, whispering too low for Sir Moodye to decipher. From the labor of that black-wrapped man’s movement, the pretend-knight could see how his old bones ached beneath his strange vestments. When Sir Intuition holp the wheezing elder to his feet and told the guide that they wished to be shown their room, Sir Moodye timidly piped up to accompany them.
He followed after them, pondering hard. He had been absent from these sorts of knightly affairs for such a long while that he found the whole experience exhilarant with nostalgia. All of these knights seem so interesting, perhaps it would not be folly to ride with them. Alas, but no knightly robe have I! My deception is plain as day, or plainer. There was a nagging voice near the back of his head reminding him only of the miserable moments he spent squiring elderly Sir Abmasilae on quests that seemed so similar to this one. Yet in entirety I believe it best for me to resume my work at the Beverly Farms, he second-thought once more with an errant sigh in his heart.
“The quiet Sir Moodye… so young to be a knight,” remarked Sir Intuition as they ascended a spiraling stair. He had his armored arm around the masked elder, assisting his feeble unseeing form with the steep climb. “You have not even roech your second century, have you?”
Carefully considering his response the pretend-knight replied, “From my quiet childhood I wished to be a knight, Sir. As soon as the Order would have me, I became a squire.” No falsehoods there at least.
“You must tell me sooth — was that during the Crusade?”
“It was.”
This quieted them both, but forthwith the Knight of the Hart said, “I was at the Summit of Peace, you know. Both of us, my father and I. And yet, I suppose you were unaware, Sir Moodye, that this,” he gestured to the frail black-wrapped man, “is my father, Pater Obscurus. He is eras old, alas, and can no longer can speak.”
“I am… fain to meet you,” said the soot-haired youth with a bow, but Pater Obscurus responded only with a heavy wheeze and a belabored nod. It seemed that every movement this raven-masked man made caused him to suck in deep rasps of breath.
“He has been unable to speak for many ages,” said Sir Intuition, “Since before even I knew him. It seems that only I can interpret his desires, thus does he follow by my side wheresoever I am bound. He is better than a squire, despite his frailty and silence.”
“He shall be riding with us, then?”
“Indeed. Yet let my mind not wander — I was relating that both he and I were present at the Summit of Peace atop Mount Woodstock! Yea, and if you were not there you have never heard anything alike to the songs that England’s bravest minstrels played, or how the blessed Master Musician sacrificed himself to end that ugly Holy War once and for all. O I shall never forget the way he played the song which reconsecrated Britain into the Merry Land… nor that he gave himself up to save us all.”
“I wish I could have been there,” said Sir Moodye.
As it was, Bidgood’s servant guid them to a corridor of the palace with a row of oaken doors on either side. They walked a short ways until the servant removed a ring of heavy iron keys from some obscured pocket. When he had presented the chambers to the knights, the servant vanished with a silent bow.
As Sir Moodye slipped into his room he heard Sir Intuition say, “We would do well to have your company on our mission, Sir Moodye. I hope you shall consider that.”
“At least I shall ponder it,” said the pretend-knight, wishing he truly could attend to this quest. “Yet I shall see the both of you at supper without fail.”
“At supper,” echoed the Hart half-cordially, and all three bowed and retired to their chambers.
Sir Moodye pushed the door closed and was greeted by the sight of a comfortably furnished room of crimson silks and of dark brown woods. The bed was large and plump-looking, the canopy embroidered with scenes of glorified battles and hunts. Now that I have come and seen the castle and the knights, O how I wish to quest with them! In hindsight, the farms seem so dull now that I have tasted an appetizer of adventure! But I cannot continue this flimsy charade any longer: back to the plough-rake I must go. I know that even small deeds that noble knights scoff at are beyond my meager means. I know not how to affect action as a true hero would.
Forlorn was the young pretend-knight, and a room so lavish only made him feel more unclean. He went to the sturdy armoire and opened each shelf in turn, searching for some towel or wash-cloth with which he might soak up the sweat and grime of his brief journey. His disappointment only grew as drawer after drawer proved empty. His heart was at its lowest position in his chest when he came to the final one. What am I even doing? It is certain to be empty as well. I should slip out now, before dinner, and evade all their questions. If I return to the farms tonight on foot I might even finish my day’s work before I sleep. But his hands pulled open the last drawer and what his eyes saw caused his heart to skip a beat and hang the moment perfect as if in amber until his mind regained fully his senses.
There, in the very last drawer, was a miracle in the neatly folded form of worn and seemingly abandoned knight’s robes and livery. It was unthinkable that a knight would leave his own behind once they had been sewn for him. Even so, as he unfolded these robes he saw that they were of darkest sable and most brilliant argent, bearing in heraldic patterns the sigil of the Whale. Who could have left these here? Certainly a strange animal to be knighted under, yet this is my chance! With these adornments, shall I embark on Bidgood’s noble quest? Should I? The great dread of choice came over him deep in the pit of his stomach. It is not too late to return to the Beverly Farms. Perhaps I am getting myself in too deep. I cannot act like a hero, I lack the skill to make great movements that historians remember and poets narrate! And I posess no knighly knowledge — what if I prove a hindrance to them? Or far worse, what if my falsehoods should be discovered on the way?
He stood there, torn, considering, until, with a profound exhale, the pretend-knight fell face first into the mattress that was so uncomfortably comfortable that he collapsed into a sleepless rest of worry until the evening arrove. The incomprehensible scenes of a waking dream was his only indication that he’d slept: he saw two priests slain by another’s pride, he placed a seven-pointed leaf upon his tongue, and he grew old alone within a seashell. He pondered the meaning in these meaningless scenes, yet soon grew so restless that he forced himself to stand and began to ready himself for the feast and — with a nervous determination — for the unknown quest.
Sir Moodye washed with soft soap, a luxury not oft afforded peasants of the fields, and tidied himself up as best he knew how. He left his ragged clothes behind in favor of a fresh tunic and leggings over which he loving donned the heraldic robes of sable-and-ivory. They were far from crisp, but symbolized nothing less than salvation to the newly-christened Knight of the Whale. He ran his fingers over a day’s stubble and peered into the bronze mirror. Satisfied that he seemed a doer of noble deeds, he slipped out of his rebirthing room and wandered down the palace corridor.
In searching for the banquet hall Sir Moodye passed many fineries and beautiful tapestries which he gazed into, seeking solace from doubt in their detail. Though he was enthused at escaping his life of drear, the pretend-knight doubted he would be accepted among his new companions and insecurity rushed within the hole of his own false knighthood. The robes felt obviously unaccustomed to him. Not like second skin that they should be. These would have looked best on solemn Sir Abmasilae, he thought. Yet both determination and desire propelled him through the torchlit castle corridors and finally to a great open hall where a giant table lay, set with many places though lacking food as of yet. The room was abandoned and even the torches upon the walls were out, the only illumination being the strands of twilight that slunk in through narrow window slits. The table was ornately carved and polished, its four columns were the shape of reptilian legs that all clutched orbs against the stone floor of the chamber. Sir Moodye was drawn in by the tapestries depicting myriad mythic tales, and he made to interpret them by the slowly lessening light of day. Here was a scene from days when England was one forest united under King Washing, and there an account of the revered Knight of the Salmon, founder of Knighthood.
He had not perused long when a white-gowned serving girl apore bearing a woven basket of fruits. “O,” she said when she spotted the knight. “You are early, Sir, but I shall fetch the king for you.” And, oblivious to Sir Moodye’s stuttering protest, she lay her basket upon the table and disapore again. The pretend-knight stood small in the vast dark hall awkwardly wishing against company — and certainly none as intimidating as the king himself — yet he took courage from his whale patterened garments and felt cetaceanously unwilling to prove rude and abandon the host who was undoubtably imminent.
And then, dispelling the darkness and woe, in walked the good King Bidgood, unmistakable with his vibrant crown and tremendous beard. Sir Moodye bowed low. The king had a kindly old wrinkled face though much of it was obscured by the long locks of his flowing grey hair and beard streaked with white in some places and even, in stripes from ages long since past when the elderly king had been much much younger, dark grey and black. He was dripping with wet, yet wore a flowing bath-towel about his waist.
With his powerful voice he intoned, “Be you he? Yea, and I can sense that you are.” His bright blue eyes fixed on the pretend-knight. “Come sit with me, O Sir Moodye of sable-and-ivory.” The monarch settled into an ornate chair at the head of the table and motioned the pretend-knight over to him. Sir Moodye felt the king’s gaze tangibly and he knew that no secrets could be hid from those piercing eyes. If this wise man can see me as I am, why still does he address me as ‘Sir?’ He pulled up the chair closest to the king, at the corner of the table near the developing puddle, and sat. “Welcome to my halls,” continued Bidgood cordially. “I trust that you have found your chamber in a pleasant state?”
“O. Most certainly.”
“Then I am glad. And not only glad in that, but I am glad to have you here as well, on this quest.”
And it was then that Sir Moodye began to panic from drowning in his ocean of overwhelming incomprehension, and he sighed “Alas, and curse my tongue — but I do not understand, O Great King Bidgood! I was called here by Sir Sallimaide, who informed me that your task required my assistance — yet I have met the other knights here and none are so useless as I. What good can I do? Why have I been chosen?” And in saying so, Sir Moodye was afraid, for perhaps this outburst had confessed his lie, perhaps the knight that King Bidgood expected would not say such things.
Yet the King of Dreams merely replied, “Sirrah, I understand your anxieties. Yet you must understand this: all of the others I summoned for this quest after I heard tales of their deeds. Recountings of their bravery, or courage, or skill came to me from the farthest corners of England, yet not so for you. You alone amongst them are tale-less and unmentioned. I never had heard of you, and you were the most difficult to find. Even still I do not know you as well as I would like. Yet you, in spite of proven deeds, you are the most critical of these selected knights.” Sir Moodye was mystified. “Despite being king I also am unsure in my life, as are we all in this mysterious Cycle. I can only act with what small information I am able to glean from the wide strange world, though I hope to extend my understandings further still by way of this quest. All those well-sung knights I gathered in order to escort you to the goal. It is possible that I have chosen some unwisely, but not you. Do you not recall that it was you yourself who apore to me, as if in a vision? A dream I thought I saw, though perhaps it was real. A haze, a product of my far-seeing baths, he was your twin though grown years older. That older you introduced himself to me, and bestowed upon me the notion of this quest, imparting wisdoms of the desirous object I send you all out to recover. Frown not, I do not expect more from you than that which you have the possibility to achieve. Spirit-vision works in mysterious ways. Yet I am certain that — in all sooth — you shall do great things, and become great. Doubt not the Monarch of Imagination.” And King Bidgood smiled then at Sir Moodye, and for the first time since Sir Sallimaide came to him in the mist of the fields did he begin to feel hope at becoming an integral part of this endeavor. He was about to reply to this sensational account when the king called out into the room “And welcome to you as well, Sir Plumesprite! When the others arrive we shall begin the feast, but please, come sit with us now and we may talk and share tales until that time arrives.”
The Knight of the Peacock stood in the doorway, surveying the empty room. “Nay, King Bidgood,” said he at last. “For I hunger but for food. When it arrives so too shall I, but I think I will wander the castle more until the time to eat has come.” And, flashing his boastful tail-feathers their way, he departed. The king shrugged to Sir Moodye.
Mere moments later other figures apore at the entrance to the feasting hall: those of Sir Intuition and his mummified father Pater Obscurus. King Bidgood boomed his welcome, as arrove next the knights Sir Sallimaide and Sir Elisa, all dressed no more in armor but in festive tunics and heraldic robes. All three knights bowed deeply to King Bidgood. And he said “It seems as if the congregation has begun! Shall I set in motion our events?”
* * *
The great fireplace and torches now blazed all about the altar-like table, covered as it was with an impressive feast that had taken many turns of the moon to cultivate. There were three platters of chicken, each cooked in a different sauce. There were bowls of fresh fish: herring, sardines, salmon… there were plates of swan and plates of goose and of goat and sheep and boar — and all were arranged around the crisply steaming carcass of a once-great bovine that formed the centerpiece of the banquet. And even though the meat was plentiful it rapidly disapore into the mouths of those attending: great was their hunger. All supped with great abandon save for Sir Sallimaide who, as was his habit, partook of no flesh.
The knights had gathered by the head of the table where the king sat upon his throne-like chair, still regal in only his bath-towel, and Sir Moodye sat in the corner spot at his side. The Peacock had arriven just as the bovine was been hefted in by four servants, and had taken from the still-moving platter a large chunk of the meat before it even had been set down. He noticed not nor cared about the disapproving eyes that fell on his violet-and-azure livery.
Each knight’s squire too had been sent for and now sat at the feast: there was Sir Sallimaide’s squire Hadely, Sir Elisa’s squire Frontal, and Sir Plumesprite’s squire Un. They mingled among themselves and the other serving folk, making bawdy jests and relishing the fine food. Sir Moodye noted the attendance of the purple-robed tattooed man though he sat farther away — turbaned now and off by himself. Sir Intuition clapped the pretend-knight on the shoulder at one point between bites of fowl and drew the younger man’s attention to the prophet James Jesus Christ: a frail one-eyed man of bushy brown hair and beard, pale and nearly naked, sitting at the end of the table opposite the king. For one so inelegantly adorned, he held himself with a posture as noble and wizened as that of the resplendent monarch.
The serfs and servants made quite a presence in the hall as well, accounting for the majority of the revelers. They had been granted this day as a holiday, and though they did keep all the used plates off of the table and all of the glasses full, each had time to sit and enjoy whatever food they wished before returning to their servile lives. The talk about the feast was merry and colorful, and flew about the room like prismatic streamers that lit briefly on each perch they found to support the lightness of their weight.
But when little more than half of the food had vanished into the stomachs of the revelers the King of Dreams had a bell loudly sounded, stood to his full height, and called to the whole hall, “Welcome to all, to each of your souls, with many thanks for heeding my summons. I call upon valiant ones to quest out into the wilds of the Merry Land, to seek an object of power lost to time. As much as I know that it shall be a trying endeavor requiring the utmost from each of your wiles, I know too that you shall be successful. Yet before I discuss the details of your quest, let me first introduce each of you noble knights, that all may hear of your deeds and glories.
“I call in the first place upon the noble Knight of the Hart: Sir Intuition, whose tales of selfless courage and bravery roech me from distant lands.”
And Sir Intuition in argent-and-umber rose from his chair and bowed deeply to copious applause before setting back down to stroke his mustachios jubilantly.
“In the second place I call upon Sir Sallimaide, the Knight of the Frog, whose kinship with all the animals of our realm is uncanny and invaluable!”
And Sir Sallimaide in gold-and-scarlet rose then, and bowed.
“In the third place there is Sir Elisa, the Sparrow Knight, whose skill with the lyre is unparalleled, and whose melodies soothe and mend the darkest of woes.”
And Sir Elisa in cerulean-and-gold stood and bowed.
“In the fourth, there is Sir Plumesprite, the Knight of the Peacock, whose valor and wrath in the face of unquenchable odds makes him a knight to be feared and reckoned with.”
And Sir Plumesprite in violet-and-azure stood and formally bowed in true aristocratic fashion.
Then it was that King Bidgood smiled at Sir Moodye and winked. “The fifth of our knights comes to me by neither coincidence nor mistake, and he is the observer, the learner, Sir Moodye: the Knight of the Whale!”
Sir Moodye in his sable-and-ivory rose, taking an awkward bow before sitting quickly, nervous from the undue attention.
“Now it is with some sorrow that I report that our sixth cavalier has not yet arriven; the mighty Knight of the Manta-Ray. Tales of his combat prowess roech me from Germantowne to the west. His abscence makes me sad.”
And Sir Wander-Gogh rose then in umber-and-vert, bowing deep.
“He shall be well missed,” continued the King, “yet there is one other who shall accompany these noble knights though not a knight himself. A wise man well-versed in hidden powers, he hails from covens of the Lost Land of Whales — he is the mystic Hesaid Isee!”
And standing and bowing to all was the strange turbaned mystic in purple robes, tattooed with blue patterns head to toe. His eyes were sly as serpents. With a flourish of his hands, seven ethereal doves sprung forth and soared away, dissipating through the feasting hall.
When the mirth and applause had died down, King Bidgood took on a more solemn tone and boomed, “Now shall we come to the heart of it all. My powers of vision, which I rely upon, have been decreasing as this Dreaming Age wears on. Therefore do I send you to seek an artefact said to transform the faculties of he who wears it, increasing lore, insight and knowledge, and alerting him to the true nature of the universe. The object I send you out to recover is mentioned in only the most aged of scrolls; the most circular of texts. It is said that the wearer will attain that mystery the ancient scholars termed ‘enlightenment,’ and shall bring about the rebirth of our world. This object is a crown of golden renown, even more fantastical than my kingly adornment. You seek the artefact known to some as the Wreath of Reincarnation. Though perhaps prolific in its own era, it has not been seen upon the island of Britain for countless ages. It has evaporated almost entirely into myth, and yet I can swear in sooth that it exists: it was a man from my dreams who implored me to obtain it. This wizard from beyond time foretold to me that unless we recovered the Wreath of Reincarnation, our very Cycle would disintegrate into chaotic stasis.”
“Such an artefact may exist,” interrupted haughty Sir Plumesprite, “but if none know the whereabouts of this Wreath, as you call it, how can we be expected to recover it? Are we to wander aimless until the point of its discovery, or our death from old age? For I still have some centuries remaining in me.”
King Bidgood shook his noble head, and his grey locks flowed like waterfalls. “I know of a place,” his voice thundered on the mountain-range of their hearts, “a citadels that lies secluded above even the loftiest clouds, at the very highest pinnacle of the northern peaks. It is known as the High Fortress, a bastion of wisdom run by a priesthood that deifies knowledge in all forms. I studied there in my youth, and if this erudite brotherhood is unable to direct you to this most holy of head-dresses, then I fear it is lost to us, and to our whole world. If it is lost, then I believe that we too are lost. You will have to find your way to the northern mountains and then through strange paths to a particular summit. Many have been lost for days within the forests surrounding those peaks only to finally find that the singular path they had been following led only back to the same spot from which they entered. That entrance is known as the Silver Spring, and the hidden stair up to the High Fortress is somewhere within. It is difficult terrain, this I know, yet I trust you valiant knights to find your way there and back again. To travel to those far reaches, you must take the low road to-morrow, through the moorlands for a ways. That is the most direct route north from these lands.”
Argent-and-umber Sir Intuition then said quizically, “Yet your moors, my liege, are a part of those vasty swamplands surrounding our ancient capital. Are we to begin our quest, no doubt already filled with peril, through this most perilous of terrains? That city was sealed for a reason.”
“Rest your fears, O Knight of the Hart, for this road passes through only the very smallest finger of London’s wasteland. As long as your company errs not from the path, you shall find yourselves on safe ground before long. Rest all your fears, for I prophecy that no great harm shall befall you on your journey to the Silver Spring.” King Bidgood raised his glass to the table, and all present performed likewise. “A toast to you, O finest of adventurers! I wish you all the well that can be carried, and leave for myself only the hope of your victory. Take with you also the memories of this feast, for when at last you return, worn and weary from the road, victoriously bearing that triumphant laurel upon your brow, another such holy day shall I arrange for you! Fare you well O gallant souls!” And the toast was drunk to much cheer. Slight Sir Elisa was called upon, and when the cheers died enough, his lithe fingers played across his lyre. The song Sir Elisa chose was well known, written during the harsh Crusade, a spiritual protest against the waste of life — a drop of water in the yearning tide that reformed old England into the Merry Land. The Sparrow Knight sang:
When the moon is in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace shall guide the planets
And love shall steer the stars.
This is the dawning of the
Age of Aquarius
Age of Aquarius
Age of Aquarius.
Harmony and understanding
With sympathy and trust abounding,
No more falsehoods or derisions
Only living dreams and visions,
Mystic crystal revelations
And our minds’ true liberation.
Aquarius,
Aquarius!
Let the sun shine,
Let the sunshine in,
O let it shine,
O let it shine.
And the merrymaking shone far into the night until, when all had consumed their fill, the servants began to clear the table. King Bidgood wished a pleasant sleep to all before the hardships of their quest, and said, “I retire now to soak in my baths, and any who wish to forego sleep but a while longer is invited to join me there. This is no ordinary bath, but a chance to cleanse yourself before journeying, to clear your mind and experience the road within before you experience the laborious road without.” So it was that many left for their chambers, yet three did not.
* * *
The royal bath hall was constructed from pure while marble, and adorned with tall scalloped columns and lifelike sculptures of pristine humans. At the center of the room was a tremendous rectangular pool filled with a translucent green liquid from which rose sweet-smelling vapors. Being so late, all of the knights had opted to retire to their rooms save Sir Moodye, who had been curious to see the famed baths of King Bidgood. He was joined only by the tattooed Hesaid Isee and the king himself, who already had settled into the green water with a tremendous sigh. His long grey hair radiated from him like a blooming lotus as he sat upon the submerged bench and lay his old arms along the pool’s marble lip.
Hesaid was the next to disrobe, exposing for the first time his entire map-like tattoo structure, stars and rivers and landmarks, and he hung his purple garment on the outstretched arm of a nearby statue. Then he too slunk almost up to his turban in the water with a contented breath.
“Enter, Sir Moodye,” said mystic Hesaid, “For the bath is quite warm.” So the young knight removed his sable-and-ivory robes and leggings, leaving them folded on a marble bench. He was beginning to feel a strange sleepy wakefulness creep over his senses, which he blamed on the hour and the thickness of the ubiquitous steam. Slipping into the pool with barely a ripple, he instantly felt the supremely soothing tides of heat flow into his chilled muscles, unwrapping their knots and buoying his heart-felt anxieties. He sank down to the sunken bench and leaned the back of his head upon the outer rim of the tub. With closed eyes, the gentle lapping of the water upon naked flesh was the only sensation he noticed, and it began to spread all about him as he felt himself becoming one with the water. The glints upon its surface grew into lines, all lit and intersecting like the branches of many spiderwebs on tangled trees rippling in the wind, and the green of the bath seemed to darken like the sun setting in the sky until at last it is night-time when the two strangers meet. The one on the right wears a golden crown that absorbs light, and his companion wears a purple turban. The man with the crown prattles in a backwards language about subjects of seeming nonsense that contain bitter truths. The man in the purple hat listens. When Crown asks at last a question, Turban gains a glint in his eyes and offers his answer hungrily, as if drowning and seeking to return to land. Hats ripple upon the seat of knowledge. His eyes shimmer like a rippling pool of water. I ripple the pool.
Sir Moodye became aware slowly that parallel to his illusion he was still seated in the steaming water of King Bidgood’s bath. Yet it seemed a world away, an unfamiliar cloud of absolutes foreign to his unfettered mind. He stared at the undulating rhythms of the water as he became self-conscious, remembering the two others with whom he shared the bath. He glanced their way, but in doing so felt as if he had given himself away. Both his companions turned towards him simultaneously.
The many-eyed face of the mystic split apart with flowing words that slithered towards the bathing knight. With a thousand voices, “How do you feel, Sir Moodye?” said Hesaid Isee.
Sir Moodye… “Sir Moodye”… such a noble name for such an ignoble I. I am no Whale Knight, why did I tell the lie? Absentmindedly he began to reply, “I… feel very…” yet the appropriate words escaped him and he sunk his lips instead below the surface to blow a quiet sequence of bubbles. The notion ballooned until it became too complex to describe, and he decided that a response was better left unattempted. But in a sudden moment he noticed that all other conversation had ceased and that both Crowned Bidgood and Turbaned Hesaid gazed into him. The pretend-knight began to sweat under their leers and berate himself for acting so strangely around those with whom he was indebted. So far gone from myself am I… the more exotic dishes from the feast must not have agreed with me… I hope Hesaid and the king do not notice these many failures of mine. Am I a knight? Or mere mortal? I thought I knew what I was… and yet what is my nature? Not a nature worthy of heroism, that’s a certainty. Whispers and smirks were shared by Crown and Turban, and suddenly Sir Moodye among them was afraid for his very life. I knew it, he worried. These men have discovered my lie, and are offended! They know I am no knight and they know of my failures in dreaded Nahm. I have accidentally poisoned the Cycle of life, and now they will drown me here! He felt ill, and sad that his existence so full of uncertainty would be sliced short before anything resembling answers manifested themselves.
“Sir Moodye?” questioned the mystic, interrupting the knight from his tangents. Hesaid’s confusing face fluttered like a flag in the vapor as he said “O Knight of the Whale, do you fare well? Do you know the nature of this bathing hall?”
Sir Moodye’s heart sank: here was the confession. Here came the villain’s monologue, revealing the entire treachery.
The Dream King was the first to gloat. “These royal baths were specially made,” he said, “and this is no mere water you bathe in. Sorry am I that this was unclear. I assumed you understood. That was rude of me. My alchemists studied long to concoct this prophetic solution: when heated, the vapors produce strong hallucinogenic effects. This is the oddity in your emotions and sight, and for your ignorance of it I am sorry. You are safe, Sir Moodye, and all unpleasantness is but in your mind. If the magic of the baths should become too intolerable, all you need do is exit these halls. When your lungs have cleared of this steam, the clarity of your thoughts shall resume. Henceforth, fear nothing. Let the Cycle flow through you unimpeded.”
Upon hearing the king’s words, Sir Moodye went through several expressions of confusion and understanding before letting out an agonized “O” of relief, vowing to relax and enjoy the effects instead of struggling against them. My confusion has made me anxious over nothing, he decided. Only I can direct my mind to happiness or anxiety. King Bidgood’s majestic words had soothed him, and brought his thoughts full-circle back to the quest he would undertake on the morrow. To find the Wreath… for what is in a hat? What is this artefact: how shall it look and what does it do? Alas that my world is a world of questions. Turban talks, and Crown listens. More questions are asked, and more answers given. What am I observing? What is special about asking and answering questions? If I wear the Wreath upon my brow, shall I understand? As the pair converses in their varied head-dresses, a golden change blooms from the king’s ornate crown. It transforms and reaches outwards, billowing up and inflating! Organic decorations grow upon it more and more fanciful as Turban answers questions. Many purple explanations he enunciates. These entities discuss diverse topics — mostly magical technicalities of the many meanings of ‘reincarnation’ — until he who had once been Crown is supplemented with a head-dress more regal. Wherefore do I see these visions? What does a head-dress signify? What are my questions, and what can I remember? I am bloodied by the Crusade, broken and stained for not realizing it… and now I am creeping fearful through the jungles of Nahm once more forever, and Sir Abmasilae is yelling my name, yelling that he is dying, yelling that is it all alright because our world revolves in a Cycle. “Now I can see you — truly be you.” Those words he spake before dying. The phrase haunts my mind. “Now I can see you — truly be you.” No man could equal the respect I felt for poor Sir Abmasilae, yet I can neither move nor act, I can only observe. I am terrified, hiding from stealthy Nahmenese natives in the branches of an alien tree: either it is night or I am covered with warm blood again… My crown chokes me and my mentor is dead with a turban atop his bleeding temple… am I dead too? Do I drown, or do I wake? Can I see him — really be him? Wind-roaring chariots of flying black metal fall screaming from the heavens and ignite the predatory jungle. Then there is nothing. Still nothing. A breath being held. And then
The night was late, far later than Sir Moodye had expected to be awake when he returned to himself finally and pulled his dreaming body from the intoxicating waters. He realized he was the last to leave the bath-halls but for a servant, for the others had generously not wanted to disturb his reverie when they had had enough thinking for the night. The baths have off-balanced me, he thought, yet somehow I have found a strange new balance for myself. To prove that I still live — that I did not die in the jungle — I must become worthy of my undeserved knighthood. I must learn not to hide in inaction. I must become reincarnated — whatever that should mean. I shall prove on this journey that I posses the same skills as these noble-creatures, and that I am not diminished by my shames of the past. I must strive to become as valiant as Sir Abmasilae… there is no other way forward for me now. And at the end of all, mayhaps through my pretending, I shall really rise from the filth that I am into the knight that I might be. And so, with his head humming the vibrations of the stars and visions of hats and wreathes and fiery Nahm still coiling about the outside edges of the spheres of his eyes, he dried himself and gathered his clothes, navigating his way through the various chambers and walks and spiraling staircases until he found his room, slipped underneath the lavish covers, and disapore.