*
V
As the weeks became fluttering months it came to pass that those knights bearing the crucified James Jesus Christ arrove at the forests surrounding the Falls of Beth Esda, at the very eastern sea-cliffs of the Merry Land. They rode through whispering trees and eerie bird-song, the path lying like a sliver of serpent skin beside a babbling stream that lilted liquid warblings. Their passage was not simple, for many boughs had fallen to the ground recently as if from some great storm, and their great lumbering elephant had many impediments around which to navigate on the narrow path; vines and capricious leaves brushed against the Christian prophet. Once, where the entire body of an oak crossed the company, they were forced to pull the crucifix down from the elephant so that the noble beast’s fortitude might dislodge the fallen trunk. Yet they made their way steadily on and noon had not long been broken before the way widened, leading the knights to the edge of the forest territory where they saw that they overlooked the roaring falls of holiest Beth Esda.
The river they had so long followed overflowed its boundaries at land’s end, and was split by the ridge into ribbon-like cascades that coldly travelled to meet the sea far below. Its descending deluge crashed upon rocks, spraying the air with particles of mist and the roar of its creation. The dropletted knights rode on, following the precarious path as it snaked down the side of the cliff beneath the curtain of falls.
This well-known landmark had served as King Washing’s memorial since before the coming of the Romans, being the location of his initial enlightenment during the Unknowing Age. When that ancient monarch had tired of ruling the Britain he had united, it is said, he wandered into the undivid wilderness never to be seen again upon mortal soil. According to tradition he drowned himself in a place of placid water, the fabled Pool of Washing, yet that holy location long had been lost. These solitary cliffs that once oversaw his meditations were the only genuine location in England that pilgrims might pay their respects to the unifier of the tribes.
The path the knights rode split when they had descended to sea-level: one way led to a rocky beach on the waters of the ocean, the other way back across the torrents to an open area where a consecrated oak tree roech its gnarled branches towards the firmament.
It was in this field, by this lonesome old tree, that a weathered banner flapped in the feeble breeze: all white but divid into quarters by a bold red cross.
“It seems that we have arriven,” said Sir Intuition as his eyes fell upon the banner. He pointed to it with an unsheathed sword. “This is the sigil of the cross: here shall the other knight and prophet meet with us to exchange pilgrims… and then back to scouring England for this key and this Wreath. Perhaps the new Jesus Christ that we trade for James shall even know something of the way. Let us now assemble our camp for the night.”
“Yet hardly is it evening,” protested the pouting Peacock. “Why must we act like slaves for these foolish crucified men?”
“We needs must prepare for sleep though we shall not sleep so soon. Yea, and it is in poor taste to speak ill of matters of faith.” Turning then towards the raven-wrapped elder Sir Intuition said, “Father, please begin to unpack our things. Squire Un, you must help him.”
The Peacock Knight scowled at the ever-honorable Knight of the Hart, but challenged nothing.
Un slid down the elephant’s wrinkled shoulder and landed catlike upon the soft earth. With his help, argent-and-umber Sir Intuition was able to lift the heavy-laden crucifix once more from the fortitudinous beast, and they affixed it within the soil. Sir Plumesprite had been moodily collecting stones to build a base for the fire, and the daydreaming Sir Moodye holp absentmindedly to set up the tents. The rasping and wheezing Pater Obscurus began to lay the sleeping rolls in order. By the time the camp was prepared, the beginning blush of twilight had fallen.
The Knight of the Hart suggested that they find their way back to the beach they saw, that it might be a good place to relax before the black of night. “There may even be some animal there to catch and eat this evening.”
Sir Plumesprite seemed to brighten moderately at this idea, for he tired of being able to eat nothing but milk and cereal day in and weary day out. So it was that the Hart and the scrawny Whale removed their armors and stretched when they were off, relieved at the levity of their tunics. The haughty Sir Plumesprite however refused to remove his ornate plate-mail, shutting even his visor roughly down, saying that he felt scrutinized in this strange holy place. Since the outskirts of Beth Esda he had been acting more oddly than usual. As he strode toward the beaches in solemnity, Sir Intuition followed supporting the ancient Pater Obscurus with his compassionate strength.
And yet Sir Moodye called after them, saying “Wait! Will you help me to carry the cross of James? Certainly he does not wish to remain here by himself!”
The pretentious Peacock dismissed his plea. “I shall not,” he squawked. “Find Un to help you.”
* * *
Ocean-salt clouds slithered over the encompassing blue glass. The dark sun, blood-like and orange, drew closer to the far off horizon. A row of his brilliant teardrops stained the sea and his rays dyed the sky cerulean and violet. Sir Intuition picked up a thin flat stone from the rocky beach and skipped it past several barnacle-encrusted outcroppings into the encompassing waters. Pater Obscurus had removed everything but his dark bandages and the raven mask upon his face, he lay his pale body mapped with scars down in the surf and whispered to all the little crabs and snails and other tiny life-forms who made their homes in this intermediary plane where the surf slid in never-ending cycles. Sir Plumesprite stood there too, stoically, almost ridiculous in his ornate feathered armor speckled with surf-spray. James’ cross was leaned up against the rocky cliffs, and he stared off as if carrying a conversation with only his eyes between him and the sunset. Humidity roech out with tendricular fingers to caress the driftwood that these travelers were. They did not speak amongst themselves.
The Peacock soon heaved a great sigh, meant to be audible, and he clanked back to their campsite alone intending to prepare weapons for a hunt.
The sun was on the very cusp of the horizon when Sir Intuition gently disturbed Pater Obscurus. They conversed too softly for Sir Moodye to hear, but he saw the Hart gather the dark robes, dry his father and clothe his pale scarred nakedness. Supporting the raven-faced elder with one powerful arm, the two of them also walked slowly back up the path. “Be sure to return before the night grows too long,” said the Hart to the Whale and James as he vanished into the coastal cliffs. “Sir Moodye, guard him well.”
The stones of the beach were cast in purple light by the sunset clouds, and the tide apore mercurial as it sang back and forth eroding the eternal sand. James Jesus Christ faced a radiant jewel as it fell into deep subconscious sleep: the setting sun and the sea. Sir Moodye sat with his empty scabbard digging into the wet grains. Not since leaving King Bidgood’s castle had he attended to the growth of his face, and had so accumulated wisps of black hair. He stroked what was there, silently musing and watching too the drowning sun. When it was gone, he rose and made to undo the rope that bound the prophet’s arm.
“Hold,” said Jesus. “Longer shall I be crucified. Wait for the stars we must.”
“I thought you were free when evening arrove.”
“How can evening be discerned? What if behind a mountain the sun should sink? When three stars shine shall a prophet be released. Once more sit, my friend, for a truth I must impart.” So Sir Moodye sat wordlessly again in the solitude of the beach. Many times did the waves lap at the shore before the bound man spoke again. “That which you have not spoken, I know. What you even are I know, and what you are not I also know.” Sir Moodye tried very hard to not have heard him say what he just had said after all. Instead, he looked out farther than there were things to see and waited out the silence with bad beats flummoxing his heart. “…Yet judge you do I not. What you are not, I know, yet also do I know what in your heart resides. Difficult it is to be human, merry mortal mine.” And Sir Moodye sat there sullenly, feeling the cold ocean breeze blow right through the gaps in his tunic to chill his exposed marrow. “Worry not, O Whale Knight. Faults do you perceive that are not your own. Blameless you are. Only as humans perceive do they understand: objectivity by no one is possessed, save for God Him-and-Herself.”
“That seems a large design flaw,” said Sir Moodye coldly. “What foolish manner of God would limit us like that, bestow so large a suffering upon his creations?” He spoke thus for he was in poor spirits, and sulking, trying to grip the hilt of the sword that was not there.
“A flaw it is not,” winked the one-eyed prophet. “It is the human drama, or one part thereof. Imagine if people worried not, nor suffered. Finished with existence they would be, forever satisfied. An end that would spell for the universe. Productivity’s cessation.”
Sir Moodye sighed. “Much have I heard yet little do I understand your Christian tongue. Do you affect it on purpose? What manner of God can a man hope to follow?”
“Worry not over following, for you yourself can follow yourself. Fear, do not. To you may unfold the secrets of our Cycle.” Thus spake James Jesus Christ with a smirk belying sadness behind his ponderous Christian beard. “All may yet be known by you. Fear, do not. There is no do, or do not. There is only try. And yet, my valiant Whale, our relationship soon shall conclude.”
“Yes. Because of the Cross. You are to be switched to another knight, and we to receive another prophet in your stead. But I may yet seek you out to learn from you again. You have been a kind and a wise teacher to me, and unlike many I have known.”
“Nay, not because of the Cross. In starkest sooth — soon shall betrayal occur. Certain prophetic signs have I witnessed — before the Cross is complete we shall be slain.”
“Slain?! You and I?”
Crucified James shook his head. “Nay, nay, survive shall you. I spoke of the one who is to come after me, the Jesus Christ who would be my replacement. In this cruel world, death is all that we martyrs shall find.”
Sir Moodye rose spitting, “By whom? Some stranger? Surely not by our hands: no knight would betray his brothers on a quest!” Yet James looked away. There were small white crabs that scuttled along the rocks, their shells acting as prisms that glent many colors. The Whale almost whispered, “How certain is your sooth-saying?”
“A full knight you are not,” said James. “Yet ride you with them, as one of them, your sins on masquerade. Your faults by all men are possessed. All men some secrets hide, some faults, some illnesses, some secret hidden lusts. The dark sides of your companions you know not; they know not your own. In all humans does hidden darkness hide. And light too, in every human dwells. In every darkness, light. Understand this you shall, before the end. For in every end, beginning.”
The scrawny Whale Knight hung his head. “It is all my fault,” he said.
“Feel not sorry for yourself. Already passed is the past, and if it delights not you then wary be of your mistakes not yet passed. Everything alright shall be, my friend, and everything shall be alright. And though not officially recognized are you, to heart take my claim that none so bright and pure as the Whale have I yet traveled with. Yea my friend, and even everything shall be alright.”
Together they sat alone then, staring into the swells and ebbs of the water’s edge until they spaye three shining spots of hope stuck in the sky. When his bonds had been broken, the prophet went with sable-and-ivory Sir Moodye back up the path, both helping to drag the great wooden cross behind them. The pretend-knight was able, even through his dismal mood, to pick out more and more stars in the evening albumen above him as the night was brought closer by each of his footsteps. Though not in the mood for more conversation, Sir Moodye was glad to be walking with Jesus. For even though the planted dread grew over his mind, his spirit was comforted by companionship with his sagacious mentor. The pretend-knight was anxious about meeting those with whom they were meant to Cross, yet the burden of the cumbersome crucifix slowed the pair and prevented their arrival. They were so wrapped in their spiritual turbulences over whether or not I truly exist that they even forgot to worry. O, sweet things were on the milky road as the entire galaxy spiraled onwards in this iteration of the Cycle.
In the long cascading fingers of shadows encroaching upon the campsite Sir Intuition called out, “Halt! Who goes there?”
“It is only I, Sir Moodye. And our Jesus is with me.”
“Then well met,” said the Knight of the Hart as they came into the fire-light by King Washing’s oak. “We were beginning to think you had lost your way in the darkness.” When the empty crucifix had been laid beside the exhausted elephant, James went to sit by the fire with the Hart and the Peacock. There was a persisting drone in the campsite that was the echo of roaring waterfalls. Sir Plumesprite, still fully armored, rustled his tail-feathers haughtily and gazed upon the heavily bearded prophet from out of the corners of his helmet slit. He had earlier been hunting in the sparse forests, and had caught a trio of ducks which the squire Un was roasting on spits over the fire. But no sooner had James gotten settled than Sir Intuition gestured out into the sea of blackness. Some tiny star apore to have fallen from heaven and was trying to find its way down the cliffside of the falls. As the twinkling light grew closer to the campsite, Sir Intuition once again intoned into the night “Who goes there?”
A gruff wooly voice echoed from the far-off bouncing lamplight, “It is I! Sir Palamander! The Knight of the Ram, and the Painter of Sendrago! I seek Sir Intuition here with whom I am to Cross. Be you he?”
And the Hart proclaimed, “I am.”
Sir Moodye’s eyes played over the form of the new crucifix approaching through the cloak of shadows cast by the small lantern. When the unfamiliar knight rode into the camp’s light they saw his standard to be of violet-and-argent, bearing a rampant Ram. That Ram Knight, apparently the Painter of Sendrago, rode his own elephant into the ring of illumination. His pale armor glent as he dismounted the great beast and bowed to all. When he removed his sheep’s-horn helm Sir Moodye saw that he was an elderly knight with a mane of white hair and a spiraling beard like pearl-weave. His face was folded with the many wrinkles of a life on the road. The Hart greeted him, shook his hand, and introduced the rest of his companions. Together they untied the new prophet from his cross, and he introduced himself as Isaiah Jesus Christ. All greeted one another and discoursed about the things they had seen in the places they had been before both the Hart and the Ram dropped into prayer with both prophets. In and around them floated incantations in Hebrew: the meaning of the riddle-syllables they chanted was known to no one, only guessed at by the prophets, but thus were the edicts of Christianity in those days of the world.
When at last the prayer was complete and the meat was cooked crispy, squire Un brought a piece to each. Sir Plumesprite was sitting off to the side, away from the immediate fire-light and the feasting that surrounded it. He was staring into the rushing of the sacred falls and beyond them, into his own flummoxed heart. He clenched his own gauntlet over and over, knotting the joints of his fingers in anxious anger. At the approach of Un, he luft his visor and bore a wary face. The Peacock perused the platter of offered meat but when he saw that no drumsticks remained he thrust it violently back at Un, whisper-shouting, “How dare you! You serve these others the most prized cut above your own knight?! What sort of squire are you, Un? You heed some religious fallacy more than your duties to me.” He looked to the dirt where portions of the duck had fallen from the jostled plate.
Noticing this action, a bewildered Hart queried, “How fares your meal, noble Sir Plumesprite?”
“It meets my satisfaction,” was the spat reply. “It is only that Un has foolishly dropped my chicken.” And he grabbed some meat that remained upon the platter of duck that he had caught, and tore a vehement bite as he motioned his squire away.
So the night wore on with the Hart and the Ram trading stories of exploits, and the Peacock sulking. James and Isaiah whispered together in Hebrew, the riddle-tongue, and Sir Moodye ate his meal in silence while contemplating James Jesus Christ’s dreadful prophecy. Can I trust this Sir Palamander? Despite these times of abolished bloodshed, I cannot ignore James’ message. Despite this Ram Knight being a painter and a leader of prophets, I must heed Jesus’ warning. Yet the Ram seems jovial enough, and he is elderly. What can be the answer to this mystery piled upon mysteries? Does God exist? And does he even care? Alas. Perhaps more information shall surface with the rising of the sun.
And Sir Plumesprite sat still at the edge of the camp in half-darkness, grimacing off and away into ominous night. He chewed a warm bone as if disinterested in taste and only eating for the monotony of the sensations of his jaw. And when at last the moon shone bright in the sky, they all pulled up their sleeping bags and fell away into them, all but for the sweating Sir Plumesprite who restlessly tossed and turned and could not sleep.
* * *
I am walking nervously through fiery jungles of the past, charred sticky leaves claw against my face and sides. No sunlight breaches the canopy, I am strangled in the night’s mystery. Nahm is beautiful, yet I know it is encrusted with venemous secrets. Water runs down the enormous leaves. falling in droplets upon me, mingling with my sweat. Which is the droplet that killed King Washing? Where is my blade to cut down Sir Abmasilae? Heat is everywhere. Oppressive. The jungle is the heat. When will the enemy ambush me? Birds and beast both are crying at me with their squawks and grunts and menacing whimpers: the shimmering jewels of this dark place. There is a black whirring bird, gigantic, full of death, born of terror, singing like bending metal above the canopy. Its knowing eyes seek to impale the enemies of England, but not me. Why not? I am not less deserving of death. In a moment the mechanical whir is gone, the deafening wings retreat into the mists of humidity, obscuring leaves, and night. A chorus of insects wash over me like the tide and when it crescendos so does my anxiety. My stomach clenches and shrivels into a tiny afraid knot. I begin to follow the black bird that screams through the sky.
I shove myself through the tangled tearing plant-life as quick as I am able, compelled towards the whirring machinations. The sound becomes a pulsating cacophony that swallows my ears, yet still I pursue it. The instant I think my ears can take no more, the whir vanishes — and the sky comes alive with raining flames to quench the verdant jungle. I run ragged through the uproarious undergrowth, burning along with the native Nahmenese. And I have lost my knight; I murdered myself when I murdered him. The flaming jelly from the sky coats everything in the jungle, even me, and I claw my flesh and shred my clothes.
Seeking shelter from the pain I rush towards an abandoned temple. It is an old stepped pyramid, concealed by the jungle’s tentacles. The more steps I race up, the more humid it becomes until I can feel thunderstorms brewing around me. I finally ascend above the rain of fire.
I examine the detail carved and painted into the stonework as I ascend. There are rivers of symbols, meanings foreign to my eyes, hieroglyphs representing faces and places and animals and loops. The pyramid is crowned with a round chamber, and its entrance looms at me from above. All around it are a great many candles, but they do not illuminate that which lies within. There is a human skull on either side of the gaping door.
I pass through that dark threshold, and its obscurity is complete: I sense nothing. Nothing. But then there is a sudden burst of flame, and the room is lit by the flame sword of the Temple Guardian. His armor is another man’s skeleton sewn with prismatic feathers — he wears it over his own skin dark with tattoos. There is sadness in his eyes. He incants five primordial curses, and swings his hungry blade through me—
Clamor jostled Sir Moodye to wakefulness just before dawn, rousing him abruptly from dream. There was movement in the air, a thickness of imminence and great inevitability. Near the camp where he lay, veiled by the still night, there was wrathful shouting and the panicked trumpeting of elephants like thunder. Sir Moodye was about to dismiss this as fantasy and resume his slumber when sailing above the commotion came an abhorrent moan from Sir Intuition. The Whale sprang from his bedroll and clutched for his sword, only to recall its long descent over the eastern cliffs. Thus unarmed and in only nightclothes he clomb the side of a nearby hill, he fumbled his knight’s kaleidoscope to one eye, and revealed unto himself the gruesome scene.
There stood the three knights, swords all drawn, voices roaring. Hot anger. With blood’s stain upon his pompous gauntlets, the fully-armored violet-and-azure Sir Plumesprite stood opposite the unarmored others. Why has the Peacock already suited? And why are they shouting at such an hour? What is this? O… no… Through the knight’s kaleidoscope Sir Moodye saw the Peacock forcing James Jesus Christ to kneel before him with the edge of a red naked blade. Visible too was their toppled guest, Isaiah Jesus Christ, freshly slain. Blood from the prophet ran out into the thirsty earth, and the newly-woken Whale’s wide eyes darted confused and concerned from one distant face the next. In some ways, his reality seemed very dream-like for him. He was unsure if he was truly awake as he tried to piece the situation together. He crept forward into earshot as stealthily as he could manage.
He heard the elderly Knight of the Ram cry out, “There is blood on your hands, ignoble Peacock! Foul creature! You shall fall by the righteousness of my hand!” Yet he was stopped in his tracks by Sir Plumesprite’s blade upon James’ exposed neck. “Release your hostage,” he bleat, “and fight us with chivalry! And die with honor.”
Yet Sir Plumesprite scoffed, “I shall do no such thing, old man. Aged weakling, brittle fool! Your ways cannot be mine, I know that now. When I was a pupil of Christianity, they told me I was but a learner… yet I have realized that I am the master! For too long have I worn this armor as a cage, protecting those I could instead control! Let the blood of these two holy men be the seal upon my new destiny! I disavow all goodness that heretofore I have striven for! I am superior to all others, and I shall prove it now!”
James Jesus Christ was at peace and unshaken by these most foul events. There was a thin trickle of blood running from his neck where the ragged edge of the Peacock’s blade lay in wait. With his clear eye the prophet looked up to his executioner and softly rebuked, “Renounce not your faith, O knight, for once you start down this dark path, forever shall it dominate your destiny. Yea, and consume you it will. Hollow will your victory be — for if stricken down am I, all the more powerfull I shall become.”
“No,” spake Sir Plumesprite, “you shall but die.” And with a fearsome grimace upon his face, he plunged his razor between the pious prophet’s neck and ribcage.
“No!” cried the Whale rising to his feet, but it didn’t help. The blood was copious, and it flowed from James’ pale body mingling with the other prophet’s dark humor already seeping into the ground. For innumerable moments, it seemed to Sir Moodye as if the entire world was made of stillness as the cruel waves of understanding broke upon his brain. James Jesus Christ was gone; no more would he speak his wisdom, never would he be vague or mystifying again. And nor would he laugh and nor would he cry, nor grow irritated nor weary. This man, this mentor, had been returned to mere mute flesh, inanimate and unable to know.
The Whale’s legs gave out, and as his knees sunk into the soft grass a cry of anguish escaped his lips. The Ram and the Hart both turned their heads to look, and in that moment of distraction Sir Plumesprite scrambled atop one of the elephants, the same that carried Sir Intuition’s supplies, and snapped his reigns vigorously. Un ran to his knight, yelling, pleading, standing in his way, begging his master to stop and not to flee. He begged to not be abandoned here, yet Sir Plumesprite did nothing to slow the elephant nor did he bother to steer it aside. And so it was that Un was crushed into a sickly pulp by the blameless beast. And in the commotion too, the Ram’s elephant escaped his bindings and tore off trumpeting fearfully into the English countryside. Only stunned silence remained behind.
Sir Intuition snapped out of his trance and roared, “Ho! To the giraffes! After that pompous villain!” And he stumbled over the great wooden crosses in blind haste to reach their mounts.
Yet the aged Knight of the Ram quietly said, “I fear it is of no use, Sir Intuition. That elephant has more stamina in him than our giraffes posses, and he has already set off with a mighty charge.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” wailed Sir Moodye, rushing down the hill to join them. His eyes were dewy with shock and the mist of disbelief.
“We must rally and pursue!” yelled Sir Intuition hoarsely. “Let us not stand here idle! I shall flay the murderous cur one thousand times!”
But painterly Sir Palamander lay his hands on Sir Intuition and brought the knights together. “Know yourselves, O knights, though I know it tears your insides. We never can catch him, though know that he shall not remain unpunished. There is no escaping the world’s cyclical justice.”
“But I wish it to be my justice!” lamented the Hart once more. He was about to give chase in spite of all when, somehow, ghostly words on the wind gave him pause:
“Stay, Hart, stay,” said the dead Jesus Christ.
Puzzlement wracked his cervid features and in vain he swept his searching eyes all about, yet his gaze then caught upon the silhouette of Pater Obscurus standing there raven-wrapped in the halfway winds before the ravished bodies. He was apparently weeping despite his stoic raven’s face — for his belabored breaths were manic and uncontrollable as if the bloody scene had recalled an ancient trauma. The raven-masked elder weakly stumbled over to join the trio of knights, and was received into his strong son’s shaking embrace. The Knight of the Hart, with great sobs of grief and defeat in his voice, moaned, “It is true then. We can do no more. We have only to bury the bodies of these now nobly dead.”