*
VIII
They rode along the sullen cliffs in silence. Beyond the stony edge, all they were able to see was the great shifting mass of mist that rose from the rocky beaches where the ocean worshipped the land in eternal cycles of bowing, far below. The mood of the mist was inside all three of them ever since the lives of James and Isaiah had been lost, and within the travellers a faithless mistrust had begun to take root.
Sir Intuition was himself the most grieved. Though once he would have relished riding at their band’s forefront, his double-mounted giraffe currently lagged behind Sir Moodye and the elderly Sir Palamander. That Knight of the Hart clutched his black-wrapped father close to his breastplate as he rode behind the pack with his naked face open to the currents of sea breezes, hanging lonesome. In the clenched eye of his mind, solemn unchanging faces of those two long-gone prophets revolved about his brainstem like golden halos sweeping back and forth in perpetual pendulum. For the disheartened Knight of the Hart, even the happiest cawing gull riding on whatever thermals he was able to find was no more majestic than a ravenous scavenger who sought to placate his empty belly. For him, the murder of both Jesus Christs implied a wayward and chaotic universe, in which anything could happen and that therefore nothing mattered. The jostles of his giraffe as he rode were as the tugs of invisible puppet-strings connected to the plainest parts of his figure and compelled him towards some joy perhaps, but mostly an emerging pattern of pain and disappointment. Even his mustache grown long these past months of ceaseless questing was uninteresting to the fingers that unfeelingly grasped the reins but once were so enamored of the smoothness of the golden brown length of his lip hair that they had been unable to keep from caressing it.
And what of the betrayer? Perhaps the remembered violet-and-azure feathers at the peak of his helm — bouncing absurdly when he rode — had prevented the Hart from taking his abrasive and warlike tendencies seriously. Or perhaps the Peacock’s haughty sensibilities had offended the Hart. A full-antlered stag can appear as the radiating king of the forest when his noble stature is great, but there is only a sort of stumbling awkwardness and an over-fascination with appearance present in the flamboyant stroll of an admittedly prismatic peacock. To Sir Intuition, that bird represented a man overly concerned with his own presentation regardless of the well-being of others. Images of his swordplay with the innocnet Whale flashed in his mind. What did it mean? And yet he knew that none of these musings made a difference now. The confident march adopted long ago by the Hart had steeled him to follow what he knew best regardless of the outcome, and now he felt that too terrible a cost had been collected for this unconscious behavior.
So it was that his head continued to hang damp and weighed down, full of gloomy things as they all approached a pale wooden cabin on stilts slowly coming into view through the expansive tendrils of fog.
In spite of his failing painter’s eyes, the elderly Sir Palamander was ahead by a slight margin and was the first to see the structure. He and Sir Moodye had been traveling in awkward silence for some time now, having extinguished their dialogue many miles ago when the falls had still been visible. Sir Moodye, sore and confused, had asked the much older knight if he had been a Crusader.
Yet the Ram’s response was no answer: “I have been sworn to the utmost secrecy,” he had bitterly brayed, “and have vowed never to utter one word in regard to that vicious slaughter.”
Since that terse insistence not one of the trio had spoken, and their black-wrapped fourth was incapable of speech. In sooth the Whale had been pondering parallel to the Hart for their entire solemn march so far, wondering, What good is a God who allows those most devout to him to suffer so? What good are rituals and ancient scriptures if they possess no power to alleviate sadness? The pretend-knight thought, I am weary of the world, and I have not even borne the barest drop of grief compared to those who have drowned in sorrowful floods. Yea and I, O worthless I, why should I be spared where the truly pious have fallen? In a realm with such a God as the one who watches our suffering, mayhaps we would be better off within our graves and unable to understand sorrow. Is there worth in these experiences, is there worth in breathing life when everything inhaled is poison? And the Whale Knight grit his teeth and tugged at the dark growth of his chin. The lonely ocean roared, hungry for companionship.
Yet when that wooden and lonely and plain lookout-cabin apore through the sea mist, the Knight of the Ram sheared the bastion of his woolen silence. “What sort of person would wish to live out here?” he said, violet-and-argent robes flapping in the sea-breeze.
“Perhaps it is a hermit,” suggested Sir Moodye softly. He had always been fond of hermits: seclusion had been the purpose of his labor at the Beverly Farms. Was it wise even for me to have left that place? Verily this fault is all mine own: what God could support a villainous liar like me?
The Ram bleat, “I hope he does not mind our brief intrusion. In the wake of the Peacock’s destruction it would do us well for to acquire fresh supplies.”
When they came up to the shack, the knights dismounted and stretched from prolonged giraffe-back riding. Sir Palamander and Sir Moodye started for the ladder, but Sir Intuition remarked that he wished to stay behind with his father and watch the steeds. He seemed in too sullen a mood to deal with strangers, so the Whale and the Ram nodded their agreement.
Up close to the cabin, Sir Moodye saw that the wood was old and worn, eroded by the constant salt breeze. Each rung squealed and whone as he put the weight of his greaves upon it. When the two knights had roech the landing Sir Palamander knocked firmly on the flimsy wooden door.
“Who are you? Go away!”
“I am Sir Palamander, the Knight of the Ram and the Painter of Sendrago. I and my companions would stop a while and rest, and perhaps have something to eat if if aught can be provided. Time but little shall we remain, for our quest is most pressing.”
Sir Moodye grimaced within his helm, embarrassed that perhaps the Ram spoke too boldly.
The voice from inside sobbed, “Nay! I’ve nothing here for you! Begone, you nosey knights!” It had been difficult to tell before but now both knights distinctly heard that the hermit’s voice was strained and twisted in anguish.
The Ram Knight said, “Is everything well with you, sirrah? If you are hurt, we can aid you. May we enter your abode? There are but two of us.”
“Nay!” the man cried unseen. “Depart; begone!” An object crashed against the inside of the door and broke.
Seemingly wounded by the object thrown in anguish, Sir Palamander luft his visor to reveal his silver eyebrows crossed in concern. He called, “By the oaths I have taken as a knight, I hereby offer you help of any kind I can provide. Please! In what manner do you suffer?”
There was no response for a while, until both the Whale and the Ram began to hear prolonged weeping from within.
So it was that that blessed Painter of Sendrago, in a voice as hoary and withered as his beard, said, “All is all alright, my dearest brother. You are frightened because life itself is terrifying. It is unpredictable. Due to the nature of our world uncertainty follows us, haunts us, and as men we shall never depart the vagueries of our own minds. Fear of the future is identical to and as natural as our fear of darkness, fear of death, fear of all unknowing. All mankind’s fears, verily, are one.”
Yet the muffled hermit scoffed and spat, “Why should I fear the nothings you mention? Those mere ideas? My fear has already arriven! Ill fortunes and ill misdeeds are upon me like two packs of wolves! Since that time, ever since that loathsome war… every moment that I envision of the future I only see misery. Yea, and even if these miseries never occur, I am anxious still from the thought of them! My mind is foreign to me and pushes me from the roof of my hounding demise.”
What woe is upon him, thought Sir Moodye almost broken to tears behind his cetaceanous visor. What woe is upon us? And on all mankind? For I too am sick of the past and on the future. How could a good God doom his creations to misery? Why would He-and-She will be into existance if only for me to sit on the sidelines and observe? I am cursed to a life of inaction as sure as this pitiable hermit is in his own way cursed.
When bemoaned the empathetic Sir Palamander, “Alas!” the Whale felt himself also ache. That wizened old Ram bleat, “Your personal curse does seem terrible,” brayed the wizened old Ram, “yet we are but creatures of minuscule perspective.” And when next the Ram spake, the words he chose brought a relief to Sir Moodye’s helm-hidden face that spread like the rising of the sun in his cold marrow. “That which occurs in the end, my brother, is all that is capable of occurring. I know you understand that each cause must cause an effect; we are stitches among an over-arching chain-reaction that began before anything else had begun. We are just parts of plants woven together to make up a neverending wreath. Yea, and all humanity shares your concerns: what is the point of all this? What if our Cycle is never completed — yea, and all of our utopian Merry Land suffers anguish over that. What lowly muck-ridden farmer does not worry that this Cycle shall end before it can sustain itself? I too carry that concern within me. Yet all the worry in the world can not change it. That which we do becomes that which has been done. There are no other options. I say to you that all the world must be going according to plan: that is the only true pillar of belief, for no one can know the plan. Only when the universe has unfolded entirely shall we understand any of it. Your sufferings arise from and dissolve into the realm of joy. I tell you that all shall be at peace when our Cycle is joined at the ends.”
But the hermit still replied sharply. “Who can care about any of that? What is the meaning of your rambling? Not one man cares if this fool’s Cycle is complete or not! We all are born to die, and if all the world is fake and temporary then I wish to return to truth eternal. Why should I not evoke mine own end? Why should I delay with a futile delusion in this sorrowful reality? Why should I, for even one instant longer?”
“O my poor brother, I beg of you to endure! I tell you sooth: this delusion of existance is far from futile. Think on your dreams; what is their nature? Though they are decidedly temporary and frustratingly fleeting they do contain an important journey. Your dream persona moves and acts, and information is processed and events are truly experienced. Within your dreams your world is entirely confusion, it seems arbitrary — even frightening and disturbing. Yet when you awaken and you think back and remember, you feel its energies again. Your dreamlands are important to you, and the small ways they influence your thought cannot be denied. This Cycle may be naught but an extended falsehood, even a sorrowful one, yet whatever truths you hold shall forever vanish from this world when you do! Yea, and who knows what your consciousness shall inhabit when it graduates from this Cycle to the encompassing one — that further Cycle in which our reality, even now, is gestating?”
The Whale was examining, in great detail, all the splotches and contours of Sir Palamander’s kind old eyes, trying to take in every detail of them. What must he have seen with his wrinkled retinas; what must he have taken in for this expulsion of sacred words to be possible? Has this man come to know God? Although it is true that the Ram pursued religion for most of his days, it is also true that his life will be ended before ever knowing me with the intimacy that the Whale could come to achieve.
“Yea,” continued Sir Palamander, “and even if this life is devoid of meaning, it is your only chance to live your current life! Know that I am quite old, and shall not be here much longer. I am not long for a cold grave, and I feel I have lived but few transient dreamlike years. I tell you, your sufferings are not unlike my sufferings.”
“Some kind of hypocrite you are! How shall I heed this ugly bleating? You imply by your own breath that all is meaningless! I exist for nothing but exercising my mind, trapped alone in my individual universe. Or worse, that all I ever strive to gain still will slip through my yearning fingers. How can I experience joy without even my dear children around anymore? That is the more depressing thought. There’s not much I want. Such a small thing, in the scope of some grand scheme. It’s all I want, I need it, and it shall be forever from me. Without my love, my loves, the entire Cycle is more meaningless than a grain of grass.”
But the Ram shook his silver head. “Nothing is meaningless. There are no individual universes: you are the universe. Think: any book you may read, no matter how wonderful, grows in meaning on each subsequent experience because of your omniscience of those events!” He was desperate to explain now, he yearned to force an understanding over the solipsistic hermit. He wished for one man to not be overcome by the relentless tide of misery. “You, O you my brother, the universe that is you is so wonderful and beautiful and perfect in every way that you created life so that you could forget, to give the gift of being able to experience yourself anew, taking your time to soak in all the complexities of every facet of everything… just to experience anew your own miraculous nature! In light of your awareness, you might as well be God Him-and-Herself, whomever He-and-She may be. Why do you not listen to me?”
What is God? wondered Sir Moodye as was his wont. What manner of creature could create a universe? What monster would create a Cycle only for the inhabitants to suffer? Is Sir Palamander implying that I created this Cycle myself? Never would I perform such a foolish act.
The muffled sound of the hermit’s voice moaned, “But I am just a man. A sad pathetic shell for a soul. And you are worse than that: you are a deceptive fool. Despite your sweet speech we are simply two animals slowly dying in a world indifferent to our suffering. I will never again affect anything in any great way, and that is my life’s true failing.”
And here Sir Palamander knew he had him, and a wry smile snuck across his worn lips. “O brother, that sentiment is an impossibility. Think: the events that occurred at the beginning of time shaped the way that time proceeds, birthing the world you were birthed into. This world, this Cycle, is made up of your experiences and influenced by your decisions. Just as you are the product of everything that came before you, you are the cause of everything that shall follow! You, personally, my dear brother! Does this not astound you? Every single soul, even those most wretched, even the souls of animals and vegetation, each one plays an integral character in the unfolding of events. That which is, is all we have. Without your presence here, my brother, this universe could not exist. Somehow, in some small way — I vow to you! — you somehow have helped to join the Cycle together.”
“And what if I am to die anon? What then? If I end my own life, what then with this cursed Cycle?”
Sir Palamander frowned, and his eyebrows softened. “That would be the reflection of the decision that you had nothing else that was worth contributing. And it would become true: the action would confirm the sentiment. But are you to give up so simply? Have you nothing new to learn? No thing that pulls at your heartstrings to be experienced? Why end this form of existence when there is so much to experience?” From within there came no more bitter retorts, only a soft sobbing once again. “…My brother?” asked the Ram. Soon even the tears were inaudible. Seconds stretched in the uncertain mist as Sir Palamander became more and more distraught. “…I beseech you to heed me! Ignore me not, my brother!”
Yet only long silence passed across the cliffs, and neither Sir Moodye nor the Painter of Sendrago heard any noise from within the cabin. The Ram’s face was open with tears, and the Whale’s face was hidden with them. They both knocked, both shouted for the hermit, and both waited in vain for some sign of response, but there was none. Sir Moodye, who had been moved to quiet tears within his helm, was ready to crash the flimsy wood aside to save a life, yet the Ram Knight held him back.
Sir Moodye cried, “What if he lies uncertain between life and death? Undecided at this very moment?”
“I can say no more,” bleat Sir Palamander. “If he has not heard me thus far, then perhaps he shall understand my words in the full course of time, either in this life or his next.”
So surrendering, having performed all they could think of for this strange recluse, the knights retreated back down the ladder and mounted their giraffes. After they had set forth, after the extended tale of the argument between the Ram and the hermit had been told, argent-and-umber Sir Intuition privately doubted that there had truly been anyone within the cabin at all.