*
X
The sun was long absent when the despondent knights led by violet-and-argent Sir Palamander finally roech Darnestowne, a dark settlement of wooden houses and shops on either side of the cobblestone road they long had been traversing. Being the first village these knights had encountered since their weary way from Bidgood’s keep, each knight among them was eager to rest within a hospitable bed. It was quiet. Across the bright eye of the moon wisped a tail of smoke from the chimney of the only lit building they could see, and by the smell of the place and the muffled chimes of a striking hammer, they knew it to be a blacksmith. Sir Moodye spoke up to suggest that while the others searched for some place to retire, he would speak to the smith and discover if he could not commission a new blade to replace the one he had lost over the edge of the eastern cliff. So went Sir Palamander, Sir Intuition, and raven-masked Pater Obscurus to see if they could not find a stable and an inn open late or some home willing to bed stranger knights until dawn’s blush. Thus did the Whale timidly enter the orange glow of the smithy where hammer-strikes rang out. The heavyset silver-haired smith was sweating with his labor despite the hour — his pounding hammer speaking louder than any conversation — and Sir Moodye simply looked to the menagerie of many-folded armors and weaponry upon the sawdusty walls.
The smith spun around abruptly when he sensed the presence of another. He brandished his hammer and growled, “State your name, stranger! Haste!” He was stern of face, scarred, with fleshy lips and faint silver stubble. The man possessed rippling golden muscles that engorged his sooty well-worn flesh. His muscles remound Sir Moodye of the same rolling hills across which he had been journeying — crests and valleys, winding veins all across that represented the rivers and paths. The once white of the blacksmith’s apron was now obscured by the accumulated ash of his trade just as the innocent Merry Land was hidden behind humanity’s poison.
The timid Whale was taken aback by the gruff greeting, the old anxieties welling up within him, yet somehow now he felt freer and lighter than his dominating anxiety. Soft and steadily he said, “I am known as Sir Moodye, and I just have arriven into your town. My companions seek a resting-place for our band, yet I must first attend to a small matter with you. Noble smith, my sword became lost on our travels, and I wondered if you might construct for me a replacement.”
The smith grimly chuckled and wope his hands on a nearby cloth. Without even the shadow of a smile he said, “Then well met, Sir Moodye. I suppose that I apologize for my initial hostility, yet we cannot be too careful anymore at night, you see. Strange deeds haunt this town so grimly that I even doubt anyone will bed strangers at this hour… even if you are what you claim. Somehow, you see, I sense you lack a knightly air.” For several moments, the smith only studied Sir Moodye’s face. The pretend-knight fidgeted with his lengthening black wisp of beard and became increasingly uncomfortable every second that was silence. He was much relieved when the smith again began to grumble. “Yet you at least have introduced yourself,” he said. “Therefore I am Charsus. Blacksmith, as you see. Not always though. I used to be like you.” He picked up an enormous pair of tongs and thrust them into the heart of the fire.
“Like me?”
“In days gone, you see, I was known as Sir Charsus. I suppose I still am, though none who know me use that moniker anymore. I gave it all up for blacksmithing years back, you see. It was something I knew I had to do.”
And thus did a smile form like spread butter across Sir Moodye’s face. “Well do I understand that! And well met Sir Charsus, O Knight of the… hmm…”
“…Walrus,” he grunted around his somewhat tusked teeth, pulling out a glowing snake of metal from the furnace. He laid it upon his anvil and, replacing his tongs, began to pulverize the molten bar. Sir Moodye waited patiently until the resounding hammering had once more ceased, and Charsus again spoke. “I will forge your sword Sir Moodye, an object formed at the pinnacle of my craftsmanship, you see. And yet it shall take me all the morrow to perform this minor miracle. Let us hope you have no need of it before then.”
Thus did beaming Sir Moodye bless him, and was about to be on his way when his fellow knights there entered into the orange glow of Charsus’ smithy. He was glad of their arrival for he was passing weary and looked forward to actual beds after so many days in the wilderness — yet Sir Palamander said that none of the inhabitants of any of the dark domiciles had answered their doors.
“We shall have to go into the woods a ways and set up camp after all,” lamented the spindly Ram Knight. The Hart too seemed even more despondent than he had been of late. But Charsus only chuckled to himself.
Sir Intuition, frustrated, sneered and tugged his mustachios with one hand, the other supporting his feeble father. “Yes yes,” he snapped, “for it is the classic jest of the whole town who ignored the exhaustions of a knight’s quest merely to sleep unbothered. As if we all had not all heard it a million times.” He frowned spitefully.
But the Whale was quick to interfere, saying, “Sir Intuition, as it turns out this smith is a knight as well. I present to you Sir Charsus, the Knight of the Walrus.”
Hardened Charsus gave only the slightest of nods before continuing his labor, dropping the worked metal into a great vat of water where steam hissed as if exorcised. When it quieted, he said, “Most strongly do I advise against venturing into the forest. Especially at this hour, you see.”
Sir Intuition rolled his eyes and complained, “Then are we to simply remain on our feet for ever then? We have slept in woods and wilds and worse to reach this place, and if none shall grant rest to us—”
But the Whale Knight uncharacteristically interrupted a second time, saying, “O Sir Charsus, please excuse his harsh words. He is passing weary from our expedition, and all of us have suffered much.” Sir Intuition grimaced and fell back into the shadows as ill tempers festered within him. The Whale continued, “Do you mean that these woods about Darnestowne have something to do with the strange deeds of which you spoke?”
Charsus grunted. “Of ‘which’ indeed… for it is a witch who haunts us. We are frightened, noble knights. You see, it has been many days since we were at ease. When the sun sinks, or even darkens behind a cloud, mistrust seeps from the townsfolk like an evil vapor.”
“And what is the cause of this mistrust? Is it typical of this town?” queried Sir Intuition with ignoble snark.
“As I have said, we are being haunted by a witch most fearsome. Her cottage lies deep within the heart of that forest, and all the trees are mournful and intoxicated by her presence. Yea, and that demoness’ name is Renea Simbelwak. Once she was a kindly old woman, you see, yet when winter last left us it took with it Renea’s only son. And that was the last time anyone had a conversation with her that did not end in their death.”
“I do not understand,” said the Hart. “In what way does this feeble old woman plague this town?” The smith roech into his tempering-water and tossed what he had made to the surly mustachioed knight. Sir Intuition barely caught it — and when he had, he stared at it unknowing as if it were a strange new tool he did not know how to work. It was similar to the metal shoe a giraffe might wear, but it was larger as if meant for some other animal. His face sought explanation.
When the Walrus spoke, his grave voice was the stone lid of a coffin sliding shut. And the knights were now trapped in that coffin. “These are the first horse-shoes that have yet been made in England, for I plan to tame a hungry beast. Renea possesses a bridle, infested with the blackest of magics. Any who wear it are transformed into the guise of a ‘horse’ — a variety of herd animal that can sometimes be seen roaming the plains of far off lands. It it not unlike our native giraffe, you see, and some consider the two to be distant cousins.”
“Yet, where is the harm in shapeshifting?” asked Sir Moodye.
Sir Palamander brayed, “Have you not heard fearsome stories about lycanthropes?” His wrinkled old eyes were wide beneath his hoary brow. “It is claimed that certain people use the light of the whole-moon to transform into wolves or other fearsome creatures, and they spend the night hunting and devouring whatever prey they can find! Even people they knew as humans; friends and family. Sir Charsus, what manner of beast is this ‘horse’ you speak of?”
But the blacksmith shook his head. “This is not her method, O Knight of the Ram. A horse is more docile in nature than a wolf, and posses few natural weapons. Her task is perhaps more frightening than wanton destruction. In that, she might be caught. In that, guards a-plenty might be called to defend our town, for such destruction takes time and cannot be disguised as simply, you see. Yet outright destruction is not her scheme, and neither she does she shift her own shape. Renea is known to slip in to the bedrooms of men at night, and with a touch she enchants them into a strange sleepwalking state, coaxing them touch by touch from their homes. Once outside, she straps the cursed bridle to her victims.” Charsus, sweating, grimacing, cleared his throat and expectorated into a nearby bucket. He said, “She mounts the man, and rides him all over the countryside. She rides him all night long and not until the morning will he be found — back in his bed as if well rested, yet instead completely fatigued. If that were all ‘twould be no shame, yet this supernatural exhaustion does not fade with sleep but grows lethal. Many of our menfolk have slipped beyond death’s door, and several more are on their way to that silent kingdom.” The knights stood in speechless unease, glancing into each others’ eyes. “And now,” said the blacksmith returning to work, “you see some notion of Darnestowne’s troubles.” And the Knights of Bidgood were much grieved at his story.
With kindness, Charsus allowed them to stay in the loft above his shop that night, yet advised their departure upon the break of morning. When the knights had settled in, they stayed up into the moonlight conversing over the wisest course of action. Sir Moodye had hung on every one of Charsus’ words, and they had stuck in his spine like icicles. He wanted nothing more than to take the blacksmith’s advice and depart at first light, avoiding conflict and taking no action… but stubborn Sir Palamander had other ideas. He talked of their responsibility to help these common folk who were unable to defend themselves. Eventually, in his verbose zeal, the Knight of the Ram droned right on into falling asleep.
Sir Moodye was the last one awake, covered in his bed by a sheet so thin it may well have been a ghost. The droning words of the Ram still echoed through his mind, and he realized that he still was acting as a squire. Not as a knight. He drifted guilty between consciousness and a bottomless well of sleep, yet his rolling inner turmoil was home to more than his own thoughts. Galloping ominously across whatever ground occurred was the looming figure of the horse in silhouette. Its alien snorts and grunts were of such low pitch that it vibrote Sir Moodye’s dream body, and at other times it would whinny and scream as it ran, crying out not for the joy of freedom but for the death of the world. Death to Sir Moodye, his companions, friends, even acquaintances and strangers: the horse’s large dark eyes swallowed all things.
The sky is colored way past midnight and all that my eyes absorb is somber. The trees billowing in the black breeze are the only beings capable of smiling, and they are not smiling now. I am clawing through the night air, impeded by it, drowning in it. From close behind me there is a frightful shrieking. A whinnying. Her gallops are not light and noble like those of a valiant knight’s giraffe… but heavy, pounding, sinister. I feel the hot breath of the Witch of the Horse on my neck and I know that she shall catch me, with her eyes larger than existance — but then I see it! There, on the horizon. Glowing golden towers rise, shining with the light of truth… of homecoming. Where have I seen these before? The three minarets summon me; these three towers are significant. What castle is this? What golden spires surround me with safety? Beneath them, I am protected from the witch’s malevolence and all malevolence. I study their masonry, to divine their import and
with that, he awoke. Sir Moodye caught his breath still alive in the dead of night, feeling a single cool droplet of sweat trailblazing down the side of his face. In the fearful blackness he waited for some sign of that which had woken him but there was none, only the deep wheezes of black-wrapped Pater Obscurus. The Whale closed his dream-seeking eyes and took a breath deeply through his nostrils before lying back down beneath the sheet and exhaling through his mouth. Holding tightly to the memory of glowing towers, he turned onto his side and did not dream for all the hours left in the night.
* * *
The familiar peals of hammering woke them that morning just as the light also pierced their chamber. The sun was still simmering far off beyond the Darnestowne forest, and had only just begun to spread visibility across the village. As the knights made ready for the day they spoke but little for — like their sheets — an unease had settled upon them in the night: a fear of the ominous Renea Simbelwak. It seemed that she had not been content to ride through the dreamland of solely Sir Moodye: even if no knight could perfectly recall the form of his night mare, each felt the dread it had brought. It took them longer to don their robes that morning and the lone cause was worry. Argent-and-umber Sir Intuition made certain his father had every comfort required a man of his age, and all knights triple-checked their equipment and low supplies. When they could stall no longer, they descended the creaking stairs in anxious silence, leaving elderly Pater Obscurus to rest safely in the room. Down to the smithy proper descended the knights, to where tusked Charsus was already hard at work.
His back was turned to them as he held a long strip of metal in the fire, but he reservedly saluted them over his powerful shoulder. “A hopeful morrow, Sirs. How fared you in sleep?” He brought metal from the blaze, lay the glowing orange end on his anvil, and began hammering away as if uninterested in the knights’ response.
Both the knights of the Hart and of the Whale were individually relieved at this. Sir Moodye had been tortured for most of the night by the scenes of his dream, though now he was scarcely able to remember the things it had shown him. Sir Intuition, on the other hand, had not even slept well enough to dream. He had alternated between all the sleeping positions that he knew, trying to drift off, yet nothing had holp. It was no supernatural horse that haunted him: he still was unable to cease his thoughts of James’ bloodied face lying in the dirt alongside dead Isaiah. The image had very nearly been burned into his mind, and he perceived the visage on many occasions superimposed upon the realm of sight. It was a universal query for justice that kept awake the Sir Intuition.
Yet when the beats of the smith’s hammer abated, Sir Palamander diplomatically replied, “We slept quite well, thank you,” for he had rested best that night. The painterly Ram was too old to be given in to flights of fancy, and kept apart his sleeping and waking worlds. The rigors of age had taught him to allow triumph and tragedy both to flow like the tide.
As Charsus’ heavy gloves pulled his metal strip back towards the fire, he said, “I slept too, for a time, yet my work will not wait. I only finished these horse-shoes an hour since, and I have not yet completed your sword, O Knight of the Whale.” How Sir Moodye did blush behind his tangled black beardgrowth! He basked in the warmth of his full title and for once felt not the guilt it wore. Charsus continued, “You will be able to find breakfast in town, and I shall shape for you a sharp shining brand forthwith. It is not my intention to delay your departures, you see. Craftsmanship requires time, and I must tend to the village’s safety first. I may no longer be the Knight of the Walrus, but what good is one who can provide defense and does not?”
And so the Ram said to him, “Noble Sir Charsus, take the time you require. A few hours more here will not be the end of us, and I would rather that we be in town to lend aid should the witch attack, though I hope she has the good sense to remain absent. Just as you say, what sorts of knights would we be if we abandoned you in a perilous hour?”
Sir Intuition muttered to his mustache, “What sort of knights indeed,” and it was barbed patterns of violet-and-azure that wove in the Hart’s heart.
But Charsus spake unto to them, “It is unusual for Renea to hunt while the majesty of the sun shines. Our diurnal lives are not dominated by the fear of this one witch, you see, and neither should yours be! Go now, go, and enjoy what remains of summer while the daylight is still strong.” And so the knights of Bidgood filtered out the door of the smoky blacksmith.
Darnestowne was much transformed in the daytime. Removed from the dismal glow of the moon’s mourning rays the stretching cobblestone street was inviting, and so heartwarming was this contrast of bustling people about their business that even Sir Intuition’s heart began to rise for the first time in many dreary days. He once more felt the flowing of the hope inherent in the universe. In his renewed spirits, he lamented only that his mute father was too feeble to join them. Pater Obscurus had tended most dotingly upon him over the years in spite of the silence, yet it seemed that they recently had drifted apart. Sir Intuition blamed they rift on the monotony of the road upon which they rode. Yet even such thoughts were melted that morrow by the observant solar orb.
The houses of Darnstowne were well-worn wooden slats supported by stone pillars at the corners and other places of structural import, their roofs were blanketed in rough thatch: it was a settlement established. Farmers, merchants, working women, the plain people of the earth were out in abundance. They bustled in a market circle just off the main road, the cobblestone by along which two rows of thatched buildings stood guard. That cobblestone path which continued Bidgood’s quest to the north of Darnestowne and through the forest. They did not look out with their kaleidoscopes as they might on any other day, they did not track the ruins of the Tchrelma’Montgomery highway or follow the progress of the sun. They simply let their souls meld with the peaceful pulse of the village.
Yet despite the evaporation of the night’s fear under this touch of sunlight, Sir Moodye still felt an icy presence somewhere along the outlines of his bones, as if there was still something not quite harmonious. “It would seem,” said the pretend-knight’s cowardice to his mirthful companions, “that there is no danger to be found here. Perhaps it would not be so large a trouble for us to ride off after all.”
But Sir Palamander replied, “Though you may be right Sir Moodye, ignoble it would be of us to leave without first ensuring everyone’s safety.”
“Yet there is much cheer!” spake Sir Intuition in a surprisingly buoyant voice. “The great sun, having dispelled that which haunted me, leads me to believe that the smith’s scary stories were only that. What a silly man, to think I believed him under cover of mysterious night! His intentions in telling fables I find disagreeable, but his village I quite enjoy. What a relief to feel some sun-filled mirth, to walk among the common man!”
Sir Palamander tugged upon his snowy beard. “Reflections in a pond rarely belie what swims below the surface. Good Sir Knights, let us have a compromise. We shall look around these environs and collect our supplies, which should please the Knight of the Hart. If all remains safe and comfortable when we have finished, then we shall continue our way north along these cobblestones.” So did they all find the elder knight’s logic to be agreeable.
There was a small shop distributing pastries, which the knights used to break their fast, and then along the road they were led by Sir Intuition to the bustle of the marketplace. The commoners seemed well enough at ease, but none of the knights dared to ask after Renea Simbelwak directly lest they seem mentally unbalanced or, worse, manage to upset the villagers and wreck the sustained air of festivity.
Into the swirling crowds of the market square the knights went, each seeking objects of their own desire. The air was thick with the noise of hawking merchants, dramatic performers, and inquisitive customers — the air was filled with smells of alluring comestibles and of sweat, and the endless vision of wares both valuable and negligible. The place had its own pumping heartbeat, and the organism was community. Sir Moodye drifted from his companions as he admired various mummers. One man surrounded by a wide-berthed circle of onlookers was juggling broadswords, another fellow was telling jokes. As the Whale Knight elbowed through the crowd he chanced to hear a jest from the gaudily-dressed comedian.
He begged his disciples to answer his holy question. “What is the unladen airspeed velocity of a swallow? Hmm?” He looked exageratedly around, pantomiming a quiz-master, but not one of those gathered scholars could guess the answer. Finally, when the drama had roech a crescendo, the comedian proclaimed, “African or European!” Quite a raucus guffaw spread then throughout the admiring disciples but Sir Moodye did not understand.
In yet another corner of the market square a minstrel was animatedly playing for his lady and a gathering audience, pantomiming a famous protest song written in the Dark Age.
Please allow me to introduce myself
I am a man of wealth and taste
I have lived alone for long long years
And laid many men’s souls to waste.
In the jungles dank
I held a general’s rank
When the fires raged
And the bodies stank!
I watched with glee
While kings and queens
Fought for ten decades
For the gods they had made.
I shouted out,
“Who killed Sir Kennedy?”
When after all it was you
And me.
Pleased to meet you!
I hope you have guessed my name!
Yet that which still puzzles you
Is the nature of my game.
As every righteous man is a criminal,
And all the sinners saints,
As heads is tales
Just call me ‘Hadeon’
For I require some restraint — perhaps!
Therefore if you meet me,
Have some courtesy!
Have some sympathy and some taste!
O yes, use some studied etiquette
Or I’ll lay your soul to waste.
Pleased to meet you!
I hope you have guessed my name!
What is my name,
O what’s in my name?
I’ll tell it to you:
You are to blame.
And the mistrel strummed his guitar for many more minutes writhing and dancing in mimic of the holy song’s composer. Sir Moodye was alone in not having been bestowed any heavy responsibilities for supplies to obtain. All the crucial products of their venture had been divid between Sir Intuition and Sir Palamander — the responsible, older, knights. True knights. So the pretender drifted like a lonely cumulous through the atmosphere of people, curiously examining baubles and specialty foods and such things as caught his fancy, yet none caught his desire. Until, that is, he came upon a small booth of books and curios off to the side and away from the rapacious crowds and music, likely due to the balding shopkeep’s disinterest in advertisement. This overseer over-looked a ledger, ignoring two other booksleuths perusing his wares. It was the large collection of tomes that had captured Sir Moodye’s interest, and he approached the portly salesman.
“Sirrah,” questioned the Whale, “have you heard tell of a book known as The Meta-Testament?”
The shopkeeper glanced up lazily from perusing his ledger and said tersely, “Is in my shop or is not. You find, you buy, you not bother me so.”
“O,” said Sir Moodye.
And he was about to drift away when one of the other customers approached him. It was a man with scraggly hair and wild eyes, dressed in veined robes of ivory-and-azure. By his heraldry, he was the Knight of the Trout. “Just a moment, Sir!” said the Trout. “I have seen the very book you seek, in my perusings. Ah, ah, and here it lies.” The much older knight slid a pale yellow-bound tome from the menagerie of knowledge. So it was that the resigned shopkeeper was forced to hand it over to those who sought it: for all knowledge is free if it can be found.
“I appreciate your aid, good Knight of the Trout,” said Sir Moodye.
“Think nothing of it. Blessed do I feel when I can help those who seek the wisdom in books, especially one so full of it as the Meta-Testament. I am fain to meet you, little soul. I am Sir Kilgore, and my trade shuffles me from town to town maintaining the standards of the written word — a shifty creature you may know. But I was not always as you see me now. I used to be a warrior, I was one of those cursed to fight in the Crusade. And yea, it is my shame to tell you that once I designed the Castle Tralfamadore: forsooth was I the architect of our entire sealed-off London! I have led a troubled life, yet now repentant I strive to uphold the knightly virtues of literacy and love.”
“My gracious friend!” gasped Sir Moodye. “If you are such a wise ennobled scholar as that, I crave to hear what thoughts you hold about this tome you have procured for me. It was recommended by a friend that now is gone, yet still I wish his guidance by my side. Is this a… good book?”
“O inquisitive mind! The tome you hold is a mystery of music: more significant proof of God I never have heard. It is my personal theory that the four Saints of the Golden Submersible were able to channel God from His-and-Her realm beyond us, and from realms also beyond even Him-and-Herself, and the Saints played Him-and-Her unto our hearts to banish enmity as only divine music has the power to do. Now, O Whale Knight, I struggle against my enmity by keeping it locked away with wisdom, and deflecting its strifes with humor. The world was sick, violently ill in that unrighteous frenzy of war, yet now perhaps she is reborn somehow into purity.”
Sir Moodye nodded, in awe and speechless.
Sir Kilgore rambled on, “I wish to tell a tale to you, that it might serve as a caution. May I tell it? I wish you to have light when exploring the dark depths of this Cycle.” The Whale nodded once more, and thus did the wild-eyed Trout continue, there by the bookstand. He said, “Very well. Your journey shall go as it must, yet please heed my warning that it might aid you; always I shall assist another sea-creature out here in the endless ocean. My tale shall begin in this manner: ‘Hearken: I have become unstuck in time.’ And yea, in this manner shall it end: ‘Poo-tee-weet?’”
The Tale of the Silver Spring and the Castle Tralfamadore
“Hearken: I have become unstuck in time. I have experienced my birth and death many times, and have borne witness to myriad historical events. Ever since my unsticking I have lived the events of my long life in random order, as a chronicler of sorts. I have passed into sleep as an old man, and woken in an earlier age. For I once saw the Cycle as a whole — as one — and though no one has yet believed me in full, I never have been the same.
“I was born to rough-spun foragers in days when fair England was a single forest. Our nomadic tribe slipped from shadow to shadow beneath endless boughs and leaves and fog, and I was their sickly runt. Never quite could I match the speed of their traversal for I was soft and born in a harsh age before even the pristine Tchrelma’Montgomery was built. I grew like a lanky sapling, but possessed neither my tribe’s ferocity nor instinct. Still today I do not know the name of the thing within me, that presence which forces my fingers to pen the fantasies of my heart, yet in those days it was a great hindrance. I was slowed not only by my sickly temperament but by the scrolls of bark I accumulated and carved with my childhood epics. I carried their bulk with me wheresoever my tribe did wander. Brave tales were there, yet too soon written to be understood by my tribe. I one penned a tale on a sheaf of bark about a tree whose branches were coins, and it sustained itself on the corpses of mortal men who died about its roots, yet It’s Been a Long Long Long Time since that sheaf of bark was lost. Often my tribe was upset with my perceived sloth. When my parents brought me before the druids, we were told I held some illness or blessing coiled within. To lessen that burden, the druids demanded I be allowed to write my tales. And so I did, whenever we stopped to gather food or rest. I wrote many words, yet those who chanced to read my tales were confused to distaste. How could a writer continue thus?
“It was not until the Sleeping Age, when the first Romans attacked any natives who strayed too close to their ships, that we fled north through woodlands at the foot of mountains. Our dwindled tribe consecrated a pool that we passed, and we held a funeral there for the clansmen we had lost. So it went. Among the northern peaks we wandered, with me and my stories barely tagging along. There was unrest between our remainder, and I was stung by the guilt their eyes lay upon me. I asked myself, ‘Why have many brave souls been slain while my timid essence was allowed to persist?’ It was there among sparse woods and tundra that we discovered by accident a place of magical things. By a mysterious spring did the forest tangle thick with strange pungent plants that never we had seen in any corner yet of England. Lights glew from the wispy branches and all the place was bright with many reflections of existence, forsooth, never had we seen anything like it. It was in that place that I and my tribe lay to camp for but a single night. One night.
“It all occurred when we lit our bonfire with the spring’s strange herb as tinder. It was an fragrantly sour smoke, an ocean of knowledge, and it engulfed us all. I know not where the others of my tribe were swept off to, yet that instant of inhalation plucked me for ever from linear life. I spaced out, and I saw stars reflected many times among the silvery forest. I felt as if I flew above England as a hawk, a satellite, an astronaut— yea, and I was all three. I saw the island’s form, and it was the form of my own self. There I recognized my heart in England, and as time slipped past my eyes I saw how my heart might truly be constructed. Unstuck as I was from our Cycle, I was able to reach into the future and built something in the past. I took the plans of the Tchrelma’Montgomery, that infallible highway that links our island with the outside world, and built in our own distant prehistory a magnificent city. And there, at the center of our ancestral capital of London I lay our crown jewel and my magnum opus. Yea, and it was the Castle Tralfamadore whose spires guide many and all to remember themselves. I labored on these wonders by gold by brick by marble by year by eon, yet all of this was complete before I blunk back into my conscious body. I was alone among the reflective spring. Those I found of my tribe turned out to only be reflections. So then, thinking my ordeal over, I slept.
“Yet all was ill in those days. The worst of it was not that I was bereft of my family and friends forevermore. The worst of it was not even that henceforth I suffered terrifying bounds through time — I became always possessed of an evil stage-fright for I never knew the nature of the past, present, or future scene I might awaken into. The worst of it all was when I learned what had taken place within my heart’s-blood London… what had grown unknown within my Castle Tralfamadore. Though much golden light had shone from the towers now long over-grown, that light fed on evil fuel. Within my Tralfamadore I had built a lurking soulless demon: a Knight of No Thing. I had not meant to call him to existence, I had not, verily it is for creating him that I perform my eternal writing-penance. He was the darkness in my heart and I know not how he slipped into the design. He must have sprouted from a flaw in my medium… and from my own flawed existence. I do writing-penance because his philosophy is venomous. He is an aberration and thus feels nor remorse, nor faith, nor does he place a value on human life. Yea, and he dismisses any notion of divinity — I seek to eradicate that godless mistake I have made.
“Yet one unstuck from time can only do so much. To-morrow I may find myself once more among the trenches of Nahm, where I was captured and tortured as a prisoner of war before that village was all firebombed into toxic ashes. From that era stem my most worrisome stage-frights. For, O ennobled Knight, there is much wonder in this Merry Land. There is wonder and religion for you in this Cycle, and there is freedom. Cherish these things, take them not for granted, and be not swayed by grim Sir Hadeon if you should chance upon him… for his anger shall lead only to hate and suffering. Does he still lurk within my Tralfamadore, like the darkness lurks in my heart? Or has he been set free into our island to roam where he can by trickery? I caution you, fellow sea-creature. Do not give in to the powers of darkness. Do not sow the atheistic ambivalence I wish I had not wrought. Defeat the soulless No Thing by finding a reason to praise every thing. Praise your unexpected life, praise the Meta-Testament, and praise each inconsequential bird-song that graces your ear. For if you are a bird, sometimes the only thing you can do is it to sing, ‘Poo-tee-weet?’”
* * *
Above the endless clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer and smoke, Pater Obscurus removed his all-concealing raven’s mask. His pale, scarred skin gasped for air, and after removing his black gloves he massaged his egg-bald head with crooked fingers. His bright eyes peered out through the window into the painful warmth. His wheezing was phlegmy as he disrobed and unwrapped his bandages — sickly scars both long and short covered every inch of his drooping alabaster skin. His slow deep breaths rasped unmuffled in the dusty loft as he meditated for many hours to block the pain of exposure. He had long been trained to block out his senses, and his meditation never wavered, and he did not recall the time before he arrived in England from over the sea-spanning Tchrelma’Montgomery. Pater Obscurus meditated and became one with No Thing.
* * *
Having found no signs of fright among the villagers — Darnestowne seemed robust and full of life — the knights decided to wander on foot a ways into the nearby wood where Renea Simbelwak was reputed to dwell, to see if they could shed some illumination on the mysterious figure or sever this sickness at its source.
The trees in this part of the Merry Land were tall, slender and sparse, letting plenty of light fall through their spread branches. Their leaves were just beginning to become tinged with the yellows that herald autumn. With the cobblestone road out of reach there was no path on which to tread, so Sir Palamander took point and did his best to lead them in only one direction. Trudging in full-plate through the thickening trees, he kept Darnestowne at their backs and peered through the motionless trunks with his knight’s kaleidoscope. He gazed long, turning about, yet the tangled trunks were as sight-obstructing to the Ram as clasped fingers. Through the beams of sunlight the knights saw the bustlings of several squirrels going about their business, and more than once they caught the noise of some unseen startled animal tearing off through the woods, yet no evidence of maleficence could they spy. On they walked.
Lowering his kaleidoscope, the Ram Knight said, “This seems an odd place for one so sinister to dwell.”
Even unsettled Sir Intuition was feeling rejuvenated by the tranquility of the yellowing leaves. He replied, “If even she exists. Judging by this forest, it is more likely that the simple town — or perhaps only Sir Charsus — is merely superstitious of the woodland’s secrets. Perhaps he is affected by the kind of fear that blows away when tragedy proves illusory.” Sir Moodye and Sir Palamander chuckled: after such dark and harrowing times, the light of this place was doing them good, and all were pleasantly infected by levity.
All at once Sir Palamander began to gasp and sputter, batting around himself in terror. Swiftly did the Hart draw his angry blade, and the scrawny Whale grabbed in vain where his hilt would have been — yet the elderly Ram merely coughed, “Confounded spiderweb!” as he tried to disentangle himself from the sticky invisible strands that clung to his violet-and-argent robes.
Sir Moodye grinned in relief. “If webs are the most insidious thing we are to find in these woods, then perhaps we no longer need to sift through them.” To Sir Intuition it was apparent that the Whale was maturing, growing steadily stronger of will. His beard’s growth made him seem somehow wiser than he had.
Once more in the yellow wood Sir Palamander scanned the trees with his kaleidoscope, yet there was not much to be seen without the advantage of a giraffe’s viewpoint. Eventually he agreed that they had done all they could. “Though,” he mused, “make no claim to have loathed our stroll. With such heavy focus on our quest, it is nice to find such leisure time as to amble through the Merry Land’s forests.” Thus in high spirits did the three knights retrace their steps back into bustling Darnstowne as twilight’s heralds calmed the sky.
***
Her child was running through the woods in her mind, and his face had only room for a smile, and the air was bright and the grass was green and the sun was warm, yet it was dark inside the cabin where she sat. Why were they wandering in her woods? All dark but for the faint fetid light that filtered in through her curtain-rags. The table was set with a blood colored tablecloth and unlit candles. The old woman rocked in her chair, slowly tilting to and fro while lost in thought and mumbling. Timothey had been such a cherubic child and she had adored and doted upon him, for though they had had very little they had had each other in this snug and shoddy shack.
Yet now she was kept company only by her loneliness and memories. Behind her creviced old face as angular as a precision blade, her iron hair was tied into a loose bun. Her long black dress was all ripped into shreds. Small sounds like frightened vermin sope through her cracked lips, so too did a few timid cackles.
“Nonsense, Timothey. It is summer outside,” she crooned. “You cannot be cold, for you are warm.”
Timothey said nothing.
“No, you may not put on your shawl — only in wintertime! Now don’t be a bad boy! Don’t be a bad boy!” And one single tear slipped down the complex crease pattern of her face. In a half sob she gasped, “There there, Timothey. Mommy meant nothing of it. You’re a good child.” And she creaked up from her chair and shuffled over to a sewn doll who sat at the head of the table. She roech out and cradled his head against her breast for a short while, humming, “There there, Timothey, there there. There there, Timothey, there there.” And this continued for emotional hours.
Renea crossed back the planks of her warped wooden floor and settled into her chair still humming her ‘there there’s. She rocked in and out of dreams and remembrances, alternating between sunny memories of her dear Timothey, and the cold faces of the men she recently had preyed upon. Her victims’ faces distorted in anger and anguish as in her memories she siphoned the last of their virile life force. Remembrances blended together in a spinning carousel of images, and when they had tired her frail and failing mind she rocked herself into a comatose stupor. There would never be another Timothey, she knew even through the haze of senility, yet there would be more men when she needed more energy. There were always more men.
* * *
The life-giving orb was diminishing below the horizon as the knights approached town. Twilight rearranged the shadows of familiar trees, elongating them and twisting their branches.
“I can certainly see why the townsfolk of this place should fear,” spake Sir Intuition, “for when darkness begins to fall a sinister garb unfolds. Yet they soon shall see sooth that all is in only their minds. Glad am I to have dispelled such terror for these kind people.” As they traversed shadowy Darnestowne toward the smoky smithy each knight clung to the Hart’s words, relying on their buoyancy to preserve them through the sea of dusk.
When the knights arrove, a weary Charsus greeted them with what seemed the last of his warmth. “Pleased I am to see you once more. It would not do well for you to be caught out of doors with the light of the sun vanishing so swiftly.”
Sir Intuition replied with bravado, “O Sir Charsus, there is no need to exaggerate for our benefit. We have been all about your town and even your dreaded woods. We saw no hint of misery or unease; nothing were we able to sniff out. Yea, and while we have enjoyed our stay here, I feel as though we have dispelled the frightful story of your witch-like ‘Horse.’”
Charsus frowned. “Then, it is a grave illusion in which you believe. You should not have gone to the woods. The entire village was lucky not to have been made to suffer through the few nights previous, though I pray for that luck to persist. If she has seen you, then all my prayers may amount to nothing. Hmm. Furthermore, I am sorry to inform you Sirs that the sword you have requested — though nearly complete — is not yet ready for battle. I have forged the blade and hilt, but still they must be joined. O Knight of the Whale, do you wish to look upon the work so far?”
“It is of little consequence,” said the Whale. “Take your time, friend Walrus. If we may stay another night in your loft then I shall be more than pleased to receive my blade when the morning arrives.” Sir Moodye was in a beaming mood as he fingered the little black book acquired at noon with the help of Sir Kilgore. Though he had read but little, his glance had fallen over a page at random which contained the psalm of The Norwegian Wood. Though he did not understand yet, he knew it to be a document worthy of his attention.
As enthused as Sir Moodye was, the blacksmith was equally grim as he wope his hands upon his apron. He growled, “Indeed, if we should be so blessed as to sleep uninterrupted.”
When the knights came again into the loft they found black-wrapped Pater Obscurus facing away from them and slipping the last of his raven mask over his egg-bald cranium — just a single flash of sickly white flesh was glimpsed by the knights. Then the raven’s face turned to stare unblinking at them. Sir Intuition went to his side inquiring if all was alright, yet his father could only wheeze wordlessly and pantomime comforting gestures. So it was that all prepared for sleep.
When they were tucked into their bedrolls upon the floor of the loft Sir Intuition grinned, “Quite a tenacious grip on his tale has that Charsus.”
“I do not know,” frowned Sir Palamander. “He seems quite convinced.”
“Nonsense! We searched high and low today and returned fruitless — and that is the best fruit of all. I am more than ready for peaceful dreams.” And saying so, the Hart collapsed into his bed and forced himself into an instantly deep slumber. The others shrugged and too went to sleep, yet they could not so easily shrug away the resurfacing ill-omened feelings.
* * *
I am in a place of darkness. It obscures my sight and numbs me to my surroundings. I walk forward: there is no where else to go. A great pressure is on my body, pushing in at me from all sides akin to being submerged, and the pressure collects about my heart and I feel in my chest the pain of its exertion — a building pounding like the pent up frustrations of my emotions knocking to be released from my ribcage. I hear only the sound of the beating as I walk on faster now with footsteps matching the life-measuring rhythm that pulls me through this sea of sightlessness. I spread my arms tentatively to feel about in the darkness, finding myself to be in a narrow corridor of solid stone. I am deep underground. My feet stumble over the multitude of small light-weight objects strewn loosely across the narrow floor. In places, the tunnel is so confining that I must squeeze myself through openings, sustaining many painful scrapings in the process. A faint illumination is growing ahead, and as I approach it I can see by its dimness that the objects upon the floor are the bones of small rodents in various states of decay.
Gasping, grasping, I pull myself through the end of the passage and emerge from a crack in the wall of a very different sort of corridor. The stonework here is perfectly angular and smooth, and the area is large enough to stroll freely. There is a lit brazier that dimly glows though toppled and licking at the floor. Filthy text is scribbled all across the walls, illegible in the insufficient light it makes me feel as if someone is reading my own tale in words, and it is the reader’s will that compels me onward. Thus do I enter the room crowded with statues.
It is a small storage chamber for lifelike dolls of people. There is barely enough room for me to enter, so numerous are the naked mannequins. At one point they must have been arranged in rows by someone, though long abandonment has caused their disarray. I crawl as far into the room as I can, examining them. I nudge one with my foot as I pass. Suddenly, in a shuddering moment of pause, I sense movement in my left periphery. I turn and look, and standing beside me is the naked statue of a very old woman. She turns to me and her icy eyes meet mine. It’s awake? Very slowly, with the strains of old age, her arms reach out towards me with her clammy flesh — and I am frightened! I am frightened like I cannot believe! O! Tears well up in my eyes! Her legs are feeble and broken, her leathern breasts free, and her large eyes are expressionless and distant. Only strands of her hair remain, scraggly and floating around her. I try to maneuver away from the crone back into the hall, but I stumble over the many inert statues. Even when I exit the room my stumbling legs somehow cannot outrun her disjointed gait. She wants me. I look up to the ceiling and beg, “Wake up!”
I realize am dreaming.
The old woman has grabbed vice-like onto my forearm: her skin is soft and wrinkled and I can feel her venerable veins pulsing lightly and — all I need to do is wake up and she will be gone — I cry again, “Wake up!” I writhe to escape from her grasp but I cannot. I pull and scream but she is drawing herself closer to my body. We are at a bend in the corridor and she is pressing me into the corner, smothering me, clawing at me, and I shout to my other self, “Please wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Please w—”
“…w… ake… up,” Sir Moodye breathed in his sleep, and then he jolted fully alert. His face was flushed and dripping with sweat. There was a hammering on his ribs. Staring at the ceiling of the darkened loft, the woken knight could recall every horrifying detail of his dream. And then, in the still night, he heard it. A piercing wail that echoed shrill from somewhere in town. The old woman. Her dream-face leered up at him from his own mind’s eye. It’s her… Renea Simbelwak! He leapt from bed and pulled on his tunic with haste. He shouted, “Up, up!” and roused his companions forcibly from slumber. “I heard a scream from outside! We were wrong, O, the witch is here! Now!”
Sir Palamander and Sir Intuition were up as abrupt as bolts of thunder, and it was a skeletal visage worn by the Knight of the Hart. He grimly bent over his father’s still reclining form and whispered some words of stoicism as he prepared to depart. Sir Moodye cried out to his companions, “I am prepared, so I am leaving! Tarry not, but follow close behind!”
“Wait Sir Moodye! You have not even a sword!” brayed the Ram, but his words went unheeded as the young pretend-knight was carried by instinct and fear out of the smithy’s abode without another thought in his unusually focussed mind.
The moon was at its smallest waning crescent, and thus provided meager illumination. He ran, breathless, swordless, in the direction of the scream. Into the forests. There was a breeze that made the trees groan and creak, and the chitterings of noxious insects were in the distance.
I should not have come alone, it began to dawn on Sir Moodye in the dark as he crept deeper through clawing branches. His focussed mind had fractured back into its many parts. What made me do it? Some nonsensical call of courage? But I have no such thing as courage: that is a tool only for a hero’s arsenal. Perhaps my the helplessness of my nightmare made me crave action — though I sorely wish I now could halt! Yet I cannot wait in this verge between the town and trees. To hang on in quiet desperation would be the english way, yet I find I must press on! If the threat of this horse has weighed so heavy over our weary band after only two nights, I cannot for purity’s sake concieve what courage these barest peasants of the earth must posess to live here. I am no hero, yea, for it is I who must be saved by them. No time to think, now. I don’t know how to wait anymore, though I’ve waited all my life. I must press on, but O! What even am I to do should I meet this dreadful Witch Horse?
And the woods loomed ever thicker as he tried to penetrate their mysteries in the nearly nonexistent light. More than one spider’s web broke against him — yet frightened as the knight was, his legs would not cease and he continued to stumble through the foliage and gloom until he realized he did not know where he was. The sound came first. It emerged little by little from the night-time drone of insects, and by its malevolence he knew he had stumbled upon that which he both sought and most desperately wished to escape. The sound was a rough pounding: a ferocious galloping upon the dirt, threaded with fiendish fell laughter. This must be the voice of Renea herself! O ignoble winds of fortune, you have led me straight to her without a plan! Have I been tossed to my demise? Is this my fate: punishment for my numerous failings? I reaped the benefits of riding with these knights for so temporary a time, and now am I to harvest my undoing? O, I wish some God there was to save me from my sufferings!
Yet in spite his prayers, sable-and-ivory Sir Moodye could not help himself from approaching until the full spectacle was revealed unto him.
There was flickering lantern-light in the clearing ahead from whence the galloping emanated. He wope cold sweat away with the sleeve of his tunic and slunk as noiselessly as he could beneath low leaves to spy upon the devilish scene before him. There was the horse, struggling powerful and desperate, bound fast by the magic of the bridle. There too was Renea Simbelwak, cackling and entirely nude, dark hair manic and unkempt floating all about her — the very hungry-eyed old woman from his dream. No saddle was there: she rode unclad upon the throne of the animal’s bare back, nearly breathless with wicked mirth. The beast forcefully pranced once more, trying to shake his vile rider in vain, but succeeded only in wobbling her and the lantern in her grasp. By magic or wiles she was affixed to him, and Sir Moodye even imagined that he could perceive somehow an energy being drained from the horse flowing into the witch where she sat. Struggle as the transformed man-horse might, he could not dislodge feverish Renea. Sir Moodye tried to still his hand as it kept instinctually grasping at the absent grip of his blade. If only my sword had been complete last night! I would utilize it now if I could, charged with my love for this victim, and I would violently fell his beastly rider! And what even is this unnatural spectacle before me?!
And as the Whale gnaesh his teeth and knelt in grating inaction, an armored sprint of footsteps began to crunch against the undergrowth in the thick woods. Quick as gold did an unanticipated knight run up to the bound beast, draw his longsword, and manage to slice a large leathern chunk from Renea’s cursed bridle before being kicked aside. Renea Simbelwak cackled in ecstacy, yet as the cut restraint fell away, the horse began to twist in reformation. The naked witch shrieked as she toppled from his back, impacting the leaf-strewn ground roughly, visibly withered and clutching her bruised hips as she gazed in wide-eyed hatred at the unexpected approach of the savior knight. Is he Sir Intuition? Or has Sir Palamander arriven before him? I cannot spy his livery in the dark. By the time the bridle had fallen to the earth, the horse had melted back into the shape of a man in the dark woods. Like Renea, he was as naked as the horse he had been.
This thin man, when he saw himself returned to pale human-form, began loudly to jump and gloat and caress his black mustachios laughing. “O the captive of you most unwisely chosen makes laughs at you now,” he hooted. “Oui oui, this is time of your a punishment, sorciere!” The naked victim was now hopping and dancing like a crazed person in the darkness.
When the fully-clad savior knight stood and entered into the light, Sir Moodye had an eye-full of the gold-and-scarlet livery evident upon his robe, and he knew him. “Sir Sallimaide!” he cried, bursting from his camouflage. The Knight of the Frog turned his head to see Sir Moodye rush into the clearing — and it was in this instant of distraction that the witch seized her chance. Scrambling, grunting, clawing and dragging herself through the dirt and dead leaves, Renea grabbed greedily at the enchanted bridle.
“Men most foul!” she spat with a voice of ice and lilies. “Now I am gone into the night!” And she thrust the magic raiment over her own face fixed with a wrinkled victory grin.
But her expression instantly changed: something was wrong. Her bones crunched and changed, she screamed, and her naked form twisted most gruesomely — when the Frog Knight’s blade had sliced a piece from the bridle its charm became malformed. Her wails transformed into a fearsome whinny, a cold call for suicide. For though horse-like had the witch become, she was a grotesque and misshapen representation of the animal. Her coat was darkly disheveled and stringy, her head was so swollen around bloody eyes that her lips were unable to meet, and dark saliva oozed from human teeth. Her shoulders were wide and bloated with muscle, yet from them grew a shrunken emaciated flank with human curves and legs resembling her own. The half-formed beast gurgled and grunted, foaming at the mouth, eyeing the men most scornfully. The fury of her mutation was so fearsome to behold that the naked Knight of the Lobster passed vomitus. Sir Moodye was held fast by sight of the abomination, and he fell to his knees praying to me the only mantra he could think of: “Wake up, wake up, please wake up,” but I was not ready to do so.
With her legs so now disjointed, the witch’s spry shapeshifting escape was not to be. Between forms, her powerful forelimbs could hardly support the weak human legs behind, and Renea Simbelwak’s gallop of victory was little more than a limping dragging disgrace. The misshapen beast loudly moaned the disgusting drooling utterances of her labour through human lips with a twisted horse’s tongue. She tried to pry the cursed bridle from her face, but was unable with the hooves of horse’s hands.
The pretend-knight still knelt in fright, cold in sweat, but through his horror he heard the comfort in Sir Sallimaide’s question: gleaming brand still drawn against the Witch Horse he asked, “Are the two of you alright?”
“Oui oui, my victory is shines within my breast, though my dinner stains a ground. Wait, non, who is this knight of so young who have interrupting us?”
“Indeed, Sir Moodye I am surprised to see you here. But we must discuss this later. What can we do about this moaning monster?”
“This is a jest you tell, O Sallimaide-fool?” The naked Lobster trotted over to the Frog and made as if to take the sword from his gauntlet. “For a suffering she made caused, both to a nice people of town and to O me myself, I make an end to her!” But his bold stroll toward Renea ceased in fear as the aberration turned her hideous visage upon the french knight and bellowed. A string of black drool spattered, staining Sir L’angoustier’s already-stained bare chest. Legs and belly all dripping with dark ooze, he felt faint and dropped to his unclad knees. Yet then through the gloom, conquering the shrill laments of the disfigured beast, there came a thrice-sounded hunting horn and the approach of giraffe-hooves distinctly.
Surrounding Renea Simbelwak on all sides apore then in the clearing three mounted knights in armor, beautiful in their glory, with lances all trained on that most loathsome of half-formed entities. Sir Intuition was there, along with Sir Palamander in his horned helm, and as for the third — his umber-and-scarlet livery marked him as the noble Knight of the Walrus.
Thus did Sir Charsus cry, “How fare you grounded knights? Has this old evil caused any harm? And — by whatever is holy — what is this form she is become?”
“No hurt have we yet suffered, O savior knights,” shouted Sir Sallimaide. “She appears as grim as you see her for the damaged essence of her bridle now is stuck upon her face.” The witch spun about on her awkward legs, bloody-eyed, screaming in a high horse’s whinny and glaring at the knights who held her fast between gleaming lances.
“It is tres bon that you Englishs have come, for we are now must kill this beast for a havoc she made raised! Look of how disgusting me is made to be!”
“Nay,” came the command from violet-and-argent Sir Palamander, “For to cause her death would be a feat more foul than those of her own doing. And what is her crime? That she was mistreated by her world and caused to lash out? Nay say I: the noble Walrus here has devised a way for her to atone.” And with that, the knights all dismounted, and approached Renea Simbelwak. With her large frightened eyes, she tried to light fires inside the hated knights.
Charsus gathered up a heavy satchel from his steed and carried it to the transformed witch, ordering, “Restrain her.”
It was with endless shrieking and weeping that the enraged Renea half-horse submitted to the violent deeds of her chastening: upon each hoof and human foot did the blacksmith knight nail an iron horse-shoe. The force of all five of the other knights was needed to hold her steady — including the unshelled mad-eyed Lobster Knight — and their task was no less ugly and no more horrifying than the task of Sir Charsus. The stench of the wailing witch was great, and her desperate throes wracked the armored and unarmored knights, especially at the moments when Charsus’ nails penetrated bloodily the soles of her unhooved feet. Yet the knights held fast as each of the witch’s extremities excruciatingly became shod at last.
When the blacksmith stood and wope his bloodied hands upon a rag, he motioned for Renea to be released. Everyone stood far back as the horse’s rage was unleashed upon them, yet she found that her wobbling tender steps were too painful to enact any revenge, and she folded her limbs and merely lay upon the ground, bellowing dense hatred and fear, and sorrow.
“The wounds will heal,” said Charsus, shivering in the chilly summer night.