*
XI
That same night, yet far from Darnestowne, a similar chill was in the air as the seasons changed. Umber-and-vert Sir Wander-Gogh lay sleepless in his bedroll and counted all the stars that spiraled and winked at him in the sublime depths of the blackest areas of space. He counted until the stars were numbered greater than those numbers that he knew, but he was still far from sleep and thus decided to take just a short walk in the forest. Sarah Bellum slept soft in her private bedroll nearby, and the Manta-Ray promised himself he would follow the path and return before she woke. This night the Manta-Ray wore only a baggy tunic and leggings, though he hung a sword instead of an axe from the thick leather belt slung low around his hips. The tip of the blade’s sheath swung about in looping lemniscates as he walked deeper and deeper into the wood away from her. The trunks of these trees grew tall and upright, and on each dark-leafed bough there bloomed tiny flowers of blue. And they seemed to glow softly and illuminate the forest just enough that Sir Wander-Gogh was able to see his way as if he were a prowling feline gifted with superior vision in the night. He approached one of the trees and ran his hand up its smooth bark. It was pale as silver, and it was cool to the touch of his barely gloved hands. His fingers closed around one small azure petal but when he plucked it from the tree its light immediately died. He rolled it in his fingers and travelled on. He had heard tell that the flowers of some plants could perform minor miracles such as softening the skin, curing fouled breath or — in the case of the fabled Hypercrenulum — return the soul of a man to life. His feet crunched on the dried leaves that darkened the forest floor below him.
As the Manta-Ray swam through the trees he felt the chill air fade away, and in its place he knew a thick humidity that settled into the fibers of his hair and in the roughness of his beard. The air smelled of salt and, very abruptly, the forest path deposited Sir Wander-Gogh into a wide field near the ocean. Startled, he turned and looked all about yet no remnant of the forest could he find. It dawned on him that he should have turned back before, and he grew sweaty and panicked, distraught over losing his way back to the defenseless damsel under his charge. The moon was just a grinning sliver. He counted his wandering footfalls through the open plains until at last his steps were numbered greater than he knew to count. After a long while he spied a camp, and examining it from afar he saw what seemed to be soldiers decorated for war.
When he approached their tents, the tense guards commanded him, “Halt! And who goes there? These are the camps of the king’s men. If you be foe, then I give you but one chance to flee before your end.”
“Now you halt. For I am Sir Wander-Gogh, the Knight of the Manta-Ray. I am certainly neutral in your conflict, though friendly. I have wandered far from my own camp, and wonder if I might query for directions. Where is the forest I passed through to arrive here? With silver trees and blue flowers. Whence does it lie?”
“What forest, madman? There is no forest for leagues: this be the coast of Cornwall! You seem to be a warrior, or well-equipped at least, that is why I do not run you through as a matter of course. If you have nothing to say and no aid to give, then depart.”
“I beseech you, turn me not away. For I feel sorrow creeping into me so late in the night.”
“Early morn I make it.”
“Then even further alas. I must deal with misplacing my forest and my charge, yet at the moment I have no more wind in me. Might sit down a while to rest, and might I gaze upon a map?”
The guard seemed sure of neither himself nor response, but a man dressed in crimson robes wearing a crown of golden then emerged from the battle tent, saying “Well met, Sir. I am the Sky King, Uther, rightful head of the Pendragon clan. My battle could use your aid if you are able to wield that sword you carry. We attack at dawn, still some few hours off. I will permit you both food and rest if you will fight for me at that time. If you endure the battle, then I shall show you my finest map.”
So Sir Wander-Gogh did kneel before Uther and say, “O King Uther, I do not know you. Yet in exchange for directions back to my charge, I pledge my sword to you this dawn.”
And Uther crossed him in the manner of Christianity, and when the Manta-Ray rose the king smirked cruelly and said “Of course, you shall battle among the front line. You have pledged already to me, and may not now withdraw.” Sir Wander-Gogh shrugged. His trial at the Castle Montrose having been cut short, this sort of fight already appealed. He was led to a war-rent tent that looked over the peninsula and out to the misty sea. Upon that finger of land was a towering fortress only barely visible in the fog. The king noticed Sir Wander-Gogh’s gaze and said, “That castle upon the well-defended peninsula is called Tintagel. It is the home of Gorlois — my enemy. When morning comes, it is there we march.”
Sir Wander-Gogh graciously accepted the seat that was offered to him, and removed his boots, but waved away the offered food. He casually inquired, “What has Gorlois done to mark him as your enemy?”
At this, cloud came over the Sky King’s face and he said, “I shall not null your agreement if I answer this question.” But Sir Wander-Gogh shrugged yet again, and Uther so explained, “His wife the lady Igraine is more beautiful than a rising sun, and I desire her more than anything else in this land. It is not meet that my subject should possess the most beautiful woman, and not offer her to me instead. As King, I deserve to own everything that exists. Therefore, in this rebellion against my will, Gorlois has insulted me and has divid my realm.” Sir Wander-Gogh inhaled longly through his nose, and stretched out his legs and repositioned his chair. He did not usually like to interfere in the business of others, but this king was mad-eyed, lust-broken, and somehow seemed as if sinister intention was easily worn. It was the combination of Uther’s seeming facets that tickled Sir Wander-Gogh’s beard the wrong way.
“This seems a silly scenario for strife, O King. Have you tried speaking with the lady about it? You may find her to be more receptive than you might think. Other than that, I cannot think how your victory could influence her choice. If we fight for only fun, then you may be upfront about it with me. I swear that I care not one drop.”
“Fun? You speak of fun when there is bleak battle on the morn? More the fool you, then. Gorlois has doubled their castle’s defenses, and my men are fearful of what may lay in wait there. At least I have now one soldier whose death I shan’t fret.” Sir Wander-Gogh sighed and Uther made to scrutinize his face, to detect whether this strange new knight might betray him, but discovered only that the Manta-Ray had become fast asleep.
* * *
The sun timidly peeked through the windows of Charsus’ loft the next morning, rousing all from sleep. Sir Moodye awoke stretching, feeling relief and relaxation wash over him like the buttered sun. There was no more witch to torment the people here, not any longer. When the Frog and the Lobster woke, they talked amongst themselves briefly before making Sir Sallimaide made an announcement. He first told of everything since the night that mysterious dream caused them all to part ways, then he related how Sarah Bellum and Sir Wander-Gogh decided to ride off together. Finally he made known his desire to rejoin bands instead of split them once more, that all knights present might travel from Darnestowne as one. They took inventory of the supplies Hadely had carried since the southern moors, and many musings were exchanged, and Sir Sallimaide told a mirthful tale introducing the Lobster Knight, and all wondered as to the whereabouts of the Sparrow and strange Hesaid Isee, and it was brave Sir Palamander who brought them all to sad bafflement by telling the tragic tale of the Peacock’s betrayal and escape.
Argent-and-umber Sir Intuition, who through the discussion had been silently tending to his wheezing father, now sprung up and confronted his fellow knights. “Alas,” he besought them, “wherefore should we journey on? What is the point? What is this quest all about? Will this frivolous errand King Bidgood randomly bestowed aid or augment our Cycle in any way? Yea, and what even is any of all this about?”
But the Frog Knight reprimanded him. “It is a knight’s duty to fulfill quests: with that knowledge you are well acquainted! Meeting the needs of the people is our duty. Take care not to glorify inaction, for down that way leads the path of darkness. Why do you shrink into yourself when you should reach out?”
“The king has sent us for some silly bauble! To find a simple wreath we must scour all of merry old England? Why should we not barter roughly for some facsimile at a shop? Perhaps even Charsus could demonstrate the subtleties of the branch-weaving art.”
“He told to us,” Sir Moodye remembered, “that the Wreath was meant to increase intelligence and cause the rebirth of the world.”
“Verily,” replied the Hart, “that was his claim. Yet what even is the meaning in that? who knows what our world might be, and why should it need to be reborn? This stench is of the breath of fools.”
Then it was that the Ram Knight waved his wrinkled fingers through the air as if testing the wind. Music and mirth filtered into the loft through the window. That silver-bearded Painter of Sendrago brayed, “Certainly the nature of our journey is a mystery, yet that does not imply it is not of import.”
“That fool of a king even told us he had dreamed the whole quest up!”
“And yet, Bidgood is the King of Dreams and he rules during the Dreaming Age in the Merry Land of Ancient England. There are mysteries we can never understand as we are — perhaps there are some mysteries that even God Him-and-Herself does not understand. And if the dreaming King Bidgood only understands what must happen and not why, that does not deter my determination to accompany you. I was not present for the inception of this quest, yet even Cycles have ends that must be joined together. I pledge my aid to you here, Sir Intuition, and I strive for what is right.”
“What would you know of ‘right?’” moaned the sore Hart, holding fast to Pater Obscurus. “You bade me do nothing after the murder of the prophets! I see now that they were not dear to you.”
“Every human life is dear!” bleat Sir Palamander. “Every one! Once I was forced to make a choice, to disregard revenge in order to save all souls… and yet, well, there is much of myself that I can not tell, but ’tis true upon my oath—”
Flame-bearded Sir Sallimaide here stepped between the heated knights with a flourish of his robes. “Enough!” He looked at them with wide amphibian eyes, daring them another utterance. “Now. If you are agreed that we must journey, then we must journey. There is much of the Merry Land left to search. We are dressed, we are prepared, we have saved this town! Rejoice! And let us descend now to meet with the hospitable Sir Charsus.”
The tension manifested as silence as they gathered their things from the loft. The Hart Knight was still fuming red, yet the Ram looked only sorrowfully at him. Thus did they head down to the workshop where they were met by a beaming blacksmith.
This time, he ceased the peals of his hammer to greet them. “Good morrow, fair knights! Surely the sun shines down blessed upon you, as it does for us all. Darnestowne is in your debt, O brave ones.”
“Nonsense,” spoke Sir Palamander. “It was your plan, after all, that caused the witch’s downfall.”
“Not so! I could never have fixed the iron shoes to her without aid. For many weeks I wondered how best to utilize them against her. And though I am sorry to say it, I believe that my horse-shoes were superfluous to Sir Sallimaide’s brilliant scheme of cutting the bridle. She now sulks about the woods, feeling in her feet the pain of those she bewitched. She may haunt our town but never again can she harm it.”
A look of indignance sprung across Sir L’angoustier’s face then, and he bawled, “Non, non, non! Now all will stop right here! This a plan of doing whatever-it-is-we-done was all of my ideas! For after all it was I who volunteered to be a one ridden by her oldness! What an awful and crazy creature, this Renea that is gone.”
The Frog Knight rolled his gelatinous eyes.
“It was an honorable punishment,” said Sir Moodye interrupting the Lobster’s mewlings, “yet still do I feel a sadness for her. Was this truly the best way to correct her witchcraft?” He felt compassion and kinship with her situation, for she was sad and unable to understand.
But Sir Sallimaide clapped a hand upon the Whale’s back and said, “It is dealt with, Sir Moodye, be at peace. It is true that she shall suffer in her current form and her memories will certainly haunt her — just as tales may haunt the children of this town of some fearsome beast roaming their woods — yet her faculties were too long gone for us to have restored them.”
“At least we managed not to kill her,” spoke Sir Intuition gruffly. “Not directly, at least.”
“Indeed,” nodded Charsus. “All of you, know that your deeds will be remembered here and you shall be held in high regard for as long as there is a Darnestowne, yea, and you shall be the moral of our stories. And now I have a thing just for you, O watchful Knight of the Whale.” And from a rack behind the forge did the blacksmith draw a shimmering longsword with a looping iron hilt. The grip was wrapped in charred leather, and the crosspiece was of entwined leviathans. There seemed a sort of prismatic effect when the blade caught the light, and in whole this thing of beauty was presented to the speechless Sir Moodye. He held it delicately in his hand, refracting a beam of sunlight, and admired it for so long and with such intensity that Charsus knew his work had been well done.
“I thank you, Knight of the Walrus. This sword is… I can hardly find the words,” choked Sir Moodye.
“Use it well,” was the smith’s reply. “For I know some small part at least of the great ardor of your travels, and I only hope this weapon shall serve your will. I imagine you all wish to take to the road now, and so I bid you endless farewells. I would wish to ride with you knights if my work did not keep me satisfied and stationary. The honor would be all mine if you would visit me again, if ever to Darnestowne you may ride.” And so all of them bowed low and thanked Charsus profusely for his great friendship and hospitality, and they prepared themselves to depart.
Yet it was then that Sir Intuition drew the black-wrapped Pater Obscurus closer to himself and solemnly announced, “Sorry am I to disrupt the festive atmosphere… yet I shall not travel with you.” All eyes were on him, all hearts stunned for a moment in time. “Much that we have accomplished recently, though great it has been, has weighed heavy upon my breast. The fall of the Peacock pierced me sorely, and when we arrove in Darnestowne I was so eager to find a world of goodness again that I nearly had us depart ere seeing the matter through. I am a hindrance to you knights. I am leaving.” The knights began a clamor to wash his worries aside, to keep him with them, but he gestured their voices away. “My father and I,” he said, “shall ride with you until we lose sight of the town, but then we mean to take our leave. Good-bye my friends… and I hope you discover what you seek. We shall seek it too — for I suppose we never in searching can cease — though our road lies along different leylines than your own.”
Violet-and-argent Sir Palamander smiled with the buds of tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, and replied, “Sir Intuition, in the short time I have known you, you have been a good friend. And while I am certain someone will find this Wreath of Reincarnation and it is of no great concern to me, I hope very much that you, too, find what it is you are seeking. Farewell my friend, I look forward to the possibility of our paths intersecting once more.”
And so it came to pass as the Knight of the Hart had foretold: when all had departed Darnestowne, he and Pater Obscurus upon one giraffe rode away from their companions into the hilly omens of mountains and the uncertainty of morning.
* * *
Yea, and morning wore on, yet it was highest noon when Yalishamba stopped Sir Elisa and Hesaid Isee in their riding at last. It had been a long way from the smoldering storm-clouds of the Sylvian Fissure, but the wizard had insisted upon their unbroken travel until they were long gone from that unnatural gash in the land. They now stood at a split in their path some ways into a pale forest, leading their giraffes by the reigns to let them rest from their several days’ journey. The trees here were thin and reaching, possessed of pale bark upon which the feathers of Yalishamba’s vestments began to spew prismatic light. Without warning he halted, spun his feathered cloak of swans and geese with a billowing gesture, and bowed low before his companions. He began deep in his throat a strange lilting song, and his voice was slurred again as if his mind could not quite find the shapes of the words.
Onward!
The knowledge of your strange speech is known to me now,
Somewhat,
So come and I shall lead you where
You must already have been.
Yet my journey has yet to begin
And now you fellows must depart my company
Just as I join with you.
Why do your comings and goings seem opposed to mine?
Wherefore do you say ‘farewell’ when I have said ‘hail?’
I say ‘yea,’ you say ‘nay;’ I say stop as you wish to away!
O despair…
Yet despair not —
Once shall I tell you
Once I have told you
Of the sleeping Silver Spring.
And now do I bring you this gift:
One of the two keys
And may you find the other on your journeys
To where I have been.
Take yourselves of this jar.
And the Magician of Time produced from beneath his feathered cloak a clear glass vessel just larger than his head. It was completely spherical with a small opening in the top, and when it was laid sparkling in the dew all the colors of Yalishamba’s clothing danced within its mystifying hollow transparency. Beneath the skins of the grisly swans and geese a glimpse of soiled garb caught Sir Elisa's knightly eyes. For some reason, the magician was wearing mottled knights’ robes! It was only a brief glimpse, and the filthy robes were unclear, yet the Sparrow was nearly certain that just for one fragmented moment he spied livery that might mark a man as a Whale Knight. He looked to Hesaid's face for understanding, yet that woodsy mystic was entranced by the spell that Yalishamba was weaving over the hollow glass sphere. In another instant, the wizard had shifted and his feathered cloak covered all. Lilting spell-craft began again to echo all about the pale wood, and the Sparrow struggled to comprehend the words of it.
Take of this glass and find that which it shall encompass.
O mysterious glass, even I know little of its nature.
I must now lead you away from Sarah Bellum’s side
To show you strange lands where time and space are wrong,
O it has been so long.
Glad am I to have found you;
Here have I found you at last!
Hceeps ym tfihs tsum I O
Elbadnatsrednu I ma?
Rees dna regnis!
Uoy erofeb dezilairetam evah I
Ti enod evah I O!
Upon completion of what the others assumed were the words of an eldritch incantation, the colors of Yalishamba’s vestments began to glow more and more colorful and reflected off the empty glass sphere he’d bestowed upon them until all became too bright to see, and the knight and the mystic and the squire were forced to shut their eyes against the exploding rainbow. Sir Elisa chanced a glance through his lowered visor and was able to catch fleeting sight of Yalishamba’s form walking backwards, facing them, vanishing into a beam of sunlight on the hill. And when the blinding bright died down enough to see somewhat, the travelers found no ragged old wizard before them in the pale wood — but the camp of a bewildered white-gowned maiden muddled and muddied and all alone in the wilderness.