Knight of the Quest
Nay!” Gawain shouted, “I told you! It is the vessel of the Last Supper!”
“And I tell you,” Lancelot repeated almost patiently, “it is the vessel that held Christ’s blood from the Cross—”
“Might could be both,” Percival pointed out. He stood a little apart, looking down over the spring countryside spread all green below.
Newly awakened, the three hungry, unarmed Knights had been rolling up cloaks and packing saddlebags when this dispute broke out. Lancelot’s Fey Mell had gone scouting for food. Percival remarked sourly to himself that the Fey made by far the most useful travel companions.
Gawain turned on him. “And you, Percival? What did you say it was?”
Percival shrugged. “A magic vessel. It brings forth honeycakes and other food, according to—”
Lancelot snatched up a stick by his feet and broke it in two. “Magic! By St. George! I haven’t quested through the winter for any magic—”
“You haven’t quested at all,” Gawain broke in. “You’ve drifted along in a royal dream of—”
Lancelot swung half his stick at Gawain’s head.
Gawain ducked and sprang on Lancelot.
Lancelot beat Gawain’s sides with both sticks.
“Here!” Percival dived in between them. Lancelot cudgeled, Gawain wrestled him. “Hey!” He gasped as they crashed to earth in a flailing pyramid. “Ho!” As they rolled halfway down hill. “Hey-ho!” As they lay in a panting heap.
Percival opened squinting eyes.
Boots stood before his nose. Looking up the boots, he found Fey Mell smiling down, close-mouthed. Over one shoulder Mell held a bulging sack.
“Food!” Percival pushed a knee off his chest and sat up. “Here is our magic grail, Sirs. Bringing forth food according to our desires.”
The other two sat up and disentangled.
Softly, Mell remarked, “Hungry man, angry man.”
“Man?” Lancelot rose to his knees. “Me, I turned back into a boy!”
“What came over us?” Gawain wondered, standing up shakily.
“Starvation,” Lancelot decided. “Show us your wares, Mell. We’ll talk later, on full stomachs.”
Later, last crumb and scrap devoured on the hilltop, they talked.
Gawain said, “Seems to me we’re questing for three different things.”
Percival: “Which we don’t even know what they are. Could be a cup, a dish, a bowl. Supposed to be made of gold—”
Gawain: “But from what I’ve heard of Our Lord, His life, more likely is horn or wood.”
Mell finger-talked to Lancelot. Percival watched and understood, more or less.
“Oh, aye.” Sadly, Lancelot translated. “If the grail is magic, we each have an equal chance to find it. But if it is holy; if it has to do with Our Lord the Christ, then I’m out of the running.”
Gawain admitted, “I’d thought of that.”
Percival had not. “Why?” He asked his friend. “Why are you out of the running?”
Gawain and Lancelot looked away, downhill. Mell signed to Percival, Queen.
Queen. Gwenevere. Sin. Oh, aye.
A short silence fell among them, which Lancelot broke. “You might do better without me.”
Gawain said, “Could be, we’d do better each alone. Each on his own merits.”
Percival nodded. All winter an uneasiness had followed him like a cold shadow. What would his companions say if they knew why he sought the Holy Grail? Keeping this secret had taught him something about Humanity. He had learned some caution, suspicion, judgment, to keep some distance between himself and his close friends. If he himself kept such a secret, why, maybe they kept their own secrets!
He asked Lancelot, “But why did you come on this quest at all?” This long, deprived, winter quest! “You thought the grail was holy from the first.”
Lancelot opened his mouth to answer, and closed it.
Mell signed across him to Percival, Find grail. Prove no sin.
Goddamn!
In high, stiff language, Lancelot proclaimed their silent decision. “Let us now ride apart, questing each his own Holy Grail. But swear we now brotherhood forever, together or apart.”
And so it came to pass.
Percival rode his red charger downhill and away, baggage behind saddle, sword and lance at side and Bee Sting under belt.
Lili had left it for him. Waking after their quarrel, he had found it in her place on the floor. He knew she had not simply forgotten it. This was her last gift to him, and he treasured it as such. Also, though not at all Knightly, Bee Sting remained his favorite weapon.
Once more, Percival found himself transformed. Before this he had thought his goal reached, only to rise, surprised, to a new height. Now at last, he felt himself truly a questing Knight—totally alone between spring earth and sky, without even Lili’s Victory ring to help him!
Now my victories will be all my own! No ring, no spells, no magic, no friends, can steal the glory that will be mine!
Lo, here I am.
Slowly he entered Lord Gahart’s known fields. He let the red plod quietly along, gazing about him at fields and fold, herd and plowed earth, wondrously delighted. So might a worthy soul enter Heaven.
“Go! Bring me here a golden ring
And set it on his finger.
Put satin slippers on his feet
And bid him bide and linger
The while you kill the fatted calf
My son was lost; he’s found again!
Let harper play, let jester laugh.
My son was dead; he lives again.”
So sang the minstrel in Gahart’s Hall; and so was it done for Percival. Robed richly again, ale flagon in hand, he sat at Gahart’s right hand while cudgellers, boxers, and wrestlers competed; nor was he asked to compete, himself. All these contests he watched intently, squinting against firelight. These were the men he would one day command.
Late at night, a servant escorted him outside the hall to a small wicker bower built in a small pear orchard. Pear blossoms scented the air and drifted down like snowflakes, shadows across the full moon.
The bower contained a wide soft bed, lamp stand, bench, and chest. Left alone, Percival laid robe on bench and armor on chest. He blew out the lamp and stretched gratefully, naked, on the bed.
Lili came to him.
“Where have you been?” He asked her, making room in bed.
She slipped in beside, against, and entwined with him. She embraced him and breathed down his neck.
He asked her, “Shall we play our game you showed me?”
Her little fingers tingled his skin. Manhood stirred like a sleepy snake.
But at the same time, “Wait!” Percival caught her hand, held it still. For a long time he had been without Lili, and without the protection of her Powers. Of necessity, his senses had sharpened. Now it was he who whispered, “Someone…comes.”
Someone breathed outside the bower; someone touched the leather curtain at the entrance.
Fey Lili vanished.
Percival sat bolt upright, dream-dazed eyes wide. His fingers sought wildly across the bed for the Bee Sting he always kept close.
He had left it aside. On bench? On chest?
Someone lifted the leather curtain. Full moonlight shone in the opened space. Dark against silver light, a small, slight figure crept within.
Crept in, besides, pear-blossom scent, and another, overwhelming scent, such a scent as to wake body and render soul unconscious.
Percival sighed relief. No need for Bee Sting.
The leather curtain dropped into place, cutting off moonlight. In darkness, a robe rustled as the small person tugged and drew it off. Now her perfume filled the place of air in the bower.
Pale in the dark, she glided to him, bent to him, whispered, “Did I wake you, Sir Percival?”
And Percival remembered Lili’s angry words. Who will keep the women off you? They’ll eat you alive.
Rejoicing, he grabbed the pale, warm figure, pulled her onto the bed, crushed her in arms far too long empty. Rolling with her, he nuzzled a wave of scented hair aside and growled in her ear, “Eat me alive!”
She giggled delightedly. “That I will, Sir!” And fell to.
Not for long were they on the bed. Somehow they found themselves on floor rushes. Sometime later, Percival sat on the bench. The girl came onto his lap. Straining to enter her, for the first time he saw her; long pale hair; childish, honeycake breasts; huge eyes reflecting silver moonlight.
Moonlight?
Percival’s hair rose. Manhood fell.
A bear snarled in his ear—one deep, deadly snarl, quickly swallowed.
Moonlight flooded through the entrance where the leather curtain had been ripped away.
Bear-big, clad in a linen nightshirt, Gahart stood over Percival. Moonlight glinted harsh on a sword gripped in his left paw, a dagger in his right.
With a stifled cry the girl slid from Percival’s lap to the floor.
“Ruin my girl, will you?” Gahart grunted. “God’s teeth! Ruin you!”
He drove the dagger into Percival’s naked right shoulder.
But I’m unarmed!
Percival felt the blow impact. He felt warm blood gush, but no pain.
Round Table Knights don’t attack—
“You’re hound food!” Gahart yanked out the dagger and raised his sword.
The girl knelt up, reached both hands, caught Gahart’s sword wrist and hung on.
Percival sprang up and seized Gahart’s dagger wrist. For some reason his right arm would not work. With only his weakening left hand he held Gahart’s dagger away from his heart.
From the floor the girl muttered, “Father!”
Gahart rumbled, “Him first. You next.” He managed to slash Percival’s right arm and side. Holding feebly to Gahart’s wrist, Percival felt each slash, and warm blood erupt, but no pain.
“Father,” the girl said, clearer, “I’ll scream.”
If Percival had the strength, he would laugh.
Strangely, Gahart stepped back away. Stranger, he gave off stabbing Percival’s right side. Wondering, Percival hung on to Gahart’s sword wrist with all his fast-ebbing strength.
“Father,” she’d said.
Goddamn! Gahart’s daughter. Lili told me.
Daughter. Stray words from his new education flashed like lightning through Percival’s head. “Sin”…“obligation”…“duty”…“rights.” “Daughter.”
Holy Michael, I’m in the wrong! He’s caught me like a thief in his treasury.
“Father,” the girl said, wrestling with Gahart for control of his sword. “I’ll scream. I’ll wake them all up. They’ll all know. Father, let him go!”
Panting, Gahart turned back to Percival, who still gripped his dagger wrist. “Goddamn you, go! Before—”
Blood flowed warmly down Percival’s right side. He muttered, “Arms. Clothes…”
“Go. Now.”
But. What happens to Ranna? That’s her name. Knight of the Round Table must protect the weak. Even the guilty weak?
“I’ll go now, Sir. But don’t kill her.”
“You argue with—”
“I’ll scream—”
Once more, this silly threat weakened Gahart. He growled to Percival, “You come back, kill you.” His teeth glinted like daggers. “Only way you come back, with Holy Grail.”
“I’m going. But don’t—”
“I get grail, you get girl. Girl for grail. Get it?”
So. He won’t kill her.
Percival glanced at her past Gahart’s trembling, thirsty dagger. Face whiter than moonlight. Eyes like empty platters.
She must know her father. Maybe…maybe all this has happened before!
Percival gasped, “Sir, I’m letting go. I trust in your word.”
“God’s balls, man, go!”
Percival let go of Gahart’s dagger wrist.
Gahart lost balance and staggered back.
Swift and smooth like a Fey, naked Percival ducked out of the bower into moonlit orchard.
***
Naked Percival slumped over his horse’s neck.
As soon as he escaped from Gahart’s sword and dagger, his wounds began to hurt. Percival had little experience with pain, but instinct told him that soon this hurting would cloud his mind and fill his world.
Quickly, while he could still think, he made for the stable where his red charger was stalled. Thank blessed Mary! If he were out to pasture, I could never catch him.
He had neither strength nor time to saddle the horse. He bridled and led it outside, then climbed up from the mounting block. Out of here…away…
The red was used to spurs and whip. Feeble kicks from naked heels barely moved it along the track. Now and then it would stop and graze; and Percival, fainting into its mane, would wake and kick and haul on the reins till it moved on. We must be past Gahart’s border…Pray God we’re past his border…
Through the night they plodded, through fields, along forest tracks, past herds and flocks. Percival sank into a sea of pain and dreams. His right side seemed paralyzed. He could not lift that arm. He ached up and down and deep inside. His muscles contracted, bunched and rippled, as if to shake off pain. Now and then blood leaked down his side, warm against shivering skin. He could scarcely breathe for the fire of pain in his ribs.
Light came around them. Dawn.
The red stopped; lowered its neck—Percival almost slid down over it—and burbled. Drank.
Water. We’re standing in water…if I could drink…if only I could drink…but I’d never get back up here.
Percival hung on to the red’s mane, slumped, and dreamed.
He dreamed a dawn-bright lake, reeds, teal, and geese flying up in flocks before the charger’s wading hoofs.
He dreamed a boat bobbing, not far out in the lake—gaily painted, blue and red; one fisherman, about to toss a net, stood in the boat.
Lili held the red’s bridle. Lili, you’re here! When I need you, you’re here!
She waved to the fisherman in the boat.
He sat down, took up oars, and turned the boat.
Help. Help coming.
Percival dozed till he heard the boat grind ashore. Feet splashed. A man’s voice asked, “What ails you, son?”
Percival almost awoke. The fisherman stood at the charger’s head—an old man, gray-bearded. He took hold of the bridle; and strangely, the charger permitted this. Tame as a plow horse, it neither shook head nor arched neck nor stamped warning.
Percival took burning breath to murmur, “She’ll tell you…”
“Who?”
Fey Lili had disappeared. As always.
Barely awake, Percival stared down into a familiar face. Calm. Concerned. Kingly.
“What ails you that you ride all bare like this…” Kind gray eyes widened. “Holy saints, you’re hurt! That wound…We must get you to the boat.”
The old man came around the horse’s side and lifted fatherly arms to help Percival down.
Fatherly arms…first ever…
Fainting, Percival fell into them.
***
Strong arms.
They raised and held Percival against a broad, warm breast. Cool water dribbled between parched lips. Blessed water! He swallowed, then gulped. Slowly, the arms laid him down again.
Alanna.
She bent above him, grave and strong. Not weeping, earnestly, she looked him over, and did not weep.
Strange. Before, you wept. No reason. Now you weep not?
Alanna laid a quieting hand on his good, left shoulder and murmured, “Sleep, son.” He slept.
Later, he felt his left side bathed. Firm, damp pats cleansed and cooled from shoulder to ankle. He waited for his right side to burst into pain like fire; but something held it still, constrained, unmoving, and dulled pain.
He slit eyes open to see a gold-haired boy child sponging his left foot: heel, arch, toes, between the toes. See how he droops, poor brat! That iron collar too heavy. Much too heavy. He’ll grow crooked.
Percival’s right shoulder ached as though weighed down with iron. He closed his eyes to shut out pain.
While the child dried his foot he asked himself, Who am I?
In and out of darkness, alone and during treatments, he asked himself, What is that gentle, constant noise? And who am I who hears it?
Pain diminished; answers rose like fish in the dark pool of his mind.
I am a body in pain. I am a soul in pain. A forest Fey?
No. That one’s wrong.
I am a…Knight. Of the Round Table. Yes.
Aha! Arthur has no better Knight than me, I…Percival. Yes.
And that noise in my ears? That street noise. Heard in town streets…
Pictures glowed out of darkness. He saw himself all in red, on a great, red horse. He saw a Knight armed all in red, wait for him with drawn sword. But he only used the hilt on me. He thought I was harmless…
He saw his poisoned dart in the Knight’s astonished eye.
Who is this friend I drink with? Richly robed. And I myself, richly robed.
Dark girl. Small, Tender. Sets a ring on my finger. “Victory,” she says. “Her name is Victory.”
All these things I have lost. Red armor. Drinking companion. Girl. This last loss the heaviest.
I was Arthur’s Best Knight. Now I lie here wounded, in pain (though much less pain than before!), like an ordinary Knight. An ordinary Man.
I am a Man.
And that noise goes on and on! You hear that in streets, near huts, wherever there are men…
I am a Man, one of the Human horde. I am made of flesh and muscle, bone and blood, and all of them hurt. I have made other men hurt; and now, goddamn, it’s my turn!
My guardian loved and protected me. She’s gone. I lost her, and everything else.
What is that chatter? And, Angel Michael! Where am I now?
Percival awoke.
He lay as in bonds, his right side trussed and bandaged, on straw in a small, neat hall. The fire pit in the middle held only glowing embers. Summertime, it is!
Sleeping mats and chests stood against wooden walls. A rough table with stools, a settle, a bench, furnished the hall—and in one corner, a small table covered by a tapestry.
Burning lamp. Covered dish. Horn grail. Aha! Mass altar.
A holy man, a Christian hermit, lives here.
Naturally. Who else would save me?
Slowly, Percival turned his head left, toward the source of light. If I can turn the rest of me…
He managed to roll halfway over toward the light. Herbs crackled and warmth oozed under bandages. That’s salve, I’ll be bound. Not blood.
Summer light poured through great, wide-open doors. Like Arthur’s doors at King’s Hall! And there’s the noise, itself…
Hens minced in and out of the doors to cleanse their feathers in a sand hollow just inside. “Bathing,” they clucked and gurgled contented conversation.
Wondering about that noise kept me here in this world!
Beyond, broad bright water winked in sunlight. In the shallows bobbed a red-and-blue boat. Ashore, spread fishing nets dried.
A shadow moved in the doorway. Clucking hens scampered out of its way as it entered. Percival almost rose on his left elbow.
Mug in hand, the hermit came to his side, a brown-robed, bald graybeard with a familiar face.
“Think you can drink this yourself? I’ll hold you up.”
Familiar strong arms raised Percival. Sitting up, hurtfully, he held the mug himself.
“My name is Father Fisher,” the hermit said in his ear. “Call me ‘Father.’”
Resting between sips, Percival croaked, “Have you been caring for me, Father?”
“Cedric and I.”
Cedric. “Slave-collar boy?”
“Aye.”
“Collar…too heavy.”
“I can’t file it off with these hands.” Percival glanced down at the gnarled, swollen hands locked at his waist.
“Thank you, Father.” Percival drained the mug. A new sensation opened like a trapdoor in his gut. “I am hungered!”
“Aha! We’ve been waiting to hear you say that!”
The first nourishment Cedric brought to Percival was a bowl of white liquid. Thirsty for ale, Percival gazed suspiciously down into the white drink. “What’s this?”
Cedric looked surprised. “Milk, Sir.”
“Milk? What babes live on?” Horrible milk that peasants drink.
“Father says you drink it, Sir.”
“Aaargh!” Unwilling, Percival sniffed at the milk. “Ugh!”
“Father says it will heal you.”
“Ah?” Heal me? Then it is medicine. No surprise if it smells cursed.
“He says, drink that, and you get to eat.”
Eat!
Percival lifted and drained the untasty stuff in one decisive motion.
His reward was a smidgen of hard bread with fish. The fish was delectable.
In the following days his meals remained the same—bread, eggs, and fish, with herbs. But he received a bite more each time, till at last his wooden trencher arrived full and overflowing. And each time, he was obliged to drain a bowl of milk. He grew used to that.
The first walk Percival took was to the Mass altar in the corner.
He had stood up before, dragged on a patched linen tunic, and hobbled around his straw bed, with help. This time he rose up and dressed alone. Fixing his gaze on the Mass altar, he set out to reach it.
Father Fisher’s hall had been built long ago for gentle living; but now the altar, with its bright vessels and tapestry, was the only touch of wealth and rank left. Percival had lain in bed long enough, wondering at it. Now it offered a goal, an incentive, to move his pain-frozen muscles.
Get close enough to see the tapestry. Then I’ll quit.
Left foot, right foot, ahhhgrrr! Left foot. Right foot. Uuuuh!
Up close, panting, right side aching fiercely, he leaned against the wall.
Just see…What I came for…Tell Father what I see. Prove I came this far.
Much of the tapestry was hidden under horn grail, covered dish, or lamp.
If I could move this stuff…
Nay! Christ Himself lives on this altar.
Every morning at sunup, Father Fisher said his Mass here. He broke the rough bread Cedric baked, blessed it, and turned it into Christ Himself. Cedric would bring Percival his share, and the three of them partake. What might be left went back into the covered dish. Goddamn, can’t touch that!
Reverently, then, and painfully, Percival bent to see what he could of the mysterious tapestry.
White fallow deer pranced all along the golden border among flowers larger than themselves.
Look on top. Under the sanctuary lamp.
Under the lamp walked a tall, willowy maiden carrying a…Don’t touch the lamp!…a burning candle.
Behind her, mostly under the covered dish that holds Christ Himself! a second maiden carried a…spear. Dripping blood, goddamn!
The blood dripped handily into the huge, gold-thread cup grail held up by a third maiden. Must be heavy for her as Cedric’s collar! The three moved as in a dance, or procession. Jewels winked thick as snow-flakes in their flowing hair and gowns.
Seen it! Can describe it.
Percival would have fallen, but hands seized his elbows from behind and held him up.
He gasped, “Didn’t touch a thing, Father.”
“That’s well. Can you make it back to bed like this?”
“Give me your arm…”
Safely back on his pillows, Percival asked about the tapestry. “King Arthur has nothing grander in his hall!”
“It’s very old. Been in my family for generations.”
“Looks new!”
“That’s because of the air.”
“Air?”
“This is a sacred spot, son. All things do well here. I myself am older than you might think. Anywhere else, my Cedric would have died of his injuries. I found him hurt worse than you! Anywhere else, you yourself would have died.”
“I know it is your healing Power—”
“Not so much mine, as that in the air. Our holy air is healing you this moment. Before long you will stand and walk outside with me. By Saint Peter! Before long, I’ll take you out in my Josephus!”
“Josephus?”
“My boat. We’ll go fishing!”
True to the father’s word, a few days later Percival stepped among fluttering chickens out the great doors and into sunshine.
There stretched the lake, almost as far as he could see. There rocked the blue-and-red boat, Josephus, on breezy wavelets. Swan and teal winged windily over reeds. Farther along the shore, a great red horse grazed beside a brown goat. Both animals moved free as the wind, untrammeled by hobbles or halters.
Father Fisher cupped his gnarled hands and honked, “Ru-uu-udy! Ho, Ru-u-u-udy—Oh!”
The red horse lifted its head and looked toward Father Fisher. It turned toward him. Goddamn! He’s coming! It came at a trot. Close and closer the red horse trotted, earth echoing its hoofbeats. It came up to Father Fisher and dropped its nose into his hands.
“Should have brought some bread for him. Wait for your bread, Rudy. Stand.”
Father Fisher went back inside the hall.
Percival stared, unbelieving, at the red charger he had never named, this friendly creature he had never befriended. Rudy looked fatter and calmer now than Percival had ever seen him, although ungroomed.
The brown goat trotted up beside Rudy, full udder swinging.
Father Fisher reappeared, bread for both animals in his hands. Feeding them, he said to Percival, “Nanny’s milk healed you, along with the air.”
Nanny. The brown goat gave the medicinal milk Cedric had brought twice a day.
“He thanks you,” Father Fisher told the goat. “Though he won’t say the words, he thanks you.” To Percival he said, “Look out at the island.”
Island? Ah, yes. That little smudge out near the middle. Rocks and three trees.
“That is our Holy Isle.”
“Holy?”
“As Nanny here gives milk, so Holy Island gives blessed Power. You can see the oaks?”
“I see three trees.”
“Oh, to have young eyes! Mine can barely make out the island, itself. Those trees mark a spring of holy water that rises from the depths of the earth. The water flows down three narrow streams into the lake and sanctifies the lake. The lake sanctifies the air around it. This Power is healing you, Son.”
Percival drew a deep breath of holy air. Gratefully, painlessly, his lungs took it in. Something is healing me. Why not this air?
Lili would believe it. No question.
***
Percival and Father Fisher rowed close past Holy Isle. Evening light glowed in the lake. Holy Isle’s three ancient oaks shone golden.
The father’s aged hands could still cast a net, if not mend it. Two nets drifted behind the red-and-blue Josephus. Father Fisher rowed slowly, patiently. Percival could not row until his side mended entirely. Meantime, Father Fisher’s arms worked harder than his hands. And those arms still retained a quiet strength, a shadow of youthful might.
“Father, what makes the spring on Holy Isle holy?”
Lili would say it was holy because it comes out of Mother Earth, Father Fisher will say something else entirely.
The father rowed slowly. “A druid told me the spring is the Goddess’s footprint.”
“What do you say, Father?”
“When my ancestor, blessed Joseph of Arimathea came here, he drove his staff into the earth at that spot. Maybe the spring rose up then. Maybe the spring was already here. But his staff sanctified it. My ancestor Joseph sanctified this place.”
“He built your hall on the shore?”
“Nay. The hall is no more than a hundred years old. But Joseph’s blood has lived here since the time of Our Lord.”
“How has your family shrunk so small, Father?”
Sigh. “Daughters wed far away. Sons killed in battle. Children dead. Diseases, mischance. Blessed Joseph has sons enough, but in far places.”
“Now at this lake you have Good Folk, instead of relations.”
Percival meant this remark to encourage and cheer; but Father Fisher paled, and dropped an oar splash! into the lake.
Percival reached after it. Instant pain brought him up short. The hermit fished it back with the other oar. He shipped both oars in the boat, crossed himself broadly and rested. Holy Island swam slowly away behind them.
“Have no fear, son. This place is far too holy for…those you mentioned.”
“This morning before Mass I stepped outside. A small, dark girl was bathing downshore. She vanished clean away while I blinked.” (Percival had signed to her, as Lili had taught him. Yet she chose to vanish.)
The Father wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his robe. “Your young strength returns, with all its wants. These wants appear to you as a bathing girl.”
“I have few such wants, Father.”
“Is that so?”
“They say I am made of ice. But you know, the Good Folk are much cleaner than us Humans. They do love to bathe. And I did see her!”
The Father gurgled politely—not disagreeing, not yielding.
“That is not all. The other day I spied a small brown face under a small brown cap. It watched from under a willow branch as we rowed past. Then it vanished. Now why would I daydream such as that?”
“Believe me, son; we have no such folk here.”
“You might be wise to leave bread and milk for them on the doorstone. Or they may rob you.”
Father Fisher ground his teeth. “Such would never dare come so near my altar, and that which sanctifies it!”
Calm him! Be ashamed that you have disturbed him! “You must be right about that, Father. For they have not robbed you.”
“Why are you so interested in…them?”
Percival hesitated. Never have I told this to any, even to my friends.
But I can trust the father. If not, where in the world can I trust?
“I grew up in a Fey forest, among them. They should have been my folk. But they rejected me.”
The hermit crossed himself. He leaned forward. Slowly, he drew the whole story from Percival while they drifted, their nets dragging heavy behind the boat.
At last the father decided, “You need spiritual counsel more than healing! That must be why God brought you here to me.”
Percival heaved a sigh like a sob.
“Son.” The hermit laid a hand on Percival’s knee. “What ails you?”
“Nothing ails me now, Father. Thanks to you.”
“I speak not of your wound, which I know. I speak of your sorrow. A steady, lasting sorrow, too much for so young a man.”
I have told him so much already!
Percival looked at evening light fading from the lake; at a new moon poised over the hall, where Cedric had just lit a small fire to guide them in. I love this place.
I love this man.
He took a deep breath and confessed. “Father, all my life I have looked at the sky. But never once has the sky looked back at me.”
With all his age and wisdom, can he understand that?
Father Fisher’s troubled face cleared. He leaned back away, took up his oars, and bent to row.
“For that, I have a cure.”
I knew he would!
“What cure, Father?”
“Midnight tonight. New moon. Pentecost season. We’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
“The holiest, most sacred healing. The highest act possible to Humankind. Pull the nets closed, Percival. Not even trying, we’ve caught enough.”
***
Midnight.
Sleepy Cedric and eager Percival waited at the table. Father Fisher brought a white cloth from a chest and spread it on the table. On this he placed a small stoppered bottle and the covered dish from the altar. He left the cover aside, revealing sacred, consecrated bread crumbs within.
What is this, a Midnight Mass?
Back at the altar, Father Fisher hesitated. He bowed deeply, then stretched a hand toward the horn-cup grail.
We’ve never used that at Mass.
Father Fisher drew back his hand. He stood contemplating the horn grail. He bowed to it again, and took it up, two-handed.
Cedric yawned aloud and shrugged at his iron collar. Almost, he stretched; but a sharp poke from Percival startled him back awake.
The hermit sat down with them and set the grail in their midst. Raising prayerful hands and eyes he intoned, “Brethren, behold the grail of Christ’s Last Supper.”
The grail of Christ’s Last Supper…What did Gawain say?
Shiver.
“This grail stood at Our Lord’s right hand when He said, ‘This is my blood—’”
Trembling, Percival gulped lumpy spit.
“…This grail carried the wine that first became His blood—”
Percival could no longer silence himself. “You say this is the Holy Grail itself?”
Pausing in his recital, Father Fisher turned an annoyed face toward Percival. “No, I did not. I said, ‘Brethren, behold the grail—’”
“Of the Last Supper! This is the grail for which the Round Table quests! The grail for which I quest!”
Father Fisher lowered his hands. They nested protectively around the grail. “Listen, son. My ancestor, blessed Joseph of Arimathea, brought this grail here and handed it down, a sacred trust, to his descendants in this place—of whom I am the last. For I have no son, and Joseph’s children are scattered.”
“Father!” Percival stammered, “Give this Holy Grail to me for King Arthur, the greatest king in the world! In his hands it will be safe and venerated.”
The hermit sighed. Slowly, loudly, he insisted, “This is not the Holy Grail for which you quest.”
“You said, the Last Supper—”
“Holy as it is, this is yet a material, earthly grail, made of humble horn.”
“As to that, Arthur will not mind that it is not gold! How could it be gold, if Christ Himself—” Percival had wondered that, before. Certainly, this ancient horn vessel, nearly transparent from wear, totally unadorned, looked nothing like the Holy Grail he had expected.
But then, what did? As Lili had pointed out, a “grail” could be a cup, or a dish, or a platter, or a wide bowl. And if Christ had used it on His penniless wanderings, it could hardly be crusted with jewels. Come to think, it would much more likely look—
Firmly, Father Fisher shook his head. His fingers tightened defensively on the base of the grail. “The Holy Grail for which Knights quest will never be found.”
“Goddamn! It sits right here on this table—”
“Sir Percival!”
The mild hermit’s voice flashed a steel edge. Percival drew back, marveling at himself. Even Cedric jerked awake from his doze and sat up almost straight under his collar.
“We three are gathered here to perform the highest healing service under Heaven, purely for the good of your immortal soul.”
Abashed, Percival bowed his head.
More gently, “This grail of the Last Supper is a holy, sacred healing tool, the most powerful in the world. It belongs to Joseph’s kin. Sir Percival, look you not upon it with greed, avarice, or ambition!”
Percival’s trembling hands still twitched uncontrollably toward the grail. He clasped them hard under the table.
“Now. Where was I? I must begin again. Interrupt me not again.”
Percival nodded acquiescence.
“And you, Cedric, stay awake. We need your prayers, the prayers of a child. ‘Suffer the little children…’”
Cedric bobbed on his bench to stay awake.
Father Fisher drew the grail closer to himself, away from Percival. Again he raised prayerful hands and eyes to Heaven. “Brethren, behold the grail of Christ’s Last Supper…”
Recitation finished, the Pater Noster said, a long poem intoned in Latin (which Percival was beginning to understand), the hermit poured ale from the stoppered bottle into the grail.
Cedric made a face, then clapped his hands over his mouth.
Well. This is the first ale I’ve seen here. Cedric isn’t used to it…
The father took a pinch of consecrated bread crumbs from the dish, then passed it to Cedric. Cedric took his pinch, and passed the holy vessel to Percival. Reverently, he consumed the last crumbs and replaced the dish in the center.
The father picked up the grail in both hands and drank. He wiped a slightly soured expression from his mouth with his sleeve, and leaned to present the grail to Cedric’s lips…and then across to Percival. Firmly held by the hermit’s two hands, the Holy Grail approached Percival’s lips. Aaaagfh! The worst ale Percival had ever smelled or tasted slid down his throat. He nearly made a Cedric-face, himself.
The Holy Grail returned to the table, closer than before to the father’s elbow. Father Fisher bowed his head, finished a silent prayer, and smiled around the table. “There.”
“Are we done, Father?”
“For now.”
“But…we do this every morning!”
“Now, my son, it is your turn to work holy magic.”
Magic?
“It is for you now to sleep, here at this table.”
Sleep?
“You will find it easy. The ale was not consecrated; I added an herb to it.”
Aaaah. That explains…Percival laid arms on table, heavy head on arms. He blinked, and noticed Cedric head to head with him, already asleep.
“Right,” said Father Fisher, softly. “Just so. Sleep now. And dream.”