WHEN I LOOKED INTO MY SEEING STONE, I COULD see King Arthur and Queen Guinevere and a young woman mounted on a mule in the great hall at Camelot.
“People say your court is the finest on middle-earth,” the young woman begins. “They say it compares with the courts of Alexander and Julius Caesar.”
“Dismount!” says King Arthur.
“I will not,” the young woman replies.
“Fresh rushes on the floor,” Queen Guinevere says, “strewn with marigolds and wild mint. No one’s allowed to ride into this hall. Not even on a mule!”
“And everyone dismounts when the king is dismounted,” Arthur tells her.
“Forgive me,” says the woman, “but I will not dismount until a knight comes to the castle of Corbenic and wins the Grail. Is there no knight at your Round Table who can do that?”
She is wearing a white wimple and has a shield hanging from her neck: a scarlet cross on a snow-white background. Her mule, he’s white as well, and a hound is following them.
“Many knights have tried and many have failed,” the king says.
“They have all failed,” says the young woman. “Even Sir Gawain failed to ask the question, so the Guardian of the Grail still writhes in agony. His wounds bleed day and night, men fight, kingdoms crumble, this whole world is a wasteland. I was there when Sir Gawain spoke to Nascien, the hermit…”
Then my seeing stone led me out of the hall, and into the dark cave itself. I could see nothing at first, then nothing but sparks, torches. After that, three shadowy figures: the woman on her mule, Sir Gawain, and the hermit.
“Everyone knows about you,” Nascien begins. “How you dared face the Green Knight. Everyone’s got a story to tell about you. Your prowess. Your endurance. Your honor. So is that the end of your story?”
Sir Gawain doesn’t reply.
“You’re not a soldier of God,” Nascien tells Gawain. “Your fame is written in other men’s blood.”
“I have opposed evil. I’ve defended the weak.”
“You beheaded an innocent woman, Lady Saraide, Sir Blamoure’s wife. You’re a spiritual beggar!”
Now Sir Gawain leaves the cave, and mounts Kincaled. I can see him cantering up to the gates of a great castle. It’s made of marble, like the Doge’s palace.
Two boys take off Sir Gawain’s armor; two young women dressed in cloth of gold wash him. And now two knights lead Gawain to an inner courtyard. The ground is parched yellow grass, and in the shade of an arbor covered with vines, a man is lying on a bed. Its four posts are glowing: They’re made of red gold.
The vines are shriveled; the grapes are wrinkled grey pebbles.
Sir Gawain walks softly up to the man. King Pellam, Guardian of the Grail. I saw Sir Balin wound him with the lance Longinus used to pierce Jesus.
“Gawain,” says the king, and his voice is little more than a whisper, “you have come to Corbenic and I cannot even raise myself to greet you.”
“That is why I have come,” Sir Gawain says.
He looks at the wounded king: his ivory skin; his eyes dark with pain; his scarlet hat emblazoned with a gold cross; the blood oozing from the gash in his ribs.
Now the arbor fills with yellow light brighter than that of the rising sun.
“Gawain,” says the king, “this light is the sign of God’s great love for you. You are one of the bravest, the most honorable knights on earth.
“Once before, a knight reached Corbenic, and this same light shone. But he failed to ask the question, and that is why his quest failed.”
“Whom does the Grail serve?” Sir Gawain says, and he closes his eyes.
“Whom does the Grail serve?” the king repeats. “That is the question.”
Gawain gazes at King Pellam. “I will not fail you,” he says.
Now the same two knights lead Sir Gawain away to a gloomy hall where twelve white-haired knights are sitting and about to eat. Who are they? Are they Jesus’s disciples?
A door opens. Two young women glide in and the room fills with light. One woman is carrying the Holy Grail, covered with thick white silk, and a dazzling sunbeam rises from it. I can scarcely look at it. The other woman is carrying Longinus’s lance. Its tip is dripping with blood.
The Grail…the Holy Grail. It is covered, but within it I can see a shape. Aboychild.
The two young women pause in front of Sir Gawain.
“Now!” say the knights. “Gawain! The question!”
But Sir Gawain just gazes at the Grail, transfixed, the Grail and the lance, and he keeps reaching out towards them. Three drops of blood fall at his feet. Gawain keeps reaching out, but the young women float the Grail and lance away from him.
“The question! The question!” the old knights urge Sir Gawain, but Sir Gawain is dazed.
“At once!”
“Now or never!”
It is no good. Sir Gawain sees the lips of the old knights moving, but all he can hear is the whirlwind of his own sins and short-comings.
Now the young women leave the hall and the old knights stand up and follow them. Sir Gawain stands alone in the gloom. He is utterly worn out. He cannot stay awake. He lies on a couch and sleeps.…
A horn blast echoes through Corbenic, and at once Sir Gawain scrambles to his feet. As it dies away, he can hear through one wall King Pellam moaning, and through another a choir of angels singing.…
Now in comes the woman wearing a white wimple who rode right into Camelot on a white mule.
“Sir Gawain,” she says, “you’ve committed many sins, but so has every man. Your greatest failing lies in what you’ve left undone. You did not ask the question.”
“I could not!” Sir Gawain cries. “I wasn’t able to.”
The horn sounds again, and a voice without a body booms through the hall. “The man who does not belong here: Let him be gone.”
Now the young woman leads Sir Gawain to his loyal Kincaled, and he rides away.
Hoots of wind! Stinging rain, and the hammer of thunder!
“I have failed King Pellam,” Sir Gawain says to himself. “I’ve failed King Arthur and the fellowship of the Round Table. I’ve failed myself.”
The thunder becomes a distant rumor. The spattering rain softens into a blur. Like a feeding butterfly, the air trembles and faintly flutters.
Now I can see the court at Camelot again, packed with knights and ladies, and the young woman in a white wimple, still mounted on her mule.
“You see?” says the young woman.
“But I believe a knight will achieve this quest,” King Arthur replies.
“My shield once belonged to Joseph of Arimathea,” the young woman tells them. “He painted this cross on it with blood. I will leave it with you, hanging on this pillar, and only a knight who can achieve the Grail will be able to remove it. I’ll leave my hound too. He’ll recognize the knight and lick his hand.” The young woman pauses. “Look at me, Arthur!” she said in a loud voice.
She reaches up and sweeps off her wimple and everyone gasps. She is completely bald.
“Once, I had honey tresses,” she calls out, “but now not a hair will grow on my head. Blame all the knights who have failed. Pellam’s kingdom is a wasteland. Children starve; babies are bloated with hunger. Nothing can grow until a knight comes to Corbenic and asks the question.”