The giant looked slightly taken aback when Sir Perditus entered the hall armed, but then his expression shifted to one of sarcastic amusement.
"I see you deem yourself ready to fight," he said with a smirk.
"There shall be delay no longer--I have dallied too long already," answered the knight. "Face me now, or I shall slay you here in this hall."
"Very well," said the monster. He motioned to his guards. "See him to the tourney grounds. And bring me my armour."
Sir Perditus was led to what had once been a gay and festive field, where knights had jousted in bright-coloured arms, bearing favours from their ladies, and merry yeomen had shot the mark to the approbation of peasant girls. There were stands raised all about for spectators, once painted in cheery blue, silver, and gold, now faded, grey, and decrepit. As he waited, they began to fill up with all the inmates of the castle, somber and subdued, but whispering with a suppressed excitement. And as he looked into their faces, he saw faint traces of something beginning to dawn that had been lacking in every visage he had met since entering this dismal realm: hope. His heart swelled with emotion, and he resolved to conquer, for their sake as well as for his own.
The giant appeared, armed in an enormous coat of overlapping plates like scales, and a grotesque helm with bull's horns on top and the visor shaped into the face of a swine, complete with tusks. He bore a huge and cruel-looking mace, and a shield the size of a table, and his boots were set with wicked spikes.
The fearless knight could hardly wait for the marshall of the lists to make the prerequisite announcements, naming the terms of the combat and the prizes of victory. As soon as the signal was given, he was on his foe with a fury that took the giant quite by surprise, stabbing, slashing, dodging, deflecting, and dancing around his larger opponent, always just out of reach. Sir Perditus drew first blood within a minute, and the giant roared with pain and outrage.
Then began the combat in earnest, for the giant saw that here indeed was a formidable foe, one whom he could not defeat without considerable effort. Every knight he had faced for many years, he had beaten with ease, until he had become quite lazy, arrogant, and complacent--no one had ever given him this much trouble before. But now he became grim, purposeful, and cautious.
As Sir Perditus had suspected on first seeing him, this was no slow and stupid giant such as the common ones one finds among the rocks and hills of the wilds. Not only was he clever, but he was fast, so that you could not even run from him, but he would catch you in a few steps, as a parent will catch a child who is trying to run away, and thus many poor souls had met their grim demise. Soon the first vehemence of Sir Perditus's assault passed into a more cautious and measured combat, and then the giant's size and strength began to turn the fight in his favour.
And Sir Perditus, despite his anger, his courage, and his resolve, felt fat, weak, and slow. A week of idleness, with as much food and wine as he could hold, had taken the edge from him and dulled his skill. The giant hadn't needed to drug his food: the food itself had done its work well enough.
Sir Perditus fought valiantly. He fought ferociously. He fought heroically. But he could not win. He wounded his foe many times, but the giant was simply too strong: he beat him down; wore him out. The spear was broken by a swing of the mace; he cast it aside and drew his sword. Again and again Sir Perditus was knocked down by the impossibly heavy blows of the giant's mace, and again and again he rose to fight. But each time there was less strength, less vigour, less spirit in his movements. And every time, there was less hope in the faces of those watching, until finally they began to trickle away, for they could see now the outcome without any doubt, and did not have the heart to watch. There were only a few left to see as the giant's mace came crashing down on the knight one final time, and he buckled, fell, tried to rise, but failed and lay sprawled facedown in the blood and dirt. The giant leaned on his mace for a moment, catching his breath, then seized Sir Perditus by the foot and dragged him away, back to the castle, where he was cast into the lowest and darkest dungeon in the place.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Saturday, April 15, 2017
The Scarred Princess (part 9)
Sir Perditus ate heartily that night, for it was the first real meal he had had in many a day. He thought, of course, of the possibility that the giant would poison or drug his food. But he decided that he would face that with the same courage with which he would face a fight: if this was to be his death, then he would face it boldly, and trust himself to God's care. But the food was not poisoned, and he was glad, because he was very hungry. Then he slept deeply, in a soft and comfortable bed, which he had not done since he left the Princess's castle.
When he awoke the next morning, he found that he was left to himself for a while, and he sat on the balcony which adjoined his chamber, resting and enjoying the feel of the sunshine and the breeze on his face. But before mid-day, he was summoned to the giant's audience chamber.
"Have you rested, Sir Knight? Are you ready?"
"I have, and I am."
The giant looked closely into his face. "I do not think you are wholly recovered, yet, and I wish to fight you in your full strength. Rest another day, and arm yourself well, and then we shall meet." Sir Perditus, though loathe to delay, accepted his host's orders, for indeed he was still very tired, and thought he could do with another day of sleep and good food. He bowed again, and returned to his chamber.
So it was each day, for at least a week. The giant-king would summon him, examine him, and pronounce him unfit yet to fight, and then would dismiss him. Sir Perditus found that he was allowed freedom within the castle so long as he stayed in the western wing where his chamber was, or in the courtyard outside it. The lord of the keep did not come into these regions, being too big for them, but confined himself to the central parts where the rooms were larger and the ceilings were higher, and left the other areas to his servants. He was shown to the armoury, and there chose for himself new mail, helm, and shield, as well as a long spear, which he thought would be very useful in fighting an opponent so much larger than himself. These were all man-sized, which the giant kept for the use of his soldiers, and not his own arms.
On about the seventh or eighth night in which Sir Perditus slept in the giant's house, he was awoken very late (or very early) by someone lightly touching his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
"Be quiet, please, Sir Knight. I did not mean to disturb you; but there is something I must show you." He awoke quickly and fully alert, from long habit of sleeping outdoors with one eye open, as the saying goes. Moonlight came in by his window, and he recognized the outline of the serving-girl who kept his chamber clean and brought him his victuals. "I will wait outside your door while you dress: your guard is asleep. Please, come quickly."
In a moment, he had pulled on his clothes and girt his sword and dagger on his waist. He slipped outside his door into the darkened hall, and felt a soft hand laid on his arm. He allowed himself to be guided around several turns, then they stopped and a lamp was lit. He asked no questions, but continued to follow her to a long-disused and dusty part of the castle which he had not seen before. She brought him to a barred double-door, and he helped her with the heavy beam which sealed it shut.
When the doors were opened, they entered what had plainly once been the chapel, but was now piled with all the flotsam and clutter from every part of the place for which the giant had no use. Thick dust lay upon it all, and cobwebs were in all the corners and crannies, glinting in the moonlight which came in through high, vaulted windows. The maidservant led him to the front of the sanctuary, and then off to the right to where the choir would have been. There, resting on the rearmost choir pew and leaning against the wall behind it, was a large painting covered in a sheet. She removed the cover and held her light up so he could see. And Sir Perditus beheld a picture of...himself, holding his own sword, but wearing a crown.
"God's Blood!" he exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this?"
She looked afraid, and pointed to the plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. It read "King Amicus VI" and gave a year of birth and of death which would have been a generation or so before Perditus's time. He stood silent, wondering.
"Forgive my impertinence, m'lord. But what do you know of your birth?"
He was thoughtful. "Nothing," he said. Except that my father was a lord of some kind. There was some calamity, I know not what, and my mother fled from him with me in her arms. I remember her, a little, but she died not very many years after. Of a broken heart, they say. I was fostered by a kind knight who had love enough to spare for me, but not enough substance to take an inheritance away from his own sons. Still, I am thankful for all he gave me, and I honored him as a father until the day of his passing."
"And your sword?" she asked.
"I had it from my mother. The only thing she saved of the ruin of her life. She said it was my father's."
He fell silent again, gazing at the portrait in wonder. "This is too strange not to have some deeper signification. This must be..."
"Your grandfather," she finished. "And you are our rightful lord." She knelt and, after a moment's hesitation, he placed his hand on her head in blessing.
They left the sad chapel and she returned him to his bedchamber, quickly now before the drug that she had put in the guard's goblet of wine wore off and he awoke. As she turned with a curtsy to leave his room, he stopped her, turning her back around to face him.
"There is one more thing I would ask of you. The people of this land--there seem to be far fewer than there should be."
She hid her face in horror. "He eats us," she whispered. He nodded. There seemed to be nothing left to say. Then another thought, a horrifying thought occurred to him.
"The food you have fed me...?"
"No," she said quickly. "He keeps that meat for himself. But the kitchen where it is prepared...." He nodded again, understanding what she could not say. He felt very sick.
He embraced her. "I thank you for this, and I know the terrible risk you have incurred to do so. If I prevail, by God's mercy, I shall not forget you." She said nothing, but squeezed him tightly, then wiped her eyes as she hurried from the room.
Sir Perditus spent the rest of the night in vigil, kneeling by his bed, and when he was summoned into the giant's presence the next day, he answered the summons in full harness, bearing shield and spear in hand.
When he awoke the next morning, he found that he was left to himself for a while, and he sat on the balcony which adjoined his chamber, resting and enjoying the feel of the sunshine and the breeze on his face. But before mid-day, he was summoned to the giant's audience chamber.
"Have you rested, Sir Knight? Are you ready?"
"I have, and I am."
The giant looked closely into his face. "I do not think you are wholly recovered, yet, and I wish to fight you in your full strength. Rest another day, and arm yourself well, and then we shall meet." Sir Perditus, though loathe to delay, accepted his host's orders, for indeed he was still very tired, and thought he could do with another day of sleep and good food. He bowed again, and returned to his chamber.
So it was each day, for at least a week. The giant-king would summon him, examine him, and pronounce him unfit yet to fight, and then would dismiss him. Sir Perditus found that he was allowed freedom within the castle so long as he stayed in the western wing where his chamber was, or in the courtyard outside it. The lord of the keep did not come into these regions, being too big for them, but confined himself to the central parts where the rooms were larger and the ceilings were higher, and left the other areas to his servants. He was shown to the armoury, and there chose for himself new mail, helm, and shield, as well as a long spear, which he thought would be very useful in fighting an opponent so much larger than himself. These were all man-sized, which the giant kept for the use of his soldiers, and not his own arms.
On about the seventh or eighth night in which Sir Perditus slept in the giant's house, he was awoken very late (or very early) by someone lightly touching his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
"Be quiet, please, Sir Knight. I did not mean to disturb you; but there is something I must show you." He awoke quickly and fully alert, from long habit of sleeping outdoors with one eye open, as the saying goes. Moonlight came in by his window, and he recognized the outline of the serving-girl who kept his chamber clean and brought him his victuals. "I will wait outside your door while you dress: your guard is asleep. Please, come quickly."
In a moment, he had pulled on his clothes and girt his sword and dagger on his waist. He slipped outside his door into the darkened hall, and felt a soft hand laid on his arm. He allowed himself to be guided around several turns, then they stopped and a lamp was lit. He asked no questions, but continued to follow her to a long-disused and dusty part of the castle which he had not seen before. She brought him to a barred double-door, and he helped her with the heavy beam which sealed it shut.
When the doors were opened, they entered what had plainly once been the chapel, but was now piled with all the flotsam and clutter from every part of the place for which the giant had no use. Thick dust lay upon it all, and cobwebs were in all the corners and crannies, glinting in the moonlight which came in through high, vaulted windows. The maidservant led him to the front of the sanctuary, and then off to the right to where the choir would have been. There, resting on the rearmost choir pew and leaning against the wall behind it, was a large painting covered in a sheet. She removed the cover and held her light up so he could see. And Sir Perditus beheld a picture of...himself, holding his own sword, but wearing a crown.
"God's Blood!" he exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this?"
She looked afraid, and pointed to the plaque attached to the bottom of the frame. It read "King Amicus VI" and gave a year of birth and of death which would have been a generation or so before Perditus's time. He stood silent, wondering.
"Forgive my impertinence, m'lord. But what do you know of your birth?"
He was thoughtful. "Nothing," he said. Except that my father was a lord of some kind. There was some calamity, I know not what, and my mother fled from him with me in her arms. I remember her, a little, but she died not very many years after. Of a broken heart, they say. I was fostered by a kind knight who had love enough to spare for me, but not enough substance to take an inheritance away from his own sons. Still, I am thankful for all he gave me, and I honored him as a father until the day of his passing."
"And your sword?" she asked.
"I had it from my mother. The only thing she saved of the ruin of her life. She said it was my father's."
He fell silent again, gazing at the portrait in wonder. "This is too strange not to have some deeper signification. This must be..."
"Your grandfather," she finished. "And you are our rightful lord." She knelt and, after a moment's hesitation, he placed his hand on her head in blessing.
They left the sad chapel and she returned him to his bedchamber, quickly now before the drug that she had put in the guard's goblet of wine wore off and he awoke. As she turned with a curtsy to leave his room, he stopped her, turning her back around to face him.
"There is one more thing I would ask of you. The people of this land--there seem to be far fewer than there should be."
She hid her face in horror. "He eats us," she whispered. He nodded. There seemed to be nothing left to say. Then another thought, a horrifying thought occurred to him.
"The food you have fed me...?"
"No," she said quickly. "He keeps that meat for himself. But the kitchen where it is prepared...." He nodded again, understanding what she could not say. He felt very sick.
He embraced her. "I thank you for this, and I know the terrible risk you have incurred to do so. If I prevail, by God's mercy, I shall not forget you." She said nothing, but squeezed him tightly, then wiped her eyes as she hurried from the room.
Sir Perditus spent the rest of the night in vigil, kneeling by his bed, and when he was summoned into the giant's presence the next day, he answered the summons in full harness, bearing shield and spear in hand.
Spring!
Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
and come away,
for behold, the winter is past;
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the dove
is heard in our land.
-- Song of Solomon 2:10-12
Friday, April 14, 2017
Après un Rêve
Dans un sommeil que charmait ton image
Je rêvais le bonheur, ardent mirage,
Tes yeux étaient plus doux, ta voix pure et sonore,
Tu rayonnais comme un ciel éclairé par l'aurore;
Tu m'appelais et je quittais la terre
Pour m'enfuir avec toi vers la lumière,
Les cieux pour nous entr'ouvraient leurs nues,
Splendeurs inconnues, lueurs divines entrevues,
Hélas! Hélas! triste réveil des songes
Je t'appelle, ô nuit, rends-moi tes mensonges,
Reviens, reviens radieuse,
Reviens ô nuit mystérieuse!
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
The Scarred Princess (part 8)
As Sir Perditus walked on through this land, he began to see that whereas it had appeared peaceful and prosperous from afar, it was in fact somewhat desolate. Many houses stood empty and derilict, and many fields lay fallow and barren. And there was something--an air or atmosphere, which he could not at first quite name. There was a quiet. Not a quiet of tranquility, but of subdual. The very light seemed to have a dim and somber quality. And then, as he thought on this, and on the people's treatment of him, he suddenly recognized it: it was fear. He had seen it before, on crusade, in realms ruled by tyrants and despots.
And as he traveled, he began to notice, too, that people acted as though they recognized and were expecting him. He was treated with increasing suspicion and growing coldness, and he thought he could guess that rumour had preceded him. He expected any time now, that word would reach whatever lord it was who held this people in such awe, and in this he was not disappointed, but very much surprised.
There came a day when, as he passed along a broad lane between two fields growing green with new grain, he saw, first a cloud of dust approaching him from ahead, and then a body of mounted men with the air of officialdom about them. He stopped and awaited them, for he knew they were come to seek him, and indeed they halted when they espied him, consulted quietly amongst themselves, then one of them, whom he took to be the envoy, rode forward, flanked by men-at-arms on either side.
"His Gargantuan Majesty, King Sarx, requires that you present yourself before him and answer what be your purpose in entering into his dominion: whether you be friend or foe, whether your intent be good or ill, and whether you come in peace or in war." He looked down at Sir Perditus's sword, which still hung at his waist, the only visible badge still marking him as a knight. "Will you come willingly?"
Sir Perditus looked up, not at the envoy but the sky behind him. There, though it was day, he saw faintly the star. "I will come," said the knight.
"Then follow." The envoy hesitated, glancing down at the sword again, as if he wished to require that it be surrendered. Sir Perditus laid his hand on the hilt. He did not look much the knight now, disheveled, soiled, and worn by exhaustion, wearing only his filthy tunic and trousers. But there was a fell grimness in his countenance, perhaps the more so for all that, and the messenger thought better of it and left it be.
He moved back toward the main body of men, and Perditus followed, wondering if he was to follow mounted men on foot. But a horse was produced for him, and if any there had been doubt as to his knighthood, it was laid to rest by the skill and facility with which he mounted and rode, even after so long and weary a time afoot.
They led him many miles, until a castle came into view, and toward this they steered. It was large and imposing, but like the rest of the kingdom it was in ill repair, and was wanting the full number of men-at-arms and archers who could have manned it. Sir Perditus said nothing, but silently followed his escorts and obeyed when they told him to wait outside the great doors of the hall.
When at last he was led into the great hall, he was not prepared for what he saw. But he understood at once the state of the kingdom, and the fear in the hearts of its people. For there, in a large throne set up in the center of what used to be the great feasting hall, sat an absolutely enormous person. A giant, in fact, but a giant larger than any he had ever seen, and different, too. For the giants he had faced before had been large, heavy, slow, and stupid; roughly man-shaped, but misshapen, ill-proportioned, and ugly. But this giant looked exactly like a man, only much larger, and one could tell by looking in his face that he was not stupid at all, but clever, wicked, and cruel.
"So this is why I have been sent here," he thought. "To slay this tyrant and free this people from slavery." But what he said was:
"Hail, Sire. I greet you in the name of the Grail King." At this name, the giant grimaced, and frowned.
"You may keep your greetings," he said in a voice so big and so deep that it could be felt as well as heard, "in that name, and I will thank you not to mention it again in my realm." Sir Perditus said nothing, and after a moment's pause the giant continued. "It was reported to me by my subjects that a strange knight had entered my realm, although I hardly see a knight before me. Pray, what are you? A varlet and a knave who has stolen a sword?" This was very rude, but I am afraid that that is how giants talk; I never met one who had an ounce of courtesy.
Sir Perditus knew better than to be insulted and angry. "Nay, your majesty. A knight I am, though a poor one, and one who has wandered far on hard roads," he said. And to himself, he said, "And one who will thrust this sword into your heart, by the grace of God."
The giant smirked. "And pray, what was your purpose in entering my realm, Sir Knight?" he asked with mock-courtesy.
"Nothing at all, Sire. I wandered into it quite by accident, following..." he paused long enough to make clear that he was omitting the name which he had been forbidden to speak. "Following the leading of my fortune," he finished. His meaning was not lost on the giant, whose eyes glinted maliciously.
"I see. You pretend to have been 'sent' here to defeat me, but no doubt your true intent is to murder me the first chance you get, and steal my kingdom. Do you deny it?"
"Nay," said Sir Perditus. "Since you would have it so, I do not deny the former, although I do the latter. I shall steal nothing, but restore this place to its rightful king or his heirs, if any be left that you have not murdered. Slay you I shall, however. Not by murder, but in fair combat. I challenge you on the field of honor. Face me, if ye be not craven."
The giant smiled most disconcertingly. "I accept, Sir Knight," he said again with pretend deference. "But what is more, I offer you the hospitality of my castle this night, for I would not have it said that I defeated you in your weakness, fainting from travel and hunger. You shall have food, you shall have rest, you shall have whatever you require from my armoury, and then tomorrow we shall see." He clapped his hands, and servants and soldiers closed in around Sir Perditus, who bowed and followed them.
Perhaps you think it was very foolish of Sir Perditus to accept this offer. But in those times, even the most wicked of giants feared to break the sacred laws of hospitality--once offered, it could not be betrayed without bringing a dreadful curse on one's head. Besides, he really had no choice--if he resisted now, he would only be made a prisoner anyhow, and that without the chance to free himself by single combat with his foe, or at least to fall honourably in battle.
And as he traveled, he began to notice, too, that people acted as though they recognized and were expecting him. He was treated with increasing suspicion and growing coldness, and he thought he could guess that rumour had preceded him. He expected any time now, that word would reach whatever lord it was who held this people in such awe, and in this he was not disappointed, but very much surprised.
There came a day when, as he passed along a broad lane between two fields growing green with new grain, he saw, first a cloud of dust approaching him from ahead, and then a body of mounted men with the air of officialdom about them. He stopped and awaited them, for he knew they were come to seek him, and indeed they halted when they espied him, consulted quietly amongst themselves, then one of them, whom he took to be the envoy, rode forward, flanked by men-at-arms on either side.
"His Gargantuan Majesty, King Sarx, requires that you present yourself before him and answer what be your purpose in entering into his dominion: whether you be friend or foe, whether your intent be good or ill, and whether you come in peace or in war." He looked down at Sir Perditus's sword, which still hung at his waist, the only visible badge still marking him as a knight. "Will you come willingly?"
Sir Perditus looked up, not at the envoy but the sky behind him. There, though it was day, he saw faintly the star. "I will come," said the knight.
"Then follow." The envoy hesitated, glancing down at the sword again, as if he wished to require that it be surrendered. Sir Perditus laid his hand on the hilt. He did not look much the knight now, disheveled, soiled, and worn by exhaustion, wearing only his filthy tunic and trousers. But there was a fell grimness in his countenance, perhaps the more so for all that, and the messenger thought better of it and left it be.
He moved back toward the main body of men, and Perditus followed, wondering if he was to follow mounted men on foot. But a horse was produced for him, and if any there had been doubt as to his knighthood, it was laid to rest by the skill and facility with which he mounted and rode, even after so long and weary a time afoot.
They led him many miles, until a castle came into view, and toward this they steered. It was large and imposing, but like the rest of the kingdom it was in ill repair, and was wanting the full number of men-at-arms and archers who could have manned it. Sir Perditus said nothing, but silently followed his escorts and obeyed when they told him to wait outside the great doors of the hall.
When at last he was led into the great hall, he was not prepared for what he saw. But he understood at once the state of the kingdom, and the fear in the hearts of its people. For there, in a large throne set up in the center of what used to be the great feasting hall, sat an absolutely enormous person. A giant, in fact, but a giant larger than any he had ever seen, and different, too. For the giants he had faced before had been large, heavy, slow, and stupid; roughly man-shaped, but misshapen, ill-proportioned, and ugly. But this giant looked exactly like a man, only much larger, and one could tell by looking in his face that he was not stupid at all, but clever, wicked, and cruel.
"So this is why I have been sent here," he thought. "To slay this tyrant and free this people from slavery." But what he said was:
"Hail, Sire. I greet you in the name of the Grail King." At this name, the giant grimaced, and frowned.
"You may keep your greetings," he said in a voice so big and so deep that it could be felt as well as heard, "in that name, and I will thank you not to mention it again in my realm." Sir Perditus said nothing, and after a moment's pause the giant continued. "It was reported to me by my subjects that a strange knight had entered my realm, although I hardly see a knight before me. Pray, what are you? A varlet and a knave who has stolen a sword?" This was very rude, but I am afraid that that is how giants talk; I never met one who had an ounce of courtesy.
Sir Perditus knew better than to be insulted and angry. "Nay, your majesty. A knight I am, though a poor one, and one who has wandered far on hard roads," he said. And to himself, he said, "And one who will thrust this sword into your heart, by the grace of God."
The giant smirked. "And pray, what was your purpose in entering my realm, Sir Knight?" he asked with mock-courtesy.
"Nothing at all, Sire. I wandered into it quite by accident, following..." he paused long enough to make clear that he was omitting the name which he had been forbidden to speak. "Following the leading of my fortune," he finished. His meaning was not lost on the giant, whose eyes glinted maliciously.
"I see. You pretend to have been 'sent' here to defeat me, but no doubt your true intent is to murder me the first chance you get, and steal my kingdom. Do you deny it?"
"Nay," said Sir Perditus. "Since you would have it so, I do not deny the former, although I do the latter. I shall steal nothing, but restore this place to its rightful king or his heirs, if any be left that you have not murdered. Slay you I shall, however. Not by murder, but in fair combat. I challenge you on the field of honor. Face me, if ye be not craven."
The giant smiled most disconcertingly. "I accept, Sir Knight," he said again with pretend deference. "But what is more, I offer you the hospitality of my castle this night, for I would not have it said that I defeated you in your weakness, fainting from travel and hunger. You shall have food, you shall have rest, you shall have whatever you require from my armoury, and then tomorrow we shall see." He clapped his hands, and servants and soldiers closed in around Sir Perditus, who bowed and followed them.
Perhaps you think it was very foolish of Sir Perditus to accept this offer. But in those times, even the most wicked of giants feared to break the sacred laws of hospitality--once offered, it could not be betrayed without bringing a dreadful curse on one's head. Besides, he really had no choice--if he resisted now, he would only be made a prisoner anyhow, and that without the chance to free himself by single combat with his foe, or at least to fall honourably in battle.
Monday, April 10, 2017
The Parting Glass
I was thinking about how it would be to take a trip to Ireland and, among other things, visit the place where they craft my pipes (Peterson of Dublin) and the place where they distill my whiskey (Tullamore, County Offaly), and I came across this. I know it's basically just an extended commercial, but still, it's nice. I'd also love to do some "rambling," that is, the gentler British Isles version of hiking, while I'm there.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
The Scarred Princess (part 7)
After the hermit left her, Viola found a secret place in the garden where she had often gone to be alone with her most intimate thoughts, and carefully unwrapped the bundle he had given her. She caught her breath as she saw the exquisitely worked silver of the mirror's frame and handle, and then looked into it, as maidens will do. She did not immediately notice anything magical about the mirror, but she did think, without vanity, that she was looking exceptionally pretty today, and she smiled bashfully at her own reflection. And when she did so, the beauty and radiance of her own smile smote her heart, and she thought, again without any vanity or self-consciousness, that she was, after all, lovely and lovable. She re-wrapped the precious thing in its cloth bundle, and hiding it in her bodice next to her heart, she stole back into her chamber and quietly placed it in her secret place next to the rose, under a loose flagstone hidden beneath a pretty silk rug embroidered with flowers.
Thereafter, she went often and looked at her reflection, for it filled her with joy and happiness which she did not quite understand, to see herself as the mirror showed her. And before long, she started to suspect that there was something unusual about this mirror, for her image in other looking-glasses in the castle did not please her as this one did. Her suspicions became certainty when, one night, she held the mirror at arm's length as she was undressing for bed, and saw that there was no scar on her breast. So shocked was she that she dropped it, but thankfully, it did not break. But her heart sank as low again as it had been exalted a moment before, when she looked down and saw the scar still there. She was so angry and disappointed, that she picked up the mirror with the intent to break it on purpose for lying to her; but when she looked in it, her anger melted and she stowed it safely again in its covert.
That night, she thought of Sir Perditus and what his gift could mean, and she was still thinking of him next morning when she looked again in the mirror, and discovered its other use. For as she thought of him, her own image faded and disappeared, and she saw him struggling and fighting his way through a thick forest, cutting at branches and brambles with his sword. And as he cut, he sang a song in rhythm to his strokes, and the song was about her. She blushed furiously, though no one could see her, and looked away as if she had been caught doing something naughty, then hid the mirror away.
Then began for her a struggle in her own heart. For she was determined not to look again, nor to watch him, and to convince herself that she did not want to see him nor know what he was doing. But try as she might, she would weaken from time to time and look--sometimes just for a glance, but sometimes she would give in altogether, looking long and watching as he faced the wood, the river, the plain, and the mountains, and listening as he sang, or recited poetry, or prayed, always about her. And although she believed that his love was based on naivety and ignorance of her hidden ugliness, and knew that she could never accept his love, still it filled her heart and gave her joy to know that someone loved her so, and thought so well of her, and she began to find a courage and confidence that she had never had before, although she herself did not fully recognize what was happening in her heart.
She began to go on long rides, alone, on her beautiful palomino palfrey, and ever she rode further afield from the safety of the castle, and deeper into the farmlands and forests of her father's kingdom, until she even came to its borders and crossed them. She knew that she was putting herself in danger, but she refused all escort, even stubbornly sneaking away after her father had outright forbidden her to go alone any longer, until her parents finally resigned themselves to allowing her her will, for it seemed that the only alternative was to make her a prisoner by force. She could not have said why she did so. Part of her, perhaps, desired to punish her parents for her loneliness, for though she knew in her mind that her father had not meant for her to be hurt, and how sorry he was, still something deep within her held him to blame. Another part of her, maybe, simply desired to break free of their control, for though the rational part of her knew that they had been so very protective of her out of love, something else within her resented the prison which their love had made for her. And perhaps, even, there was part of her which thought that she herself ought to be punished, and that by exposing herself as she did, she was inviting what she really deserved. But perhaps there was another, even more secret part, which was hoping that, if she did fall into danger, that someone would be there to rescue her. She would not have admitted even to herself who she hoped it would be, and even if she had, she would have known that it was impossible, for she had driven him far away, and he could not return unless she herself made the way for him.
But as the days, and weeks, and months passed, something else began to happen on her little adventures, as she called them to herself. She began to see, and talk with, the people who lived in the villages and countryside. And she beheld their needs, for they were simple and humble folk, and her heart was deeply moved within her. She began to bring things from the castle to give away to those who were poor. She stopped and visited with the infirm, the sick, and the lonely, and she would bring her harp with her and play and sing for them, for she loved the joy which it brought to their faces. And the people began to truly love her, not just as a princess and a rumour of beauty and loveliness, but as a woman of tender heart and sweet compassion.
One day, as she rode through a hamlet, she found that a house had been consumed by fire. The family had escaped, but they had lost all their possessions and, worst of all, the young daughter, a pretty girl just in the first bloom of maidenhood, had only just escaped. Her hair had been burned, and she lay on the ground, hiding her head in shame and weeping to break one's heart. Viola turned silently and rode away, but stopped at the nearest town where she knew there was a wigmaker. Him she ordered, though he was loathe to obey, to cut her own long, gorgeous, honey-golden hair and make a wig, and she returned to the hamlet next day with a purse full of gold for the father and a head full of gold for the girl, who was so pleased and overwhelmed that she threw herself on Viola's breast and wailed harder for gratitude than she had the day before for grief. The princess slept that night in her bed with a greater sense of happiness than she thought she had ever known. And she wasn't thinking about her scar.
Thereafter, she went often and looked at her reflection, for it filled her with joy and happiness which she did not quite understand, to see herself as the mirror showed her. And before long, she started to suspect that there was something unusual about this mirror, for her image in other looking-glasses in the castle did not please her as this one did. Her suspicions became certainty when, one night, she held the mirror at arm's length as she was undressing for bed, and saw that there was no scar on her breast. So shocked was she that she dropped it, but thankfully, it did not break. But her heart sank as low again as it had been exalted a moment before, when she looked down and saw the scar still there. She was so angry and disappointed, that she picked up the mirror with the intent to break it on purpose for lying to her; but when she looked in it, her anger melted and she stowed it safely again in its covert.
That night, she thought of Sir Perditus and what his gift could mean, and she was still thinking of him next morning when she looked again in the mirror, and discovered its other use. For as she thought of him, her own image faded and disappeared, and she saw him struggling and fighting his way through a thick forest, cutting at branches and brambles with his sword. And as he cut, he sang a song in rhythm to his strokes, and the song was about her. She blushed furiously, though no one could see her, and looked away as if she had been caught doing something naughty, then hid the mirror away.
Then began for her a struggle in her own heart. For she was determined not to look again, nor to watch him, and to convince herself that she did not want to see him nor know what he was doing. But try as she might, she would weaken from time to time and look--sometimes just for a glance, but sometimes she would give in altogether, looking long and watching as he faced the wood, the river, the plain, and the mountains, and listening as he sang, or recited poetry, or prayed, always about her. And although she believed that his love was based on naivety and ignorance of her hidden ugliness, and knew that she could never accept his love, still it filled her heart and gave her joy to know that someone loved her so, and thought so well of her, and she began to find a courage and confidence that she had never had before, although she herself did not fully recognize what was happening in her heart.
She began to go on long rides, alone, on her beautiful palomino palfrey, and ever she rode further afield from the safety of the castle, and deeper into the farmlands and forests of her father's kingdom, until she even came to its borders and crossed them. She knew that she was putting herself in danger, but she refused all escort, even stubbornly sneaking away after her father had outright forbidden her to go alone any longer, until her parents finally resigned themselves to allowing her her will, for it seemed that the only alternative was to make her a prisoner by force. She could not have said why she did so. Part of her, perhaps, desired to punish her parents for her loneliness, for though she knew in her mind that her father had not meant for her to be hurt, and how sorry he was, still something deep within her held him to blame. Another part of her, maybe, simply desired to break free of their control, for though the rational part of her knew that they had been so very protective of her out of love, something else within her resented the prison which their love had made for her. And perhaps, even, there was part of her which thought that she herself ought to be punished, and that by exposing herself as she did, she was inviting what she really deserved. But perhaps there was another, even more secret part, which was hoping that, if she did fall into danger, that someone would be there to rescue her. She would not have admitted even to herself who she hoped it would be, and even if she had, she would have known that it was impossible, for she had driven him far away, and he could not return unless she herself made the way for him.
But as the days, and weeks, and months passed, something else began to happen on her little adventures, as she called them to herself. She began to see, and talk with, the people who lived in the villages and countryside. And she beheld their needs, for they were simple and humble folk, and her heart was deeply moved within her. She began to bring things from the castle to give away to those who were poor. She stopped and visited with the infirm, the sick, and the lonely, and she would bring her harp with her and play and sing for them, for she loved the joy which it brought to their faces. And the people began to truly love her, not just as a princess and a rumour of beauty and loveliness, but as a woman of tender heart and sweet compassion.
One day, as she rode through a hamlet, she found that a house had been consumed by fire. The family had escaped, but they had lost all their possessions and, worst of all, the young daughter, a pretty girl just in the first bloom of maidenhood, had only just escaped. Her hair had been burned, and she lay on the ground, hiding her head in shame and weeping to break one's heart. Viola turned silently and rode away, but stopped at the nearest town where she knew there was a wigmaker. Him she ordered, though he was loathe to obey, to cut her own long, gorgeous, honey-golden hair and make a wig, and she returned to the hamlet next day with a purse full of gold for the father and a head full of gold for the girl, who was so pleased and overwhelmed that she threw herself on Viola's breast and wailed harder for gratitude than she had the day before for grief. The princess slept that night in her bed with a greater sense of happiness than she thought she had ever known. And she wasn't thinking about her scar.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Thigpen's Wedding
"He wrote your name on my heart in flame, it's a wound I can't erase."
Yes. Precisely.
The Scarred Princess (part 6)
Sir Perditus walked east, and once again he found that he was guided by the familiar star. Soon he came to a great forest, through which there was no path. So he pushed, and cut, and hacked, and forced his way along, but he quickly grew very tired, for the forest floor was thick with brush, brambles, vines, roots, rocks, logs, stumps, and thorns. When he came upon a trail which crossed his path, running the wrong direction, he thought he might follow it, in the hope that it might lead him to another which ran his way, or perhaps even turn and take him where he needed to go. But as soon as he did, he knew he had gone wrong, and he had not followed it very far before he saw that it was no good and that he must either abandon the star or the trail. But he thought that his going might be easier if he went without his surcoat, which was the thing that snagged and tore most in the undergrowth, and so he removed it and left it on the forest path.
And ever, as he walked through the forest, he thought of Viola.
After many days, the forest ended, and he had easy going for a little while, through pleasant, grassy country. But then he came to a river, and the river was both wide and deep, and running very fast and high from the melting snows in the mountains from which it had its birth, for it was Spring. Sir Perditus walked for many miles along its bank, first in one direction and then in the other, but no bridge or ford or crossing could he find, and at last he decided that he must swim it, for the star did not waver in its direction, but hung fixedly, resolutely, almost he imagined, impatiently in the sky night after night directly on the other side of the river. So he doffed his mail coat, tied his sword in its sheath and his other possessions in a bundle and placed them on his shield as a kind of raft to float them across, and waded out into the rushing current.
It was very hard going, harder than the forest had been, and several times he despaired of getting his things across, and once of his life, but in the end he made it, utterly exhausted, and collapsed on the far bank unable to go a step further that day. But he did immediately take his sword out of its sheath and dry it as best he could, so that it would not rust. Fortunately for him, the sun was out and the day was warm and lovely, and so before long he was dry and warm, and feeling quite comfortable. He had something to eat of the provisions the hermit had given him, and rested all that day and through the night, and the next day continued on his way.
But as he swam, and struggled against the current, and even as he despaired of his life and thought he would drown, he thought of Viola.
He traveled on, and the grassy plain stretched on and on. Water began to become scarce, and he had to ration it, but then he was always thirsty. And it was hot. He was glad, now, not to be wearing his hauberk anymore, but the sun beat on his steel helm like a warhammer, and so he took it off and left it lying on the plain, and instead tied a cloth about his head, Saracen-style, to keep the sun from burning him. But still, it was very hard going, and a day came when he drank the last drops of his water and could find no more. He did not know what to do, except to stumble on after the star's leading, and trust that it would not lead him to his death. Or, if it did, that that was what was appointed to him and he must accept it.
And as he stumbled along, with his head spinning and his eyes going black, and thought of water with excruciating longing, he also thought of Viola, and longed for her even more.
And at last, after two days as long as ages without water, he came upon a little spring flowing out of a rock, and there he drank his fill, although it made him feel sick at first, and there he rested two days, drinking and bathing his face in the little pool the water made as it flowed out of the earth. And it was then that he first noticed that the land had begun to roll and swell, and the rock from which the little spring flowed was merely the first of a wide country of rolling hills, and beyond them were mountains. They were high and sharp, and the tops were still covered in snow, but he knew he must go straight on, remembering how turning aside had not helped him in the forest or at the river, and that following the star straight on had saved his life on the plain. So on and up he went, trying to find the best path he could but always following the direction in which he had last seen the star. Up, and down, and then up again he climbed, but always more up than down. It became very steep, and very rocky, so that sometimes he was scrambling on all fours over huge boulders, and sometimes he was sliding down gravelly slopes, trying not to fall or to set off an avalanche. As he climbed ever higher, his breath came shorter and harder, everything he carried seemed to weigh ten times what it had before. He cast away his shield, for it seemed foolish to carry such a heavy thing when every step and every breath was so difficult.
But with every step, and every breath, he thought of his lovely Princess Viola, and thought to himself that it would all be worthwhile if only his steps were leading him toward her.
After many weary days and as many cold nights, he crested the last mountain and began to come down the other side. And as he began to descend at last, he found himself looking down at a pleasant and inviting country of villages, farms, hamlets, towns, and castles. It was unfamiliar to him, but, he thought, there was something about it which he could not quite define. Almost as though it should have been familiar; as if he had seen it in a dream or a very old and forgotten memory. He reached the valley floor, weary to the bone, filthy, and bedraggled, and soon began to pass scattered farms and houses where he could stop and ask for bread, for he had run out of food some days before. The people who lived in that country were seemingly ordinary enough people, who spoke the same language as Sir Perditus, though somewhat strangely. But there was an odd feeling everywhere he went. They were not exactly unfriendly, and when he asked for something to eat or permission to sleep in a barn, he was usually given that for which he asked. But it was given somewhat grudgingly, and always hastily, as if they were very anxious to have him move on or get out of sight, and thought that giving him what he wanted was the quickest way to get rid of him.
And ever, as he walked through the forest, he thought of Viola.
After many days, the forest ended, and he had easy going for a little while, through pleasant, grassy country. But then he came to a river, and the river was both wide and deep, and running very fast and high from the melting snows in the mountains from which it had its birth, for it was Spring. Sir Perditus walked for many miles along its bank, first in one direction and then in the other, but no bridge or ford or crossing could he find, and at last he decided that he must swim it, for the star did not waver in its direction, but hung fixedly, resolutely, almost he imagined, impatiently in the sky night after night directly on the other side of the river. So he doffed his mail coat, tied his sword in its sheath and his other possessions in a bundle and placed them on his shield as a kind of raft to float them across, and waded out into the rushing current.
It was very hard going, harder than the forest had been, and several times he despaired of getting his things across, and once of his life, but in the end he made it, utterly exhausted, and collapsed on the far bank unable to go a step further that day. But he did immediately take his sword out of its sheath and dry it as best he could, so that it would not rust. Fortunately for him, the sun was out and the day was warm and lovely, and so before long he was dry and warm, and feeling quite comfortable. He had something to eat of the provisions the hermit had given him, and rested all that day and through the night, and the next day continued on his way.
But as he swam, and struggled against the current, and even as he despaired of his life and thought he would drown, he thought of Viola.
He traveled on, and the grassy plain stretched on and on. Water began to become scarce, and he had to ration it, but then he was always thirsty. And it was hot. He was glad, now, not to be wearing his hauberk anymore, but the sun beat on his steel helm like a warhammer, and so he took it off and left it lying on the plain, and instead tied a cloth about his head, Saracen-style, to keep the sun from burning him. But still, it was very hard going, and a day came when he drank the last drops of his water and could find no more. He did not know what to do, except to stumble on after the star's leading, and trust that it would not lead him to his death. Or, if it did, that that was what was appointed to him and he must accept it.
And as he stumbled along, with his head spinning and his eyes going black, and thought of water with excruciating longing, he also thought of Viola, and longed for her even more.
And at last, after two days as long as ages without water, he came upon a little spring flowing out of a rock, and there he drank his fill, although it made him feel sick at first, and there he rested two days, drinking and bathing his face in the little pool the water made as it flowed out of the earth. And it was then that he first noticed that the land had begun to roll and swell, and the rock from which the little spring flowed was merely the first of a wide country of rolling hills, and beyond them were mountains. They were high and sharp, and the tops were still covered in snow, but he knew he must go straight on, remembering how turning aside had not helped him in the forest or at the river, and that following the star straight on had saved his life on the plain. So on and up he went, trying to find the best path he could but always following the direction in which he had last seen the star. Up, and down, and then up again he climbed, but always more up than down. It became very steep, and very rocky, so that sometimes he was scrambling on all fours over huge boulders, and sometimes he was sliding down gravelly slopes, trying not to fall or to set off an avalanche. As he climbed ever higher, his breath came shorter and harder, everything he carried seemed to weigh ten times what it had before. He cast away his shield, for it seemed foolish to carry such a heavy thing when every step and every breath was so difficult.
But with every step, and every breath, he thought of his lovely Princess Viola, and thought to himself that it would all be worthwhile if only his steps were leading him toward her.
After many weary days and as many cold nights, he crested the last mountain and began to come down the other side. And as he began to descend at last, he found himself looking down at a pleasant and inviting country of villages, farms, hamlets, towns, and castles. It was unfamiliar to him, but, he thought, there was something about it which he could not quite define. Almost as though it should have been familiar; as if he had seen it in a dream or a very old and forgotten memory. He reached the valley floor, weary to the bone, filthy, and bedraggled, and soon began to pass scattered farms and houses where he could stop and ask for bread, for he had run out of food some days before. The people who lived in that country were seemingly ordinary enough people, who spoke the same language as Sir Perditus, though somewhat strangely. But there was an odd feeling everywhere he went. They were not exactly unfriendly, and when he asked for something to eat or permission to sleep in a barn, he was usually given that for which he asked. But it was given somewhat grudgingly, and always hastily, as if they were very anxious to have him move on or get out of sight, and thought that giving him what he wanted was the quickest way to get rid of him.
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