Arthur Rex (31 page)

And so we leave them all in this situation, the which existed for many years.

But meanwhile Mordred the bastard was growing up in the Orkneys, those isles at the northernmost limits of the world, beyond which is the realm of the ice-monsters. And even as a wee child Mordred was wicked and when playing with wooden swords he sharpened his blade and hardened it over coals, so that it would not splinter when he smote his playfellows, and he wounded so many of them that the children of noblemen were kept from him, and therefore he frequented the spawn of serfs, the which if he hurt or even killed them had no recourse, for a prince will be a prince the world over (except in Arthur’s Britain where there were none, for his only offspring was Mordred).

Now Mordred’s mother was Queen Margawse, and his foster-father (who believed he was his real one) was King Lot, and though neither of them was better than they should have been, they recognized in Mordred a malignancy to which they could never attain, and it being generally true of all bad people that they dislike being in the proximity of someone worse (for this maketh them feel stupid, whereas in the company of good people they feel cunning), Margawse and Lot decided when Mordred was ten years of age to expose him in a waste land where a wyvern was known to roam and to devour all things that were quick.

Therefore they had their knights take Mordred to this remote place, which was on the mainland, in the pretense that a tournament would be held there. But even at this tender age Mordred was quite clever enough to see this as a ruse by means of which he would be disposed of.

Therefore when he was tied to a great rock by these knights and then they rode away, and next the loathsome wyvern came to devour him, he did not quaver in fear, though this ferocious beast had the body of a serpent with great leathern wings and a head like an horse’s (if that horse were ten times larger than naturally), and the nail on the claw it thrust towards Mordred for to probe him, as it always first did to its meat, was longer than his childish body.

But Mordred, who knew that no beast was a match for a man in shrewdness, said, “My lord Wyvern, think you it is good husbanding of your resources to eat me, a mere morsel of four stone, when more than fifteen hundred pounds of fresh fat knights are beyond yon hill?”

And the wyvern retracted its talons and in a trice flew over the hill and ate those knights along with their horses and armor, and then with a heavy belly it lay down and slept for three weeks, which gave Mordred more than enough time to loosen his bonds and to void that region.

Now he had traveled some distance afoot and he was hungry and weary, for this place was arid, but then coming over the brow of a hill he saw in a valley a beautiful palace of which the towers were made of spun sugar. And when he arrived before its portal he saw that the stones of which the walls were built were actually sweet cakes, and the trees which grew near by were weighted down with sugarplums.

Then the gate swung open, as if of itself, and Mordred went into the palace, which within was a place that any normal boy would have found jolly, with the pillars so many great peppermint sticks and merry music being played by elves on rebecs and flutes.

And a beautiful lady came to him, and she said, “Welcome, sweet boy.” And then she sat down upon a silken couch, and she took him into her lap, and she did caress him dearly.

But in a moment she screamed and sprang up, and Mordred would have fallen to the floor had he not been so agile.

“Vile little bastard!” cried the lady. “Thou didst pinch my tit!” And she rubbed herself at her bosom.

“Well,” said Mordred, “I am not so easily gulled, lady. There is but one reason why such a palace as this would be found in a desert, and that is to lure children within for to eat them.”

And the lady raised her eyebrows. “Thou art an interesting child,” said she. “If indeed thou art a child and not an imp in the temporary guise of one. If the latter, knowest thou who I am? I am in thy service, which is to say, evil.”

“Lady,” said he, “I am Mordred, and I am ten years old. Having lately been exposed by my parents, I owe no fealty to anyone. If this evil which you serve will give me an home, I shall be its willing vassal.”

Now the lady did exclaim, “Mordred! I am thine aunt, Morgan la Fey. And though I am much pleased to see thee, do not expect an embrace, for I never touch another except to gain power over him and work his ruin.”

“And for mine own part,” said Mordred, “I always pinch or prick anyone who touches me in affection. But I am very happy to be with you, for I have always heard your name mentioned with loathing, and if people detest you so much, you must be altogether admirable.”

“Thou hast the right instincts,” said Morgan la Fey. “But these are not sufficient in themselves, for all children have a natural attraction towards evil, the race of mankind being a monstrosity upon the earth, but persons are often distracted when they grow older. I must undertake thy tutelage, so that as thou dost mature, thou remainest as rotten as thou wert born.”

“Well,” said Mordred, “methinks there is little danger of my acquiring any decency, though I might well hypocritically pretend to be a sweet child at times so as to gull certain persons into a belief that I am harmless.”

“Splendid,” said Morgan la Fey. “’Tis a means which I myself use sometimes, and one of the most effective, for the reason that mortals, who live in fear, tend to dismiss from their attention him of whom they are not afraid, and therefore he can accomplish a great deal of wickedness without being detected. Whereas if he doth boast openly of his devilry, all will be on guard against him.”

“My dear aunt,” said Mordred, “you are the only human being with whom I have ever felt a common cause. Indeed, until this moment I have felt quite alone in the world, for though my parents can not be called good folk, methinks the evil they have done is largely a result of fecklessness and not a devotion to the bad. For example, exposing me to the ravages of the wyvern might be seen as wicked, for I am their child. But if they were malefactors of true mettle, they would have murdered me outright and not submitted me to an ordeal which might well go awry and fail in its purpose—as indeed it hath. And furthermore, it were the better service to evil to preserve me, for never since being born have I displayed the least decent trait.”

“Yea,” said Morgan la Fey, “thou seest these matters very clearly, Mordred, and though I have ever detested the thought of being a mother, I do wish I were thine, for thou art all I could ask of an offspring. My sister Margawse doth not deserve thee.”

“Not to mention my father King Lot,” said Mordred.

And Morgan la Fey did look sharply at her small nephew. “Dost speak ironically, Mordred?” she asked.

“Never to you, dear Aunt,” said he. “But I see from your reaction that I have been naïve. Lot is not my father?”

“Now, Mordred,” said his aunt, “doth it seem likely that thou wouldst be born in wedlock?”

“Then,” happily asked Mordred, “my mother was a strumpet?”

“Nay,” said Morgan la Fey. “She doth lack the imagination for that. Thy mother, Mordred, is merely an adulteress.”

“These are nevertheless good news to me,” said Mordred. “I trust my natural father is a more effectual rogue than Lot, whom I have ever despised.”

“Thou art thoroughly indecent, I am pleased to say,” said Morgan la Fey. “Yet thou art withal yet a child. The great purpose in doing evil is to defy the good, dear boy! Therefore thou shouldst be at a terrible disadvantage if thy father were a notable felon—indeed thou couldst have no choice in such a case but (unhappy thought!) to serve virtue. For the rule of human life, which can never be abrogated, is that the son will necessarily oppose the father, at least in principle if not in person, so that the issue of great lechers are prudes, the wise man is the scion of the foolish stalk, the hero generates a coward, and a criminal like thyself comes from the loins of King Arthur.”

Now Mordred, who was yet a boy of ten, however vicious, here fell to weeping uncontrollably, and Morgan la Fey regretted that she could not touch him in tenderness, for despite her wickedness there was still some femininity in her. However she soon (and guiltily) repressed this obnoxious feeling and commanded her nephew to do the same to his grief, for in the service of evil such demonstrations of negative emotion are confessions of failure, and only positive gloating is permitted, as when one watches the excruciating torture of a helpless victim and screams in glee while he howls in agony.

Therefore Mordred dried his eyes and regained command of himself, and he begged the pardon of his aunt Morgan la Fey. “I shall not soon weep again,” said he, “for nothing worse could possibly happen to me than to learn that I am the son of the finest king in the world.”

“Well,” said the wicked Morgan la Fey, “it is not however as unfortunate as it could be. Thou art not his legitimate son, but rather his bastard. Take comfort in the knowledge that thy very existence is a thing of shame to him, and that engendering thee is his sole stain. Were he as wicked as thou and I, he would put thee to death. But being good, he shall feel obliged to love thee.”

“Now, my dear aunt,” said Mordred, “is it not just that which will make it worst?”

“Nay,” said Morgan la Fey, “for the pain that comes from love is the greatest on earth, and he who is loved hath the most effective instrument of torture that can be used on the lover, whom he can torment with impunity. The cunning device of the Christian religion is to maintain that love bringeth joy, while it is precisely the reverse which is true: that love doth bring only agony to the lover.”

“Yea,” said Mordred, “already I have divined that that is true of ardent passion, which is all pain if unsatisfied but boring if surfeited, but what of the paternal and other forms of familial love, and the loving-kindness of friendship? For though I am incapable of feeling any of those (except towards thee, my dear wicked aunt, but methinks our exchange of affection is due to a community of interest more than to blood), I am aware that banal humanity makes much of them.”

“That these are feelings professed to by the rascal many,” said Morgan la Fey, “should in itself be evidence of their falsity. A child ‘loves’ his father because he is afraid of him, and this fear is the other face of hatred. Whereas a father ‘loves’ a son while the boy is small, because he as yet has
no
fear of him, and this so-called love is therefore disguised contempt. Then the boy grows up, and he and his father arrive at a kind of equilibrium of power, and this truce is again called ‘love.’ Finally the elder becomes a dotard, which is to say that through age he has become as weak as a child, and in power (which is the only quality worth considering on earth or in Heaven) the father hath become a son, and he fears his new parent and is in turn despised by him. And once again this is called filial-paternal love.”

And Mordred was enraptured by the brilliant intellect of his aunt. “I regret only,” said he, “that because there is no such thing as love, I can not love thee.”

“And be assured that thou dost please me quite as much,” said Morgan la Fey, “and that at such a time I regret that I am not capable of sexual feeling, for on principle ’twould be a jolly thing to take thee into my bed and commit at once two crimes of which I greatly approve: incest and unnatural congress with an infant person. And ’twould only be improved upon were you rather my niece, thus affording the possibility of a third viciousness: female sodomy.”

But then Morgan la Fey did smile merrily. “I jest with thee, dear Mordred. For the sexual appetites (though they might be used as means) are never ends in the celebration of evil.”

“Indeed?” asked Mordred in wonderment. “In my innocence I supposed them amongst the very best.”

“Well,” said Morgan la Fey, “in a fight between two knights, when one kills the other has it been done by the sword or by the hand that wields it?”

“Both,” said Mordred.

“And then again, in a fundamental sense, neither,” said Morgan la Fey. “For oft the winner’s hand is not so strong as that of the loser, nor is his sword as long, as in the celebrated combat between Sir Tristram and the Morholt. Nay, Mordred, ’tis the
will
that makes the difference. So with the sexual desires, for the encounters of lust are very like fights, and their outcome is determined by the wills of the participants and whether they conflict with the ethic of their respective peoples. By which I mean that for example the Morholt in good conscience misused sexually all manner of men, women, children, and animals (for this practice is permitted to a giant among the bawdy Irish), yet incest was an horror to him owing to its proscription by his people, and he avoided it. But amongst the Russkies all fathers swyve their daughters from the time of infancy, yet sodomy is abominable to them, whereas with the Greeks buggery is applauded by the men of greatest worship and it is performed publicly by philosophers and soldiers and priests, but carnal converse with animals is punished by death. And in Egypt men sluice only their female relatives and never a stranger, and any sexual association but incest is looked upon as a foul crime.

“The Vandals couple with mules, the Berbers with dromedaries, and the Copts with jackals. And the worst criminal offense in Rome during its Golden Age was for anyone, man, woman, or child, to deny his pudendum to anyone else who sought access to it. Therefore, ’tis not the nature of the deed but rather the attitude towards it of the doer, namely the will, which determines the interest served, whether it be good or evil.”

“There is, then,” asked Mordred, “no standard that is universally observed amongst mankind?”

“Only,” said Morgan la Fey, “as pertains to power, the having of which is always desirable, however obtained and for whatever uses. And oft this is a matter of great subtlety, for there are those who enjoy being victims of extreme pain. Yet a keen eye will detect that oft the true power is in the possession of the victim and not his apparent master. Thus the Christian slaves destroyed the Roman Empire.”

“Ah,” said Mordred, “already thy tutelage hath done wonders for me, dear Aunt.”