The Final Quest (The Parsival Saga Book 3) (5 page)

VIII

Dawn was mixed gray and little chips of wet-looking greenish blue. Broaditch was peering down a long, gradual hill into the valley, where a stream and a footpath wound more or less together, the path straightening the steeper curves. He was sipping a bitter root tea from a wooden mug. The children were partway down the slope, Tikla watching her brother digging in the earth with a short stick. Alienor was setting the light copper kettle upside down on the grass. The man (whose name, it turned out, was Pleeka) was squatting near the fading fire, chewing a dried fragment of something Broaditch had noticed him extricate from the robed recesses of his person. He hadn’t troubled to wash his face and the ragged, lumped wound was black and ugly. Even crouched like that he seemed impatient, eyes withdrawn, pitlike.

“It could rain before the day’s done,” Broaditch commented.

“Mayhap it will break the heat,” Alienor said, picking up the pot.

“Mayhap I will break the wind,” he said, looking dourly into his cup, “if I have to drink more of this brew.”

“Don’t complain,” she told him.

“There’s not a bean in it yet it billows up my innards like a bellows.”

“It’s healthful,” she said. “You’re a gross man.”

“Not me, I swear, woman. It’s my bowels betray me.” Burped. She made a face.

“Your life will be altogether different,” Pleeka was suddenly saying, as if these weren’t his first words since waking. There was the same cold contempt on his face, contempt that was not particularized so that, Broaditch saw, a man could resent him without having to bother about it.

“I have found that to be my plague, fellow,” Broaditch said back, draining the tea and flicking away the dregs and belching again. “My life has ever been different without becoming particularly satisfactory.”

“Once you admit the living light into yourself,” Pleeka informed him, not looking at him, “all things are born anew.”

“So have I heard.” Broaditch stood up, wiping his hands on his hams. Downslope Torky had unearthed a fairly large rock which he was struggling to lift and lever free, but the stick kept breaking. Broaditch could hear his daughter’s voice, high and giggly.

“That’s cracked, Torky,” she was saying. “What will you do with it?”

He didn’t respond. He was on his knees, straining, feet slipping in the weedy dirt.

“There’s lots of other rocks,” she said. “Look …” Pointed, but he paid no attention.

“Be still,” he said, straining. He puffed breath a little.

“I will not,” she said.

“I like this one.” Braced his arms and took a new angle.

“Hear me,” Pleeka was saying, eye depths aimed at Broaditch, “the man I serve will move mountains in the name of God.” He stood up as though he would leap into the air, though he did not.

“So you’re his prophet?” Broaditch asked, straight-faced.

Alienor took in the conversation sidelong, swinging the foodsack over her back as her husband took up the other pack and set the ropes over his shoulders before hefting his spear.

“It’s just cracked, Torky,” Tikla insisted, as the stick broke off short again and he fell over on his side.

“Devil curse it!” he said.

“Mind your words, smart lad,” his mother called down to him. “Get yourselves ready to travel. If you’ve any business to do, take it to the bushes before we start. Trifle not with Satan’s name.”

“Life can be simple and good,” Pleeka was saying, “when each day’s course is known and fitting.”

“I had that as slave and serf,” Broaditch answered. “Well, Pleeka, were you a priest once?”

They were heading downslope now. The day was grayly brightening. Tikla was going out ahead while her brother still struggled with the half-buried stone.

“No,” Pleeka said, “I were worse even than that. A scholar.”

Broaditch grinned, liking the reply, for once.

“Then you were a hard fellow,” he suggested.

They were passing Torky and his father raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing, boy? Do you want me to free that for you?” He smiled. “Do you mean to bear it away? I’ll give you a burden if you feel such a need.”

“No,” his son said, “I’ll do it.” Was digging savagely all around the sides with the stub of stick, flinging earth everywhere in frantic, raging, inefficient industry.

“Why,” Broaditch asked over his shoulder, part pausing, “do you want it? I misdoubt it has much value, son.”

“I care not,” was the answer. He was kicking at it and rocking the heart-shaped chunk.

His father nodded and went on.

“Finish quickly then,” he said, “and follow after.” To Alienor and Pleeka (if he pleased to listen) he said: “With all my years and snowy hairs I think I have done no better than that boy.” Rested the spear over his shoulder and aimed a word at the angular man: “Well, more-than-a-priest, what —” Broke off, squinting into the valley. Gestured for them all to wait. It was far enough away to blur in the early mists but he could just make out vague figures and wet gleamings of steel and (to clinch it) a bulky mounted man. “So they’ve come out ahead of us,” he muttered, leaning on the spearbutt. “Well, let them go on in peace.”

They
seem
to
have
swelled
in
numbers
, he thought.
And
the countryside seems to be shrinking …

He glanced back at Torky, who was putting his back into it now, squatting, hands clawed around the chunk of rock.

“He touched me,” Pleeka was saying, looking across the valley, expressionless, or rather with one expression that could have meant anything or nothing.

“What?” wondered Broaditch.

“This is what I must share. His touching.”

Broaditch glanced at Pleeka, then back at Torky, unconsciously tensing, straining with him as he heaved, staggered halfupright, cradling the stone against his legs, holding it free for an instant, braced, awkward and fierce as if against the hillslope, the massing clouds’ vast shifting overhead, the vast tilt of the earth itself … then buckling, dropping and flinging it back into the hole. Stood there wiping his hands against his baggy leather shorts.

His father smiled.

“There was light,” Pleeka said, harsh with that abstract contempt, “do you understand?” the tic shook his cheek and he half turned towards Alienor, who said not a word. “Do you understand?” he repeated. “There was suddenly light …”

IX

Howtlande was sitting on the mule in the darkness at the far end of the narrow bridge when the fighting started. He instantly understood and was shouting:

“Skalwere! Mind the flanks, Skalwere! I’ll see to the rear!”

From the sparking, clash and fury across the water, he believed half-a-dozen at least opposed them. The rest of his men (save for one guarding the women) went racing past him, boards rattling and booming underfoot …

The nameless knight had forced a way to the path and was holding the last roll of high ground before the village, but he realized men had already slipped around him through the bush and willow even before he heard the screams and shouts among the huts.

The moon was just lifting through the hill treetops and he saw vague figures all around him. None seemed too anxious to close altogether but he was panting now, sweat flooding over his face, and his limbs felt swollen and heavy. The spearmen kept darting up, thrusting and leaping back from his vicious counterstrokes. Each effort drained him perceptibly. He moved towards the huts, blocking and shifting. A squat shape hunched too close and, an instant slow in getting back, was clipped by just the swordtip in the face; gestured; lurched; bawled and fell and vanished as though into the earth’s deeper darkness. The men around him were just hints and glints, stirring, shifting as he half ran up the slight slope towards what (through the sweat-blurring of his sight) seemed warring beings of flame and darkness.

Is
this
magic
here
before
me?

And the word was a shock: something he knew and didn’t know.

There
are
holes
in
the
world
, his mind said,
and
magic
is
a
hole
in
the
world
…

He slashed … then whacked a furious spear aside. Closer, saw the huts were aflame and a mad tangle of shadows flew around the men holding the torches: women, children fleeing, falling in the wild light and then he was (panting and wobbling) near the barn and saw the big woman, two teenage boys and others, old people (in the ruddy, flaring torchlight) crouching around the mound of potatoes, makeshift weapons poised in despair, fury and something like embarrassment too: an old man with a scimitar (brought from God-knew-where), a boy with an oversize mace … the raiders gathered at the door to charge inside. One of them was down, sitting, holding his wounded midsection. A woman sprawled half out the door, face lost in blood and shadow.

He turned as a fully armored knight strode with drawn sword out of a blazing hut in a rush of sparks and fire-flashing, seeming to draw the flames behind him a moment as he headed straight over, businesslike, holding a smallish, round shield casually.

“Here’s the knight!” a spearman was shouting, pointing him out to the newcomer, who tugged his red-reflecting vizor closed and came on quickly now. The rest waited as the two armored men closed, circling briefly, and the nameless one thought:

This
is
a
new
manner
of
fellow
… And then struck, and his terrific, bone-wrenching cut was deflected by the shield and the air was ripped by the percussive counter. Over his opponent’s shoulder he glimpsed fragments of the scene in the barn, the flurry and screaming, raging, a woman falling into the potatoes, dress and limbs flopping like a dropped doll, blood spattering over the food, the raider keeping his spear in her chest, still rushing, crashing into the mound himself, spilling the bloody lumps like a sack of stones everywhere underfoot, combatants, victims, everyone skidding, going up and over …

He ducked away from the knight’s next cut, legs wobbling a little, lungs raw with each sucked breath. Sensed, heard someone moving behind him, tried to twist around but knew it was too late and without even surprise felt a titanic weight bang over his head and a white light flared everywhere and his sight and mind went supernaturally clear in the shock of it and he recorded every face and every detail of the scene: the people flailing, tumbling and bleeding and screaming, rolling on the potatoes, clinging and clutching like dancers at a mad feast, reeling singly and in locked groups and pairs around and around as panic and hate kept them spinning, reaching for passing walls, partners and enemies, gripping forever-failing support as flames burst out all over and in blind escape now dragged one another back in a welter of fire, blood and shadow … Then something sharp ground in his skull and brain and he screamed wildly, clutching at his head as all light winked out and he knew his true name and was trying to shout it out within the silent blackness that was himself.

X

Parsival was still fuming, walking rapidly around a curve in the passageway, unconsciously turning right at the next crossing, thinking:

I’ve been fates fool for forty years and I won’t be tricked into anything again … never … no witchcraft or empty praying … I’ve seen all the visions I need to see and I have heard if you deny it, it all goes away like a dreaming … which way here?

He faced a forking. High above a line of slit windows streamed whitish daylight that was swallowed by the general dimness. Dark pennants hung unstirring, obscure.

He looked left, then right. Both passages gaped blank and dark.

“You bastards!” he abruptly raged aloud, gritting his teeth. “May you lick the Devil’s hind in hell!”

Thinking in fury:

More tricks! To trick me into what this time
? Sarcastic: “
Why take the road that always rises, boy.” Oh, yes. I heard that nonsense before, you mystical bastards! No more empty journeys warring with ghosts and unwitting men …

“I fought your fucked wars for you, you sons-of-bitches!” he shouted. The muffled echoes rattled dully back.

Raging again he stormed at the right, checked himself, and plunged into the leftward way.

The
Devil’s
way
is
left
,
I
hope
, he snarled to himself.
I’ve
had
enough
of
what
they
say
God’s
was
…

The passage dipped … rose … then he was in a huge, round hall, windowless, lit by man-tall candles set around the wall. He hesitated, looking up, squinting. There was a gigantic mural composed like a wheel around the entire ceiling in equal parts lit and dim. There was what seemed a flowering garden outside a little castle, a bar of dark blotting part of the scene where a woman stood among flowers. She had long hair and large, shining eyes that reminded him of someone. In the next lit panel a deer was fleeing, a spear angled into the chest … darkness … then death, as a skeleton, jousting with a knight. He looked back at the woman: yes, he thought, it somehow resembled her … his mother … the eyes at least.

Dear
God
, he said to himself,
I
haven’t
thought
of
her
in
so
long
…

He looked elsewhere on the incredibly detailed picture: A great battle, tantalizingly at the edge of a shadowy area where a knight in what seemed tattered gear was moving through dense forest, holding something in his hands that appeared to shine like a jewel …

I
could
think
this
all
meant
just
for
me
…
perhaps
all
men
could
…

He pulled away and crossed the hall to the narrow door at the far end. Pushed it open, expecting anything (except “anything” would have to be thinner than his shoulders’ width to get through there) and was dazzled by a hot burst of sunlight. Blinking, he twisted sidewise through the doorway.

He found himself in another walled garden, this one very large, outside the monastery proper, with walks and tall trees. It seemed deserted. There was such a flood of sweetness he felt dizzy. Banks, no, waves of flowers swayed in an unbroken glow everywhere up to the shadows of the ancient, massive oaks that all but covered the high outer walls.

He waded knee-deep through the incredible sea of color and scent, rich with bees and butterflies. He paused at a delicate stream that flowed blue over pure white stones, glittering like cut crystal. He stooped and drank from his hands. The water was cool and tasted of sunshine and slow green earth. The breeze was a vague whisper and fingered his long, blond-gray hair. He took a full, lush breath and sat down … then reclined, looking at eye level across the shimmering field.

I’ll
climb
the
wall
, he thought idly.
It’ll
be
simple
. He didn’t move.
In
a
little
while
…
First
a
little
rest
…

He lay back and shaded his eyes with his arm. The sun was always so much hotter when you were prone. He let the drowsy warmth sink into his flesh … drifted with the coils of laden breeze …

No
, his mind said,
this
is
a
trick
too
…
this
…
is
…
is
butterfly
bread
and
God’s
forgetting
… and then with a whooshing of leaves and shaking light the trees were explaining things to him, laying the whole problem out with the help of thin pencils of sunlight, sketching on the sweet grass … he understood he’d fallen through the inner hole in himself guarded by dreams and the sun kept him awake within his sleep, and then she was there in a radiance soft but intense as daylight, and he was absorbed in watching each shifting, gleaming part of her, each slight breath of movement that stained the iridescent atmosphere; her body clothed and bathed in unending, unrepeating color, her face a sweetness beyond expression, and he feared to move his mind at all and perhaps disrupt the ineffable unfolding of that silent womanlight …

And thought said:

No
…
No
…
You
cannot
merely
watch
like
this
…
you’ll
be
lost
…

He was amazed at how conscious he actually still was. He felt that if he opened his eyes the vision and field would both be there.

No
,
no
,
not
just
watch!

Because he sensed he would be absorbed forever in watching, that he’d sink and drift passively away into eternities of silent, soft beauties. He had to do something with this or be lost, drained away … What? … What? … He tried to somehow get closer to her, feel her … wordlessly speak … wavered there, rising and falling over the blank depths of sleep …

Is
this
my
mother
too
?
Is
this
my
own
heart’s
image
?
Is
this
holy
? He felt a golden rush of joy suddenly.
Is
this
flowering
from
me
? He asked the tree voices. Felt the ecstasy as the sun wrote answers on the field. He couldn’t read it. Strained but couldn’t read … Was trying to wake up now and the tender, feathery being of purest flame was gone and he was thinking as he struggled back:

Do
things
do
things
…

He sat up sweaty, shocked in the sea of blossoms. Stood up, rubbing his face and eyes. Swayed a little. Then he was wading across the field through the cool, fragrant shade towards the high, white garden wall.

I’m not fighting everybody’s battles, I’m going to put my life together … I don’t need visions … I’m going to find my child and try to show him something
…

He touched the wall with one hand, absently, as if surprised to find it solid and sun-heated.

I
need
a
woman
too
again
…
I
never
really
loved
anyone
enough
…

He locked his fingers and toes and began climbing, and on top he looked back at the odd monastery, which seemed deserted from here: empty fields, no smoke from any chimney. It looked totally abandoned.

He shrugged. More of their tricks, perhaps. Or it meant nothing. He really didn’t care.

He swung over and dropped a body length into the weedy outer field.

Let
it
be
, he told himself. Because he was going to live his own way, let them fill the world with visions, portents and all mysterious, vast significances …

He strode away and didn’t look back again.

I’m
going
to
put
my
life
together
…