The Grail War (25 page)

Her brother was watching, too. She was trying to see which of the men would reach the trail here first.

“Look, Torky,” she said, “I couldn’t count how many!”

“I wish I was a knight,” he said.

They heard the pounding now; the hillside shook under the mass of warriors.

“You can’t be a knight,” she informed him, big eyes watching, making out the helmets now. “You’re lowborn.”

She felt her mother turn and start slightly.

“Mary help us,” she breathed, digging her sharp elbow into the driver’s ribs, “we’re undone in a moment.” Most of the men, to Tikla’s vexation, veered away down the valley road on other business while a few continued up the slope in pursuit.

“We’re nearly safe,” Lampic said.

“Safe?” her mother wondered. “On the lap of heaven, mayhap, or the devil’s knees!”

“Never you mind,” the man growled, heading the madly rocking, bouncing cart between two twisted trees. Now they were on terrain that favored mules over any horses: round, slippery stones and loose shale. The riders crashed on behind, but Tikla was disappointed to see them dropping gradually back.

They rocked and tilted on, Alienor thought,
like
a
ship
in
a
storm
… After a time they were able to jog along a fairly level stretch of rich river bottom that was lush with hedgerows and willow trees. Tikla had given up on the men and was dozing against her brother. The day was bright overcast. Swallows rose and swirled; a flight of geese thundered over … Torky dusted off a raw potato and crunched into it …

“Well,” his mother was saying to the driver, one hand smoothing at her iron-gray-and-red hair, “how far, brave chappie, to London town?”

“Ah,” that worthy replied, “and if they ain’t moved it since, my dear, and we don’t cross a deadly fate of knights and cutthroats, I say two Sundays hence you’ll see the city wall — though it’s no place I’d be going alone with young chaps and me a woman.”

“With things as they stand in the open,” she jabbed back, “I’ll go indoors for now, thank you, very much, goodman Lampic.”

The man smiled, digesting her thought.

“Aye,” he said at length, “but these wars come and go … go and come … If a lad keep out of the way, why, it comes to but tavern talk in the end.”

“Not this time,” she said.

“Ah,” he said, rubbing his pointy chin, “so you’re a seer of future things, are you?”

“I’m a woman with memory and common sense. When

Arthur and them fought the devils’ why, where were you then?”

He looked a little uneasy.

“Well, well,” he said, “but them was long-gone times, my dear.”

“Then the sun runs backward now,” she said grimly, glancing back once, then staring straight ahead, watching the pleasant, still-lush countryside unwind before them, watching the birds drift, wishing she and the children could rise and soar over the country.
Oh
, she thought,
but
to
rise
over
all
what's
to
come
…
to
rest
like
a
gull
on
the
easy
shoulder
of
the
wind
…

“Who told you these things?” Lampic probed, shrewd-eyed, alert.

She shook her sardonic head.             

“Birds,” she responded. “Birds.”

Parsival sat up in the furs and silks, watching the single candle burn slowly down in the center of the round tent. His fancy made of it a watching eye. He imagined it lidded and moved when vagrant drafts wobbled the dull orange spot of flame. The air was cool on his bare torso. He felt her warmth under the covers close to his legs. He wondered if she were asleep yet … remembered, as a child, sitting up watching his mother work on a piece of embroidery by candlelight. He remembered her long fingers, sure, delicate, working with unending precision. Fascinated, he’d see the patterns emerge: a picture, a landscape with a man and woman (or boy and girl or two angels; he couldn’t recall); the bright colors and spacious beauty of the scene had affected him … night after night he’d watched it grow, waiting, as if he were going to come to truly know the people (that he didn’t yet realize were lovers) as the dots and lines and specks and shapes of textured color spread steadily, clarified the forms, as if some secret of that imaged world would open to him, as if (he almost had thought) some night they’d move and complete their graceful, though ambiguous, gestures …

“Are you troubled in mind?” Unlea asked, startling him somewhat.

“No,” he returned, still staring.

“No?” She stirred slightly beside him.

“I am thinking about nothing … I don’t dare think. If I thought …”

“Yes?”

He shook his head. The eye of flame held him rapt. She tugged him free from his reverie and down to her and kissed and spoke with her lips closed.

“I dare not think, either,” she whispered and smiled. “Were you thinking … I mean,
not
thinking about what I told you?”

He knew what she meant.

“About your lovers?”

She nodded. Her little “mmm” of agreement made him fancy that a fuzzy rabbit spoke and he smiled. “
Why
,
the
very
sounds
that
pass
through
my
lady
are
enriched
.” He remembered a minstrel’s quote.

“NO',” he said. He kissed her lingeringly, held her close.

“Never have I known a man with such a need,” she murmured, adjusted herself beneath him, opened her sweet limbs. He ran his mouth down her body, feasting, lapping, kissing right to her feet, which he lightly bit and fiercely kissed … She sighed and writhed on the silks.

“Oh,” she asked, “what do you do to me? Oh … oh … never have I known your like, sir … oh … oh … ah, sir …”

He turned her over and ran his cheeks and face up and down her sleek length while his hands led and followed after … It was no longer an exploration: it was an attempt (and he almost knew this) to mark her forever with himself, his being, as if he could penetrate the water of her flesh and feel the inner magic of her with his own inner senses, to mark himself with her, too … to keep it, inscribe the flowing water … and as he mounted her in their mutual breathlessness, at the far edge of his awareness and sight was the quivering speck of fire that fluttered, winked like eye or wing, again … again … went utterly out just as he felt himself hard and sure and lodged home again, rocking in their darkness, seeming now to be searching for the rhythm, pulse, pace that fled, unreeling, before him, as if he could lock himself deep enough to join now to forever … He hurled himself into her gossamer finger touches, heat, resilience, into her cries and wordless words, gripping her shoulders and back, until he no longer knew whom was penetrating whom …

“Why are you here?” he asked later, holding her, because, as he knew, time always came back.

“Because I cannot help it, which you know right well.”

He stared into the darkness. His eyes kept drooping shut with sweet weariness.

“What can we do … ?” he muttered. “What … ?”

“Nothing,” she said. Her arms were wrapped firmly around his body.

He was partly in and out of dreaming now: sudden bright sequences flashed and startled him awake … He was riding to joust against a knight in mirror-gleaming armor. He couldn’t properly take aim, had to keep twisting away and shielding his sight from the brilliance … then the dark tent, her warmth …

“Well find a place to live in peace,” he whispered, trying to garner a plan from his fading, separating thought. She didn’t respond. “Unlea … ?”

“Yes?”

“Did you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Then?”

“If you say so, my love, I will believe it.”

“But you
don’t
believe it,” he said or possibly thought; he wasn’t sure because now there was a castle, a blinding shimmer like diamonds, towering up so that hazy clouds hung well below the topmost, dazzling spire. He was rushing forward up the long, sloping hill, as though a wind blew him across the crystal silence of the landscape …

He awoke with a shudder. He couldn’t hold his thoughts in a line …

He was certain she’d just said, “There’s no place for us to go.”

He answered (or thought he answered), “Our love makes us pure.”

He knew the connection was tenuous and now he saw her just entering the thousand-foot-high castle gate, in the smoky, golden sparkle of her trailing garments …

“Why are you with me?”

“Stop,” she seemed to reply. “Stop this.”

“Why?”

“Stop.”

“I want you,” he was sure he was saying, except it was dark and the stars were rushing toward him, silver-hard eyes of light glinting from the vast, cold, empty night. “I want you.” The cold and something else convinced him he was suddenly full awake and the stars glared in through the tent flap (which had blown half undone), and a large, shadow-dark figure (in armor that melted into the night and glinted here and there with points of silver like stars in chill water) stood in the entrance and seemed to watch him … Parsival readied himself for combat; he felt a pressure, as if something heavy, velvety as drugged sleep, were pinning him motionless to the bedclothes, found himself straining to lift the weight, feeling he could die, smother under it, which was like lifting the world itself … He concentrated, and suddenly burst to his feet, naked, crouched in the chilly air facing an empty opening, the wind flapped, felt a little stronger, though tired, and heard her saying: “What is it, Parsival?”

And he thought, as he reassured her,
I’m
more
asleep
now
that
I
was
a
moment
ago
…

Next morning in the silvery-gray of first light, he studied the ground around the tent for tracks. The first birds were tentatively twittering here and there back in the mist and shadowed woods.

He discovered nothing, no certain traces separate from their own footsteps. But he remained positive someone had actually been physically present. He’d gone to the opening and redrawn the flap. No one had seemed to be nearby. He’d sat awake for an hour and waited, listening to the wind and her steady breathing …

He went over the problem as they were breaking camp. She wasn’t much help, he noted. Well, she’d never lived in the field before except with livery. He felt she was putting up with the discomforts of their flight (if it was that) pretty well.

Nearly a week later they were camped by a river just downstream from a low series of falls. The water roared steadily and there was always cool spray and mist in the air.

He was broiling supper. The overcast sky was dimming its pale grays and hinting tints. She was still in the tent. He was going over the total situation again: he was cut off from home because whoever aimed to assassinate him was bound to have set a watch there. Also, could he really live with Unlea over his wife and daughter’s graves …? He sighed, then turned the split fish on the forked stick. He didn’t want to recall his family. The only hope was in the here and now, he told himself. The thing was not to make those mistakes, not to get distracted again and imagine it was somewhere else like a man trying to grasp the moon’s reflection in water … This time, he said to himself, was going to be different, this time …

He stood up and stared at the rushing river: a bright leaf flashed past, spun, submerged, surfaced, whizzed out of sight around the bend. It felt so good just to stand in the evening’s peace, to feel her safely nearby. He felt pleasantly hungry and hopeful … For some reason he suddenly thought of Lohengrin and a frown rippled around his eyes. He'd missed so much there … so much … the boy had been an incident … so much of life had seemed incidental to his dreams …

He shut off his thoughts and turned to the tall, rose-pink, silken tent. There was a rent near the flap now (from the wind) and the sides were already weather stained.

“Unlea," he called, “have you no appetite?"

No reply. He pitched his voice well above the water roar.

“Unlea! Come out! Else the fish go back as they are to where they came from."

Mayhap
she's
shitting
in
the
brush
, he considered. But then she came to the opening and said something he couldn’t make out. He went closer when she didn’t move. He noticed her hair was only partly combed and arranged. Her gown sat unevenly on her. She was shaking the hem at him.

“Look at this!" she said hotly. “But
look
at this!"

“At what, my love?"

“This …” She fluttered the cloth. There was a reddish wine stain on the light peach fabric.