Grail Prince

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Of course. But the rest I have to do alone.”

  Around them the rain hissed so furiously it drowned out the river’s thunder, but within the hut silence was complete. Percival’s hand dropped to his dagger. Did Galahad mean to imply that the sign had not come because Percival was with him? That it was his fault? This was the last straw.

  “Well, are you going to cook that fish or aren’t you?” A gruff voice spoke from the doorway and Percival whirled. Just beyond the remains of the fire a short, thick figure, no higher than the hut door, blinked at him from under the hood of a cloak. Beneath the cloak he wore a coarse robe tied at the waist with braided twine. His small feet were wrapped in oiled cloth. The heavy sack over his shoulder was held by a broad, fat, but unbelievably small hand.

  “Who are you?” Percival’s dagger slipped into his hand. “What do you want?”

  “A little hospitality in my own home,” the figure growled.

  “Your home?” Percival gulped. “You live here? Our pardon, sir! We thought the place was deserted. We thought it had been empty for generations. Where have you been?”

  “Away. You’ve made yourselves free with my shed, too. Two great lumbering horses and barely enough room to squeeze my donkey in.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Percival said hastily. “But . . . may we beg your hospitality a little longer, until the rain lets up? Your house is big enough for three—and well built, too, dry as a bone. Come in, come in.”

  The short man grunted. “You may stay, Percival of Gwynedd, and your cousin, too, if in return you’ll let me have those fish.”

  “How do you . . . you can’t possibly know who we are!”

  The stranger barked a short laugh. “Can’t I?”

  Percival pushed the fish at him. “Take them, take them. But I don’t know how you’ll cook them. All the kindling’s wet.”

  “Stand aside.”

  Percival backed away from the door and the little man entered. He reached out a chubby hand and pointed a finger at the dead fire. His voice rose and fell in a quick incantation, and suddenly a blue flame sprang to life amid the sodden ashes. It hissed as it devoured the rain, licked upward, grew, and blossomed into a yellow-red, beating blaze. In the stunned silence he threw off his robe, revealing a miniature, squat body, an overlarge, misshapen head, and a square, ugly face.

  “Who are you?” Percival whispered.

  “My name is Naceyn.” He nodded politely at Percival and Galahad. “You are princes. I am a Druid. We are equals of a sort.” He smiled briefly at the expression on Percival’s face. “No need to fear me. I come in peace. You have shared your dinner with me, and in return I will give each of you a gift.”

  As he spoke, he withdrew two stout, sharpened sticks from the pack he carried, skewered the fish, and held them over the fire. He cocked a bright eye at Percival. “Reach into that sack. I’ve a rabbit, cabbages and apples, a jar of olives, and a bag of raisins. All yours.”

  Percival dove eagerly into the sack and withdrew several packages wrapped in oiled cloth, a small jar of olives, and a small iron pot. Naceyn handed his roasting sticks to Percival. “Roast my dinner for me, prince, and I’ll make you a rabbit stew you won’t soon forget.”

  With amazing speed he pulled a small dagger from his belt, skinned and cut up the rabbit, added it to the pot with a cabbage, water, three wild onions from one of the cloth packages, a handful of raisins from another, and a sprinkling of herbs from a small linen bag. Then he placed the pot at the edge of the blazing fire, neatly rewrapped his packages, replaced them in the sack, and took back his sticks from Percival. He winked at Galahad, who sat cross-legged at the rear of the hut defiantly chewing a strip of jerky, nearly as tall sitting as Naceyn was standing.

  “You will see, my fierce Christian friend, there is nothing to fear from a Druid’s stew. It will do you no harm and tastes a deal better than six-month-old jerky.”

  Galahad put down the jerky and frowned. “Where did you come from and how did you get here? You didn’t cross that stream in full flood.”

  Naceyn’s smile revealed a row of white, even teeth. “You forget you’re not a native of these parts, Sir Galahad. You don’t know the secret paths and twisting byways that lead in and out of this valley. I do. I’ve lived on Dinas Brenin for forty years.”

  “Dinas Brenin?” Percival said softly. “Is that where we are? Isn’t this where wicked King Vortigern tried to build his tower? That fell down three times in the building when the walls reached man-height? It’s a cursed place!”

  Naceyn grinned. “On the contrary. It’s a sacred place to those who serve the Mother. This is where the Druid Merlin flushed Vortigern from his lair out into the open, where Ambrosius killed him. The High Priestess Vivien sanctified this place and built the cairn. A small community of Druids has lived here ever since. I am the last living. I was born here.”

  “Merlin the Enchanter was no Druid,” Galahad broke in stiffly. “He served King Arthur all his life.”

  Naceyn’s eyes flickered. “Only ignorance speaks without fear of contradiction. Merlin was the most powerful Druid ever born. He brought Arthur into being. Although,” he added lightly, “I own that Uther Pendragon and Ygraine of Cornwall played their parts.”

  “Whom do you serve?” Galahad asked, the jerky forgotten. “You with your tricks of magic. Some pagan enchanter? A local witch?”

  Naceyn regarded him thoughtfully. “I serve the Mother. And you?”

  Galahad’s nostrils flared. “Who is your mortal master? And don’t lie to me if you value your skin.”

  The dwarf did not flinch. “Who is yours, son of Lancelot? And don’t forget you are a guest in my house.”

  “You do not live here. There are no signs of habitation anywhere. The wattle between these stones is fresh. Why did you come here so full of lies?”

  For a moment silence hung between them, sharp and dangerous as a bared blade. Then, with a little smile, Naceyn bowed. “I came to find you, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  “The queen I serve bade me bring you to her.”

  “Do you pretend you can take me against my will?”

  Naceyn laughed quietly. “Of course not. It is my hope that I can persuade you to follow me.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “Then you will go your way and I will go mine.” He smiled. “Be easy, son of Lancelot. I did not come to cross blades with you. I came because you are searching for something and I believe I can help you find it.”

  Galahad started and Percival looked at him eagerly. “Cousin! This could be—”

  Galahad waved him silent. “If you know what I seek, tell me what it is and where it lies. Then I can find it myself.”

  “Ah,” Naceyn said softly, “but it is not that kind of thing. You must come with me to Guent and the key to finding it will be shown to you. That is all I know about it.”

  Galahad stared at him a moment and then shrugged. “Perhaps I will come. Perhaps I won’t.”

  Naceyn bowed politely, then reached into his sack and brought forth a polished pewter plate and a wooden bowl. He set them both near the fire and laid the skewered fish carefully on the plate. After giving the stew a stir, he ate his fish, neatly and quickly, pulling out the bones with a practiced hand. He washed the plate in rainwater and dried it with the hood of his coarse robe, then replaced it in the sack. “An excellent dinner. I thank you for it. I’m overfond of trout. I’ve never been able to catch them myself. It’s a disappointment to me.”

  “Why don’t you charm them out of the water, if you’re a Druid?”

  Naceyn turned slowly to face Galahad. “That is a misuse of power, to manage trivial things, to smooth the way for personal comfort. He who misuses a gift, loses it.”

  He poured the stew into the bowl and gestured the cousins to sit closer together. “I’ve only one bowl. You’ll have to share. But I’ve plenty of wine and it’s excellent stuff, imported from Gaul. Drink as much as you like.” He han
ded them his wineskin and watched them eat. Then he settled himself opposite them and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Tonight I will give each of you a great gift. In your sleep you will see part of the glorious futures that await you. In each dream is a key to understanding. If you grasp the key you shall achieve your destinies.”

  Galahad looked up sharply. “Send me no dream, Druid. No one but God can know the future.”

  “Believe what you will, my lord. But I will be here in the morning, and if you are displeased with your dream, you may kill me if you choose. I have no weapon but my little dagger. I am at your mercy.”

  “Perhaps I should kill you now and save myself your dream.”

  Naceyn’s eyes flickered. “Then you are no son of Lancelot, but a coward. And my curse would follow you all the rest of your days.”

  Galahad shuddered. A Druid’s curse was no laughing matter. The bravest soldiers in Arthur’s army had feared them worse than death in battle. It was said a Druid’s curse could follow a man for years and strike him at the least expected hour. All he ever heard was the warning whistle of a dagger in flight seconds before it struck. “I’ve had enough of killing. You are safe from me.”

  Naceyn nodded. “A wise decision.”

  Sleep came quickly to Percival, but Galahad lingered on the edge of sleep for a long time, listening to the gentle hiss of rain. Finally, with Naceyn curled in a corner of the hut, snoring steadily, Galahad gave up the battle and closed his eyes.

  He rode out of a dark forest by the banks of a flowing river. In the middle of the river stood a castle on an island. He looked about, and saw a man asleep by his boat at the water’s edge.

  “Good sir!” he cried. “Can you tell me how to get to yonder castle?” The ferryman took him across and the porter led him by familiar paths to the hall of the Fisher King, who rose and beckoned to him.

  “Ah, Sir Galahad, you’ve come at last. Welcome, my lord, welcome. Sit here by me, so I can have speech with you.” He wore a crown upon his head and carried his left arm in a sling. A feast followed, more food than thirty men could eat, and, when he was finished, a trio of pretty serving maidens cleared it all away.

  “Now watch,” said the king, “and I will show you a marvel. It is my guest-gift. Look sharp, and you will see your heart’s desire.”

  The candles dimmed of their own accord until the hall glowed with a soft light. Someone unseen struck a harp and sweet music sang to his soul. From a doorway at one end of the hall came a maiden dressed in white, with skin as pale as winter’s snow, hair as black as a raven’s wing, and lips as red as blood. In her hands she held a krater of ancient make, shallow and wide-lipped, shining with the sheen of beaten silver, studded with tiny amethysts and delicate golden chasing. In the hollow dimness of the hall it shone with its own light and seemed to float of its own will between her hands. Galahad gulped, dry-mouthed. He had never seen anything so beautiful or so compelling. The maiden approached him with the krater, stepping gracefully to the music, and passed him by. There were words etched in Latin upon the krater’s lip, shimmering in the light: Whoso thirsts, drink ye and be restored. How he longed to reach out and touch it—he was so thirsty! A second maiden followed, lovelier even than the first, her features half-hidden by the luxuriant fall of chestnut hair. Galahad caught his breath. The spear in her hand was over six feet long but so beautifully balanced, she carried it with ease. The shaft of dark, dense wood was polished to brilliance; the honed spear tip shone deadly bright. Again he saw Latin writing etched along the shaft, dancing in the light: Whoso trembles, take this and fear not. What a magnificent weapon! His palms began to sweat as the maiden approached, and passed by. What ancient hero king had made this spear, had feasted from the krater? The music faded; the candles returned to light; the maidens were gone.

  Galahad turned to his host. “Sir, I beg you! Where have they gone, the Grail and Spear? I have searched everywhere to find them!”

  The Fisher King turned. His eyes shone blue and green and blue, changing like the water outside his door, deep and unreadable.

  “Galahad,” he said slowly, “what is it you seek?”

  “Sir, that is a question easily answered. I seek the Grail and Spear.”

  The Fisher King smiled. “Why?”

  “To . . . to . . . to heal Britain. To restore her, to make her whole, to return her King!”

  “A noble quest,” his host replied. “But only a worthy man can find the way. Do you know what makes a man worthy, Galahad?”

  “To love God, to fear evil, to avoid sin, to uphold truth.”

  At once the candles blew out and left Galahad in darkness. From far away he heard the laugh of the Fisher King.

  He who knows when he is thirsty can be restored; who knows when he trembles can be preserved. You have eyes, but they see not. Go, Galahad, seek far and wide for the Blessed Gifts whose power can heal Britain. In the soul of darkness will you find them. In the heart of light they lie. Find them for the hand that will hold them.

  The words eddied around him in the darkness, spinning ever faster.

  “What shall I do?” Galahad cried in panic.

  “Go south. Go south. Go south,” repeated the fading voice of the Fisher King.

  Galahad sat bolt upright. Outside the stone hut a weak sun glittered in pools of standing water. He shrugged off his bedroll as Percival stirred and opened his eyes.

  “Galahad! Oh, cousin! I’ve had the most amazing dream!”

  “And so have I.”

  “The most beautiful girl in all the world appeared to me—I’ve seen her before, in the dreams I had at Avalon. She told me . . . she told me to go home.”

  “And I must go south.”

  “It is time for us to part, then, cousin. I . . . I’m sorry about it. I shall miss you.”

  “And I you.” They stared at each other. In a single night the animosity between them had vanished and they spoke to each other as they had when they first set out. Together they turned toward the corner where Naceyn had slept, but found it empty.

  “Where’s the dwarf?” Galahad wondered.

  “He really did send us dreams, didn’t he? He is a Druid, then.” Galahad stretched. “It was probably a drug that did it. When Niniane put me in an enchanted sleep she gave me an apple first. We two ate the stew Naceyn prepared. He didn’t. He ate our fish. Did you see what he put in the stewpot?”

  “N-no,” Percival replied uncertainly. “Not everything.”

  “Well, then. Perhaps the secret lies in herbal lore. Old Merlin was famous for his knowledge of plants and what could be distilled from them.” He smiled suddenly. “Perhaps that’s all Druids are—herbalists who guard the secret of their preparations and frighten people with rumors of their power.”

  Naceyn coughed behind them. “I shall disregard that remark.”

  Galahad flushed but Percival grinned. “Thank you for the dream, Naceyn! You have given me my own quest—for the maiden I saw there!”

  Naceyn’s face creased into a smile. “I warn you, you must earn the right to her hand. And you, Galahad, how was your dream?”

  “It’s one I’ve had before,” Galahad said slowly. “But with a new ending. Percival is going home to Gwynedd, but I . . . am going south.”

  Naceyn nodded. “Then I shall be able to accompany you. Guent lies south. Come, let’s break our fast and I will show you the separate paths you are to take. It looks to be a beautiful day.”

  In the strengthening sun Percival and Galahad readied their horses and parted at last with expressions of affection and promises to meet again as soon as circumstance allowed. Percival followed the westward trail Naceyn pointed out. As Galahad leaped onto Farouk’s back, Naceyn pulled his donkey from the shed.

  Galahad hesitated. “If the dream was your gift, I can hardly refuse your request. You have given me back hope and I am in your debt. You may accompany me south.” Naceyn bowed politely. “But tell me this: Is it no coincidence your way lies south as well?�
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  Naceyn did not answer at once. All his effort and attention seemed to be engrossed in mounting the recalcitrant donkey. At last, safely aboard, he straightened his robe and met Galahad’s eyes directly.

  “Do you suspect me? Do you imagine I could force you anywhere against your will?”

  “Why is your dream the same one I dreamed at Avalon?”

  “Ah.” Naceyn smiled knowingly. “That’s a good question, as it happens. Perhaps because they spring from the same source.” Galahad frowned but the dwarf pulled his donkey’s head around and started down the steep trail to the valley floor, effectively ending conversation. Galahad watched him for a moment and then put a leg to his horse. It did not matter. Naceyn was right. One thing he had learned in the years since Arthur’s death was that very few men could force him to do anything he did not wish to do.

  By midafternoon they wound their way out of the valley and found a well-worn track leading to the Caerleon road. The warm sun sent rainwater steaming off trees and grasses, so that most of the way they rode in a knee-high mist. Galahad said little, all his thoughts focused on what lay ahead. After months of dragging disappointment, to have hope renewed! He could not take the dream as the sign he awaited, for he had seen it twice before, but after three long years of struggle he had seen the Grail again, and he sensed with growing excitement that he was back on its trail.

  So deep was he in thought he was nearly taken by surprise. The air began to vibrate with the approaching thunder of hooves, and a troop of armed men rode out of the mist at them.

  “Halt, in the King’s name!” the captain cried, raising his arm and bringing his company to a standstill. Galahad pulled up. The captain’s eyes widened when he saw Galahad’s shoulder badge. “You, sir! Are you of the House of Lanascol?”

  “I am. My name is Galahad. And this is—” He turned to introduce Naceyn but the dwarf and his donkey had disappeared. Only a narrow flattening of young growth on the verge indicated where they had faded into the forest.