Ganscotter broke into a smile and stepped forward off the dais. "I'm proud of him, too, Eileen," he said. Then, eyes streaming with tears, Ganscotter took Terence in his arms and said, "Well done, my son."
Terence could not speak for the tears that choked him. He could say nothing while Ganscotter embraced him, nor when the Enchanter announced to all present—to the shock of both Gawain and Eileen—that Terence was indeed his true son. He could not even speak when Ganscotter touched his son's shoulder with a gleaming sword and proclaimed him Sir Terence, Knight of the Island, Duke of Avalon, and led him to the banquet hall, to the place of honor at Ganscotter's right hand.
XI. To the World of Men
They spent many days at Avalon, though no one cared to count the exact number. Gawain and Lorie were married with great solemnity and gladness. Terence spent hours with Eileen, but he found time for others as well, especially for his family. For the first time in his memory, Terence was part of a family. Although Terence had met Ganscotter and Lorie before, he had not known then that they were his father and sister. Moreover, since Gawain and Lorie were married, his master and best friend was now also his brother-in-law. Terence suddenly had a family, a best friend, and a beloved lady who returned his love. To one raised as a foundling in a secluded hermitage, affection from so many sides was almost bewildering.
Terence talked much with his father, learning the ways of the Other World. The Enchanter told Terence about his magic and about the stronger, and kinder, magic that lay even beyond his own. Often they spoke of love, for Ganscotter, too, had known love like Terence's. One day, high on the castle walls, Ganscotter told Terence about his own experiences. He spoke first of the regal French princess who had been Lorie's mother. "I thought when she died that my heart would never feel again," he said. "Until I met a gentle peasant girl from Yorkshire. Your mother."
"What was my mother like?" Terence asked shyly.
Ganscotter looked over the misty fields below, as if seeing across the worlds. "Her cheeks were always red and warm, even before the first fire was lit on a frosty winter morning; her lips were never far from smiling. Though she was young, her eyes already had the wrinkles at the corners that distinguish a merry life. I wanted to give her everything, but I never gave her as much as she gave me." Ganscotter looked at Terence and said, "Your face is the face of a faery, my son. But your selfless heart is the gift of your mother. As always, she has given more than I."
"You told me the last time that I was here that she died when I was a baby," Terence said carefully. Ganscotter nodded, and Terence continued. "Why, then, was I left in that other place, the World of Men?"
For a long time, Ganscotter did not answer, and when he did, Terence thought at first that the Enchanter was changing the subject. Ganscotter said, "You have now seen two different worlds, Terence, and have been a part of both. You have seen that they are different, have you not?" Terence nodded and the Enchanter continued. "In this world, there is good and bad, but not like in the World of Men. In that world, badness quickly becomes monstrous evil, and goodness—well, goodness can become sublime."
"Why?" asked Terence.
"Humans are just different. No other creatures have the capacity for such evil and such folly. That is why the rare human who is truly good—like your mother—is so remarkable. And the rare human who aquires true wisdom—like King Arthur—is so magnificent."
"Yes, sir," Terence said. "But you haven't explained—"
"Patience, child. Because of the weight of human foolishness, some kinds of magic are rare in that world. For instance, we faeries may travel between worlds easily, but those born of human flesh may not. That includes you. Though you were my own son, I could not bring you to this world until you were old enough to put aside the selfishness and folly that all humans inherit."
"And so you left me with the hermit, Trevisant," Terence said.
"I knew of no one who could teach you so well. And in your humble service to Trevisant and to your master, you have now proven yourself."
They were silent for several minutes. "Sir?" Terence asked suddenly, "If I had not had faery blood, would I have been able to cross to this world?"
Ganscotter shook his head. "No. No one who is entirely human may make this crossing." Terence thought at once of Eileen, and Ganscotter, as if reading his mind, added, "Yes, even Eileen has a trace of faery blood, by way of Ireland. You might say she is a distant cousin to a leprechaun."
"I might," Terence said, grinning. "But not to her face. I love her, but I'm not a complete fool."
Ganscotter smiled but replied immediately. "No one who loves is a complete fool. Or if so, it is a divine foolishness."
The phrase sounded familiar, and Terence searched his memory for it. Then he remembered. "Gawain said something like that to Arthur before we left." Terence hesitated, then asked, "Was Gawain right? Is Arthur's love for Guinevere divine—or just foolish?"
Ganscotter shook his head noncommittally. "The outcome remains to be seen. But it is not wrong for Arthur to love, even though he loves someone who is neither smart enough nor courageous enough to love him in kind."
Thinking of Arthur's stubborn faithfulness to Guinevere, and imagining how he would feel himself if Eileen gave her love to another, Terence felt a deep indignation. "What more could Guinevere want than Arthur's love?" he demanded.
"It is not that she wants more, child. It is that she wants less. Arthur's love for her exceeds reason, surpasses all the prescribed rules, and it frightens her. Lancelot courts her according to the rules."
"What rules?"
"The rule that handsome men and beautiful women must always love each other. The rule that men show their love for women by defeating other men. The rule that love is won as one wins tournaments, by proving yourself the most beautiful. The rule that love for a famous person is nobler than love for a humble person."
Terence frowned. "But those rules are rubbish."
"Yes."
"I wish I could help him," Terence murmured.
"You can," Ganscotter said. Terence looked up, but Ganscotter shook his head. "No, I cannot tell you how. But you will have your chance when you return to Camelot." Terence stared at Ganscotter in dismay, and the Enchanter said gently, "Avalon is your home, but you are not to stay here forever this time. Remember only that you will never leave here forever."
Terence's dismay at hearing that he had to leave his true home was nothing to Gawain's when he heard that he had to leave his true love. For long minutes, Gawain stared bleakly at the wall of his bedchamber while Terence wished he could remove his master's grief. Terence wanted to repeat Ganscotter's words—"You will never leave here forever"—but it was not a time for words, so he only shared his master's silence.
When at last the day came for their departure, the three friends were as ready as they could be. Gawain was no more reconciled to leaving Lorie, but he had accepted that the parting was temporary. The three travelers prepared for a journey, as they had so many times before, and bid tearful goodbyes. They boarded a shining ferry of pearl and floated across to the opposite shore, where to no one's surprise they found their gear and horses awaiting them on the beach.
"So," Eileen said, "which direction?"
Gawain, still lost in his grief at parting, did not reply, so Terence said, "Go back the same way we came, I suppose, and hope it's easier this time around."
They did not get far before they were stopped. As they approached a forest, a slim green figure, about three feet tall, stepped from the trees. It was Robin.
"Good day, Sir Gawain!" Robin called, bowing toward Gawain. "Bid you good morrow, Lady Eileen!" Last of all, he turned toward Terence and bowed until his nose touched the ground, saying, "And all salutations to your grace, the Duke of Avalon."
Terence grinned, and Gawain, distracted from his reverie, bowed slightly in return and asked, "And whom do I have the honor to address?"
"Only one of the humblest of your admirers, Sir Gawain," Robin s
aid meekly.
"Stow it, Robin," Terence said. "And don't call me your grace. How've you been?"
Robin chuckled. "Passing well, Terence. Passing well."
Gawain raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You know this fellow, Terence?"
"Ay. This is Robin, the messenger I've told you about."
"I see," Gawain nodded. "You say your name is Robin, eh? Have you another name?"
"At least a dozen, Sir Gawain."
"Would one of them be Goodfellow?"
Robin chuckled slyly. "Some have called me so, though I'm not certain why."
"Robin Goodfellow, whom some call Puck. Am I right?"
"It's not my favorite name."
Gawain went on. "The Puck of whom I have heard is an imp, a mischievous sprite who'd rather cause trouble than eat, a merry little good-for-nothing whose greatest delight is to make fools of humans."
"Ay, that's the fellow," Terence agreed.
Robin looked pleased, but he murmured, "As if humans needed my help."
"Well, good Robin, how may we serve you?" Gawain asked.
"No no, Sir Gawain. I've come to serve you. I'm to lead you back to the World of Men." He led a little white pony out of the trees, mounted, and pointed them west.
Soon they came upon Sir Bercilak, armed and mounted, waiting for them by a brook. His face wreathed with smiles, he greeted them all, including Robin, as long-lost friends. Gawain was rapidly re-covering his composure and was able to smile his own greeting. "Do you ride with us, Sir Bercilak?"
"It would be unseemly for the Maiden's Knight, the Duke of Avalon, and the renowned Lady Eileen of Wirral to ride without an honor guard," Bercilak said.
Terence whistled. "Lady Eileen of Wirral," he murmured admiringly.
"I like it," Eileen said, tossing her head pertly. "You're not the only one who can have a toplofty title, after all."
They rode quickly, passing many places they recognized from the outward journey. They seemed to cover in a day distances that had taken them weeks before. The wind was always at their back, their horses never grew weary, and the ground itself seemed eager to fly beneath their horses' hooves and lose itself behind them. At the end of a week, they came to the edge of the woods and rode out onto the vast plain along the river. In the distance, Terence could make out the misty outline of the mountain they had climbed the night they crossed into the World of Faeries.
"Oh, look!" Eileen exclaimed, pointing at a lush grotto at the edge of the forest, resplendent with flowers. "Oh, you can smell them from here!" she cried. "Why did we not see this on our way?"
"Ah, but you did, my lady," Robin said. "Do you not recognize it?"
Terence saw nothing that he recognized, but after a moment, Eileen said, "Terence, do you see a house of some kind in the heart of that jumble of flowers there?"
"Maybe," he admitted.
"Robin, is this the hovel of that dreadful Annis?" Eileen demanded.
"It is that." He grinned. "See what a difference you've made here, my lady?"
"It's delightful!" she pronounced. "I should like to spend the night here, Robin."
"As you wish," he replied. Thus it was that they went to sleep surrounded by flowers: breathing their perfume and cushioned by their petals. Seldom had Terence fallen asleep more easily, but shortly after midnight he awoke, uneasy but unafraid. Careful not to disturb anyone, he took his sword to the darkness at the edge of the camp. Just in the shadows, Robin sat on a stump.
"There, to the left," Robin whispered. Terence looked where the sprite indicated. Rising slowly from the river was a bluish mist, an eerie-looking, irregular sort of fog, and at the edge of the fog, seeming almost to drag it behind, a dark shape shuffled along the riverbank. Terence lifted his sword. "Who is it, Robin?"
"Hag Annis, of course."
Terence jumped. "Alive?"
"Not really. Nor really dead. You have seen that death is not always the horror that it is thought in the World of Men. Hag Annis is forbidden death and must stay forever in the in-between."
Terence shivered. "How horrible," he said. He watched the sad, shuffling figure disappear in the blackness.
The next day, they met the stranger whom Gawain had wrestled. He rose like a ghost from the plain beside their path and greeted them joyfully. "Knight! You've come back!"
"I have, friend." Gawain smiled. He gestured at Sir Bercilak and Terence and said, "These are knights, too."
"I want to be a knight," the stranger said seriously. Terence grinned. A very single-minded fellow this was.
"Come with me, and you shall have your chance," Gawain said.
"Who can make me a knight?"
"King Arthur himself, King of All Britain."
"I must bid goodbye to my mother," the stranger said, pensively. "Is this King Arthur hard to find?"
"In the World of Men, all know of Arthur."
"I shall find him, then."
Gawain bowed. "As you wish, friend. I shall tell him to expect you. What, may I ask, is your name?"
"I am Parsifal," the stranger said. Gawain took formal leave of Parsifal, and the little cavalcade continued along the plain, into the rocks and up to the mountain.
They passed the road where they had met the pilgrim, then began the steep climb up the mountain itself. Before they had gone halfway, Terence began to see little people peeking at them from behind rocks and trees. He was alarmed at first, but these little people—none of them any larger than Robin—did not seem at all dangerous. The men had beards, and the women wore shawls. Almost all were fat.
"Who the devil are these?" Gawain laughed.
"I think they're darling!" Eileen said.
Robin chuckled. "Perhaps so, my lady, but it will only offend them if you say so. Of course, they may say something of the sort about you."
"Oh, will we talk to them?" she asked.
"Dear me, yes," he replied. "By now they're all waiting for you at the top."
"Is there any danger, good Robin?" Gawain asked.
Robin laughed. "You'll never find a more peaceable sort than the mountain folk."
Then they rode into the meadow where they had camped and recovered from their wounds, and just over the crest of the hill Terence saw the gently rising smoke of village fires. It was the elfin village. At the top of the mountain, they reined in and looked down on the town. There was the square where they had fought the boar-man and the wild boars, but it was no longer deserted. Dozens of little people filled the courtyard, cheering shrilly.
"So what's all this in aid of?" Gawain asked Robin.
"Didn't you guess? You freed their village from the boar-knight. They've named the well after you."
"How did they know my name?"
"They don't. They invented one." Gawain looked at Robin warily, and, eyes dancing, Robin said, "Sir Wozzell. It seemed to them a most heroic name. The mountain folk are not especially clever, perhaps I should mention."
At that moment, the crowd of elves surged forward, shouting hysterically, "Sir Wozzell! Sir Wozzell!" Half of them clamored around Gawain and half around Sir Bercilak. Forced on by an irresistible tide of little bodies, the travelers moved slowly down the hill into the square. It was odd how the empty, frightening elfin village of that night seemed so pleasantly innocuous when filled with its amiable residents. On a balcony, a formally attired man wearing several bright sashes pompously gave a speech in which Terence occasionally made out the words "welcome," "honored," and "privilege," but which was largely drowned out by the shouting of the crowds. No one, not even the one giving it, seemed to mind that the speech was being lost. Robin calmly urged his horse through the crowd, opening a wake for the others to follow. A few minutes later, they were through the crowd, which did not seem to notice their absence.
Gawain looked back over his shoulder at the celebration. "How did they know that I was the one who saved them?"
"They don't." Robin chuckled. "You're the third knight they've celebrated over since it happened."
&
nbsp; "So they rejoice over every knight they meet?"
"Of course. You can't have too many Sir Wozzells."
They rode a few more steps, to the grassy edge of the precipice which they had climbed. Off in the distance Terence saw the towns and castles and villages and farmlands of the World of Men. Sir Bercilak touched Gawain's shoulder lightly, smiled, and said, "There is your world, my friend."
"No. Here is my world. But I go to that one."
"As you say. Godspeed, and wear well the badge of your shame. Goodbye, Lady Eileen. Go with God, my lord duke." And then he turned his horse and cantered into the woods, which swallowed him as if he had never been.
Robin touched Terence's elbow and said, "I too must leave you, your grace."
Terence looked down into the impish green face which had guided—or chased—him through so many adventures, and he nodded sadly. "I shall miss you," he said.
Robin chuckled. "You know that the faeries never let go of their own. Watch for me, won't you, your grace?"
"Don't call me your grace," Terence said.
Robin did not answer. Instead, he wheeled his horse and galloped in a close circle around the three travelers. Three times he circled them, and by the third circuit, Terence felt as dizzy as if he had himself been twirling, and the rocks of the mountain spun wildly around him. A merry chuckle floated over the spinning, and then, slowly, the world righted itself before his eyes, and they were in a little clearing in a pleasant sunlit forest. The mountain was nowhere to be seen.
"We're back, aren't we?" Eileen asked after a moment.
"I suppose so," Terence said.
"I wonder how long we've been gone this time," Gawain said lightly. He explained to Eileen. "Last time we were in the World of Faeries, we thought we had been gone for a night, and when we returned, three months had passed."
"I suppose we could ask that knight," Eileen said innocently. Gawain and Terence followed her gaze across the clearing to where a mounted knight sat on his horse watching them. "Naturally, you two famous knights noticed that we were being watched," she added demurely.
The Squire, His Knight, and His Lady Page 13
