A Step Beyond

by Nancy M Bell

  GogMagog kept pace beside him. Rainbows of light flickered around the stallion and encompassed Gort in their radiance as well.

  His steps became firmer and steadier as a golden peace flowed through him. His back straightened, and a smile broke across his face when Gog curved his huge head back toward him to lip his ear.

  The darkness grew opaque and finally faded into a pearly grey; a diffuse nebulous light filled the sky. Tipping his head back, Gort was startled to see the ghostly shape of gulls winging through the mist.

  The stallion stopped and shook moisture from his sleek body. Gort laid his hand on the thick neck and then pulled back quickly, holding it in front of his eyes.

  Gort gazed in amazement as the large callused hand in front of him flexed its fingers. He turned and looked GogMagog in the eye, further amazed there was no need to look up to do so.

  “What happened to me?” The voice sounded two tones deeper than it should.

  “You are as you were once,” GogMagog said solemnly.

  “Who am I supposed to be, though?” Gort fought down the panic rising in his throat; this wasn’t his body clothing his spirit. Feeling lost and strangely adrift, the boy-man turned to Gog for support.

  “You are who you have always been.” Gog touched him gently with his muzzle.

  At the touch of that strong soft nose, Gort let his panic slip away. Running his hands over his new and improved body, he stared down at his now humungous feet and strong calves, while his hands found the twisted cords of taut muscle in his thighs. Gort took a step forward and overbalanced as the long sword on his belt swung against him. The hilt fit snugly into his hand when he grasped it to steady himself.

  Without stopping to think, Gort drew the lovely weapon from its scabbard. The metal hissed and sang as it pulled free. The blade cleaved the air in clean two-handed passes. The man gloried in the sight of his sinewy forearms and strong wrists, the large capable hands grasping the sword in a practiced grip. The air welcomed the bite of the blade, and shimmering rainbows of power danced on the tempered blue steel. The blade moved effortlessly, anticipating the desire of the one who wielded it.

  “It’s like it knows what I’m thinking.”

  “It is your sword. Of course it knows your wants.” GogMagog snorted gently down his neck.

  “Who am I?” The warrior rested the point of the weapon on the toe of his heavy leather boot and regarded Gog over the cross of the hilt.

  “You don’t remember, yet.” Gog regarded his heart friend with fathomless, starlit eyes.

  Gort opened his mouth to reply and then promptly lost himself in those eyes.

  With a swiftness and surety that shocked him, the knowledge entered the top of his head and filled out the forgotten corners of his body and soul.

  “How did I lose this? Where did I lose myself?”

  “You lost it by following the wrong path on your way to the mystery,” GogMagog answered.

  “The mystery,” Gort said softly, “what mystery? Why did I take a wrong path? ”

  “It is the mystery that binds us to the Beginnings. The one which lives in each of us and yet belongs to no one entity.” GogMagog lowered his head and rested his forehead against the man’s. “As to the why, we are not made perfect and so must sometimes wander away from the Light.”

  “I should know, but it drifts like smoke and slips through my fingers,” Gort said in frustration.

  “Give it time, Crystal Warrior.” GogMagog advised him and shook his mane so his bridle and bit jingled harshly. “Do you know how you are called in this life, or shall I remind you?” GogMagog inquired.

  “I am a warrior, a knight, and my name is Gawain.”

  His voice trailed off in wonderment. Images flooded his consciousness with the uttering of his name. In rapid succession, a company of large warhorses crossed his inner eye, each as magnificent as GogMagog, with knights in gleaming armour, pennants flying from their lances, a huge castle on a high hill exactly like the ones in all the fairy tales, a meeting place in a high vaulted chamber lit by torches, and a tall fair-haired man with the fierceness of eagles in his blue eyes. The face of his brother in this life, the mirror image of his own face, save for the broken front tooth that flashed as the man smiled, his face full of a fierce joy. Gaheris, my baby brother. Recognition swept through him like a flame.

  Gort shook his head and leaned on GogMagog’s shoulder for a long moment. His legs threatened to fail him, and the ground was strangely mobile beneath his feet.

  “Am I really that Gawain?” Gort asked GogMagog at a loss to see how it could be else wise.

  “You are that Gawain.” GogMagog’s voice was tinged with laughter. “Sir Gawain, Knight of the Round Table, with your fealty sworn to the Great Bear, Arthur, High King of Britain. Brother to Gareth, Agravain and Gaheris. Son of Lot of Orkney and Queen Morgause, Arthur’s half-sister.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible, too good to be true. I ride with King Arthur. He’s my liege lord, and I’m a knight, an actual knight of the Round Table.”

  “You better get used to the idea, Sir Gawain.” Gog butted him with his great nose.

  “It’ll take some getting used to.”

  His sword whispered as it slid into the scabbard.

  The knight turned to the stallion, and shook his head in wonder, past being surprised. The horse now sported a high backed saddle and elaborate tooled leather bridle. He gathered his reins up, set his left foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle, being careful to settle the wonderful sword on the left side of the stallion. Gog moved restlessly under him as he loosened the reins slightly, and the big stallion moved off at a ground-covering trot.

  “Where are we headed?” He thought to ask as the horse followed the track through gorse and heather.

  “Where we must,” the stallion replied.

  The man half formed another question and then let it drop. Time enough to sort through it all. He turned his face into the wind and inhaled the buttery coconut scent of the yellow gorse crushed beneath the huge hooves of his companion.

  The sun burned off the last of the mists, and Gort found himself riding along the edge of a sharp cliff. Below him, the grasses billowed in the wind, and there was a far off glimpse of blue sea to the west. The stallion continued to move in a roughly southeast direction, letting the curve of the cliff dictate his progress. The stallion picked his course without any help from the rider.

  “I suppose I should start thinking of myself as Sir Gawain now.”

  “Yes, you should,” GogMagog agreed. “No one here will know you as Gort, except me of course.” GogMagog shook his head so the reins bounced on his neck.

  “Where are we?” Gawain spoke to the pointed ears of his horse.

  “We are close to the sacred mount, where the giants dwell.” Gog flicked his ears back at Gawain speaking into his mind.

  “But where’s the sea? There should be water below the cliffs here, and all I see is land and forest.” Gawain looked at his surroundings in puzzlement.

  “This is the land as it was, not as it is in your present time. We are almost in the land of Lyonnesse, the part of the kingdom that stretches from cliffs all the way out to the hills of Scillies.” GogMagog negotiated a tricky part of the descent down to the forest and farmlands beyond the cliff path.

  “So, there really was a lost land beyond Land’s End? The legends are true,” Gawain whispered.

  “You are looking at it this moment, and it is part of your duty to defend its inhabitants from harm, and to arbitrate their disputes,” GogMagog informed him breaking into a rolling canter as the stallion gained level ground.

  “Do I live here as well?”

  “We live at the castle on the Hill of Cadbury. One day it will be called Camelot, but not for a while yet,” Gog replied. “We are here on business as part of our circuit for the season.”

  Gawain looked with interest at the neat farmsteads as they sped past. He glanced over his shoulder, in the distance the u
nmistakeable peak of St. Michael’s Mount stuck up out of a thick forest clinging to its lower slopes and blanketing the flat plain surrounding it.

  Ahead of him, Gawain could make out the faint blue shapes of the hills that marked the Scillies. They were hazy with distance and disappeared from his view from time to time as the well-beaten dirt road they followed looped over the rolling farmland around them.

  Something important niggled at the edges of his brain—something about an angry man and a dark shed. Gawain disregarded the annoying thoughts and concentrated on the pure joy of the horse beneath him and the strength flowing through his body.

  There was time enough to worry about whether or not he could make the correct choice when it was needed to decide who was in the right between two complainants. The morning sun was warm on his face and the air cool enough he was comfortable in the linen undershirt, light surcoat, and pants.

  Gawain slowed GogMagog to a walk and stopped in the shade of huge tree to allow a farmer to drive his cattle across the road and into the far pasture. The man raised his hand in greeting, and Gawain returned the salute.

  “My goodwife has bread, cheese, and wine if you wish it, Sir Gawain,” the farmer hailed him.

  “My thanks to you and your goodwife, Hal, but I have provision enough for my journey,” Gawain answered the man.

  “How do I know his name is Hal?”

  “You know because you are Sir Gawain, and this is your bailiwick. Relax and trust your responses. Everything will come to you as you need it to,” GogMagog advised him.

  Gawain lifted his hand in farewell as the last of the milch cows entered the gate of the field on the other side of the road. They carried on for a distance, the knight not thinking of anything in particular and enjoying the spring morning.

  Sooner than expected, they came to a small market square, nothing much, just a tiny inn which served as a roadhouse, and a few houses scattered around the junction of two narrow crossroads. GogMagog stopped in front of the inn without waiting for Gawain to signal him. The stallion turned his large head and surveyed Gawain with his dark eye.

  “When did you change colour?” Gawain asked the stallion in surprise. For sure enough, GogMagog was no longer his shining crystal self, his coat was now a dark steely grey with a long silver mane liberally sprinkled with ebony hairs. His long full tail swept the ground behind him. The stallion’s lower legs were black, his muzzle and the tips of his ears were sable as well.

  “This is how I appear in this time. I am still who I am, just as you are still Gort underneath.” GogMagog's mental voice held laughter, and he winked at Gawain.

  “Takes some getting used to, this does,” Gawain told him. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “This is your first stop. Give it a half day or so, and things will come back to you. Do you remember where we go from here?”

  Gawain thought for a moment and then smiled. “There is an inn another half day’s ride from here where I usually spend the night. Good stable for you, and soft bed for me. The Hoe and Harrow, it’s called.”

  “Very good, Sir Gawain, now, do get down off my back and get to work.” Gog heaved a huge sigh and lowered his head when a stable boy raced out to take the war horse’s reins from Gawain as the knight stepped down from the broad back.

  The line of complainants was short, much to Gawain’s relief. Before the sun reached the zenith, they were on the road again and headed to the much larger and more sumptuous Hoe and Harrow.

  Gawain turned the judgments just levied over in his mind and found himself more than pleased with his performance. He felt much more at home in this new body and had grown quite fond of GogMagog as a steel grey instead of his usual crystal self.

  A sudden thought occurred to him and he laid his gauntleted hand on Gog’s shoulder in front of the high pommel.

  “Do you have different name like me?” Gawain spoke out loud into the dust spangled sunlight.

  “I am known as Ailim, which means silver fir, some call me Gringolet. It is actually keincaled, which is Welsh for handsome and hardy. The Welsh is mispronounced more often than not and I prefer Ailim. My name is the cause of great renown all over the realm. We are very fierce fighters, you and I.” Gog sighed lustily and snorted the rising road dust out of his large nostrils.

  Gawain nodded absently and rested his right hand on his leather-covered thigh.

  “Why is the pommel of this saddle so blasted high and the cantle, too? I feel like I’m stuck up here for good.” Gawain tried to settle himself more comfortably in the seat of the great saddle.

  “Why, ‘tis to keep you from falling on your head when we joust.” Gog’s voice was thick with the horse equivalent of laughter.

  “We joust?” Gawain asked faintly.

  “To be sure, we are the champions of many tourneys. The Lady Nuina always gives you her scarf or ribbon to wear on your sleeve. Surely you remember the Lady Nuina?” Gog shook his head to dislodge the flies pestering his face.

  Gawain closed his eyes and sought to put a face to the name. At long last, a face floated across his inner vision. Long dark hair caught up in a silvery net, and laughing eyes that shone for him alone dominated the lady’s radiant face. Ah, yes, he remembered the Lady Nuina.

  “So I know how to joust?” Gawain was dubious.

  “Yes, you great lunk head, you can joust. Just leave off worrying and follow your instincts when the time comes.” Ailim picked up his pace into a rolling canter. “Time’s a wasting, and I want my dinner sometime before sundown,” the horse told Gawain.

  * * *

  Gawain eased the weight off his tender buttocks and sighed in relief. The sun had set and the land was cloaked in the gloaming of early evening. Ahead, the lights of the inn that was his destination glimmered amidst the dark hills. Another few minutes and Ailim slowed his gait as they turned into the stable yard. An ‘ostler emerged from the stable and approached at a quick pace.

  “Welcome to you, sir knight,” he greeted them. “’Tis good to see ye again, Ailim.” He slapped the stallion on the neck and pulled a bit of swede from his pocket and offered it up on his palm. The horse lipped it up without hesitation and looked expectantly for more.

  “My thanks to you, Hal,” Gawain said, finding the man’s name on his tongue without realizing he knew it.

  Hal placed a hand on the cheekpiece of the bridle to steady the horse as the weary knight swung down from the saddle. Gawain removed his saddle bags before stepping back and allowing the ‘ostler to turn the horse toward the stable. He slapped the powerful haunch nearest him in appreciation before turning toward the welcome comfort of the inn. He stopped and pulled a coin from his pouch.

  “Hal,” he called and flipped the silver bit to the older man who caught it and grinned in thanks. Gawain threw the saddle bags over his shoulder and headed for the taproom. Pushing the heavy door open he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the light. Rush torches threw a smoky haze over the occupants who turned to see who entered. Conversation died to a deafening silence until the bar keep hailed the knight by name. A collective sigh of relief surged through the room and the noise returned to its earlier level.

  Gawain continued to the bar and dropped the bags on the counter at his elbow. George, the inn keeper, set a jug of ale before him and a trencher with bread and cheese. The knight nodded his thanks and took a long drink of the warm ale.

  “I’ve the same room ye had afore, iffen ‘at’s alright wi’ ye,” George said.

  “Thankee,” Gawain replied. He leaned closer and spoke low so no one nearby could overhear. “What’s amiss? Why the worry when a knight shows up at the door.”

  “Aye, well,” George rubbed his finger alongside his bulbous nose, “those that look to King March ‘ave bin makin’ demands of late and no takin’ no for an answer, aye.”

  “Have you sent word of this to Arthur?” Gawain frowned and chewed on a piece of hard cheese.

  The inn keep shook his head, and glanced about the crowded room. Pic
king up Gawain’s saddlebags he remarked loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Come along then, sir knight. I’ve some stew left in the pot, come ye inta the kitchen.”

  Gawain straightened and tore off a chunk of bread before he followed the heavy hipped man through into the back of the inn. Once away from the public room, the knight halted him with a hand on his arm.

  “The walls have ears,” George cautioned, nodding toward the door. “March has spies everywhere and retribution is quick and cruel if he finds anyone opposing him, aye.”

  Uneasiness stirred in Gawain’s gut, what was the man up to? March was notoriously ambitious and none too quiet about his opinion of the High King’s rule. Arthur had ignored the problem up to this point, assuring his knights the issue would resolve itself. “Hold your peace, George. I will pass the information on to the High King and the matter should be resolved in short order,” Gawain promised. He passed the man a couple of coppers for his trouble and returned to the public room. His glance flicked toward the hearth where a man dressed in the non-descript attire of a farmer rose and made his way to the door. Gawain’s eye’s narrowed as he tracked the farmer’s progress, the man moved with the self-assured stride of a nobleman. Spies were everywhere it seemed.

  “Ailim, can you see the farmer who just left the inn?”

  “He’s in the stables fetching his mount. The man is no farmer and his horse no draft beast,” Ailim reported.

  “As I suspected, thank you, my friend. King March has been making trouble and it appears he has informers about. Can you let Lance and Arthur know how things lay here?”

  “Immediately, I will bespeak Lance’s Eldon and he can relay the message to Arthur through Caliburn,” the horse replied.

  There was a moment of silence before Ailim spoke again. “It is done, can I sleep now?”

  Gawain laughed out loud. “Rest then, you sluggard.” He slid onto the bench of an unoccupied table and smiled at the young serving girl who set fresh food in front of him and a brimming tankard of ale.