Sir Thomas the Hesitant and the Table of Less Valued Knights

by Liam Perrin

  Thomas got down on one knee and looked at his reflection for some time. Then he cupped his hand and moved to take a drink. When his hand disturbed the surface, the reflection broke and Thomas could see straight through to the bottom. There was an old lady down there, holding her breath and a rock the size of her head. Startled, Thomas jumped back from the pool and nearly slipped over the ledge. The surface calmed, and the perfectly reflected world slid back in, hiding the lady from view.

  "She's trying to drown herself," Thomas said, working the thing through. He looked at his reflection who looked right back at him. "She's trying to drown herself!" And he plunged into the pool.

  The water was only waist deep. Thomas grabbed the old lady by her shoulders and pulled her upright. Still clutching her rock with one arm, she gasped for breath and beat at Thomas with the other.

  "You were trying to kill yourself!"

  "And you stopped me!"

  "You want to die?"

  "If I did, I might try lying at the bottom of a pool with something very heavy on my chest."

  "You're still hitting me."

  "You're still here."

  Thomas could see this wouldn’t go anywhere if he kept coming at it head on. "I don't think your method's going to work."

  "Ooh, an expert! Killed yourself a few times eh? Traveling around giving lectures on the matter are ya?"

  "That's not what I–"

  "Oh stuff it pipsqueak, and let me go."

  "Pipsqueak?" Thomas was of average height and build but stood easily three heads taller than the old woman and twice as broad.

  "You heard me. You uppity midgets have given us nothing but trouble all our lives."

  "Midgets? But... Given who nothing but trouble?"

  "We giants of course!"

  Thomas blinked. "Gorgella?"

  "Aye, and what's it to ya?"

  Things, apparently, weren't what they seemed. They seldom are.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Healer's Gift

  Gorgella stood on the shore of the pool wringing her clothes. "I know what you're thinking." She glared at Thomas. "You're thinking what a trophy I'd be, the last of the giants, if you could chain me up and display me outside one of your wee towns."

  "That's not quite what I..." But Thomas wasn't sure how to proceed. If this woman really was Gorgella, the Weeping Giantess, the Source of the Healer's Stream, then how was he going to get a bottle of her tears. Here she was: cynical, salty, and suicidal, but clearly not weeping. If she wasn't Gorgella, then who was she and what in God's green earth was she up to? She might be mad. He decided that the wisest course in either case was caution, and the safest move was to play along.

  "Madam, know that I am your servant, Thomas of Fogbottom, and I intend nothing of the sort."

  "Madam? My servant is it? The boy manhandles me like a hoodlum and then tries to play the gentleman. Well tell me then, good sir," she delivered those words with a theatrical sweep of arm and rolling eyes, "what do you intend?" And then, she shrank, literally, a handbreadth. Thomas was looking right at her when it happened, but it was so quick, and so preposterous, that he couldn't be certain what had just happened. Gorgella stood very still. Her body and face were posed in a perfect image of what they'd been a moment before, but her eyes widened ever so slightly and gave her away.

  Thomas broke the silence, "What just happened?"

  Gorgella fell to the ground, weeping. "I'm shrinking you great fool! Can't you see? Oh what will become of me?"

  Thomas knelt and tried to comfort her. "How long has this been happening?"

  "I don't know, but it's speeding up. Yesterday this dress was my left sock." With that, she began to sob with heaves so great that she couldn't get any more intelligible words out. Well, here were the giant tears he needed to collect, but now that he faced it, he realized what a heartless task it had been all along. Gorgella continued to bawl. Just as she'd seem to be winding down a bit, pop! She'd shrink another bit and her sobs would start afresh. Thomas wracked his brain trying to think of anything that could cure or at least forestall such an odd condition, but he came up blank.

  Presently, Gorgella stopped crying, and Thomas could see it was fear that had choked her. Her eyes were wide and crazed. She said, "It's not going to stop. I'll shrink right down to the size of a pebble, and an ant will carry me off for dinner. Or I'll keep shrinking and then what? The softest breeze could lift me up and fling me a thousand miles. You have to help me!" She made her way to the rock she'd been clutching when Thomas had found her. She was only as tall as Thomas's knee now. Her clothes, soaked with tears, had become a huge and heavy load. She strained to lift the rock and failed. She flung her hands down at her sides and pleaded in a pathetic voice, "Please, help me Thomas."

  Two notions struck Thomas at once. One was that to Gorgella, soon that rock would be a mountain, and the pool a deep ocean. The other was the only hope he could conceive.

  "Gorgella, I know someone who might be able to reverse this. Do you like sailing?"

  §

  It was boarding time. Thomas had constructed a tiny sailing ship made from leaves and twigs of the willow tree nearby. For ocean water, he'd wrung Gorgella's tears from her old left sock into the healer's bottle. If they had power to heal, perhaps they could help the one who'd shed them. Plus, their saltiness was a nice touch of authenticity for this makeshift ocean voyage, but Thomas kept that thought to himself.

  Gorgella, now the size of a thimble, looked both anxious and excited. "You'll carry me gently?"

  "I have promised so, and will promise again as many times as will convince you Gorgella. You'll be safest in here where you can't get misplaced on the journey. I've also checked the bottle for ants and breezes. There are none." He winked at her, and she gave a weak but hopeful smile in reply.

  Gorgella climbed aboard the ship. "I'm ready," she said. Thomas slid her into the bottle and closed it with the stopper. He carried the bottle carefully and began making his way down the mountain.

  It was slow going. The slightest misstep threw what must have seemed like tidal waves at the tiny ship in the bottle. Thomas followed the stream, checking on Gorgella from time to time. For the most part, she clung to the ship's side, looking a little ill. She was still shrinking, and before they'd reached the foothills, Thomas's fear came to fruition. He stood stock-still and scoured the ship for any sign of movement, however small. Failing that, he swallowed and searched the water. There was no sign of Gorgella anywhere. She was now too small to see.

  §

  It took three days to get back to the healer's shack near the bridge. He smelled it before he saw it: Cooked cabbage, and something like sour milk. No doubt some new wonderful and hideous balm. Though he'd carried the bottle reverently, he was certain Gorgella was lost.

  When he had shown the healer the bottle and told the story of its contents, the healer held it up to the sun and said, "Oh dear, it's worse than I'd imagined."

  "Is she... gone?"

  "Oh no, she's in there." The healer grinned a warm grin, and his words were tinted with wonder, "Now here's something new eh? A giant in a bottle."

  Thomas sighed in relief, "So you can you help her?"

  The healer started and looked at Thomas, "Help her do what?"

  Thomas couldn't believe his ears. "Help her back to her right size! She can't very well go around being a giant looking like that."

  "I will certainly keep her safe. You can be sure of that. As for being what she is, that's Gorgella's affair. Meddling in a matter like this only makes it worse. But I promised you a reward, and you shall have it. Now sit and guard this stump while I fetch it."

  The healer disappeared into his shack cradling the bottle. Thomas tried to feel excited about the gift he'd been promised, but he couldn't get past the healer's quick dismissal of Gorgella's dilemma. It'd been the hope of a cure that had kept Gorgella alive and given Thomas the strength to deliver her here in one, albeit tiny, piece.

  The healer returned w
ith a long object wrapped in a dark cloth. By now Thomas was so worked up he barely took notice of what the healer carried – the thing that a few days ago had been his best hope of achieving the only dream he'd had in his short life. "You have to help her! You're a healer! Can't you make her herself again?"

  The healer paused with one hand ready to pull the veil and reveal the thing beneath. "My dear boy, looking like a thing has little to do with being a thing. Be the thing first, and you will grow to resemble it, if not in this life then when God's trumpets blow at the end of days and all of us are changed. Gorgella started out a giant, but she believed what people told her she was. In her heart, she saw herself diminished and she became so, shrinking bit by bit. Though your mind might be of one conviction and proclaim it with steep vigor, your heart will find a way to betray you. Your heart is who you are, all else follows. Guard your heart, Thomas. Guard your heart."

  Then he whipped back the cloth with a flourish and handed Thomas a sword that stank like fine cheese.

  Thomas groaned and held the thing at arm's length. "What is this?!"

  The healer was positively beaming. "Stunning isn't it? An amazing work of enchantment if I do say so myself."

  "You did this?"

  "I did! Now, now, it's quite a beauty I know, but if you go on you'll embarrass me. It's my first attempt, a prototype if you will, and I'm sure there will be kinks to be found out and addressed in the next model."

  "Kinks?! How can I possibly... Healer, this sword stinks!"

  "Why of course! That's its charm! Just be careful where you point it when you really need it to unleash."

  "I can't possibly carry this around, I'd look like the greatest fool in Camelot."

  "Ah! No, no, the odor you smell will wear off. It's been in storage so long, it's just kind of built up. When you want to unleash its full fury, just hold it aloft and will it."

  Thomas was unconvinced, but he pointed the thing straight up and gave it shot.

  The healer pinched his nose and said, "You'll want to cover your–"

  A nearly visible wave of stench knocked Thomas flat, and everything went black.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Back of the Line

  The queue stretched out of the palace, through the city, beyond the gates, and down the road out of sight.

  "Is this the line to receive the king's wedding gifts?" Thomas asked a stranger.

  "Aye, and what'll ye be asking for, a bath?" The crowd sniggered, but Thomas kept his mouth shut and headed for the back of the line.

  At the end of the line, Thomas found a boy his age, in a get-up of roughly Thomas's quality, who smiled and stuck out his hand. "Philip's my name – oi, what's that smell?"

  "Sorry. It's this sword. I'm Thomas."

  "You're a cheesewright then? Been using that thing in the shop?"

  "No, no. It's a long story," Thomas sighed. "Hold on a second." He pulled a dark cloth out of his saddlebag. "It came wrapped in this, and it seems to stifle it. I was hoping to air it out some is all. If you think it's bad now you should see it in action."

  Philip's eyes lit up, "It's a magic sword then? How's it work?"

  "Well, you just kind of hold it up–"

  Covered in the healer's cloth, the full force of the thing was still strong enough to make everyone within 10 yards groan and back away.

  "Sorry!" Thomas yelled. "I've got to stop doing that."

  Philip was wiping his eyes but was clearly impressed, "Get on then, that's a piece of work! But it won't do to just hold it up like that." Philip hunched his shoulders, held his nose and lifted his hand in the air pantomiming Thomas. You need to add some flare, you know?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like a gesture. Yeah, sweep it around in a big arc – no don't do it now!"

  "But it doesn't need anything like that."

  "Of course not, it's for show. You want to look like you command the thing."

  "Frankly, I'd rather look like I had nothing to do with the thing."

  "But you do, you do, and that's the trick. It wouldn't be a person's first choice eh? But you've got it, so use it. It's all how you present it see? Sweep it around, bring it up, and say something impressive. Something commanding."

  "Like what?"

  "Let's see. You probably don't want a whole phrase, because you might want to fire it off quick in a pinch. A word or two is best."

  A vendor passed by pushing a cart and selling various bits of meat on sticks.

  "Barbeque," sighed Thomas. He was quite hungry and tired of stale bread and old beans.

  "Ah no, something made up, or at least less common. Imagine if you actually were going to a barbeque. You'd have to keep firing the thing off just to preserve the illusion. How about 'Fetorflagration!' or 'Dolorous Malodorous!'"

  "Maybe something easier to remember," Thomas suggested.

  "Well, not to worry. Things like that can work themselves out on the spot. I've seen it happen. Going to ask Arthur to knight you?"

  "Um," said Thomas.

  "Me too. You have your epithet yet?"

  "My what?"

  "Epithet. You know, the tag on the end of your name, like Sir Guy the Excruciating or Guillaume le Soi-Disant."

  "Le swoy de... Er no, hadn't thought of that. Thomas of Fogbottom, that's the farthest I'd gotten."

  "You'll want to replace that Fogbottom part. You want people to remember you for some characteristic, not a scrap of geography."

  "What's yours?"

  "I'll be 'Sir Philip the Disadvantaged.'"

  "The what?"

  "It means unlucky."

  "Oh."

  Philip shook his head, "You wouldn't believe."

  "But do you want to advertise a thing like that?"

  "Oh sure! People love underdogs. Of course, I wouldn't mind being lucky instead. That'd be something eh? 'Sir Philip the Favored.'" Philip smiled and stared off into space so intently that Thomas actually looked around to see if anything was there.

  "Somehow I didn't imagine we gave ourselves our own..."

  "Epithet?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who better? I supposed you could let Merlin assign one, but you're likely to end up with something horrible. And names tend to grow on you, you know? All it takes is a few people consistently calling you 'the Precarious' before you start tripping everywhere you go. Better to pick something you already are, fewer surprises that way.

  "Why would Merlin... Wouldn't Arthur be the one... assigning epithets?"

  Philip raised an eyebrow. "Wow you do have a lot to learn about this place."

  They were both silent for a moment, then Philip continued, "Okay, let's try this... Do you have any outstanding accomplishments?"

  "Er, well, I saved a giantess... I think."

  Philip raised his eyebrows, "Not bad! By 'saving' do you mean you saved a village from her?"

  "No, I mean, she was going to kill herself. She was shrinking you see, and I... Well... I put her in a bottle and took her to a healer."

  Philip stared for a minute. "Okay, anything else?"

  "No, not really."

  "Can you tight-rope walk? 'Sir Thomas the Funambulist.'"

  "Never tried."

  "Hmm. Turn invisible? 'Sir Thomas the Vaporous.'"

  "Uh, no, I'm all here all the time. And doesn’t vaporous mean, you know, passes gas?"

  "Yeah not a great one. Do you like flowers? 'Thomas the Anthophile!'"

  "Er, I don't not like flowers, I guess."

  "Well, we'll have to work on that. It looks like we'll have plenty of time. Guinevere hasn't even arrived yet, and they can't start the wedding gifts until she gets here."

  Trumpets blared behind them, and a great and glorious procession came marching over the hill headed for the city. In the center of the train, carried on a litter draped in gossamer white silk, Guinevere waved to a crowd that had gone suddenly still and reverent. Everyone took to his or her knees.

  "How about 'Thomas the Not Quite Ready Yet?'"


  But Thomas was transfixed. Seven young ladies glided before Guinevere's litter, plucking petals from white roses and letting them fall. They wore simple gowns of white silk, a redacted version of Guinevere's more complicated ensemble. One maiden in particular moved with a grace with which Thomas had nothing to compare. He'd always thought Solstice, the horse that loved William, was rather light on its feet for its size, but this was different. Snakes, he supposed, kind of moved like this girl – all sort of... flowy. But they didn't have so many parts, all doing their own thing, and still somehow working together in such a magnificent fashion. She caught his eye for a moment, and then she was passed them.

  Philip laughed, "I can see 'Sir Thomas the Subtle' is out."

  Thomas picked up a fallen petal. "What was it? Antho-something?"

  "Anthophile."

  "Anthophile. Flowers are nice you know?"

  Philip rolled his eyes. "Would you like some of the dirt she trod on too? I think there's a patch right there."

  Thomas gave a small chuckle, but he held onto the petal, pressing it to his nose. It was a nice break from the sword.

  Guinevere's litter passed, and even the shadow she cast seemed bright. She was followed by six mounted and armored knights arranged in pairs. They wore heavy plate, from head to foot, with white tabards and long white plumes fixed to their helms. Their warhorses were armored too, and draped in white as well. The knights carried lances and shields, each with their own crest.

  The first pair passed. "Sir Kay, Arthur's foster brother, and Sir Bedivere," Philip said. Kay was tall, taller than the others by at least a head. "They've been with Arthur forever. They say Kay can turn himself into a tree. Which I think is a rumor Merlin started after Gawain called him 'dumb as a stump.'