"But if you truly feel this way about me, I wish you all the luck in the world with your husband and your coining child and I suppose I'll leave you alone from now on."
I watched her walk dejectedly out of my house, then slowly she turned on the steps and she said "We'll always be as good friends as are Robin, Little John, and Marian."
She looked up into the sky and saw that dusk was already falling; it was no problem to pick out the red planet of Mars, and she whooshed off on one last try to corner the terribly unattainable Prince Van.
Maureen Birnbaum
and the Saint Graal
by Elizabeth Spiegelman-Fein
(as told to George Alec Effinger)
WHAT CAN I tell you? The last time Maureen Birnbaum zetzed into my life, I was 5/9ths pregnant with our darling little Malachi Bret. My husband, Josh, never got along with Muffy, and so he wasn't like terribly broken-hearted when she said she was probably never going to bother us again.
Me, on the other hand, I was glad at first and then like I started to miss her. Not that I missed the gold brassiere and G-string she wore on her interplanetary jaunts, or the way huge broadsword named Old Betsy (no relation) she dragged with her into my nice clean Queens apartment. And not that I missed her endless braggy narrations of her really, really hard-to-believe exploits. What I missed, I'm thinking, is our old Greenberg School friendship, which belongs in the dim, dark past. What I missed was my evaporating youth.
See, Muffy still looks like a high school junior, and who wouldn't hate her on account of a thing like that? I, on the same other hand mentioned above, have become a little old housewife lady. I'll be thirty years old before I even get to the next paragraph. That was probably an exaggeration.
Okay. It was a rainy summer day and I'd dropped Malachi Bret off with Mums so I could like do some personal time gazing wistfully at crushin', killer leather shoes that'd probably fit, too, but I couldn't buy them because now I'm a militant vegetarian after reading Sidney Sheldon's remake of Sinclair Lewis's immortal novel, The Jungle.
I was driving into the city in the maroon Renault Alliance Josh bought me (used, although he's a doctor with a healthy practice and like he could certainly have gotten me a better car and I don't see why not a new one) after the little Mazda died. I was halfway across the bridge when I heard this sort of fwumping sound and felt a gust of wind inside my car. Like I'm sure if the windows hadn't been rolled down, they'd've blown right out. I almost lost control of the steering wheel, and then I heard her.
"Whoa nelly, sister! Get a grip!"
It was guess what Muffy.
Oh, and by the way, I didn't mean Sinclair Lewis before, I'm so sure (now, I mean). It was Upton Sinclair! Is my face red! I always get them mixed up.
Like anyway, I shoot Muffy a quick glance and I was shocked. I mean I was almost never shocked by the weirdo outs she showed up in, but this one was a weensy bit over the top. She was wearing a tight white dress hiked halfway up her chubby thighs, and it was made out of—I knew it right off—honest to God samite. I don't even know how I knew, but I did. I mean, I'd never seen samite before, like it's not something they sell by the yard at Korvettes' or anything.
So she goes, "Miss me, Bits?" Now it was "Bits." It made me long for the good old Bitsy days.
I just turned back to her and stared for a couple of seconds to establish the mood. Then I go, "Can I drop you somewhere, Muffs?"
Now like I really wish I had.
* * * * *
LOOK, I'M TELLING YOU, Bitsy, Fate can be cruel. Cruel to a heart that's true. How I've yearned—and like it's no big secret, right? because I keep telling you and I'm not even sure you believe me anymore-O, how I've yearned to whoosh back to Mars! Mars the red! Mars the terrible! Mars the bloody! Mars the home of the totally awright Prince Van, the buffest, tuffest babe in all of dudedom! Yet what does the universe do to me? It schleps me to Sherwood Forest—and a Sherwood Forest like spotlessly sans Kevin Costner, no less—and then schleps me to your house, then schleps me to God—and I do mean God—knows where, then schleps me like I don't believe this not to your house, but to your terminally skanky car. Forgive me, Bits, but like it's skanky and I'm so sure you know it.
Where was I? Like don't ask me. I aimed like I always do for Mars, and like I always do I missed. Not my fault, I was carrying a lot of weight what with Old Betsy and the rest of the accoutrements I've gathered in my world-saving travels. Maybe like I forgot to allow for windage or something. Whatever. I opened my eyes and saw that I was definitely not on Mars. It's getting to be easier for me to identify not on Mars. It's a gravity and blue sky thing. Yeah, huh.
There was a road. There's always a goddamn road, even in the center of the Earth or wherever. So I stood in the road and nothing was happening and nothing was happening, so finally it dawns on me that this time I had to like walk.
So I hefted Old Betsy across my shoulder and marched onward into adventure like any sun-bronzed warrior woman would do. I was like unafraid and ready to turn the tables on the evildoers. Just like roads, there's always evildoers, know what I mean?
So I'm bookin' it along this dirt lane, and I'm watching the sun. It's going up. Then it's like noon, you know? and then it's going down. I'm still walking. I haven't seen anybody or anything, not a cow, not a field, not a castle on a hill, not anything. Of course, being a fierce fighting woman, I'm not like dismayed or nothing about having to spend the night in the sheltering roots of a primeval oak tree, because although some male-dominated mythologies have this cockamamy idea that oaks are dudelike in their treeness, oaks have historically been shown to be the temples-houses of druidesses, from which we get the word, what is it? druades or something. And if the tree nymphets could live in an oak, I didn't mind sleeping with one. Sisterhood is, you know, like powerful and all.
I was just about to wrap myself in my combat cloak, if I'd had a combat cloak (and while I'm wishing, I could have used a down-filled vest from L. L. Bean, too) when what should happen but a gnarly old man (and I do not mean that in any good surfer-dudelike way) hobbles into view along the dusty road. Figures, huh?
Oh, my gawd, I go, it's like the first person I see and already I have a moral dilemma. See, that's how the Goddess tests you, like she keeps scattering moral dilemmas around like carpet tacks. It's much more obvious to a heroine like myself, but I'll bet even you, Bits, has to make R & I decisions now and then, for sure, huh? That's "radical and intense," honey, don't give me that look.
Here were my choices: I could curl up prettily and hit the rack, or I could like introduce myself politely to the raggedy dude and find out where the hell I was this time. No, you don't have to worry, Bits, like they always speak English. Another function of the universe, I guess, and I see no need to overtax my splendid brain worrying about it.
It was a real poser, let me tell you. I held a secret ballot, and interviewing the venerable old gentleman dude won over flaking out by a tally of six to four. So I put on my medium-power smile, the one that goes "I bear you no ill will but I'll slice you like a radish if I catch so much as an evil flicker in your eyes."
"My good man," I go, stepping into the road and gazing levelly at him. Gazing levelly is like a vital fighting person kind of trait. Some of us are born with it, huh.
"Good my lady," he goes. "What would you of me?"
And I'm like, whoa, funny English again. I just knew I was in some grody prehistoric time before people discovered the truth and traded in their Louis Vuitton handbags for Fendi.
"I would of you like your name, for openers," I go.
"Hight I merely Joe," he goes.
"Joe." A guy named Joe, and he's going around woulding and highting." And je suis Maureen Birnbaum, bravery like personified, and don't you ever, ever call me Muffy. I left that part of me long ago and, you know, far away."
Joe nodded thoughtfully, then gave me one of those shrewd, calculating looks, you know, where you feel like your thoughts are, oh, laid bare and lying there ether
ized upon the table like when old Miss Grau tried to make us understand "Prufrock," remember? Talk about a pair of scuttling claws. Jeez.
Well, now that you ask, Bits, I truly don't know what that has to do with my awesome adventure. It was an image, that's all. No biggie. Like forget it if it's too deep for you.
So he's like, "Wittest thou what I wot?"
Just the latest in un-key, dear. And they don't sell like Cliff Notes for real life, huh. I go, "No, I wit not."
"Wot I that thou art in the way of the Saint Graal."
I looked around quick, but nothing was coming. The wrinkly grandpop was operating on E. C. T. Estimated Cloud Time. I wasn't in anybody's way, for sure. "Well," I go, "in that case I'll just be moseying."
"None but the gentlest and most parfait knight may hope to achieve that goal."
Gentle, I'm thinking, hey, I could be gentle if I had a reason. Parfait, though, would take some thought. Hot fudge, definitely. Whipped cream, definitely. Six or seven maraschino cherries, most definitely. Ice cream? A tough choice, but I leaned toward mint chocolate chip and a scoop of bubble gum. "I think I can hack it," I go.
Joe give me this little smile like "Yeah, we'll see." I wot like instantly that I might have to watch myself around this guy. "Wouldst thou then accompany me?"
"I dunno," I go. "Maybe you could accompany me." I was like there first, you know? It probably doesn't seem important to you, Bits, but billing is heavy stuff to a brawny warrior. Image is like everything, and you got to let people know from the getgo that they can't dis you without immediate and terrible retribution.
"As thou wishest," he goes.
So we walk maybe a half mile, neither of us saying much of anything. It's getting dusky and dark and stars are coming out and I look for Mars in the sky but the strife-torn God of War was like totally absent. When I look down again, what to my wondering eyes should appear but another shabby dude in a filthy robe and hood. He looked like the Hermit in the Tarot deck if the Hermit had gone residentially challenged—that's, come on you know, like homeless—for a year or so. Definitely not Block Island Race Week, Bits.
"Hola!" I go, but like soft.
"Behold, it is my brother Bohort."
Honest to goodness, honey, I could've sworn he said the most insulting thing. He didn't, though, I found out. "Your brother," I go warily. "What a whatchacall, a coincidence."
Gives me him that same dumb smile, all sort of bemused and condescending. "Not that we are twins of the womb, but yet are we brothers in Christ."
"Christ," I go. "Well, yeah, huh."
"Bohort!" he goes. "Well met!"
"God's grace to you, brother Joseph!" goes Bohort.
"And to you, good man. Behold Maureen, a lady knight errant who seeketh that which we wot of."
"Ah," goes his friend, "then gladly will we share our company."
"Fine," I go sternly, "but you can drop the 'lady knight' business. I'm a knight, period. None of this setting me off in a special category just on account of my gender."
Joe looked at Bohort, and Bohort looked at Joe. "Shall we continue on toward the Castle of Seemly Joy, or take our rest?" goes Joe. I'll like stop reporting their weird antique English if you don't mind, Bits.
Well, again the vote went for moving on, and so like we did. Okay. Now it's nighttime and we're still marching along. For once I didn't have to worry about where I was going, although like I didn't know what to expect from the Castle of Seemly Joy when I got there. The name of the place sounded like, you know, a massage parlor or something.
So I was lost in thought, something I try to do every few days—a healthy mind in a tuff hod, n'est-ce pas? I wasn't paying much attention to the scenery until I noticed that we'd come to a fork in the road. "Aiee," I go, "a fork in the road."
"Even so," goes Joe. "A leftward turning and in like wise a rightward turning. Whichsoever shall we choose?"
"Don't look at me," I go. "I mean, I'm following you guys, like for sure." "Then we ask you to choose," goes Bohort.
"I know," I go. "I'll choose the fork that takes us to . . . the Castle of Seemly Joy."
"Excellent brave choice!" goes Joe in an exclamatory kind of way.
"Uh huh. Now which road is it?"
"Alas, we cannot tell you," goes Bohort. "The way differs for every pilgrim."
"Pilgrim?" I go. "Do I look like a pilgrim? What is this, a Thanksgiving pageant or something? Last time I looked, it wasn't even the Fourth of July."
"Choose," goes Joe.
And I'm like, "What the hell? This castle moves around over the countryside or something?"
Joe and Bohort looked at each other. They didn't say a word.
"We'll go to the right," I tell them.
"How now," goes Bohort. Don't ask me, Bitsy.
So we hike it off to the right, and lo and behold not a quarter of a mile further on we come to a knight in full armor on horseback with a couched lance, just sort of idly sitting in the road waiting hour after hour after hour for us to come by. Like some people don't have anything better to do with their lives.
"What ho, varlets," goes the knight. He had a big shield with black stripes that divided the shield into three parts, like a peace symbol without the middle leg thingy. In the upper left section was sort of a pig with tusks all rampanty. In the upper right section were three red shapes like Lego blocks. In the bottom section was a gold-colored crown with bright enameled jewels. And like not a ding on that shield, like he just bought it that morning and nobody had bonked it yet.
"Who you calling varlets?" I go, stepping to the fore, see, 'cause I was like the only one in our group with courageous battle-hardened nerves. "Y'all I'm calling varlets," goes Sir Fruit Loop.
"Why don't you get off that horse and try it?" I go.
"Try what?" he goes.
"Try this." I waved Old Betsy around a couple of times. I had a feeling that inside his tin helmet, this guy was no rocket scientist.
He didn't say anything. He set his lance upright in some kind of socket thing, swung his leg heavily over the saddle, and landed with a noisy clanging on the ground beside his horse. Then he drew his own broadsword and came at me slowly. He moved sort of like Robbie the Robot, you know, huh? Clanking and shuffling. I figured he had one good swing with that sword of his, and if I kept out of its way, I had maybe fifteen minutes to dice him up while he recovered for the next swipe.
"Ware the knight," goes Joe. "He is the first Guardian of the Pearly Path, and your first Test."
I glanced over my shoulder. "You didn't say anything about tests. I would've taken this adventure pass/fail if I'd had a choice."
"Good my lady," goes Bohort, "you made that choice when you took the rightwise turning."
"Uh huh," I go, watching my opponent awkwardly hoisting his sword for the first strike. "And like what would we have met on the leftwise way?" "Alackaday, the selfsame Guardian."
I would've put down money that he was going to say that.
Like I'm turning my attention back to the lethal threat in front of me. "Who are you?" I go.
"I am Sir Sanspeur," he goes.
"And you've got a brother named Sansreproche or something a little further on, don't you?" I am like so clever sometimes, Bits, I amaze myself. By way of reply, this Sanspeur dude tried to whang me a good one on top of my head. If that blow had landed, I'd be sitting here dead, split from my skull straight down to my highly-prized groinal area.
But you'll be happy to learn the blow didn't land. I neatly side-stepped—I mean, I had all the time in the world, like you know?—and while he was trying to unstick his blade from the ground, I just gave him a little sideways whack with Old Betsy, not hurting him much but sending his own sword flying away.
"O, I am undone," Sanspeur goes in a quavery voice. "You have bested me, and you are therefore a most terrible strong Maid."
"I'm nobody's maid, buster," I go fiercely. "Now, do we get to pass by you without any of your nonsense?"
For answer,
Sir Sanspeur merely hung his ironclad head. I didn't even look behind me to catch Joe and Bohort's reactions. I kind of relished the moment of victory, which I knew wasn't going to last very long, because whenever there's a first Test, you can bet your Bernardo sandals there'll be another.
So I'm like, "What is this Saint Graal when it's at home?"
And Joe goes, "Saint Graal is Frankish for Holy Grail."
"Ah," I go, "The Holy Grail. You mean the Sacred Cauldron."
Joe looked at Bohort, and Bohort looked at Joe. "I don't believe I've ever heard the Grail called that," goes Bohort.
"Not surprising," I go, stifling an imaginary yawn. "Holy Grail is a male-supremacist sexist revisionist term using religion to hide the devious conspiracy to rob women of their innate power and authority granted to them by the Goddess."
"Goddess?" goes Joe. I thought he was going to strangle on the word. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," I go.
Well, they did so pretend. Bohort goes, "Of course, the Saint Graal or Sangreal, the Holy Grail as you would have it, is the chalice used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Its history is long and magical. It was fashioned from a gigantic jewel, a gem that had once been part of a magnificent crown given by sixty thousand angels to Lucifer, when that archangel still dwelt in Heaven. During his fall into Hell, the jewel fell from his crown to Earth, where it was fashioned into a cup. The cup came at last into the possession of a certain good man, who gave it to Jesus."
"Nuh uh, that's not the way the secret traditions of women have it," I go.
"What secret traditions?" goes Joe. I thought I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.
"The chalice is actually the Sacred Cauldron, the symbol of women triumphant, the symbol of female power, as the cross is the symbol of male power."
Maureen Birnbaum, Barbarian Swordperson Page 11
