Blood and Dreams: Lost Years II (4 page)

“Just ahead,” said the odd, mocking, cracking voice, “the keeper waits. Find the Grail and flee with me now!”

“With you, nightmare?” I didn’t feel polite.

“The keeper waits. “

“Fine. Where’s Morgana?” She leaned up and kissed me on the mouth. Her teeth touched me and felt slimy. My soul didn’t melt and sag my knees with need. The makeup clung to my face.

“Sweet young man,” she said as I wiped at the stains. She smiled. Her teeth were too small and numerous and something flashed; this face, tiny teeth … “Forget her.” The voice went too deep, then bounced up an octave. “You may have me.”

“I get so many offers,” I said, “I can’t keep up.”

The eyes shifted too much and the body canted steeply inside the flopped clothing when she moved and I was sure now. I clutched and caught the long, dried hair and, of course, it came away in my hand.

The limping little transvestite laughed and veered into the banked flowers as if a wave of green and white had sucked him under.

“Come back,” I suggested, calmly enough. “I’ve got something for you, Gobble. Something nice.” I tossed the limp wig aside and probed through the wash of blossoms and honeyed sunbeams. Mock me, would they? What bent lusts …

And then the skewed path ended in a long field where the overgrown wall had crumbled to floral rubble. Yellow flowers, solid as a carpet, covered the ground. Solid pine trees closed off the far end. There was movement there, branches shaking, and scraping noise like metal bones and scales. For an instant I felt a child’s fear and nearly bolted in the face of lost tales crashing into reality: a scintillant dragon, goldenplated, head high above mine, eyes shattering the angled light, clumped and creaked toward me.

“Is this supposed to remind me of the Grail?” I wondered, then turned to look at two knights who’d emerged from the flower mass behind me. Their faceplates were open and I knew them both. “So,” I remarked, “this is getting to be social.” I didn’t believe in the dragon for one minute. “Galahad and Sir Bors. Well, well. Planning to slay me —” I gestured across the field, “— or that thing first? And just the two of you?” Likely as bees in winter.

Galahad looked perturbed. “Ahh, ah,” he demurred, “why not just come back to court with me?”

“Sick of being a paid head-chopper, too?” He should have been. His eyes showed it: strained and drained empty. They were focused on my chest.

“Strange dress. Parsival.” Bors chimed in.

“It’s fashion here.” We never liked each other. Never.

“Ha! Saxons and Irishmen have more modesty!” Bors had really small eyes. His graying beard had food fragments caught in it. He always seemed to spit when he talked. Galahad, on the other hand, had excellent personal hygiene.

“The dragon doesn’t worry you either?” I asked. It was flashing and advancing. obviously mechanical. Like a seige machine.

“It’s nonsense,” Galahad said. “We know what’s going on here.” He nodded as if that proved it.

“That’s sooth.” Bors muttered. He was a brooding butcher. But Galahad made you feel he’d been driven to murder against his will and wanted, if possible, pity from his victim. A sighing slayer.

“Come back,” he said sincerely. “and all’s well again.”

“So it was you and your lads on the road,” I realized. “You’ve just been waiting for your best moment or more men.” Galahad’s style was fearless at ten to one odds.

The dragon clanked and thudded closer; it sounded like a drawbridge going up. Was I supposed to imagine the Grail was inside? Was I supposed to care?

Actually, it was coming faster than I had thought: suddenly the bronze claws, jerky but quick, hooked at Sir Bors, who was standing nearest. He cursed and chopped his sword at the metal and leather sides, closing with the giant toy. Blossoms splashed as he hacked unintelligently at the inanimate eyes.
Clang
!
Clang
! Then he was knocked down and flipped into the brilliant flowers in a sparkle of steel.

Armed men and knights sprouted everywhere. Galahad was yelling, “Attack! Destroy that thing!” Then, aside to me, “We’ll share the treasure if you throw in with us.”

I gaped at him. “You too? Who next? The pope? Beowulf of the Danes?” I gawked at the inane battle: the machine clanked and flailed with awkward swiftness, missing everyone except when they were packed so thick that not scoring would have taken great skill. “Going to share the Grail with Arthur, too?” The flowers were getting the worst of it. I backed carefully away from this peculiar melee.

“What do you say?” Galahad wanted to confirm, keeping pace with my retreat.

I smiled brightly.

“I’m with everyone,” I told him. God, what a crew!

“Good,” he said. Bors was up again, and back in the nonsensical fray. Part of the beast was torn; iron-studded leather flapped about a broken wooden bone. Someone had actually thought this festival puppet would drive fighting men off. Amazing. I could hear voices fuming inside. One clawed leg had jammed, the gears were grinding. I realized it truly
was
the keeper, comic as it seemed. Perhaps there was something to keep, after all …

Galahad’s men had swarmed all around the dragon’s rump and were levering if over, rocking in unison. Bors still pounded at the senseless head. He had the stiff claw-strokes pretty well-timed now.

And then we were flooded with dwarves, lots of dwarves, dwarves wearing jet armor that brought a shudder of recognition: ebony steel with silver, grotesque facemasks. When I was seventeen, Clinschor’s deadly minions wore the same suits in larger sizes. They seemed to be charging to the dragon’s rescue.

And there was Gobble, limping in their midst, probably happy to be taller than someone. He still wore the silly gray gown, but brandished a sword. His makeup had been badly rubbed off.

This was entertainment no acting troupe could match.

The dragon crashed on its side just as waves of poisonous mites broke into the full-sized knights. Black steel gleamed like beetle carapaces as the midgets sank head-deep in the gushed flowers and then sprang out slicing vicious ax and sword thrusts, hewing legs like trees. Gobble was nearly dancing with delight. All he needed was a maypole.

The keeper fell apart, and wild-bearded druid priests tumbled out. Druids? Why not? Only Christians insisted the Grail was Christ’s alemug. There they were, in any case, druids, yelling, ducking, and scattering. Maybe a dozen. I could see the wheels and ropes that worked the dragon. Then a few dwarves got close enough to distract me. They fought well, but I’d been bopped on the skull enough. A knight in shining diapers, I probably looked easy. Well, I battered and batted them towards safer game.

Galahad was happy. He must have figured these were a perfect size for him, because he was spinning and smashing everything in reach … I glimpsed Howtlande bobbing stealthily through the lush greenery where two or three of the priests seemed to be getting away.

I backed into the sweet bushes. Not my fight. I felt sorry for the priests, but it was too late to help. Too many people had followed too many others for one toy dragon to discourage.

I thought about softness and scent and red hair. Where was she? Maybe Howtlande knew. I headed for where I’d seen him last. Glanced back and saw dear little Gobble pointing me out. His dwarves (he’d clearly planned best of the lot) were actually bouncing, popping in and out of the deep washes of flower and brush, like deadly stinkbugs, avoiding most strokes, stabbing and slashing at knees and shins.

Gobble was suddenly trapped between two furious knights and I saw him resort to snake tactics again, vanishing in the foamy gold — then his sword lashed up from the dense bush right into one man’s eye-slit. The deadly steel beetles were suddenly chopping the fronds all around me. A sword flicked a wavy trace across my torso. I slapped a stroke back, and hit stems. I wasn’t dressed for this. I ducked and ran through a hedge of roses. I wasn’t dressed for that either. By the other side I was netted with rips and crisscrossed blood. There was a little space and the first three dwarves coming after me regretted it. They couldn’t duck and pop: I hit them so hard I saw stars from the impacts. That was that. For a few breaths, anyway.

A few yards later I blundered across a crushed wake wide enough to be either the dragon’s or Howtlande’s. Then I saw him, face down. Butterflies flitted about his head. His helmet was missing and a bloody lump had closed one eye. Life went on here in the garden. I could hear bees. I moved cautiously, straining to see into the shifting light and shade … The fighting gradually drifted and thinned into a meaningless drone . . .. I was tired and really hungry now … found it hard to concentrate on anything … wanted to sit, inhale the rich air, stretch out … This garden was like a world in itself: human absurdity and natural beauty all mixed with blood and dreams…

Behind me Howtlande strained and struggled to one knee, holding his hurt head and sucking wind.

“Ah God …” he whispered. “Ah …” I waited. “… a foul blow … treacherous …” He finally noticed me. “Parsival … Parsival … she means to have it all herself … the foul bitch …”

“All the great nothing for herself?”

“When I saw that dread machine,” he gently fingertipped his wound, “of fell magic …” shook his round head, “rending over those sweet fields …”

“The dread machine is overthrown,” I told him, running my thumbnail along my lower lip. “Gobble’s midgets won the day.”

The eyes went wide. “He has the Grail?” he hissed. “Does he? The worm, the —”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

The eyes went small and hard again. His senses, such as they were, had returned. He tried to gesture me into his insanity again. “But can’t you remember where it’s hid?” he pleaded, jowls joggling.

“Ask the druids.”

“What?”

“They were inside the dread machine.”

“Druids,” he muttered, patting his wound again.

“Exactly what went on while I was unconscious and chained?” I laid the flat of the blade along his bruised and puffy cheek. “Hmm?” The late sunlight beaded and broke along the steel.

“There may still be time, sir, for the two of us to get our share.” He was afraid but more impatient than anything. “Where are the —”

“What did you do to me?” I asked quietly, holding the edge still. He was sweating. With reason.

“They questioned you, hoping to learn —”

“What else?” My eyes were cold and bleak, I’m sure. That’s how I felt. I could hear bees humming in the syrupy air where flowers swayed and leaves rattled.

“Well … It was a rite …”

“More like a wrong. Go on.”

“A ritual magic. She, ah … used … you. You know …” He shrugged and tried to subtly lift his cheek away from the blade. “For magic, to find the Grail …”

“What did your little friend do? Hmm?”

He was really sweating now.

“He did … things …”

The eyes told me enough. I gritted my teeth. “A rite,” I muttered.

“I had nothing to say about that, sir.”

My eyes must have been very bleak now.

“Used me for magic, did they?” Soft skin … and red hair … and twisted, naked cripples … and blood … and prodding me with himself undersea, bony, shark-mouthed, prodding me with his bent, outsized self … the two of them … “Magic.”

Howtlande made a squeaking: my blade had pressed against his neck, and blood creased his jowls. “Please,” he begged. “Please, sir. I —”

“Is there more?”

“The … the rite was not finished, but I swear I don’t know how the rest goes … Spare me, Parsival, we’ll work hand in hand. I’m a loyal man, sir. A loyal man …” Everyone’s so loyal when you’re armed.

“I can’t tell you how much that means to me, Howtlande.” I saw flowers move against the wind.

“If she has not found what she seeks —” The eyes went sly briefly; blood beaded from the slight slash I’d made. “— as I think now, she hasn’t … then she’ll try more ritual. I overheard her telling him the Grail is wedded to your soul, Parsival … and will reveal itself to her witch vision when …” I could see he wanted to husband and trickle information now that the tension had lifted a little. It was too late for that.

“When?”

“When you die.”

He stopped here, or perhaps I wasn’t listening. Gobble, in his tattered gown, and several armored beetles seemed to float towards me.

And … “Well, well,” I said. “A happy meeting.” My blood-red ruby armor had just arrived, stalking me, blank helmet shut tight. The sword looked keen. When I was seventeen I’d punched a spearpoint through the previous owner’s neck and was baptized into knighthood by the drizzling blood. My first work for King Arthur.

“I don’t suppose,” I said, “you’ll just take it off?”

My steel didn’t reply.

Gobble grinned, rolled his bug-eyes up into his forehead, and began to spin in a circle and mumble a chant while the jolly killer insects spread out, bobbing through the garden like the iron offspring of some strange machine. The mad cripple went faster and faster, a child’s spinning toy. I assumed he was having a fit. Howtlande was crossing himself rapidly in what seemed spiritual excess.

“He’s doing magic,” he informed me breathlessly.