The Trials of Lance Eliot

Praise for M.L. Brown

and
The Trials of Lance Eliot

“The way Lance told his own story was both humorous and thought-provoking, and I felt connected with the character and wanted to find out what happened to him. The pace of the novel was excellent, with enough action and suspense to keep me turning pages and enough introspection to make the action scenes meaningful.”

— 
Amy Green
, author of
Quest for the Scorpion's Jewel
and
Escape from Riddler's Pass

“True-to-life characters and somewhat sardonic wit, combined with Brown's gift of imagination, make this page-turner a joy to read.”

— 
Mark Sommer
, Book Review Editor for HollywoodJesus.com

“I enjoyed my journey into the past with Lance Eliot. Ironically, I was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court at the same time; I enjoyed Brown's tale as much as Twain's.”

— 
Bob Staples
, English Department Chair for Bethel College

“Vivid imagery, great metaphors, good overall pace. Entertaining and meaningful.”

—
 Melissa Bond
, math teacher

“The Trials of Lance Eliot is an epic tale that drew me in to every character and situation. The descriptions are palpable and the personalities definite. It takes you on a journey you will never want to leave.”

— 
Maia Manchester
, Editor in Chief for
Maadi Messenger

“A wonderfully adventurous novel filled with colorful characters and suspenseful events. It is enough to make a fantasy reader out of anyone.”

— 
Melissa Payne
, blogger

“M.L. Brown is not just a master storyteller, but a master of the English language. Brimming with British wit and charm, this book is a delight to read.”

— 
Greg Coles
, author of
Against the Current

“This brilliant mix of peril, chivalry and wit will ignite the hero in every reader.”

— 
Natalie Backhaus
, blogger

“While still a teen, M.L. Brown began his writing career earning awards for his stories. This is a young author to keep your eye on.”

— 
PeggySue Wells
, co-author of
The Slave Across the Street
and
Holding Down the Fort

 

S.D.G.

To Tim and Ruth

Alas, why is it common to complain

Of God or Fortune, who so often deign,

Hiding their foresight under many a guise,

To give us better than we could devise?

- Geoffrey Chaucer

And thence we came forth to see again the stars.

- Dante

Editor's Note

THE FOLLOWING NARRATIVE WAS written by the late Lance Eliot. After his death, I received a bundle of handwritten papers in the mail with a note explaining they had been found among his personal possessions in a box addressed to me. This was no surprise. Lance and I had been close friends for many years; it was not unusual that he should leave me one of his manuscripts. I began to read, expecting an academic paper. I was astounded. The document contained a ludicrous story of magic and adventure in the style of a memoir.

At first I thought it was a joke, but I soon abandoned the idea. Lance had an unshakable standard of honesty and an admirable sense of humor. If the document was a joke, it was neither honest nor humorous. My next guess was that it was an allegorical biography or fictionalized retelling of true events. However, the author of the document insisted his story was literally true. This led me to a third, tragic conclusion: impending death had driven my friend insane.

I finished the document, if only out of respect for my dear friend, and then locked it in a drawer and forgot about it.

Then the world was rocked by the discovery of the Lancelot Manuscript. A team of researchers had uncovered a crypt beneath the ancient fortress of Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland, England. The crypt contained, among other artifacts, a document purporting to be written by Lancelot, the legendary knight of Camelot. The vellum on which the document was written was tested and found to be more than a thousand years old.

Amid the frenzy of the media, experts deciphered and translated most of the document. It consisted of theological reflections (supporting the legend that Lancelot became a monk after the downfall of King Arthur) and genealogical records, in addition to a brief but intriguing autobiographical anecdote.

I followed the discovery of the Lancelot Manuscript with interest and was quick to read the translation when it appeared online. A particular passage, the aforementioned anecdote, seemed inexplicably familiar. Only after reading it numerous times did I make the connection: every detail of that passage corroborated the document Lance had written.

I removed his papers from their drawer and read through them again, paying close attention to certain elements of the story. At the end of my investigation I had a new conclusion. Either both documents were part of an elaborate hoax, or else both were true. Rather than state my own opinion concerning the truthfulness of these documents, I submit them to you, the reader, and leave you to your own conclusions.

In this book, Lance Eliot recounts the first of three adventures. I have interfered with his material as little as possible, merely correcting grammatical errors and making minor alterations for the sake of clarity. I have also Americanized the spellings, divided the narrative into chapters and added chapter titles for the reader's convenience. A translation of the relevant passage of the Lancelot Manuscript has been included in this book as an epilogue.

- M.L. Brown

1

LANCE ELIOT TRAVELS TO AN UNFAMILIAR PLACE

I'M AFRAID I'LL BE dead by the time you read this. It's a pity. I would have liked to have told you my tale in person, but the rider on the pale horse is catching up to me, and the only way for my story to be told is for me to write it down.

Where to begin? I suppose my story starts in a pub in Oxford. No, it starts before that, in the sepulchral office of a professor known among his students as the Skeleton. He was a thin, pale, wispy-haired chap who slumped in his chair like a corpse the murderer forgot to bury. The thing that really clinched the resemblance to a skeleton was his grin, which was one of the ghastliest things I have ever seen.

About fifteen years ago, when I was just a lad of twenty-one, I sat in the Skeleton's office on the last afternoon before the Christmas holiday, scribbling away at a piece of paper and sweating like an ice cube on a hot day. Every few minutes I glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall. Time was running out. I wrote faster. The Skeleton coughed, and I paused just long enough to flex my fingers and glare at him.

I was annoyed with him. He was practically blackmailing me. I was studying literary criticism, you see. I've always loved books. The Skeleton, however, was one of those super-intellectual idiots who make literature more systematic than mathematics. Annoyed by my subjectivity, he refused to give me a passing mark unless I accepted remedial help.

I had no choice. The Skeleton was praised in academic circles (probably by people who had never actually met him) as Peter M. Williamson, eminent author and literary critic. Without a good mark in his class, I had no chance of achieving success in my field. I submitted to remedial study in his office once a week.

The Skeleton rejected the fine Oxford tradition of making students write academic papers. In his opinion, they gave students too much creative freedom. My professor detested creativity. He preferred his students to answer lists of questions, rather like exams, in the stifling confines of his office. I suspect he was a sadist.

So I found myself in his office on that cold afternoon, inventing answers to questions about archetypes, causalities and other dreadful things. With less than half a minute left on the clock, I finished writing and handed him my paper. “There you are,” I muttered, scowling. “Happy Christmas, sir.” I turned to leave.

At that moment the Skeleton gave a quiet but pointed cough. I heard that cough and trembled, for I was sore afraid. I considered feigning deafness and making a run for it, but he coughed again and I knew escape was out of the question.

“You coughed, sir?” I said.

“Mister Eliot,” said the Skeleton in a rusty sort of voice, “you've left a question unanswered.”

It was impossible. How could I have made such a blunder?

He held up my paper and there it was: a blank white space where my answer should have been. I felt myself pale to the approximate shade of the paper. “I can't think how I could have missed it,” I said.

“How you missed it is irrelevant. It is enough to know that you did, in fact, miss it. In consequence your paper will be marked down considerably.” The Skeleton frowned—a sight to make the bravest of men cower in fear—and added, “I think you and I need to have a discussion, Eliot.”

I felt like a prisoner condemned to execution. In fact, execution was probably preferable to a discussion with my professor. I made a brave attempt to smile. “But sir, I only missed a question. Hardly worth talking about, is it? Even the best of us make mistakes. Just look at Napoleon.”

“You're babbling, Eliot.”

“So sorry, didn't mean to babble. But do you really think a discussion is necessary?”

Of course he thought a discussion was necessary, but if there was even the slightest chance of escape, I would go for it.

“You put so little effort into your work, Eliot,” said the Skeleton, putting his fingertips together. “You seem to understand the material we study, but your work is slipshod, your observations obvious, your analyses utterly subjective. Why is this?”

What was I supposed to say? I decided on the truth.

“I believe literature is meant to be enjoyed,” I declared. “Not picked apart and scrutinized under a microscope.”

He raised his eyebrows in shock or disdain, but I plunged on. As long as I was spiting him, I was going to make the most of it.

“Take Dickens,” I said with rising passion. “I don't read Dickens to discern some abstract political or philosophical or psychoanalytical meaning. I read Dickens because I enjoy reading Dickens. I'm not going to put all literature through the wringer to squeeze out every last drop of meaning.”

“That's exactly why you're here,” said the Skeleton. “To extract meaning from literature. If you can't do that, you may abandon all hope of passing this course.”