“What's wrong, manling? Surprised?” it hissed. The thing pawed at the ground, as if testing the earth for the foothold that would offer the best leap. “Never have you seen a creature speak? I was hunting and devouring your kind before they
could
speak. Did you know that?”
“What are you?” Patrick stammered.
“Why, I am a wolf, fool.”
“No, wolves don't talk.”
The wolf began to circle Patrick at a distance; the knight kept the sword between him and it. “I'm not just any wolf,” the creature said. “I am kin to Fenris and Cerberus. Eater of flesh, drinker of souls. I am a god compared to you. You and your kind are but hairless monkeys. Just because you use tools of iron to tear up the earth and throw down the trees does not make you special.” The wolf stopped his circling. “But your kind is everywhere nowadays. You are prevalent like pond scum. A disease. I can find no peace, even on this isolated island.” The wolf laughed scornfully. “You however, little manling, cannot stop me. Don't think that your iron can hinder me for long. You are alone.”
Patrick did understand that he was alone. And the wolf lunged with such agility that Patrick almost did not see it. If his sword had not been between them he could not have struck a blow in time to save his life. Patrick thrust the weapon once, the only chance he had, but the point of the blade connected with the wolf. It snarled, and then was on top of him. Against the onslaught of teeth and claw, Patrick held the blade in both gloved hands and attempted to use it as a barrier between the savage teeth and himself. The wolf's claws were tearing into his torso and thighs, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his armor gave way, or the wolf worked his way around the sword blade to Patrick’s throat.
But, the wolf was cast aside, yelping. The gigantic mass of Siegfried appeared above him, huge shod hooves kicking in all directions. The wolf came for another assault, but was once again struck by the warhorse’s hind legs. It flew into the ferns as if struck by a thunderbolt, and then scrambled off into the forest.
Patrick staggered to his feet, grabbing hold of the saddle for support. “Thank you, old boy. You're my best friend that ever lived. I love you like you wouldn't believe.” He fell to his knees and retched. He stayed on the ground for some time, but came to when Siegfried nuzzled him. After he had cast out as much as his empty stomach could produce, he stood and mounted the horse. His disorientation was almost as total as it had been on the isle of the Mont Saint-Michel. His wounds weren't so bad; yes, he was bleeding, but not profusely and it hadn't been long enough for infection to set in. He wondered if perhaps the claws of the wolf were somehow venomous.
Patrick held up his sword and noted that it was blood stained to the middle of the blade. The creature was hurting just as bad, if not worse. Possibly it was dying.
Maybe
I'm
dying at this moment. Such a pleasant thought
.
He tried to re-sheath his sword, but couldn't manage it, so he laid it across his lap. Siegfried trotted in a random direction when Patrick slumped over in the saddle.
#
When he awoke next, he was lying on moss and the sun was just rising. Wherever he was now, the trees were thinner and mostly saplings. He rose stiffly.
Siegfried was nearby, unsaddled, and grazing on grass. There was a broad leaf with mushrooms on it at his side. He held up one of the fleshy fungi and sniffed it. He then gulped it down hungrily, not caring whether it was edible or not. His stomach demanded it. After he had finished all of them, he limped over to a gurgling brook and drank. When he sat up, he was confronted with a large swan.
The fowl and knight stared at each other. After some moments had passed, Patrick said, “Are you a magic or holy swan like in all the stories that concern Avalon?” The swan only rooted around in the mossy patches for food. “Well, if you are, I'd appreciate some help.” The swan started to wander off. When it had waddled so far, it stopped as if waiting for the knight, bobbed its head and began to waddle away again. “Do you want me to follow?” It kept waddling. Patrick saddled Siegfried as fast as he could manage and followed the bird.
It waddled further into the woods, in the direction the Irishman didn't want to go, but he followed it anyway, feeling that the plan was just as good as any. After a short journey, the swan stopped on a trail and pecked at some moss. Patrick approached it and saw blood on the ground and wolf tracks.
“No, no. No more wolves. I want to go home now. Do you understand? Home. I want to go home.” Patrick began to pace back and forth. “I'm talking to a swan,” he murmured.
Why not, yesterday you were talking to a wolf, and the day before that you were arguing with your horse
.
“It's not finished, yea know,” rasped a voice.
Patrick looked up. The bird was gone and in its place was the crone.
“Why can't I just go back? The wolf assuredly is done for. Can't I just leave now?” Patrick no longer knew what was real or fantasy. He had spent years in the Crusade’s hard realities. Now he was living in a child's tale. Nightmare, more like it. He didn't know which was worse.
“Yea can't run away from everything all your life, Patrick Gawain of Galway. If yea start something, yea must throw yourself wholeheartedly into it and finish it. Yea must face your fears.”
“I do!” Patrick threw up his hands. “I've never run away from anything in my life!”
“You are whining, Sir Knight.”
Patrick turned in frustration, but the crone was gone. He was left alone on the trail with Siegfried. He almost wanted to cry. Not knowing what else to do, or what other direction to go in, he decided to pursue the wolf.
#
The blood spots became more frequent as the trail drew closer to a cave, the wolf’s lair.
Patrick dismounted and left the warhorse untied, lest he not return. He removed his flint and tinder box from the saddlebags to fashion a makeshift torch from branches and his ragged surcoat. He lit this, said a quick prayer and entered the mouth of the cave. All was still dreamlike. He swayed to and fro and braced himself with a steadying hand to the walls. It was then that he noticed that they were covered with crude paintings. He hadn't looked long at these pictographs when a howl, followed by a burst of wind, came down the cave. The gust caused the cobwebs to flutter in the wind like phantoms, and another howl caused Patrick to stop in his tracks for a long pause. Nevertheless, he proceeded, torch in one hand, sword in the other.
The cave came to an end around a corner, and there, lying on a glorious mound of coins, jewelry, arms and armor of exquisite craftsmanship, was the wolf. The monster looked sick, and mixed with its slaver was blood.
It turned its gaze upon the Irishman. Patrick thanked the Lord that he was feverish after all, for it numbed his senses and eliminated the fear he normally would have felt.
“So, you have come to finish the fight, have you?” it taunted. “You can't beat me. You can damage me, but you can't defeat me. I've survived far worse at the hands of greater than you.” The wolf labored to its feet, and crouched. “Was it worth it, manling? To throw away your pitiful life without anybody knowing your fate, here in the darkness that is not even your world?” It leapt.
The wolf was slowed by its wounds. Patrick struck out with sword and torch, fighting as if in a nightmare. The mind would not obey the will no matter how hard he tried. The wolf tore and bit, but he bludgeoned back with the torch, and the cavern was close with the stench of burnt hair. Patrick stabbed at the creature with his sword, wearing it down until one final stab penetrated deep into the chest cavity and the beast shuddered and went limp
Patrick slumped, and then cast himself away from the carcass with what strength he had left. The wolf was dead but he knew that he was not far behind. The thing had bit deep into his leg, and he was positive that it was venomous after all, for now he had no control of his body. He lay there listening to his breath wheeze slower and slower in tandem with the dying torchlight. He was dying, and the only thing going through his mind was the wolf's last words;
was it worth it?
When the light had died out, Patrick was sure that he was dead. But a light began to fill the cavern. It was no torch. It was far more brilliant and pure than any worldly light. The paintings danced on the walls―images of battles and warriors, a sword, a cup, a boat, and swans. These images blurred, and a golden haired woman appeared before him. She was tall and lithe with skin whiter than bone. Her cheekbones were high, her brows arched, and her eyes at first seemed dark, but were a green so luxuriant they matched the darkest evergreen, and at their centers they bore brilliant sunbursts.
“Well done, Gawain of Galway,” she said. Her voice was music.
“Who are you? Are you an angel come to take me away?”
The cavern filled with laughter that sounded like chimes on the breeze. “No, not at all. I am no more angelic than thou and I will let thou decide just how angelic that is.” Her smile was genuinely caring, as she brushed a damp cloth against his forehead. “I am your kinswoman.”
“My kinswoman?”
“We are of the Tuatha De Danann, the children of Dana, the Hill Folk. Do you not see it in your own eyes?”
Patrick shook his head.
“The blood pulsing in your heart still sings, though softly, of the Old Ones. You are special among men.”
Patrick frowned in puzzlement, but decided not to dwell too much on the strange revelation. His vision had begun to swim even more and chill wracked his body.
The woman sighed. “Your wounds are great. They will be mortal soon.” She turned and Patrick could hear the clink of treasure. But when she returned, she bore a simple wooden cup. Its base was convex and as wide as its open mouth; its stem was almost non-existent, giving the goblet an hourglass shape. She also produced an earthenware jug, which she used to pour water into the cup. She poured the water from the cup over his wounds, and when she did, the cup turned into a golden chalice. His pains melted away. Then she made him drink. The water tasted sweet and clean, and all his internal pains vanished, leaving him feeling warm and drowsy. Now his vision really was swimming, and all was becoming dark again.
“We thank thee, Gawain of Galway. We no longer reside in this existence as we once did, and could not banish the wolf. That it claimed this sacred place as its own is an abomination. You are still of the world, and could, and did, destroy it. We thank you. Take care, and remember to face thy fears, kinsman.”
Patrick drifted off into the sweet arms of sleep like he never had before. He dreamed of white swans.
#
Sir Corbin brought his mount to a halt and held up his hand, to signal the other Avangarde in his patrol to do likewise. He turned to the others, pushed up his helm by his nose guard and asked, “Is that who I think it is?”
“It sure looks like it,” Sir Waylan said.
Coming down the valley of apple orchards was Sir Patrick trotting at a leisurely pace atop his great black warhorse. He wore a blank gaze. What was left of his armor, surcoat and other gear was filthy and tattered. Rolled and slung across the back of his mount was a giant wolf's pelt.
Sir Bisch exclaimed, “Good! Good!”
The patrol of Avangarde hailed him and waited for him to approach. He didn't seem to take any notice of them and the knights looked at each other quizzically. Sir Corbin trotted up to Patrick's mount and took it by the harness, for Patrick was in the process of passing them by.
“Whoa, Siegfried,” he said. “Patrick, how do you fare? Are you wounded?”
Patrick did not respond.
Bisch scowled. “Bad. Bad.”
Patrick stared ahead. The Englishman waved his hand in front of the Irish knight's face. “Hello, hello? Are yea there, Sir Patrick?” No reply. Corbin resorted to shaking Patrick. The Avangarde circled.
Patrick finally shook his head and blinked as if waking. He looked upon Corbin as if seeing him for the first time. “Corbin! How are you?” he almost shouted. “Waylan! Bisch!” Patrick was smiling now. The knights looked at one another once again with renewed curiosity.
“We'd better get you back to Greensprings,” Corbin said, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Though I see no injuries on you, you don't seem to be altogether well, Patrick.”
“Looks to me like he ran right out and killed the wolf, then spent the next few days shacked up in some cottage with the farmer's daughter instead,” Waylan declared. The Avangarde laughed. They all started back to the Greensprings.
Patrick's brow furrowed. “Days? I thought that I was gone for weeks.”
Waylan laughed. “Must have been some farmer's daughter!” There was more laughter and good natured jeering.
“Well, the way things have changed since you left, one might think that it has been weeks,” Corbin said.
“How's that?”
“Well, the Lady du Lac found out about Sir Geoffrey's extra efforts, packed up and left, and Geoffrey has been in a confessional booth ever since. And you'll never guess who has been spotted holding the Lady Morneau's dainty little hand out in the gardens at night.” Corbin had one arm thrown over Patrick's shoulder as he recounted the current gossip. When did his return commence? He couldn't quite remember the last few events that led to his arrival.
He was nonetheless curious. “Who?” he asked.
“Why our very own King Mark! Do you believe it?” He didn't. Corbin changed subjects. “But enough of idle talk, it looks as if you have a tale to tell.” He tugged on the rolled pelt. “What shall we do? Go to the pub at Aesclinn first? Or would you rather go straight to your room and clean up?”
Patrick smiled. “I think I would like to see the librarian.”
“Eh?”
“I’d like him to take a look at the slope of my skull.”
Chapter Five
Of course there was a celebration banquet, but it was not long before it became old news and he was once again just Sir Patrick Gawain, Reservist. But somehow he didn't mind as much. He couldn't entirely remember what happened, but something told him that it had been overwhelmingly good. He was unofficially relieved of his duties in order to recuperate.