The Final Quest (The Parsival Saga Book 3) (25 page)

“Grail,” she whispered, refusing to look over at them again, clinging to the bony back of the staggering, mincing mule. Shivered and felt no appetite.

I
cannot
ask
him
either
… Wondered if some warrior in the column might have a skin of wine put away in his pack.
The
son
-
of
-
a
-
bitch
… the hooves lightly and unevenly clicking on the bed of stones …
Now
they’ve
got
me
too
…
even
me
…
they’ve
finally
got
me
following
it
…

“Grail,” she almost spat into the blankness beyond the wavering torch glimmer …

XXXVII

Now they had no water. Gawain had poured part of a flask into one of the two kegs the men bore by turns on their backs. Parsival had shattered it with his sword. The other was finished. He held it up. Shook it, smelled the sweet, damp wood. Flicked loose a few drops that vanished into the black, burned soil. The sun was high and fierce in the stifling haze.

They were alone now. The peasants had fled on before dawn when a second woman and a man were killed despite the fires and watchers because Parsival had been struck down by the poison water: he’d paced and stared, the blade across his shoulder, peering into the darkness beyond the charcoal glow … and then his sight blurred, ears roared, teeth rattling together madly for a moment and then a silence as if sound, sight and all senses had been sucked away into a vast blot of nothingness: he heard screams, terrible screams of panic and pain. He’d run at the sounds, seeing … not seeing … seeing again … the terrors echoing strangely around him as if he were closed in a walled chamber.

“Unlea,” he’d shouted. “Unlea!”

Suddenly the woods were daybright and he had an impression that he’d slept and dreamt everything except it was wrong: the trees were in full bloom, lush with heavy, midsummer greens, earth a softness of deep grasses … deserted … silent except for the pleasant winds wooshing across the fields … he knew that he knew the place and tried to recall it: a thin stream, banks in an aura of sunlight, a long, smooth crease and then he saw the mounted knight coming down, the giant horse rocking through the grasses as if breasting seawaves, faceplate shut, armor a blood-red glint on man and mount and he believed it was someone dressed to look like Sir Roht the Red (remembered slaying him so long ago with a thrust javelin in the throat, blood misting and leaking down the shaft over his own pale hand as he braced against the shocking weight of the toppling man, his hot rage already run out, and he was bewildered, curious, hoping he was doing what was expected of a knight, the hot blood drops on his face and fool’s garments … ) or a dream yes, that was it, he was still asleep … no … the water, the poison water … the knight lowered a red lance and began a slow, flowing charge straight at him and he felt cold draining fear, trying to raise his blade and finding it tremendously heavy as if he now moved underwater … the red warrior came on, massive, silent, three-edged lancetip dead on his chest … closer … closer … trying to move, fight or run … frozen to the spot he finally watched the spear come ripping in, piercing his heart and his heart burst and flooded him with warm, golden, soothing light … then blackness … then the dark fires again and Unlea, one leg up as if suspended in midflight, even her garments fixed, silks billowed out and still in the night air, and beyond her, in the orange-red glowing, moved vague, dark, threatening shapes … then all gone and he was kneeling over the fallen knight, the helmet freed, javelin pulled out from the round hole where the blood gurgled in a dying trickle, the redhead’s blue eyes looking at him, suddenly free of their deathglaze, blood clotted, mouth moving, speaking:

You’ve
done
me
,
boy
.

I
bad
to
become
a
man
,
like
you
,
sir
.

Now
you
have
to
bear
it
.

What
,
sir?

This
suit
of
steel
.
It’s
heavy
,
boy
.
I
can
no
longer
rise
in
it
.

I
have
to
be
a
knight
and know the brightness
…

Forgive
me
,
boy
,
for
I
brought
you
to
this
.

Forgive
you
?
But
I
slew
you
…

I
wasted
all
my
moments
until
this
one
and
this
one
is
my
best
.

“But you died,” Parsival was yelling into the darkness. “You never spoke a word!” Saw Unlea running, then motionless again, as if (he thought) in a childhood game of “Trollstill and Scamper.” “Never a word.”

And the night was gone again and he faced a stone wall laced with ivy where the sunlight tangled the shadows and flashed hot and bright and he recognized the priest just coming through a low, barred door which he shut and locked behind himself. Straightened and watched him.

I
told
you
, he seemed to say, nervous hands adjusting his robe and patting at his tonsured hair,
you
truly
have
no
choosing
.
Now
you’re
locked
in
here
.

“No!” he yelled, or thought he yelled.

You’re
getting
more
chances
than
ever
a
mortal
was
given
before
.
How
many
can
you
waste?

And Parsival rushed past him at the door, through which he saw a long shimmer of water. Stooped down, face near the close-set, thick bars, staring at the scene: long hills where flowers were golden flame and clouds unwound in slow, mellow light that seemed a condensation of all childhood summers; a single sailboat out in the blue stillness winked smoothly away into the haze where a castle stood on an island, delicate spires mounting high and clear white with golden trim like sun flashing … and he began to weep, face on the cold iron …

The night slammed back and screams were still ringing, Unlea fleeing past and he followed, shouting:

“Unlea! What?! What?!”

And she spun into his arms, panting, shaking.

“They were in the tent! … the tent! …”

And he suddenly was seeing two worlds at once (or was mad), where dark, stunted creatures stalked among the blasted woods, things like fish with clawed, reptile feet dragged themselves through the ashes, pop eyes gleaming in the coal light; where birds with human heads hopped on long legs and grimaced … howled … where things like giant bees hovered beside winged lizards … where vast greenish fires raged in the distance in what seemed burning cities. He knew they could see him too. He blinked and shook his head as she trembled against his cold metal side. The visions remained. He was trapped again, the other world was leaking through everywhere. That deadly water, he believed, had washed away his defenses … his fortress walls were crumbling …

“The tent … Oh, Parsival … Parsival … save me, my dear one … Please save me …”

“You?” he wondered. “Save
you
?”

The screaming had stopped. The peasants were gone. In the other world, terrible distorted creatures were following them. A monkeylike thing with a sharkface seemed to caper around the glade, banked rows of terrible teeth bared.

“Stay here,” he commanded, plunging off to where he glimpsed a humanish form bending over what appeared to be a flopped sack. A girl spun to face him with drawn dagger, eyes wide, bright, and the monkeylike shape leaped between them and Parsival struck, missed or cut through a shadow, twisted back, and the girl was gone into the confusion of darkness and overlapping worlds. Now Unlea was backing away from another girl with the horrid fish behind her. A pushing stream of liquid fire flowed across the rocky ground. Parsival charged back and the girl ducked aside and then still another leaped in, cloak outstretched except they were batlike wings and he slashed and shouted, hit nothing, and then Unlea was clinging to his legs, howling sobs.

The poisoned earth let them in, his mind somehow knew. We all did it … we poisoned everything … He held her, shut his eyes. Bent and kissed her uncombed, slightly sourish hair. Held her with Gawain’s drawn sword as nervous as a youth, feeling awkward and slightly incapable. He kept his sight lowered, denying all terror and vision, gathered his will and waited for dawn to gradually fill the woods and wash all the blackness away. Watched the two new corpses gradually emerge from the background, sprawled in the ashy earth: a woman and man. He didn’t look closely. The effect of the water seemed to have faded. He sardonically wondered why Gawain seemed so pleased with it … well, he’d had more than a mouthful and no doubt was mad in proportion. He sighed … Unlea stirred and he soothed her with a touch.

All his life, it came to him, he’d lived as if his steps could always be retraced. He’d clung to that. Expected the second chance, a place to return to … except there wasn’t, time ran one way only …

Now it was hazy noon. He shielded his eyes and scanned the desolate hills for movement or a change somewhere to green … nothing. He worked his dry tongue and sucked it for moisture. It was sticky. He was glad he’d spilled the bad water because the temptation would have been immense.

He held her arm as they trudged on through the shadeless forest Followed a dry streambed leveled with the omnipresent soot. Hoped vaguely that the far end might still be wet. Glanced at her: the gown was rent and blackened, her hair in knots. Sweat had streaked the ashstains on her face. She was footsore, limping.

“Is there hope?” she asked.

He wondered how he looked himself. Each step jarred his head.

“Hope,” he repeated, looking ahead at where the banks wound on, sinking slightly, steadily. “For what? There’s ample room for hoping.”

“To live,” she said, licking her cracked lips.

“Unlea …” Squeezed her hand.

“I thirst so.”

“Yes.” Felt responsible and wondered if that was what love always became, because what had been love before was gone: he could look at her and see a fragile, often silly, fear-ridden person; see the sweet good and tart ill mixed all at once without the tender elation and melancholy of the past, without jealous need to possess all her moments … it wasn’t just the miseries of their situation either. He was used to loving, he thought, amused, under the worst possible conditions. His loves had survived everything but marriage.

“If there’s water,” he told her, “we’ll come upon it.”

“If there’s none?”

“Need I answer?”

He noticed something moving, squinted: it seemed a brightness, a shimmer like sun on ripples. Blinked … it was gone. Decided it had to have been a heat mirage. As he looked away it came back and he studied it indirectly, still walking, and then realized what he’d drunk last night was still active. He watched it take form and something like music sounded from within a space resembling an open door where a womanshape floated as if glowing colors had taken flesh, cool greens, rare blues, flowing golds spilling and sparkling …

No
, he thought.
Sorry
…
but
I
say
you
nay
.
Haunt
me
as
you
please
I
care
not
.

“Who slew those poor folk then.” Unlea was asking.

“I know not,” he replied, slowing, spotting what he hoped were the banks of the main river crossing into them a few dozen steps ahead.

“There was a young girl in the tent,” she said, “with a knife … She was so young.” She shuddered, slightly. “There was blood on her face. The candlelight showed it plain. Oh dear God, what days are these? What days?” Shook her head. “Children do murder … the earth is seared to dust. Will we find any towns or castles left?”

He shrugged.

“I know not.” Stopped now at the edge, looking down into a deep ravine. He heard no water sounds in the bottom shadows.

“Sweet lady Mary,” she murmured, “now what do we do?”

He was irritated, hot, headachey, thirsty.

“I recommend we leap,” he snapped.

“Parse,” she said, hurt.

“Oh, Christ, don’t weep, I beg you.”

She looked at him. Opened her mouth but held her words. The tears gleamed, unfallen.

“So this is it then,” she said. “Your heart is plainly read.”

“What?” He took her hand to lead her on so they could walk on the rocky rim of the cut except she jerked away and stood with fingers pressed to her mouth. He knew she was chewing the knuckle. She always did when upset.