Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

They came out in the broad field bounded by the same black forest far ahead. Thomas alerted at once, put his hand on the sword hilt. Ahead, there were huge white stones that looked like picked skeletons of strange animals. The tallest ones were almost at height with his shoulders. Those protruding blocks seemed to have been sinking into the ground for the thickness of ant’s feeler with each century. Judging by the smoothed edges of stones, that had once been the roof of a high watchtower.

“A trouble,” Oleg said drearily. “As though we had little of it before!”

Thomas lowered his visor, tugged his sword in the sheath and turned into a position more convenient to draw it out immediately. His eyes in narrow slit glimmered like blue ice, his breath burst out quickly. The knight was not that light-hearted as he pretended to be.

They passed the stone-studded field with nothing to report, got deep into the forest again. Trees were giant there, their green branches entangled very high above. When they were deep in it, Thomas brightened up, pointed at a huge anthill. Big red ants were dragging caterpillars, bugs, and grasshoppers to it from everywhere. Soon after, they heard first birds, caught a glimpse of red squirrel backs among the green branches. Thomas sighed with relief, took his hand off the sword hilt.

Oleg, on the contrary, was frowning more and more often, peering at the dark trunks, following squirrels with intent anxious eyes. Suddenly he snatched the bow from his back, put an arrow on.

There was a glimpse of marten on the branch ahead. It ran over the road, lay down on the thick twig, arching its back, and peered at the men. Oleg raised his bow slowly, aimed. Thomas was sure the marten would flee, as it was in no more than twenty steps from them, but the lithe animal only made a higher arch of its back. Its eyes had a creepy sparkle of mica crystals.

There was a dry click of bow string. Thomas saw clearly that the sharp arrow hit the marten’s neck with force. The animal lurched but only dug its sharp claws deeper into the branch. Eyes blazed up like coals, jaws opened menacingly, showing white fangs, too long for such a small creature. The rebounded arrow shook several leaves off, fell down on the road ahead.

Thomas froze with fear, while the dark-faced wonderer walked on, picked the arrow up silently. When they made about hundred steps, Thomas glanced over in fright. The marten still lay on the branch, its back a gracious arch, and followed them with narrowed malicious eyes.

Suddenly Oleg raised his bow again, aimed quickly, and shot. The marten bared its teeth, as the arrow hit on its side. That time, the animal was thrown up. Its squealed with fear, flew down, trying to catch at some leaves with sharp claws. The quiver of branches marked its fall, but the marten did not fell down on the ground: it seemed to vanish in the greenery.

Thomas said nothing, afraid that his manly voice accustomed to giving commands and calling for storm may quaver with fear.

They walked through the forest all the day long, with three stops for rest, drained the jug of mountain mead given to them for the road, ate the slices of roast meat. Thomas turned his nose away from it at first, but the wonderer shot nothing in the forest. When Thomas’s belly gave a rumbling protest, he took the smallest slice reluctantly, started a conversation about wonders, lest he see the filth he had to chew. He only came to his senses at the end of the meal, after he finished the last slice. The wonderer had stopped eating long before: he took the iron head off his longest arrow and put a silver one, of a flattened coin, instead.

By the coming of night, their eyes got accustomed. Thomas said nothing against the fire, even fetched the twigs for it. The wonderer, for some strange reason, came dragging a stump, put his cloak on it, placed his boots filled with grass nearby, and slipped into the dark silently. Thomas lay down on the other side of the effigy, but his fear drove away his sleep. He did not even dare to stir.

At midnight, Thomas heard heavy steps far behind the trees. It seemed to be an oak walking to their fire through green saplings. The knight screwed up, then dared to open one eye a bit.

A giant figure, twice as tall as a man, emerged in the circle of reddish light. The stranger was massive, clad in black fur. His eyes on the hairy face had strange glitter, and when he opened his mouth, as red as a burning stove, there was a flash of pointed white teeth. “Take that for yesterday!”

With a terrible force, he brought his giant club, made of a whole tree, on the cloaked stump. It cracked, sank into the earth with a crash. Thomas lay quivering all over, but the stranger paid no attention to him.

“Take that for today!” a malevolent voice thundered suddenly in the dark.

The giant turned at it. In the reddish firelight, there was a brief flash over the glade. The stranger gave a sudden terrible roar of no threat but pain and fear: a white feather was stuck in its chest, as the arrow had gone deep into

Thomas held his ears involuntarily, though this move gave him out just before the stranger’s eyes. He couldn’t bear hearing that scary roar full of deathly terror.

The giant dropped his club, reeling, his monstrously broad hands gripped the injured place. The club, as large as a log, rolled up to Thomas. The giant turned round, staggered into the dark shrubs. The night hid him from sight at once, but for a long time Thomas kept hearing his heavy uneven steps. Trees shuddered, twigs cracked, then the earth was shaken with a sudden heavy blow, as though a tree collapsed.

Oleg came out from the dark, draw a circle on the ground around Thomas and himself, whispered and spat for a while. “Why not you sleep?” he said with a jaw-rending yawn. “The day was hard. Hope tomorrow is better. Get to sleep!” He lay down by the fire, got snoring almost at once.

Thomas lay awake for a long time, flinched, peered at the branches protruding from the dark. He heard squeaks outside the lit circle, a clatter of small claws on wood. A bright blue feather came down, swaying in the warmed air, like a boat in the Golden Bay. Suddenly its edges blazed up with small flames, it sank closer to the fire. A strong push of heat made it fly up and vanish.

Thomas shivered, tucked his legs up when they got too close to the border of light. He seemed to see hairy paws, eager to grab him and drag deep into the woods… or even under the roots of giant trees, into those dark gaping holes that breathed out deathlike cold. Once there was a pat on his cheek. Thomas jumped up with a mad shriek but the wonderer did not awake. It were two small panting ants who carried a crumble of cave animal’s meat. It was caught and stuck in times, but the brave insects kept dragging it, fearlessly ignorant of giants, werewolves, and the cowardly knight. Shamed Thomas sat up closer to the fire, pulled his sword out and put on his knees. The wonderer slept with his knees tucked up. A Pagan. Nothing matters to him.

In a strange forest, someone must stay on watch , Thomas told himself resolutely. The bravest warriors are the first to guard the sleep of others, and we have just one warrior here! The wonderer takes up arms only in case of need, as though his real Truth can be obtained by unarmed man. And in such an unpleasant place as this forest is, it’s better to have on watch no plain warrior but a brave knight.

The sword was shiny and, due to the Agathyrsians, sharp enough to cut apart a single hair. Thomas, unsure what other thing to take up, stripped off his shabby belt, unpicked the worn-out lining and started to line a new one of the boar skin, thick and sturdy. Sir wonderer kept pestering him with his workshyness, while he, Thomas Malton of Gisland, a noble knight, cared of his warhorse himself, cleaned and washed him. Though it’s actually a job for squires and servants. In their journey, Thomas was the one to gather brushwood for the wire, fetch water from the river, boil the porridge, and often the one to do cooking…