Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Do they worship Christ?” Thomas interrupted.

Oleg faltered, his brows knitted painfully while he thought of the answer. The knight watched his face with strain. He could not fathom what the difficulty was. Those who worship Christ are friends, the rest are infidel Pagans.

“In general… they do. If to consider the whole of it. Even before The Nativity, as you know, the world was not in the hands of Satan. It was created and watched by God, and His Son came to help his elderly Father. But for the Secret Seven, Christ is not that important… Keep your temper! They saw the world that heard nothing of Christ and they’ll see His next Coming if it occurs… I’d rather have you bothered not with their vision of the future world but with the danger to yourself. You can’t stand up to such powerful men – magicians, I mean – as your enemies! And there is something more…”

He sighed, his face went grey. Thomas moved close to him. The darkness seemed to be gathering in the room. “In ancient times, magic was powerful,” Oleg croaked. “Very little remained of it now, but the Secret Seven come from those times! They know many powerful secrets. I know no mortals, no kings or heroes who could stand up to… or merely fight them!” His face looked pinch and dolorous.

Thomas felt a hot tenderness for the lone wonderer. He stretched his arm involuntarily to embrace Oleg’s shoulders. “Sir wonderer! It’s always possible to fight.”

“To fight,” Oleg repeated sadly, “knowing that you’ll die?”

“Didn’t Roland know it? And Beowulf who stepped ahead to meet his death? And thousands of other valiant heroes who died with fame? They knew life is short and fame is eternal. Sir wonderer, if even those Secret Seven are ancient Pagan gods, I have no fear of them. They may kill me, but they’ll never have me giving the Holy Grail away at will…”

Something in the knight’s voice made Oleg ask warily, “You don’t believe in them, do you?”

Thomas hesitated for a while, replied with his eyes looking aside, “I believe in dangerous enemies. But magic… I believe the world has it. I believe in three-headed men, flying fish and speaking horses that live overseas… as otherwise the life’s too boring to bear it. But, dear sir wonderer, I don’t believe that wonders can happen to me or in places I visit.” His eyes were honest, simple-minded.

Oleg sighed. “A lovely world-view! European from withers to hooves. Step aside, old empires, make way for new people… But I advise you to think over what I told you. The world has no wonders, but in this only case they may… no, they will happen if the cup is not taken by their hirelings or thieves before.”

Thomas stood up. With a menacing look on his face, he tapped the sword hilt. His gauntlet was tinkling “They are welcome to try! Isn’t that a nail sprinkled with Christ’s blood? Isn’t there true wood of His Cross in the handle?”

Oleg winced. “Stop it, Thomas. It’s false.”

Thomas recoiled. “How you… How dare you talk that?!”

“Do you know wood? Tell me what kind it is.”

“Oak!” Thomas said with confidence. “One has to be blind to miss it. What’s the hilt of a noble knight’s sword to be made of if not old fumed oak, the noble among trees?”

“Hum… A hilt – yes, but a cross… You won’t drive a nail into it, only get your fingers cut. Your god was crucified on the cross of aspen! In general, your faith is strangely hostile to this tree. Asp was the only tree that did not bent its branches to greet your god in his escape to Egypt. And while he was led to Calvary, only the asp did not tremble with pity and compassion! All the other trees are said to have brought down their branches and leaves! Surely that’s a lie. And he was flogged by the twigs of asp. His cross, as I’ve said, was made of asp too. Besides, it was the tree for Judas to hang himself…”

Thomas gasped at his words. Oleg muttered thoughtfully, “What a stubborn tree! Trembles with fear but stands its ground. A proud one! It began as early as the creation of the world. Asp was the only tree to refuse doing some work then, while all the other trees did it… In Rus’, we never hide from a storm under an asp, for Peroun casts a lightning in it to kill a demon – that lot always hide under asps. Once the strike of his lightning was so powerful that the tree got spattered with the demon’s blood all over. That was how the asp got its reddish color of leaves. And it has one more reason for trembling: demons sleep beneath its roots and scratch their backs on them. Asp stakes are driven into vampires, as you know…”

His voice broke into whisper. He spoke to himself, Thomas forgotten. The knight held his breath. How can the wonderer know the details of Flagellation and Crucifixion? The regiment prelate once told him that one of the witnesses still walked around… Is it true?

The night made the castle walls cold, its gloomy halls chilly, as it is common for desert lands in summer: hot days make you drip with sweat, you can bake an egg in the sand, but once the night comes, your teeth start chattering with cold.

Oleg found Chachar near a fireplace blazing hot. She sat on a small bench facing the fire, throwing chocks into it. With her face washed clean, she looked as fresh and healthy as a sweet juicy apple. Her boots stood on the iron fireguard, her bare feet were buried in a beast’s skin on the floor.

She raised her face, reddened with heat, to look at the wonderer. Lovely tender dimples played on her cheeks. “Dear Oleg, you must be in bed! Your wound…”

“…healed as a dog’s one,” Oleg dismissed. “I’m no highborn to have them healing for ages. We’ve been here for two days. A guest must not outstay his welcome. Is Gorvel here? Or left for hunting?”

Chachar glanced around in fright and whispered, “Have you heard? A strange rider came tonight. Sir Gorvel locked up in his chambers to talk to him. Even Lady Roveg wasn’t allowed.”

“Gorvel has much to care of,” Oleg muttered, his heart was wrung with foreboding. “And this place is no peaceful! Perhaps the king sent his vassals a word that Saracens prepare an attack.”

“But they argued! In shouts!” Chachar glanced around again, her whisper even more mysterious. “I was walking past the door by chance. The visitor demanded something. Once refused, he went yelling, threatened the lord!”

“Did you hear it well?”

“My lace got undone, so I stopped to tie it. I leaned over and… just happened to see them through a keyhole. Gorvel had a humble, miserable face. Would you believe it? I think no man should be humiliated like that. Never! A man deprived of his pride is no man anymore.”

“What did the visitor demand?” Oleg hurried her up.

“I didn’t get it. I only saw a strange sign: he draw a circle in the air with his hand, and then… er… maybe a cross. And that made Gorvel blanch and bow to him. It was his stupid wife treating him like that before! And that minstrel… I understood all of it! Yesterday I heard Lady Roveg reproaching him for his lack of skill to build a proper castle. I could barely help shouting at her, ‘Do you have the skill, stupid woman?’ A true woman demands nothing: a man will give her everything he can at his own will. He needs to be supported, comforted, helped…”

“Is that man still at Gorvel’s?” Oleg asked tensely.

“They say he left before dawn.” Her face was serene. Red lights from the blazing fire played on it, being reflected in her big gleaming eyes like a scatter of sparks. Her cheeks were as red as if she had a good sleep all the night long. Maybe she’s a sleepwalker? But that lot fails to recall their nightly adventures…