Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Thomas did not dare to move while he watched Oleg eat. When the wonderer swallowed the last bit (masticated almost into a gruel), Thomas breathed out with relief. “There you are! Beyond locusts and wild honey!”

The pilgrim turned to him with bewildered eyes, then nodded as he grasped it. “You don’t understand… In my faith, no food is forbidden. It was part of my feat! Self is the hardest to overcome. A fast sets the power of spirit over body. I was hungry for bloody meat but fed myself with leaves. I desired women but spent my time alone in the cave… Full abstention is what it needs to find the Truth. But the best lot is not to abstain from pleasures but to rule them, without them ruling you… Try to get it.”

Thomas didn’t. “You still keep your Pagan beliefs, don’t you?” he asked with disappointment.

“So far I do,” the wonderer replied gently. “The power of my spirit is strong enough to keep my flesh from trembling at the sight of meat or any hearty meal. You see, I can have it and remain calm. Thus I can proceed up: from small reclusion to the Great…”

Thomas did not listen. He had fallen asleep, sated by food.

On the seventh day, the knight tried to mount. Once the stallion took his pace, Thomas got pallor as dead and swung. The wonderer barely had time to catch the knight falling down.

When Thomas came to his senses, he was lying under the same oak. All the day long the wonderer was boiling some stinking broth of roots and herbs in the knight’s helmet, knocking black excrescences down from birch trees to chop into it. He made Thomas drink the vile bitter mix, with all the hard wing cases and little sharp-clawed legs floating there.

Thomas cursed the names of Beelzebub and Astaroth but drank it. As a noble knight, he knew little about potions, leaving it to lesser men, but he took his new friend’s word for it, as believing is noble and Christian.

The wonderer made potions and decoctions and shot birds skillfully with self-made arrows. Once he shot a young badger. As Thomas ate, his young muscled body, hardened in battles, campaigns and far journeys, filled with strength quickly. In times he would get up and listen to his body. The wounded side was aching, but no sharp pain.

“When have you washed yourself last time, holy father?”

“Last month I got caught in a heavy shower,” Oleg replied with a vacant look.

“Oh. Is there any water nearby? I caught a glimpse of a stream while falling from the horseback…”

“It is,” the wonderer confirmed. He became thoughtful, spoke slowly, “Yeah, I have forgotten… The Great Reclusion permits everything that is allowed to others. So I can…”

He came back wet and clean, with his hair plastered to his head and his eyes shining. Thomas watched him in amazement: the wonderer’s hair turned out to be the color of sunset, his face as white as if it were never exposed to the sun. His eyes also had an odd color: green as spring grass, green and sad.

“You are not Saxon, are you?” Thomas wondered.

“I’m Slav. And you? From Britain?”

“Yes. I was born on the banks of Don,” Thomas said with a faraway look. “My castle stands in the bend near the estuary. It’s surrounded by woods… and bogs and marshes. Britain is all woods and marshes. The hill under my castle is the only dry place within hundred miles. The forest is crowded with aurochs, boars and deer, not to mention badgers and hares. Cries of birds are driving you mad. Fish are hitting your boat with their heads, asking to be caught…”

Oleg nodded. “I’ve also loved it on Don.”

Thomas wheeled round lively, his eyes glittered. “Have you been there?”

“Dozens of times.”

“Have you seen a high castle of white, white stone? It stands in the bend of the river, with its moat and rampart on the left…”

Oleg shook his head. “I’ve been on the banks of Don in the Eastern Rus’, Palestine, Colchis, Arabia, Gishpaniya, Hellas… Rivers got the name of Don wherever the sons of Scyth came.”

Thomas twitched. “Did those wild Scythians ever conquer Britain?” he asked with threat.

“I’ve been to the Holy Land without conquering it, haven’t I? Once Targitai, the great chieftain… or that was Koloksai 3?.. decided to replace Dana, the old goddess of nomads, with Apia, Mother Earth. He wanted to turn nomads into plowmen at once! Of course, that turned a bloody strife… After the battle, the Old Believers crossed all Europe and settled on the Tin Islands. They made some old-way altars of colossal stones, dolmens … Have you seen them? No? That’s a pity. The place is beautiful. Stonehenge, that’s the name of it. The Old Believers also gave names to rivers. Don is a Scythian word for river. The city built in the estuary was named London, which means standing in the mouth of the river . Other Scythian word for estuary is ustye . In Rus’, we also have cities named Ust-Izhora, Ust-Ilim or simply Ustug…” 4

“I’ve never seen any savages there,” Thomas interrupted haughtily. “We Angles live on the banks of Don since the beginning of time. Since God created us right there, just after He made all the world, in six months only!”

“Six days ,” the wonderer corrected in a meek voice.

“I know it,” Thomas snarled. “I was afraid a Pagan wouldn’t believe it. Six days is really a… And six months is enough time for your gods to do the same if they work altogether!”

Chapter 2

On the tenth day Thomas managed to climb into his armor. Still weak and staggering, he mounted with the wonderer’s help. The restive destrier neighed, tried to take a majestic pace. The wonderer seized the rein hastily, the horse stopped dead. His hand on the rein was as wide as an oar, his arm, bony and gnarled, with some flesh added to it, seemed to be carved of old oak. He became even broader in shoulders, his face a bit livened up, but his eyes still full of anguish.

“Thank God,” Thomas said. “Do your gods allow you to accept rewards?”

“Sir Thomas, I need very little. If no grass, I eat bark. I sleep on bare ground or stones. Goodbye! And good luck.”

The knight tried to raise his lance in a salute but failed. He gave a guilty smile instead, his destrier took a steady pace, doing his best not to shake the knight. The wonderer picked his cloak and staff, which he called a crutch, and strolled along the same road slowly, lost in brooding.

The path winded among trees, the open space visible ahead. A squirrel ran along the branch over the walk, saw the strolling man and paused in curiosity, its little teeth made a clank. A big bird flew past him heavily, tried to perch on a branch, but her legs were stiff from long sitting in the nest, so the bird rocked and flapped her wings until her talons regained confidence.

Oleg stepped softly, trying not to disturb that bird, a broody hen. Her belly looked pink and pitiful, with bare skin where feathers had been plucked away to warm the nest. The bird was emaciated. She seldom leaves her nest and eats almost nothing, busy with warming and guarding her brood.

A doe passed in twenty steps without fear, followed by a young thin-legged deer. She was alerted, her ears moved. The doe gave Oleg only a guarded look: he did not seem to pose any danger. She nuzzled into branches, plucked some fresh leaves and chewed them, her eyes half-closed with languish. The young deer gaped at dragonflies while being fed by his mother.

The trees parted. Oleg plunged into the hot air. The sun pounced upon him, frying him in his cloak. Oleg threw the hood back, exposing his head to hot rays.

An ordinary hermit perfects himself in solitude, far from the vanity of the world: in a cave, desert, woods, or mountains. Such hermits number in thousands. In agonizing reflection, they obtain the Truth and bring it into the world. Gautama obtained his Truth in wild woods, Zarathustra secluded himself in mountains, Christ fasted in a desert for forty days, and Mahomet heard Allah while brooding on the top of a lone mountain.