Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

A large plate with a pile of smoked sausages was placed in front of Oleg. They were so thin and red that he mistook them for earthworms and moved the plate away with disgust. Thomas seized it at once with both hands, dragged closer. He must have known this course, as he had lived among Saracens, or guessed it.

However, Thomas was the first to get full. He loosened his belt, started to pant, and ended leaning back from the table and looking with envy at the wonderer who, staying perfectly calm, gulped down lots of roast birds, baked fish seasoned with a sour sauce, fine shreds of young venison sinking in big juicy berries, then fruits, berries, and meat again: roast, baked, dried, and smoked… Finally, Thomas couldn’t help saying venomously, “Hermits feed on honey and locusts! And you, valiant sir wonderer, are eating up the second boar!”

“When in monastery, do as monks do. You said it. So eat what you are given, don’t be squeamish.”

“Would you have preferred locusts?”

“With honey,” Oleg reminded modestly. “But now I’m out of small reclusion, did you forget? And in the Great Reclusion, I lead the same life as others. No standing out, no excelling.”

Thomas said nothing but his blue eyes spoke out clearly how non-excelling the wonderer was while setting to the third boar, washing it down with falls of heady drinks and barley beer, eating lots of boiled crabs after, guzzling jugs of red wine dry. Without batting an eyelid, he gobbled fat spotted snakes and frogs and jelly-like oysters, which Thomas was afraid even to look at: his face went green and his body spotty, making him look like those frogs and pythons.

Down in the yard, monks were training tirelessly. Young and old men, all in the same orange robes, jumped, somersaulted, fought with poles and wooden swords. Oleg feasted his eyes upon a separate group who swung wooden flails. He had often seen village boys fighting with flails, but the monks did wonders with those. Their flails are much lighter and shorter, however, but one should mind they are small people. These fellows might fail even to raise a Slavic flail, but brandish easily the lighter ones of theirs, called nunchaku , shift them between hands swiftly, whirl over heads…

In the far corner of the garden, the strongest monks (or the most skillful ones, Oleg and Thomas did not know exactly) had their practice. Anyway, there was a crowd of gapers around: gasping, squeaking, crouching with awe. One of the skillful (or strong) would break two boulders, one topped on another, with the edge of his palm, the second – a thick stick with a terrible blow of his fist, and the third, with his muscle bulging fiercely, would tie an iron rod, as thick as a rake, in a bundle. After he had a rest, he would bend or tie the next one.

“Monks?” Thomas said with disapproval. “They are Pagans who haven’t seen the light of Christ!”

Oleg chopped off a weighty slice of juicy fragrant brisket, salted it, peppered, spiced with mustard, sprinkled nicely with ground roots and shedders of greenery. “But they know good food instead. There are many ways to gods. The way of these robed men is exercise. It’s the same as fast is for you Christians. Fast is the triumph of spirit over base flesh, isn’t it? Here, the same high spirit makes men exercise until they fall like dead. They live in monkhood : no women, no dancing, no wine! They only have exercise instead of praying. And on different ways of serving gods…”

“ God ,” Thomas corrected with displeasure. “He is single!”

“And angels. archangels, cherubs, seraphs, and so on – aren’t they some smaller gods? Well, I just meant that people on different ways need different food.”

Thomas could not take his eyes off the green garden full of cries, squeals, dry thuds of wooden poles. “Let’s go and have a look?.. I don’t understand many things here.”

“Just many?” Oleg was surprised. “Happy you!” He wiped his mouth with a sleeve, cast a regretful look over the table to which silent monks kept serving food and drinks noiselessly from all around. As befits a hermit who exercised in hunger for years. Thomas was already up his feet, pulling on the breastplate: he made no step without it and neither went to sleep. He also put on the helmet, though visor remained up, and glanced back warily at the huge sword: its polished handle glittered ominously in the corner, together with Oleg’s sword. “We are guests!” the wonderer whispered softly to him. “I don’t think they’ll break the law of hospitality.”

“Laws are different in different lands.”

“ This one is common.”

“Even for the guests who broke into?”

Oleg said nothing: he also started to think that fearless monks could not be willing to invite two strangers into their impregnable monastery. His fingers slid reassuringly by the knife hilts on the inner side of his jack.

Thomas saw it. “You shouldn’t have left the bow,” he grumbled.

“It would look strange.”

“You could say that’s a part of your costume. A ritual ornament! Once I’ve rode past a savage tribe whose leader ornamented himself with spoons, tin cups, and pans. Can’t recall the name of that country: it might have been either Rus’ or Ethiopia…”

As they approached the garden, the cracks, thuds, and battle cries grew louder. Down at the last stair, the prior sat on a small bench. A sullen monk, strong in shoulders, stood motionless behind him. Both had beautiful staffs in hands: gilded, gleaming, decorated with elaborate carving, little bells, bright feathers. Both kept their eyes on the excercising monks. Sometimes the standing monk would cry out a command, and the ones in the garden would speed up at once. Both observers glanced back in fright, as they heard the metallic thunder of Thomas’s steps. The monk helped the old man up his feet, both bowed to their guests from the waist.

The knight bowed in return with effort, as Oleg did. The small of Thomas’s back grinded. The monks gave a new, even more polite bow. Thomas and Oleg replied with the same. Oleg heard a squeezed protesting sob in his stomach. “Strange rites can be a burden!” Thomas said through gritted teeth.

“Not for everyone,” Oleg replied, but looked with compassion at the iron plates on the small of knight’s back, as they came over each other, rasping, rubbing the rust away.

“Who knows how much bows remain,” Thomas whispered. “Which is their sacred number?”

“It’s often three,” Oleg replied after thinking for a while. “Three epic heroes, three heads of a dragon, three sons… But, on the other hand, a house has four corners, a horse has four legs… er… to stumble. The Secret Seven vowed to raise their five -pointed star over all the world, to put it even on the towers of our Moscow Kremlin 14… and David, whose tower you took by storm, had a star of six points. But seven is considered a magic number in all the world, since the times of Chaldean and Urjupin…”

Thomas groaned, straightened up with effort and stopped bowing. The prior and the monk also stiffened in a polite half-bow. “We sent the fastest rider for Libryuk and Chaknor,” the old man said in a rasping voice. “They are the greatest warriors of our land. They’ll come at night, so next morning you’ll have an opportunity to fight them!”

Thomas froze as if he got ice-bound. Oleg gulped down a lump in his throat. “One thing on top…” he said politely. “Why two of them? One would do. The good sire dreams of battles, jousts, and combats. There’s nothing, even your bread and wine, he likes more than fighting!”

“And you, a great hero of Hyperborean?” the monastic elder asked warily.