It's Jake!

“There was a star danced, and under that was I born.”

Jacob Ryan Cattie

May 29, 2012, 6:07pm

8 pounds 4 ounces and 21 inches

The Westgate Hypothesis

NEWS:


If you would like to take a few minutes and participate in a "shakedown" of my dissertation survey, it can be found here:

Ray's Survey

The survey will remain open until Wednesday, May 23, 2012. Feel free to email me with any comments or suggestions you may have.

Thank you for your time!

AP- Drexel Hill, PA

IN AN UNPRECEDENTED AND

ultimately extraordinary

move, the school board

has voted unanimously to

adopt “The Net Policy”

district-wide starting

with the 2012-2013 school

year.  The Net (known in

the technical world as a

cBOS Device (cell Black

Out Server Device- above)

will effectively block

all incoming and outgoing

cell signals within a

half-mile radius.  “It’s

not new,” Assistant Super-

intendent Negary was quoted

as saying. “The tech has

been around as long as cell

phones.” United Telephony

of Delaware County gave the

nod to install the device,

which will act in effect as

a ‘negative WiFi,’blocking

instead of propagating

signals.  Students who heard

the early reports were,

predictably, not happy.

“Stop trying to bleeping

play me, bleeping bleephole,”

was the pervasive response.

One anonymous administrator,

when asked for a comment,

quipped: “It’s like taking

the school back in time to

the 1970’s.” A wish that,

perhaps, is now one step

closer to reality.

Loose Lips

I have been reading a lot of uninformed (mis)information lately about how teachers in general, and local high school teachers in specific, only work from 3-5 hours a day.  Sadly, these misinformed sources have absolutely no idea what they are talking about.  Well, here it is, from the horse's mouth, so to speak... the figures below represent a normal day of a local high school teacher:

Activity                        Times               Minutes

Early prep                    6:30-7:20           50
Homeroom                  7:20-7:41            21
Periods 1 & 2              7:46-9:05            79
Periods 3 & 4             9:10-10:29           79
Periods 5 & 6            10:34-11:11          37
Periods 7 & 8            11:58-1:17            79
Periods 9 & 10          1:22-2:41              79
After school              2:41-3:05              24
Misc Evening            6:30-8:00              90

Normal Daily total                                538min. (9 hrs.)

That makes 45 hours a week.  Now throw in the (gratis) time spent moderating clubs.  The weekend hours spent on things like lesson planning, grading, and general prep add up to 4 hours (conservative), bringing the grand total up to 50 hours per week.

Some people would have you erroneously believe that total (using the 3-5-hour-a-day formula) would be in the neighborhood of 15-25 hours a week.

Over the past few years teachers have become lightning rods for all that is wrong with public education in America, and have been slandered as a profession in every publication and at every level in every corner of this country.

For the most part, you usually don't hear the teacher's point of view.  Why?  Because they are told (read:threatened) by their administrators that if they say anything that could be in any way construed as derogatory by way of rebuttal (and btw, anything you say can be construed in any way they see fit) teachers can and will be disciplined for it, up to and including dismissal.

"They" try to silence the teachers, because teachers know what is really going on, and in this day and age when everyone is scrambling to try to find a lifeboat as the floodwaters of a failed education system rise up to engulf anyone Left Behind, loose lips sink ships.

Sometimes, however, those ships are rotten to the keel, and to sink them would be a mercy.

© Mike Thurmond

Excerpt- Shadow of the Grail- Chapter Three

A Day of Discovery

The day dawned bright and clear, the air crisp and full of promise.  Peredur rose early, prodding his young friend Tallaght out of his slumber.  He was too excited to sleep any longer, and he wanted his friend to share in his excitement.

“Tallaght.”  Peredur prodded his friend with his bare foot.  “Tallaght!  Get up, you sleep-about.”

Tallaght stirred in his bedroll and turned to face his friend.  “What gives?” he asked groggily.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes comically and rolled to a sitting position.  Tallaght was tall for his age, all arms and legs, and he’d be taller still when he got his full growth.  He had yet to fill out, so his height lent him a lanky look.  As most children carry their ‘baby fat’ with them into early adolescence, so Tallaght carried his lankiness, and that lankiness would translate into wiry muscle as he grew, adding weight to his height.  His reach would give him a formidable advantage over more average-sized men.

“Get up, Tallaght.  Do you want to sleep this day away?”  Peredur indicated the brilliant day with a grand sweep of his arm.  “Today’s the day, Tallaght!  I can feel it in my bones.”

“What day?” Tallaght asked sleepily, standing and shaking off his cover.

“The Grail.  Or did you forget?  Today’s the day we find the Grail!”

Excitement ignited in Tallaght’s eyes as he recalled the conversation from the prior night, then dimmed as the reality of another day on the trail hit him.  “How do you know?  What makes today the day?”  Tallaght wrapped his blanket over his shoulders and headed off towards the stream.  Peredur fell into step beside his companion.

“Can’t you feel it?  Can’t you feel it?”

Tallaght stopped and looked at his friend.  “What I feel is the cold of the morning.”  He continued walking.  “Oh, and tired.  I feel tired.  And not a little bit hungry as well.”  He shrugged.  “It was a late night last night, with all the storytelling.”

They had reached the small stream, and Tallaght quickly stripped and immersed himself in the frosty water, shivering.  He splashed the water into his face, causing his teeth to chatter audibly.  “C-cold, P-Peredur—that’s wh-what I f-feel.”  He laughed and splashed a cascade of water in the general direction of his friend, who deftly stepped aside.

“You’ve no imagination, Tallaght.  No sense of purpose.”  Peredur held his friend’s blanket out to him.  “The air is virtually alive with purpose today.  Can’t you feel it?”

Tallaght had climbed out of the shallow water and wrapped himself tightly in his blanket again.  “Let me break my fast and then maybe I’ll feel something.”

Peredur smiled at his friend and punched him companionably on the arm.  “All right, have your food, and then you’ll see.”

The two headed back to the campfire where the scraps from the previous evening’s supper were being gathered and eaten for the morning meal.

“Good morning, Sirs Peredur and Tallaght.”

Peredur turned his attention away from his friend to see Sir Galahad already sitting by the low morning fire.  “Good morning, sire.”

Galahad was one of the second generation of the Knights of the Round Table, or the first generation to be born into the Knights.  They had to earn their spot just like the rest, but they had the advantage in they grew up with the life surrounding them.  As a group, the second generation seemed to be more inclined to talk, less inclined to fight.  Not that they couldn’t and wouldn’t fight, or weren’t good at it, just that as a group they tended to be more diplomatic than their predecessors.  Some argued that they were afforded that luxury because of their predecessors, who shed blood so that they might shed words.

Galahad was a model of his generation, having seen more peace than his father’s generation.  This allowed for more education, more religious training, and more introspection.  Consequently, while Galahad was as thorough a Knight of the Round Table as any of the others, he was also blessed with a pious heart and a honeyed tongue.  Had he a mind for it, which his piety tempered, the honey-tongued words that were capable of dripping from his mouth would have made him quite the lady’s man.  As it was, he usually unintentionally left a string of heartbroken women in any village he visited, and more than once, unbeknownst to him, a husband had to be talked out of ambushing him as he inevitably turned married heads as quickly as he did the heads of maidens.

Yet for all the sweet words and noble actions, the outer Galahad was a stark contrast to the inner Galahad.  To put a fine point on it, Galahad was a plain-to-homely looking man.  He was of average height and weight.  A man in armor is a man in armor, most are relatively equally sized when encased in metal.  But Galahad had a face that no one would look at twice, and few would even look at once.

What attracted women and men alike to Galahad was the brightness of Galahad’s personality, which shone through his plain-to-homely exterior and overwhelmed all but the most stubborn of women, and men for that matter.  Galahad was without question the nicest, most congenial Knight of Arthur’s Round Table, and the most pious.

Thus it was with heartfelt anxiousness and sincerity Galahad pursued the Holy Grail.

“Morning, Sir Galahad.”  Tallaght was swaddled tightly in his blanket, and now tried to shrink more deeply into it as the knight had caught him unawares.

“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it, Peredur?  A good day for questing.”  Galahad winked at Tallaght, who tried to shrink even further into his blanket.  “And an even better day for an end to questing.”

Peredur froze.  “Sire?”

Galahad looked at him with a mischievous grin.  He stood and unfolded his long legs out from under him in a single, energetic motion.  “That’s right, son.  You heard me.”  He smiled as he put an endearing arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“An end to the quest, sire?” Peredur parroted.  “But that would mean—”

“That’s right.  That would mean the Grail has been found.”  He turned to face both boys squarely.  His face split with the largest smile either boys had ever seen.  “The Grail has been found.”

There was an almost audible click as Peredur’s jaw hit his chest.  Tallaght’s fingers had apparently gone numb as the blanket slid down his bare body to puddle at his feet.

Galahad laughed out loud at the reaction from the young squires; a rich, heart-felt, relieved laugh.  “You are the very picture of stupefaction!”  He turned and strode towards his tent, calling over his shoulder, “Dress up, young squires.  We ride to the Grail.”

* *  * * *

The cave was dark, too dark to see beyond the immediate entrance.  “Peredur, a torch if you would be so kind.”  Galahad shaded his eyes and squinted into the shadows.

They had ridden for most of the morning, heading west towards the sea.  During the previous night, after the tale-telling, when most of the camp had been long sleeping in their bedrolls, they had been visited by an old fisherman from the coast.  He had told them of a cave at the bottom of a valley, a cave that went underground for quite a ways, although no one had ever explored it to its end.

A cave mostly left to itself, because it had a dragon guardian that caused it to glow with a mysterious green firelight, and caused a hissing sound to be heard ominously from the entrance.  It was enough to have kept the cave unexplored. 

“Rumor has it, sire, it was the cave formed from the collapse of a chapel some centuries ago.  A chapel set up to pay homage to the Lord Jesu.”

“Where is this cave?”  Galahad could hardly contain his excitement.

“I can take you to it, sire.  Not much more than half a day’s ride from this very spot.”  The old man licked his dry, cracked lips.

“Get this man a drink,” Galahad said.  “We ride at first light.  You’ll lead us to this cave.”

* * * * *

The torch sputtered as Peredur handed it off to Galahad.  It wasn’t very bright, but it would serve.  If the Grail was indeed somewhere in the cave, they wouldn’t need the torch anyway.

They saw no sign of the mysterious green firelight the fisherman told them of, but there was a low sound emanating softly from the cave.

Turning nervously from the cave, Galahad steeled himself.  “Thank you, Peredur.”  He turned to face his assembled retinue—his companions on the quest—his companions of the heart—his Cymbrogi.

“I’ve thought many times over as to what I’d say when this moment finally arrived.”  There were smiles throughout the assemblage, and much back-patting.  “Friends, we’ve been through much together, and though I go into this cave—alone, as it was decreed by He Who is Most High—I take you all with me to the culmination of this Quest.”  He lowered his head for a moment, and struck his right fist to his chest.  “Here.  You’re all with me in here.”

“We’re with you, Galahad!”  The group cheered their leader as he turned and entered the cave, torch sputtering above his head.

In a moment, Galahad was swallowed up by the gaping maw of the subterranean passage.  In the next, he was erased by time itself.

Excerpt- Shadow of the Grail- Chapter Two

Grail Tale

The night had come on fast.  Darkness reached out to envelop the land in a smothering cocoon of concealment.  The edges of the path began to fade in the dimming light, urging the horses to caution before setting down their next step.  It was said that horses had more sense than their human riders about such cautions, and many a rider had been saved a painful and embarrassing moment by paying attention to the instincts of his steed.

Galahad’s entourage had just ridden through the day.  They were hot and sweaty, and in no mood to pick their way through trees they couldn’t even see.

Despite the arrival of darkness, and with it the ending of that day’s portion of the quest, spirits were high throughout the retinue.  They’d heard serious rumors at their last stop, a small fishing town on the west coast of Briton called Nags, of the Grail being seen by several people who lived within the small village.  No one they’d spoken with had actually seen the mysterious holy icon, but each of them knew someone who’d either seen it directly or knew someone who did.

Nags was a typical hamlet of its time, a former Roman outpost comprised of several small wad and dabble huts that surrounded a central hut.  The entire assemblage of buildings was enclosed by a makeshift wooden stockade,  offering minimal protection from the marauding bands of brigands that pillaged at will between the patrols sent out by the Ard Righ.

Nags had, as all of the other Roman outposts in Briton, been left abandoned when the occupying armies of Rome pulled out of Briton, left to struggle for its survival or not, as the winds blew.

Either way, the gossip Galahad and his party heard was the most promising bit of information they’d come across over their years-old trail thus far, certainly worth getting a little spirited over.

“Sire!”  The young page kicked his small pony in the ribs to catch up with the knight.  “Sir Galahad?”

Galahad slowed and turned his head.  He smiled as he saw the youthful page astride a small white-and-gray swaybacked pony, struggling to catch up to his own battle-hardened steed.  “What is it, young master?”  Galahad nodded gracefully as the boy caught up.

“Excuse me, sire!”  The boy was out of breath with excitement.  “Is it true?  Is it true what they’re saying?”

Galahad turned to regard the boy with amusement.  “That would depend on what you’ve heard them say, Arian.”  He winked.  “What have you heard?”

Arian beamed inwardly with pride at having a knight as renowned as Sir Galahad—a Knight of the Round Table from the Court at Caerleon—remember such a small detail as his name.  “I’ve heard the Grail has been sighted, sire.”  He could not hide his excitement.  “And in this area, too!  Is it true?”

Galahad looked at the young page.  “I believe it is.  Or at least I hope so,” he added as he smiled and tousled the youth’s wild brown hair.  “I hope it’s finally so, Arian.”

The page clapped his hands in spite of himself, spooking his stout pony.  “The Grail!  The Grail, sire—tell me the story!  Please, tell me the story again?”

Several other ponies caught up to the pair, and each rider, having caught the tail end of the conversation, joined in the coaxing.

“Please, sire, won’t you tell us the story?”

“We want to hear the story!”

“Yes!  Tell us!  Please?”

Galahad smiled and held up a hand.  “All right.  I’ll tell the story again.  We’ll make camp here and I’ll tell you all the story around a good warm fire.  After we have supped.”

* * * * *

The ride was halted and a camp was made.  When the supplies had been rationed out and everyone was sitting well-fed around the central fire, Galahad, with a gleam in his voice and a wink in his eye, began:

“Listen good, for this is a tale of salvation and of love.  It’s a part of the story of Our Lord and Savior Jesu, and it begins thus:

“Amen I say to you, for you shall not again break bread with Me in this life.  In saying this, Jesu took a loaf of unleavened bread and held it out for all of the twelve to see.  Tearing it in half, He told them, I break this bread as a symbol of My body that will be broken for all so that the sins of man might be forgiven.  He passed the bread down the line, one piece on each side, where the men took it and broke a piece off for themselves as a sign of their love and respect for their lord.  Remember Me always as you partake of this your daily bread.  He ate a small piece of the bread, pausing to gaze at His beloved friends as they did the same.  When all were finished, He picked up a cup.”

“Ooh!  The Grail!  That was the Grail!” Arian exclaimed triumphantly.

“Yes, Arian,” Galahad said patiently.  “The Master picked up the Grail.”

“Quiet, Arian, let him finish.”

“Yes, let him finish.”

“Ssssshhhhh!”

Galahad cleared his throat and continued.  “He picked up the cup and filled it with wine.  Then He turned once again to His friends.  A shadow passed briefly across His face and was banished by a radiant smile.”

Galahad’s audience shivered briefly,  though the fire was warm, at the thought that such a thing as a mere shadow could mask that majestic, revered countenance.  “My friends,” the knight continued, “Drink from this loving cup, drink deeply your fill that you might remember Me even as you live out your lives.  He sipped from the cup and passed it on, watching as each one took a sip from the cup.  Drink this cup—the cup of My blood—which will be shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven.  Drink and remember.”

“Remember what?” Arian asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“Remember the sacrifice He was about to make, Arian.”  Galahad shifted to address the young page, emphasizing the enormity of the concept behind his words.  “Remember, He was with them, even after death, and they were to be specially blessed so they could go out and spread His word.”  Galahad watched as the boy’s face lit up with recognition.

“That’s right!”  He snapped his fingers as memory crept across his face like sunshine racing across a field from behind the shadow of a cloud.

“And we’ve found it, right, sire?” another page, young Cai, asked with a hopeful tone.  “The Grail?”

“Well, perhaps we have, Cai,  perhaps we have.  Let’s pray we have, at any rate.”

“What happened to the Grail after the supper was finished?”  Arian fidgeted in anticipation, his favorite part was coming up: the blood.  Sacred or not, blood was always a welcomed addition to any story in his young mind.

Galahad smiled at the page and continued:

“No one knows exactly what happened to the cup of Christ after the supper.  It was only seen for sure one last time in this world’s realm, then it disappeared from history, and legend takes over the story.”

Galahad paused to build to the drama of the moment.  Like all those of his race, he loved the hearing and the telling of a good story.  A crowd of adults was now gathered behind the ring of youths—everyone loved a good tale, especially when they were quite possibly about to write the next chapter.

“It’s said the cup came into the possession of a friend of Jesu’s family—a man from the small town of Aramethea, named Joseph.  Joseph was a wealthy man, he owned a lot of land in and around the great city of Jerusalem.  Remember, it was on his land, in his tomb, that Our Lord Jesu was buried.”

“Yes, and a fine thing, that.  Wouldn’t have been able to rise from the dead if He hadn’t been buried in that tomb,” Cai put in sagely while the other youths snickered behind their hands.  “What?”  Cai looked quizzically around the fire at the bemused faces beaming back at him.

“Never mind, Master Caius.”  He gave a mock-scowl to the rest of the youths.  “You’re right, Our Lord Jesu wouldn’t have risen in conquest over death if He’d not been buried in that tomb.”

Cai looked around the fire and smirked triumphantly.

Galahad continued, after allowing Cai his moment.  “When Jesu was crucified on the hill of Golgoth, there were only a few people allowed to go up close to be present at Our Lord’s death.  The Roman Procurator had ordered the centurion to keep the crowds back, for he greatly feared a riot.

“At the foot of the Holy Cross,” Galahad paused, making the sign of the cross.  The crowd of listeners all bowed their heads and did likewise.  He continued, “Was His Blessed Mother Mary, and His beloved friend and disciple, John.  A bit later, Mary of Magdalena came, at the behest of John, to give womanly comfort to His Most Holy Mother.”

Every head around the fire bowed again, this time in respect and sympathy for the Blessed Mother of Jesu in her time of greatest suffering.

“Towards the end of the horror, they were joined by Joseph of Aramethea and several of his servants.  John had arranged to have Jesu’s body removed and taken to Joseph’s property, where it would be washed and entombed before the sun set that day, which was the day before the Sabbath.

“When Joseph arrived, the vile deed was finished.  Our Lord was gone, and His tortured body hung lifeless from the cross.  Clouds thickened across the skies.  Shadows deepened over the land—some say more darker shadows had never been seen in the world before Our Lord passed on.”  He paused for a breath here to let the imagery sink in.  Again his audience shivered at the vivid darkness conjured in their minds by Galahad’s words.  “Mary, John, and Mary Magdalena were at the foot of the cross, weeping bitterly.

“The centurion on guard duty leveled his spear as Joseph approached the cross.  Halt!  This is a restricted area!

“I’m Joseph from Aramethea, Joseph told the guard.  And this man is to be buried on my land.

“The guard lowered his spear and turned back towards Jesu’s body.  I think it’s finished, he said as he moved under the cross.  He reached up cautiously and poked Jesu’s side with the spear,  prodding Him to see if there would be any reaction.  The thrust pierced Our Lord’s side, and blood welled out of the wound.

“John glowered at the centurion, as the women wept all the more at seeing Jesu so maltreated.  Sorry, the centurion said with genuine remorse.  Had to check and see.  Didn’t mean to cut Him like that.  They centurion became very compassionate at that point.  He looked around to see who was watching, then said quietly, Whole thing is wrong, if you ask me.  John put his hand on the centurion’s shoulder as he saw he was genuinely moved by the day’s events.

“Joseph, meantime, had brought out a cup—yes, Arian—the Cup,” Galahad added to the young page, anticipating his question, to a round of chuckling from the rest of his audience.  In the firelight Arian’s face reddened.

Galahad continued: “Joseph walked around to the side of the cross in a moment of inspiration.  His eyes met Mary’s, and she smiled and nodded through her tears.  Ever so slowly, Joseph reached up with the cup, and several rivulets of Jesu’s sacred blood flowed into the basin.  He quickly brought the cup down and kissed the side of it reverently before he stowed the Blessed Icon back underneath his voluminous robe.

“Joseph then directed his servants to put up the ladder they’d brought with them and to gently—gently!—remove the body of Our Lord from the cross, whereupon he led the small entourage back to one of his houses on the outskirts of the city wall, and the body was prepared for entombment.”  Galahad spread his arms and smiled.  “And you know the rest of that part.”

“What of the Grail?”  Cai was on the edge of his heels with excitement, caught deeply in the web of the delicious story he and all of the others had heard scores and scores of times.

“Yes, what of the Grail, sire?”  Arian led Galahad on to the continuation of the beloved story.  “What happened to it after Jesu was buried and rose?”

“Well,” Galahad said.  He relished the attention—not for himself, but rather for the chance to propagate the great story of the Holy Cup of Jesu—the sole focus of their lives for the past several years.  It was a search each of them, from the youngest to the oldest, was hoping would be coming to an end shortly.  “Onward with my tale:

“After the Resurrection of Our Lord Jesu, the occupying Roman army accused anyone and everyone who had followed Jesu or had even been seen with him more than once of being involved in a plot to steal Jesu's body.  Remember, none of them believed Jesu was the Messiah.”

There were gasps from the audience.  The youths couldn’t grasp that anyone wouldn’t believe that Jesu was the Messiah, let alone account Him or His followers as criminal.

“The Romans and the Jews in authority at the time presumed the disciples of Jesu were plotting to steal and hide His body so they could use Him for their own zealous agenda, to stir up the people of Jerusalem enough to revolt against the Romans governing them.  They hid in fear.

“After many years of hiding from the authorities, Joseph, together with his sister and her husband Bron, fled to Briton with some of the other disciples, where they eventually settled at Glastonbury.   There, they built the first church in Briton to Our Lord Jesu and dedicated it to Mary, Jesu's Mother.”

“The first Church, as close by as in Glastonbury,” Arian said with well-practiced awe.  They heard the story many, many times over the course of the quest, and their reactions to different parts of the story, as well known as it was to them all, never ceased to amaze Galahad in its genuineness each and every time.

Smiling, he continued:  “In that church at Glastonbury, they built a great table—the first Grail Table—around which there was seating for twelve people, one for each of the original twelve disciples of Jesu.  There was also a thirteenth seat, but it remained empty, to remind everyone of Jesu's place.”

“Is it true, sire, that one of the twelve seats was cursed to forever lurk in the shadows, being the seat of the traitor Judas?”

Thoughts turned to Lamorak, Arthur’s first knight, and the run of bad luck he had after Myrddin drafted and designed the Round Table, which was in actuality the third Grail Table, and Lamorak found himself in the twelfth seat.

Galahad took a thoughtful moment before answering.  He too had borne witness to the goings on at Caerleon—of Lamorak’s tryst with the queen, and of his tragic murder at the hands of the now-banished Mordred.  The Siege Perilous, he thought with a sigh.  Aloud, he said, “Possibly, Arian.  Possibly.”  He looked up from his reflections. “But the important seat to remember here is the thirteenth seat: the seat of the Christ.”

There were nods all around the fire as everyone appreciated and approved of the significance of leaving an empty spot for Jesu.  “This was how they remembered Him, even after His death.”  Arian was obviously moved by the spirit of the tale.  He was not alone.

“It’s one of the ways, Arian.”  Galahad commended the young page’s efforts.

“What happened to Joseph and his church?  And what of the Grail?  Isn’t it still at the church, sire?”

“The Grail was guarded there for many years, and brought out and used for Sunday Masses.  I suppose it would still be there if the church still existed, but the Church has been gone for many years now.”

“What happened to it?”

“Joseph died many years later, and the Grail’s care was committed to Bron, his sister’s husband, a good and holy man.”

“Tell us of the Miracle of the Fish!”

“Yes, tell us of the fish!”

“The fish,” the youths intoned with much enthusiasm, pushing the story forward.

Galahad pulled out a short, smoking stick from the fire and began to poke thoughtfully at the edges of the embers, stirring his own recollection of the tale.  “The Miracle of the Fish… hmm…

“It seems that many years after the Grail came into Bron’s judicious keeping, there was a great drought throughout the land, and famine soon wiped out all of the crops, so the people in the area were hungry.

“The Grail!  The Grail!  The people begged for the Grail to help them in their time of need.  Skeptical, not of its effectiveness, but rather of the appropriateness of the need and the consequences therein, Bron brought the cup to the Grail Table in the chapel Joseph had built.  Holding it up over his head, Bron implored the Most High to let His blessing shine down upon His humble servants.  In the silence that followed his simple prayer, he began to hear gasps from the circle of people gathered at the table, and felt something wet drip down to his forehead.    Lowering the cup, he saw—a fish!  A fish, there inside of the Holy Grail!  Taking it as a sign from the Most High, Bron removed the fish and was about to give the order to set up fishing posts on the nearby lake, when he heard more gasps from the people there gathered, who were looking and pointing at the Grail.  Looking down yet again, Bron was mystified to see yet another fish in the bowl of the Sacred Cup, flopping in a vain attempt to put itself back into whatever mysterious waters it had come from.

“Miraculously, Bron was able to feed the entire population under his protection with the fish that came from the Grail on that day, and on the subsequent seven days that followed.  Thousands upon thousands of fish came from the Grail, or rather through the Grail, in answer to Bron’s heartfelt prayers.  For this reason, the people came to call him the “Rich Fisher,” or as he is remembered in our time, The Fisher King.”

There were looks of appreciation from the encircled youths and adults around the campfire as the implication of the story once again sank in.  Justified in their search for the Grail, they were glad to be a part of such a never-ending tale.

“Then what?” asked a small voice, belonging to Cai, from the edge of the fire.  He wanted the story to go on, as he sensed the adults turning towards continuing the tale at some other time, which is what adults were wont to do, and neither he nor his companions had as yet had their fill.

“Yes, continue, sire.  Please?  Don’t leave us hanging, wondering how it is we are where we are today.”

Galahad turned to Arian with raised eyebrows.  “Such a noble request, how could I not continue?”  He turned back to the fire as if deep in thought.  The story itself was on his lips at any given time, as it’d been a favorite of his for as long as he could remember.  “Many years passed,” he continued.

“And Bron and his followers moved to a place called Avalon, where they built a magnificent castle from where they could guard the Most Holy Grail.  Over the natural span of time, Bron passed on peacefully one night in his sleep.

“Soon after Bron’s death, Alain, a faithful disciple of Jesu, took Bron’s place as the Third Grail Guardian, after Joseph and Bron himself.  Alain thought it wise for there to be formed an order of just and good men in whose care would be placed the guardianship of the Grail.  And so, the Order of the Grail’s Knights was born.

“They were to meet at another table set up similarly to the original table Joseph had built at Glastonbury—the Second Grail Table—which was made for twelve to be seated at, with the customary empty thirteenth place for Jesu.  There, they would take part in the banquets that were said to have come from the Grail’s bounty.”

The youths looked to each other, visions of endless banquets supplied with a cornucopia of food from the Holy Grail.  Mouths watered at the thoughts of tables laden with foods of every different variety, in limitless proportion.  Amid the crackling of the fire, more than one stomach was heard to growl.

“After a time, the shadows began to steal back across the land, pushing back the light of the Most Holy Grail, and some of the men in the Order of the Grail’s Knights began to think they were special in spite of the presence of the Holy Grail.  They began to lord themselves over the people of Avalon, calling themselves mighty despite the nefarious acts they committed against the people they were sworn to protect, despite everything the Grail and the Order of the Grail’s Knights stood for.

“One morning, as the sun was beginning to rise, Alain went outside of the extraordinary castle to look over the resplendent land under his responsibility, and discovered that overnight the land had become barren, as far as the eye could see, in the entire region of the Grail’s Castle.

“It had become a reflection of the Order of the Grail’s Knights, a desolate wasteland set in a veil of shadow.  The land was withered and sterile, and as Alain turned a heavy step back to the castle proper, he discovered no trace of the castle remained, nor of the Grail that had been within.

“It had been taken from this world’s realm.”  Galahad paused, allowing the magnitude of his words to penetrate his audience.  No one said a word for the moment, and there ensued a deep, respectful silence while each man and child contemplated his lesson from the tale.

“But that’s where we come in, right, Sir Galahad?”  Arian was up on his heels, leaning towards the assembled squires and knights and servants and pages who had gathered over the course of the tale.  “That’s where we come in.”

Galahad’s heart just about burst with pride, for everyone was caught up in the quest, and everyone wanted to see it succeed.  He looked around at the trusting, committed eyes, and found he was proud to call them friends, one and all.

There he stood in his nobility, a proud Knight of the Round Table, a member of the Order of the Grail’s Knights, a member of the Court of Caerleon.  “That’s right, Arian.  That’s where we come in.  That’s what the quest’s been all about.  That’s why we’re here as we are.”

A round of applause broke the silence.  They needed to applaud—wanted to applaud—as much for themselves as for Galahad.

“Finish.  Finish the tale, sir!”  It was Tallaght, who had crept in close to the center of the group.  “Please finish the tale, sir?”

Galahad stretched, stifling a yawn.  “Page,” he said calmly, pointing to Arian.  “Finish the tale, would you?”  He smiled as Arian blinked owlishly in the firelight, stunned at the enormity of the directive.

“M-me, sir?”

“You, sir.”  Galahad sat down among the rest of the squires and pages and looked up attentively at Arian.

Arian squirmed a bit in place, and then made a proud start:

“Well, after the land became wasted and the Grail disappeared, the people decided it was the fault of Alain and the Order of the Grail’s Knights, who they disbanded and cast out from among them immediately.  Many years later, the land came back, but it’s said it never came back as beautiful and full as it was when the Grail was in the world.”

He looked around at his companions, none of whom could imagine a Briton more beautiful than the Briton they all knew and loved, but they knew it was so when the Grail was in the physical world.

Arian cleared his throat, warming to the task.  He had come to the most familiar part of the tale, a part in which they all participated in and were currently taking part to its rapidly drawing conclusion, or at the least, that’s what they were all hoping for.

“Some centuries passed, when Myrddin—our Myrddin, mind you—founded the Third Grail Table, known to us all as the famous Round Table.  Then, he reformed the Order of the Grail’s Knights, led by His Majesty King Arthur, only they became known as the Knights of the Round Table.”

Three cheers went up for Myrddin, another three for the King, and the final, loudest three for the Knights of the Round Table.

Arian raised his hands for quiet, liking the drama of the evening.  Galahad smiled behind his hand.

“But the cup, the Most Holy Grail Cup of Our Lord and Savior Jesu, the cup is still out of this world’s realm.”  He hung his head and wrung his hands, displaying the despair of the ages in his young frame.

This news, although known to all, as it was the primary reason for their Quest, was greeted with a round of silence as they once again realized the magnitude that was the grave loss of the Grail to the world.  Even Galahad was moved, though it had been the prime mission of his life for as long as he could remember.

When he spoke next, Arian lifted his head, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.  No one was unmoved, caught up in the tide of emotion at that moment.  “One evening, not too long past, on the feast day of Pentecost, the knights gathered at the Round Table.  In the stillness of the evening, the room began to glow and light up with a gentle radiance not of this world, a radiance that pushed back the shadows that had befallen this world’s realm with a physical force. 

“Suddenly in their midst, floating high above the table, was the Grail.”  He looked hopefully at Galahad, who smiled at him and nodded for him to continue.

“Each of the knights present,” he began, and then recited the practiced role call of some of his heroes with pride: “Lancelot, and his son, Galahad the purest one.”  Arian paused to allow the smatter of applause for their leader.  “Sir Gareth with his brother Gawain, and the hero, Agravaine.  Bors is next, and brother Cai, with Percival, in honor’s way.  Bedwyr the trusted friend, Lamorak the first to bend.  Sir Geraint, a knight of Devon, brings the count up to eleven.  Lastly Tristan, Cornish son, now the hero’s tale is done.”  He paused and smiled at the cheer that erupted from the group, banishing the tension and solemnity of the moment in a flash.

“Each of the Brothers saw the vision that evening, and they knew the Grail was to be found again.  And so, wise King Arthur ordered that they separate into four groups of three each, to search to the Four Corners of Briton for the Grail.”  He paused again, and then added with a shout, “And here we are!”

The applause broke out once again and swelled mightily over the crowd, bathing Arian in its warm glow.  He bowed low from the waist, extremely pleased with himself.

Galahad stood, smiling and clapping with the rest, and said to the proud squire, “Well done, Master Arian.  Well done!  It seems there’s a bit of the bard in you, at least for this night.”

Blushing from the ears down, Arian joined his fellow pages as they straggled away from the fire to their bedrolls, spirits as high as kites after a pleasant evening spent reaffirming their long, long journey.

Excerpt- Shadow of the Grail- Chapter One

Summer vs. Winter: The Battle

The man in the gilded armor danced in and out of the men, weaving a terrifying tapestry of bloodshed and human destruction. He was a most fearsome predator this day. His ballet of butchery was fast becoming his defining moment, the glorious apex of an otherwise inglorious life.

He had run from them at Devon. He had fled Logres like a thief in the night. He had been forced to use the back tunnels when Cantiaci was sacked— tunnels that had been dug for the escape of old women and children.

“Arthur!” He spat the word, a poison from his lips. “The cause of all that is ill with me.” He swung his axe to the left and down, neatly liberating a helmed knight from his head. He smiled with glee as he bent to lift the visor to see who it was he had just done the favor of ending their service to that tyrant Arthur. What treasure to be found? Cai? Bedwyr?

A foot kicked into his side, interrupting him and spilling him over the dead knight and onto his side. “Bastard!” There was a whistling noise as a dulled and stained sword cut through the space of air a moment after his head had occupied it.

Mordred laughed sardonically at the clumsiness of the knight. He knew that the exhausted warrior had just killed himself with his missed attack. “Fool,” Mordred said as he sprung cat-like from the ground, axe already in motion. “Tell me, Bors, was it worth it?” Mordred’s axe buried itself to the shaft into the knight’s side. “Well, Sir Bors, was it?”

The knight drew upon his last reserve of strength, wrenching the axe from his side, a great gout of blood spraying forth. As the battle faded from him, he spat into his murderer’s face. And laughed.

Mordred’s smile vanished as quickly as Bors’ life was now vanishing. He wiped the spittle from his eye. In a motion that was almost supernaturally fast, he rose the axe above his head like a cobra and struck down with all of his might, cleaving the dying knight’s head down the center. He leaned to see the final look of despair on the knight’s face as he fell. Instead, Mordred saw a stanch smile, and then a single word form on the dead man’s blood-flecked lips. “Arthur.”

“Cymmerie!” The battle cry ripped through the clearing, causing all who were dying there that day to pause and look up in wonder. Mordred’s head snapped around as if on a tether line to look behind him at this new intrusion on his death sport.

Into the far end of the clearing strode the great man himself—Arthur, Ard Righ of Briton, King of the Summerlands—as a ray of sunlight penetrating through the overcast field. Arthur was a man gone berserk, swinging his sword with none able or even willing to stand against him.

Mordred smiled as he stood, but a part of his mind knew he was looking at his own death. Oh yes, he thought, there will be death here today. His and mine. He smiled again as he strode to the center of the rough clearing.

“Father,” Mordred called to Arthur in challenge. “I’m here, Father. Look no farther.”

Arthur stopped at the far end of the clearing. Something in his head clicked as he heard the voice of the bastard Mordred. “You most of all are not my son, Mordred. You’re no one’s son.”

Mordred visibly tensed at this public denial of royal paternity—of human paternity.

There was an audible intake of breath as the remaining knights from both sides of the battle took advantage of this exchange to rest for a moment.

Mordred’s life had been spared years ago, at the slaughter perpetrated on Caerleon by his alliance with the Saecson warlord Waelfwulf. Mordred had had the tenacity to presume the ancient claim of naud upon the High King just as Arthur had been about to condemn Mordred for his treasonous atrocities. A challenge to the very heart of Sovereignty itself, naud presumed that nothing was greater than Sovereignty, which was essentially held in trust by the High King for the people themselves, so the accused was literally asking for clemency and sanctuary through the king directly to the soul of the people.

If Arthur had been foolish enough to deny Mordred’s claim of naud, much as it tore his heart to do it, he would have denied the very sovereignty that placed him in the kingship in the first place. This grievous repudiation would to all intents and purposes place the crime above sovereignty, implying that the crime was greater than sovereignty in that it could not be forgiven.

A king never turned down the claim of naud, if he knew what was good for both himself and the people over which he governed. Arthur had to let Mordred live, to banish him as opposed to executing him.

The knights on the field knew this, as they knew of Mordred’s struggle to be recognized both by the Holy Mother Church and by Arthur for who he was, for who he claimed to be: the heir to the high throne of Briton.

This proclamation by Arthur—this public denouncement—was tantamount to signing Mordred’s death warrant, if the very acts of carnage that had been precipitated by him over the years had not done so already.

This would be the final battle, then. From this field would be born the future—in the resplendent form of the promised Kingdom of Summer, or in the sullied specter born from the eternal darkness of winter. The die had been cast, and it was now double or nothing for both men.

With a visible effort of his warped will, Mordred stuffed the insult into a dark corner within his heart. He smiled. “Father.” He stepped slowly but definitively towards the King. “Artos Rex.” From Mordred’s tongue the propriety of the title was as a poison and a curse to those ears still attached properly to listen.

Arthur strode confidently to the center of the field, halving the distance with each stride. He was a righteous man in a righteous battle. “The words drip like poison from your mouth, my—son.”

It was an obvious effort to mock, but Mordred, whose ears were not as keen as his tongue for sarcasm, stopped. He opened his arms in sign of parley, stopping about a third of the way across the field. “Father. I would talk with you before this goes any further.”

He took another step forward, arms extended out; hands open, showing no weapon in evidence. He lost his footing in the gore, slipping forward awkwardly but managing to catch himself before he could fall headlong into the remains of the fallen knights—the fallen Cymbrogi.

Arthur’s eyes glazed as he saw Mordred slip on the blood and gore of his friends, despoiling their remains further. His sight clouded over, the blood rushing to his head so quickly it became a screaming staccato of wind whipping through a narrow chasm in the deep folds of his mind; a chasm from where no reason escaped, from where no logic was pursued, from where the battle lust grew and rose to a fevered berserker pitch.

“Cymmerie!” Arthur heard the war cry as if from miles away now, as if it were being screamed by Bors, or Cai, or Bedwyr. He found himself racing across the field, hair and sweat flying out behind him like his own Pendragon pinion flapping in the breeze.

He was exhilarated to be in the fight—this fight—the fight. Butchers butchered, priests preached, farmers farmed. Fighters fought. Fighters fought. Fighters fought. “Cymmerie!”

Mordred backpedaled to the body of the recently killed Bors and wrenched his war axe from the cleaved knight. A smile laced his lips as he raised the axe high to meet the charging Arthur’s challenge.

Fighters fight, Mordred thought ironically, picking up his own pace so as to meet the flying king headlong.

The two fighters converged at the center of the field in a great clash of arms and armor. Caladfwlch of the Hard Lightning crashed down upon Mordred in a blow designed to split the man from skull to crotch. Mordred’s axe parried the thrust efficiently, throwing the mighty sword up and to his left, allowing him to counter with his right hand, a gauntleted fist into Arthur’s relatively unprotected gut.

Arthur’s wind left him, but Arthur’s wind had left him many times over the course of the battle. As if of its own mind, the great sword Caladfwlch swung itself in a circle after being parried, spinning Arthur underneath it like a macabre marionette with its strings being played. The sword completed its circle and bit into the right side of Mordred, enough to lift him off his feet and subsequently his balance while Arthur regained his breath

Mordred’s eyes flicked jealously to Caladfwlch. Soon it will be mine, he thought, even as the great sword knocked him off balance to his left.

Swimming back through the fog of his own shortened breath, Arthur saw Mordred teeter on the edge of balance from the last hit of Caladfwlch. He completed his antagonist’s fall with a slap to the side of the head from his thickly padded hand. It was effective, knocking Mordred into the mud and gore. His helmet, haughty and defiant with its gilded wings and polished golden sheen, struck the ground and rolled to the side, denting and bending the arrogant wings into unrecognizable form

Mordred hit the ground and rolled automatically to his left, avoiding the downward arc of the sword. Caladfwlch bit into the mud. Using the sword for leverage, Mordred pulled himself up and charged Arthur with a head butt. The butting found its target, pushing Arthur back, allowing him the briefest of moments to collect himself.

The two stood for a moment, dazed. They eyed one another like two leopards, battle-scarred and unbeaten, fighting over the fresh kill of an entire kingdom, an entire future. The wind was picking up, sweeping the field clear of its lingering mist. The smell of blood was everywhere, an overwhelming coppery stench, permeating everything. Arthur and Mordred surveyed the field clearly for the first time.

“Does it do you proud, Mordred, to see the handiwork of Lucifer himself?”

Mordred smiled. “Lucifer was the Angel of Light, Father.”

“Your soul is gone then,” Arthur said more out of resolve than decision. He felt a weariness growing in his soul like a wet blanket, smothering his will.

“Spare me your platitudes. You are just as responsible for this as I am!” Mordred smiled again; a surprisingly innocent smile. “Oh, you and the Whore Mother Church. Mustn’t forget about the Holy Mother Church.” Mordred’s smile became a sneer.

Arthur bristled at the insult to Christ’s Holy Church, but did not otherwise react. “You’re under arrest.” Arthur suddenly thundered, stepping a step closer, a light glowing in his eyes. “You’ve been found guilty of crimes to the kingdom too numerous to list.” Caladfwlch raised itself high, a gavel of infallible judgment—judge, jury, and executioner.

Mordred backed away slightly, giving ground reluctantly before the enraged king, the humor gone from his eyes.

“You’ve been found guilty of murder.” Arthur spat, literally. “You’re in violation of your banishment; therefore, the sentence is death, to be carried out immediately.”

The glow in his eyes became a raging, righteous fire as it struck out at Mordred like a lightening bolt from a clear blue sky. Like the very finger of God. Mordred ducked under the first onslaught of the great sword, bringing his axe to bear against the inspired Arthur.

“You’re the murderer, Father,” he screamed, his voice high-pitched and reedy, almost feminine in its outrage. “You have killed me, you have killed my mother, you have killed everyone!” His eyes danced almost sightlessly in his head, rolling left to right and up and down. His madness was almost complete. “You have killed us all!”

And the laughter began, spilling up from some secret and perverse place in Mordred’s soul. It spilled up and outward at a phenomenal rate; it spilled up and vomited itself out over the field, spilling up and splashing across Arthur’s face, catching him off guard.

Mordred’s eyes snapped-to even as Arthur paused over the mirth that was being exuded from this killer of innocents. Madness was replaced by sanity as quickly as the sunlight displaces a shadow. Mordred stepped back with his newfound sanity and threw the battleaxe as hard as he could. The axe swung in a perfect arc towards Arthur, spinning end over end towards the king.

Arthur had a split second in which to die or to duck.

The gilded battleaxe flew through the air, missing Arthur’s head by inches as it thunked harmlessly into a tree. Mordred was on his knees from the effort of the throw, in exhaustion and mock supplication.

To an observer off the field of battle, it would have almost looked as if the kneeling man could actually be yielding. He appeared thoroughly beaten, his helm lay in a dented heap, its golden wings, once riveted proudly to the sides, were now bent at odd angles almost beyond recognition.

Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with rivulets of blood from the wide assortment of cuts and scratches on his high forehead and long face.

But Arthur knew—Arthur was wary of this young man kneeling before him—this bastard son of his who had instigated the battle that had just taken many of his fine knights out of this life; this bastard man who had supped in Arthur’s very court with the men he had just slaughtered. This man who was called Brother.

Memories of dead cymbrogi—companions of the heart—clouded Arthur’s vision and his reason once again. “The day is mine!” he heard his own voice cry from very far away in triumph, as if from another world and another time.

The late afternoon sunlight glinted off of his long, elaborately crafted sword as it was raised high in the air for one final swing. “Cymmerie!” His battle cry rose as the mighty Caladfwlch began the completion of its devastating arc, a testament to the good men who had perished this day. A memorial to be carved in blood.

A large black raven, perched on a low branch in stark relief against the pallid bark of an ancient beech tree, spread its massive wings and opened its mouth in a silent croak in anticipation of the climax.

Arthur startled inside, his steeled battle nerves beginning to unravel around the edges as the fight reached its climax.

“Father?” the kneeling man shouted. “Father? Would you slay your only son?” The man’s eyes pleaded with a practiced skill. “Your only heir?”

Heir? Gwen had been barren. There was no heir, least not this bastard. Better the throne fall empty than to have this usurper besmirch everything that they had worked so very hard to achieve. The Kingdom of Summer, it had almost been here. They had almost had it. Almost.

With an enormous effort of will, Arthur managed to pause the blade a third of the way through its stroke, sweat and tears running freely across his face.

What good would this death bring? Could it bring back Cai? Or Bors? Or Bedwyr? The tears stung the cuts on his face as the memories caused him a great, heart-wrenching distress. The Kingdom of Summer was dead. It had died this day on this killing field. They had failed—he had failed. His body wracked with spasm as the full weight of the day settled onto his shoulders.

Mordred reached behind his head, and in one swift motion withdrew a concealed bone-handled knife and plunged it deeply into the other man’s midsection.

The raven screeched indignantly and launched itself from its perch. Arthur saw the bird take flight out of the periphery of his clouding vision, a metaphorical verification of the wickedness of the day. In the split second that it took for his knees to buckle out from under him, he heard the abrasive cry of the departing bird.

A final reserve of strength was triggered from deep within Arthur as the raucous sound echoed across the dimming recesses of his mind, morphing into another’s voice.

“Mine, Father—not yours. The day is mine! The kingdom is m—”

The last words never came. The sword—the fabled, indefensible Caladfwlch—completed its arc—completed the danse macabre between father and son, summer and winter, day and night. The great sword struck seemingly with a will of its own, neatly lopping the kneeling man’s head from his shoulders.

“MMMMMmmmmmoooooorrrrrrrdddddrrrrreeeeeeedddddd!” Arthur heard the cry, though his senses had begun falling into the shadows of the endless night. Through those fading senses he saw a darker shadow dart out from the densely packed trees, slipping and sliding on the blood and gore of his friends—the shattered remains of the Knights of the Kingdom of Summer—despoiling them further.

Arthur plucked the knife out of himself with an agonizing wrench and dropped it from his dying fingers into the muck, even as his vision and hearing dimmed into nothingness.

© Ray Cattie