Sir Cathán and the Dragon of the Wells:
First Transcribed in Modern English by Martlet di Rotstein [Footnote 1]
Greetings and salutations, fair traveler. If you would share my fire for a time, then please grant me the favor of playing host. In these times of tribulation and despair, it can be heartening to remember the dreams of years gone by. For those were the days when the stars burned with wonder and the moon shone mystery down upon the earth. To be certain, war raged amongst the nations and hatred twisted the hearts of humanity, yet the world was not without virtue nor was it lacking those with a righteous spirit. This is the tale of one such valiant: Sir Cathán of the Quiet Heart, champion of three feathers, wielder of the Holiteinn, star-stealing knight. So come, let me tell you the story of a knight [Footnote 2].
Part I
Autumn came to Logres, the fields growing gold and the trees burning crimson. Chill winds rose up from the North Sea and frosted the hills from the highland lochs to the seaside chalk downs. Even the marble walls of enchanted Camelot froze solid, the trio of stone sorceresses keeping a silent vigil through sleet and snow. With the turning of seasons, the moon grew heavy in the sky, the reapers plied their trade, and Arthur’s knights returned from far afield to prepare for the year’s end. As bushels of wheat filled the village barns, Ehangwen filled with names known in all lands for their valor as the Round Table gathered when the harvest moon waxed full [Footnote 3]. On the Feast of All Saints, morning passed in solemn silence while the city took their mass until the church bells rang out, declaring a celebration for all from serf to king. When evening came, the houses of the land came aglow with gentle candlelight and the air filled with the twinning scents of roasted ham and syrupy sweet apples baked in pastry. Ehangwen was no exception. The hall of Arthur sang with merriment, humble guests relishing in a kingly banquet while minstrels played and knights challenged court games.
Yet not all delighted in the joyous times. Unknown to those safely secured in home and hall, grey clouds crept across the gloaming sky and thin streams of lake-mist wound their way through the streets of Camelot. Before any caught note of the grim presage, the doors of Ehangwen burst open and a cloud of crumbling leaves swept through the threshold, arranging themselves into a carpet from wall to throne. Then a chill wind extinguished all but the brightest flames and an unwelcome guest entered, her staff echoing with a dull thud at every crackling step. Knights leapt to their feet and drew swords at the mere sight of her fearsome visage. But Solemn Arthur raised a hand to forestall them, eyes grim with unreadable sorrow. “Welcome, sister. It pleases me that you join us on this blessed day. Will you take your seat at my side and tell me of your travels while I grant you hospitality?” [Footnote 4].
Smirking, the glas-clad witch leaned against her staff until only her eyes were visible, glowing green from beneath her hood [Footnote 5]. “Nay, oh brother mine. I shall not. I am in no mood for feasting or my usual games. If you wish to know of my travels, then know they are too troubled to tarry long here.” With a tap of her staff, Dread Morgan invited the night wind into the hall and shadows filled the eaves. Then a thousand pin-pricks of light erupted in an image of the night sky without cloud or cover. The witch continued in a weirding tone, as if the very wood of the hall spoke and the air itself echoed every word. “Ever have the stars looked down upon us unto this day, an unreachable dream from the first humans to rise from the river’s clay. They shine in the darkest nights; mark the wayward’s paths with light. They are hope beyond hope in the winter’s frost, the skies’ promise that come chill and dread all is not lost.”
For all her gloom and gravitas, the king was unimpressed. He leaned back in his throne as if reclining by the fire and removed Excalibur from his belt, propping the sword against the arm of the chair. Only when he sat with the comfort of a man in all security did he reply and then with a tone of caution rather than concern. “You come bearing words of warning, but only offer rhyme and riddle. Speak plain, sister. I can offer no aid to dangers I do not understand.”
The witch chuckled, the sound both soft and haunting. “Hmm. And yet I wager you understand more than you know. You were taught by the Hawk-mage same as I [Footnote 6]. So surely you know the stars are no mere lamplights. They mark the changing of the seasons and stand sentinel over time. Matters of grave import for travelers and farmers. And graver import still for astrologers who count on their counsel to shape the weave and weft of spells.”
With each point she traced her staff among the illusory stars, drawing constellations in the phantom sky and directing their light onto the floor of the hall such that a path ran through the leafy carpet from her to the king. Solemn Arthur closed his eyes in thought and all present knew he mourned the loss of his erstwhile mentor, bound forever within the boughs of Brocéliande. When the moment passed, he split his gaze ‘tween witch and starscape both, regarding each with equal suspicion. “Then you have read calamity in the stars? A matter so great you would come bearing olive over hawthorn for the first time in years?”
The witch nodded, wintry wariness with a summery smile. “Indeed. For it is a matter that troubles us both the same: someone is stealing the stars.”
With the last, she struck her staff against stone once more. When the strike echoed silent, her prophecy came to pass, phantom stars vanishing one by one until naught but the rafters of Ehangwen remained. Knights and nobles murmured at the eerie spectacle, the word ‘demon’ a common refrain at the news of one who could steal from even the heavens themselves. And through the murmurs cut a single voice, wrathful and wry, as Cold-hearted Kay stood from his place at the king’s side, sword of the seneschal in hand. “And how does that trouble my brother? Or his kingdom? By my friend’s hand, we only serve to gain from their loss if it weakens your devilry and stops your treacherous tricks. Unless, of course, you speak falsely.”
In testament to their old feuds, written not of here, Dread Morgan sneered at the knight. “And what do you know, doorman? Your mouth works faster than your ears, it seems. Is it not enough that it will harm the farmers and travelers of the realm? What of your oaths to protect those people?”
Disdain met disdain, Cold-hearted Kay’s temper roused. “The bite of the wind speaks to turning seasons just as well as the stars and our roads are well marked. Far less dangerous for them than to shake hands with an acquainted enemy.”
Before their disagreement could spark yet another trouble the court could not afford, Solemn Arthur placed a hand on his seneschal’s shoulder. “Peace, Kay. I know my sister nearly as well as I know you and she would not ask anything of my court idly.” He turned to the witch, glas eyes gleaming with wisdom. “There is more to your warning than the secrets of the arcane, is there not?”
Shooting one last glare at her rival in brotherhood, Dread Morgan nodded. “Just so. You may ignore this theft if you will. As your scathing seneschal so shrewdly noted, your people face little danger from the bandit of the skies. Though his power waxes with every star taken, his dominance of the mystical concerns only those who share his craft.” The witch paused, casting her gaze over all present in turn. By the time she finished, the eerie glimmer of her eyes faded and her voice rang with regret made ghastly by its source. “But the skies will fade and with them the strength of your oaths. Nevermore will mankind dream as they once did and nevermore will the hearts of humanity shine in the starlight.”
Murmurs of treachery and deceit ran through the hall, but Solemn Arthur remained unshaken, glas-eyes gleaming with quiet wisdom. “I see. And this ‘bandit of the skies’, do you know how to stop him? Or even where my knights might find him?”
The witch struck her staff against the floor once more and vanished in a shower of leaves, reappearing in her seat at the king’s side a moment later. With Solemn Arthur convinced she was speaking the truth, she dropped any pretenses of mysticism and answered with a courtly tongue, dismissing his concerns with a wave of her hand. “I do not at the moment, but that is a problem easily solved for one such as me. Even on Earth, the stars shine brightly to those with eyes to see.” She paused and shot a sidelong glance at the table below her, continuing with a malicious smirk. “And as to the former, are your knights truly so cowardly as to quail in the face of the unknown?”
Though the Round Table bristled at the witch’s accusation, Solemn Arthur refused to fall for her taunts. “My knights’ courage is beyond reproach and I know any of them would answer if I asked it of them.” Scores of knights and nobles rose at this, shouting names and clapping their companions on their backs as they made their recommendations clear. Yet when the crowd thinned and only a handful of the worthiest remained, propped up on unasked for support, the king raised a hand to silence his court and slowly shook his head. “But I will not. As it stands, you speak of a fool’s errand with little reward. You say our oaths will tarnish and fade, but I have faith in the virtue of my knights. In the virtue of those we protect. If our hearts may not shine in the starlight, we shall make them shine by their own light.”
Dread Morgan sat back in her chair and raised the hood of her cloak to make her expression plain; no frown or scowl but the phantom smile of a parent listening to their child’s dreams of slaying dragons. “I see. A disappointment, but not an unexpected one. No one with a spirit as bright as yours could understand the doom I speak. And the Round Table has never shown courage when there is no acclaim at stake.”
Before any other could register the insult laid, Courteous Gawain rose and denounced the witch, his voice at once as gentle as dawn and as furious as the desert sun. “You overstep your courtesy, Aunt Morgan! Acclaim or not, my companions have courage without fail. No matter the challenge you offer, our ranks will accept. By my own hand if no other.”
More amused than angered, Dread Morgan regarded the young knight with a sly smirk. “We shall see. In good time, we shall see. But for now, your king will not ask and I will not sling trickery to make him. So I simply ask for myself: is there a knight here brave enough to return the stars to the sky?” Once more, a clamor of voices rose in response, but she silenced them with a gesture and continued with a venomous smile. “Is there a knight here brave enough to walk at a witch’s side and go whither she asks? Is there a knight brave enough to leave his king’s court and law with naught but virtue and ignominy as reward?”
The hall remained silent, not a one willing to accept such a hollow quest and not a one willing to deny the charge and risk proving the truth to the witch’s words. The nobles and squires looked to the twelve worthies in turn, seeking in each a fire of virtue that could burn without fuel. To Loyal Lancelot and Courteous Gawain they looked, but the queen’s knight never looked from his charge and the Round Table’s strongest continued to regard his aunt with doubt and skepticism. To Cold-hearted Kay and Swift Bedivere they looked, but the seneschal merely scoffed at the court with a hand upon his keys and the marshal shook his head with his arm upon the Clarion of Gabriel [Footnote 7]. To Unbroken Galahad and Righteous Perceval they looked, but neither knight could be provoked by challenges to their honor or stirred by a quest on which virtue did not depend. To Fair-handed Gareth and Fell-handed Gaheris they looked, but the youths turned to their elder brother for advice and found none. To Lion-hearted Ywain and Angel-eyed Bors they looked, but the little-tested knights remained plagued by doubt and shackled by humility. To Wrathful Balin and Mournful Tristan they looked, but both knights’ thoughts were occupied by women afar, the latter’s colored with love and the former’s with hatred. With naught speaking but a ghastly wind that whispered like the dying breath of an age, the court fell chilled into an acedic torpor.
In this hollow slumber of the spirit, one knight saw an ill presage of the future of Logres, the cold ashes which would remain after the Strife of Camlann burned the land, sickened the air, and poisoned the water. Recognizing the true significance of Dread Morgan’s words in his own failings of the past, the newest knight of Camelot rose [Footnote 8]. Though he spoke in little more than a whisper, Quiet Cathán’s words echoed louder than thunder. “I will go. Not for virtue or acclaim. Not for courage or honor. I will go for I can be spared.”
Once more, Courteous Gawain’s temper burned like noon, this time at his companion’s meekness. “Nay, Sir Cathán! We are knights of the Round Table; none may be ‘spared’. Our bond of friendship is stronger than any such weakness.”
The fameless knight met this with a sad smile. “Your words prove the lie, if a kind one. I have no skill one of our comrades cannot replicate leaving only that bond of friendship. And I am the youngest of our order, in oath if not age. Few will mourn my absence.”
To prove his point, Quiet Cathán cast his gaze across the knights assembled; from Courteous Gawain who brought him to Camelot out of the depths of rage to Lion-hearted Ywain and Shrewd Marhalt, the three of whom he traveled with for a brief time. From his countryman he looked to the twelve worthies in turn; from them to the host of Arthur assembled in glory and then to the nobles of Logres in whose eyes lived only glory and honor. In none but the first did he find more than a flash of sympathy, none willing to stand for a knight who still carried the burden of an outsider. Finally the king spoke, Solemn Arthur regarding his knight with the ineffable compassion – as deep as the sea [Footnote 9] – from which he drew his acclaim. “I do not ask this of you, Sir Cathán, and will not. But neither will I forbid you. Should you accept my sister’s wisdom, your fate will be in her hands. You shall have no aid save that which she gives you and that which you find upon your path. If you are captured, your fellow knights shall not seek you out, no matter how much time passes. There shall be only victory through faith and sword or death.”
Despite the release given to him, the dream of devastation hung over Quiet Cathán like a funeral shroud. In his heart the knight knew it was a path someone had to walk; not for code or creed, fame or wealth. It was a path someone had to walk because it was right even if it was not required. Accepting his fate, the knight approached his king and dropped to one knee with his head bent. “I understand, your highness. And yet I answer all the same. If you will not believe my selfish humility, then I answer for the bonds of friendship Sir Gawain spoke of. I shall go so no one else has to.”
The king smiled, none but Dread Morgan able to read his intent. “A finer answer than your last one.” Placing one hand over Quiet Cathán’s head, he whispered the blessing of quests. Then, drawing the knight back to his feet, he presented him to Dread Morgan. “Very well. Sister, you have your knight.”
The witch inspected Quiet Cathán with a devilish smirk, not bothering to hide her disdain. “So it would seem. Cathán, hmm? A name I do not recognize, but I suppose I must accept what I can get when I make such outlandish demands.” With a heavy sigh she rose from her chair, vanishing into mist before she stood even halfway upright. A moment later she appeared at the still-open doors to the hall, drawing up her hood and the carpet of leaves with it. She only paused long enough to wave Quiet Cathán forward, calling him after her even as she left the golden glow of firelight. “Well, sir knight? We are wasting moonlight.”
…
Abandoning the light of Ehangwen, Quiet Cathán set off into the autumn night. Dread Morgan waited for him at Camelot’s stables, holding the reins of a mist-grey palfrey. The witch inclined her head at his approach but said nothing, impatience evident in her posture. Unwilling to keep so capricious a woman waiting, the knight hurried about his own packing. Bearing no squire to accompany him, Quiet Cathán left his heaviest armor behind and contented himself with but a shirt of mail and a thick coat of fur to guard against the season’s chill. Taking up the graven sword Courteous Gawain found in the hill forts of Salisbury Plain and gifted him when he took the Pentecostal Oath, the knight sheathed it in a belt of sturdy leather adorned with silver oak leaves, the last token he kept of his homeland [Footnote 10]. Finally he slung his shield across his back, an impenetrable bulwark of steel painted with a dove resting atop a harp and a corvus perched on a sword’s hilt, both on a field of azur [Footnote 11]. Once fully armed, Quiet Cathán packed enough supplies for a week’s journey in his saddlebags and mounted Stalker, the great destrier broad in the shoulders and shod in steel that drew sparks with every step [Footnote 12]. Thus equipped, he rode into the empty square and followed Dread Morgan out into the wild forest, a fey fog swallowing them mere yards from Camelot’s gates.
The two rode in silence for a time, never passing another soul. Rather, Dread Morgan set their path with so discerning and unerring an eye that she took them through brush and over deer-paths without a second thought, as though riding such trails were nothing more than a stroll on safe city streets. So deep among the trees and blanketed in fog, Quiet Cathán felt like he’d slipped into a dream. Or, more troubling, let himself be led into the faerie woods. The beeches loomed above him, frost-tipped branches grasping and prodding until each step threatened to unhorse him. And each step fell on unseen earth with Stalker’s hooves vanishing into the mist, nothing more than the sound of crunching frost calling back in reply. Though disdainful of rash judgment and a lover of good faith, the knight could not help regarding his guide with a wary eye, thinking heavily upon her title as they traveled through the tangled wilds so loved by the fay.
Yet his suspicions did not go unnoticed. After a time passed and the moon shone high in the sky, Dread Morgan led him onto a proper road, laid in ages past by the Romans and framed on either side by neatly trimmed junipers. The moment their path became wide enough for two to ride abreast, she dropped back beside him and turned her own inscrutable gaze onto the knight. “Is there aught amiss, oh blade of my brother? Don’t tell me your nerves fail you already.”
Quiet Cathán bowed his head, conceding to her accusation. “Forgive me, Lady Morgan. Any suspicion I bear is a disservice. You are my king’s sister and your word should assuage any fears I hold.”
This earned him a wicked grin, the witch’s teeth flashing in the moonlight. “So you do fear me then?”
“I would be a fool not to, oh friend of the good neighbors.”
“Perhaps not as friendly as you think.” The knight answered his companion with a skeptical glance, her claim so outlandish in compare to her old associations and yet too bold for a lie. The witch merely shrugged it off without explanation. “Pay it no mind. You fear me even though I am but a woman and you a skilled swordsman.”
Quiet Cathán laughed, the sound like sleigh bells in the frost-rimed forest. “Ha! I know well enough from old stories that strength is strength, woman or man. It did not help Holofernes that Dire Judith was a woman, nor could any of the hunters of Calydon overtake Swift Atalanta. Vengeful Buddug burned so brightly in her rage the aquiline legions could not ignore her and even my own Radiant teacher is a woman [Footnote 13].”
Dread Morgan raised an eyebrow at mention of the Radiant, but pried no further. Rather, the witch offered a fox-glove smile and raised her empty hands, waving them like reeds in the wind as she replied. “How curious. But I wield no sword and it is plain my arms are too thin to bear one. So what need is there to fear me?”
Once again, the knight’s laughter rang through the midnight wood, though this time dyed with a shade of sarcasm. “Ha ha! Pray forgive me if I must laugh twice, but the stories I already cited are answer enough: strength need not be measured by force of arms alone. Fair Esther won her people’s lives where an army could not and Holy Martha laid low a dragon even knights could not slay through prayer alone. The Owl of Rome stands among their wisest and Ruinous Medb of my homeland held dominion equal to any king’s. Just as only a fool thinks a fair hand cannot wield a blade as easily as a brute’s, ’tis a fool who thinks himself wiser than a woman before matching wits with her.”
Silence reigned as Dread Morgan considered the knight anew, eyes glinting in the darkness of her hood. The wind clattered through the trees while she thought, like a haunting melody played upon drums of bones. Then, after a moment, she let out an amused breath, too shallow for a laugh, and answered with a shake of her head. “What a curious one you are, blade of my brother. So you think me wise then? Or is it my holiness and serenity that leave you aquiver?”
Recalling a time when he thought himself strong and above the concerns of scholars and sages for that strength, Quiet Cathán gave a bitter smile. “Wiser than I to be sure, Lady Morgan. As to the others, I cannot say.”
With the wind at her back and grim humor in her heart, the witch arrayed herself to make her title. Shadows gathered alongside her and ice danced in her wake; lightning crackled along her cloak and jets of emerald flame erupted from her eyes. Yet for all the grandeur of her display, the world grew quiet and still and her voice came as no more than a hiss. “Really? But am I not a treacherous serpent, set against my brother out of jealousy and spite. Do you not fear me as an evil witch, ready to sink her fangs into you the moment you drop your guard?”
Unable to help himself, the knight let out a bemused chuckle. “But you are not evil, Lady Morgan.”
As sudden as a snapping branch, the witch’s glamour vanished and she drew rein. She stood stone-still in the center of the road for several seconds, staring with wide eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice came colder than the snow and her words bore more venom than any she spoke in Ehangwen. “Pardon? I fear my ears betrayed me, knight. No companion of the Round Table I have met would say such a thing. Even my own nephews have little to say save exhortations to change my sinful ways.”
Pulling to halt opposite her, Quiet Cathán remained steadfast in his response, his tone firm and his heart’s surety unshaken. “And yet I stand by my claim. If you will allow me a moment of temerity, I believe I understand the animosity you hold towards Camelot.”
Yet for all the knight’s sincerity, the witch only rewarded him with a wry grin, her eyes scornful and doubting when she replied. “Oho? Well a good laugh should lift my spirits. Speak as you will, knight.”
Quiet Cathán closed his eyes, grimacing upon thought of a shameful past. “You said you know not my name, Lady Morgan, and I do not fault you for it. But to give a brief history, I was once a rash, young fool who acted little better than a red knight. I sought to prove myself greater than the old heroes of my homeland, greater than the champions of ancient lore, greater than the strongest knights of today.”
With a roll of her eyes, the witch set her palfrey to walk once more, waving off the knight’s story as she passed him. “Quite fascinating, I am sure. But what of it? ‘Tis a common enough tale and one that matters little to me.”
Quiet Cathán allowed himself a smile, pleased to find himself a step ahead of the great witch. “Ah, but I see too much of the same in the halls of Ehangwen, even if hidden behind oath and creed. And I venture you see much the same. You accused my companions of prizing glory over all else, no? To my mind, ’tis much the same complaint.”
When Dread Morgan turned her gaze upon him anew, it was once more the venomous, piercing glare she often brought to Solemn Arthur’s court; the eyes of a serpent in the grass and a wolf in the woods. So cold was her regard, the knight shuddered when she spoke, hearing a silent threat in every word. “Hmm. And now I find there’s no laughter in me. While not the exact answer, you struck close enough to the mark. It is true enough that I despise the hypocrisy of my brother’s host, some few worthies aside. But what gave away the lie, if I may ask?”
Quiet Cathán took a deep breath, well aware he stood upon the dagger’s edge. Knowing the wrong word there would earn him the hatred of a dire enemy forever more. More than that, his own convictions were mere conjecture, the wisdom of a man too certain of his own folly mortared by faith and hope. That wisdom, a dream more idealistic than any he chased as a child, he dared gamble a witch’s ire upon. Even still, he could not bring himself to deny that truth, his heart long since satiated on deceit. “Simple enough: never have I seen you treat my king with hatred. You test his knights and trouble his endeavors, but never strike him directly. To my eye, you still love your brother.”
The witch offered a level stare in reply, but remained otherwise no more angered than before. “Aye. ‘Tis no business of yours, but I was prepared to hate him. The son of my father’s killer, how could I not? But when I first saw him there was only our mother, only my brother. I would never see him come to harm. If that means driving away those who are false, those who would profit from his good nature and bleed the Pendragon dry, then so be it. My brother’s safety is worth a kingdom’s hatred.”
“Are you lying?”
“So forthright! Would you believe me if I said no?”
In the face of so bold a defense, more brazen even than his own questions, the knight paused. Evil or not, Dread Morgan was as cunning as she was wise. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged, voicing his misgivings plain. “Mm. Though I have faith in your intentions, I cannot say I trust you.”
Such skepticism only served to strengthen the witch’s budding humor, her eyes aglimmer with respect and her voice light despite the conversation’s weight. “Prudent, perhaps. And an attitude I admire. No share of good intentions will save you from a knife at your back. Better to meet an enemy with a smile and a sword in equal parts.”
“Not how I would put it, but a fine enough explanation.” As the knight spoke, the path reached another fork and the witch chose her direction without pause, passing deeper through bramble and brush despite no sign to guide her way. Following in her wake, Quiet Cathán frowned over his attempts to mark their passage, neither sky nor soil recognizable to his traveled eyes. “And to the topic of trust, may I ask where our path leads?”
If the witch took any insult at the question, she didn’t show it, brushing concerns aside like they were nothing more than gossamer. “To a holding I keep nearby where we may rest and prepare for our travels ahead.”
The knight offered the sky another glance at this. “Why leave while the moon is high, if only to stop so soon?”
“If you mean to track the stars, you will need to grow used to travel at night.”
“Then with all respect where it is due, might I ask the first stop on our quest? I would press further while the weather remains fair.”
Dread Morgan’s grim glamour returned, albeit as little more than a shade of its greater glory and certainly no less than a jest, her grin glinting wolfish in the darkness of her hood. “Oh? For all your talk of faith, do you still fear to spend a night with the witch of the fay?”
“Brittany may be far afield, but I still relish little the thought of taking my rest within the walls of the Vale of No Return’s mistress.”
“Kahaha! So be it brave knight. Then allow me to grant you your quest.” Alighting from her mount, the witch took position in the center of the road and planted her staff like a sentinel’s spear. Fog flowed around her hems and her eyes burned with fey fire, freezing hood and robe both til she seemed a statue carved from the forest’s very bones. The small sounds of the woods faded before her spell, bowing as in deference to their suzerain lady. Only when the final snap of frost faded from the air and every second passed like an eternity did she continue, Dread Morgan pronouncing the doom of adventure without an ounce of a lady errant’s grace. “To recover the stolen stars your needs number three: eyes to see them, a glass to mark them, and a bag to hold them. The former two I may provide, within my observatory in Avalon. Yet that raises trouble of its own, for the Lady of the Lake’s domain is not so easily breached.”
Recalling the witch’s slantwise reference to the same, Quiet Cathán regarded her with a questioning stare, determined to hear an answer one way or another this time. “‘Twas my understanding you work with Lady Viviane, serving as one of her students in fairy glamour [Footnote 14].”
Dread Morgan’s aura of authority cracked for a moment, her face coming into full view for the first time Quiet Cathán had ever seen bearing an annoyed scowl. “Discord stands between us, of late. She disagrees with my means of striking at the nobles circling my brother and has not forgiven my loss of Kingsheart, the Sheath of Rhiannon [Footnote 15].”
Of all the witch’s mischief, the loss of Solemn Arthur’s scabbard remained the one Quiet Cathán could not explain. No matter how often he turned it over in his mind, he could not fathom why the witch might aid her beloved brother in times of strife after dealing upon him an ultimate doom like the Great Queen of Death with whom she shared her name. Though he feared to breach the questing stillness with a question of personal interest, the knight’s duty of curiosity could not be contained. “That I do not understand. If you love your brother so, why remove his greatest shield?”
“‘Twas my hope he might remember his mortality and with it caution. But it only steeled his resolve all the greater.” The witch’s expression fell, vitrifying into a solemnly mournful frown. Even as the shadows gathered to reclaim her mystery, Quiet Cathán could see her eyes boring through the years themself and the flames reflected upon them. Then the moment passed and she struck her staff against stone with all the severity of a judge’s gavel. “But that is history and our danger lies in opening the Chalky Gates [Footnote 16]. A token of passage I may procure, but I need materials to fashion protection from cold and wave. To that end, travel north and win for me a jewel of selkie glass.”
Though he knew not the jewel of which she spoke, the seal-maidens of the sea on winter’s edge were a familiar story to Quiet Cathán. “Heartening news. I need only set my course for the castle of Courteous Gawain where I am sure to find aid. Yet what of this bag? To hold something so bright as a star, I reckon no mundane cloth will do.”
The witch smiled, raising her staff to the sky above with a nod. “Quite right. As the stars are set as jewels upon the veil of night, so too must our bag be cut from cloth steeped in the shadow of the abyss. The only remnant of that chaos before the first wind blew lies within the calamitous ruin of the ocean serpents. Thus, slay for me a dragon and bring me its stomach. I shall fashion suitable luggage from it.”
A thrill of terror ran through the knight. He would not be deterred from his duty, but dragons of the deep remained the direst of dangers in the world. Choking spring growth with devilish venom, they blighted the land. Boiling river and stream with breath of fire, they soured the waters. Clouding the sun and skies with wings of smoke and ruin, they shadowed the heavens like sin upon the heart of Humanity. And against all of that, Quiet Cathán was called to test his arms. A foe to challenge the likes of Solemn Arthur and Loyal Lancelot. Skin hard as steel, fangs sharp as swords, and claws long as spears. Yet the knight accepted his challenge with open eyes and a light hand. For he knew others would burn if he did not. “A most difficult task do you set before me, but complete it I shall. My only worry then is thus: how shall we meet again, after we separate here? My journey north will take no short time.”
Taking this as answer to the quest laid before him, Dread Morgan struck the ground a third time and her enchantment shattered in a cawing of crows. Then she swept upon her palfrey and started on her way, speaking over her shoulder as she went. “I should think the answer simple. I shall await you in the tower upon the lakeshore. There is no better entry to the land beneath the waves. I will watch for your coming at twilight, on the first Sunday of each month. Until then, oh blade of my brother. May the moon keep you, lake-water ease your pains, and angels lighten your path.”
She vanished into the woods with the last, leaving Quiet Cathán alone amid the trees. The knight stood watch for a time, neither expecting his companion to return nor ready to abandon the witching hour he’d caught the hem of. Finally a hawk cried in the distance, out of time and out of season but unmistakable nonetheless. Taking it as sign the chase began, the knight crossed himself and turned away from Dread Morgan’s path. Stalker’s hooves beating a marching tune in the autumn air, he set his path to the north.
End Part I
Footnote 1: It should be noted there is no other textual evidence to this tale beyond the following. Similarly, the other works by the original author present a confusing source for such a tale. Even looking at this alone, it’s an Arthurian story but focused around an Irish knight which stands out as odd, to say the least. Not only that, the degree to which the text tries to tie in elements from the original Welsh such as references to Gawain’s original name of Gwalchmei alongside later editions from the likes of Mallory and the nameless author of the Green Knight speaks to a more recent writing. In that same way, the elements apparently referencing the Matter of France in some of the later segments of the story – alongside the Tale of the Nameless Paladin from what seems to be the same author – seem to indicate the original text was written by one more interested in the ideals of knighthood than any sort of national identity, for good or ill.
Footnote 1A: Likewise, it should be noted the text is not only transcribed in modern English, but modern narrative form. As the form I am most familiar with, I found it to be far more readable than an attempt at replicating a medieval Chivalric Romance. The best I could do to preserve some of the old sentiment was to attempt repeated alliteration within individual sentences as in the somewhat rare poetic scheme used in the likes of Gawain and the Green Knight.
Footnote 2: This will be detailed later when the sword comes up, but it’s another point of confusion in the text. By all appearance, Holiteinn is a name that came about confusing ‘holy brand’ with ‘holly branch’ when attempting to reconcile it with other mythical swords. That those other swords are not in fact British seems irrelevant to the text.
Footnote 3: With this, I will note the varied names given thus far for Arthurian locations. For this text, Logres is used in reference to Arthur’s kingdom, Camelot to his capital, and Ehangwen to his hall as the original source tended to use the former two interchangeably for all three. As for Ehangwen, my early research pinned it as a Welsh name for Arthur’s hall. Now, however, I cannot find any corroborating information again thanks to a certain famous fictional series.
Footnote 4: Yet another example suggesting the original author is nowhere near as clever as they think they are; every important character is given an epithet they are referred to alongside their name. This seems a reference to the Homeric epics, but only feels out of place in an Arthurian tale.
Footnote 5: I would translate the term, but it’s incredibly uncertain what is meant here, particularly because the same word seems to be used for different colors. To the uninitiated, glas is usually translated in modern times as green, but seems to have had an original connotation along the lines of ‘sea colored’ and could also refer to blue or grey. Even later in this sentence, when ‘green’ is used, the text is very specific that it is green.
Footnote 6: The original text only ever refers to Merlin in this way. While the etymology of the name is unrelated to the bird, I preserved the reference because it relates to a hawk theme associated with Cathán’s travels that continues throughout the whole tale.
Footnote 7: I have no idea what this refers to. The original author seems to have wanted to give Bedivere something important to do and decided a horn would relate to his position as marshall and tied theologically to the archangel. That’s the best I can figure.
Footnote 8: The text likes to refer to Cathán as ‘new’ and fameless’, seemingly a way of justifying the inclusion of a new knight into the common roster.
Footnote 9: Arthur is given a strong tie to the ocean throughout this tale. I am unsure as to why; whether it be a reference to ‘glas-eyes’, the Lady of the Lake and Avalon, or something else entirely.
Footnote 10: The text occasionally refers to swords as ‘graven’ such as here. This seems to be in reference to similar weapons described in Beowulf, but why a decidedly English tale would find references in one of the quintessentially British ones is baffling.
Footnote 11: As with ‘Hawk-mage’, corvus is used here to preserve a theme. Crows and ravens are used interchangeably in heraldry under the term, so it’s unclear which of the two is intended since there is a common theme seemingly associated with the former. But the intention in Cathán’s shield seems to be a symbol of wisdom as opposed to death which would associate more with the latter. As best I can tell, the text associates ravens with Cathán and crows with antagonistic forces meant to mirror this association.
Footnote 12: Stalker is another point of confusion. In the first place, it’s unclear if the term is meant as a name or title. Since the evidence of the name relates to the horse’s shoes, it could be simply meant to say it was a well-equipped warhorse. In that same way, it’s unclear if the same horse is even present throughout, since there are some segments where it would seem impossible to take a horse and yet Cathán still has ‘Stalker’ on the other end. Going from there, the etymology of the name or title is odd. The first explanation I have come up with is that it’s a corruption of ‘Stahl-skór’ meaning ‘steel-shoe’. But that doesn’t make the most sense since that incorporates words from two different languages and I can’t confirm whether the pronunciation would match. The second explanation is that it’s a pun on the term a ‘stalking horse’ which seems needlessly silly for a story like this and perhaps somewhat anachronistic. Either way, there isn’t an especially good explanation.
Footnote 13: While there are a lot of odd references to antiquity in this segment, the one which stands out the most is the one called ‘Radiant’. Later passages deal with the subject more, so for the moment we’ll simply say it seems like a bid to tie Cathán needlessly to other mythologies in an attempt to give him more clout.
Footnote 14: The identity of the Lady of the Lake is a nuanced discussion, particularly because there seems to be more than one. For the sake of this tale, Viviane is the one who gave Arthur Excalibur, taught Morgan magic, and brought Arthur to Avalon after Camlann.
Footnote 15: Another instance of the original author apparently trying to be cleverer than is good for them. Excalibur’s scabbard famously has no name. The former name of Kingsheart I can somewhat justify as a narrative necessity in this instance and a poetic term for what its function was; the scabbard prevented him from losing blood so in a sense it could be considered a second heart. The latter title is beyond me. I have no idea why a figure from the Mabinogi would enter into an Arthurian tale, particularly as Culhwch and Olwen is a tale of the broader Mabinogion, much less why Excalibur’s sheath would be named after her. We’ll chalk that one up to a mystery for the ages.
Footnote 16: Meant to refer to the entrance of Avalon. Perhaps misguidedly, since the chalk downs of Britain are to the best of my awareness not where the most often proposed locations of the mythical island are, but oh well.
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