The Grail of Sir Thomas

The witch shook her head. “How awful! Thou must be lying! Where can such beasts live?”

“Faraway… But the greatest wonder happened on our way back, across the scorching sands. Our party was few, as we’d sold everything save three horses, not to mention two carts with gifts for our kin… The road was said to be safe and empty, so we let our guards go. There were just a couple of versts to the city, and we rode, happy with our close return to Rus’…”

He sighed, wiped his forehead. A ghost of fear flickered in his eyes, as he went through something hard again. “And when we already could see the city walls, some robbers attacked us out of the blue. Two dozens of them against the three of us. Each of us can stand up to two, or even three if he gets angry, and that’s not a boast, but the third of us was ill then. We carried him in a cart, and in two we could not…”

“Come on!”

The merchant said with delight, “That would have been our end if not the marvelous warrior who came at the very last moment! He was like a menacing lightning in God’s hand. His stallion was black, with mane and tail flying in the wind, the sword in his hand shone like the brightest star in the sky of Bagdad. When he dashed on the villains, the ground moaned and a flock of black crows soared behind…”

“Which crows?” Thomas didn’t get it.

“The clods of earth thrown up by his stallion’s hooves! The warrior uttered a scary shout. Many villains collapsed, and the rest had their legs turned water. And when the warrior came on them with his sword raised, only five dared to attack him.”

“Come on,” Thomas asked impatiently.

The merchant took a breath. His chest straightened proudly, as if it were him fighting those villains. “He threw all five down with three strikes! I don’t know how he managed it, but I saw three terrible blows, after which the grass in ten sazhens around was splashed with blood and the villains lay like slashed ram carcasses. The hero did not bother to dismount. Just smiled, wiped his sword, and turned his horse. In vain we cried after him, wanted to pay homage, offered money and rich gifts for our miraculous rescue! He didn’t even say his name. Fortunately, one of us had seen him before and recognized him!”

Thomas asked with respect, “So who was that marvelous warrior, as much modest as he is valiant? The world has few knights endowed with such wonderful virtues. I thought all of them used to sit at the Round Table.”

The merchant said solemnly, “It was Michael Uryupinets himself!”

The wonderer gave an understanding nod. He seemed to have heard of this valiant hero. The merchant crossed himself piously, Thomas did the same. Both looked at each other with patronizing negligence: what can be expected from a fool?

Actually, each of them looked a boor from the point of view of another: one made a cross from the right shoulder, while another from the left. They did not know that the first one would later be called an Orthodox and the second one a Catholic.

* * *

With drunken surprise, the merchants peeped into the winebowls that never grew lighter. Finally, the youngest man turned one over: a scanty splash of brew came out and vanished before it could reach the ground. At once the winebowl got empty, even dry, as if it were held over the fire. The ill-starred merchant failed to shake even a single drop out. He got it in the neck, and the second winebowl was now handled with care: they all but bowed to it.

The boar managed to sate everyone, so quickly it gained new meat on: juicy and odorous, already roast and larded with garlic and onions. The eldest one appeared to be the most enduring: he ate and drank for twelve, loosened his belt, then took it off. His friends leaned back one by one, fell drunkenly asleep, one began to snore with a bone in hand. The witch took the bone out carefully, put into the bag on her belt. Oleg saw it and nodded. She slipped up. Did not consider the merchants have not the same toothless gums as hers. Her yellow stubs of teeth would only take off small fibers of meat, but men’s strong teeth, in search of marrow, have grinded what the boar can’t be resurrected without. She’ll have to look for a stronger spell, as getting a new pig is more difficult. And she may fail in it: the ancient skill of sorcery is going, and it will never return.

When the eldest merchant gave up, fell on his back and began to snore, only Thomas and Oleg remained by the magic tablecloth. The witch ate almost nothing, while the knight and the wonderer satiated themselves in a manly way, unhurried and sedate, with a skill to get their fill in advance, like old wolves do.

The witch looked sideways: no strange ears, just merchants sleeping heavily. “So who’s watching you?”

“They were,” Thomas corrected proudly. “Now devils watch them. And put firewood under their pots.”

“Put where?” the witch didn’t get it.

Oleg explained condescendingly, “It’s from their doctrine of afterlife. Never mind.”

“Oh,” the witch drawled. “Some new faith? Well, there were plenty of those… Off chance this one won’t last too. You’ve crushed some foes, but what about others?”

“No others,” Thomas replied angrily, wounded by what the witch had said about Christ’s holiest faith. “We’ve crushed those godless villains.”

“In fact they were Christians,” Oleg did not fail to sting.

“Crushed all?” the witch disbelieved.

“Killed the chiefs. And the flock, if they had any, will disperse. Who’s to come out against us if we defeated the strongest?”

The witch watched the young knight with regret: proud and happy he was, in raptures over his victory. He kept his chest was thrown out and his shoulders squared, as if the king were already favoring him, presenting with bounties. He doesn’t know yet that nature abhors a vacuum.

Copyright

Copyright 1994 Yury Nikitin

English translation 2013 Ingrid Wolf

Cover art 2013 Denis DeNeWeR Petrov

Smashwords Edition

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Endnotes

1

In the original text Oleg names himself kalika [kali’ka], which is a Russian word for pilgrim and wanderer. Since late Middle Ages, it was mostly used to mean a vagrant beggar singer of religious songs, especially the one physically impaired (Russian word kaleka [kale’ka], meaning a cripple, derived from it). Also, kalika is a character of Russian mythology. In some legends, they have great physical strength and perform heroic deeds and wonders. In non-fictional contexts, kalika is commonly translated into English as simply pilgrim, but that does not encompass the full scope of meanings conveyed in this fiction book and explained above, so the word wonderer was adopted instead to convey the original message as close as possible. (The references here and after by translator)