The Grail of Sir Thomas

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Slav. And you? From Britain?”

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

Oleg nodded. “I have also loved it on Don.”

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

“Dozens of times.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there is a more difficult sort of reclusion: being among people, dressing, eating, and doing as they do, but living this life with your flesh only, while your soul remains as clean and sublime as it was on the mountain peak. Many tried Great Reclusion, but few succeeded in it!

The road meandered in hills. Twice Oleg saw odd ugly olives with swollen trunks, which would only grow in that land, until the hills parted and the road went out into the open.

Far ahead, there was a lofty fortified castle — a gloomy building of four floors, with a tall watchtower. At that moment the castle was ramparted. It looked swarmed with ants, but those were lots of men: dragging huge stones, tying them round to lift on the wall. Oleg saw their bare backs bustling everywhere and the wet glister of trunks that were barked while dragged.

The road forked: one branch turned to the castle eagerly while another went by. The wonderer passed by the castle without interest: he had seen lots of its sort. Since the Saracen were defeated and Jerusalem with her lands captured, the Frank crusaders fortified hastily, enclosing with walls. Kings vied with each other in bestowing the lands they did not control on their knights, and each knight rushed to build a castle to shelter behind its solid walls.

The castle keep is a tall square tower: wide and massive, formed by huge granite blocks. It is surrounded by smaller buildings, their roofs barely visible over the high rampart. The castle stands in the bend of a river — a common way to ensure better protection. On the other side, there is a deep moat dug from the river and filled with its water. The massive gate is deep in the wall, under the arched cornice, flanked with two small towers where guards would hide.

The wonderer had left the castle far on the left and behind when he heard a fast clatter of hooves approaching from it. Without looking back, he stepped off the road and past the roadside. He knew the wicked men’s habit to whip pedestrians while riding.

Hooves clattered past him. He saw three men on light slim-legged horses. The last rider looked back at him, shouted and stopped. Others reined up reluctantly. The three of them have motley rags on but also sabers and daggers/ One has a bow on his back and a quiver full of feathered arrows by his saddle. Their faces are hungry and evil.

“Hey you,” the back rider cried harshly. “Whose man?”

“A pilgrim, good people,” Oleg replied meekly. “On my way home from the Holy Land.”