Just Published: As Is, A Short Story

"As Is," a short story by Katherine Woodbury, is now available on Amazon.

"As Is" is the most directly satiric of the pieces I've published so far. It also took me back to my short story writing days, which was most satisfying. 

Here is the blurb. The beginning paragraphs of the story are below:

A disillusioned college student, Ben hates dating. He is tired of the back-biting and rumor-mongering, the grievances and label-calling of his peers. A supportive relationship with a guy as laid-back as Ben seems impossible.

Nevertheless, he enters himself in the college auction. Anyone can bid for a date with Ben.

Even nonchalant Ben is surprised when an entirely unexpected bidder steps forward.

As Is

I

The news staff at Androscoggin Community College was having a debate.

Or the closest thing to one. It was the type of discussion in which each group pronounced its position without listening to any other group, then bemoaned the lack of true dialog.

The Student Council planned to hold an auction. An officer got the idea from her aunt who told her about high school auctions when she was growing up and how fun they were and what services students offered and how much money they raised.

The activists in the newsroom were upset by the debasing political implications. They threw out terms like “privilege” and “cultural imperatives” and “appropriation” and “infrastructure” until nobody knew what they were talking about—but they sounded knowledgeable and important.

The conservative religious lifestyle writers were upset because they claimed that students would buy each other for sex. And then other parties got upset with the “fundamentalists” for being so “narrow-minded” until the health-conscious students starting making noises about STDs.

The Business & Technology reporters were in a snit because the Student Council had turned down their idea for a robot combat tournament. The activists had attacked that idea for its simulations of war, etc. etc. but nobody really minded robots beating the crap out of each other. The auction ruffled more feathers or raised more hackles or triggered more outrage or something that led to a lot of strongly-held and profoundly-worded opinions.

Jill Harrison stood in the middle of the newsroom, looking shattered. She needed to write up a piece on the auction, including a list of offered services. She’d inadvertently set the debate or colloquy or whatever it was in motion by asking, “Hey, does anyone have anything to offer?”

Ben wove through the tables.

“Put me down for a date,” he told Jill. “I mean, I’m offering a date—movie and dinner.”

She gave him a relieved smile. “You know, some girls will bid for you too, Ben.”

“That’s okay. Never knew a college student who complained about being fed.”

Don stopped pontificating about Western civilization’s discriminatory practices and frowned. “You really think entering yourself in this auction is a good idea, Ben?”

Don was the kind of activist who accused the college cafeteria of “appropriating Mexican culture” when it served tacos. Ben tried to point out that tacos likely got appropriated from the Nahua population. But Don wasn’t much for the complications of history and regions. Every culture was pure unless and until Don didn’t approve of the people involved.

Corey joined the conversation. “I think you should be careful, Ben.”

Corey was “they,” which meant that Ben usually referred to Corey as Corey. People like Don foamed into attack-mode when people slipped up and called Corey “he.” The fact that everyone, including Don, automatically referred to Corey as “he” when Corey wasn’t around seemed to escape everyone’s notice except Ben’s. Luckily, Corey was less concerned with being offended than were Corey’s supporters.

Corey went on, “You don’t want to become a target.”

Lots of nods as “homophobic” and “bullying” and “uncharitable behavior” floated through the air. There was a temporary lull as everyone in the newsroom nodded sagely over the horribleness of people being jerks—until each group remembered how blind other people were to their obnoxiousness. But at least the wretchedness of life bonded them all temporarily.

Ben decided he needed to get to Conversational French twenty minutes early.

Impossible Task

This is a story that has been around the block and back and then around the block again. I can understand why it doesn't sell: it has a "Lady and the Tiger" ending for one thing (ironically enough, I've always hated "Lady and the Tiger" endings, but since I know how my stories end, it's okay when I do it); for another, the story is rather substanceless; there is really no big A-HA (just a little a-ha). To make it work, I would have to invest a lot more into the psychology of the characters.

Which isn't going to happen.

But I do like it. One of the earliest experiments I did with writing (way back when I was a teen) was changing all the heroes of fairytales to villains and all the villains to heroes, which shows that I had a proclivity for anti-heroes fairly early on. This story was written in my 20's, not my teens, but it reflects that reverse characters approach.

********************************
Alfred was an arrogant prince, so the princess, Polly, set him an impossible task: "Find the emerald of Terano." And the arrogant prince, Alfred, went away, swearing to do the impossible to show her, to have her. He would.

He was an angry, young man. He bought a boat and hired a crew and sailed away, and that, Polly thought, is the last of him, thank goodness.

Alfred never returned. Sulking in his castle, Polly thought. Ah well, pride proceeds the fall.

Prince Robert, Polly's next suitor arrived. He was handsome and nice, terribly nice. Polly gave him a much easier task than Alfred's. Robert returned within a month. He presented his prize, a flower from the Forest of Malino. The prime minister declared it authentic. Wonderful. Polly's insides wrapped themselves around her heart in ecstasy.

Robert proposed a visit.

"I would love to see your country," Polly said, feeling some gushing was appropriate.

"I would love for you to see it," said Robert, and it was settled.

Robert's councilors greeted Polly effusively. Such a pleasant young woman, they said. Such a splendid couple you and Robert will make, they said. Such a profitable match, they did not say, but Polly agreed. Her prime minister was pleased.

Robert and Polly drove through the countryside and boated on the lake. They swam at the beach and strolled in the evening down half-hidden walks.

O wondrous days. O fabulous hours.

Calamity arrived in the guise of a shadowy man named Marcus. He trudged into the sitting room where Polly and Robert sat tête-à-tête.

Marcus was Prince Alfred's servant. Marcus wanted news. Did they know where Alfred was? Had they seen him since he left for Terano?

"He stayed here on his way," Robert said. "I haven't seen him since."

Polly, numb and agonized, shook her head.

"We look," Marcus said. "We will continue searching."

He departed, as endurable and ineffable as he had come.

Polly said, "I should never have given Alfred such a difficult task. What if he died in Terano?"

"He knew the risks," Robert said.

"I should have given him an easier task."

"He would have been offended. Remember, I met him, Polly." Robert smiled. "Most impulsive."

"I feel guilty."

"You must allow for his choices."

He diverted her gently with talk. He spoke intelligently about history, politics and his family. He had an aunt who never left her house because she feared her beauty would overwhelm the populace. He had a cousin who trained bees. Polly laughed and forgot Alfred. She and Robert picked a wedding day.

Marcus again marred Polly's serenity. He approached her on the path along the river when she was alone.

He said softly, "Please, princess, for Alfred's sake, visit the last cottage behind the shops," and was gone.

She slipped out the next day. Robert was meeting with the council of ambassadors to discuss the merging of his and Polly's countries: the implications of trade, policy and what-not.

Polly wore a cap, coat and pants. She tiptoed down the back stairs through the empty kitchen and across the cobbled yard. A stable hand said, "Hey, young man, where are you going?" but Polly didn't stop. She sprinted out the stable gate and down the street to the village.

How lovely not to see it from the carriage. Women bustled in and out of shops, swinging their baskets and laughing great, big, belly laughs. "Hello, Mary. How's that lazy, good-for-nothing husband of yours?" "Let me tell you. You haven't heard nothing yet." And little boys, their hands outstretched, "Please, sir. Ah, please sir. Just a penny," until the big, angry mamas pulled them away, "What are you doing? Begging? You ain't no beggar."

Everyone was talking about Polly and Robert. "That young princess, now, she seems pleasant enough. Good enough for our Robert. A nice girl. The prince sure does love her."

"Not too pretty, but I never did trust good looks," said the grocer's wife, but the drunks coming out of the tavern, knew better and sang quavering songs about Polly's beauty. Polly fled, ears burning.

She found the cottages through an alley. They overlooked a narrow road behind the shops. They were pretty houses with friendly windows and cluttered yards. White socks, yellow shirts and shorts with holes in the pockets dragged soggily from the clotheslines. Dogs and cats gazed limply from behind fences. A few children clung to the gates to watch Polly pass.

She thought the last cottage untenanted. It was such a sad house with drooping gray colors, but, "Pardon," said a voice, and a man limped around Polly and opened the gate. He carried a small bag of groceries. He set it down to relatch the gate, and she saw that his right hand was crippled, all the fingers frozen in a fist and the thumb gone.

Such a sad, little house and a sad, old man.

He looked at her across the gate. She saw he was not old. His face was ragged with scars but rather grand for all that. He was still so arrogant was Alfred.

"Good-day," Alfred said, but Polly said his name.

He quivered into immobility, gripping his groceries.

Polly opened the gate and took his arm. He averted his face.

She led him inside and made him tea. "Was the task so dangerous?" she said. "I did not know. I did not mean to bring you harm, Alfred."

He rested the teacup on his knee, said to the carpet, "I found the emerald, Polly. I told you I would," and he smiled.

"What happened?"

"You are going to marry, Robert, Polly?"

"Yes."

"Don't ask me. Go back to the castle. Tell Robert you had a good time seeing his
village. Go."

"Tell me." She stood before his chair and lifted his face to her. He winced. "Tell me."

"Robert stole the emerald."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "Good. Don't. Leave me be."

"I can't believe you would let him."

His mouth curled grimly. "He bound me at night. He locked me in his dungeon. He did this to me," raising the broken hand, and she put her hand to her mouth.

"He wanted to marry you. He said I didn't deserve you. Said I wouldn't know how to care for you. Said he was rescuing you from a terrible fate."

"Why are you here?"

"I escaped from the dungeon. I couldn't go home," his face to the carpet again, "not like this, not--" hunching his shoulders, "broken," because he could not bear humiliation, had never endured it well.

"Or to me," she said.

"Especially not to you. It was not just your land I wanted, Polly."

"Come with me to the castle."

"No," standing, backing away from her.

"I said I would marry you if you found the emerald. I promised you first. I must ask Robert if he took it," while Alfred shook his head.

"I'll drag the council of ambassadors to your doorstep," she said, furious with his pride, furious at her thoughtlessness.

I never looked for him. I never wondered.

So she brought Alfred with her into the assembly hall where Robert sat with the ambassadors, who rose in astonishment at Alfred's face. She told Alfred's story.

"Of course I never wounded him," Robert said. "Polly, you know what he is like."

"Never a liar," she said. "I never heard him called a liar."

"Over so great a prize," Robert said to the ambassadors, "what man would not falter and fall," condemning himself as well as Alfred, and he added quickly, "Alfred's temper--his refusal to accept defeat--is well-known."

"Perhaps, Prince Robert," said an ambassador, "you would allow a search of your possessions," and for the first time, Robert's confidence wavered while Polly thought, I never saw: Robert's pride, as overweening as Alfred's, that must obtain what it wants, not with feats or declarations but with honeyed words and sweet messages.

"Polly," Robert said. "Polly, I love you," while Alfred stood cold and aloof at her side.

She touched him lightly. He responded: a quiver of warmth, an unclenching of muscles.

"Polly," Robert said, "I did it for you. I took the emerald for your sake. I think," to the ambassadors, "I can fairly say that I won it."

"Surely," said an ambassador, "it matters how you won it," and the ambassador from Polly's country said, "The princess asked that it be brought to her. Neither prince has completed the quest."

They turned as shouts rose outside the assembly room. Marcus rushed through the doors followed by six guards. He carried an object, wrapped in cloth, in his hand.

He said to Alfred, "I found it in Prince Robert's room."

"No," Prince Robert cried, rushing forward, but, "Give it to me," Polly shouted, and Robert dropped back.

Marcus looked at Alfred. Polly looked at Alfred. He stared across the room at the wrapped emerald, he stared at Polly, the greatest prize he could ever have won.

He said, "Give it to her, Marcus."

So Marcus gave it to her, and she held her choice in her hand.

"Which prince do you choose?" said the ambassador from Alfred's country, curiously, not at all reproachfully.

She considered, and she felt, of a sudden, that the emerald was only the brief, illusionary image of choice, that she had never been bound by her tasks any more than Robert and Alfred had been bound to achieve them, that yes and no lay at her disposal, of a surety.

Which will you choose?

And she weighed the question in her mind as night closed in on the room and servants came in to light the lamps.

An Arthurian Legends Story: Seriously

"Seriously" was published in Irreantum magazine in 2003. 

The story is historically accurate (as far as historical accuracy goes in Arthurian fiction). That is, it is less 13th-century Malory and more 500 C.E. Romano-Britain. It is not 500 C.E. Druid/New Age/Feminist silliness. 

I use the same background for Gawain that I do for Modred and Geraint in "Merciless," my first Arthurian story. The three are brothers. 

* * * 

Cea liked her parents, but they were altogether too much for her most of the time.

Brod, entering the hall that morning, bellowed, "You should have seen his face. When I picked up his head, you should have seen how he looked. I scared shit out of him," while Fevr laughed.

Fevr laughed now. "Oh, Brod, he won't come."

"But, Fevr, he's an honorable man, this Gawain. A good soldier. He promised." 

Brod's tone betrayed what he thought of such honor: human honor.

Brod despised all humans—the Saxons, the Britons, the Picts—and Fevr loved to hear him despise them, although now and again she would say, "But, Brod, don't be unkind," and they would laugh and laugh.

Cea didn't mind, didn't mind her parents being fay, didn't mind not being fay herself since she wasn't their child, just the human orphan they cared for, and she didn't mind that most of the time. Just didn't want to be involved, didn't want to scare shit out of anyone.

As Brod had done to some Briton soldier in the south country, the old hacked-off head trick. Brod liked old tricks, liked to stalk about their fort in fairy guise, carrying his head in his hand, alarming his retainers who knew what to expect, who had seen Brod headless before and still jumped and swore. Brod was like that.

He visited human dwellings, great halls presided over by warlords, men claiming to be kings. He would arrive during feasts, dare the assembly, "I will allow one of you to strike me with my axe. If I survive the blow, you will let me return the favor."

There was always one fool of a soldier eager to prove his strength. Up with Brod's axe, off with Brod's head, and then Brod would scoop up his head while the soldier turned white with fear and shock. The head, dangling from Brod's hand, would speak: "Come in one month to the Green Chapel in Cumbria in the north. There, you will receive a similar stroke."

None of the soldiers ever came. Brod had been playing his game for as long as Cea could remember, possibly longer than she had been alive, and she knew no one would ever come.

"This one," Brod insisted, "is different. A hero amongst his people. One of so-called King Artos' men."

"I'd like a visitor," Fevr said, "especially a handsome, young soldier."

"I didn't say he was handsome."

"Honorable soldiers always are, Brod."

"Honorable soldiers aren’t susceptible to seducing wives."

"Aren't they? I think I could induce a little lustful fumbling," and she and Brod laughed until they couldn't speak.

Cea escaped outside, tramped across the rough, dark earth. She pushed into the wind, stooping now and again to pick up firewood.

I wouldn't come. I wouldn't care how noble or courageous it made me seem. I'd stay away.

I would never take Brod's challenge in the first place.

If the soldier did come, he would stop at their hall. Theirs was the only fort near the Green Chapel, the only decent fort for miles on the south side of the Roman wall.

He won't come. Brod knows that. He takes pleasure in proving it.

Brod was in the courtyard when Cea returned that evening, and he was greeting a Briton soldier. Brod was in human guise—a big man with a red beard—and Cea paused to watch.

"Welcome, welcome," Brod said, the hearty, good-natured host: Brod's favorite role. "Gawain, you say. Welcome, Gawain, to our humble abode."

Gawain, the soldier, was of Brod's height but slightly slimmer. His level eyes gathered in every detail of the courtyard before fixing on Brod. 

Then, Gawain smiled broadly. "Many thanks," he said. "It would give me great pleasure to rest here before I complete my quest."

Pompous fool. Cea trudged into the hall to tell Fevr.

Fevr, ecstatic, swept to meet Gawain, hands out—"A visitor. How lovely"—while Gawain gaped.

Fevr is beautiful, Cea reminded herself. She has the spontaneity along with the spotless skin and even teeth and thick hair. People want to get to know her, they want to think she is wonderful.

Cea sighed and wished Fevr wouldn't introduce her, but Fevr would, not from meanness; she thought Cea was pretty, she thought Cea's only problem was Cea didn't have enough confidence, she was proud of Cea even if Cea wasn't proud of herself.

"This is my daughter."

"Hullo, hullo," Gawain said.

Cea glared, Fevr frowned at Cea, and Gawain blinked nervously.

Fevr said, "We love visitors, especially ones of such importance. What is your quest?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy," Gawain said, startling Brod who spilled drink down his beard.

He stared at Gawain over the rim of his cup.

"Secrecy?"

Gawain gave a portentous nod.

"How exciting," Fevr said to cover Brod's guffaw. "Not one eensy-weensy detail?"

"Only," Gawain said, "I need to find the Green Chapel. I have to be there in three days time."

"You've come to the right place," Brod said "The Green Chapel is less than a day's journey from here. Why not stay with us till then?"

Poor fool. He was so stupid and good-natured, he didn't deserve Cea's parents for three days; that was more than any quest should have to include, no matter how ridiculous.

"You are most kind," Gawain said and beamed around the table.

He swaggered off to bed, whistling. A few minutes later, Fevr followed.

She'll seduce him. He'll look the fool twice over when Brod doesn't kill him, and Fevr discards him.

Cea didn't want to hear about it. So humans were stupid, and the human girl who had borne Cea and deposited her absentmindedly in Fevr and Brod's hall had been as stupid: a witless idiot who had been raped, probably, by a soldier like this one, probably. A soldier who bragged about his virtue and honor. Cea knew humans were like that. She didn't want to hear about it.

She woke early, dressed quickly, planning to slip out before Brod and Fevr were up, but they were whispering together over the hearth. Fevr waved an impatient hand.

"Oh, Cea, you have to hear this. I got one kiss from him, most chaste. The rest of the time, he told me how unworthy he was of my love. I'm serious, Brod. He may be a fool, but he's a genuine fool."

Brod slapped his chair arm, his belly convulsing with chuckles.

"He told me my beauty was too radiant for him to bear. Honestly, Brod, don't laugh. Or you, Cea."

Cea grinned and went outside.

She searched for old berries and nuts in the fields outside the fort. She had her tunic all over mud, and her hands red with cold when Gawain knelt beside her and began to rub her hands quickly between his.

"I can warm them myself," she said.

He released her, smiling at nothing. She shook her head. Idiot.

He said, "Have you heard any tales about that place?" nodding towards the valley.

They were on the edge of the hill that overlooked the Green Chapel's hollow.

Cea shrugged.

Gawain sat, hands around knees, and it came to her, of a sudden, that if he were genuine—a truly honorable soldier—he believed he would die in two days. She glanced sideways at his face.

Not a fool's face, not at the moment. Rather grim, those level eyes surveying the ground below.

She said, "It's a fay place," hoping for a reaction.

Nothing. She continued to dig.

He said, "Have you ever encountered the fay?"

She shrugged.

"Has your family ever fought them, living so close?"

"No. Why?"

"I thought you might know of weapons or curses, ways to stop them."

She sat back on her heels.

"Is that your quest?"

He shifted his head; his eyes were empty of emotion.

"Depends which one," he said finally and turned his head away.

She pushed the earth into small, neat piles, automatically ordering disorder. How human, Fevr would say.

"Why is your quest a secret?"

"Aren't they always?" he said, face averted so she could not be sure of his expression, but his voice mocked.

She chewed her lip, rolling an autumn nut between her fingers. Gawain took her hands again.

"You're cold," he said.

She shrugged and gave him a sideways glance.

"The fay don't harm—" she said.

"Don't they?"

"Tricks, disappearances, wagers—nothing serious."

"Tricks can hurt," he said.

She let him warm her hands and carry the berries she'd foraged. "What did the fay ever do to you?" she said on their way back to the fort, but they entered the courtyard, and he didn't answer.

 * * *

Ten years ago, fay kidnapped Gawain's brothers. A fairy transported Modred and Geraint to a crumbling, stone castle beside the sea.

"If you try to leave," the fairy threatened Modred, the elder of the two, "the castle will collapse; it will crush you."

Modred had stayed, and he had kept the toddler Geraint from straying. Three days amongst the damp stones until Gawain found them. Even now, autumn evenings evoked for Gawain the same terrified nausea he had felt during those days, and with the nausea, memories of stumbling through swamps, following dancing lights, calling until his voice was a frayed thread of entreaty.

Gawain had found his brothers. "We can't leave," Modred had said, pale-faced and wild-eyed, his fingers tight on Geraint's wrist. "The castle will fall. It will kill us. The fairy said."

"You can't stay," Gawain said.

He'd forced them to leave, hustling Modred before him, Geraint slung over his shoulder, and the castle hadn't collapsed.

Fay lie. Fay joke. That's the harm fay do.

He'd brought Modred and Geraint home, but—

I lost them. Geraint trusts nothing, wakes at night from dreams. Modred—Modred has no faith—not in himself, not in me.

Modred led a patrol squad of which Geraint was a member. Gawain was one of Artos' lieutenants, very much the elder brother, the outsider.

They blame me.

The fay's fault. 

Impossible to find the responsible fairy now. Fay were many. Fay had no leaders, no connections. Fay did what they wished.

Gawain hated them all, indiscriminately. He had taken the green fairy's challenge at the feast, relishing the chance to strike, not caring for the consequences, just, Damn you all to hell.

Of course he didn't win. Not against fay. Not possible really. One could hope. And try.

I'll win this time.

Fay have no rules. Neither do I. Smile. Smile at your audience, behave as they expect, and kill.

He smiled, he lavished gratitude upon his host and hostess, endured Fevr's cooing and teasing. What a house. Where the mother tried to seduce the guests, and the daughter spent her days avoiding the family.

Cea had the look Geraint had had for years after the kidnaping: a panicked edge. Geraint was stable now, Geraint was sane, but Gawain dreaded that Geraint would slip away like Modred into an uncommunicative, untouchable void.

"Stupid," was all Modred said when he heard about the challenge.

Modred's squad had been on patrol during the feast. Modred stood at the door to the junior barracks, stamping his feet. Behind him, amongst the cots and stacked weapons, boys tussled, yelping their contentment. 

Geraint wasn't among them. He waited in the darkness of the door, arms folded. Galahad, the boy-priest leaned beside him. Their eyes turned from Modred to Gawain.

Geraint said, "You won't go," his voice a study in nonchalance.

"I'd go if I thought I could kill it."

Modred considered, but "Not worth the effort," he said, ending the discussion.

Stupid to go, stupid to offer one's neck to the fay.

Modred slid into the barracks and yelled for quiet. Geraint went after him, but Galahad paused.

He said to Gawain, "You hate the fay?"

"I have good reason. So does Modred." 

"Perhaps."

"You, of course, love all things, even fay.'

"I haven't been required to love the fay. If I met one, yes, I suppose I would try to love it," a long speech for Galahad. "Baptize it," he added after a pause, "which is an act of love."

Galahad was a priest, an average soldier, but Modred had never requested a replacement. Modred, Gawain suspected, needed Galahad: his talisman, his believer in something.

Galahad said, "You're thinking revenge?"

"Better than doing nothing," Gawain said, and Galahad frowned, his eyes on the line of fortifications that surrounded the hill.

"It's like nothing," he said in the slow, fractionless voice that eased the men who heard it, even if the hearing was rare. "Doing things for the mere existence of them."

Gawain said. "It's a tangible solution."

Prove to Modred that evil could be punished, pain did not have to last a lifetime.

Galahad said, "Intangibles take more—" he hesitated, and Gawain waited. "Courage. Less self-absorption. Less hedonism."

"Hedonism." Gawain barked contemptuously. "Hedonism might do us some good." 

He jerked his chin towards the tattered soldiers on the training field with their battered weapons and frayed boots.

"The things we touch are never enough. For our wants."

"I don't want much," Gawain said.

 Galahad studied him, gray eyes like metal discs. "You won't go north?" Galahad said.

"No," Gawain said and knew he lied.

Modred's squad departed next day on patrol. Four days before they would return, Gawain rode away from Artos' fort to Cumbria to find the Green Chapel.

Kill one of the fay, bring its head home, give my brothers that prize.

Not too much to ask.

* * *

"I think," Cea told Brod that night, Gawain safely stowed in the guest chamber, "he isn't going to let you strike him. I think he's going to fight."

"Oh, my." Fevr gave a mock shudder.

"And I thought he was a man of honor."

"He's frightened, Brod," Fevr said.

Cea did not say what she thought: that Gawain wasn't afraid, that he hated the fay, that he wanted to kill.

Brod's done nothing to him. Gawain agreed to the challenge.

"I'll ease the boy's mind," Fevr said. "I'll give him my girdle. I'll tell him it's magic, tell him if he wears it, no creature will hurt him."

"Oh, Fevr," Brod hooted, but Cea said, "Please, be careful."

"Careful, Cea? Your mother's girdle is no more protection than your own, sweetheart. What can the boy fight me with but his silly human weapons and his silly human fists?"

"He could hurt you."

"Then I'll kill him," Brod shrugged as Fevr glided off towards the guest chamber, her hands loosening the fabric around her waist.

Cea went to her room. She insisted on privacy, even during the winter; she hated to sleep in the great hall with her parents and their retainers for all it was so much warmer.

She curled on her bedding.

Humans were fools, Fevr had taught her, and she had no reason to disbelieve Fevr's perception. Humans believed in unseen, unknown things--principles, virtues and gods--humans set for themselves unfathomable standards. Honorable soldiers went on drudging, pointless quests. Desperate men groped for weapons against the indestructible.

Am I a fool too? Is that my inheritance, my birth mother lacking more material gifts to give?

Brod and Fevr would say not.

But had they ever truly acknowledged that Cea was not one of them?

"Cea."

She sat up, narrowing her eyes. Gawain had slipped through the curtain to her chamber. She glared. If he thought she was like Fevr, that she wanted to be, she'd tell Brod to swipe him for good.

He held out Fevr's girdle.

"Your mother says this is magic."

She nodded numbly, hating him because she'd never had to lie before, hating her parents because she'd never had to protect them before.

He stood there, pulling the girdle through his hands.

"It's your mother's," he said as if he hadn't already said, and then she noticed the emphasis.

Your mother's.

"I thought," he said, "yours might be magic too."

She didn't argue, she didn't care if she lied. She got her girdle and helped him tie it on under his shirt. He was a fool, and Brod would make him look a worse fool, but he was genuine, he was honest, he didn't want to wear a married woman's girdle.

Gawain spent the following day with Brod. They hunted, returning towards evening with partridges and a brace of rabbits. Gawain avoided Fevr. He smiled at Cea, but she couldn't approach him, wary of what she might expose.

Stop worrying. He won't hurt Brod. Brod won't hurt him. Brod is all bluster, waving arms and loud words. Nothing more. There's no need for worry.

Panic woke her before dawn, dream images of Gawain dead, Brod bleeding, Fevr screaming curses. She ran down the stone-chilled corridor to Gawain's chamber. It was empty.

"He's left," said the watchman. "Said thanks for our hospitality, hopes to see us again." The watchman chuckled. "Doubt that'll happen."

He strode on his rounds, and Cea ran out of the gate into the gray mist.

She heard a horse stamping and called. She ran into a chest. Hands touched her shoulders, her cheek—

"Cea."

--and she wanted to stay there, in that warm enclosed space.

She backed away.

"Don't fight," she pleaded. "He won't hurt you."

"They do," hoarsely, "They will."

"No, please. Just finish your quest and go. You'll be safe. I promise."

His hand brushed her arm. She could feel his questions. She sobbed and turned and ran back to the fort.

* * *

"Cea."

Gawain stared into the darkness, heard no answer.

My brothers, he should have said. For my brothers, I have to try at least.

Gawain walked the horse forward, feeling the road with his feet. It would split soon. The left hand path, Brod had told him, would lead him to the valley and the Green Chapel's hollow. The green fairy would be waiting to deliver his blow, but Gawain didn't plan to wait.

He had Cea's girdle. He didn't know if it was magic, but he suspected her mother's wasn't, and he'd rather wear Cea's.

He had wanted to go to her the night before, to be with her, hold her, nothing else. He had stayed in his chamber instead, watched the dark sky ease to gray.

I don't want another person to cower from me.

Ahead of Gawain on the road, streaks of light brushed the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the bare-limbed trees. A few flakes of snow fluttered past Gawain's face. The road twisted downwards. He reached a stream and then, a copse of trees. The road plunged and there was the Green Chapel.

Not a human chapel—not one of Galahad's sort—but a green mound in the middle of a green hollow—green even in winter—the mound split by a waterfall. Gawain left the horse by the trees and descended.

"Hullo."

No answer. Gawain pulled his sword and dagger from his belt.

Don't fight. He won't hurt you.

I want my brothers back, the heart of them. Galahad's intangibles lost to a fairy's lie.

Just finish your quest and go—

They keep themselves at arm's length. They look to each other, never to me. I failed. Every time Modred looks at me, he blames me for not coming sooner.

You'll be safe, I promise.

Worthless, elder brother.

Gawain pressed a hand to his face, felt the sword hilt impress his cheek.

My fault. I slept while they were kidnapped. I got lost during the search. I came late.

Give my brothers something—something tangible at least—a death— 

"Welcome."

The green fairy stood on the path above. Descending into the hollow, he strode to the top of the mound.

"Your arrival is well-timed. Are you ready to receive your stroke?"

Gawain let go the sword and dagger. They splashed in the waterfall's pool. He bent his neck, waited.

The axe whistled down. Nicked his neck.

He didn't move. Rage and anguish wrestled through him. Just a joke, just a joke, just a joke.

"I would have missed completely," the green fairy said, "but I thought you deserved the nick for taking my wife's girdle. Naughty boy."

And the green fairy dwindled into his host, Brod, red-bearded and laughing.

Don't fight. You'll be safe, I promise.

"You're wearing it now, aren't you?" He heaved with guffaws.

Gawain picked up his weapons.

"Oh, come now, don't be sore. We'll go back to the fort. You can stay another week."

"No," Gawain said dully.

Not even Cea truly on his side. Did he expect she would be? Could he ask it of any of them?

Brod frowned. "Look, man, I'm not angry. You're not hurt."

Gawain unwound the girdle, dropped it to the ground.

Brod chuckled. "My wife wants you to keep it."

"It's your daughter's," Gawain said and saw uncertainty flick across Brod's face.

Gawain stepped away, stepped back, bent and picked the girdle up. She'd given it to him, and Brod hadn't known. Gawain could be glad of that much.

He had reached the trees when Brod said, "Hey!" and started up the bank.

Gawain clambered onto his horse.

Brod shouted, "What did you do to Cea?"

"I asked."

"She would never have agreed." Brod reached for Gawain's knee. "She would never help a stupid, soldier boy."

Gawain kicked the horse's sides. He galloped away from the trees, over the stream to the main road.

He turned the horse's head south and pressed in his heels desperately.

He hadn't considered Cea's safety when he threw down the girdle, had thought only of his own bitterness, his own intense loneliness.

Stupid. Fool man.

He thundered down the road.

* * *

The three soldiers arrived with the sunrise. Cea was outside by the stables, fixing the livestock hutches, trying not to think of Gawain or his meeting with Brod or her warning which hadn't been a betrayal but felt so much like one.

The leader of the soldiers—compact, dark-haired—slid off his horse and walked to meet the steward.

"I'm looking for my brother," he said, his voice quiet and passionless, yet curled about with so much dark intention, Cea shivered.

She watched, her hand on the hutch railing. She saw Fevr loitering on the hall steps, ready to become the eager and enchanting hostess.

A second, lighter-haired man—boy—said, "We're looking for Gawain," and whirled as a horse rode into the courtyard.

Cea braced herself, expecting Brod's hearty, "You should have seen his face," but the man on the horse was alone, and it was Gawain.

He rode towards her, dismounting before the horse halted. 

"Cea," he said, his face pale, his voice frantic.

His eyes darted past her. He saw the three young men and gaped, looking for a moment as bewildered and dull-witted as he'd pretended to be when he first came to the fort.

The dark-haired leader, still in that passionless voice, said, "We’ve been traveling up here ever since we got off patrol. I never thought you'd do anything this stupid."

"That wasn't any reason not." Gawain twisted towards Cea. "My brothers: Modred, Geraint."

They looked at her unsmilingly, the eyes of the younger fierce, the eyes of the older empty and cold.

"Galahad," Gawain said, waving a hand towards the third soldier, a priest, and a faint, uneasy pleasure stirred Cea's heart.

A Christian. A holy man. One of theirs.

"You said you wouldn't come," Geraint said to Gawain. "You told me, you told Galahad you wouldn’t."

"What's happened?" Modred said.

"I can't—I'm not going to argue with you, not now. Cea," Gawain spun back to her. "Cea, come with us. You can trust us. Please, Cea. Your father's angry," and Modred's eyes fixed on her face.

Beyond them, she saw Brod, human guise, stride through the gate. He spotted Gawain and swerved, shouting:

"I want some answers, Soldier-boy."

Modred moved. Drawing his sword, he fixed himself between Gawain and Brod.

Brod reared back. Fevr hurried from the hall.

"Don't be a fool," Brod snapped at Modred. "I'm not going to hurt him. I want to talk to Cea."

Modred jerked his head, and she too had a protector—Geraint at her shoulder, sword ready.

Brod roared into fairy shape, huge and green with wide-open mouth.

Geraint gasped, a sound like a whimper that brought Gawain's head round.

"Is he the one kidnapped you?" Gawain said.

"Yes," Modred said.

No. Cea closed her eyes. I don't want to know, a silent cry from the numb center of her heart.

The fay do harm.

Gawain started towards Brod, but, "No," said Fevr," and, "No," said Modred, turning, his shoulder against Gawain's. "No, you can't win."

"I should have killed him before. Ten years ago. I ought to have found him and killed him then," glaring at Brod over Fevr's head.

Brod dwindled to human form. He stared and shook his head, perplexed.

"Trapped them in a castle," Gawain shouted. "Threatened them, told them, told him," his hand on the back of Modred's neck, "it would collapse if they left."

Brod laughed. "Oh, yes, that. That was just some fun, that."

Gawain surged forward. Again, Modred stopped him, his arm across Gawain's chest while Geraint on Gawain's other side said hoarsely, "Don't fight him, Gawain."

"No," Fevr said. "I wouldn't, Soldier-boy."

She isn't the hostess now, Cea thought. She's always been more Brod's protector than his lady or wife or even my mother.

"Forget it," Modred said. "I have. Geraint has."

"Have you?" Gawain turned, stared down into Modred's face. "Where are you then, if you've forgotten? I lost you. I never really got you back."

The winter breeze drifted across the courtyard, ruffling Gawain's dark hair, throwing shadows across Modred's face.

Modred said gently, so gently his voice seemed to mingle with the breeze, "I'm here. I'm here now."

Geraint's voice grumbled into the silence. "Which is more than we could say about you when we got off patrol."

And Modred grinned. Mockery glinted in his eyes before they returned to their usual opaqueness.

Gawain's muscles eased. He bowed his head. His eyes slid towards Cea.

"Cea," he said, "will you—?"

But Brod bellowed: "Don't you ask her anything." He aimed a finger at Gawain. "You tell me why she gave you her girdle. What did you do to her?"

Fevr, her voice unrecognizable, said, "You forced her?"

"No," Cea said, her eyes meeting Brod's.

Brod didn't scare her.

"I gave it to him," she said. "He asked."

Fevr crowed. "Oh, Cea, did you? Oh, honey, that's wonderful. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have let you seduce him."

"It isn't wonderful," Brod snapped. "Did you seduce him?" almost pleading.

"No," Cea said. "I'm going with them," Cea said, and her voice didn't waver any more than her eyes.

Except now Fevr frowned, saying, "Are you?" her voice sweet and tight and forbidding while, "Oh, no, you aren’t," Brod roared.

"Come here," Fevr said. "Don't be fools," to Modred and Gawain standing in her way, swords drawn. "I'm not giving Cea over to some sordid, human romance," and she started forward.

She stopped abruptly. She had seen what Brod, still shouting, had not: Galahad, standing solitary, eyes attentive. She hissed sharply.

"Brod."

"What? Oh, Fevr, he's just some Christian boy."

"Some is too much."

Fevr, Cea thought, has always seen things sharper than Brod; she's never been satisfied with just the joke.

She would have seduced Gawain. She would have, Cea thought, swung the axe clean through. I'm more like her than I thought.

Fevr and Galahad faced each other.

Cea clenched her hands. Gawain took them in his free one. Modred and Geraint lowered their swords. They all watched Fevr and Galahad, even Brod.

Spectators, Cea thought, each of us, trying to manage in the dark, to cope while the Fevrs and the Galahads face each other, the Fevrs all for themselves and the Galahads for belief, for faith, for God in this case.

Galahad said nothing, undaunted by Fevr's sugary smile and bright teeth.

"Spend a night with me, Christian boy?"

It was not a true challenge. Fevr was marking her ground, that was all, was barely unnerved when, "No," Galahad said. "Will you let me baptize you?"

"Brat," Fevr said without rancor. "The things I could do to you—"

"If I allowed—"

"I have no regard for your God's 'free-will'. I do not respect it."

A hint of wryness. "In that, at least, you have no choice."

Fevr snarled.

Galahad grimaced, his eyes straying to the fort. Fevr rustled forward, spread her fingers across Galahad's cheek. He flushed, dark pupils dilating in their gray settings. His gaze steadied on Fevr's face.

"What could you possibly want," she said, "that I couldn't give you?"

"There's always more, beyond the immediate."

"Perilous," Fevr said, "grasping for uncertainties."

"Yes," Galahad said. His mouth twisted. He paused, and Fevr waited, eyebrows raised. "Like fairy games," Galahad said, and Fevr snorted.

"Just games. Nothing more than games. Can you separate the real from the game?"

"I don't know," Galahad said and Cea heard the yet.

She twisted away from her protectors, went to stand beside Galahad.

"I'm going with them," she said. "You can't stop me, Mama."

"No," Fevr said, softening. "I didn't raise you to be stopped."

Thank you, Cea wanted to say, but Fevr would not want thanks.          

Fevr stepped away from Galahad. She knuckled Cea's chin.

"Come Brod," she said and walked away, not beaten, not contemptuous, just no longer interested, no longer involved.

"But—"

"Cea's decided. They're hers, her kind. Come," and he followed her docilely, looking back once, bemused, shaking his head.

Gawain released an uneven breath, glanced over his shoulder at Cea and smiled, his eyes wary but pleased.

Modred's flat, emotionless voice said, "Can we go now? Unless you want Galahad to exorcise the place?"

Gawain shook his head. He sheathed his sword.

Cea said, "What happened at the Green Chapel?"

"Nothing." Gawain fingered his neck where a red slash showed above the shirt. "He made me look a fool, that's all."

The words fell heavily amongst them until Geraint said to Cea, "Gawain didn't tell us about you."

"He didn't know," Cea said.

"I wouldn't have minded him going if it was to rescue you," and Cea heard mischief in the guarded voice.

Galahad made a soft sound of amusement.

She looked at the soldiers who surrounded her. Her kind, Fevr had said. Humans, Fevr had said, and she trembled at the implications. Modred's opaque gaze was as demanding in its way as Galahad's gray-eyed serenity. She stepped closer to Gawain, touched the blood at his neck.

Geraint said, "It is your girdle--"

"Geraint," Modred said sharply, and Geraint subsided, but Cea saw Modred wink--surely saw Modred wink--and Gawain saw it and flushed.

"Just a joke," he said, his cheek against her hair.

And laughed.

Arthurian Legends Tale: Merciless

I wrote this story in college, entered a contest, and received an award! It's a pro-Modred story. I have written elsewhere about why I prefer Modred to Launcelot. This story basically explores those reasons from Modred's point of view.

A few years later, I published a story based on "Gawain and the Green Knight," which can be found here.

*********************************************************

Arthur assigned Modred’s troop a reconnoitering mission east of the Hill amongst the old, Roman villas. They left in the early morning during a bout of dry, cloudless weather. Soldiers, passing from barracks to the hall, stopped to watch as Modred’s troops clattered across the level field to the first of the earth ramparts. Modred glanced back at the gate and saw Arthur raise his hand, a gesture of goodwill. Ever hopeful.

"I can choose my own men," Modred had told Arthur the night before.

"Next time. These are good boys. Not experienced but intelligent and surely, your own brother--"

Modred's brother, Geraint, was part of the problem. Geraint had complained about the assignment more than Modred.

"I need soldiers who will respond to my orders," Modred told Arthur.

Aedan overheard. He patted Modred's shoulder. "Command is a heavy responsibility for a boy your age," all condescension.

A boy his age; he was seventeen years old, not tall like Aedan–the slim gentleman–or large like Gawain, but he was fit, every muscle toned, he could fight like the best of them, but still he had to listen to Aedan call him "boy."

Better not to argue. Better just to go.

"No combat," Gawain said while the horses snorted in the brisk, chill breeze. "We don’t need deaths right now, just information. Find out if the Invaders have returned to the woods beyond the River."

So Modred led his boys steadily north, and the heavy, tangled wood gathered them in, soaking them with its massive silence. The predicted arguments flared and dwindled. Some days, they hardly spoke at all.

They crossed the Great River two days after they left the Hill. They met no Invaders, only remnants: fires hurriedly abandoned, wide, flattened campsites.

"Running like rabbits," Cerdig or Geraint would scoff, kicking at the ashes, but Modred read the signs differently.

Large numbers had camped close to the Hill and recently. The Invaders would return and in greater numbers.

We are dwindling; we need more troops, more weapons, more horses. Another onslaught might cripple us forever.

Modred said nothing aloud. His boys need the reassurance of, even, a temporary victory, and he did not want to provoke Geraint. Geraint believed in heroism, absolute deeds with absolute consequences. Fight and win and triumph. Never fight and fight and lose. Geraint was like Arthur. Modred refused to argue with either of them. He sent Galadir and Geraint ahead to scout the road, following behind with Cerdig and Pedvyr.

His troop was four in number: Cerdig, fresh-faced, given to making loud comments: "So, what's our fearless leader going to do this time?"--that type; Pedvyr, dark and lanky, who laughed at Cerdig's jokes and whispered his own that Modred suspected were funnier.

Galadir, Aedan's son. Modred had thought Aedan would argue the assignment, but when Arthur had said, "And Galadir, too," Aedan had only raised his hands, the picture of acquiescence. Galadir followed orders. He avoided Modred's eyes and flinched when Modred addressed him.

He knows what I think of his father.

Modred sighed and pulled ahead of Cerdig and Pedvyr, pushing his horse to a canter.

He rounded the corner of the rough-stoned road and found Geraint--dismounted and furious--standing alone in the courtyard of a villa.

"There's a man in there. Galadir went to have a look, and the man caught him. He won't let Galadir go."

Modred studied the villa. The south half had crumbled; most of the main hall was still intact barring occasional holes. A thin stream of smoke curled from an opening in the roof.

"Who's the man?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you spoken to him?"

"He wants to talk to you."

Modred crossed the courtyard and stepped through the remains of the doorway. It was late afternoon, the sky was gray, hinting at rain. Inside, the villa was all black shadows. A small fire burned in the hearth in the center of the floor. Modred paused, blinking rapidly, encouraging his eyes to adjust.

Opposite the door, a woman leaned against a slab of wall that was partially crumbled to either side. Beyond the hearth, a man knelt, his arm across Galadir's shoulder and chest, his knife barely touching Galadir's neck.

"You are Modred?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"I won't hurt him," the man said.

He was tall, taller than Gawain probably. Even kneeling, he held himself like a soldier.

"Who are you?"

"A man."

Geraint entered the hall. Modred heard him stumbled over the debris and swear. Geraint edged forward slowly and sat beside Modred.

"This is my brother," Modred said.

"There are more of you?"

"Yes. Pedvyr and Cerdig."

"They're watching the horses," Geraint said. "Yours too," accusingly to the man. "What if we kill your horses, hmm?"

"A man is worth more than a horse, especially these days. You’re cavalry, then?"

"Yes. Reconnoitering company for Arthur."

"Arthur? General Arthur of King Aurelianus' army?"

"Yes," Modred said.

The man laughed. "Should you really tell me all this?" he said. "I might be an Invader or a spy."

Modred studied the corners of the villa. The black shadows filled every crack of the hall, masking the debris.

Modred said, "You're Drustan--Drustanus--the son of King Marcus of Dumnoia."

"Oh?"

"If I thought you were a spy, you would be dead by now."

Drustan's voice edged: "Remember, I hold one of your men hostage."

Modred touched the back of Geraint's neck. Geraint nodded, the movement barely perceptible even to Modred's fingers.

"I have two armed men, outside," Modred said to Drustan. "And you don't know where they are."

Drustan swiveled, but he was too late. Pedvyr and Cerdig had circled the villa while Modred was talking. They knelt now on either side of the woman. Pedvyr reached easily through the gaps in the wall to grab her shoulders. Cerdig had already pinned her arms; he held his sword to her neck.

"I'll let your man go," Drustan said.

"You'll give up your knife and your sword and let us stay here tonight and tell us why you're here instead of in Dumnoia."

Drustan nodded curtly. Geraint's mouth dropped.

"Ask for more," he said, but Modred shook his head.

He knew why Drustan had agreed so quickly. He saw the way Drustan looked at the woman-–as if his own neck lay under Cerdig’s sword. He would be easy to handle.

"Let Galadir go," Modred said. "Let him go."

Drustan loosed Galadir carefully. Modred glanced at Pedvyr and Cerdig. They released the woman's arms. Cerdig slid his sword through his belt, and Pedvyr--slightly embarrassed--brushed off the woman's dress. She glanced at him, bemused, and chuckled softly.

Drustan embraced her, bending his face into her hair.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was stupid. I should have thought."

His eyes danced to Modred.

"You forgot to take my sword," he said.

Geraint groaned. Modred shrugged. He hadn't forgotten.

Drustan unfastened the sword and handed it over the hearth. Modred rested it on his knees. Geraint leaned against him, cooing appreciatively over the hilt of engraved suns and stars.

"How do you know me?" Drustan asked.

"Modred is magic," Cerdig stepped into the hall. "He knows your thoughts before you think them."

Modred grimaced. "Arthur has been expecting you."

"Not as we are," Drustan said and smiled at the woman. She turned her head, her long braid catching the firelight as it swung.

"I am Iseult," she said to Modred, her smile friendly.

"Iseult," Modred said, and disgust hit him so hard he closed his eyes.

He swung towards Cerdig and Pedvyr.

"We'll need wood for the hearth," he said.

They sighed and went out. Modred also rose, holding Drustan's sword.

"I'll see to the horses," he said and stalked into the courtyard, angry, the sword heavy in his hand, a weight.

Drustan was just like Aedan, just like.

Geraint caught up.

"It's a beautiful sword."

Modred handed it to him. "Here."

He didn't want it near his skin. Just another Aedan. Wasn't one enough?

They ate rabbit that Cerdig and Pedvyr had caught that afternoon. Modred faced Drustan who lay on his side, one arm curved around Iseult's waist.

"Why is Arthur expecting you?" Geraint said, dividing the question between Modred and Drustan.

Drustan answered:

"We’ve exchanged letters. I’ve heard much of his battles. The great general against the Invaders. He’s greatly admired. But you know that, you’re his men."

They laughed, clamoring: "Yes, we are. That's right, Arthur’s men." Cerdig and Geraint gave the deep-throated bellow of the cavalry.

"We've pushed the Invaders back over the River--"

"We're Arthur’s reconnoitering company--"

"Cavalry division--"

"Will you come with us?" Geraint asked Drustan. "We're going back soon."

"No," Modred said.

Geraint swung on his heel, hissing angrily in surprise.

"I won't allow it," Modred said.

Geraint howled his words: "Modred, you are such an idiot."

It was insubordination: Modred struck Geraint full across the face. The boy sprawled, breathing deep, his body tense, but he didn't move. He collapsed into the dust. "Modred, why?" plaintive as a baby.

"My men," Modred said to Drustan. "My responsibility. You think I would risk their reputations for you, for you and this woman?"

Drustan said, "My relationship with Iseult disturbs you? My morals are any of your business?"

"Not generally."

"You're--?" Cerdig gestured at Drustan and Iseult, uncertain, slightly embarrassed.

"She's his father's wife," Modred said.

Cerdig gaped.

"His second wife," Drustan said, amused. "I protested the marriage before we met. A good son does not criticize his father, but their match was never a wholesome thing." He looked at Modred. "Why do you care?"

"If I had to choose between her and the army, I would give her up."

"I don't know yet if I'll have to make that choice," Drustan said. "I hope I won't."

"You won't have to make that choice." Modred paused and gazed at Galadir. He said, "Your father and Arthur’s wife are lovers, Galadir."

Galadir's arms clasped his knees; he rocked forward, his face and hair flecked by firelight. "Yes," he said. "I know."

Modred stood over him, looked from him to the others, to Geraint climbing clumsily to his knees.

They knew.

He said, "You hypocrites."

His boys. It broke his heart.

"We need Aedan," Geraint said.

"We can't trust him, Geraint. A man like that, his loyalty only lasts as long as his dick--" Geraint protested. Modred shouted him down. "They left Dumnoia--" Modred pointed at Drustan and Iseult. "What's to stop Aedan and Gwrtheyrn from leaving Aurelianus’ kingdom, abandoning our cause, the army?"

Beyond Geraint, he saw Drustan wince.

"Aedan's a great leader," Geraint said to Drustan. "The army needs him."

"It's not as if I approve," Galadir said suddenly, swiveling to look up at Modred. "It's not as if I don't care, but it's not our business. It’s God's business," he said.

Modred said, "Your father has blackmailed us into lies, Galadir. Nobody says a thing, everyone keeps their mouth shut. If Aedan were exposed, it would destroy Arthur, destroy the cavalry. Aurelianus is the last stronghold left against the Invaders. The Northern kingdoms don’t care. Dumnoia doesn’t care--" another shot at Drustan. "Arthur is Aurelianus’ best captain. Without Arthur, everything goes under. That’s what Aedan risks."

"Not on purpose," Cerdig said. "He doesn't do it on purpose."

Drustan said steadily, "I’m not my father, Modred. I do care. That’s why I came. Let us accompany you to the Hill. I won’t ask you to champion us."

Another Aedan, another disease for the army to deal with. The fate of Briton in the hands of men like that. What use was compassion if all it was used for was to tolerate the corrupt?

"You would leave us to mercy of real marauders?" Iseult said, her voice the sound of the sea under waves.

Modred glanced at his boys: Cerdig, face alight, ready to argue, but then Cerdig liked to argue; Pedvry, dark and tense and watchful; Galadir, their man of God, motionless, head bowed; Geraint, frowning, his hands pressed to the earth, also ready to argue, except that Geraint hated to argue, would shout his accusations with panicked abandon, sure before he began that he was going to lose.

They would be angry if Modred refused Drustan. They would do as Modred ordered, but they would sulk and quarrel, and Geraint would say bitter, resentful things that later regretted like always.

"Just to the Hill," Geraint said. "Please, Modred."

I’ll tell the cavalry if Drustan doesn’t. I’ll tell the army about him and Iseult, Gwrtheyrn and Aedan, everything I know of Aedan’s lies. I’m so tired of subterfuge, so weary of silence.

"Yes," Modred said. "We’re going back. Not to the Hill. Arthur is at the Tor now. Would you like to come with us?"

"Thank you," said Drustan.

"Thank you," said Iseult.

They reached the Tor nine days later, clattering into the stone yard. Arthur waited there, shading his eyes against the falling sun.

Modred shouted, "Halt" and dismounted.

He crossed to Arthur.

"You brought them back alive."

Modred laughed, felt the shock of it grapple with the tension in his chest. Arthur slipped an arm over Modred's shoulders.

"Good to see you," he said, and he meant it, Modred knew that.

"You have friends," Arthur said.

Drustan and Iseult had dismounted. They stood side by side. Arthur beckoned to them.

"Iseult of Cornouia," Arthur said. "And Drustanus of Dumnoia. Your father is here, Drustanus."

Iseult flinched, jerking backwards. Drustan took her hand. Arthur's face wrinkled.

"Come," he said gently. "You'll have to talk to him sooner or later. He waits in the hall."

He motioned them up the steps. They obeyed slowly, dazedly. What did you expect? Modred wanted to ask them. Did you think he would turn his back and walk away? Did you think he was like me?

Drustan's father, Marcus Cunomorus, was the first person Modred saw when he and his boys entered the hall. Marcus was tall and lean, his hawk-like face topped by a flourish of white hair. He looked fierce and unnatural.

Modred led his boys to a bench near the door. He saw Gawain further down the wall and raised his hand. Gawain waved back.

"Modred," Geraint whispered.

Modred looked where Geraint pointed to the man sitting by the hearth in the center of the hall: their King, Ambrosius Aurelianus.

Ambrosius Aurelianus had fought battles before Modred was even born, pushing the Saxon tribes out of the West. Ambrosius hunched in his chair, heavy and dark. He looked strong and rough, but two soldiers stood by to lift him. His eyes flickered towards Modred, and Modred felt the old man's fury even at that distance. Aurelianus was dying, and there was no one left to lead but men like Aedan and Drustan. Arthur was too gentle, too merciful, too inclined towards diplomacy.

There's me, Modred thought. There is me.

"May I go?" Galadir asked Modred.

Modred nodded. Galadir walked the length of the hall to stand beside Aedan. Aedan squeezed Galadir's shoulder.

Drustan and Iseult stood alone by the door.

"Drustanus of Dumnoia," Aurelianus said. "Iseult of Cornouia, welcome to the tiny, ill-placed kingdom of Ambrosius Aurelianus. This is my general"--Aurelianus indicated Arthur. "These unfortunate men--" Aurelianus waved a hand at the walls--"are my counselors and my commanders. We are pleased to see you though you arrive under rather undesirable circumstances."

For the first time, Modred saw anger in Iseult's face.

"I have never heard myself described as an undesirable circumstance, my lord," she said.

"What should he call you, Iseult?" said Marcus Cunomorus. "A slut?"

A rustle of dismay crept along the walls.

"Marcus, Marcus," Aurelianus said. "There are youngsters present."

Marcus shut his mouth. His lips formed a tight line.

Iseult said, "I was never a slut until I entered your house, Marcus Cunomorus."

Someone laughed.

"My house!"

"I am not a toy, Marcus. I am not a pet or a slave"--she spat the last word--"to be traded from house to house or man to man. I choose my lover."

Marcus spat in the dirt and stalked away.

Aurelianus stretched and said, "Now that you're here, Drustanus, what do we do with you?"

"I wish to pledge myself to you and your cause. I want to join the cavalry. I have some experience with horses."

Marcus snorted.

"I want to fight the Invaders," Drustan told his father. "I want to free the West."

"Seems you want everything."

"No."

"Did you really love me so much, Marcus Cunomorus?" Iseult said.

"We have a small problem, Drustanus," Aurelianus said. "King Marcus has agreed to supply our army with men and weapons. You, Drustanus could lead those men. Under Arthur's direction."

"Yes," Drustan said.

"And they would follow you more readily than they would follow one of my commanders."

"Yes."

"But Drustanus of Dumnoia, I cannot--out of respect for your father--allow you to enter our ranks with your father’s bride as your lover."

"Then I refuse."

"Marcus has not asked that she return to Dumnoia," Aurelianus said. "She may remain here, but you must end your relationship with her."

"No."

"Drustan," Gawain said. "Drustan, we need you."

The murmur slipped along the walls, men nodding, agreeing. Modred listened to the murmur, to the message behind it: Be like Aedan, lie, say you will give her up but don't. We will keep silent.

Drustan faced them all.

"No," he said. "She is my love. I will not abandon her to hushed speculation or to any cold hearth. If I sin, let me be honest in my sin and perhaps, God will bless me at least for that."

Galadir sobbed. He pulled away from Aedan and stumbled to Modred. Modred grasped his shoulders as Galadir bent his head to Modred's chest. Aedan, abandoned so abruptly, held out of his hands in bewilderment while down the walls, men avoided his gaze and whispered together.

Victory burned Modred.

I won him, Aedan, because you are a liar even if no one will say it aloud. All men will remember this day, Aedan; they will remember that Galadir left his liar father because of Drustan who won't lie and for me because I never lie.

And so it ended. Drustan and Iseult left Aurelianus’ kingdom, heading north to Rheghed and Cumbria where Drustan would use his influence to enlist the help of the northern chieftains.

Marcus Cunomorus departed early one morning, gone without a word to Aurelianus, leaving half his soldiers behind. They responded awkwardly, unhappily to Gawain's orders. Modred, watching, knew, I could control them. But he kept silent. Waited.

Aedan fluttered around Galadir, begging forgiveness. Aedan would get what he wanted. Galadir was too kind, too forgiving. So Modred got his orders, damn quick, and took his boys out into the woods again.

He talked to Arthur before he left.

"When we come back," Modred said, "they'll be ready to enter the main cavalry."

"And yourself?" Arthur said.

He and Modred appraised each other silently. Modred had already decided he would command when he returned. He would be ready when Aedan scampered.

"I'll be ready too," Modred said.

Arthur laughed, but Modred saw fear in Arthur's eyes and pain. He could guess why. Arthur knew Modred planned to destroy Aedan and anyone else who threatened Aurelianus's kingdom--even Drustan if Drustan tried to return. And Arthur--who poured out sympathy to the least mortal--could not understand.

Modred did not explain, except, "There’ll be no treaties with the Invaders," he said, echoing Aurelianus’ speech from that morning. Or anyone.

Aurelianus' kingdom would fall. When it fell, Modred hardly cared. Only how. When the only part left of a thing was yourself, negotiation was not possible. Finally, in the end, there was no compromise.

Jimmy Lad

When still quite young, Helen Keller wrote a short story which turned out to be an almost verbatim rendering of a short story that Anne Sullivan, her teacher, had previously "read" her. Keller was accused of plagiarism, though most of the blame fell on Sullivan. Both Anne and especially Helen contended that nobody had not set out to plagiarize anything, a claim that was met with skepticism.

I believe them. Helen Keller had an extraordinarily retentive memory for one thing; she was fully capable of remembering, word for word, a story that had been relayed to her even six months earlier. For another, this sort of thing has happened to me: I don't mean copying someone else's story word for word or being accused of plagiarism. For one thing, my memory's not that good. But there have been times when I've written something with a remarkably similar premise to that of another book or series (for instance, I came up with a leap-into-books idea long before Fforde's Eyre Affair came out; I'm sure many other people did as well). And I've occasionally run across items in my own stories that have struck a cord--"I think I've read this elsewhere." Usually, I carefully excise those items.

However, in the case of "Jimmy Lad," I would have to excise the entire ending, which kind of gets rid of the story. No, no, I didn't plagiarize anything, but about the same time I wrote the story, I read a poem about a woman taking care of her elderly father, and although I can't swear to it, I think that poem influenced the wording of the last few paragraphs. In any case, I've never felt comfortable about it.

So, here it is--no money earned, nobody's rights infringed. It's a Peter Pan and Hook story; I've always liked my version of their relationship.

***************************
Jas. Hook lay on the white bed, his pale, fading profile painted by shadows. The curtains over the nursing home windows swirled, billowing outwards.

Jas. Hook was dying. The man who sat beside the bed was neither glad nor sorry. He had arrived at the nursing home reeling with shock and grief and rage; he had stayed because he had never, to his knowledge, killed a defenseless enemy.

"Jimmy," Jas. Hook called him, his voice drifting from pleasure to contempt. "Jimmy lad."

"It isn't me," had been Jimmy's first, instinctive reaction quelled immediately by the thought, "How can I know?" for he had never been sure of his identity.

"I am youth. I am joy," he had bragged once to Jas. Hook, his boyish arrogance brushed by a curious equivocacy.

Jas. Hook had missed that hint of vulnerability but not Smee.

Clever in his idiocy, pathologically subservient and envious of any who absorbed Hook's attention, Smee had hated Jimmy lad.

"Who are your parents then?" he had jeered. "Who are your mum and dad?"

But Jimmy had not cared for such trifles as parents. His pedigree had been an unexamined mystery. It did not hurt his heart for he had not known he had a heart. And might not now if not for Smee.

This was after the adventures of the Mermaid lagoon, after the banishment of Jas. Hook and the other pirates from the island, after Wendy had returned home and her daughters after her. Smee had come back in his little boat, the rotund body jerking rhythmically as the plumb hands pumped at the oars.

He called to Jimmy. "Pan," he called him, the name Jimmy had given himself before he had any knowledge of parents. "Peter Pan. Come out. It's Smee," and Jimmy came, singing for he had missed the pirates, although he had not felt their absence till then.

He stood atop the cliff overlooking the lagoon, and the mist dispersed around the dark-clad Smee with his thick, petulant voice. Pirate and boy gazed at each other.

"Welcome back, Smee," Jimmy cried. "Have you come to join Pan's band?"

"They've gone, I heard," Smee said. "No one to lead now, Pan. No one to take your orders."

This was true. Lost boys come and go, but less came than went in that day and age of the early twentieth century. Boys went instead to war or to the care of the Almighty State. But Jimmy didn't falter.

"You're enough to play with, Smee," he shouted and wriggled his dagger.

Each of the pirates had felt it: the nick at the neck before Pan leapt heavenward, crowing at his own cleverness and their stupid, adult heaviness.

"No one to bully," Smee raged. His boat bounced over the waves, and he bounced in the boat. "No one to shout orders at. Like your father."

The waves barraged the rocks at the base of the cliff. Jimmy quivered, and a pressure nudged his ribs.

"I've no father," he said, but the sea could not hide the tremor in his voice.

Smee gloated. "Pan's not your name. Nor Peter either. Named for your dear papa, you are. Named for James Hook. He's your father, boy."

Jimmy trembled. The hard rock tore his feet. The lagoon air, no longer sweet and soft, flung salt into his eyes.

"You lie," he cried. He leapt from his perch, his dagger aimed at Smee. Smee cowered.

Yet even as he leapt, Jimmy believed Smee spoke the truth. He fell like Icarus, hurtling downward with no thought but the pulsing anxiety of his heart.

He made—in that last tremendous dive—a small cannonball of fairy dust and fury. He smashed Smee's boat. It shattered, splintering into shards. Smee, loosed to the waves and wind, was lost at sea and drowned.

Jimmy didn't die. The mermaids saved him as he floated in unconscious misery. They could not return him to the island. He was already growing. By the time they towed him to the mainland, they no longer recognized the long limbs, the tightening jaw and expanding musculature. They abandoned him (as mermaids will) in shallow water off the Maine coast. Fishermen, going out with lobster pots, found Jimmy and pulled him ashore.

There was no hospital within sixty miles and the young man wasn't dead, only chilled, his lips blue, his eyes glazed with shock. They took him to a nearby nursing home, and he was given a cot behind the nurses' station. The head nurse fetched new clothes from the laundry.

He accepted the briefs, the mustard-color sweater and the dungarees. He refused to wear the shoes. They didn't force the matter. The head nurse liked him; his dark shock of hair and slanting brows reminded her of her son, gone off to serve in the European War. All the nurses loved his accent. "He must be a soldier from a ship," they told each other, and his description was sent to the War Office in Washington, D.C.

It was the youngest nurse—Polly, by name—who introduced Jimmy to the other British resident. Mr. Fortescue, the nurses called him, unaware that their patient was the great pirate Hook and possessor of more than a dozen aliases. "And how he stared," Polly said later, meaning Jimmy.

For Jas. Hook was not the Jas. Hook Jimmy remembered who would stride about the Jolly Roger bellowing orders and stroking his black moustache. He had become, in banishment, a collection of brittle bones under modest flesh. The sweeping moustache was no longer black but white, matching the old man's silver hair.

Jimmy groomed the moustache every morning, wetting the comb in a basin of water. He soothed the hair back the forehead and sponged clean the pale, dry skin. He discovered lines as he washed: grim tunnels from the nose to the mouth, radiating threads of mirth at the corners of the eyes. These last he had never suspected.

"Thank you," Jas. Hook would say, the voice clear and decisive, the public school accent crisping the edges of his words. "Thank you," without emotion. A duty—his thanks—a necessary emblem of his status: never a mere pirate had Hook been but a gentleman pirate.

"You're welcome," Jimmy would say in the low-pitched tenor he had acquired as he fell from the rock.

Unrecognizable to Jas. Hook who had last heard him speak in the fragile, high-pitched tones of the prepubescent male. Jimmy the boy—Pan as even Jas. Hook had called him—was frozen in memory and memories are defiantly exclusive.

A reporter, one Jackson Smith, unthawed that memory.

"You knew Peter Pan, sir," he said to Jas. Hook in the earnest tone affected by even the most amateur of journalists.

"I did," Jas. Hook said.

He was sitting up, white pillows piled behind him, his maroon dressing gown tossed across his shoulders. "A good day," the nurses agreed, but Jimmy had stayed all the same, stowed on a chair in a corner of the room. Jackson Smith thought him a male nurse. Perhaps he didn't notice the bare feet. Perhaps he did. Jackson Smith was a clever synthesizer of other people's facts and experiences, a compiler of hearsay and rumor. Faced with the unexpected, he had eyes only for the already anticipated.

He said to Jas. Hook, "He's gone from the island. They say Never-Never land has its Pan no more. Any Lost Boys who get there find themselves without a leader."

"Trash," Jas. Hook said.

"What's that?"

"American newspapers. Sensationalism to glut the bourgeoisie."

"Do you know where Pan went?" Jackson Smith said.

"I do not care."

Jackson Smith left unsatisfied, and Jimmy came forward to smooth the sheets and resettle the pillows. Jas. Hook's thin, long-fingered hand clasped his wrist, dragged him downwards.

"Jimmy. Jimmy lad."

Jas. Hook didn't speak again that day. His breath shuddered out of him. Jimmy checked his pulse and took his temperature and proffered medicine which Jas. Hook refused, eyes hot with distrust. Jimmy fetched Polly.

Coming in the next day with freshly laundered sheets, "You're here to kill me," Hook spat at him.

"To watch you die," Jimmy said.

The old man snorted, averting his face. "You think you'll win back your youth?"

Jimmy had, at first. He'd waited impatiently for Hook's last breath, sure it would return him to the island, to his youth and confidence, would vanquish this heart that pounded whenever the old man spoke.

"I wanted your death," Jas. Hook said, and Jimmy laughed as he cleaned the washbasin and sorted the bath items on the bureau top.

"I don't need to be told that. I parried not a few of your death blows."

"I never wanted a child," Jas. Hook told him.

"Nor I a father."

"You robbed my youth and now you gloat over me. You'd eat my flesh if it could take you back."

"Once maybe. Not now. I know," Jimmy said. "I know I was happy on the island. But all I remember is the hunger and the cold, the dark of the nights when the coyotes howled and the mermaids vanished under water. I remember the pain of your hook more than once and the silence in the mist of the water. I know I was happy. I don't remember it."

"I would bury you in the deepest pit. Anything to remove the reminder of my lost years, lost chances. How was I to know I was mutable?"

Jimmy would not answer. He had not discerned his own mortality until Smee's words filled the hollow in his heart with pain.

He watched over the old pirate with the curved metal hand—detached now and impotent—watched Jas. Hook battle the burden of age. And pity assuaged the pain.

He waited beside the bed on the night of Jas. Hook's death. He could not mourn the man's passing, but he cried desperately for the loss of the man's actions in his own life. Who will shout for Pan in accents of despair and anger? Who will creep about the lagoon in my shadow or I in his? Who will lead the pirates to catch the Lost Boys so that I might rescue them again and again and again?

He did not cry aloud. He had learned a control in his few adult years he'd never had as a boy, a stern repose that matched—though he did not know it—the reticent profile of the man in the bed.

Finally, the hand pulling at his sleeve, the struggling whisper, the last words:

"You banished me."

And so Jas. Hook, as he called himself, perished from this earth.

The young man who believed himself Jas. Hook's son prepared the body for the funeral. He undressed the old man, folded each article of clothing, placing one atop the other: the worn pajamas, the fine if shabby underclothes, the royal robe, an exclamation of color against the white, quilted bedspread. The undressing revealed a long, spare body, the skin soft as powder, pale as sand. Jimmy dressed Jas. Hook in a satin shirt with ruffles and a black, frock coat. His fingers brushed the old man's ribs, passed under his arms and back, beneath the knees and thighs. He combed the moustache and trimmed the hair around the ears.

"Like a father dressing a son," Polly would say after. "It gets some of them that way," for she was not so young, she had not seen young men die and old men bury them, "and him so old for all his youthful ways," and even Polly was never sure of which man she spoke.