clearly, “Look you now, Gawain; you had better do as you have vowed before all the knights in this hall. Men call me the Knight of the Green Chapel. Ask for the Green Chapel, you cannot fail to find me. So come, next New Year’s Day, or be called a coward forever.”
With this farewell the Green Knight turned his green charger and pressed his golden spurs. The charger burst from a standstill into a canter. Its shod hooves raised sparks from stone as it thundered past the Round Table and out the wide street doors as it had entered. And all the way the Green Knight’s corpse held out his open-eyed head at stiff arm’s length.
Merlin’s harp had been playing, unnoticed, since the Green Knight entered. Now he played a last, loud glissando, then stilled the harp strings.
King’s Hall awoke slowly. Knights found they could stir a finger, uncurl a lip. They drew breath and looked at each other.
King Arthur and Gawain stood stiffly together by the dais. Gawain leaned on his new battle-ax, which dripped slow, green slime on the floor.
With waking eyes, Gawain saw a holly branch in berry near his feet and, five feet away, a pile of steaming horse shit.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well done, Nephew!” He laid an arm about Gawain’s shoulders. “Let your ax hang up here by Caliburn, where all can see it and admire your courage.” He gestured to a dazed servant to take and hang the ax.
He turned to Gwenevere, who sat like a white wooden statue, his shed mantle across her knees. His voice rose and took on assurance. “Dear Lady, look you not so dismayed! This is Yule time! Good it is at Yule to laugh, to sing carols, to act out plays.” Gwenevere managed a weak smile.
Arthur turned to the Round Table. “Now have we all seen a marvel, and an omen for the New Year. Let Mage Merlin interpret the omen.”
Merlin stood, stroked his beard, and thought. After a long moment he said, “Gawain has cut off the head of Enmity. Arthur’s Peace is well established. Yet danger may arise. Next New Year’s Day may find the Peace again at risk. Vigilance is ever called for.”
Arthur clapped loudly. He pulled a gold ring from his hand and went across to Merlin to deliver it himself. “And now, Round Table, let us feast.”
Horns blew. Doors opened; the feast marched in. Huge dish after fancy dish was paraded before the dais, then placed out onthe Round Table and lesser tables. Boar heads biting apples, swans re-dressed in shining feathers, all manner of breads and cakes filed past Gawain, famished only minutes ago; yet now, wreathed in delicious aromas, with little desire to indulge. Arthur murmured, “Go, Nephew. Feast. Show them a bold, hearty appetite!”
Arthur mounted the dais, took back his mantle from the pale Queen and sat down. Dazed, Gawain returned to his seat at the Round Table. A boar’s head sat on a pile of ham before him. Someone had already snatched the apple from its gaping jaws.
He reached for the ham, but the boar’s dead gaze woke words in his mind. Look you, Gawain, you had better come to the Green Chapel next New Year’s Day. Or be called coward forever.
The boar’s dead eyes reminded him of moonlit heads nailed to oak trees in Satan’s Dun.
Hungry—starving—Gawain drew back his hand from the dish.
Midsummer Song
I am the Green Man
Who is the Tree
That shades and shelters
Mortality.
The Green Man
O ne cold, dark noon last cold, dark winter, Ynis remarked, “Ma. Your cloud’s rosy.”
We sat in here where I sit now, remembering, under the smoke hole. Rather sadly, we choked down our last Brindle soup, old Brindle’s last gift to us. (If Granny had not bonked him in his sleep, someone else would have. Dogs were already scarce in hungry Holy Oak.)
Ynis squinted at me through smoke and said, “Your cloud’s rosy.”
Granny gave her a small, grim nod. “Your Ma’s got a Little in there.”
“In her stomach?”
“Where Littles grow.”
They talked on together, between
With this farewell the Green Knight turned his green charger and pressed his golden spurs. The charger burst from a standstill into a canter. Its shod hooves raised sparks from stone as it thundered past the Round Table and out the wide street doors as it had entered. And all the way the Green Knight’s corpse held out his open-eyed head at stiff arm’s length.
Merlin’s harp had been playing, unnoticed, since the Green Knight entered. Now he played a last, loud glissando, then stilled the harp strings.
King’s Hall awoke slowly. Knights found they could stir a finger, uncurl a lip. They drew breath and looked at each other.
King Arthur and Gawain stood stiffly together by the dais. Gawain leaned on his new battle-ax, which dripped slow, green slime on the floor.
With waking eyes, Gawain saw a holly branch in berry near his feet and, five feet away, a pile of steaming horse shit.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Well done, Nephew!” He laid an arm about Gawain’s shoulders. “Let your ax hang up here by Caliburn, where all can see it and admire your courage.” He gestured to a dazed servant to take and hang the ax.
He turned to Gwenevere, who sat like a white wooden statue, his shed mantle across her knees. His voice rose and took on assurance. “Dear Lady, look you not so dismayed! This is Yule time! Good it is at Yule to laugh, to sing carols, to act out plays.” Gwenevere managed a weak smile.
Arthur turned to the Round Table. “Now have we all seen a marvel, and an omen for the New Year. Let Mage Merlin interpret the omen.”
Merlin stood, stroked his beard, and thought. After a long moment he said, “Gawain has cut off the head of Enmity. Arthur’s Peace is well established. Yet danger may arise. Next New Year’s Day may find the Peace again at risk. Vigilance is ever called for.”
Arthur clapped loudly. He pulled a gold ring from his hand and went across to Merlin to deliver it himself. “And now, Round Table, let us feast.”
Horns blew. Doors opened; the feast marched in. Huge dish after fancy dish was paraded before the dais, then placed out onthe Round Table and lesser tables. Boar heads biting apples, swans re-dressed in shining feathers, all manner of breads and cakes filed past Gawain, famished only minutes ago; yet now, wreathed in delicious aromas, with little desire to indulge. Arthur murmured, “Go, Nephew. Feast. Show them a bold, hearty appetite!”
Arthur mounted the dais, took back his mantle from the pale Queen and sat down. Dazed, Gawain returned to his seat at the Round Table. A boar’s head sat on a pile of ham before him. Someone had already snatched the apple from its gaping jaws.
He reached for the ham, but the boar’s dead gaze woke words in his mind. Look you, Gawain, you had better come to the Green Chapel next New Year’s Day. Or be called coward forever.
The boar’s dead eyes reminded him of moonlit heads nailed to oak trees in Satan’s Dun.
Hungry—starving—Gawain drew back his hand from the dish.
Midsummer Song
I am the Green Man
Who is the Tree
That shades and shelters
Mortality.
The Green Man
O ne cold, dark noon last cold, dark winter, Ynis remarked, “Ma. Your cloud’s rosy.”
We sat in here where I sit now, remembering, under the smoke hole. Rather sadly, we choked down our last Brindle soup, old Brindle’s last gift to us. (If Granny had not bonked him in his sleep, someone else would have. Dogs were already scarce in hungry Holy Oak.)
Ynis squinted at me through smoke and said, “Your cloud’s rosy.”
Granny gave her a small, grim nod. “Your Ma’s got a Little in there.”
“In her stomach?”
“Where Littles grow.”
They talked on together, between
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