Parzival by Katherine Paterson Page A

Orilus.
     
    TREVRIZENT The hermit. He is maternal uncle to Parzival and brother of Anfortas, the Grail King. He is also uncle to Sigune.

One

    The Boy
    IN the ancient days, when Arthur was king of Britain, there lived a boy who had never heard of the great son of Pendragon or of his bold knights. The only home the boy had ever known was a cottage in the wilderness of Soltane, and the only parent he had ever known was his mother. He was never called by his proper name; indeed, he didn’t even know that he had one. The plowmen who worked his mother’s fields and the drovers who tended her flocks called him Young Master. His mother called him her Dear Boy. Strangers rarely came into the district, but when one happened by and asked his name, he would say, “You may call me Young Master or Dear Boy or whatever you please.”
    He was a happy child. He loved the forests where the birds sang, the streams where the fish jumped, and the fields where the golden grain danced. He did not desire the pomp of King Arthur’s court because he had never dreamed it existed. He did not long for learning because he had never seen a book. And he never feared death because he had yet to hear of Heaven or Hell.
    He spent his days exploring the forest, fishing the streams, and making toys for his own amusement. When he was a little boy, he was content to devise whistles from reeds and construct watermills for the stream. But as he grew older, he came to idolize the huntsmen who brought rabbit and pheasant and venison for his mother’s table, so he carved for himself a bow from yew wood and sharpened sticks from the oak tree, to which he fastened feathers from the henyard.
    One day, crossing his mother’s fields, he came upon a flock of larks pecking seeds from the plowed ground. One bird rose high into the air, singing a song so beautiful that it pierced the boy’s heart. Without thinking, he raised his bow and shot his arrow into the sky. The song ceased mid-note, and the singer dropped like a stone to the earth.
    When he saw that his arrow had killed the bird, the boy cried out and broke his crude bow over his knee. Indeed, for many days, whenever he heard the song of a lark, he burst into tears, remembering his thoughtless act.
    His mother was distraught. She could not bear for her child to be unhappy. She ordered her peasants to capture all the larks that came into her fields and wring their necks, so her son would not weep.
    But this only made the boy more unhappy still. “Why do you kill the little birds?” he asked his mother. “They’ve done nothing wrong.”
    His mother relented. Kissing his hair, she said softly, “Who am I to go against God? It is his will that the birds should sing for happiness.”
    “Who is God, Mother?” the boy asked. For his mother, thinking to leave her past unhappy life behind, had never told him of the Creator.
    “Why, Dear Boy, God is he who is King of Heaven. He has made the world and in his love took human form to save it. You must pray to him and ask his help.” And, realizing how she had failed to instruct him in things of the spirit, she went on to warn him. “There is another who is the lord of Hell. He is called the devil and you must flee from him, for he is the father of treachery and despair.”
    The boy took to heart everything his mother taught him. He told the one called God how sorrowful he was for the death of the lark, and he made himself a javelin, like those the peasants carried, so that if the devil should come his way, he could do battle with him.
    One bright day he heard a thundering noise. The sky was clear but the earth shook as though it were being beaten by storm. It is the devil for sure, he thought and stood, javelin balanced, ready to hurl it at the dreadful foe.
    Before long there came into view three mighty warhorses, their hooves hammering the path. Upon their broad backs rode three knights, their armor gleaming like stars fallen from the sky. The boy had never seen