…

The Horrit Witch

They take an overgrown side-path to the haunt of a known sorceress. The signs say ‘Enter All Who Welcome Death!’ but still they continue, for they need clues. The witch meets them at the outer gate and bids them to enter.

They gallop to the entrance of the evil place but as they arrive they see her to be already inside, a trick, but enough to unnerve any squire who knows not of the use of doubles and twins. The abode is crawling with Tarantulas; it has the desired effect on Bogar and Hargrave. “Oh!” says Hargrave. “Woe!” says Bogar.

“Do not believe all that you see,” whispers Percevale to the squires; “Merlyn has revealed many magic tricks to me.”

“We seek Thorelf the Viking!” announces Hargrave.

“Purchase the spear that bleeds, which you will never find.” reveals the witch. “It is but one link in a long chain that may strangle you or save you! And seek the land of ice and fire!—it is far to the north—there you may find Thorelf’s wake that will take you to him across the ocean desert of despair. And you, Percevale, you would have found love on a foreign soil—However, you will not survive to use the clues I have given you!”

And with that admonition, all sink to their knees and thence to the floor, overtaken by the fumes coming from the witch’s pot. The fumes are not deadly, for the witch does not derive power from killing men, but only from controlling them.

No, this witch rules by chemistry: the very air is drugged with gases. The price of information is sometimes dear, for she means to enslave them. The squires cry out as their heads fill with visions of demons and creatures so hellish as to defy description on this printed page. Logic and good sense are stilled, as terror reigns and begins to take over the squires’ souls.

But, the King’s heart is tested and grown strong. Before reason escapes altogether, a calmness of thought occurs to Percevale: “if that which cannot happen, does indeed seem to be happening, then one must be experiencing a non-reality—a dream perhaps or something akin to it—”

To test his theory Percevale closes his eyes. “Aha! The demons are still there.” They are but put in his mind, he realizes, and are hallucinations induced by potions, not really very different from night dreams.

The Knight King arises calmly from the floor, ignores the visions, grabs the two squires, and exits the hovel, holding them firmly in the night’s embracing chill until their minds have cleared and their lungs are free of the witch’s potion.

The witch’s slaves and legions are not allowed to follow, lest their minds be cleared as well. “Why is it,” thinks Percevale, “that those with second sight and such rare powers, those who could be so useful to the world, often fail to use their powers wisely. He turns and stands before the witch’s hovel and vows to someday find the power to return and destroy it!

They ride through the night without sleeping, for their hearts are still beating quickly. The morning finally dawn on the squires and they see that nature is new and that the grass is now green. Renewal is at hand; nature is reinventing the world.

…

The Rites & Wrongs of Spring

The trio comes to a road that is blocked by the passing of a spring carnival. It is the annual “Rites of Spring Celebration”, doubly raucous this year because it also celebrates the recent victories of war. There are tumblers, troubadours, circus acts and the like, and it is well attended with drunken revelry.

A vendor on Bogar’s right is selling sacred objects for unbelievably low prices and Bogar takes opportunity of the journey’s pause to investigate the bargains. His attention is first brought to a piece of the venerated wood of the true cross, brought here by the vendor himself after he had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and secretly excavated the hill of the Holy Sepulcher at night whilst a cathedral was being built over it. Bogar parts with some valuable coins and buys a worthless piece of wood.

He also purchases a nail from that same cross. It is still incrusted with Christ’s blood. He buys also a portion of the actual crown of thorns, a shredded part of the tablecloth used at the last supper, a bone from St. Peter’s arm, a piece of the manger, some drops of the Virgins own milk sealed forever in a glass vial, and a tin cup used by Joseph of Aramithea to catch the blood of Jesus on that first Good Friday.

Having spent all of his riches, he is about to return when he spots a golden box with a crystal lid, containing a purple cushion on which lays a piece of rusted iron, triangular in shape with a long sharp point.

“This,” said the vendor, “is the tip of the spear that pierced the side of the Saviour!”

After much consultation with Hargrave, Bogar obtains a loan and makes the final purchase. The riding junk-pile returns and Percevale examines the haul with horror.

“Throw all of this rattling junk away!” the King insists.

“But most of this is from the true and holy cross, sire!”

“Squires,” replies Percevale, “I’ve seen enough pieces of the true cross to construct twenty fine sailing sloops of war and still have enough wood left over to build a bridge over the Usk river. What is that cup? Good God, we’ve found the Grail again! Fling it to that beggar by the creek who is sipping water with his hands!”

The squires quail at the King’s rage and let their treasures fall to the ground, but the King is laughing on the inside at the squires’ folly and soon they all break into hearty laughter. But the laughing stops abruptly as they all notice that the box containing the spear tip is now quite full of blood.

“Keep the spear tip,” replies Percevale with haste, remembering the words of the first witch, “and attach it to a fine and sturdy stick, for the Crimson Spear has been returned to me when I need it most.”

…


The Curse of the Death-Crone

As Percevale approaches the witch’s land, he sees the shield and helmets of those who came and died before him. He clutches the Crimson Spear close and continues his approach. “Now, Bogar, you wait here and if I do not come out within two days, then come in after me.”

Percevale feels the watch of gloom as he enters the territory of the witch. Knowing that he is being watched, he does not turn around to alert the watcher, but slides quickly and unbeknownst into the woods at the next turn. Taliesin glides noiselessly, silent and invisible in Percevale’s mind!

Percevale peers in a window and sees a pitiful sight. The witch’s slaves are from the world of the deformed and misshapen—those who are most easily enslaved, plus a Giant. Next, plans are made and a good night’s sleep is taken.

In the morning a huge menacing giant blocks Percevale’s path, but there is something very human and caring, yet guarded, in the giant’s eyes. To test this theory, Percevale aims an arrow at the Giant’s dog, and the Giant pleads with Percevale not to shoot it. Apparently the giant is too large to fully feel the effect of the witch’s controlling drug, and Percevale speaks to the giant softly: “You could easily escape this witch’s spell and be free!”

The Giant replies: “You are correct; I stay only to protect my misshapen friends from further harm, and indeed I will help you kill the witch if you will but insure the safety of my friends!”

“I am King of Britain and the safety of all my subjects concerns me. Just keep your bewitched friends in check while I do battle with the witch and soon you shall all be free or I’ll die trying.” Such sincere words were very well understood by the giant.

Now Percevale faces the witch, but not alone, for Taliesin has joined with him in mind, and the bleeding spear is at hand.

“’Tis the accursed Crimson Spear for Avalon!” she cries. “Take it from my sight, I can not bear to look!”

But Percevale holds it all the more firmly as she tries to wrench it from his grasp with the powers of her mind. She fills his minds eye with evil sights of monsters, but ever still does he hold the red shaft; it is now bleeding profusely and its blood is pooling on the ground. For a day and a night, the battle of the minds continues, Percevale and Taliesin barely holding their own and growing evermore weary, and feeling at each instant that they cannot last another moment.

Meanwhile, no potions are being dispensed to the enslaved; they drink but the purest of water and so they are slowly regaining control over their lives. Towards morning, the battle draws to its climax as Avalon’s grandson is assaulted with every trick known to sorcery by Avalon’s daughter gone astray; but Taliesin has studied under the master Merlyn and Percevale has the strength of ten because his heart is pure.

And then it is over. As the witch crumples to the ground, defeated at last, she finds those last ounces of strength that comes at the time of dying and uses it to place the curse of the Death-Crone upon our hero: “Percevale, from death’s doorstep, I, the Death-Crone, curse you with my last breath; I curse you with the worst misfortune that may befall a man: that you will never find love or be loved ever again—until rocks flow like water, until the day comes that the sun does not rise, until the new moon is seen with the naked eye, until the planet Mercury is seen at high noon, until fire is seen in water, until it snows in Cisalpine Gaul on a summer day, until all of the above events happen on the same day within a month from this very day! In other words, you will never ever find love or be loved!

“So then, when these events do not happen, for they cannot happen and be seen by you, you will not only be unloved nor able to give love, but you will also find the world to be filled with hate towards you, and you will soon die and forever wear the foolscap of eternal shade, for no man can live for long without love!”

The witch dies, the King is cursed, but the enslaved are free!

No Hope for the Hopeless

Bogar, forever dedicated, takes what is left of his master back to Camelot. Bogar notes the King’s despair and so Percevale tells him the tale of the witch’s curse. “I shall never succeed, Bogar, for most of the witch’s challenges are impossible; that’s the joke of it, I guess. She just threw in one easy one, ‘when rocks flow like water’ to give me false hope, for I do know of a place where rocks flow like water.

“But no one has ever seen the new moon. Of course, the full moon is easily seen because it is completely lit on the side facing us and rises when the sun sets and is therefore up all night, but the new moon is just the opposite: it rises in the morning, is up all day, sets at evening, and is lit only on the side away from us. It has never been seen, Bogar!

“Oh, we have seen the slivers of the very young and the very old moons, but the new moon gives no light at all, so, even if we see but a thin crescent moon, then by definition, it is not the new moon. Even if we knew where to look for it in the sky, which we do not, there would be the glare of the sun to contend with. Even the stars, which do give off light, cannot be seen in the daytime, even in areas of the sky not near to the sun.

“And Mercury, being so close to the sun, can only be seen just before sunrise or just after sunset, but never at high noon! As for snow in late June or July in Southern Gaul, it is not likely and has never occurred.

“And I have not yet known a day when the sun did not rise. Even on cloudy days we know that the sun has risen, for there is light behind the clouds. And fire in water! It cannot be. Water conquers fire, they cannot coexist. For any of the above to happen is impossible. For all of them to happen on the same day within a month is beyond impossible, yet, I will not give up hope for I know from Avalon’s Lady that all curses have an escape.”

Percevale spends the day in the archives of Camelot with Taliesin. Then they spend all night in the Merlyn Tower Room, where they pore over old manuscripts full of diagrams But only this much becomes known: The new moon is to appear in two weeks—this fixes the day; and there is only one place where rocks are flowing like water—this fixes the place! There is hardly time to get there, so the King immediately leaves for Iceland.

The Ice Maiden

The chronicles covering the journey have not survived the ravages of time, so we find ourselves already close to Iceland. The sea is glorious and the air is fresh and pure. We do know that during the journey north, the twilight lasted longer and longer each day.

There is not a moment to waste, but Percevale spots a vessel in distress behind him, and for a moment he wonders if he should take the time to come to its aid. But, there is no real choice, so he turns back and although her ship goes under, he manages to pull her from the depths and spends over an hour reviving her. And, even when revived, her lips will not part from his, for they have tasted each other and found it to be sweet.

“I am cursed, you cannot love me,” says the Ice Maiden finally, who was named Dheryle. “I am sent to remind you of that which is forbidden to you! I have no choice; the spell overwhelms! You should have let me drown; then you would have had some peace. From now on, everyone you touch will catch the curse until the world fills with hate and destroys itself.”

“So this is how it is going to be,” laments Percevale. “How I shall hate to give up life’s wonders when I am gone!”

The Greatest Day on Earth

But, this is to be the day of the new moon; at least there is a chance, thinks Percevale. They arrive on the shore of Iceland, and on this day, as on every day for a month either way in this northern land, the sun does not rise, for it did not set the day before, since it stays aloft all day during these two months of daylight! Just before noon, strange bands of shadows begin to rapidly cross the land and Percevale feels that perhaps the end is near.

The ground begins to shake and heave for a few moments and then all is silent, so very silent as to strike one dumb. Something terrible seems to be happening. Grazing animals look for shade trees and lie down to sleep. Then, about noontime, the shadow of darkest night covers the land as the moon begins to kiss the sun and cover it—it is a solar eclipse! Merlyn’s old notes in the archive were accurate! Thank the gods for the old wizard!

During the seven minutes of total darkness, Percevale sees a black disk in the sky, surrounded by faint wisps of flame—it is, of course the new moon in all her black glory; indeed, the new moon can only be seen during a solar eclipse, and never at any other time. There near the sun is a bright “star” that does not twinkle!

It can only be the planet Mercury! Yes, there it is, in plain sight, at high noon. And farther out, Venus can be seen!

Now the ground begins to really shake, and Percevale hurries to his ship with the Ice Maiden. They leave Iceland but see the volcano erupt; rocks are flowing to the sea like water! But, the water puts out the fiery flow and so they do not see fire in water, just a lot of steam.

Then a tremendous plume of smoke and debris is sent up into the sky and is carried south by the unusual winds born of the marriage of summer warmth and ice cold air brought on by the blockage of the sun’s rays by the dense volcanic ash. The spontaneous cold front sweeps south to Gaul on the reversed upper winds, bringing the darkness of the ashen sky with it. As no sunlight can penetrate, the air below grows colder and colder, and what would have been rain now turns to snow over Cisalpine Gaul for a brief time before westerly winds can disperse the volcanic cloud around the earth.

That evening the sun sinks low, but does not set. On the water is the glitter path of that fiery ball—and so we have fire in water!

The sun has kissed the moon, and Percevale gathers the Ice Maiden, Dheryle, into his arms and kisses her, his capacity for love far from dead, but growing stronger every minute of this glorious day as both of their curses fall by the wayside.

…

Back in Britain, at the shore:

“There, Dheryle, over those hills, is the former abode of the witch. I must go there to see that all is well, so as to complete my quest that brought us together in the first place.”

“Well bless her wretched soul! Come Percivale, let us walk the grounds on this late afternoon.”

Moving through the glittering fields of daylight fireflies, they walk along the lake path, without words. Though still weary from sea travel, love’s energy carries them on its eagles’ wings, as being near to one’s life partner is contentment enough for anyone on a night in the Age of Darkness in the mid-summer.

There is a strange chill in the air as the woods compel them to enter and share in its secrets on this day of magic.

Church bells knell the toll of six o’clock from the nearby town. The sounds are muffled and distant because the air has suddenly grown heavy.

“I think that we are not alone Percivale.”

“Yes, the forest has many eyes and I have come to love them—and tonight I feel as if the air is filled with the magic, hopes, and dreams of all of the souls which have come before us since the dawn of time.”

“There is a similar night in my country, during which these feelings of old, sealed in our souls, become known, and float in the air so that we might know of our dim and animal past. Hark! I see movement ahead, and in the trees!”

They run to the spot, but the impish form is gone; however, the grass is yet bent and marks the small man-creature’s passing.

“Hold me close, Percevale.”

“I know this feeling! It is but the witch’s soul on its way to its final and eternal resting spot in hell’s heart. It’s gone now—I again feel the beauty and goodness of man—and only this can ensure the victory of wisdom!”

The Giant appears.

…

The Last Curse on Earth

Percivale sits down to hear the Giant’s tale and the Giant begins: “The witch placed a curse on me as well. I will forever roam the earth in sadness if I do not accomplish the following by the end of this day: I must see the sun set three times in one day, and, I must, during daylight, create a dark space behind me that never ends. What will I do? I cannot stop the sun and raise it up again, nor can I cause the absence of light behind me and into the infinite depths of space!”

Day is nearly done and the horizon is rising to meet the bloodshot eye of day. Percivale, having studied under the poet-astronomer, Taliesin, quickly leads the giant to the shore where a small piece of low hilly land juts out into the sea. They face to the west and view the setting sun, now a symbol of the sad giant’s dying hopes. The sun drops though some clouds and is bright again, but half of it is already below the horizon!

“Look at your shadow, giant! How long is your shadow at sunset or sunrise? What is shortest at noon grows longer as the afternoon wears on, until finally, it stretches forever behind you, since you are directly between the sun and that which is behind you.”

“That is fine Percivale, but the sun is nearly set and will certainly not rise again until the morrow. I must still see three sunsets!”

“No time to explain now, giant. Quick! Lie down on the ground and see your first sunset today as the top sliver of the sun falls below, and is extinguished by, the horizon. See! There it goes. Now, quickly, stand up to your great height and what do you see?”

“I see the tip of the sun again!”

“And your second sunset of the day, giant?”

“Yes! I see it, and another green flash as well!”

“Now run up yonder hill and bring up the sun again so that it may set three times in a day!”

The gleeful giant runs up the hill in great leaps and turns to see the sun set three, four, even five more times, each sunset lasting a few seconds.

This year Old Autumn was a little late,
So Jack-in-the-Green sat down on a stump.
Jack pondered his disappearing green youth,
For someday he would have to take Autumn’s place
And perform all of his withering tasks.

A few days later Old Autumn came by;
He gave unto Jack a cheery greeting
And a warm embrace that marked summer’s end.

He gazed fondly at Jack, his younger self,
And saw the vitality that was once his,
And said, “Once I was young; once I was you!”

“I know,” said Jack, “Do you remember how
I refused to believe you, saying ‘no’?”

“Yes,” remembered Old Autumn, “very well,
Like the time I met the Old Man, Winter
On a snowy December day long ago.
He told me that he was my older self—
But I didn’t believe him! Told him off!

“True, I was already feeling my age
But after seeing the old white-haired geezer
I felt young again! Yes, he knew me well.”

“Right,” said Jack, “so I made a little poem:
“When younger, I knew not my elder same,
But when older I told my younger same
That youth must be young; he knew not my name!
It was my younger self who was to blame!”

Swallows twittered in the skies as sprightly
Jack-in-the-Green picked a ripening gourd
And gave it to Old Autumn, who encouraged,
“You won’t have to meet the Old Man until
You take my place, for only I can see him—
After I take down the last of the oak leaves.

“For now, the Old Man sends but his errand boy,
Jack Frost, your twin brother. Hi ho, here he comes!
Aye, young Jack, this is the rarest of days,
For the three of us can be together
But once a year on this bright day / cool night.”


“The Old Man is so lonely, is he not?”
Asked Jack-in-the-Green, “for he sees only you.”

“Yes. Old Man Winter lives cold and alone;
He never sees the fair maidens of spring
Who reinvent the natural world each year.”

There is a chill in the air as Jack Frost arrives
And sings out a greeting: “Hello my brother!
Hello Old Autumn! It’s going to be cold—
Our first frost, but don’t worry too much—
It won’t harm the pumpkins any at all.”

Old Autumn sighed and quick replied: “Good.
Now the rest of the leaves will crack and fall
All the more due to the ice in their veins;
Yes, they’ll fall like the illusions of youth,
‘Lying carelessly on the granary floor’ and
‘On a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies’, as Keats wrote.”

Composing himself, Old Autumn continued:
“And for those of you who think that ‘warm days
Will never cease’, let us ever remember
Dear Johnny Keats, who died so young, at 25;
However, he lived and saw more than some
Of us might hope to do in a lifetime.”

A shiver ran through Jack-in-the-Green,
Hence he said: “It’s cold; I must go now, for
Summer passed away in his sleep last night;
Autumn, sweet and plump, carries his offspring.
The year dies in the night; ghostly winter looms;
Lo; the flower is already in the seed.”

“Well done, young Jack-in-the-Green; quick, go,
For soon enough comes your autumn of care
Sobering into age, thence into
The pale white winter of death,
Though not yet your warm indolent summer
Of contentment lazing into middle-age,
But surely past is our crisp,
Flowering youth-spring of joy!

“Such then, comes the end of summer’s dreams,
The blanching of the grassy banks of streams,
But all fragrances my elves remember
Through their long sleep in the winter embers.

“The blossoms fall, showers of fragrant beauty,
As leaves fade, while the bulbs store up energy.
Nature’s floral dreams grant this destiny,
For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

“Flowers lay their heads to sleep in soft beds,
Blanketed by webs of gossamer threads;
My elfin creatures cast their spectral glow,
As winter stars—floral twins—start to grow.

“Later, when surely all the world is dead,
An elf will stand atop Old Winter’s grave
And say, ‘’tis not dead’, and by magic bred
Make Snowdrops flower in the tomb’s heat wave.”

Once I, the author, ventured outside at
Four on a dark frosty October morning.
It was so quiet that I could sense the
Cosmos as it played rhythm to my beating heart.

I saw a preview of the winter stars:
Orion, you are so high in the sky—
There for only the astronomer’s eye,
As all those meteors go flying by.

Then I heard a rustling sound in the leaves
Around me—a skunk perhaps—but no,
It was the sound of many falling leaves.
I knew that it must be him, Old Autumn.

He was out there somewhere. Then I sensed him
Going by, for some of the leaves on the
Tree right in front of me broke loose and
Floated away, hitting some other leaves
On the way down, making that rustling sound.

Soon it started up on the next tree, and
Then the next—and so I could very well
Follow the path of Old Autumn making
His rounds in the misty October morn.

Chrysanthemums drank the mellow day,
Falling petals carried the light away.

The weed-flowers grew, marking autumn’s track,
The blossoms that almost brought the spring back,
But winter’s white death wrap was drawn over,
Smothering the earth’s last warm sweet odour.

The autumn fog enswirled, the mist upcurled;
Into nothingness the wisp slow unfurled.
November flew by, a colorless dearth,
And December, amid death, a festive birth.

Youth and Beauty made agèd Winter mourn
For Summer’s grain—the waving wheat and corn,
For Old Autumn, withered, wan, had passed on,
Leaving the earth a widow, weather worn.

Long since have the winds scattered the leaves
Of the trees to make of them a
Burial shroud for the flowers that died
Grieving at summer’s passing. All is death.

The fall is now nearly lost to memory.
Winter is summer’s ungrateful heir,
Squandering his riches and abusing his gifts.
It’s not Old Man Winter’s fault, but his duty.

Summer lies underground now, forgotten,
Silent and crusty, covered by winter’s
Stern mantle. Only April’s tears can make
His grave lush again, in the spring-tide.

As seasons pass, the world comes to our door:
Spring sings through the wingèd troubadour;
Summer calls with the rose, ’midst the wood-lore;
Autumn crows, plump and sweet, through frosty hoar.

Joy and exuberance are spring’s largesse.
Sunlight, warmth, and growth are summer’s bequest.
Autumn brings wealth with the mellow harvest.
Winter’s fruit is peace—its bounty is rest.

Past us is the flower of spring’s soft breath;
Though not ended our summer of promise;
Soon enough will come the autumn of care;
Beheld, at last, the dull white shroud of death!

March, April! spring! We’ll reign as we May there,
Between June and her sister, September,
Then prolong the fall, till November come
December, when we can sweet Remember.

In the whisperings of the after-years
The winds of time slowly dry the tears;
Nor would I take back a single drop, for
From those tears the flowers grew without fears.

In spring we rise from the garden at birth.
Summer blooms long with the roses’ fresh mirth.
Autumn creeps in—we wither on the vine.
Last comes winter, when we return to earth.

————

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;

And, by the incantation of this verse,
  Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
 Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
 The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Shelley
English poet (1792 - 1822)