Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight

The King is in his Hall.  There is the scent of applewood and venison roasting.  Arthur’s knights are at table, the Round Table of Camelot.  Bards tell tales accompanied by minstrels.  Well received are the jokesters telling tales that make merry, bring laughter and jeers, gafaws and then cheers.

Martin the bard strides forth with his tale, wearing motley and bells.  Knights lean closer, to listen to the story he tells, “Here then is the tale of Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight,” chants Martin there by the fire where he stands.

“This will be good I’ll wager,” says Sir Gaheris with twinkling eye. 
Arthur silences him with a glare and Gawain, red as a beet, sinks deeper in his chair.

“Sir Gawain, he of Camelot, being a knight of the Round Table,” The knights cheer and applaud so the Bard pauses before continuing, “He did seek he, hither and thither, for good that might be done in a knightly manner, and in regards to his honor, in keeping with what best befits one of his station and high calling.

“Sadly, no call for succor from fair maiden, or plee from put upon peasantry, abused by an unscrupulous master sworn to other than our good king, nor even a chance attempt at brigandry against his person had arisen to leaven the dreary days.  Worse yet, the clouds had opened into a bone chilling, drenching rain.

“It was in low spirits and considerable discouragement that Gawain followed a road toward home.  His way wound up a long rise crowded close with mist shrouded pine.  This was a perfect place for ambuscade so that Gawain was not surprised, though relieved to tell the truth, to see a dark figure lurking beneath an enormous fir, topping a rise above him.

“Gawain placed his helm upon his head, took his lance firm in hand, and picked up his pace along that lonely road.  Soon enough he saw more clearly a figure, resolved from the mist as it were, into a knight, it seemed, caparisoned in green and athwart his path.  That is, there appeared a green knight, or rather a knightly figure arrayed in green who’s device he could not discern so as to know what man might inhabit the armor that sat upon the horse in his path.

“Ho there sir knight, who’s vassal may you be, and by what right do you bar the king’s thoroughfare? This said gallant Gawain, but to his goodly query the knight in green said not a single thing.  He sat his steed and stared, it seemed, a looming darkened specter.

“Be you friend of King Arthur of Camelot, or be you in contra-point and opposition, for I am sworn to same and will defend with vigor the right, both of myself as a knight, and to all who name him lord, of passage along this way, indeed with lance if you will not remove yourself peaceably.  Though he was not in a companionable mood Gawain added generously, Or if you are with the king we might ride on to Camelot and feast at table or some such.

“Civil enough greeting and even kind it was, but that Green Knight said not a thing, nor did he bestir himself to properly vacate the precinct of the kings roadway.  It seemed, though it were long odded unlikely to fair Gawain that this looming figure could control his equine mount to this degree, having heard the goodly knight’s command, the Green Knight’s mount lifted tail and gave vent right there upon the road, it would seem, in direct defiance of the king’s sworn man.

“But there, steaming in the roadway was clear evidence of same.  Gawain could not let this pass, so to speak. See here you dandy varlet. Said good Sir Gawain. You may be sure that this abuse of the king’s roadway will not be condoned.  Arm yourself, defend, if you can, these actions, and know that Gawain at least, will not stand such. And then with heat.  Defend yourself! Thus saying, Gawain reined ’round and paced him off a goodly run so to best engage the Green Knight at full tilt.  Wheeling, Gawain would have couched his lance and rode the scroyle down, but as he looked to find his target through his visor, much too close he saw the blighted horse, with its rider, seated calmly there astride it, walking slowly up behind our gallant knight and closing distance so as to preclude Gawain’s full tilt charge and satisfaction.

“What is this japery! Hold you there or I will. . .  See here, how am I to ride you down, like the dog you are, if I can’t gain enough way?  Ye Gods are you even a knight?  Wheeling again and riding harder, Gawain galloped to a place well back along the road.  Quickly, so as not to allow the green knight time for any other shenanigans, Gawain whirled and brought his lance to bear.

“Wroth as he was and sore put upon, nothing would have stayed Sir Gawain from violence, surely, nothing conceivable could prevent his lightening charge iresitably followed by a deadly lance thrust and victory.  The inevitability of it was undeniable, unimpeachable, solid in concept and undoubtable as it was indubitable. So it was a very great shock and surprise to Gawain when he would have kicked his mount to the charge, and to the inevitable, undeniable, indubitable, and certain end of such a charge with violent intent. . .

“. . . But as he rounded, lo, all he had to look on was the backside of the horse, and also, there above that insolent backside, the back of the Green Knight, equally insolent and more.  THIS is intolerable.  You are no true knight, are you even a man?  How can a knight turn curpin in such extremity?  Stand and FIGHT!

“This the Green Knight would not do, for with infinite aplomb the bounder wandered along the track at such a slow pace as to make a man, even a lesser man than Gawain, who in his fine pique and temper was quite beside himself at this point, rather mad with blood-lust.

“You poxy blaggard.  Turn and face me if you be a man, you smoldering mundungus.  So saying Gawain savaged his charger’s flanks and prepared to engage, though he warned the Green Knight again ere he would have struck him. Gawain railed, I will have satisfaction.  Stand, you craven gundygut, and fight or or or. . .

“But naught could come to mind that would allow Gawain to ride down an enemy who was neither facing him, nor exactly fleeing in the sort of way that might bring a proper attack from the rear, if ever one might be justified.  Honor bound, Gawain was at a loss and drew rein as roughly as he’d spurred his mount.

“His horse flesh, tempestuous itself, and sensing its masters discomfort, chose that moment to add to it.  Rearing in a most unexpected way, the charger bolted clean out from under Sir Gawain, sending him foot over withers and helm under knickers before dashing him down upon the muddy road in a splat and a rattle. 

“Momentarily stunned, Gawain quickly, at least for a heavily armored man on uncertain ground, regained his feet and drew sword to face the inevitable attack.  Alas, it did not come.  But Gawain thought, above the ringing in his ears, might there be laughter on the wind?

“Not far off his charger was cropping grass as was the sway backed plow-horse of a mount that bore the Green Knight, cheekily sitting his mount now once again athwart the road.  This was intolerable provocation, but Gawain was in no position to answer it immediately.  The situation vexed him sore.

“It was a most unknightly procedure, unsquired and alone, for Gawain to capture, remount, and rearm upon his charger.  All the while he believed he could hear distant laughter.  So it was a red faced knight, Gawain and no other, who once again stood mounted and facing the Green Knight, or rather standing at the ready to fight the Green Knight who, for his part, sat calmly side on, displaying a blank green shield, his sinister display a clear mock of such disrespect as to madden beyond all restraint the long suffering Gawain.

“Defend, I’ll give you no more warning nor quarter.  You have earned this beyond all bounds of knightly behavior and I require satisfaction.  So saying and without delay Gawain couched his lance and charged.

“Soon enough Gawain was at the gallop and bearing down on the Green Knight where he waited, at rest, before the huge spreading fir at the top of the hill.  With madening Nonchalance, the horse and rider wandered off the road, still side on to Gawain.  The small satisfaction of the Green Knight quiting the road was not now of a sufficiency to stay Gawain.

“Adjusting to the new deflection, Gawain bore down.  With satisfaction, he saw the varlet turn head on to him, awaiting his attack.  As he neared the collision, Gawain had eyes only for the heart of his enemy.  Gawain stood high in his stirrups, and leaned in against the shattering impact of taking a man full in the chest with a lance.  Indeed Gawain drew some back just before contact, and then thrust with all his might to run the man through.

“He couldn’t have missed, he was sure, Sir Gawain watched the point take the insolent knight full on his breastplate, but it was as if the Green Knight were a phantasm or wraith and its armored breast resisted his thrust no more than would a vapor.  And so, inevitably, without the counterbalancing resistance of an armored man to set him back in his saddle, Gawain followed his thrust over the back of the Green Knight’s horse and headfirst upon the road, his fall broken by naught but the horse flop that had in large part precipitated the engagement. 

“The dung did not afford any more resistance than had the Green Knight, indeed it rather smoothed and lubricated the way as Gawain skidded over the hill.  Far from slowing, it seemed, he began to gain way as he bounced and rattled down the road into a smallish village, ending his careen in a rather large communal pig wallow.

“Mortification were not nearly a sufficient descriptor of Gawain’s embarassment.  At least, though his shame was witnessed widely by the populace, Sir Gawain was saved from drowning in the murky middlemost depth of the pig wallow, being drawn forth by the efforts of four good men of the village.  Further, these same men were able to identify and secure the young vandals who had made up the wooden effigy, placed it upon a perloined plow horse, and presented it at the top of the hill from which devolved all the tragic event afore mentioned.” Martin bows with laudably dignity despite bells jingling on his hat.

When the snickers and gaffaws subside, the King nods to the bard, “Master bard, well told.” Then to Gawain he says, “Truly an amazing adventure, Sir Gawain, but what became of the young rapscallions?”

It seems Sir Gawain could not get redder, but he, with exagerated dignity, ignoring his fellow knights in hopes of salvaging something good from it all says, “Having been saved from sure death by their fathers,” he says, “I remembered my own imperfect youth and decided that the punishment should fit the crime.”

“Oh? What punishment?” asks the monarch, Arthur, over the rim of his drinking horn of red wine.

Arthur drinks deep, Gawain, clearly pleased with himself, responds,”Why, they are this moment cleaning my armor.”

He is less pleased as his king spews wine across the table, Gawain’s mantle, and his beard which drains onto his fresh doublet. “Oh Gawain, you didn’t!” Arthur moans.

* * * *

The ride has been long and trying, but it is nearing an end with every step closer to Camelot.  Still, the knight emissary from a nearby kingdom is not at all pleased to see a knight baring his way. 

Looking hard at the shield device on the mounted knight he recognises the heraldry of sir Gawain of Camelot. “Sir Gawain, what is the meaning of this?”  The knight is vexed that Gawain makes no answer, but Gawain, in full armor, visored as if for battle, plods out from under the great fir he has been lurking beneath.

A Story that Grows in the Telling

Everything that happens, if it involves more than one person, will have two or more opinions about what actually happened.  The truth, if there is such a thing, will be somewhere among the opinions.  I think a legend at its base is a story that grows in the telling, resonating more and more with the audience, while it grows less and less true to its origin. 

A legend, to a storyteller, is too good to pass up.  In fact it is opportunity after opportunity to tell it plain, but instead, the bard, or skald, or elder decides to tell it so they see eyes grow wide, eyes that are rivetted on the storyteller. 

Fables provide lessons (and often talking animals), Myths explain gods and their interactions with people, Epics follow a series of critical events.  Epic Fable?  Mythological Epic?  Lore applies to the collected stories of a people, perhaps it is their stories that make them a people.  All these names for stories are words to describe stories of different flavors, but all of them, in someway, provide cultural cohesion.  Don’t you think?

J. R. R. Tolkien set out to provide what he felt his people lacked, a mythos for the British people.  It was Epic, it was Mythical, it spoke to me and continues to, as a reader, I hated to see it end.  Really, I hated the end, it seemed to me that Grey Havens was one of the sadest personal tragedies that I’ve endured.  Fine for Frodo and Bilbo, I’m sure Merry and Pippin and of course Sam all got on fine, but for me that world just ended.  There is a hole.

The nearest thing to the feeling of exploration and discovery that I got with LOTR is the discovery of Irish Mythology.  It is not in a neat package like LOTR.  It doesn’t have just one imaginer.  But it is an exciting and involving subject.  The hole is partly filled.

But I want more.  Sometimes you have to supply your own needs, like almost all the time you do so, I am in the process of writing several novels, but on the way to that I offer these thoughts, insights, resources, and diversions of interest to me and, I hope, to you.  Here I hope to gather legends and lore, notes on antiquity, and present day reality.

For now, welcome and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights; I value your eyes, riveted, grown wide.

A Story Told (and told and told)

I’m a man with a story.  Even my name, O’Neill, has tales attached to it (like this one of the Hand Gules that is prominent in our heraldry,) but don’t we all?  I love old tales, tales of heroes, tales of real people in strange times and strange people in real times.  I have wanted to write such tales and, prodded by my friend, Jeffery, I have. 

I’ve just completed the first draft of a short story.  In the end Concerning The Deer Riders wandered a bit farther than I had anticipated.  Legendary wanderings?  You can read Concerning the Deer Riders yourself and see what you think.

I’ve begun a novel.  I am offering my unedited first draft as I write it.  When Jeffery first convinced me to try this format I realized that the first job was to get some content up and quick.  As such, my first use has been something of an artist’s sketchbook, an author’s notepad.  I do believe there is value in this.  Eventually it may be of use to other struggling writers to see the story of my struggle and see process as positive or negative example or even to provide encouragement by comparison.

Dear reader, I am a new novelist and at present I believe that my best chance of developing is getting something out there.  If you disagree please tell me, perhaps I will progress on several tracks. putting out raw very rough drafts and going back through past stories to sharpen and polish them.  Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and  Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn. Follow my progress HERE.

Of late I feel that I’ve put quite a bit of ore on these pages.  It is probably time to refine, to polish, to hammer some of these tales into something better than they were.  So now, we begin the  “. . . and told and told and told” part of the writers craft.  Find my polished stones here.

Tir na Nua

I have imagined a world apart.  A land out of time.  Now, on Earth, there is little doubt about some things which have happened, have passed into history.  These things are written.  Before and between the stone of what is written are legends of things not written, but perhaps true none-the-less. 

Tir na Nua is neither and both.  Have you wished that there was a land where the Celtic world did not fall beneath the Roman?  Have you wondered what that world might have been?  Such things have happened in the new land and we have word of it, remembered by bards, lineage by rote, History in mind and on their lips.  I bring these stories.

At one time folk we identify now as Celtic dominated much of Europe. Except for ruins, and votive offerings, and the words of enemies, and a very few scratchings on stones we have nothing left of these people.  To imagine a Celtic world like insular Ireland one must imagine the real, because there is little enough to instruct us as to what that real, Earthly world was like.  Enter the legend maker, the storyteller, the bard. 

I have had an interest in the real Celts, Gauls, Britons, Welsh, all the diverse tribes of a people who shared a way of life and an asthetic sense and language if not blood.  I want to gather material, post what I find, and get your reactions to topics of Antiquity, Celts in general, Insular Ireland, and of course my stories.

Sometimes I wish I dwelled in Tir na Nua, but instead I live in a much less misty, more pedestrian, and I would say, far less noble world.  Some things that come to my attention must not pass without comment.  I will comment on current events. (sorry if this is a buzz kill, please feel free to ignore all political rants of the author and return to escapist literature.) 

Content

I am working to put some of my scratchings, secreted away in numerous notebooks, into a form more conducive to your perusal and consumption.  These first draft stories and bits of back story are available at blog topics.

Here is a bit of that ever expanding effort? work? uh, drekk? Hopefully fascinating fiction.

I have in mind to collect many things here, but I want to produce for you stories of places outside of your experience (or anyones) and yet true and recognizable. You are welcome to browse as it accretes (I think this may be another Steveism. I should really look for it in some authoritative Dictionary.*) I will update metatags and such to reflect the sites altered state. It will never be done…

I pray I have not taxed your resources too much. Enjoy! Comment! Dispute! Encourage! Correct! Guide! Request!

Welcome to this,

LSO

PS. * ac·crete (-krt)

2. To grow or increase gradually, as by addition.

source

A Story that Grows in the Telling

A legend, at its base, is a true story that has grown in the telling, resonating more and more with the audience, while it grows less and less true to its origin.  A legend, to a storyteller, is a tale too good to pass up.  In fact it is opportunity after opportunity to tell a story as you heard it, but instead, the bard, or skald, or elder decides to tell it so they see eyes grow wide, eyes that are rivetted on the storyteller. 

Fables are lessons often presented by talking animals, Myths report the deeds of gods and their interactions with people, Epics detail a series of critical events.  But can you really catagorize a story so easily? Epic Fable?  Mythological Epic?  Legendary Myth?  What are they?  What is it?

Could it be Lore?

One might say that the word Lore applies to the collected stories of a people, perhaps they are the stories that make them a people.  All these words for stories describe tales of different flavors, but all of these provide cultural cohesion.  They are a shared heritage.  And there is another word to add to our growing list, heritage.  Don’t you think?  

J. R. R. Tolkien set out to provide what he felt his people lacked, a mythos for the British people.  It was Epic, it was Mythical, it spoke to me and continues to speak.  As a reader, I hated to see it end, but it did.  There is a small enough corpus of polished Tolkien fiction.  I have to say that I have felt the lack, but then Tolkien himself is a legend. 

I think Dennis L. McKiernan expressed a similar sentiment.  I’m no JRR Tolkien and neither is Dennis.  Personally I much prefer Morgan Llywelyn to McKiernan,  or Parke Godwin or George Martin (George’s Website) or. . . almost anyone, (sorry Dennis, in fairness I need to read something more recent of yours because I think I read your first high fantasy book and felt it was derivative, but then you said right up front what I’ve always felt, that there needs to be more high fantasy like JRR’s and you tried to fill that massive void.  Good for you.)

And since Dennis has ventured forth into Heroic, Epic, High Fantasy I feel that I may too.  Perhaps I will meet with even less success.  But this is my wee bit flung into the void.  It is to that end, the filling of the void, that I have conceived of Tir na Nua.

Welcome to Tir na Nua

I am in the process of writing stories, short and long and several novels, but on the way to that I offer these thoughts, insights, resources, and diversions of interest to me and, I hope, to you. 

I hope to gather legends and lore, notes on antiquity, and present day reality. You see, a legend is changed by its times, a story is shaped by the telling.  Present reality makes an impression both on how a tale is told and how it is heard.   For now, welcome and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights; I value your eyes, riveted, grown wide.

A Story Told (and told and told)

I’m a man with a story.  Even my name, O’Neill, has tales attached to it (like this one of the Hand Gules that is prominent in our heraldry,) but don’t we all?  I love old tales, tales of heroes, tales of real people in strange times and strange people in real times.  I have wanted to write such tales and, prodded by my friend, Jeffery, I have. 

I’ve just completed the first draft of a short story.  In the end Concerning The Deer Riders wandered a bit farther than I had anticipated.  Legendary wanderings?  You can read Concerning the Deer Riders yourself and see what you think.

I’ve also begun a novel.  At least that is my intent.  Considering changes to my schedule I think I may progress differently than I did for the Deer Riders.  I intend to get it done before my birthday.  A bit of a gift to me.  But we shall see.  As such, considering the time, with my available time, without a history of being able to work that quickly expect IF I DO that it will be very raw.  Dear reader, I am a new novelist and at present I believe that my best chance of developing is getting something out there.  If you disagree please tell me, perhaps I will progress on several tracks. putting out raw very rough drafts and going back through past stories to sharpen and polish them.  Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and  Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn. Follow my progress HERE.

Tir na Nua

I have imagined a world apart.  A land out of time.  Now, on Earth, there is little doubt about some things which have happened, have passed into history.  These things are written.  Before and between the stone of what is written are legends of things not written, but perhaps true none-the-less. 

Tir na Nua is neither and both.  Have you wished that there was a land where the Celtic world did not fall beneath the Roman?  Have you wondered what that world might have been?  Such things have happened in the new land and we have word of it, remembered by bards, lineage by rote, History in mind and on their lips.  I bring these stories.

At one time folk we identify now as Celtic dominated much of Europe. Except for ruins, and votive offerings, and the words of enemies, and a very few scratchings on stones we have nothing left of these people.  To imagine a Celtic world like insular Ireland one must imagine the real, because there is little enough to instruct us as to what that real, Earthly world was like.  Enter the legend maker, the storyteller, the bard. 

I have had an interest in the real Celts, Gauls, Britons, Welsh, all the diverse tribes of a people who shared a way of life and an asthetic sense and language if not blood.  I want to gather material, post what I find, and get your reactions to topics of Antiquity, Celts in general, Insular Ireland, and of course my stories.

Sometimes I wish I dwelled in Tir na Nua, but instead I live in a much less misty, more pedestrian, and I would say, far less noble world.  Some things that come to my attention must not pass without comment.  I will comment on current events. (sorry if this is a buzz kill, please feel free to ignore all political rants of the author and return to escapist literature.) 

Content

I am working to put some of my scratchings, secreted away in numerous notebooks, into a form more conducive to your perusal and consumption.

Here is a bit of that ever expanding effort? work? uh, drekk? Hopefully fascinating fiction.

I have in mind to collect many things here, but I want to produce for you stories of places outside of your experience (or anyones) and yet true and recognizable. You are welcome to browse as it accretes (I think this may be another Steveism. I should really look for it in some authoritative Dictionary.*) I will update metatags and such to reflect the sites altered state. It will never be done…

I pray I have not taxed your resources too much. Enjoy! Comment! Dispute! Encourage! Correct! Guide! Request!

Welcome to this,

LSO

PS. * ac·crete (-krt)

2. To grow or increase gradually, as by addition.

source