The Mists of Avalon

  The weary knight sighed and shook his head. “I think I care not for it either, Morgaine. Yet perhaps it will be a simpler world than ours, and it will be easier to know what is right to do. So I came to seek Galahad, for though he will be a Christian king, I think he would be a better king than Mordred. . . .”

  Morgaine clenched her hands under the edge of her sleeves. I am not the Goddess! It is—it is not mine to choose! “You came—here to seek him, Lancelet? He was never one of us. My son Gwydion—Mordred—he was reared at Avalon. If he left Arthur’s court he might come here. But Galahad? He was as pious as Elaine—he would scorn to set foot in this world of witchcraft and fairy!”

  “But as I told you, I knew not that I came here,” said Lancelet. “I sought to reach Ynis Witrin and the Isle of the Priests, for I heard a rumor of a magical brightness which comes and goes in the church there, and they have renamed their Well, I have heard, the Well of the Chalice—I thought perhaps Galahad rode this way. Another old habit brought me here.”

  She asked him seriously then, face to face, “What do you think of this quest, Lancelet?”

  “I know not, truly, cousin,” said Lancelet. “When I took this quest on me, I went as once I went to kill old Pellinore’s dragon—do you remember that, Morgaine? None of us believed in it then, and yet I did in the end find that dragon and slay it. Yet I know that something, something of great holiness, came into Camelot that day we saw the Grail.” And when she would have spoken, he said vehemently, “No, tell me not that I imagined it, Morgaine—you were not there, you do not know what it was like! For the first time, I felt that there was a Mystery somewhere which was beyond this life. And so I went on this quest, though half of me felt it was mad—and I rode awhile with Galahad, and it seemed that his faith mocked mine, because he was so pure and his faith so simple and good, and I was old and stained—” Lancelet stared down at the floor, and she saw him swallow hard. “That is why, in the end, I parted from him, lest I damage that shining faith . . . and then I know not where I went, for the fog came down over my mind, and the darkness, and it seemed that Galahad must—must know all the sins of my life and he must despise me for them.”

  His voice had risen in excitement, and for a moment Morgaine saw the unhealthy brightness returning to his eyes, as she had seen it in the naked man running in the forest. She said quickly, “Don’t think of that time, my dear. It is over.”

  He drew a long, shuddering breath and she saw his eyes fade. “My quest now is to seek Galahad. I know not what he saw—an angel maybe—or why the call of the Grail came so strongly to some and so little to others. Of all the knights, I think only Mordred saw nothing, or if he did he kept it to himself.”

  My son was reared at Avalon; he would not have been deceived by the magic of the Goddess, Morgaine thought, and was about to speak and tell Lancelet what he had seen—he had been, in youth, an initiate of Avalon and he should not be allowed to think of it as some mystery of the Christians. But, hearing again that strange note in Lancelet’s voice, she bent her head and said nothing. The Goddess had given him a vision of comfort; it was not for her to destroy it with a word.

  She had sought this, she had worked for it. Arthur had forsaken the Goddess, and the Goddess had scattered his fellowship with a wind blowing from her holy place. And the final irony was this: that her holiest of visions should inspire the most passionate legend of Christian worship. Morgaine said at last, reaching out her hand to him, “Sometimes I believe, Lancelet, that it does not matter what we do. The Gods move us as they will, whatever it is that we think that we are doing. We are no more than their pawns.”

  “If I believed that,” said Lancelet, “I should go mad once and for all.”

  Morgaine smiled sadly and said, “And if I did not believe it, I should perhaps go mad. I must believe that I had no power to do other than I have done.”

  . . . must believe that I never had a choice . . . a choice to refuse the king-making, a choice to destroy Mordred unborn, a choice to refuse when Arthur gave me to Uriens, a choice to hold back my hand from the death of Avalloch, a choice to keep Accolon at my side . . . a choice to spare Kevin Harper a traitor’s death, and Nimue . . .

  Lancelet said, “And I must believe that man has the power to know the right, to choose between good and evil and know that his choice has made a difference . . .”

  “Oh, aye,” Morgaine said, “if he knows what good is. But does it not seem to you, cousin, that ever, in this world, evil wears the face of good? Sometimes I feel it is the Goddess who makes the wrong appear the right, and the only thing we can do—”

  “Why then, the Goddess would be just such a fiend as the priests say she is,” said Lancelet.

  “Lancelet,” she said, leaning forward to plead with him, “never blame yourself. You did what you must! Believe only that it was your fate and ordained—”

  “No, or I should slay myself at once, so that the Goddess could not make use of me to bring about more evil,” said Lancelet vehemently. “Morgaine, you have the Sight, and I cannot—I cannot believe it is God’s will that Arthur and his court shall fall into Mordred’s hands! I told you I came hither because my mind played tricks on me. Without thinking, I called the Avalon barge to me and came here, but now, I think, perhaps I wrought better than I knew. You, who have the Sight, can look within the mirror and see for me where Galahad has gone! I will even brave his anger and demand that he leave this quest and return to Camelot—”

  The ground seemed to quiver beneath Morgaine’s feet. Once she had stepped unwary into a patch of quicksand and had felt the mud shiver and slip sidewise; it was like that, as if she must throw herself at once to safe ground . . . she heard herself say, as if very far away, “You will indeed return to Camelot with your son, Lancelet—” and wondered why the cold seemed to suck at her very vitals. “I will look into the mirror for you, kinsman. But I know Galahad not, I may not see anything which is of use to you.”

  “Yet tell me you will do what you can,” Lancelet pleaded, and she said, “I have told you I will look into the mirror. But it will be with us as the Goddess wills. Come.”

  The sun was high now, and as they walked down the hill toward the Sacred Well, a raven croaked once overhead. Lancelet crossed himself against the evil omen, but Morgaine looked up and said, “What did you say, sister?”

  Raven’s voice said in her mind, Be not afraid. Mordred will not kill Galahad. And Arthur will kill Mordred.

  She said aloud, “Arthur will be King Stag still. . . .”

  Lancelet turned and stared at her. “What did you say, Morgaine?”

  Raven said in her mind, Not to the Holy Well, but to the chapel, and now. It is the time ordained.

  Lancelet asked, “Where are we going? Have I forgotten the way to the Holy Well?” and Morgaine, raising her head, realized that her steps had brought them, not to the Well, but to the little chapel where the ancient Christian brotherhood held their services. They said it had been built by the brotherhood when the ancient Joseph had thrust his staff into the ground on the hill called Wearyall. She put out her hand and took a sprig of the Holy Thorn; it pricked her finger to the bone, and hardly knowing what she did, she put out her hand and marked Lancelet’s forehead with the streak of blood.

  He looked at her, startled. She could hear the priests singing softly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. She went in quietly and knelt down to her own surprise. The chapel was filled with mist, and it seemed to Morgaine that through the mist she could see that other chapel, the one on Ynis Witrin, and hear both sets of voices singing . . . Kyrie eleison . . . and there were women’s voices too; yes, this must be on Ynis Witrin, for in the chapel on Avalon there were no women, these must be the nuns in the convent there. It seemed for a moment that Igraine knelt beside her and she heard her voice, clear and soft, singing Christe eleison. The priest was at the altar, and then it seemed to her as if Nimue was there, her golden hair hanging down her back, fair and lovely as Gwenhwyfar had been when she wa
s a young maiden in the convent. But instead of the old jealous fury, Morgaine looked on her with the purest love for her beauty . . . the mists thickened; she could hardly see Lancelet kneeling at her side, but before her, kneeling at the altar in the other chapel, she could see Galahad with his face raised, shining, and on it was the reflected brightness . . . and she knew that he, too, saw through the mists, into the chapel here on Avalon, where the Grail stood. . . .

  She heard from the other chapel a ring of tiny bells, and heard . . . she never knew which of the priests, the one here in Avalon, or the one on Ynis Witrin . . . but in her mind it was the gentle voice of Taliesin . . . murmuring, “For in that night in which the Christ was betrayed, our Master took the cup and blessed it, and said, All of you drink of this, for this is my blood which will be shed for you. So often as ye drink of this cup, do it ever in remembrance of me.”

  She could see the shadow of the priest who lifted the cup of communion, yet it was the damsel of the Grail, Nimue . . . or was it she herself who set the cup to his lips? Lancelet rushed forward, crying out, “Ah—the light, the light—!” and dropped to his knees, his hands shielding his eyes, then slipped further forward and lay prone on the ground.

  Under the touch of the Grail, the shadowed face of the young man became clear, solid, real, and the mists were gone; Galahad knelt and drank of the cup.

  “For as the wine of many grapes was crushed to make a single wine, so as we unite in this bloodless and perfect sacrifice, then shall we all become One in the Great Light which is Infinite. . . .”

  And even as the rapture glowed through his face, the light shining there, he drew a great breath of absolute joy, and looked full into the light. He reached out to grasp the cup in his hands . . . and fell forward, slithered to the floor of the chapel, and he too lay there without moving.

  It is death to touch the holy things unprepared. . . .

  Morgaine saw Nimue—or was it she herself?—cover Galahad’s face with a white veil. And then Nimue was gone, and the cup was standing on the altar, only the gold cup of the Mysteries, without any trace of the unearthly light . . . she was not sure it was there . . . it was surrounded by mist. And Galahad lay dead on the floor of the chapel in Avalon, cold and still beside Lancelet.

  It was a long time before Lancelet stirred, and as he raised his head, Morgaine saw that his face was shadowed with tragedy. He whispered, “And I was not worthy to follow him.”

  “You must take him back to Camelot,” Morgaine said gently. “He has won the quest of the Grail—but it was his final quest. He could not bear that light.”

  “Nor could I,” Lancelet whispered. “Look, the light is still on his face. What did he see?”

  Slowly, she shook her head, feeling the cold rise up her arms. “Neither you nor I will ever know that, Lancelet. I know only this—that he died with the Grail at his lips.”

  Lancelet looked up at the altar. The priests had gone quietly away, leaving Morgaine alone with the dead and the living; and the cup, surrounded in mist, still gleamed there, softly glowing.

  Lancelet rose. He said, “Yes. And this shall come back with me to Camelot, that all men may know the quest is ended . . . and no more knights seeking the unknown to die or go mad . . .”

  He took one step toward the altar where the Grail gleamed, but Morgaine flung her arms around him and held him back.

  “No! No! It is not for you! The very sight of it struck you down! It is death to touch the holy things unprepared—”

  “Then I shall die for it,” he said, but she held him hard, and soon she felt him give way. He said, “Why, Morgaine? Why must this suicidal folly go on?”

  “No,” she said, “the quest of the Grail is ended. You were spared to return to Camelot and tell them that. But you cannot take it back to Camelot. No man can hold and confine it. Those who seek it in faith"—she heard her own voice, though she did not know what she was going to say until she said it—"will always find it—here, beyond the mortal lands. But if it should go back with you to Camelot, it would fall into the hands of the narrowest of the priests, and become a pawn for them. . . .” She could feel the tears thickening her voice. “I beg of you, Lancelet. Leave it here in Avalon. Let there be, in this new world without magic, one Mystery the priests cannot describe and define once and for all, cannot put within their narrow dogma of what is and what is not . . .” Her voice broke. “In the day which is coming, the priests will tell mankind what is good and what is evil, what to think, what to pray, what to believe. I cannot see to the end—perhaps mankind must have a time of darkness so that we will one day again know what a blessing is the light. But in that darkness, Lancelet, let there be one glimmer of hope. The Grail came once to Camelot. Let the memory of that passing never be sullied by seeing it captive on some worldly altar. Leave one Mystery and one source of vision for man to follow . . .” She heard her voice go dry until it seemed like the croaking of the last of ravens.

  Lancelet bowed down before her. “Morgaine, or are you truly Morgaine? I think I do not know who or what you are. But what you say is true. Let the Grail remain forever in Avalon.”

  Morgaine raised her hand, and the little folk of Avalon came and lifted up Galahad’s body, bearing it silently to the Avalon barge. Lancelet’s hand still in her own, Morgaine walked down to the shore, where she looked at the body lying in the boat. For a moment it seemed that Arthur lay there, then the vision wavered and vanished, and it was only Galahad, with that uncanny peace and light on his face.

  “Now you ride to Camelot with your son,” said Morgaine quietly, “but not as I foresaw. I think the Sight is given to mock us—we see what the Gods give us to see, but we know never what it means. I think I will never use the Sight more, kinsman.”

  “God grant it.” Lancelet took her hands in his own for a moment; then he bent and kissed them.

  “And so at last we part,” he said softly. And then, for all she had said of refusing the Sight, she saw in his eyes what he saw when he looked at her—the maiden with whom he had lain in the ring stones and from whom he had turned away from fear of the Goddess; the woman he had gone to in a frenzy of desire, trying to blot out the guilt of his love for Gwenhwyfar and Arthur; the woman he had seen pale and terrible, holding aloft the torch when they had taken him in Elaine’s bed; and now the dark, quiet Lady, shadowed in lights, who had lifted his son from the Grail and pleaded with him to leave it forever outside the world.

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the brow. There was no need for words; they both knew it was farewell and benediction. As slowly he turned from her and stepped into the magical barge, Morgaine watched the droop of his shoulders and saw the glint of the setting sun on his hair. It was all white now; and Morgaine, seeing herself again in his eyes, thought, I too am old. . . .

  And now she knew why she had never again caught sight of the queen within the land of Fairy.

  I am the queen now.

  There is no Goddess but this, and I am she . . .

  And yet beyond this, she is, as she is in Igraine and Viviane and Morgause and Nimue and the queen. And they live in me too, and she . . .

  And within Avalon they live forever.

  13

  Far to the north, in the country of Lothian, word came seldom and unreliably of the quest for the Grail. Morgause waited for the return of her young lover, Lamorak. And then, half a year later, word came to her that he had died on the quest. He was not the first, she thought, and he will not be the last to die of this monstrous madness, leading men to seek for the unknown! Always I have thought that religions and Gods were a form of madness. Look what they have brought on Arthur! And now they have taken my Lamorak, still so young!

  Well, he was gone, and though she missed him and would always miss him in her own way—he had been at her side longer than any other, save only Lot—she need not resign herself to old age and a solitary bed. She scanned herself in her old bronze mirror, sponged away the marks of her tears, then surveyed herself again. If
she no longer had quite the full-blown beauty that had brought Lamorak, dazzled, to her feet, she was still a good-looking woman; there were still enough men in the land, and not all of them could have been caught by this questing madness. She was rich, she was Queen of Lothian, and she had her woman’s weapons—she was still handsome, with all her own teeth, though now she must blacken her fading eyebrows and eyelashes . . . they were such a pale-gingery color now. Well, there would always be men; they were all fools, and a clever woman could do with them what she liked. She was no fool like Morgaine, to fret over devotion or virtue, nor a whining idiot like Gwenhwyfar, to think always about her soul.

  From time to time some tale of the quest, each one more fabulous than the last, would reach her. Lamorak, she heard, had come back at last to Pellinore’s castle, drawn by an old rumor of a magical dish that was kept there in a crypt beneath the castle, and there he had died, crying out that the Grail floated before him in the hands of a maiden, in the hands of his sister, Elaine, as she had been in childhood . . . she wondered what he had really seen. Word came, too, from the country near the Roman wall that Lancelet was dungeoned somewhere in sir Ectorius’ old country as a madman, and that no one dared send word to King Arthur; then she heard that his brother Bors had come and recognized him, and he had come to his wits and ridden away, whether to follow the quest further or to ride back to Camelot she neither knew nor cared. Perhaps, she thought, with luck he too would die on this quest; otherwise the lure of Gwenhwyfar would draw him back yet again to Arthur and his court.