Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (2 page)

When he awoke, he was in a stone chamber with golden sunlight streaming in from a high window. He was lying in a bed and somebody was tugging on his exposed undergarments, obviously trying to remove them.

Patrick panicked.

He grabbed a metal pitcher full of water from a nearby bed stand and struck at the robed man who pulled at his clothing. The man cried out in surprise and ran for the door. Patrick followed him, swinging the pitcher.

He chased the man out into the hall, but stopped when he heard a familiar voice, “Patrick! For the love of God! Stop! The poor soul was just trying to help.”

It was David. He was standing with a load of fresh linens in his arms, and he began to laugh like Patrick had never seen him laugh before.

The journey to the island-fortress had been no dream, David explained. It was the monastery at Mont St. Michel, just walking distance off the coast of France. David said “walking distance” because at low tide the waters completely pulled away, leaving a sandy flood-plain between the mainland and the island. It was possible then to walk to the abbey. But, at high tide, the ocean came rushing in at half a man's height every second.

The monks were charitable enough, and agreed to nurse Patrick back to health. He and David stayed until they lost count of the days. When Patrick awakened, he felt better, but was still hot to the touch, disoriented, headache-ridden, and congested. And, of course, he was incredibly tired. He slept most of the time.

When he was feeling up to it, he and David would go for walks.

Patrick was surprised to find in the light of day, and when not veiled in a fever-dream, that the complex looked very different from what he remembered from his journey. The abbey was not as tall, nor as elaborate, and there were no battlements that circled the lower portions of the island near the water’s edge.

“Perhaps you somehow glimpsed the future of this place. It would make an excellent fortress,” David said whimsically when Patrick commented on it.

Patrick only shook his head.

In any case, the abbey was no less interesting, housing many paintings and other works of art, not to mention how the monks’ chants filled its empty spaces; all of which pleased Patrick, especially the chanting. He stopped whatever he was doing during the various prayer hours, and listened with his eyes closed.

Outside the abbey proper, the village was a maze of winding narrow streets which dipped and rose all around the island. Patrick was glad that the weather was turning to spring, a pleasant change from the cold and miserable rains which had fallen without respite since he arrived in Europe. Leaning on David, he would take deep breaths of the spring air as he hobbled along the cobblestone paths.

One day, they leaned on a waist-high wall at the edge of a cliff. From here he could see much of the land surrounding the island monastery. The tide was out and below was nothing but flat, wet sand. The sun was rising in the east and, as it struck the earth, the moist sand sparkled in such a way that he had to shield his eyes. Seagulls drifted lazily on the wind. It was beautiful.

Another riddle was puzzling Patrick as he frowned in the direction of the mainland. There was a natural land-bridge that connected the mainland to the island, but it was only a series of disjointed outcroppings
―
not at all the straight and well engineered causeway of his feverish memories. When he commented on this as well, David insisted that they had crossed the sand in a hurry the night of their arrival to avoid the approaching tide.

“I guess I was truly out of my mind,” Patrick mused.

“What do you mean ‘was’?” David said laughing.

Patrick laughed as well, then closed his eyes and drew in another breath of fresh air, savoring it.

“Why did you join the Crusade?” David asked.

Patrick was slow to respond. He shrugged, saying, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

David could not get much more out of him after that. Patrick really did not want to talk about it. They had both come out of the experience somewhat disenchanted; many had. Yet they had survived, though this did not comfort him much.

“I want to thank you for coming with me,” he told David. “I mean taking this route instead of going to Paris like the others. Who knows, maybe I would be dead by now if I had gone that way too.”

David shrugged. “It was a good idea at the time.”

They laughed.

“I am surprised that you are still with me after all this time,” Patrick said. “Most of my friends usually part with me by now.”

David frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Most people I come to know usually tire of me or something and they drift away. You saw what happened a long time ago when we started our march from Flanders with those men I used to ride with, before I really came to know you. I have heard no word from them in over a year. And the ones who left to go back home, have sent no word of how they are doing, as they had promised to do.”

“Patrick, that is a normal thing,” David said.

Patrick shook his head. “But everyone? Always? A curse is on me, I tell you, and I know not why.”

“Maybe it is your wonderfully optimistic attitude,” said David, giving Patrick a playful punch to the stomach and grabbing his head in a wrestler's hold.

They were both grown men in their early twenties, and soldiers to boot, but they wrestled around for a few moments like boys.

“Stop it,” Patrick gave a muffled cry from under David's arm. “Or I'll get sick on you.”

David backed off. He had seen Patrick get sick before.

The Irishman made a face when he was released and suddenly lunged at David, cupping his hands over his mouth. David cried and jumped back. Patrick’s face beamed and he began to laugh.

David smiled also. “Bastard.”

They walked back arm in arm.

“Well, Irishman, you do not have to worry about me leaving you. I have too much pleasure beating you,” David said.

“You can only say that because I am sick, otherwise I would thrash you.” They laughed together.

#

In the following days, Patrick got increasingly better, and David grew steadily more restless. He talked increasingly of his family and friends in York and complained that there was little to do on the island.

One morning, he was simply gone.

He hadn't said anything to Patrick or anyone. Just left. He hadn't even left a message or a way of how he could be reached in York.

For days Patrick just looked out windows onto the wind swept expanse of wet sands. He couldn't understand what happened. He thought perhaps he had done something wrong. But he knew that he hadn't. David was just eager to be home and didn't know how to say goodbye, so he made it easier on himself by saying nothing. Could Patrick blame him? Or could he? All that he knew was that it hurt.

“Why the long face, Patrick? It's not like this is the first time,” he lamented to a mirror. Shortly afterwards, he had a relapse. Not a serious one, but serious enough to discourage him from traveling.

His throat became so sore he could barely eat. The evil-looking phlegm it produced woke him prematurely in the mornings with racking coughs, but at least it didn’t choke him to death.

And that is when the Apparition first came to him.

It just stood there, pointing, though Patrick could not fathom what he was accused of. At first he thought it was one of the monks in strange garb. But then it turned, moved away toward the door, and then faded right
through
the door.

The thing, which he named “Apparition,” appeared to him in the mornings, in the evenings before he went to bed, and on his walks in broad daylight down the cobblestone streets. It never approached, but watched coldly.

One night, Patrick awoke and knew the creature was in his room. He could neither hear it nor see it in the darkness, but he
knew
it was there, peering over him. He knew that it was leaning closer and closer to put its face near his own. He had never seen the face. He had a feeling that he did not want to. He pressed his body into his mattress as much as possible and began to shake and sweat with the effort. He tried convincing himself that it was not there; it had never harmed him, so why should it do so now? But a yell escaped his throat and he bolted for the door. He ran down the corridors screaming in a panic. Monks came from all directions, blocked his path, and wrestled him to the ground. They demanded to know what was wrong. Patrick stammered an explanation, but they seemed incredulous. His room was checked and there was nothing there.

“There!” Patrick shouted. “It comes! Can you not see it?”

The ghostly Apparition moved down the hall, walking slowly, taking deliberate steps toward the gathering of monks. It passed through objects and bodies in its path, and the living monks took no notice. The elder monk, who was closest to Patrick, shook his head.

“Mon seigneur, je ne vois rien.” I see nothing, my lord.

As the thing approached, Patrick cowered on the flagstones with his eyes closed and held on to the nearest monk.

“Monseigneur? Monseigneur?” The monk shook Patrick. The Irishman opened his eyes and the robed figure was gone.

“It is only the fever,” the monk said. “You will be fine. We will take care of you.”

#

For the following nights, Patrick slept fitfully. He was still feeling unwell.

Patrick was from the green hills of Eire and his Celtic heritage was strong. He believed that he was sicker than he thought and the monks would not tell him. He thought that a
Bain Sidhe
, a banshee, had come to herald his death. He had never heard of a banshee that was utterly silent; they were supposed to wail terribly. Patrick imagined footsteps around his bed.

He began to accept his fate as the haunting became more frequent. He became resigned to the fact that he was going to die and no longer gave notice to the creature. He mostly lay in bed, wondering what he should write to his family. After a while, it seemed to lose interest in him and came less and less frequently. Remarkably, he started to feel better as well, and the haunting almost ceased completely. Patrick thought perhaps that was the secret to defeating death: to accept death for what it is and embrace it.

Or perhaps it really all had been a fever-dream. Patrick did not care. The Apparition appeared to be gone.

Once again his health was improving, and this time he meant to keep it that way. He made sure that he had plenty of sleep, ate regularly and well, and kept warm. He had become pale and thin since his illness, but he knew that would change with his renewed appetite and increased activity. The monks commended his improvement and commitment to health. Patrick sensed they were eager to be done with him, being the nuisance that he was, although they never said anything to him and were always polite.

To tell the truth, Patrick wished to leave. He had stayed at the monastery for almost two months now, and it was closing in on him. He was incredibly bored and could not stand to feel useless. He did not feel he deserved the hospitality bestowed upon him. And worse, he did not know where to go once he felt well enough to travel again. He had only been traveling with David and the other veterans in the first place because David was going in the same direction, and it was in the general direction of his homeland. But, now that he was here, he had no idea where he wanted to go. He had been moving toward Eire, but he knew that he would not be happy there, that the series of events which caused him to leave in the first place would resurface and he would leave again. So why go there now?

In a sense, he felt trapped in the Mont Saint-Michel monastery. Nothing kept him there but his own indecisiveness. He could go in search of David of York, but he questioned the wisdom of that. Perhaps David did not want to be found. Or maybe Patrick felt it would damage his pride to chase after him, no matter how good friends he believed they had been. In any case, he did not think that was an option and he again felt depressed.

As it turned out, he needed only wait a while longer for chance to step in and offer a choice to him.

Travelers had come to rest at Mont St. Michel to break their journey, and Patrick met them in the Common Hall for a meal. Such events were common. The abbot was always hosting visitors and temporary guests and thought it quaint to have them dine together. News from abroad could be exchanged this way, and mutual traveling arrangements could be made. Even friendships, too.

At the meal, Patrick was conversing with a young lady from Alsace and her male escort when he noticed a gentleman sitting across from him. He was unabashedly staring.

“You are not French or Norman,” the man said in Latin, the
lingua universal
.

“Is my accent that bad?” Patrick had always been conscientious of his French, even after being a long time among Franks during the Crusade.

The man smiled. “No, that was not my meaning. I could not help but notice that you are not from these parts.”

“Neither are you,” the Irishman pointed out. The man was tall and lanky, even taller than Patrick. His face was long and pale, not with the pallor of illness, but a natural lightness of complexion common among the Anglo people. He had brown, whimsical eyes with smile lines around them. He was dressed in a plain surcoat with a broad leather sword belt wrapped around his waist. Although he saw no scabbard, Patrick could tell from the man's hands and mannerisms that he was a knight, if not some other kind of soldier.

“My name is Marcus Ionus.” The man extended a hand.

“Patrick Gawain.” Patrick took his hand. Marcus's eyes narrowed. “Gawain? The name seems familiar to me.”

Patrick laughed. He was used to it. “You are doubtless thinking of the Sir Gawaine, nephew of King Arthur and Knight of the Round Table.”

“Perhaps a relation?” he inquired.

“No relationship of which I am aware,” returned Patrick. They talked for a while about current news. Patrick had been cut off from the world by his illness and geography. He found that he had missed much, but nothing that really interested him.

“So tell me, sir, how is it that an Irishman comes to the coast of Normandy?” Marcus asked.