The fields had been so quiet. So quiet you could hear a peasant smothering his second wife to death with a feather pillow in the adjoining county; if you were into that sort of thing.

There was no wind. When it is like that, the stars kind of stare down like they are waiting for something to happen.

Oh there was half a moon and yet, with not a cloud in the sky, the stars stared down, waiting. Time stands still when this happens. No one ages. Arteries stop clogging. Hate dissipates. Only REM sleep continues only it takes people to fantastic places not known in a world normally filled with doom and gloom.

Am I awake?  No wind, no clouds, no bugs. My god I am surely dead.

Somehow he had ended up in this field of clover. He certainly felt damp. But not from a rain; he was damp from the dew.

Oh I am in trouble now.

He recalled some things Merlin had taught him about those magnificent stars. There was more to this map of far away suns than just the two bears containing the North Star.

He recalled something about Orion and Orion's placement in the sky at this time of year and the number of bells on the grand clock at Glastonbury. The stars had something to do with the time of night besides the seasons.

It is just a little past midnight, the boy surmised. In late summer the sun would set around 9 bells.

There are omens. He looked at the northern sky and there were these auras; gently streaming waves of light with a bluish white hue.

And he saw a miracle. A falling star appeared, speeding to earth in a magnificent arc as if it had been plucked from Orion's Belt. As it disappeared just over this mighty hill to the West, there was this explosion. It could not have landed that far away because he heard the sound of thunder soon after the glow from the explosion dissipated.  Arthur sat watching in wonder.

THE DAWN OF A NEW AGE APPROACHES.

Arthur arose and walked toward a pond some fifty paces away. The pond was so still and its  water acted like a large mirror. As he arrived to the edge of this magic pool, a fish jumped not ten yards away diving back into its liquid homestead; causing perfect concentric circles to spread over the pond.

Hoooooooooo hooooooooooo ....an owl

Well the fish and the owl tell me that there is life here. I am not in the land of the dead. But how did I get here?

Arthur had walked toward to east to reach the pond. The North Star told him that much. Staring across the pond to the east he saw a tail of smoke rising beyond. Now he knew where he was, he thought as he washed the sleep from his face. Wooooooo. Chilly.

He turned toward the south to walk the edge of the pond and proceed east to the old hermit's home; the hostel at the edge of the forest. Francis would be growly, but what else is new? Ha the old fart will be happy to see me.

Never leave the fortification without your sword, without a magic coin and without your horse. A horse. That's fine unless you are fourteen and they will not let you have a horse to call your own. The horse was the symbol of knighthood.

Alexander had the magic Bucephalus which he earned when he was much younger than me. The mighty lad had tamed the greatest of the wild steed with neither saddle nor reins. The gods had presented Alexander with Bucephalus. The conqueror had led armies atop this steed at thirteen for chrissakes. (Arthur blesses himself) 

Caesar had his magic Horse Pollix; Pollix had toes above its hooves like one of those monsters you would witness at the carnivals. Others would have eschewed such a deformed creature of God. But not Julius; he knew the gods had smiled upon him and his great future feats as the greatest of the Romans. And Caesar certainly would have had this magic stallion by fourteen, since he rode it as head of his family by his sixteenth birthday.  No one else could ride that steed. No-no-nobody else.

Merlin had made him read this history reciting the importance of the mighty steed to the conquerors of history:

Every conqueror needs a distinguished horse which only he can ride. A number of classical sources note that Julius Caesar possessed such a horse, born on his own lands, whose front hooves resembled feet since they were divided in such a way that they looked like toes. This unusual condition was interpreted by a soothsayer as an omen that the master of such a horse would one day rule the world. Naturally, the horse would endure no other rider save Caesar. This observation in Caesar's ancient biography seems to recall the characteristics of Bucephalus, the wild horse tamed by Alexander, which provided that hero too with an oracle predicting world empire. In medieval romance, Alexander's horse becomes a horned creature so wild that it eats men. In a later medieval epic on Julius Caesar, in addition to unmistakable feet, his horse gains a fabulous horn on its head with which it can topple other riders and their mounts. A number of depictions survive in which this mythic horse (rather than its owner) is in sharp focus. A colourful earthenware dish of the early sixteenth century, which captures a moment in the triumph of Julius Caesar, appears to jettison the medieval horn in favour of a more rational spike attached to a harness, but all four of the horse's human feet remain clearly visible as it is ridden on parade by a youth, who carries a globetipped branch to signify that their master is ruler of the whole world

Arthur was fifteen on the morrow. Hell, I am fifteen now since it is after the midnight and...and...the omens tell me so.

Cai already had his horse. Once you had your own horse you were beheld as a real knight, a true knight whether properly vowed or not. Sometimes the oath would just be taken by the padre and seconded by the local duke at a later date. Cai had received both those honors.

But even Arthur, who had trouble with the ancient Lingua Latina knew that Rumpus was not a valiant name for a horse. And Arthur had told him so.

Look Cai, Alexander rode the Black Steed of the Gods, Bucephalus. Caesar had his grand Pollix.

But he learned long ago that Cai could be taught nothing.  Horse shite for brains; that was Cai.

These thoughts always made his journeys shorter somehow. He could see the hermit's place on top of the small tor ahead. And then, he heard a snorting. What the f......

Just then he was blind sided, knocked down to the ground by a monster of some kind.  Suddenly, he felt a strong flow of water upon him as he lay in a stupor. As he struggled to awaken from this traumatic trance, he knew it was not water. Shaking in anger he got to his feet. 

WHO DARES ATTACK THE GREAT ARTHUR?

A giant horse stood face to face with the urine soaked blue-blood. Snort.........

Hahahahahhahahah

Who's that. Who the hell is that? Called out Arthur, carefully surmising this monster with the rudest of manners.

It is I, Francis.

Oh Francis it is good to see you. But doth thou seeeth what I seeeth?

I most certainly seeeth what just hath peeeth. ahahahahahah

Oh that's Ralph, Francis continued, the feral equine. He comes around here a couple of times a year. Ha, it looks like he has taken a liking to you. Always knew Ralph had no taste in humanity, except for feeding upon fallen soldiers from time to time of course. Hahahah

Arthur shrieked.

But he has taken a liking to you boy. He does not knock down and piss on any woodland fairy. hahahahaha

I shall be right back boy.

Ralph kept staring at the boy. Arthur stared right back. No frickin animal is going to stare him down.  The two stood nose to nose for some time. Both of them were too proud to flinch. Ralph wondered what pride this youngster could still hold onto have bathing in the aftermath of his long drink at the pond.

All righty then boy, ask Ralph what he thinks about this, Francis instructed as he handed him a rope.

Arthur laid the rope over Ralph's head onto his neck, carefully; oh soooooo carefully; like he was awarding the horse with a wreath following the Kentucky Derby. Ralph did not even move. There had been an understanding of sorts reached between the two males.  Arthur had almost forgotten the stink if not the chill shooting through his limbs from his soakened clothes.

Francis was astounded. He really had never seen anything like this before. Ralph had been most unsolicitous over the year the monk knew him. The animal would show up out of nowhere and walk the hermit's grounds like he owned the place. Francis at first took this as a hurtful gesture; as if the steed looked down upon the lowly man.

Francis handed Arthur the hooded robe he had brought with the rope. Go back to the pond, clean up and put this on.

The Once & Future King led the horse back to the magic pond, stripped and jumped right into the water. Ralph aint goin nowhere. At least he hath better not!

He knew that the slow wade through the pool was more painful than sucking it in and taking the leap. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH THAT'S COLD!!! JESUS H. CHRIST!!!

Arthur arose from the pond shivering and blessing himself. He had been cleansed of the sins that had recently been perpetrated upon him.

The mighty horse seemed to look askance at the shrunkin genetalia of the young teen and laughed with a mighty snort.

This is all your fault you know, the yet to be mighty Arthur said aloud to Ralph as he donned the hooded robe.

Ralph snorted some more.

Arthur led his mighty steed, the stuff that knights are made of, back to the hermit's quarters.  But he could swear he heard a tune, a tune from that old student of Talesian as the two strolled toward their destination:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbUrv0UZWFI&feature=related

Francis was so taken by the horse's aplomb, that he would just put a bucket of grain and a bucket of water outside his door; he had so admired the freedom with which the steed moved. Where ever he wished? No prayer sessions. No worries about sinning and all that; certainly no table manners. The mighty steed, at times, would take some mouthfuls of oats, push the bucket over and run for the glen. Sometimes Francis thought he actually just took to this horse for his rudeness.

Gawain had once showed up at his hermitage drunker than a skunk which was as it always had been on a biannual basis for years;  my Gawwwwwd that man smelled. (Blessing himself) Naturally, after filling the knight with sustenance he did not merit, Gawain passed out upon the straw floor. The next morning Ralph showed up on the sacred grounds.

The hungover parasite jumped through the window and went after the steed, the most beautiful steed he had ever seen to no avail.

Gawain is the worst of this new generation of noblemen, I swear Francis had exclaimed at the time.

The boy and his horse approached the hermitage.

(The end of Chapter One)