The Upbringing.: Fables From Miragasia, #1

By M.A. Fenech

Ewliena lived austerely since childhood and she had to adapt to a life on restrained magical ability. In a world of tyranny overlords, many mishaps are going on, and young Lenom is doing his best to unravel them. Will Ewl and Lenom manage to meet at the end and form an alliance? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.A. Fenech
• Release date: Sep 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9789995712181

Book preview

Part 1

Epigraph

This is a tale with its own time. Days are referred to as diurnals, years as aniums because that’s how Miragasia likes them.

Time is measured by timecontainers–they look like hourglasses but are filled with water–the water of Seħer.

Seħer is the magic of the magic-users referred to as Sħaħar. Pronounced Se-her.

The severe drought of a scorching summer brought on a juncture of mass desiccation.

PROLOGUE

Strange how things work out.

The castle standing on top of a remote hill overlooking Qaljenza valley was the grandest and most luxurious building in that part of Miragasia. Undoubtedly the largest. No one down at the small village knew where it had come from or how long it had been standing there on the hill watching over them. The building was ageless, like those who lived within it and all the villagers knew about it was that it belonged to the race that had imprisoned them. It was a place to keep away from.

Despite his grandmother’s repeated warnings, ten anium-old Lenom approached the castle, consumed by a fierce curiosity he couldn’t control.

The elders at the village told all kinds of stories about the Shapers, the mystical race who had ruled over Miragasia for centuries. Most stories were terrifying, featuring tales of havoc and chaos created when the Shapers used their powers. The Shapers that guarded the village called themselves Sħaħar. Their ability was called Seħer, which in his vernacular, meant incantation.

He was scared of them, as they could scorch anything with just one stare.

And yet, Lenom walked on. He had rarely left the village–he had gone bathing in the lake a few times, and there were other occasions when he was sent on errands. Every time, the castle had drawn him to it, but Lenom had never found the courage or will to approach it. Until now.

This time he was intent on discovering all its secrets. It might have been perhaps his desire to taste again that delicious fruit which his family had been offered every once in a while. Or maybe it was just curiosity itself, to discover who resided in that enormous castle or why the building was red when everything else in Miragasia was a dull grey.

There was also another mystery he was keen on solving. His granny told him all sorts of tales of how Miragasia used to be when the diurnals were divided between light and darkness when Miragasia used to have both day and night-time. Then, ten aniums in the past, something happened which changed Miragasia completely. The night and the darkness ceased to exist completely. Now it was always day in Miragasia, without ever growing dark. That was the reason some of the Shapers invented timecontainers to measure time with.

Lenom’s father was a carpenter–the carpenter. His family had been commissioned to design and build the little wooden huts in the middle of the marsh. For that, they were rewarded with good food and drink, as well as individual permissions from the Sħaħar to leave the village. No other Melitasian his age was allowed that. Compared to the other villagers his family lived in luxury. Still, he knew, at the tender age of ten, that life must hold something better.

It was after dinner when he set out. The brute guards at the front gate of the village stopped him and checked his bag and all his pockets. This happened every time he wanted to head out. The guards were not the most delicate beings. They were tall, their skin grey, their faces all alike and they always wore black tunics with a silver lining at the hem.

Moreover, they were all bald and shaved to perfection. The difference between them and his own race was quite striking. The Melitasians had various skin types and were much shorter and hairier.

The Shapers carried no weapons. They needed none–they could wipe people out of existence with just a minimal movement. He had seen it done to fellow villagers who refused to obey.

‘Out for a stroll?’ one guard asked.

‘Yes Sire,’ said Lenom.

The guard let him pass. ‘You know the curfew. You wouldn't want to come back and find your family tied to the whipping posts in the square, wouldn't you?’

‘No sire. I will be back in time.’

Lenom set off along the only thoroughfare leading out of the village and into the marshlands that surrounded it. He knew the marsh well but getting to the castle was going to be a different story. And yet he was determined to try.

Once he reached the castle, he planned to find a way in, look around and maybe manage to snatch some delicious fruit from the castle's only tree. Trees were a rare thing in that land, but this particular tree was even more precious. One fruit was enough to fill one's stomach for an extended period. At times even for an entire diurnal. His Father had been given some a few diurnals before, as a gift for his outstanding work. Lenom had tasted just a bite; it had been so sweet, so good, that he hungered for more. Why wouldn't they share?

As he hurried down the winding thoroughfare, he sniffed the particularly torrid afternoon air. Those arid conditions made vegetation impossible to thrive, and he could not believe that once flowers grew in Miragasia. Everything he knew was from his grandmother’s stories and illustrations in books he had managed to snitch from the Shapers.

Once out of the marsh, he came to a broad thoroughfare. He walked on until he came to the foot of the steep hill that was his destination. The castle loomed at the top, threatening, yet inviting. He stopped and looked around, realising that there was nobody in the vicinity, a fact he found strange. Was it an awkward coincidence or was it fate that wanted him to go on with his journey? He shrugged it off and started to climb.

It took him a while to reach a wrought-iron gate, flanked by massive stone columns on each side upon which sat two statues. The Sħaħar surely loved gates and very high walls. He noticed this wall was somewhat higher than the one surrounding the village. Counting the courses, he judged it to be at least fifteen feet high. His father had taught him a lot about measurement. One diurnal he would take his place as a carpenter to the Shapers.

Lenom’s dream, however, was different from what was planned for him–he was going to be the one to set his people free.

Through the bars, he peeked inside. He marvelled at what he saw, at the several fountains built across the landscape. The garden surrounding the castle was enormous. So large, he thought his village would fit three times. He knew the Sħaħar had many riches and lived in massive palaces, but would never have imagined such a place.

Stepping forward, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. One of the statues was glancing down at him with fiery red eyes. It moved its wings threateningly, but Lenom wasn’t the least frightened. He knew all one needed to know about creatures which had fallen under the regime of the Sħaħar. Those moving statues were called unsleeping effigies, and they were mostly used to guard the massive palaces where the most potent Sħaħar dwelled. He gazed back calmly at the statue, thinking how the guardians could survive up there, with no clothing, exposed to the elements. For sure, both unsleeping effigies were in dire need of restoration. They looked old and weary. He looked at their stone mouths, wondering how they ate. He decided they must lead quite a boring life up there, just waiting for the next visitor to call at the gates.

Dismissing them, he tried squeezing between the bars, but no sooner had he touched the gate that the bars moved and he had to step back quickly or have his head chopped off.

He studied the gate, trying to devise a new plan of action. Finally, he decided to climb over it.

However, as soon as he reached the top, the unsleeping effigy on the left grabbed him around the waist and threw him far off.

Undaunted, as soon as he got back on his feet, Lenom started to walk around the walls in an attempt to find an unguarded portion of wall which could possibly give him access to the grounds beyond.

Halfway around the grounds there was another gate, smaller but guarded nonetheless.

So many unsleeping effigies, he thought. They must surely be hiding something.

He looked through the bars. A few feet from where he was standing there was a pool of water from which the most transparent and cleanest waterfall fell towards another larger, natural pool in the ground. To his amazement, he noticed the higher pool was floating several feet above the ground.

The sight and sound of the waterfall transfixed him.

He knew the water-of-life. Its water was pure, but this was something more. It sparkled as it thundered down. The water foamed when it hit the surface of the water below but the rest of the pool was just transparent, and even from where he stood he could see down into its smooth bottom. A pool so clean and so thick he was sure nobody ever bathed there. He stared at its unmoving waters with a glitter in his brown eyes, half expecting some sylph to appear suddenly. He did not know if sylphs existed or if they were just a myth created by his people, a baby’s bedtime story–but he knew for a fact that if they did, that pool would be their home.

There were no trees around the walls, just high, blackened hedges. He sniffed the air, twice. Apart from the sweet smell of the waters, the slight breeze seemed to be carrying another peculiar smell, stronger, different. He decided that such a divine aroma could be nothing else but that of slowly cooking roast. He had only tasted it once, but it had stuck in his memory ever since, and he was sure he would recognise its scents no matter how much time passed.

Looking around, sniffing the air, Lenom searched for the source of that lovely aroma. It was most certainly coming from the castle in the distance. It was so inviting that he was determined to find it once he managed to get inside the walls and perhaps even have a bite or two. Perhaps he could manage it without being caught.

A rustling noise coming from the pool disturbed his plans and thoughts. Then suddenly, a scream.

‘Aaaaaaahhhhhh’

The sudden shriek made him jump out of his skin, and he had to hold to the bars for support. The booming sound of thunder echoed in the far distance. The air around him grew colder as rain started pelting down. Lenom had nothing to cover himself with, but the rain was of no concern to him. The weather was always like that, with sudden changes which lasted for brief periods before it became warm and dry again.

‘Who...  who, are you?’ asked a voice of someone climbing out of the pool.

He could see it was clearly youngster, a female, short, dressed in a bathing suit, her face as red as her damp hair. She must have been scared out of her wits, too–the rest of her was so pale, as white as milk. It got chilly as the two stared at each other for what seemed to be decades.

‘Must be nice living in such a big place,’ he said.

Lenom felt the youngster’s eyes scanning him and suddenly realised he must look like a mess. Nervously, he adjusted his baggy trousers and tucked his oversized shirt inside, trying to look as smart as he could. He brushed off some grime from his clothes.

‘You live here?’ he dared again, in an attempt to make her stop staring.

The redheaded figure nodded. She smiled, and at that moment the rain stopped abruptly.

‘Who and what are you?’ she asked, eagerly.

‘I’m Lenom from the village. And you?’

‘I’m Ewliena,’ she replied a little pressingly.

As she was about to ask something else they heard the sound of feet scuttling towards them and she pursed her lips together.

A female Seħer user–a Saħħara–strode between them in her long black frock. She was a tall female with dark-greyish skin that looked like old dry parchment. Her dark, sleek hair fell delicately under the shadow of a flat, elegant black hat.

A thin light emanated from the jewelled book she was holding. Lenom knew at once she was one of the most powerful of the Sħaħar, albeit he had never before seen a female version of them. He had seen only males before. This female version looked somewhat stricter than the rest. He wanted to inspect her thoroughly, to know the rank. The most powerful ones wore a traditional golden belt around their waist. She wasn’t wearing any belt. His eyes fixed the Saħħara’s. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the youngster, who had suddenly lost all interest in him and was busy fiddling with her hair instead.

With a sinuous movement, a Gullinfern appeared from under the lady's black hat, spread its wings and flew towards him. It perched on the gate between the bars.

Lenom tensed, sensing the danger. He knew how sneaky and savage those tiny creatures could be. Every Shaper had one, flying over their heads or resting on their shoulders. Little sneaky spies. His granny always warned him to stay as far away from those nasty little creatures as he could: their whiskers were deadly to the touch for Melitisians and their arrow-shaped tail poisonous. They could make one sick for many diurnals. This one had two tails. Double the tails double the poison, Lenom thought. Five inches of nastiness, his granny would add.

He bowed towards the Saħħara, as was customary when in the presence of one of them. The Gullinfern reached out with its little black paw, the nails like perfect cutting claws. He stared at it. It stared back at him. The creature hopped onto his shoulder, then climbed up his head.

‘What are you doing here little chattel?’ the lady asked, scorn in her voice. ‘Don't you know what this place is?’

Lenom thought about the word she had used. Chattel. That was the term used by the Sħaħar for his race and one other reason his granny disliked them so much. Them and the Gullinferni they used as pets.

With a flutter, the Gullinfern went back to its mistress. The Saħħara started moving her hands around in strange ways.

Fear gripped him. He couldn’t help it. Lenom turned on his heels, away from the gate and ran for his life. The sky was darkening now, the lake already full of bobbing lights. Without stopping, Lenom took one last look at the castle. The lady was still there, now standing outside the gate, still waving her hands in his direction. He didn’t know what that meant but he was sure about one thing–he wasn't welcome at the castle.

1 Makkya

Ignoring the slight nip in the air, the youngster standing at the feet of the massive tree shed her sandals. The white, parchment-thin leaves on the ground crumbled to dust under her bare feet, keeping them fresh, as she stood looking up into Makkya 's branches.

Nothing much ever happened to the tree apart from this youngster that frequently climbed up to watch the world from its high branches. This youngster spent more time up there than inside the castle in which she lived. The youngster’s name was Ewliena, and she had a secret which Makkya knew about–a secret no one else in Miragasia knew, not even the youngster herself.

Ewliena leaned forward to touch the red bark of Makkya’s trunk. She judged the tree to be at least six feet wider and maybe twenty times taller than herself. The thick blood-red sap smelled faintly sweet, its aroma almost masked by the stronger scent of Makkya's ripened cross-shaped fruits.

Tree-blood thought Ewliena. Blood had been on her mind a lot in the last couple of diurnals. Hers, she knew, was red. She had assumed that that was how things were for everyone until she saw her Godmother accidentally prick a finger with a needle. Dark-blue droplets had oozed out of them then.

This tree is both living and dying was what the youngster always thought. The tree was like her in many ways. Her feet she compared to its roots planted firmly in the ground. That's how she felt, looking over life from the topmost branch of Makkya and never being able to go anywhere. She just watched as one anium followed another. Makkya's branches grew on extensions like the fingers on her small white hands. Only Makkya was red from the roots to the top, as red as the youngster’s hair in fact.

Ewliena stretched in the sunshine. It was far too scorching to be outside; it would have been preferable to stay indoors where she could find some solace from that unbearable weather. But she had questions which needed answering and out there she was able to think undisturbed.

It’s a lovely diurnal, all in all, she thought.

Ewliena started to climb Makkya. Its leaves were soft and velvety as they brushed against her face.

She liked to think that she had grown into a charming youngster. As much as she could, she tried to keep a very dignified posture. Her favourite vestments were knee-high frocks and sandals. She preferred the pastel plain colours than any other ornamented garment. She wore the blue frock that diurnal, the one with the fancy white collar.

What she disliked about herself was her porcelain white skin and hair as fiery-red as the fiercest of fires–which was always in a tangled mess when not tied into a braid.

Barely five feet tall, if even that, Ewliena's body was slender. She was fit, able to climb Makkya with dexterity and haste. Ewliena had always considered Makkya a friend–she had been climbing it since she could walk–having spent most of her time up there, looking at the dull world that surrounded her.

Although having standard features, she knew she was a different kind of being. Different even from the rest of her peers. Not knowing anything about her real family, she had no idea where she came from. What she knew was her Godmother, an elegant Dame who had raised her in that greyish castle. Ewliena was never allowed to leave that place, and her Godmother never allowed Ewliena to use her powers.

Painting was Ewliena’s only way to communicate with her deep emotions. Slowly she untied the pieces of leather from the leather-bag she carried. From it, she pulled out some parchment and a multicoloured quill.

Ewliena had learned that there was nothing above the Sħaħar–the only species in Miragasia who could use Seħer–and she had been raised by one of them. So why wasn’t she like them? Her Godmother always told her that she, Dame Vellià, was one of the most powerful of them. Her Godmother’s species had vanquished the world and were now the only rulers. Ewliena wanted to be like her. She wanted to be able to create Seħer at will.

Forgetting her worries, she let a smile crawl across her angelic face as she looked over the valley below. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled at the sight of the small fishing village down the hill with all its colourful cottages. She felt giddy and chaotic every time she looked down at it.

That village piqued her imagination greatly. Qaljenza village fascinated her and inspired her in so many ways. To start with, there was life there, unlike the boredom and loneliness of the castle. From above, the cottages seemed to be all of the same size, though spread out on different levels. Those dwellings seemed attached to each other, thatched roof to thatched roof. At times, she just stopped to watch the smoke coming out of their chimneys and even from that distance, if she concentrated hard, and opened her nostrils wide enough, she could smell the sweet smell of baking. And her young heart would give a leap.

‘I’m going to be fifteen soon. I wonder when Godmother will let me outside the walls,’ she said to herself. Tears welled in her eyes. ‘One diurnal I will leave. One diurnal I’ll find a way to leave the castle and all its comforts. I hate all the rules that Vellià imposes on me; the atmosphere is so stiff, there must be something out there, something waiting for me. I want to go far away into the wilderness. Nobody would find me. No one would order me around, tell me what to do, what NOT to do. If only, if only, I could use my powers, exploit them. Use them to my advantage just like Vellià does. I would oh, how many things I would do.’

She sighed and burst into tears. She so wanted to scream out her pain.

‘Oh oh,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh Makkya, I can't even let my frustration out, Godmother would hear me, and I don't want her to find me up here.’

Sighing, Ewliena, rose to her feet and looked away into the distance. She closed her eyes and imagined herself flying off the tree and over the village.

‘I have a big power inside me, ready to burst out, I never felt it before, now it’s fighting to come out. If only I could... I just want to levitate, or maybe create one of those ingress-ways Vellià's friends use during their visits.’

Opening her eyes, she flung her arms wide open.

‘Fly, I want to fly,’ she whispered. ‘I always wondered how the ingress-way works. I know they are doorways to other places and only the ones with the power to create them can pass through. I like the one Martynn uses; it's not greyish like Vellià's, it's brighter. That once I managed to take a glimpse, the prairie I saw seemed to be alive and green. I want to ask him about it the next time he visits.’

2 Dame Vellià

Lost in her dreams of freedom, Ewliena failed to hear the steady sound of hoofbeats until they were almost directly beneath her. Looking down, she saw a gangly, purple-skinned figure in a long black tunic stopping at the foot of the tree. The figure had evidently noticed her discarded sandals, as it started waving its arms and jumping up and down. Despite its enormous size, its movements were surprisingly graceful.

‘Toyol?’

A stern voice was heard, and heeled steps approached slowly. In a flash, Ewliena’s drawing equipment was back inside her bag. She had to keep very quiet.

The creature stopped waving its hands and was now staring at its hooves.

An elegant, perfectly manicured grey hand delicately lifted the blue sandals off the grass, holding them carefully at arm's length. The Saħħara looked up at Makkya.

‘How many times do I need to repeat myself, will she ever learn?’

Ewliena gritted her teeth. She had been found. Now, she could only sit still and hope.

The Dame floated a few feet above the ground and eyed the tree with a look of irritation which Ewliena was all too familiar with. The open yard, with its dirt and mud and general untidiness, was at war with Dame Vellià and her never-ending mission to impose order and cleanliness on everything around her. Ewliena herself was, she knew, a constant source of fresh frustrations in this respect.

‘Burn them.’

She threw the sandals at Toyol. The creature looked up just in time to catch them in mid-air. She gestured with a nod and Toyol scrambled away, towards the castle.

‘Ewliena,’ Dame Vellià called.

There was no yell, nor did she raise her voice. She never did. She always prided herself on that, but her voice was cold and strict, just like her. Tall, thin, and elegant, Ewliena thought.

Ewliena's stomach lurched and her eyes bulged out in terror as the impassive figure of Dame Vellià appeared at her shoulder. Her tightly-bound black hair and equally grey complexion promised nothing but severity.

‘G...,’ Gulp. ‘Godmother,’ Ewliena muttered.

Ewliena was reminded, as she always was when in the presence of Dame Vellià, how much her Godmother frightened her–at times even to the point that she could hardly talk. She always had to think before she acted or spoke, or even breathed.

Vellià's body glowed gently from the Seħer she had used to levitate up to her.

Ewliena knew that levitating needed no components, just two words–one for up and one for down. ‘Fuq’ if you needed to go up.

She clutched at the tree for support as Vellià eyed her critically, her long white frock billowing in the wind. Dame Vellià almost looked like an Angklu of goodness that had just descended from the sky. Almost. Ewliena was sure Angkli didn't look so rigid, or stern. She had never seen one, but the name suggested some kindness. At least all the various texts she had read never described Angkli as rigid. They were described as medium-sized, big winged creatures, bearers of good tidings. They permanently wore long white tunics and wore matching white flat hats.

Just like the one Vellià was wearing.

Her Godmother cleared her throat. Ewliena was startled out of her thoughts.

‘Show me your hands,’ Dame Vellià ordered with exasperation. Ewliena held out her hands for inspection. Dame Vellià took them and turned them over to look at Ewliena's fingernails as she gazed unblinkingly. ‘Filthy, of course. Why can't you keep tidy?’

Ewliena bit her lower lip, as she always did when nervous, and said nothing. She fidgeted with her feet and looked down at

Reviews for The Upbringing.

[tronella_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I listened to the Librivox audiobook version, but the age of the text makes it pretty hard to follow in places, so I went back and reread some chapters at sacred-texts.com. My favourite parts of this were the parts I didn't already know (basically the whole Lancelot and Guinevere business and the grail quest) -- I think the best section is the bit where King Arthur is bored doesn't feel like paying taxes so he fights the entire Roman Empire, and then when he's defeated everyone and is in charge of everything he just goes home.

[mrsbond_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The first time I read this I was a college student immersed in literature. I loved the language and imagery, truly felt transported to another time and place. With this second reading I see James Bond. Arthur roams the countryside, bedding/leaving damsels, fighting/killing whatever gets in his way, getting himself wrapped up in conspiracies and evil plots, all without losing his smirk. OK, maybe Malory doesn't mention the smirk, but you know it's there.

[joybee_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I barely got halfway through this book. While the stories are fun, the language makes for a slow, difficult read.

[alanskinner-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think I read this over and over when I was a child, and when I came back to it as an adult, I still loved it. These tales are an ingrained part of western culture and are still a weather value for the rough winds of our morality.

Of course Mallory's tales of Arthur are a fifteenth century re-modelling but what glorious new dressing has been added. Each tale is a short story in its own right, and each combines effortlessly to create the picture of heroes and a kingdom in which people mattered, in which civilisation was something to strive for and not something to endure.

Maybe I'm just a sucker for Arthurian tales. They still delight and captivate me (all except the recent film version with Clive Owen and Keira Knightly) and I'm glad they do. We all know right and wrong is more complex than in Mallory's tales, but at least he makes living up to even simple choices filled with hurdles and pitfalls. Maybe that's why they work, because every hero wears his failings as openly as he wears his sword and shield.

[dinadansfriend · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

"The Beast with the Hair on". The spelling is regularized but that's the only concession made to the modern reader. The Tales are unorganized, but that's part of the fun. Also we should consider that Malory's organization differs from our personal one because he was writing for his own time. A great read, which rewards rereading. I know Ive been back to it several times.

[morgannakerrie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An essential Arthurian Legend text.

[jpsnow · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

While I can appreciate it's standing as the English epic and the beauty of its prose, the key moments are disarrayed within a relentless series of encounters between incredible knights. Homer and Virgil are more believable and more touching because they are more human. Were I to recommend the death of Arthur, I would probably specify portions that avoid the action-movie feel of endless jousts. The opening sets the foundation of Arthur (Excalibur, Mordred) and is the only part involving Merlin. Perhaps a few sections in the middle regarding Sir Beumains, Sir Tritram, and the Lady Isoud would also be included. The last few hundred pages finally bring out a plot, showing the conflict between Lancelout and Arthur -- and the tragic result. If one wants to understand the nature of the knight errant, they might read just a few chapters to get the idea.

[elizabeth5michele · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

despite the difficult language (this is an untranslated version) very good read.

[dreamingtereza_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An absolute childhood favorite - I took my Malory (and my thesaurus) everywhere! I fear I wore out a few copies before I acquired this sturdy hardcover.

[jshillingford_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Beautiful, oversized hardcover edition of this classic work. Learn the story of King Arthur as is was first "recorded." Highly recommended!

[librarylou · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Classic tale of King Arthur and his Knights, read it at Uni, and want to read it properly without studying it to enjoy it more.

[drewandlori · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The mother of all Arthurian legends. Not the easiest reading, and extremely repetitious at points, but worth it if you like King Arthur stories. The ending chapters on the fall of Camelot are incredible.

[k8_not_kate · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Having adored T.H. White's "The Once and Future King" in high school, I figured I would read this classic treatment of the Arthurian legends and enjoy it as well. Unfortunately, Malory's work was far less entertaining. Sure, I expected prose from the 15th century to be a harder to get through and denser than White's 20th century treatment, but "Le Morte D'Arthur" barely has an actual story. Malory gives us a series of very repetitive events and makes it difficult to identify with or even care about the main characters. I did give the book three stars, though, almost completely on the strength of the first chapters that go over Arthur's rise to the throne and the final chapter recounting his legendary death. These are worth reading and are very good. Overall, though, if you are looking for a more meaningful and entertaining telling of the Arthurian legends, go to White.

[saraprindiville · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very long, but as usual interesting that something written so long ago is still relatively current.

[aliceanna-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Very difficult, monotonous reading. Lots of smoting and brasting. Surprising source of subsequent Arthurian legends which bear little resemblance to Malory's work.

[tommi180744 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This Edition is based on Caxton's text: It therefore very largely contains the original detailed content - alterations have been confined almost entirely to spellings and a little grammar.This is the 'Romance' as conceived by Malory; every human strength and frailty explored through a tale of fair and foul maidens bestowing favours and demanding submission from manly counterparts, valiant and timid knights gripped by purity of motives and the basest of desires, the noble pursuit of mystical religious objects, considerable magic worked for good and bad, lived folk-lore, and at its core a legendary great King whose moral reputation, avowed love and sincere loyalty for his fellows in the face of every sort of affliction, assault and treachery survives unsullied to the present day. Be he real or imagined - Arthur - is one of the greatest characters ever written down in the English language - with his gallant, chivalric recruits to the Round Table, their strong-willed female companions and array of adversaries the range of all future English Literature (and much for Europe and modern America) is given a riveting basis for its later global success.It is said (by many) Cervantes' Don Quixote was the first modern novel - I disagree - 'The Death of Arthur' in my estimation has that significant role.

[darthdeverell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Keith Baines' edited version of Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur renders Malory's compendium of Arthurian legends into modern idiom. Malory's Arthur and Knights of the Round Table would likely appear strange to those familiar with the Arthur stories from Tennyson's Idylls of the King and T.H. White's The Once and Future King. In Malory's 15th-century retelling of the traditional legends, the knights frequently behead those they best in jousting, beget bastards on various ladies, and regard chivalry more in its original meaning of horsemanship rather than the later Victorian ideals. That shouldn't alienate those who come to these stories from their later reworkings, as Malory seems to set his Arthur in all times, blending elements from 500 C.E. through the 1100's.The stories overlap at times, but, for the sake of ease, Malory divides them into eight books: The Tale of King Arthur; The Tale of King Arthur and the Emperor Lucius; The Tale of Sir Launcelot du Lake; The Tale of Sir Gareth; The Book of Sir Tristram of Lyoness; The Tale of the Sangreal; The Book of Sir Launcelot and Queen Gwynevere; and Le Morte d'Arthur. All of the books fit together to make one larger narrative, though The Book of Sir Tristram of Lyoness (a retelling of Tristan and Iseult) stands alone and could serve as its own book. While the story of Tristan and Iseult likely predates the Arthurian legends, by Malory's time it had been incorporated into that body of work (after it had likely influenced the relationship of LLancelot and Guinevere). The strongest books in the series are The Tale of King Arthur, The Tale of the Sangreal, The Book of Sir Launcelot and Queen Gwynevere, and Le Morte d'Arthur.If looking for an edition of Le Morte d'Arthur to serve as an introduction to the larger Arthurian tradition, Baines' translation is a serviceable work.

[andreablythe · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I know Le Mort d'Arthur is supposed to be a great classic and the definitive Arthur, but damn it, I'm 377 pages in and I can't do it anymore. It is just too much of the same flipping story over and over and over and over again. And not just the same story (knight jousts with knight), but almost the same exact wording with each battle. The only thing to have sparked my interest in about 200 pages was this line: "The King Arthur overtook her [a false lady and sorceress], and with the same sword he smite off her head, and the Lady of the Lake took up her head and hung it up by the hair to her saddle-bow." THAT is pretty damn awesome, but it's also just one line out of all those 200 pages, and it made me long for a Lady of the Lake story, not more and more of these knights smacking each other around and talking about how knightly and courtly they are because they are big strong men who can politely knock another guy off a horse. I am so wonderfully wroth at this book that I'm about to come at all of these damn knights like thunder and smote them down with their own damn lances. (PS. If I never see the words "wroth", "smote", or "came together like thunder" again, it will be too soon.) Seriously, don't these guys have anything better to do than run around the forests or hang out a bridges and joust with each other? Isn't there farming or something to be done? Anything? Please? I mean, I'll read about the wheat in the fields at this point. Did I also mention that it's over 900 pages? Well, it is, and apparently this is the SHORT version. The other version is in like three volumes or something. Since it's getting the point that I'm starting to hate Arthur and his knights, I need to just put in the towel and read something — anything — else for a while. Right now, I'm really looking forward to rereading Simon Armitag's translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, because I need something to remind me why I used to love Arthurian stories so much.

[lisamaria_c · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I agree with the reviewer who said this is not for the faint of heart, and few general readers are going to find this a great read. If you're looking for an absorbing, entertaining read with characters you can relate to and root for, you're absolutely, positively in the wrong place. Read instead Arthurian novels such as T.H. White's The Once and Future King or Mary Stewart's Merlin Trilogy. There are countless other such novels inspired by this material worth reading, and I've read a lot of them.But I did find it interesting at times going through this, one of the ur-texts as it were of Arthurian legend. There are other, earlier works of Arthurian literature: Geoffrey of Monmouth's The History of the Kings of Britain (1136), Chrétien de Troyes's Arthurian Romances in the 12th century and Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parzival in the 13th century are among the most notable. But Malory drew from several sources, so much so he's often described more as the "compiler" than the author of the work. I own a edition in two volumes that comes close to 1,000 pages. So this is an exhaustive resource of all sorts of facets of the legend. The story of Tristram and Iseult is here, for instance. And this is a medieval work, so it's imbued with its assumptions and attitudes. Obviously a source of outrage to some reviewers, and even by the standards of the time, comparing this to how women are treated in say Boccaccio's Decameron and Chaucer's Canterbury Tales--well, women don't come off well here. Misogyny abounds. And knights are held up as paragons who commit a lot of heinous acts and just plain WTF. A lot is repetitive and a slog--as one reviewer put it too much is "joust, joust, joust." And this was written about half-way between Chaucer and Shakespeare. With the spelling regularized it's quite readable, much more so than unmodernized Chaucer. But with those that choose to preserve the archaic words, that means wading through words such as "hight" (is called) and "mickle" (much). And there's just so much that can be excused by, well, "it's the times"--I found plenty of medieval writers who were wonderful reads, and just plain more humane: Dante, Boccaccio, Chaucer. I can't see Malory as their equal--not remotely. But as a fan of Arthurian literature and someone fascinated by the Middle Ages, this did from time to time have its fascinations.

[jeffv_19 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Malory was a medieval author who wrote the first recorded account of the largely mythical King Arthur. It is largely an account of the 100 knights of the round table (or "table round"). Unfortunately, these stories are rarely interesting (except maybe for graphic descriptions of quality kills) and it really gets tedious. The stories we commonly associate with King Arthur have their seeds here, but are fleshed out derivatives, it's hard to see the story we're all familiar with. Perhaps Malory was a minstrel and these tales made for good song, but for read, they are dull, dull, dull.