Ultimate Quest

By Bruce Riley

Isaiah 54:5: "For thy Maker is thine husband . . . " The story of the Bible is that of the loving Creator wishing to dwell with his people; but they separated themselves by committing spiritual adultery. Ultimate Quest is the story of the sinful bride overcoming many tribulations in order to become a faithful wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644587973

Book preview

Chapter 1

There lived in the days of that other England, before the fabled land of Lyonesse was engulfed by wave, a wise Pendragon. His castle rose to the east of St. Michael’s Tor, which is in Glastonbury; and his dominion extended south and west to the marches of Lyonesse, a land of diverse moods and whose shores, though in northern latitudes, were laved by warm Atlantic currents. All that remains are the Isles of Scilly.

Within this particular Pendragon’s kingdom dwelt an obscure youth named Leith Ogham, who dreamt of becoming a knight. At last, he arrived at the age where he might present himself, and although his practiced petition went well, he felt keenly the Pendragon’s critical gaze.

Hmm, thought the Pendragon, clear gray eyes and a lean muscular form that bespeaks of strength and agility, not only of body but of mind—an excellent candidate. But there is also a certain hauteur about the lad that is incompatible with the code of knighthood. How can he defend the downtrodden with all his heart and at the same time feel superior to them? Yet I see in him something of myself when I was his age, before being humbled by the chastisement of repeated humiliation and defeat. Such tribulation was necessary before pride, that same vice that led bright angels to their fall, could be expunged. But is he able? It’s a lonely path to tread—and painful. Yet I would be doing him a disservice by not giving him the opportunity. Finally, he spoke aloud. Before commencing training for knighthood, there is a necessary requirement. You must first serve seven years as a menial in the scullery. Report to the cook when you are ready to begin.

The words fell upon the youth with more severity than the Pendragon would have wished, but there was no other way. Is his desire to become a knight strong enough to withstand a seeming eternity of humbling? Will he abandon his dream with bitterness and flimsy alibis, or will he rise above his trials and develop true love and sympathy for those who must endure a lifetime of such drudgery—for those whom he will swear to defend? The Pendragon thoughtfully stroked his beard as he watched the youth walk sadly away, then smiled as he saw him turn toward the scullery.

From time to time, the Pendragon consulted with the cook on the lad’s progress.

He’s a bit of a daydreamer, the cook replied to the Pendragon’s query, but a good lad all the same. Not that there’s any harm in daydreaming, if I may say so, just so long as the work gets done. He’s a willing worker, sire. I’ll give him that.

Conceals his frustration well, does he? The Pendragon smiled.

Aye, he does that, the cook replied with a puzzled expression.

And so the cycle of seasons progressed, and the tedious months stretched into years.

It was the season when apples were pressed into cider, and provisions were being stored against winter’s bleak sway when a veritable Helen of Troy strode unexpectedly into the throne room. Without the courtesy of an introduction, she swept imperiously past the slack-jawed occupants of the rough-hewn tables and up to the chair occupied by the Pendragon, whose tankard stopped halfway between table and lips. I am on my way to become the bride of a king whose wealth is beyond reckoning, she bluntly declared. Unfortunately, I have fallen upon adversity and require your best knight to escort me the rest of the way—and be certain to choose one who will make a favorable impression when we reach the kingdom of my future husband, or it will be so much the worse for you.

As she waited for the Pendragon to regain sufficient composure to make a reply, her critical gaze took in the black wrought iron brackets that held flambeaus, the massive, soot-blackened stones, and the mastiff who watched her from the hearthstone, a temporarily forgotten bone held between his front paws.

The Pendragon observed his available knights whose eager, pleading eyes seemed to say, Me! Me! Choose me!

At last, he turned toward the princess. I’m afraid I have disappointing news. All of my available knights are otherwise committed to their several quests, which will be taking them far afield, and the only one I can provide is a youth who is undergoing training to become a knight. But do not distress yourself. He shows great promise. Unfortunately, he is doing penance in the scullery for a minor infraction, but he will be glad to be relieved of his tedium and also for the opportunity to make amends. In the meantime, my daughter will show you to your rooms where you can refresh yourself, and until you can be adequately supplied for your journey, my kingdom is at your disposal.

The furious princess did not notice the twinkle in the Pendragon’s eye as she turned to follow his daughter, whose expression indicated she had serious misgivings.

Within two days, the princess pronounced herself ready to depart, and the desire of each dashing knight to be her escort was equaled only by Leith’s desire to be left behind. There is nothing more devastating to a young man than the scorn of a beautiful woman. To be part of a splendid procession while dressed as a scullery servant further increased his chagrin, but his embarrassment was only an exercise in futility. For all the heed onlookers paid him, he might as well have been invisible.

The knights had wheedled the Pendragon into giving Princess Ariel a royal escort as far as the marches of Lyonesse—a time during which she remained condescending to displays of manly skill, accounts of marvelous deeds, and attempts to cajole her into requesting the Pendragon to recant and choose this or that love-smitten knight as her personal escort. This, Princess Ariel refused to do; she discerned the Pendragon was not a man given to indecision, and to have her request rejected would have been an embarrassment.

Meanwhile, the Knight of the Porridge Pot, an appellation bestowed by the princess herself, was happy for the opportunity to avoid the pouting princess and the swaggering knights.

The Pendragon smiled to himself as he noticed that Leith had cast his lot with the retainers, helping to carry a load, erect a tent, or serve food. Unaware he was driving the knights well nigh unto distraction, Leith went about his menial labors.

The puzzled knights, for their part, were able to discern an inexplicable connection between Leith’s innocent pastimes and the unreceptiveness of the princess. Unbeknownst to them, she was preoccupied, she knew not why, in devising torments for Leith—torments that were pointless but satisfying, satisfying so long as she refrained from looking objectively into the mirror of her mind.

The tidy apple orchards, well-tended gardens, quiet forests, quaint fishing villages, and the Pendragon’s secure castle became afterimages of yearning superimposed over the dismal moor through which they were making a tortuous passage. In the distance, a forbidding cloud loomed above the ground fog, and low ragged clouds, like untidy spiderwebs, escaped through the clutching branches of twisted trees.

A momentary shaft of sunlight fell upon the slopes of the supposed storm cloud, highlighting a tenuous waterfall and affording the suggestion of upland meadows that appeared to hover in the sky. The beam of light seemed to smoke, then fade. Lyonesse! someone whispered in awe.

Their goal at last in sight, the Pendragon’s party, with quickened heartbeat, forged ahead toward the country that seemed to be cloaked in a certain mystic airiness.

That evening, as they camped on the frontiers of Lyonesse, Leith wrapped himself in shadows and observed the figures before the fire. A knight was giving an account of his stouthearted penetration into a mysterious whispering forest but lapsed into silence as he saw the princess roll her eyes upward. Conversation became hopeless as the words of whoever spoke seemed to rudely intrude into the depth of thought of his companions. One by one, they forced a polite pleasant dreams before seeking the sanctum sanctorum of their ornate tents. The blankets of some provided an insulation against a sea of troubles while other blankets kept anxieties within to propagate and simmer throughout the night. A cheerless dawn made conversation equally difficult as they stood by in clammy clothing while the princess chafed to be on her way, and the Pendragon privately counseled Leith. Yours is an unusually long and difficult road to knighthood, but then it takes an oak one hundred years to arrive at its full strength while it takes a pumpkin only four months. Now which would you rather be?

After failing to think of a suitable reply, Leith finally answered, I’m only a pumpkin who aspires to become an oak, but I promise to keep trying.

With the Pendragon’s arm around his shoulder, he walked to his horse and took up the position assigned by the princess.

As his knights and retainers indifferently began to straggle off on the return journey, the Pendragon remained behind. He watched until the princess, followed by the pack animals and finally Leith, was lost among the fog-enshrouded trees of the quiet forest. Keep the faith, he called after them.

Chapter 2

It was a day of long silences punctuated by brusque orders issued by the princess. With a giant hand that crudely smeared shades of orange ink across the clouds, Evening prepared a disorderly stage for Night’s grand entrance. Just ahead, an inn seemed to rise without forethought out of fern-and-moss covered logs. It was a rambling log affair with an uneven roof of rough-hewn shingles that glistened from a recent shower.

The princess dismounted. Take the horses around to the stable and remain with them until I am ready to leave at dawn tomorrow.

She paused at the door of the inn. Vigilance. Guard my possessions with assiduity.

Lacking the spirit to reply, Leith bowed. However, once the princess was out of sight, he felt joy welling up into his chest and throat until he wanted to dance and sing. Such was the freedom felt when her oppression was removed.

As the stableboy, Breen Urson by name, aided him in lavishing his attentions upon the horses, Leith felt he had found a kindred spirit. The simple fare, wholesome and plentiful, his snug dry loft, and the guileless conversation of Breen and the other servants caused Leith to think more optimistically. Taking a new interest in his surroundings, he decided to explore the precincts.

Fireflies, like sparks from a bonfire, sallied forth on their amatorious missions. Far back in a cleft formed by the exposed roots of a large tree, glowworms dangled from silken filaments. Beneath winking stars, droll lanterns staggered out to the narrow roadway—beacon lights drawing all manner of wayfarer to the inn’s hearty board and tides of amber ale.

Within the shadows of leafy boughs, Leith sat on a log and observed the arrivals: a party of dwarves, a remote man of the forest with his longbow, apple-cheeked girls in rustic finery, and simple sylvan peasantry.

The stableboy quietly sat down, and together, they watched the approach of a band of rowdy horsemen. There’s mischief afoot, Breen whispered as the men dismounted and, with frequent guffaws and boisterous horseplay, swaggered into the inn.

Presently, a small band struck up a jolly tune and the whole inn seemed to vibrate in sympathetic rhythm. Leith and Breen looked at each other with broad smiles as they tapped their toes and clapped their hands. Let’s go and watch, Breen suggested.

The princess would never allow it, Leith replied reluctantly.

But what harm can there be in looking through the windows? Besides, if we go around in back, away from the lanterns, we’ll never be noticed.

Lead the way. Leith smiled.

Yes, this is an ideal spot. Intent on vicariously enjoying the fun, Leith became increasingly rankled by the boorish outbursts of the half-dozen horsemen who occupied the table closest to the fireplace; they kept drawing his attention away from the lively jigs, from the twangers, the scrapers, the pluckers, the pipers, the drummer—and especially from the characters occupying the other tables. The innkeeper’s probably afraid of them, Leith thought. Oh, for a champion to—

He caught his breath as a heretofore unseen girl rose. At a carefree toss of the head, lustrous hair, highlighted by firelight, cascaded around her shoulders. Fascinated, Leith studied every seductive movement, every coruscation of the gown that accentuated the symmetry of her form.

Imperfections in the sections of windowpane afforded but a distorted view of the temptress. Careful, the stableboy whispered as Leith cautiously drew the window open.

She was a bedazzlement among the inn’s drab patrons—a peacock among the crows—and his first clear look at her was like a blow to the pit of his stomach. He resisted the impulse to sink to his knees. The princess!

You mean the… Breen stopped in midsentence as he noticed Leith’s expression of despair. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you loved her.

I don’t, Leith replied. It’s just that… well, you see, the most illustrious of the Pendragon’s knights were trying so hard to impress her with their nobility—some even with their piety—and all the while the princess had a roving eye for the basest of men. No, it’s not disappointed love. Leith smiled sadly. It’s disillusionment. That and nothing more.

Laughter, clapping, and shouts of encouragement caused them to once again peer through the window. The princess was dancing alluringly before the fire, gracefully patting the cheek of an enthralled ruffian, ruffling the hair of another, blowing a kiss, or momentarily sitting on the lap of yet another.

Any one of them would kill for a woman such as she, one of the nearby dwarves observed.

Aye, another replied. Did I not tell you, Uptun Unwine, that we would give you a woolly one hundred and twentieth birthday party?

Better than expected—better than expected, Uptun replied with merry eyes.

Only halfwits take pleasure in watching mayhem and slaughter—even of mischief-makers, said Gruffin Hammar, the eldest dwarf, but be patient, and you will see how the cosmic wind eventually blows the contents of chamber pots back in the faces of fools. Observe, and have the wits to profit from their folly.

Wisely spoken, Uptun replied respectfully. This promises to be both an enjoyable and a profitable birthday. A broad grin appeared as he turned back to the drama.

The remote man of the forest strode over and placed a block of amber before Uptun. A birthday gift from the forest, old friend. I trust you’ll be able to make something exquisite from it.

Most generous, indeed, Uptun replied. Such treasures are not found in the mines.

My apologies if my respects on your birthday seem too brief, but I am used to the hush of the forest and choose to put as much distance as possible between myself and yon fools cavorting before the fire. So saying, he took his tankard of ale to the dimmest recesses of the room where he sat with his back to the proceedings.

A disturbance drew their attention back to the princess. One of the churls pulled her onto his lap and held her there while he whispered a vulgarity in her ear. Pretending to be shocked, she struggled free and gave him a light slap while the others roared with laughter. But it was an act that ruptured the dam of restraint, and their libidinous natures were whelmed. The princess was suddenly held in a passionate embrace; her face was smothered with kisses. There was a dull thud, and her assailant rolled his eyes upward and sank to the floor, his hair matted with blood.

The dismayed princess tried to stay clear of the wild blows and trampling feet but was finally seized by the grossest of the rabble, who slung her over his shoulder and made for the door. Someone tripped him, and he and the princess went sprawling. Blinded by the red haze of fury, he picked himself up, drew his dagger, and the combatants fell back. Only one, sufficiently possessed by mindless lust, drew his dirk and circled warily. The fight for the princess was now narrowed down to two, and with the ghost of a mysterious smile, the princess looked on.

Smile upon insults, for they describe the one hurling them. Snicker at love’s disappointment, and count such as a narrow escape, for insults and an ill-used heart are trifles compared to a knife in the gullet, the headsman’s axe, and the consequent journey to haunted shores—the withered hand of the Death-Man upon your shoulder. Gruffin Hammar, the eldest of the dwarves, philosophized at every opportunity.

Yes, yes, wisely said, An adage worth remembering, Precisely so, I shall apply it to myself, Your saying shall be put to practical use, came the preoccupied replies of the dwarves, who, with open mouths and expectant half smiles, intently watched the death duel.

In reality, they were softhearted and highly sympathetic, but they also had an acutely developed sense of justice, which reflected their trust in the irrefutable wisdom that guides the universe through vast mysterious skies.

The fight was a vicious drunken affair—totally lacking in finesse. Blood flowed freely, yet the brawlers seemed to be unaware of pain and unmindful that death was a probability.

Fetch my sword, Leith whispered.

But you can’t just—

Haste! Leith hissed with urgency, then, noticing Breen’s startled expression, added, I may not need it, but prudence dictates preparedness.

Somewhat relieved, Breen set out on his errand.

The bloodied duelers fell apart as they became aware of the figure that filled the doorway. Five horns sprouted from his blue dwarf steel helm. On either side, two curved upward and two down. The fifth jutted forward just above the eyes. He wore battle sandals with turned-up toes, sheepskin leggings, and a crudely cut cape of deerskin. A vest of dwarf-made blue chain mail protected his vitals. The Rampant Bull of the Marches, someone whispered in awe.

The expressions of the rowdies were those of malicious boys caught in the act of doing something very naughty.

Putting two and two together, Rampant Bull drew a connection between their breathlessness, their appearance, and the girl who was now cowering against the wall. Uh I’ll smash you, he said, brandishing a heavy spiked club.

The rowdies took to their heels and scrambled through the windows with such haste that one nearly collided with Leith just as he was entering with drawn sword.

Rampant Bull lived for combat and studiously kept his mind free of learning or any other concern that might detract from his three passions: fighting, gluttony, and women.

Innkeeper, Innkeeper! Rampant Bull roared, pounding the floor with his club. Scurrying and bowing, the innkeeper appeared. Is it nothing to you that I have just rid your establishment of vermin?

My profoundest gratitude and a generous supper with all the ale you can drink to show my appreciation.

And?

And a night’s lodging if you so desire.

Aye, Innkeeper, a night’s lodgings for me and the wench. Rampant Bull roared with laughter. Sometimes, Innkeeper, I think you know my mind as well as I do.

The innkeeper’s bland expression did not reveal his unspoken reply: A mind as simple as yours is equally simple to read.

Rampant Bull grabbed Ariel’s wrist and roughly jerked her into his arms. Come here, wench, and serve my ale while I eat. After which… A knowing leer slowly spread across his face.

Very well, came the cool reply, but I leave at dawn tomorrow.

Rampant Bull dealt her a stunning slap. You’ll leave when I tell you to and not before.

Heads jerked toward the window through which Leith had just climbed with his timeworn sword. She leaves at dawn tomorrow, he said quietly.

Chapter 3

For Rampant Bull, the night was growing more fortuitous with each passing moment. Already he could anticipate all he could eat