Argument: Lathynarn disappears into the Knights’ Common Room for an hour, returning silent to the guesses of what may have happened and the truth of what happened.
What is being done, not what it’s being done in – an ineffable name, not the creature it is lives within – a sound in the air, not the air it traps along on – here we come to Lathynarn’s name, not the body his name belongs in.
“Scarper.
No children here –
Go get a drink, kick a ball, sing
and whistle melodies
and poetries.”
And a door slammed – what to do?
Lathynarn had walked into a den of knights and shouted that back at me – I barely saw the room, all airily smoked and lit by cigars and Tyndall beams of afternoon and setting smoked-up sun.
What to do?
“Come back
soon to tell me
what wonderments and tournaments
you find in their shadows
towering on you.”
I sat down, listened at the thick door and made no poetries nor melodies, nor balled nor sang, for an hour.
…
Then the door opened and dusted Lathy emerged a duller green armour than the armour had been, his sword chipped and attracting all manner to its magnet, his face a blankness subtracting air from atmosphere – what cheer in his face now driven off and pacified in a calmer place.
Breather of air by air breathed.
“Lathy…
What have they done?
Did their acceptance of knighthood
pass to you from their lips
and make you smile?
“Bad? Good?
Are you now truly
knightly justifiably one
and ready for questing
as true knights quest?”
No answer – he was silent and fed me on down the corridor with a push until we spewed out to the lowering sun through the window we had climbed through – stray dogs bit at his armoured feet and chipped a tooth or two.
And still, silent – no words from Lathynarn.
“Tell me!
What happened there?
Are you happier or sadder
than when you said goodbye
to the Queen’s voice?
“Must I
tender the choice
or choices or demands they made
in your one hour absence?
Must I do trade?
“Finding
the key to calm
body and the silent words you
will not annunciate
as false or true?”
We found our ponies and rode back to the outside.
I guessed that there must be a truth of what happened and I settled on three guesses that history will have cottoned onto and gladdened as the one that was real.
The first guess – that the knights, they, held out their arms to welcome their Brother Knight bold in light and flowers, they lifted him to their table and let him glory for the hour of his absence.
“Come now
and be as one
with the international cult
of the Knights of the King
whom we exalt!”
Second guess – now perhaps they were angered at him – perhaps a rage descended to explain, a row ascended to complain about the noise a-clatter through the letter box to the castle.
“Bastard
of a midget –
fuck your armour, and fuck your words.
Fuck you to tomorrow
and afterwards.”
Thirdly, guessing the way of mythology like the frozen-pigeon thud at the moment of his knighting – guess that ridicule as revenge dripped, drenched, droughted the space between his ears.
And this was maybe it – I heard a song several, a dozen, twenty years after the events the narrator relates – here is the song they sang of the song the Knights rang in ridicule at Lathynarn:
"Who is this knight
Sir Lathynarn?
Sir Half-a-naan,
Sir Spick-and-span,
"Sir Half-a-span only!
He’d never make it over
unless we kicked his arse
from over here to over Dover
"and sent him on his way
back from our room and table
off back on and into his grey
where the greyly things are..
"Sir Get-him-banned,
Sir Crooked-wand.
Sir Crooked-wand?
Yes, bent along
"the middle, snapped –
Sir Snap-a-thorn
for the use he’ll be…
Sir Gather-scorn
"is all he can be.
Sir Little-man
come over here by me,
feel my hand through your hair.
"Look, a little boy by me!
Sir Little-boy,
Sir But-a-toy,
Sir Half-way-can,
"Sir Not-quite-a-man…
Now why do you choose
to be one of us?
This right royal club,
"this chivalric fuzz
that polices the land.
What kind of knight
measures only twenty hands?
"Sir Almost-ran
the heights to maturity.
Sir Need-a-hand
to get enthroned.
"Sir Lassie-in-harm,
yon damsel in distress,
yon braw wee girl
in yer pretty wee dress.
"Sir Toss-and-turn…
Sir Slash-and-burn…
Sir You’ve-been-conned…
Now, Dwarf Knight, respond!"
So they sang, so they sang, so the people who remembered remembered what they sang.
I asked my master if this song was true – he spoke and wondered:
“How true?
How can I know
what’s true when possibilities
of the future are read
as only true?”
And we went away in silence.
prev - 1.4 Overhearing the Queen
next - 1.6 Sweet Smell of Success
