Searching for the Grail.
By
Angharad.

The Holy Grail, is one of the most elusive elements in mythology. Supposedly, it’s the cup used by Jesus at the last supper and brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea after the crucifixion–and if you believe Dan Brown–along with a pregnant Mary Magdalene who founded the Sangreal, or royal bloodline of the Merovingian kings.

Chris Bedevere, wasn’t sure about the French connection however compelling Dan Brown’s story may or may not be, but he’d spent all his teenage years collecting stuff on King Arthur and the Arthurian legends and now at age twenty, he’d suddenly inherited fifty thousand pounds when his grandfather died and he could afford to take a gap year from his English degree and follow the leads he’d discovered through access to university libraries.

He’d worked hard on his course and was heading for a good degree when the money popped up and his latest lead showed for the first time something concrete. Well, concrete might be the wrong word as cups aren’t usually made of it but he was sure the trail leading to a family in North Wales who purportedly held an ancient vessel at a house called Nanteos, required checking out. He felt in his bones that there was something about this lead that others had lacked. So having spent a couple of thousand of his inheritance on a second hand car–one lady owner, genuine low mileage–he set off from Salisbury towards Aberystwyth.

He’d packed his iPad, on which he had reams of his research notes, his clothes and a significant number of notepads and books–in fact his estate car was pretty full of his research material–but he wouldn’t leave it anywhere, he’d been collecting it since he was bitten by the Arthurian bug aged ten, when he watched the DVD of Excalibur–something he’d now done every year since and still it drew him into its world of sorcery and chivalry.

His copy of Morte d’Arthur was so well thumbed that it required sticky tape to keep the spine together, and the margin notes made it irreplaceable. He was doing his dissertation on Malory’s contribution to English romantic literature, so this gap he was taking, he felt he was justified in using as some extra mural research for his degree. He also had an eye to the main chance, knowing how well Arthurian books sell, he hoped to be able to convert his research one day into a book and perhaps get noticed as an author, which he thought preferable to becoming a teacher, which was what most English graduates seemed to end up doing.

Chris openly admitted he was an oddball, a geek or nerd but not of the electronica variety, he was a bookworm, especially of books about mediaeval legends and myths. He used computers, he had to. Modern academics have to be computer literate because access to so much research material was via the net, plus of course, nearly everyone these days can type a reasonable page with the help of word processing packages like ‘Word’.

He was a slightly built person, with mousy coloured hair and a shy disposition especially around girls, who seemed to feel safe with him. So paradoxically, although none of his colleagues would date with him, he was always in the company of one or more of them–until he got onto his hobbyhorse of Arthurian legend–when they all mysteriously disappeared.

It took him the best part of a day to get from Salisbury to North Wales and most of the next one to find the house–now a ruin. He stopped at the nearest pub for a refreshment stop and over a dish of faggots and peas he chatted with the landlady. She knew of the legends of the grail at the house and also that the old lady who’d purportedly guarded it had died three or four years ago. Chris almost wept in his lunch.

“She had a friend in Glastonbury, they say. I dunno if it’s true or not, but she was some sort of mystic or witch–you’re not one are you?” she asked in her soft, nasal accent.

“Good gracious no. I’m just a seeker after the truth.”

“You look a bit young for the sort who usually calls himself one of those,” she replied.

“Maybe, but I’ve been collecting material on King Arthur since I was ten.” To prove his point he switched on his iPad and showed some of his material to the middle aged woman who soon tired of his enthusiasm and his subject escaping to serve one of her regulars when they came to the bar for a refill of fried ferret or stewed stoat or whatever the local poison was. Chris wasn’t interested, he was so far celibate and tee total–though he didn’t see himself suffering because of either abstinences. He was a man on a mission and finding Arthur or any evidence of his existence was its goal.

Legends might not leave footprints but they have a starting point and finding this one was his life’s work despite people laughing at him or treating him with benign curiosity–he knew he had a mission. Find Arthur or evidence that cannot be laughed out of court. He wasn’t religious, his family wasn’t either, but he felt of his task the same that many devout believers did of their religion. Perhaps it was his religion–he didn’t know.

Whether it was luck, serendipity or divine providence that happened that day, but the landlady mentioned Chris’s search to her customer who thought he remembered something of the woman in Glastonbury’s name–something Snow. The landlady conveyed this to young Chris who thanked her profoundly and offered to buy her informant a drink but he declined, he’d had enough boiled badger for the moment.

An hour later, Chris was heading for Glastonbury having found a B&B in the town with parking space and booked for two nights with an option to extend. He was tired when he got to Avalon House but still full of enthusiasm for his search. It was ages since he’d been to Glastonbury when his dad had brought him. He’d always been a disappointment to his dad, who wanted a red blooded male son, and instead got a wimpy academic who enjoyed the company of girls but never seemed to be trying to bed any of them.

It had led to several arguments and they’d not been on speaking terms when his dad died–he had a heart attack aged forty one. Chris never quite came to terms with losing him, and it was one of the reasons he’d not been near Glastonbury since. He dealt with his sadness before setting off to find a pub or cafe that could do him an evening meal and if he had time, he’d do a quick climb of the tor–for old time’s sake and as a homage to his dad, with whom he’d last climbed up it.

Chris found a pub and had a curry. He made some enquiries about some woman witch called Snow, but no one seemed to be interested. Glastonbury is full of all sorts of strange people seeking strange goals and even stranger people supposedly helping them, usually for a consideration of course. But replete with chicken tikka and chips he set off for the Tor and the remaining tower.

The Tor is world famous and can be seen from miles away, the hill stands above the town of Glastonbury and the tower is clearly visible. It’s also quite an effort to walk up the hill to get to the tower, so Chris was quite warm as he walked off his dinner climbing the zigzag path upwards. Halfway up he suddenly remembered his father saying something to him about being true to himself. He thought his dad was trying to encourage to come clean about being gay, but he didn’t because he wasn’t–least he didn’t think he was–to be honest, he never thought much about sex at all let alone in which direction he might be orientated. It was too–physical–he was a mental person, so if he could find someone with whom there could be a meeting of minds–he might be interested; but they’d have to be into Arthur.

So deep was he in his reverie that he didn’t notice he was nearly at the top of the tor from which he could see the lights of Glastonbury and Street twinkling in the gathering dusk. He stood for a few moments watching the lights and realising he’d have to turn back soon or make the descent in the dark, though there was a full moon so he might be okay. He didn’t see the woman walk up behind him.

“You’re late,” she said.

Chris didn’t realise she was talking to him. “Sorry?” he said meaning he didn’t catch her context rather than he was sorry for being late.

“You–you’re late, and I’m bloody freezing.”

“Late? I–uh don’t understand.”

“It is you, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t what?”

“To see Primrose Snow.”

He nearly said no but the name snow made him suddenly become alert. “Yes, that’s me.”

“She said you’d come. I expected you an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry, I was delayed.”

She viewed him suspiciously. “I was expecting a woman.”

“Sorry,” he apologised again.

“Follow me,” she said and before he could reply she set off at a quick pace down the hill, he practically had to trot to stay with her. He had loads of questions to ask her but somehow he couldn’t seem to frame them sufficiently to verbalise them. At the bottom of the tor path she went towards the abbey ruins and then turned down a narrow side street full of small terraced houses and the odd even older cottage.

Not even checking he was behind her she turned down a lane and entered a wooden door set in a tall wooden fence, well taller than Chris’s five foot seven. He barely managed to follow her before it sprang shut with a clatter that made him jump.

Following her through a garden full of aromatic shrubs, some of which scratched at his face where they’d overgrown, he saw the woman knock on a door and enter. He almost ran nearly knocking into her as he thought the door might close before him.

“Wait here,” she instructed and he stood in an ancient hallway littered with china animals on shelves and paintings of landscapes and sailing ships. He was examining one of the paintings when the woman barked at him, “In here.” He jumped, then turned and followed her once again feeling uneasy for the first time. This place was definitely strange.

Inside the door in the near darkness he saw an old woman seated in an equally ancient chair illuminated by a solitary candle. The room was full of things but he couldn’t make out what they were, it was simply too dark, but one of them looked like a stuffed bear.

“Come closer child,” said the old lady. He did as she bid him. The hair on the back of his neck began to bristle as he felt her eyes boring into him like she was some sort of scanning device at an airport. “We have waited a long time for you.”

“I’m sorry, I was delayed,” he said unsure what they were talking about.

“You are prepared to take the test?”

Test? Nobody said anything about a test. He felt even more uneasy. “I know nothing of any test,” he replied.

“I see. You are the one, are you not?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“What do you seek?” she asked.

“The truth,” he said.

“Your energies cannot lie, not to me. You are the one.”

“I am?” he said completely mystified by her conversation.

“You are. None but the pure in heart may hold it.”

Hold it? Pure in heart? Bloody hell, was she talking about the grail? “I try to be honest.”

“What is your name child?”

“Chris, Chris Bedevere.”

“By the heavens, a descendant of that first group–you are the one,” croaked the old woman. “Fetch the box.”

The other woman disappeared and returned she carried a wooden box which she handed to the old woman. Chris saw her open the box and extract something which was wrapped in a cloth.

“Are you ready for the test?”

“I suppose–yes, I am.”

“Good–I must caution you, if you are deceiving us, you will pay a dreadful price. If however, you are the one, then the test will make you true to yourself as well your quest–do you understand?”

“I don’t know.” Chris felt bemused, surely being here showed he was true to himself, didn’t it?

“I ask again, are you ready to take the test?”

“I hope so.”

“So do I, child or the consequences will be severe.”

From the cloth the older woman drew a wooden cup and the younger woman poured some water into it. Some words in a language Chris had never heard let alone understood were said over the cup.

“Drink,” said the old woman handing him the cup.

With a shaking hand he took the ancient cup and sipped at the bitter salty fluid wondering if he was being poisoned. He finished it and coughed, it seemed to stick in his throat. Was this how he was to die–poisoned by two nutty women while he was chasing shadows.

He felt giddy and lurched onto a chair where he sat as the room swirled around him. He was sure he was being poisoned but he couldn’t speak, his brain was full of flashing lights and his ears were singing with voices he couldn’t quite hear.

He wasn’t sure if he passed out or slept or what but it seemed hours since he’d taken the drink. He opened his eyes, the room was light–well lighter. It was daylight but the dirty windows and old net curtains together with all the paraphernalia in the room kept it far from bright. His head ached a little and as his eyes focused he could see the old woman still sitting and still watching him.

“You’re awake,” she said to him.

“Yes,” he said with a croaky voice. “Did I pass the test?”

“You tell me,” she said.

“I feel different.”

“You will.”

“Was that the holy grail–the cup?”

She chuckled mischievously, “You are the grail, we’re all the grail. It’s in all of us.”

“But–why did I have to take the drink?”

“The cup is required for the magical waters of Glastonbury to do their job. It came from an old friend in North Wales who held it for a long time, then I became its keeper and now you are to be its latest guardian.”

“Me? Why me?”

“A direct descendant of one of the original knights of Arthur’s court–what better recipient could there be to entrust the chalice of our Lord.”

“So it is the grail?”

“No child–you are the grail. In drinking from it you have become true to yourself, sometimes in ways you wouldn’t have believed. It is this becoming which is the secret sought by so many and why they have failed.”

“I don’t understand–I have become–become what?” Chris felt strange but couldn't quite work out how.

“My child, the keeper of the chalice has been a woman for two thousand years.”

“So how am I to be the next one–I’m a–oh my lord...”

And Christine became aware of her true self.