LaurelRose wanders into the Tir, a group of wenches sit at one side gossiping, lurkers watch eyeing the Inn greedily taking in all the information they can. She looks about and pulls the back pack from her shoulders. Walks over to a table by a window and settles things on a chair beside her. Reaching into her pouch that sits by her waist she pulls out a small wooden pipe. It looks plane and has no decerations or paint on it. she pulls out a small bottle and pours it into the bowl of the pipe. quietly she replaces the bottle and orders some hot chocolate from Acc. Acc, seeing the bottle quietly opens the window in case of explosions and retreives the hot chocolate for her. Quietly, as she lifts the pipe to her mouth he makes the rounds of the customers warning them of her pipe. Silently a small shimmering sheild, compliments of the Inns customers surround LaurelRose.

LR lifts the pipe to her mouth and slowly blows the first of many bubbles. It sits roatating in the air, slowly images coaless in the bubble and LR leans forward intently studying the scien with in.

"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble!" LaurelRose gasped at the vision of the fat, ugly crone. She seemed somewhat familiar yet remained unrecognizable to her. "Who was this fat, ugly crone?"

"Ahhhh...yes!" LaurelRose stifled a giggle as she remembered the crone and her many visions of Tir. She was hated and despised by many. They feared her and loathed her presence. Especially Accasbel, the Innkeeper.

LaurelRose became enraptured by the scene the old crone created of an antique clawfoot bathtub filled with the bubbly and rosy nectar of a man and his longings. She listened carefully as he poured his heart into his poetry of the beautiful sprite he dreamed of.

The scene shifted and she was whisked to another time with this would be suitor as they sat close together in a carriage listening to the plodding clip clop of the horses hooves upon the cobblestones.

"Naaaaw!" LaurelRose said. "Old crone, you are losing your gifts! Can you change to another setting where I am the fairest damsel of all and many gallant young men fight the dragons holding me hostage to win my hand in marriage?"

The crone cackled in delight and turned to LaurelRose as the vision slowly faded. "Ye be in love w' a dream, LaurelRose! Ye be lookin fer yer handsome faery prince in yer visions o' a grand love affair! So be it then..."

A large bubble rose with incandescent rainbows dancing on its surface. She had not blown this bubble! It surrounded all in the Inn and LaurelRose dropped her mug of hot chocolate as she felt the Inn slowly lifting and floating to another, much higher realm.

Accasbel grabbed the table and swore at LaurelRose. "Ye had no cause to bring her back from the dead! We were at peace here at the Inn w'out the fat, ugly crone!" LaurelRose felt suddenly helpless as she realized the impact of Accasbel's words.


"But...but...she is my friend! I don't care what anyone thinks of the old crone. You only see what your hearts project! God, you have wicked fears inside of you!"

But fear of the unknown also gripped LaurelRose's heart. She grasped the bubble pipe tightly as the Inn suddenly shifted slightly, then settled as strangely familiar singing was heard.

Accasbel also stopped and listened. He knew this song and the voice that sang. It pierced his heart each time he had heard this singing. It was the portent of much good to come into his life. He smiled widely as the door opened and she walked within.

"I cannot stay but a moment and have summoned you here briefly to my realm of being to show you what lies ahead for you, dear Innkeeper!"

"I thought you to be dead!" he gasped openly. She smiled then touched her hand upon his heart.

"I have only gone on to where I belong." She said simply. "I have others here to help and teach of higher ways but I could not leave you alone without knowing that I am very happy and fulfilled where I am. You are not ready to fully share this yet."

Accasbel dropped his eyes as he thought of her words. He still had much to overcome. He still had many things to learn about himself and lessons in life to experience.

She felt the sorrow of his heart. "Oh beloved Accasbel! Do you not remember my promise to you? I will visit you often and whisper to you how much I love you and miss you but you are never allowed to remember being here with me."

LaurelRose coughed loudly and the lady turned and smiled at her. "I like you much better as the fat, ugly crone!" LaurelRose stated. "Ummmm...could we get on with my fantasy and dreams?"

The lady beamed as her light and love sparkled and enveloped the Inn. "LaurelRose, you know why you are here. You will find all that your heart desires and dreams of as you pursue the things I have taught you. You must first give your whole heart and being to others in service no matter how they may treat you...even if they choose to hurt you."

LaurelRose smiled knowingly. "No one could ever be as hated and despised as you have been, my lady! You reached out continually to others but their hearts were not able to accept your gifts."

"That is right, LaurelRose. They will have only a faint remembrance of me and the times I have been there to help them. They do not see as their own pain veils many avenues of joy and happiness all about them!"

"But why do you persist? You are where you are loved and accepted and people see who you truly are. Why waste your time and being on these who do not desire your help?"

"That, my dear LaurelRose, is the riches of Eternity! I sometimes question myself if it is worth it. It is never easy to be subjected to such a dark and loathsome realm but yet I can never give up on those I have always loved. No, they are not like you. They do not remember why they are there. They do not remember who we all are. I hold keys that can unlock hearts but it is much more dangerous than fighting any dragon holding your heart hostage!"

Accasbel nodded in agreement. He had many dealings with those who had forgotten how noble they were and he himself had placed himself in precarious positions trying to impart a simple understanding and to foster anew the love and peace that their hearts were longing for.

"LaurelRose, I must return you to present time and you will remember but the others will forget. They will think you only dream and fantasize these things. It is easier for them to see and accept a fat, ugly crone than the beauty of truth."

Accasbel spoke up, "What about me, Lady Truth? Will I remember you?" The lady kissed Accasbel lightly on his forehead and the bubble suddenly burst.

LaurelRose sat listening to Accasbel curse about the chocolate stains embedded now in his fine carpet as he tried to clean the sticky mess. She saw the wenches still gossiping and felt the shadowy stares of the lurkers. She slowly put away the small, wooden pipe that a fat, ugly crone had once given her while visiting Tir.

The Tavern door opens, and in walks a young man. (Well, relatively young...he is in his early 30s.) His attractive boyish face surrounded by short red-gold hair and a dense coppery beard, his blue eyes deep and soulful, eyes that would normally sparkle with joy and laughter, crinkled at the corners. This handsome Irish lad carries a guitar case with his truest companion, a battered but still sweet-sounding acoustic six-string, held within. The case bears a rather snide sentiment on a sticker ("The only trouble with Baptists is they don't hold them under long enough"), but the lad, though occasionally snide and cynical is also one of the sweetest men you could ever care to meet. Strong-willed yet generous of heart; but today, his heart is heavier than his guitar case.
About those eyes--the joy that danced in them a few weeks hence is gone. Though his normal expression is a bit sad anyway, the sorrow and loss he feels radiates from him--several taverners notice the grieving lad, and their hearts go out to him. No words are exchanged; none need be.
He sits at the bar and quietly orders a pint of stout from the bartender. The guitar case stands propped against the bar. The young lad takes out, from his pocket, a slightly wrinkled picture. The image is of a smiling, pretty lass with flaming red hair, full bosom and lovely legs. On the back it is signed in her flowing hand: "For my Bear--my heart is yours. Love, your Kitten."
The image before his eyes doubles, then triples, as his eyes fill with tears of loss and hurt. New wrinkles are made as his tears splash the picture of the smiling lass. "Bear" feels his wolfish soul howl--sorrowfully--at whatever full moon it sees, in whatever night skies over whatever wilderness. The bartender brings young Singing Wolf his pint, then quietly withdraws. He feels for young Lord Wolf, but is unsure whether the lad wishes to speak of his pain. The lad lays money on the bar, then waves a hand as the bartender tries to make change, indicating that it's not necessary.
With shaking hands, the Wolf raises the pint to his lips and drains nearly half of the stout in the glass at a draught. Behind him, unseen and unsensed, the old crone of truth appears. She lays a hand gently on him--he startles and looks around. The crone is not so ugly as some would think; sympathy for the lad's sorrow is writ plain upon her face.
"Is your heart broken, my friend?"
The lad, choked up and not trusting himself to speak, nods blindly.
The crone draws him into her bubble of gentle light and warmth and embraces him. For the moment, the semi-dark tavern seems lighter and kind. The lad, inarticulate, cries out his pain and anger and sadness against the crone's shoulder, trembling as a tree in the grip of a stormwind. When his sobs resolve themselves into words, the crone hears him say: "Why?...Why?..."
"Softly, lad, softly...all is not lost forever." And he takes comfort in her sympathy, though his heart remains in quandary.

A soothing caress as the crone tousles softly his reddish gold hair. "Ye be a great lion o'the Gods! Tis naught the time fer yer heart to sorrow!" She touches lightly his heart and the pain dissolves into a sweet warmth and burning that he has never before experienced in his life.

The lad felt a trembling of the floor beneath his feet. A sudden gust of sweet wind swept through the Inn and the other onlookers stared in disbelief. The lad had been transformed into a powerful and intimidating knight of Tir na nOg.

The old crone had mysteriously vanished and all eyes were upon this new symbol of fealty or faithfulness and loyalty. Sir William stood tall and knew that he would defend all broken hearts who had been pierced and wounded by betrayal.

A shroud of sweet music pervaded the Inn and Accasbel's heart pounded as he listened to the soft yet piercing voice. Sir William smiled and a tear trickled down his cheek.

In the far corner sat LaurelRose and a magical air of excitement drew her eyes to Sir William. He strode purposefully to her side and took her fair hand and gently pressed it to his lips with a sweet kiss.

"My lady, what is the desire of thy heart?" he asked. LaurelRose sighed deeply and pulled the small bubble pipe from her pouch. The others drew back in fear as they saw the dreaded bubble pipe of dreams. Accasbel opened his mouth to speak but the soft singing suddenly stopped and he was held mute.

LaurelRose giggled delightedly at the old Crone's gifts. She knew that the lady of Truth was speaking now to hearts that before had been encumbered with pain and sorrow, masking true joy and happiness.

"Sir William Fealty! She told me that it would be service to others that would bring me my deepest desires. Do you have the courage to blow this bubble pipe of dreams and travel with me throughout time to help others find what their hearts long for...the Truth of all things?"

Sir William drew his sword and smote off a small tendril of his hair that was now shoulder length. He handed it to LaurelRose and spoke with great fervor, "M'lady, thy bidding is mine! Throughout time I shall travel at thy side as a noble defender and protector of the human heart!"

LaurelRose took the hair that glowed like a flickering flame and placed it in a small, crystal locket upon her heart. She poured the liquid in the bowl of the pipe and handed it to Sir William.

As Sir William placed the pipe to his lips he looked about the Inn. There was the fear again in the faces of the others. The sudden realization came to Sir William that fear closed off the heart to the powers of love. True love was found in a faithful and trusting heart.

Accasbel's eyes widened as he stood still speechless as Sir William began to blow a beautiful and perfect bubble. He took LaurelRose's hand and stepped within the bubble of his dreams.

With a ~poof~ they disappeared from the sight of the onlookers and Accasbel. The candles flickered and dimmed in the old Inn. Accasbel's speech was restored to him. "The strangest happenings occur when that bubble pipe of dreams appears!" he mumbled to himself.

As Accasbel looked at the place where the lad had first sat to drown his sorrows and pain, he saw the worn guitar case. He shook his head and placed it behind the bar, certain that LaurelRose and Sir William would soon return when the first dream bubble burst.

He smiled to himself as he wiped the bar and thought of the old crone. "Why does she intrigue so many?" He still feared her and loathed the sight of her when she showed up even momentarily at Tir."Now if the old crone could sing I might find it in my heart to listen."

Accasbel felt the impression of having been kissed lightly upon his forehead. He took the bar cloth and wiped his face and tried to forget the old crone.

*Deep within the bubble...*
Sir William and Lady Laurel rode the Red Road of Purpose in the mists of time, dressed in the bright colors of Tir na nOg. Sir William clad in armor of leather and iron mail, woollen shirt beneath worn over a kilt and plaid of sharp green and blues, his sgian dubh emblazoned with Celtic dragons, his broadsword fearsome and his shield bearing a device of the Harp and the Sword, Lady Laurel dressed in similar colors and armed and armored similarly. Their mounts were fine roan stallions, brave creatures bred for adventure.
On the Red Road was where they would meet with the creatures who had slighted them and others. Would they slay these creatures? Only those deserving of such a fate would be slain by their blades. Brave Sir William knew he could judge by what lay in the hearts of such.
They had not ridden long when Sir William spotted a lone figure approaching the crossroads in the distance, mounted but apparently not armed. There was something about the way this creature rode that seemed hauntingly familiar.
As they approached, he spotted the flaming hair and generous figure of the lady on the horse. She rode astraddle, not sidesaddle--he thought he remembered this lady telling him she would never ride sidesaddle, as she didn't wish to go face down in the mud. His brave heart quailed briefly--how would he deal with the lady ahead, she who had lately broken his heart? But he steeled himself; he remembered that she had seemed as sorrowful at having to part with him as he had been. But Sir William realized that the truest heart would forgive and allow for a dreadful mistake if the accused were willing to make amends.
At the crossroads, Sir William and Lady Laurel stopped, as did the flamehaired lady approaching from the East. Sir William's sharp gaze caught and held that of the Lady Pamela, who drew in a surprised breath to see him so. The thought that crossed her mind, and which Sir William sensed, was that he looked fine and handsome, a bonny young knight sure. At that moment, the mists parted and the sun's rays illuminated the spring-green land around them; they caught the light of bravery in Sir William's blue eyes, and Lady Pamela realized that she still loved the young knight dearly. He dismounted and walked slowly toward her.
Sir William bowed formally and spoke one word: "M'lady." Lady Pamela, her eyes bright and her lips trembling in trepidation, sat nearly paralyzed by mixed guilt, fear and love. Sir William held out his hands to her and she too dismounted. Lady Laurel watched closely, ready to jump at the first hint of something wrong.
Lady Pamela looked up into Sir William's face, which was set in an expression of suspended judgement. Curtseying before her brave knight, Lady Pamela let out a gasping sob, hand pressed to her generous bosom, and spoke in a trembling voice: "Oh, mo chroi...you are so handsome...I have spent many nights weeping for my decision to let you go...how the light shines in your eyes..." She bowed her head, sobbing with guilt, the sunlight glinting auburn highlights of her silky hair.
Sir William took the lovely, distraught lady in his arms and drew her up against him. "Ah, my love, cariad o'nghariad...I know that difficulties and separations lie upon our road together..." He spoke gently: "I forgive thee, for that I still love thee very deeply, m'lady." Tears prickled his eyes, but he would be strong for this lady. "My heart is still yours, a stor a ghra, and 'twill be so, for whenever we are able to be together again. I will wait, for thy path shall recross mine before long."
Lady Laurel looked upon this scene, her eyes misty but smiling nevertheless. This, she thought, was a true example of a brave and true heart, one that will accept and forgive against all odds. Sir William held Lady Pamela gently to him, one hand caressing her flaming hair, the other stroking her back. Pulling back a bit from her, he turned her face up to his, finger under her chin, and kissed her tearstreaked cheeks; Lady Pamela realized that her brave love was kissing her tears away, and felt a sweeping relief for this show of forgiveness (she had expected to be slashed by his sword swung in anger). He whispered briefly in her ear, and then they parted to continue their journeys.
After a long silence, having remounted and gotten moving again, Lady Laurel turned a questioning eye on Sir William. He caught the unspoken question and said "My friend, love is patient and kind, not judgmental, and may conquer all fears and doubts."
She nodded briefly, and onward they rode...

...and as they rode onward, Sir William dared a glance back at the crossroads, at the retreating back of Lady Pamela astride her mount, and his face softened in an expression of tender care. Dearest love, he thought, may the Gods keep you safe in their sight and you reach your destination unharmed.
Then he turned to Lady Laurel, riding beside him; he saw a young face drawn long with regret. "What troubles thee, sai?" he asked in the High Speech of the Tir. "Would ye like to speak of it to me?" Using a gently coaxing voice, as he had been taught by the Druids; and she turned to him, and in her eyes was relief.
"Aye, m'lord, I would. We are journeying to far villages and in one, I am destined to meet a man who may be the lord I have dreamed of. 'Twas a decision made on the spot, and now it's got me tied in knots on the inside..."
"And what do ye know of him, lady?"
"He's some years older than I, but has a reputation as a kind and fair lord. The ladies speak well of him, in especial the crone herself." Lady Laurel became tense again, and Sir William could tell that she was afraid, even.
He reached out a hand to her, and took the near hand which was not holding the reins of her mount. "Fear you not, m'chara--only cross that bridge when you reach it. And remember that we shall meet others on the Red Road." She drew comfort from his touch, as there was much positive energy in it. She smiled at him and he smiled back, and she knew things would be all right in the end. She had a good and brave knight and friend by her side.

Lady LaurelRose suddenly felt a discomforture inside her heart. The slow, easy gait at which the spirited roan stallions now strode in simple cadence could not soothe the feeling inside of Lady LaurelRose. She turned and looked at Sir William who was deeply immersed in his thoughts of his encounter with Lady Pamela.

A deep pang shot through Sir William and he reined his stallion to a halt. He, too, had been jarred out of his reverie by the feeling of the same discomforture that Lady LaurelRose was feeling. They were deep in the Forest of the Bottomless Cauldron, an exceptionally dense forest. While peering at it from the edge of the Valley of the Vanished, one could see no more than a few yards into it.

Lady LaurelRose thought how this forest was much like the bottom of a mystical black cauldron. It was a place that held much life and death, and whose mysteries were reserved for only the brave enough to seek them out. Sir William inhaled deeply, the smell of earth, wet and green pulsating with living secrets. Lady LaurelRose pulled the small pipe from its hiding place and poured a small draught of the shimmery liquid in the bowl and put it to her lips and blew a large bubble and studied the scene it held.

She gasped suddenly at what she was seeing and with her Athame she burst the bubble. To the dismay of Sir William they were suddenly back at Tir na nOg. Accasbel looked up in surprise as he had just come into the empty Inn from his backroom. “M’Lady,” asked Sir William. “Why did you bring us back to the Inn?”

Lady LaurelRose placed her Athame in its leather and jeweled sheath and dropped into a comfortable chair in front of the fire before answering. Accasbel in silent curiousity watched her and listened intently to hear of the reason for Lady LaurelRose’s unexplained agitation. She turned sharply to the Innkeeper and snapped at him, “Bring me a mug of my hot chocolate now!”

Accasbel was shocked at this change in the LaurelRose he was accustomed to. He strode purposely to the pantry and mixed new milk with fine carob powder then placed it in a cast iron pot to warm it quickly upon hot coals. He wondered anew at the change in LaurelRose. She had always been moody but was not the type to over react to any type of attack upon herself.

Sir William was the first to speak to her. “M’Lady, pray tell me, what did thou see?” The Innkeeper brought the mug to LaurelRose and she grasped it in both hands and drank long and deep then swilled a bit of the drink inside her mouth before swallowing and speaking.

“Ahhhhh, Accasbel! That is the finest chocolate I have ever tasted.” She calmed down and felt the agitation suddenly dissipating. Accasbel said nothing and leaned forward in anticipation of her words. She let out a deep sigh as she began to share the vision she had seen.

“Sir William, do ye not know of the Cave of Cruachan? Ahhh...the very entrance to the Otherworld, the Gateway to Hell!” Sir William nodded knowingly. Accasbel drew back at the mention of Cruachan and LaurelRose continued. “We were not alone! We were surrounded by the Spirits. They speak in metaphor and were there to taunt us and to put fear into us. Were it not for the amulet of crystal with your lock of hair I would have perished from fear. The uneasiness we both felt was being in I-Breasil, the Land of the Dead where only one’s shadow self may be.”

Sir William’s understanding opened and Accasbel backed further away from LaurelRose as if feeling a presence still about her. “Why did you bring us back, M’Lady? We are human beings, are we not? We could not have possibly been in the Otherworld, could we?”

LaurelRose looked into Accasbel’s eyes and said, “We are to defend all broken hearts that have been pierced and wounded by betrayal, are we not Sir William?” She waited for Sir William to reply while continuing to look deeply into Accasbel’s eyes as fear gripped his heart. She saw tears well up in his eyes and a deep sobbing racked his body.

“What do ye want with me, LaurelRose? Why must ye torment me like this?” Sir William suddenly understood why Accasbel had hated and loathed the ugly crone so long. Accasbel did not yet understand the truth of all things or understand true love. His heart was closed off to the powers of love from the fear he harbored in his heart of the unknown. He knew why Lady LaurelRose had to return. They were to somehow get Accasbel to the Cave of Cruachan where he must find his own personal power amulet as well as his own shadow self.

“Accasbel...oh dear Accasbel! You do not remember, do ye? The Lady of Truth and the words she spoke to ye? A whisper! A whisper to me ears and to me heart and now I understand your fears!” Accasbel looked confused. “We be off in the night, Accasbel! There is much yet we must do to defend the noblest of all broken hearts.” LaurelRose pulled the bubble pipe from her pouch and poured a large portion of the shimmery liquid into the bowl and blew a perfect bubble. She set the small pipe upon her chair and took Sir William’s hand.

The small pipe was forgotten as Lady LaurelRose and Sir William stepped within the bubble and disappeared from Accasbel’s view. Lady LaurelRose and Sir William were once again in the deep forest and he spoke to Lady LaurelRose. “I thought we were to bring Accasbel with us!” he said. Why did you not even extend an invitation for him to come with us?”

LaurelRose giggled knowingly then replied, “Sir William...you know the bubble pipe of dreams, the object Accasbel fears most?” She giggled again. “It will be a moment to us and an eternity to Accasbel, but I purposely left my pipe upon the chair for Accasbel to use. He won’t be able to resist trying it for himself. You see, Sir William, he must choose of his own free will to join us without any coercion on our part.” Sir William grinned widely at the Lady and the forest did not seem to be as dark with the light of mirth they now shared.

***
Accasbel stood silent a moment wondering if he was dreaming until he spotted the dreaded bubble pipe of dreams upon the chair LaurelRose had sat in. There was the empty mug as evidence that they had truly been before him and then disappeared once again from his sight. Accasbel hesitated, then picked up the pipe. It seemed harmless...nothing happened and no crone was to be seen.

Accasbel told himself that he was a realist, that LaurelRose’s active imagination and the stories she always told were far from the truth. He laughed aloud in the empty Inn and his laughter rang hollow. He mockingly brought the pipe to his lips and said aloud, “Old crone, old crone! Ye be but a figment of me imagination” He laughed again and blew upon the pipe that still contained the shimmery fluid in the bowl. A dark bubble blew forth and Accasbel dropped the pipe quickly.

There was no ugly crone but instead Accasbel saw a beautiful lady, one he greatly desired. He watched as she sat in a garden of many beautiful flowers, combing her long chestnut brown tresses. It was then that she started singing a song that he felt drawn to as he listened to her clear magickal voice...

My love, my love,
Tis for you I wait.
My love, my love,
Noblest one of fate.


For thou has lost
A memory of,
Our love, sweet love,
Eternal, above...

The words lingered in his heart as the vision suddenly ended. He picked up the pipe again and blew another bubble. He sat transfixed as he saw his true self within the bubble. He viewed himself as the Innkeeper of Tir na nOg but something was different. The truth somehow emerged from his heart in poetry and verse and he heard himself pouring his heart out in song as he underscored his feelings, concepts, and emotions. Poetry is words directly from the heart which speak to the very soul of the collective human experience...

My heart is empty
...all but a shell,
I'm lost in confusion,
my own personal hell.

For I can ne'er forget
her sweet presence near,
I've loved her forever
into my heart swell the tears.

But a real man I am,
and I cannot cry,
My true feelings hidden,
locked deep inside.

I pretend not to notice
yet my heart it did stir,
When she, I did meet
my beloved, at Tir.

I could have all the others
with outward beauty and charms,
But, instead my heart longs
for her, heart pure, in me arms

What is it about her?
Her beauty and warmth?
She is virtuous, lovely,
honest and smart.

How others in silent awe,
when she enters their presence,
Her nobleness commanding
respect in her essence...

The words trailed off and he saw a change come over the Innkeeper of the vision. He watched a hardness come over the Accasbel he was viewing and saw past scenes and encounters he had with the ugly crone. “Oh God!” Accasbel gasped. “Why did she have to show up? Where is my love? Why has she naught come back to Tir na nOg?” His heart was breaking and the bubble once again burst. He sat alone again in the Inn and thought about the things LaurelRose had said to him. “Could it be? Was this the Lady of Truth that LaurelRose had spoken of that he had seen and longed for and desired with his whole heart?”

The aching of Accasbel’s heart intensified until he wanted to die. He examined the pipe and noted that there might be enough shimmery liquid to blow one more bubble. He hesitated a moment, then picked up the pipe and blew a large bubble as he had seen LaurelRose do and then he stepped within.

***
Accasbel did not know what to expect but he did find Lady LaurelRose and Sir William. He was deep within the Forest of the Bottomless Cauldron. He felt alone yet he became aware of voices and walked towards a flickering as a fire burned within a clearing ahead. He stopped and drew behind some bushes as he grasped the sight in front of him. An altar was within a circle with a chalice of water and a wand lying beside it. A small circle of lit candles with one unlit candle in its center, and a candle snuffer to extinguish the candles were upon the altar. A woman knelt before the altar with an infant in her arms. He listened as she evoked the triple Goddess’ presence to bless the child.

“Old Ones, I welcome you to this circle. In this sacred space I present to you my daughter, Tara, who will be known among the magickal folk as Shillelagh. I ask your blessings on her now as I dedicate her to you as a child of the Old Ways. This is not to bind her will, or to manipulate or coerce her onto my chosen path. But rather it is an act of love, as I give her to you to watch and protect until she is wise enough to choose for herself by what names she shall call you, and in what manner she will offer you praise.”

Accasbel watched as she held the baby up before the Goddess and asked her blessing on the child. She then took her wand, pointed it towards the Goddess and her energy merged with the tool. The wand was placed lightly upon the crown of the child’s head. She continued to invoke...

“In the name of Arianrhod, I give you the blessings of strength, perserverance, and truthfulness. I bestow upon you the qualities of love, kindness, and mercy. I hope for your loving family and friendships. I bequeath you knowledge, loyaltly, and a quick tongue. Blessed Be.”

The wand was replaced upon the altar and the water-filled chalice was moved within reach. The child was presented to the Triple Goddess for the Threefold Blessing in her name. The woman took her right hand and got a small bit of water on her fingertips and placed her wet fingers on the child’s feet.

“In the name of the Maiden, I bless your feet that they might always walk along the straight and blessed path. Blessed Be.” She then placed some water on the child’s womb.

“In the name of the Mother of us all, I bless your womb, your creative center, that you might be fertile and fruitful in all your endeavors. Blessed Be.” Water was then placed upon the child’s forehead.

“In the name of the Crone, I bless your head that it might always seek knowledge and truth so that you might grow in wisdom. Blessed Be. Little Shillelagh, you are now one of the magickal people. May you be forever surrounded by their love and support, and always know you may turn to your Goddess in time of need or thanksgiving.” She took a lit candle and lit the candle in the middle of the circle of lit candles symbolizing the child’s dedication to the Old Ways, representing the child’s lifelight surrounded by the strength and support of the Pagan people and their deities.

“I invoke the presence of Princess Tryphyna to look after you and give you divine protective energy in this amulet as my Paganing gift to you my daughter.” Accasbel’s heart was touched deeply by this scene in front of him. He realized that many truths were hidden in darkness because of the fear of those who did not understand what was taking place. These noble women had dedicated themselves to lives of service and much good to bring blessings to their friends and family.

The group soon dispersed and Accasbel continued behind at a distance but soon lost sight of the women. He came upon a small, inviting cottage. There was a welcoming light in the window and he found a typical Celtic cottage with whitewashed rooms and a thatched roof. In the center of the room was a huge stone fireplace with a warmly blazing peat fire. There was an old handhewn rocking chair in front of it that suddenly beckoned to Accasbel as a place of rest.

Accasbel sat down, weary from his long journey, and stared lazily into the fireplace. Suddenly a face appeared in front of him and reminded him that he was not following his quest. “Remember your quest. You must find your shadow self and retrieve your personal power amulet from I-Breasil! You must return before dawn. Time grows short. Seek your shadow in the north.”

The image faded and Accasbel reluctant to leave the comfort of the hearth, set off for the crossroads to head north. As he traveled north the fog deepened.and he felt the uneasiness of spirit that LaurelRose had felt. He was in the Otherworld. “Why am I here?” Accasbel questioned.

The spirits answer in metaphor, “Ye be cold death warmed over! Ye be Hell’s fury! Ye be stone and ice, the very elements of Fear!” A cold chill went down Accasbel’s spine His eyes and higher senses sharpened so as to be alert for anything which might become an amulet for him. He had come much too far too fail now.

Traveling along the overgrown path Accasbel realized he was not alone. Spirits surrounded him. Their subtle forms were silent, but taunting. They danced before him and altered their forms. Accasbel’s throat was suddenly dry. They jeered, and cried, and keened. Some even knew his name, both the revealed one and that which he had kept hidden, and they continually called out to him.. Accasbel freely admitted in his heart that these mutable forms which changed on a whim scared him. They knew what form to take to frighten him the most.

A dark figure of an ugly crone loomed at Accasbel. He recoiled in horror and fear then he felt a presence with him like a soft kiss on his forehead and a whispering into his ear to clear his mind so that they could not read his thoughts which were naturally straying to all that he feared.

Accasbel directed his thoughts through the dense fog ahead to where the path curves. He was suddenly filled with a hope of rounding it and leaving the spirits behind. Forcing an even pace, Accasbel rounded the bend. He stopped dead in his tracks...

...the most terrible sight that he feared the most greeted him. She loomed large in his way and blocked the path ahead. Accasbel swallowed hard and tried to maintain a facade of calm but the terror once again gripped his heart in a strangle hold. Here was his worst fear and nightmare! It is real this time and he would now need to find a way to deal with her. Yes...the ugly crone of Tir na nOg! She presided over Tir na nOg with her cauldron to which all life returned to await rebirth!

The realization of who the crone is suddenly strikes Accasbel’s heart. His first instinct had been to stand and fight, and then to run back to the spirit realm. But the sense of a soft kiss on his forehead quieted his fear. He realized that no weapon was needed to fight his greatest fear. Gaining hope and confidence the ugly Crone fades from his path ahead. Accasbel continued to push on.

Armed with his new courage he came upon a land of neglected cairns all side by side covering the plain in front of him. as far as he could see. He did not want to walk among them but the feeling of peace enveloped him again and he continued on.

Dark human-like forms darted in and out among the stones, some of them watching Accasbel while others fled at his unexpected presence. They appear to be the mere shadows of mortals. Accasbel knew he was in the realm of the shadow selves and his must be here as well. Slowly he walked on. What a strange feeling for Accasbel to think he was searching for himself!

Suddenly Accasbel is stopped short by a dark figure standing directly in front of him. He stood in morbid fascination as he found himself looking at a dark image of himself. He sensed that it had the same fears, loves, hopes, and joys. It shared his strengths and it projected all his faults. It is Accasbel---his own shadow that always lives in the Otherworld!

Accasbel now realizes that facing himself is the hardest thing he had ever done. There is so much about himself that he did not wish to see which was now laid bare. This would have been an easier task if his shadow had been his direct opposite, or very good, or very evil. But it is not. It is just Accasbel. He stands and watches all his faults, lies, dogmas, and problems being reflected in his shadow eyes. Accasbel decides that he will remember what he is seeing so that he can do something about the things he does not like.

Accasbel did not know what to say to this image and it did not speak to him. He stood a very long time looking at his shadow self and it looking at he. “My God!” he thought. “I must speak or stand here eternally!” Accasbel finally found the words forming and spoke aloud, “ I have come seeking my personal power amulet. Do you know where it can be found?”

His shadow does not speak but walks closer towards Accasbel...closer and closer. Accasbel wanted to draw back not wanting it to touch him yet he could not move. It continues towards him until the two merge. For a brief moment Accasbel felt a surge of great power as his mind connected to all levels of awareness. He felt as though he could do or be or have anything. He felt like a God. Answers to all of the questions he had ever had passed rapidly through his expanded mind, but he could not latch onto even one of them. The power reaches a peak which Accasbel could barely contain, and then the shadow of his self emerged from him.

Between he and his shadow self on the ground is a small glistening gem which seems to have been born of the union of Accasbel with this higher form. Accasbel kneels and picks up the gem which changes colours with feelings---a stone born of two worlds---a potent magickal device indeed!

Accasbel stood a moment looking at his shadow self then thanked him and turned to leave the world of shadows...

With prize stone in hand he walked to the crossroads. No fear images to assault him though the shapeshifting ghosts are still there. They sense the presence of the stone and back away. Back at the crossroads Accasbel stood wondering what to do next. Dawn is not far off. Nothing was happening and Accasbel realized he would have to figure out his own way home from this place. The bubble pipe of dreams would not help him as it no longer held the shimmery fluid.

Thinking back on all the myths of I-Breasil, Accasbel realized the only way to return is through a rebirth from the Great Cosmic Cauldron of the Crone Goddess who ruled this land. “Oh great!” said Accasbel. “Here I go again...as if I have not had enough of the Crone!”

Accasbel started out west following the arrow that read, “To The Cauldron.” The terrain continually changes as Accasbel continues walking, feeling that it was an endless, eternal quest. Finally the trail emerges in a wooded clearing. At the center is a large old woman standing over a huge black and silver cauldron. At her side are eight other old women who regard Accasbel passively, their robed arms folded over their chests. They radiate sovereignty and prerogative. Accasbel feels the urge to turn and run but with a trembling voice he addresses himself to the tall center figure.

She looked at Accasbel with clear and wise old eyes. Her entire being radiates power and self-assurance. She knows she is Queen here and Accasbel knows she is his only way home. He speaks to her, “My Goddess, I am a traveler in your world in need of aid.”

She stepped forward and asked that she might see what is in his hand. Accasbel showed her the amulet and she approved. She placed her withered hand over the stone in his palm. Accasbel was surprised by the strength of it, and a surge of force rushed from her hand into his.The gem now glowed with a gold-green brightness...the colors of Tir na nOg!

“You have done very well. I will send you home.”

“Who are you?” Accasbel asked feeling he already knew her. She stared deeply into his questioning eyes and he felt a familiarity and peace with her words.

“I am ageless and known by many names, but you know me best as Rhiannon. It is I who decides who goes back to the Mundane World and when they should go. But you do not belong here and you must go back. There are things here you may not see. Close your eyes and walk toward the cauldron.”

Accasbel obeyed and walked towards the large steaming pot and the eight old women grabbed him and hoisted him in. A terrified scream erupted from Accasbel’s mouth as he begins falling down, down as if the cauldron had no bottom. Images flash by so rapidly that Accasbel thought sure he was lost, a part of the cosmic mix. Then suddenly resigned to his fate, Accasbel suddenly comes to a complete stop.

Accasbel felt great relief as he sudden saw Lady LaurelRose and Sir William waiting for him to join them. “I told you it would be but a moment,” she said to Sir William. Accasbel’s mouth dropped open and he could only wonder at her words as he had just spent an eternity in the Other World.

“Let’s be off then!” said Sir William. Accasbel was pulled up behind Sir William on his stallion and they took off at a gallop towards a large bright city that illuminated the entire surroundings. Accasbel was relieved to be in the company of LaurelRose and Sir William and did not question their direction. He had questions in his heart and he still longed to find the woman who had sat combing her long tresses in the flower garden.

LaurelRose discerned Accasbel’s thoughts. “You will soon meet her. She is indeed beautiful and loves you dearly. But I am still awaiting the one that will make me complete. Sir William and I will help you complete the healing of your heart as it is essential to my own pursuit of happiness. You have so much to learn within the City of Enan and about your geise or word of the sacred bond and magickal divine ties. To break it brings horrible misfortunes and even death.”

The City of Enan loomed in the distance and Accasbel was anxious to rest from his cares and learn more about his true self whom he had seen in the Other World. He felt a familiarity as they drew closer. He saw that the streets were paved in gold and the buildings were illumined with good intents and thoughts with a rainbow of pastel hues dancing upon the crystalline structures.

They were riding towards Enan, the great city still a few hours' journey; Sir William was lost in his thoughts on the treelined road. He was remembering Lady Pamela and the encounter at the crossroads, when it occurred to him that something had not seemed quite right. She did not appear armed, but he had noticed metal on her hand...a gold band indicating betrothal. A frown creased the young lord's forehead, and a new question formed in his mind.
He had not the time to ponder this, however, as a pike seemed to be thrust out of nowhere, knocking Sir William from his mount, sky and earth changing places very suddenly. The horses reared, reacting to the intruder. The wind was knocked from Sir William's lungs, his mind dazzled for a moment; a booted foot caught him in the side, and he heard a voice yelling inarticulately at him. Lady Laurel screamed and Accasbel shouted warning to Sir William, who rolled out of the way just in time as the mysterious marauder came at him again, striking a glancing blow off Sir William's halberd.
Young Lord Fealty staggered to his feet and drew his broadsword as the marauder came at him. The battle rage descended over Sir William, transforming him into a scarifying aspect much like that of Cuchulainn in the legends.
Raising a bloodcurdling warcry, Sir William rushed the marauder and struck the marauder's battle axe from his hands. "YOOOOUUUUU BASTARD!!" Sir William raged. He waded in, slashing with deadly precision and missing not one stroke, although he knew nothing of it. At some point, a female voice was raised in warcry; he turned toward the sound and threw his dagger at it, though he was only peripherally aware of this.
When at last he was released by the battle rage, Sir William was stunned to see that the female figure lying lifeless on the ground was none other than Lady Pamela. His dagger was buried most of the way in her chest; lying nearby was the marauder, dead and hacked to pieces. Fealty went to him first; he raised the cover of the marauder's helmet and saw a lifeless, blood-spattered face he didn't recognize. But hanging round the marauder's neck was a sigil carved in gold--Lady Pamela's. An inscription engraved on the back read: "Given to my betrothed, Lord Gar. Lady Pamela of the Four Springs."
Sir William dropped to his knees in stunned disbelief. His mind tortured him with a thousand questions, most of them variations on "Why?" He looked around at Lady Pamela--no life was left in her eyes, however; they had already glazed over in death.
He remained that way for a while. Behind him, Lady Laurel and Accasbel looked at each other in disbelief. "She proved false," Lady Laurel mumbled. Accasbel heard, and nodded.
Lady Laurel dropped a hand on Sir William's shoulder. He looked around; his face reflected the shock and disbelief she was feeling, and she saw the glints of anger in his eyes.
"And to think I dared believe anything she said... Well, the Lords of Karma will deal with her appropriately. The Crimson King demands tribute from all."

Accasbel finally spoke up, “Do we leave this carnage for their allies to find and ride on, or do we bury the remains?” Sir William felt a bitterness creep up into his throat, as bile after the vomit, and though the rage had died down he hated and loathed this woman who had betrayed his heart. So much for his noble words at the crossroads about love being patient and kind, not judgmental. and conquering all fears and doubts.

“Ah, let them rot here for all to see and may they be cursed and the Wild Sow of the Wilderness devour their bloody remains!” Sir William mounted his roan stallion and took off at a gallop never glancing back. He had not noticed that Accasbel had also been knocked from his stallion when the pike was thrust at him. Lady Laurel walked over to draw Sir William’s dagger from Lady Pamela’s heart. As she did so the bodies and carnage disappeared from sight. There was a sweet breeze and soft, clear singing to be heard.

Accasbel was startled to see her standing in front of him once again. The beautiful Lady Truth smiled and beckoned Accasbel to come to her. She reached out for her love and enveloped him in the full light of her love as they embraced. “You have done well, my beloved!” Accasbel felt a faint remembrance of another time with Lady Truth, as if she had walked through the Other World amongst every shadow at his side.

“Beloved Accasbel, you have yet much more to pass through before entering the gates of Enan and remaining with me in my full presence.” His heart stirred again at her words. Why did he feel such a deep longing for her, as if time stood still and she would forever be with him?

Lady Laurel knew her as the crone who sometimes visited Tir. She had many questions now for the Lady Truth. “What just happened? Where did the bodies go? We both witnessed Sir William’s angry encounter with the Lady Pamela and her betrothed...” Lady LaurelRose’s questions trailed off as her attention was drawn to what the Lady Truth held in her hand.

The Lady Truth smiled and told Lady Laurel to blow a bubble as she handed a white bubble pipe to her. “This white bubble pipe will show you the truth of all things, for, there be many false perceptions in time that seem to be truth.” Lady Laurel blew a beautiful prismatic orb as a stone of the Urim and Thummin. She looked upon the scene and watched Lady Pamela as she and Sir William had departed from the crossroads. There were tears of shame in Lady Pamela’s eyes. She had been touched by the tenderness and loving way Sir William had met her.

Lady Laurel looked at the Lady Truth in dismay as she saw how Lady Pamela had returned to her betrothed and asked his forgiveness for having deceived his heart with one whom she did not love. He had accepted her confession and welcomed her back with a forgiving heart because of the power of Sir William’s charity upon Lady Pamela’s heart.

“But what did we just experience? If this is the truth of all things, then why did we see Sir William attacked and fighting and killing Lady Pamela and her betrothed?” Accasbel knew from his experience in facing his self the answer to Lady Laurel’s questioning heart.

“Lady Laurel, don’t you see? Sir William was too consumed with being noble, living up to the title he bore. He still had not faced his own fears of rejection and the feeling of betrayal in his heart. Remember you words to me, Lady Laurel? Remember my fear and loathing of the crone when she would appear at the Inn? You told me that I only saw what my heart projected, that I was full of wicked fears inside of me... Sir William’s heart was projecting the anger and rage he had shoved deeply inside.”

“But where is he now? Does he still think that he killed Lady Pamela and her betrothed?” The scene shifted in the orb she held in her hand and she saw Sir William lost in deep mysts of darkness. He had lost all sight of his goal of entering the City of Enan. He looked confused and bewildered as he tried to find his way from the darkness.

Lady Laurel turned to ask the Lady Truth about Sir William but she had disappeared. Instead there stood a magnificent white mare in regal trappings fit for the most noble king. The white horse walked to Accasbel and spoke telepathically to him. “I am Mare (MAH-ray), bringer of dreams, linked to the night, the moon, mystery, and magick! I have been called by Caer (Kyair) to take you with Sir William and Lady LaurelRose to Bruigh na Boinne, north of Tara to hear the sweetest, most restful music ever heard upon this earth.”

Accasbel thought of the Goddess of sleep and dreams, daughter of Ethal Anubail, a faery king from Connacht. Caer was loved by Aengus MacOg, the God of young love. Accasbel mused at how similar this story of Aengus awakenening from a dream and seeking out his love to his many experiences upon awakening with a longing in his heart for the Lady Truth.. He remembered the beautiful, sweet singing he heard each time he encountered the Lady Truth.

Lady Laurel placed the white bubble pipe in her pouch along with the clear orb and Accasbel gave her a quick ‘hoof on’ her steed. He turned to see Mare kneeling so as to allow him to mount her easily. There seemed to be a hidden meaning to this as he found himself astride in the fine leather-tooled saddle which he found to be very comfortable with a sense of having always belonged here. A bolt of lightening shook the air about them and the horses were transported ahead to where Sir William had been roaming in the darkness.

Sir William looked astounded as he saw the two, especially the beautiful, white Mare that Accasbel sat astride. “Where have the two of you been?” he asked in a relieved voice. He steadily eyed the white horse and wondered anew how they had found him in the darkness.

Accasbel was the first to answer, “We were settling some matters that you left behind, Sir William!” Lady LaurelRose handed Sir William his dagger, clean and no sign of blood or carnage upon it. Sir William’s face went white as he took the dagger from Lady Laurel.

“You will be pleased to know that it was not Lady Pamela you killed, Sir William, but only the feelings you had buried projecting outwardly.” Sir William was still having a hard time comprehending what had happened. Lady Laurel recounted the entire story to him and the directive for Mare to take them all to Bruigh na Boinne for a peaceful respite.

Lightning once again shot forth and cracked an opening in a very large rock and the horses passed easily through as they continued their way through this hidden portal to the beckoning welcome of Caer. Sir William felt a warmth and a stirring in his heart as flowers and greenery met his anxious eyes. Somehow the fear had vanished from his heart and he felt renewed hope in his quest as Sir William Fealty.

That night, they made camp in the green hills of Caer. They built a fire and sat round it as Sir William roasted a great stag on a spit; at sunset, he had seen the deer and motioned, wordlessly, Lady Laurel and Accasbel to silence as he notched an arrow on his longbow and took aim at the creature, silently offering prayers of regret for having to take its life, but thanks that its flesh would nourish them. The stag looked up just in time for Sir William's arrow to pierce its chest; the arrow flew straight and true to its target.
When they reached the fallen stag, its struggles to draw breath had ended. Sir William laid his hands upon the deer and offered thanks to the God o' the Hunt and the Goddess for the gift of this creature's flesh to nourish and clothe him and his companions. He took out the dagger which had been returned to him and gutted the deer. The other two looked away, feeling a bit squeamish, but Sir William went about the task, saying not a word as he removed the innards for burial and rededication to the Great Mother. He dug a shallow pit for them, and above it strung up the deer to drain its blood.
Now, some hours later, the remaining parts with their attendant meat were roasting over the fire, the juice dripping in and sizzling. The smell of cooking meat was making them all hungry.
At last the venison was cooked to a turn, not rare nor too well-done, and they ate well of the gift offered to them, drinking of the fresh spring water they had found earlier and of the barleycorn brew that Accasbel had been carrying with him. Sir William tossed aside the blood-soaked clothes he was wearing (he had more that were fresh) as Lady Laurel and Accasbel lay dozing round the fire, now burning much lower, and wearing only the soft buckskin boots that were his primary footwear (more would be made from the deer's hide later), he strode naked away from the circle of light cast by the fire and into the night's star-strewn darkness several yards away.
He sat cross-legged in the grass, beginning to relax. As he willed himself into a deep visionary trance, he asked the Goddess to send him a sign that his soul's bravery would always be rewarded.
He closed his eyes and slowly laid back in the grass, relaxing...images began to cascade through his mind, and he heard a voice reciting ancient lines of poetry:
"I am the wind upon the sea
I am a stag of seven tines...
I am wisdom: who but I cools the head aflame with smoke?...
I am an infant: who but I peeps from the unknown dolmen arch?"
These and so many other things were shown him; in his vision, he saw a far distant mountain peak, barely visible in the night's darkness. But there was a light shining from it as from a beacon--its beam turned toward him and flashed in his eyes, blinding him momentarily. As it turned away, brilliance still showing afterimages, he saw a female form walking toward him. Beautiful to behold, utterly naked, he realized the Goddess had come to him.
He was so stunned by her beauty, he could barely speak. "Lady.." he began, but Brigid silenced him, smiling gently.
"You have proven brave, lad, and your heart is free. Know then that My love and My wisdom shall always guide you." And with that, she laid him on the ground and made love to him; the night seemed very bright indeed.

He awoke in the hour just after dawn, with the world still swaddled in mysts, grey and chilly. Yet he felt very warm inside, and peaceful. And while Accasbel still lay in his beddings by the now-dead campfire, Sir William turned to see that Lady Laurel now lay beside him (young Fealty), also naked, beneath beddings that she had covered them with. He began to kiss her lips gently to awaken her; when she opened her eyes, she returned his kisses, and shortly they began to make love, Lady Laurel sighing and smiling as Fealty slipped inside her.
They made love as the mysts blew gently around them in the new morning.

Afterward, they lay together, Lady Laurel smiling contentedly into Sir William's eyes. "A lovely interlude for two loyal friends, was it not?" Lady Laurel said quietly to Sir William. He returned her smile and kissed her lips again. In the new morning's pearl-grey mysts, they seemed to be within a bubble of their own making, drawn not of the magickal pipe but of the gentle light of love within their souls. He felt some regret, however, knowing that this would probably not last; their sweet encounter was but a brief moment in their friendship, and tried to withdraw from Lady Laurel before the regret could overtake him.
Her smile slipped, and she held him inside with a bit of urgency. "Not just yet, please," she asked him. Her gentle pressure on him was wonderful and almost excruciating, and he knew he could not leave her body yet...so they made love again, and if 'twere possible to be so, then it was even more beautiful the second time around, as evidenced by Lady Laurel's cries of pleasure as she approached climax.
At last it was done, and Sir William looked up to see Accasbel glancing in sleepy confusion in their direction. Suddenly self-conscious, Accasbel looked away and began to busy himself with getting up and preparing their gear for the day's travelling. Fealty and the Rose drew themselves apart from each other, also feeling a bit self-conscious, blushing but grinning madly independently of each other. They both went for fresh garments, and went to perform their morning ablutions.
With the gear packed, breakfast (more venison) eaten and the rest of the meat and other provisions stowed, the trio mounted their stallions again and began to ride once more toward Enan. But Sir William could barely contain the mad happiness he felt after the sweet morning interlude with Lady Laurel, and broke into a bit of bawdy song about a Scotsman with a new kilt ("Mush-a-ring-a-modem, laddie, mush-a-ring-um-day/'Tis nay good to make a kerchief and a bit wee for a shawl!"). Laurel and Accasbel laughed at this and joined in with him. The three were beginning to feel an undeniable camaraderie, and all at once their journey seemed less dutiful and more pleasurable.

LaurelRose sat back from the bubble and bit her lip. was this how she truely felt or how Sir William felt.. she sighed and fingered the long needle, wondering wether she should pop the bubble or not.

She sat back and tapped the needle on the table spinning the bubble idly. she picked up her pipe then put it down again. it had started out so oddly. Not like anything that she had seen before. It had started out with her own image, almost unchanged from how she had started. Usualy the bubbles showed others, different dimentions and the like.. well maybe she was seeing a different dimention. Just a little different from her own was now. For instance, LaurelRose's bubble pipe had been given to her by her grandfather, just before he had died, and she had a big black half human cat in this one. in the other....She sat back groaning getting a bit of a head ach.

she wondered if Acc. Knew about asprin, she shrugged and went back to contemplating popping that dern bubble.

All was as it had been before the great adventure the crone created. Accasbel was puttering about behind the bar; LaurelRose had her hands pressed to her head, mumbling about a headache. At the bar, Singing Wolf (now in his normal mundane appearance) looked briefly at the crumpled, stained picture of the girl who had broken his heart, grunted in dismissal, and rolled it into a ball, which he then tossed into the nearest rubbish receptacle. He sipped his stout, thinking.
The whole fantasy in the bubble, which had become large enough for all to see for a while, had passed within minutes. The battered guitar case was once more at his side; he unfastened the catches and took out the old six-string inside. Its lustre was dulled by years of use, but the sound was still sweet as he chorded briefly on the steel strings. He looked at LR, then rummaged in his pockets; he found a small bottle of aspirin in one, walked over to LR and offered it to her.
"Need a couple of these?"
She looked surprised. "How did you..."
"Know? Who doesn't get headaches?" He gave a brief, slanted smile. She thanked him, opened the bottle and shook out two of the little white tablets. He sat back down with the guitar, and began quietly to play a song whose lyrics seemed familiar to all:
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.
Blackbird, fly...
Into the light of a dark black night."
LR looked at him, and the music seemed oddly soothing to her. What did she truly feel for this young man, who was as lonely as she? She liked his singing, for certain--her headache seemed to be easing slightly, and he had been friendly and pleasant enough to offer her those mild painkillers.
She sat back and let his music flow around her.

Blundering down the shady country lane, poor Don Quixote in his rusty armor manages to dismount and go into the Inn. Seeing the fair damsel LaurelRose, the old knight took off his helm to kiss the fair maid's hand. "Why, thank you kind sir." "Er, for what, forsoothe, milady?" the befuddled old knight replied. "Why" said LR, "you've solved the ponderings of my bubble problem." Still confused the olden knight scrunched together his eyebrows and opened mouth said, "Huhh???" LaurelRose, with a cute side glance pointed towards the table "You set your helmet on top of my pondersome soap bubble and burst it...my thanks. Too bad for poor Sir William though, being spackered like that." The elderly knight, still with scrunched eyes and slack jawed open mouth in puzzlement, managed to seat himself into a chair, flakes of rust drifting softly to the floor.

The Singing Wolf gazed blandly upon this scene and decided that perhaps it was time to leave. Powerful stuff this stout, he thought. Putting his guitar back in its case and fastening the catches, he kept his mind carefully blank. He took up the battered old case and slipped quietly out into the gathering night, far from quiet with the chirping of crickets and the singing of frogs.
He set the guitar case in the trunk of his car, got in, and drove away.

Easing back and forth in the chair, loosening more rust, the old knight was finally able to lift a bit of ale to his dry bewhiskered lips. "Ah, not so good as the blood of a young dragon, but suitable for the occasion. Hum'mhmd, wonder who the bloke with the guitar was?" Screeching and squeeking forward, Don Quixote squinted at the fair damsel, finally seeing two eyes in her head and not three," and you, fair maid LaurelRose, is the bubble pipe your only talent, or might you be able to sing?" Blushing slightly, LaurelRose said,"Well, I do happen to know one song quite fair, taught to me by a dashing fellow in the mysts." Humpfph, said the old knight, it would be nice if it was "The Wind That Shakes the Barley," 'tis my favorite and always chokes me up." "Well, indeed, old dragon slayer, that happens to be the very song," beamed the young, beautiful and vibrant LaurelRose.

*cheers, hoots and claps loudly in the manner of wenches in the tavern*

The old knight had lifted again the ale to his lips when he heard a slight rustle behind him. He turned to see a young lady in delicate lace who curtsied politely then spoke, "M'Lord, I have need of thee!" The old knight was taken aback by the request and sat the ale down loudly upon the table, rusty armour flaking once again to the floor. "What could the likes of me do for ye? A pretty one ye are indeed and there must needs be many who would defend such feminine pulchritude as ye exude?" The young lady spoke again, "Aye, but I wish to have the noble services of one of such integrity and honour!" LaurelRose nodded in agreement. Already the presence of Don Quixote had warmed the Inn and solved her quandry. The old knight stroked his whiskered chin, eyes twinkling merrily. "Ye do honour me, my fair lady, but first ye will need to tell me what it is ye desire me to do? I was just getting settled and comfortable with the beautiful LaurelRose and wanting to hear the poetry and song of her heart." Loud cheers, hoots, and claps were heard from the wenches in the tavern. LaurelRose blushed deeply and the young lady turned sadly away, tears trickling softly down her delicate cheeks.

Amid the claps and cheers of the tavern wenches, and the ale sodden eyes of the old knight, LaurelRose begins her song in a soft, plaintive soprano, growing stronger as she sings..."I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love. My fond heart torn between to choose the old love or the new love. The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly, then soft the wind blew down the glenn and shook the golden barley." The old knight beamed, thinking of an old love long long ago as LR started the 2nd verse.."Twas hard the mournful words to frame to break the ties that bound us; but harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us...Said I then, to the mountain glen, I'll seek her morning early, and join the brave united men, while soft winds shake the barley."

The tavern became quite still, each and everyone thinking of the third verse, and of a love they had long ago that was not to be. "While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms 'round her flinging, when the foeman's shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing. A bullet pierced my true loves side, in life's young spring so early, and on my breast in blood she died, while soft winds shook the barley."

The old knight's tears ran through his whiskers and onto the breastplate of his armor, washing away the rust in blood red streams onto his lap and the floor. The beautiful young LaurelRose began the last verse..."But blood for blood without remorse I've taken at Oulart Hollow, and laid my true love's clay cold corpse where I full soon may follow...and 'round her grave I wander drear, noon night and morning early....with breaking heart when'er I hear the wind that shakes the barley..." As LaurelRose's voice trailed off to an end, the old knight chin fell upon his breast, trailing off to dreams of youth and love and mighty battles. LR walked over to the old knight and gently laid a kiss upon his baldened crown.

thered her things and walked out the front and decided to take a wander in the woods. Sook she found a stream and followed it to a small clearing. the clearing had small groups of stone chairs and tables and a barbeque pit to one side. on the other side sat tressle tables and a small wet bar.

There was a fire pit in the middle of the clearing and a spot to dance if music were played from the raised portion of the growned close to the stream. She could spot the work of the Fey when she saw it and sighed. Here she could be in silence and amongst friends and magic. She once again set up her pipe and got herself a drink of hot chocolate from the bar.

"Goodeven, lass," said a soft voice nearby.
LaurelRose looked up sharply at the sound of the low voice, which she had not expected, and saw Singing Wolf standing on the small raised area with a guitar. But it was not the battered old six-string she had seen him play in the tavern--no, this one was a six-string, but much newer, and instead of the natural wood finish and tortoise-shell pickguard the other guitar had, this one had a matte-black lacquered surface. It had a clear, open tone.
"Lord Wolf," she said, the surprise quickly dissipating. "How came ye here?"
"By magick's charm, lady," came the reply. "I arrived home at my little cottage and found this open-air tavern out in back, and a new instrument waiting for me. Then you appeared a few minutes later."
New guitar strapped over his shoulder, the Wolf gently strummed a few chords, then began to drop into a more regular pattern, in a minor key. In LR's mind, the familiar chord progression evoked scenes of medieval farms and rows upon rows of crops in fields behind. Softly, the Wolf began to sing:
"There were three men came out of the West,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn must die.
They've rolled, they've ploughed, they've furrowed him in,
Threw clods upon his head.
When these three men made a solemn vow,
John Barleycorn was dead."
LaurelRose sat back with her hot chocolate and let the ancient folksong drift over her as the Wolf continued to pick the guitar and sing:
"They left him to lie for a very long time
'Til the rains from heav'n did fall.
Then little Sir John sprung up his head
And so amazed them all.
They left him to stand 'til Midsummer Day,
When he looked both pale and wan.
And little Sir John's grown a long, long beard,
And so become a man.

They've hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee.
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist
Serving him most barb'rously.
They've hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To prick him to the heart,
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
For he's bound him to the cart.

They rolled him around and around the fields
'Til they came unto a barn.
And there they swore a solemn oath
On poor John Barleycorn.
They've hired men with the crabtree sticks
To thrash him skin from bone,
And the miller he has served him worse than that,
For he's ground him between two stones.

And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl,
And his brandy in the glass--
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
Proved the strongest man at last.
The huntsman he cannot hunt the fox,
Nor so loudly blow his horn;
And the tinker he cannot mend kettle nor pot
Without a little Barleycorn."

As the last notes faded away into the summer evening's gathering dusk, LR noticed that Lord Wolf was no longer alone on the raised area. Several faery musicians had appeared during the course of the song and began to accompany Lord Wolf with harmony vocals, flute, fiddle, uillean pipes and bodhran. The sound was magickal indeed, and LaurelRose saw that there was a small audience here now, more faery folk. They applauded Lord Wolf and the band fiercely, and called for more. The musicians smiled at one another and prepared to launch into another song.

Lord Wolf then struck up a D-minor chord on his new guitar; he turned to the other musicians and said, "Crazy Man Michael, in D-minor." They nodded, and after a moment's pause, began with a brief intro. The faery woman, a lovely young caillean with fiery red hair and emerald-green eyes, who had been singing harmony with Lord Wolf before now took the lead vocal:
"Within a fog and out upon the sea,
Crazy Man Michael was walking.
He met with a raven with eyes black as coal,
And soon, they did commence to talking.
'Your future, your future I would tell to you;
Your future you often have asked me.
Your true love will die by your own right hand,
And Crazy Man Michael will cursed be.'

"Michael he ranted, and Michael he raved
And beat at the four winds with his fists-o.
He laughed and he cried, he shouted and he swore,
For his mad mind had trapped him with a kiss-o.
'You speak with an evil, you speak with a hate,
You speak for the devil that haunts me.
For is she not the fairest in all the broad land?
Your sorcerous words, they are to taunt me!'

"He took out his dagger of fire and of steel
And struck down the raven through the heart-o.
The bird fluttered long and the sky it did spin,
And the cold earth did wonder and startle.
'Oh, where is the raven that I struck down dead,
That here did lie before me on the ground-o?
I see but my true love with a wound so red
Where her lover's heart it did pound-o!'

"Michael he wanders and Michael he walks,
And talks to the night and the day-o.
His eyes they are sane, and his speech it is plain,
And he longs to be far away-o.
Michael he whistles the simplest of tunes,
And asks the wild wolves for their pardon--
For his true love has flown into every flower grown,
And he must be keeper of her garden."

One last run through the chordal progression, and the song was done, once again to wild applause from the audience. LaurelRose looked at Lord Wolf, and for a moment, their eyes met. His silver pentacle flashed briefly, she felt a spark, and had to look away. The Wolf busied himself with retuning his guitar, thinking about what to play next...

Don Quixote woke to find the red headed lass gone. "Oh dear, whatever to do now?" With dread in his step he moved to towards his steed, mounted, and then called for the mysts to come down over him.

The Dark Lord sat upon the Dragon Throne, hearing the screech of the Don's armor long before he came into view. "I know, Q old fellow, you finally found that dratted bubble pipe...really, that much ale at your age???" "Pardon, sire, twas her singing that lulled me. Egads what a mess I've made. I was to receive the pipe from her grandfather, but not being there when disaster struck he gave it to the girl. She thinks it an enchanting toy, she does."

The Dark Lord frowned, "Twelve centuries now I have held the Merlin's staff, twelve centuries you and I and old Pellinore have hunted in vain. The bubble pipe could release them, if we had it, and if we were strong enough to use it."

The old knight beamed "Aye, sire, but the girl seems to have more varied use with the thing than anyone else these last thousand years. Perchance, I could merely ask her for help, rather than wretching the pipe away from her?"

Each looked at hope with the other as Pellinore spoke "Well, if she knew the truth, rather than all the old myths and wives'tales, then she might help at that. None of these tales mention that Lord Arthur took his army to fight Mordred in the land of the Danes. And they all give Lord Arthur victory, even as he lay dying. If she knew...if she knew the actual way of things????"

The Dark Lord scoffed at his two old friends, "Know what Pelly, that our army was cut to pieces by Mordred and the Danes, that they trapped us in a fjord and fell down upon us on all sides, that the magics and weapons evoked were so close to rending the entire world that the Merlin's last desperate act was to call the mysts and freeze both armies in their place? Tell her that the final conflict never ended because it frozen solid under 200 feet of ice? I think not, better to steal the damned pipe and free the Merlin, who then at least might pull Arther and the best of our host from their frozen prison and leave Mordred and his dratted Danes with the shout of triumph still frozen on their tongues."

"Methinks you are in err, sire," old Q said, siding with Pellinore, "the maid might very well help, and might very well have to strength to free all of the companions of the round table; and perhaps," tears welling in his eyes,"perhaps even bubble us back to Camelot." "You haven't seen those accursed things they call automobiles, lord, they bear down on you worse than any dragon ever thought."

"Well, then" the Dark Lord muttered, "I shall use the Merlin's staff to awaken the crystal and see where yon maid now sits. I can summon the Dragon's Breath long enough to send both you and Pelly on the errand...and stay away from the ale" he smiled.

Rising from the Dragon Throne the Dark Lord Crookland shuffled slowly towards the dark crystal, "Anael Naethrac, Uthas Bethod. Dor'theil Viendi" Slowly the crystal turned clear. "You know the pipe, old glass, find it while I lean on the staff and give you a bit of help."

The crystal hummed and slowly the view of a wooded glade and a rough laid open tavern came into view. Music from fey voices and a young man came softly from the sphere, and then, then the vision of the young maid focused in the center of the globe, a tiny bubble pipe held in her delicate hand.

"Q, Pelly," "I'll have to send you on foot, I can't manage your steeds, not today, I'm too tired...can you go it without mounts?" "Aye," answered old King Pellinore,"that we can, and besides, there looks to be plenty of draught...after all Q's had his fill today." The Dark Lord smiled benignly at the two old knights. "Very well, join the girl and give her our tale. We've nothing to lose...Godspeed, and take my blessing with you."

The Merlin's staff was raised, the breathe of the Dragon formed a deeping myst around the two old knights till the Dark Lord saw them no more.

*whispering* Sir Gwydion, I await more bubble pipe adventure and humbly bow to your cyberquill and ink.

The mysts cleared, the Dark Lord took slow deliberate steps towards a great chest. Raising the lid he looked deep inside, stirring memories of long trapped friends. At the bottom of the chest was an ancient cloak, weaved in strange patterns from hand spun cloth, soaked in the blood of the weaver and bound with her spells. Ancient designs, celtic, druid, and those more ancient, from the land sunk beneath the sea. A golden snake torque, which had once adorned a priestess of the Holy Isle lay atop the old robe. "Ahhh, Taliesin, I rest your staff in the comfort of your old robe...dear Merlin, to cast such a spell and then bind it with your own body. Could you have not cast me wisdom to go with your robe and staff???" The torque of Morgan, last High Priestess of the Holy Isle seemed to shiver and draw away from the staff as it took its place in the great chest. "We all wanted the same thing, each of us the common goal to bring peace to the Dragon, to save Britain from the darkness, and preserve Avalon from a changing world. Everything we did was wrong, every move we made only brought disaster and the final conflict closer," mused the once apprentice of the Merlin of Britain. Murmering lowly to himself the Dark Lord Crookland moved back to the Dragon throne to rest, to take comfort in the last surviving relic of Camelot. It's wood, smoothed and darkened from the years felt as if it had a life of its own.

"I wonder if she knows" Crookland thought,"how very much she resembles Arthur's mother, Igraine. Morgan was small and dark, and Arthur tall and fair headed, but young Mordred, his mother's darkness, aye, both kinds, and his father's height, and, yes, even bravery. Mordred could have passed on his grand dame's trait....the power that the young girl welds so causually and unwitted is great. Only the blood of the Pendragon and that of the Holy Isle of Avalon could lend so much strength after so many centuries of dilution."

The chest sat against the rock wall, silent, yielding no answers..."I wish that I could make you speak old box!" "Wouldn't that be a treat" he said with a dour grin. He thought of Laurel Rose, of her strawberry blonde and golden locks, and, yes, Arthur's piercing blue eyes.

Beltane...they would still keep it on the Tor, in whatever dimension the Holy Isle now set. Even with the Merlin's staff he could just barely see the old thatch huts and ring of stones. Beltane...dancing about the fire, and the fire dancing through us, working to a delicious frenzy of earth and air and spring and midnight revelry. "If I ever sired a child to the Goddess" he thought "I've long outlived it, perhaps now, so many generations gone." He thought again of the girl. Could blood still run so true after so very long. Was there a lad or lass in this modern menagerie that perhaps bore his own face and stature. Chuckling "that would be more of a curse than a blessing to a child, but dear me, though I love the living Christ so much, I do so miss the simple time of moons and mysts, of fires and sacred wells, of the simple act of freely giving love one to another without shame or chastisement." He looked toward the crystal....no....no. What good it serve other than vanity to search for something of my own. What strength I've left is for the Quest. Godspeed Q and Old Pelly. They were laughable (and lovable) enough a thousand years ago...no even minded lass of this century will ever believe the truth.

Lord Wolf sensed a presence near, that of an eye, wizened and ancient, that seemed to be watching the tavern in the glade. It made his flesh prickle uncomfortably, and he noticed the fairy folk looking about as well, puzzled and frowning. His gaze crossed theirs, and they all shrugged, nearly in unison. Shifting gears once again, they decided next upon "The Deserter." Lord Wolf launched into its simple three-chord progression, then began to sing:
"As I was out walking along Radcliffe Highway,
A recruiting party came a-beating my way.
They enlisted me and treated me 'til I did not know,
And to the Queen's barracks they forced me to go.

When first I deserted, I thought myself free
Until my cruel comrades informed against me.
I was quickly followed after and brought back with speed,
I was handcuffed and gartered, heavy irons put on me.

Court-martial, court-martial they held upon me,
And the sentence passed upon me, three hundred and three.
May the Lord have mercy on them for their sad cruelty,
For now the Queen's duty lies heavy on me.

When next I deserted, I thought myself free,
Until my cruel sweetheart informed against me.
I was quickly followed after and brought back with speed,
I was handcuffed and gartered, heavy irons put on me.

Court-martial, court-martial then quickly was got,
And the sentence passed upon me, that I was to be shot.
May the Lord have mercy on them for their sad cruelty,
For now the Queen's duty lies heavy on me.

Then up rode Prince Albert in his carriage-and-six
Saying 'Where is that young man whose coffin is fixed?
Set him free from his irons, and let him go free--
For he'll make a good soldier for his Queen and country.'"

And again, as the song ended and the notes faded into the forest night, the gathered crowd (now perceptibly larger) cheered wildly. Lord Wolf beamed, feeling himself at the apogee of his life in the moment.

King Pellinore, with his great size, sounded like a troop of oeliphants moving through the wood, while Q screeched in his rusty armor. "Well," said Don Quixote,"we've just about snuck upon them",grinning. "Are you kidding, Q?, you're screeching like they pulled down the Tower Bridge!" "Oh!" Q retorted "As if sounding like Hannibal mounted on packaderms assailing the Romans wouldn't stir the squirrels, paugh!" "Q! I'd buy you roman armor if you would wear it... by the Virgin you wouldn't squeek dear so much with leathern breast plate and kilt." "Leather!" Q retorted "Howst am I to slay a fierce dragon or hold my own in a tourney in leather...you dolt." Pelly scrunched up "Slay??? Tourney??? Just exactly when have you killed anything larger than a bottle of ale...and a small one at that?"

As they bickere they then caught the last notes of the song as they approached the end of the wood and the beginning of the clearing.

A Welshman out to be able to top that, even without accompaniament, so Pellinore began in a deep baratone...

"Tura lura lura loo, they're looking for monkeys up at the Zoo, at the time I had a face like you, I joined the British Army!"

"When I was young I used to be as fine a lad as ever you'd see, till the Prince of Wales he said to me "Come join the British Army!"

Tura lura lura loo, they're looking for monkeys up at the Zoo, at the time I had a face like you, I joined the British Army."

Eyes all turned toward the two elder knights..."Well, ur....

"Kilted soldiers wear no drawers, so won't you kindly lend them yours; the rich must always help the poor to save the British Army :)"

Greetings folk, I am Pellinore of the Welsh Marches and my comrade in arms is Don Quixote de la Mancha, at your service!....ahhh,..is that a pint o' stout I see???"

All eyes gazed in wonder at the two armored knights, one nearly rusted solid, and the other bursting at the seams.

His curiousity aroused concerning his two companions and their quest, the Dark Lord peered into the dimly lit crystal, and beheld the site of Q & Pelly as they made their entrance.

"Jumping Jupiter!" he moaned, and wiped away the scene. "With those two bumbling rogues, I hardly need the foul advesary who burned out the lass's grandfather, and spoiled our exchange. The crystal will not reveal him, nor is the Merlin's staff any help....if, indeed, it be a man at all." Taking his head from his hands and rising from his contemplation, the Dark Lord peered curiously about. "I wonder what all that mewling is?" and started towards the darker regions of the cavern.

Having no sooner made introduction, the two battered old knights found themselves quite perplexed as a loud screeching filled the air, and the sound of great leathery wings beating against the wind.

Drawing their swords the two companions slipped each to one side, forcing the monstrousity to attack one or the other, but not both, leaving a blind side to the unbesailed knight.

With a great screech of rust, as loud and piercing as the cry of the gargoyled like creature
Don Quixote sliced through one of the wings...a tearing sound, while King Pellinore struck at the snake like darting head. Rearing back, rivelets of blackened blood spraying through the air, the creature beat backwards and up. Between the wings, secure in a type of saddle was a dark robed figure. As the creature sped backwards the figure hurled a blue ball, sizzleling and popping through the air, as if filled with a thunderstorm. The orb struck between the knights, a blast throwing them both to the ground and the creature was gone.

Night fell in the glade, and at the rising of the full flower-moon, Pellinore began to stir. Illuminated in the moonlight was the figure of Q, the blood of the beast must have been caustic, like an acid, as the centuries old armor had been eaten away in the front. There was no one else about, the gladed tavern empty, confused and still somewhat addled Pellinore raised the head of his companion.

Frail, lifeless, with most of his chest and abdomen eaten away, Pelly's hands themselves began to burn thus dropping his ancient friend.

Pelly was tired, too exhausted to call the mysts, too exhausted to flee. His friend continued to be eaten away by the caustic ichor. Pelly forced himself to gather wood, determined to build a pyre for the fallen knight. The body thus covered with branches, sticks, and handfulls of kindling began to smoulder and smoke on its own. Pelly stood back from the barrow of branches not understanding the scene before him. Flame then began to erupt from a dozen different places in the brush above Q, the pyre igniting on its own.

As the final resting place of Don Quixote de la Mancha was consumed by flame, the very ground underneath the fallen knight began to sink, slowly but inexorably downward, till even the flame itself no longer cast a glow out of the deepening pit.

Leaning back against a tree, Pelly watched the foul smoke rise from pit, curling upwards towards the flower-moon. Stunned and still in shock Pellinore slid sideways to the ground, his long gray hair mixing with his beard, and moisture around his closed eyes. Pulling his great double edged sword closer to him with the hilt upright against his chest, the ancient sword now seemed to be a raised cross, and the knight some ancient crucifer. There was quiet in the glade, and nothing more.

Pellinore now lay full on his side, unconsciousness deepening into a full sleep as Q's funeral pyre was consumed by Mother Earth. In the cold white light of the full moon, the ancient knight looked almost ageless.

At last, the smouldering funeral pyre burned away and was covered, the foul smoke having melted away to nothing, and the summer night air was clear and fragrant again with the scent of the trees in the glade. Silent but for the night winds rustling the leaves, the glade provided shelter for the wizened old warrior.
A short time later, a shadow fell across the ancient knight, but Pellinore neither heard, sensed nor stirred. The shadow was that of a man of medium height, wearing a hooded cloak of light material; the man's face was concealed in the hood's deep shadow in the night, but had Pelly been awake to see, he might have seen the faint glimmer of moonlight in the man's eyes.
Lord Wolf, dressed in black cloak, tunic, buckskin leggings and leather boots, stood silently watching the ancient warrior sleep. He held a small lap harp carved with Celtic knotwork and Pictish animals frolicking and cavorting on the harp's wooden framework. The figure in the dark seemed imposing, but one sensitive enough would have felt no threat or sense of danger emanating from this man.
He pushed back the hood, and his short red-gold hair glimmered in the bright moonlight. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the glade from the sleeping knight, laid the harp against his chest and began to pluck out a simple but lovely air. The music came to the old knight in his sleep, and he dreamed of dancing in a great mead hall long ago at a ceilidh with a lovely young noblewoman, bards playing their harps and pipes and bodhrans. A smile slowly spread across the sleeping old man's face, and the lines cut deep into his face began to smooth out. The music wove its magick, and centuries dropped away from the old knight's countenance.
Lord Wolf gently played his harp into the quiet forest night, and all nature stood still as if to listen to the young bard weave his enchantment. He continued to play as the moon moved into the western sky and began to set.

In the hour before dawn, the forest dark and quiet awaiting morning, Lord Wolf quietly took up his harp, hood of his cloak again shielding his bearded face, and stole away into the deep shadows. On the other side of the glade, Pelly slept on, his face smooth again and his respiration deep and very slow. When the sun rose again, Pelly would be fully rejuvenated.

One more time to live again.

"Murder most foul", grumbled Pellinore, sitting upright and surveying the glade about him. "as I sure and certain should be." Muscles bunched under the steel plates enclosing his arms, breastplate and halberd hanging loosely on his lessened frame, hard muscles there too underneath the steel.

Pellinore stood and tightened his armor, instead of an soreness and hangover from the previous day's battle, Pelly drew fresh clean air into now vigorous lungs. Within three strides he was at the edge of the blackened pit, where heat still rose in a silent column. He tossed a rock into the pit to gage its depth, but he never heard the stone reach bottom. "Q...., just like the lass's grandsire."

Pellinor rose and drove the bade of his sword deep into the earth, and knelt before the upright cross it made before him. Intoning with bent head the ancient rite of the Church for his departed friend, tossing a handful of earth into the chasm..."In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord, Jesus the Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brother, Don Quixote de la Mancha, from dust whence he came, to dust thou shalt return, I now therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. So mote it be."

Rising and heaving his great sword into the air, Pelly invoked the mysts and brought them down around him, returning to the cavern where the Dragon Throne rests.

The mysts drew Pelly away, and shortly the glade, now dappled with morning sunlight, was whole again as if nothing had ever happened there. The tavern stood silent and empty; the faery folk had returned to their hollow hills when the creature had struck the previous evening. Even the pit in which Q's body had been incinerated was gone, as if it had never been. All was as it had been at the beginning.
Later that morning, with the sun nearing its noontime apex, Lord Wolf stood again in the clearing, wondering at the powers that had drawn him to the glade in the midnight hours before. He was not dressed in all black (which gave him concealment in the night's darkness), save for the boots, but in the six colors allowed a bard of ancient Celtic times. Something had called him to work healing magick with the music, and as he did not question the calling of the Ancient Ones, he had simply done as he was bidden.
I hope, he thought, that the old knight will be well again. That made him think of Lady LaurelRose, and he wondered how she was doing, where she had gone last night when things had spun so wildly out of control, and if he would see her here again.
"Oh, aye, she'll be back, amhic," said a voice behind him. "She'll not forget her golden-haired friend, likely."
Wolf turned and there was the old crone, benevolent Mother that she was. He smiled, grasped her hands in both of his, and bowed briefly to her. "And was it you whose soft voice drew me to this place in darkness, Lady?"
She returned his smile. "Och, that it was, me lad. That old knight was needin' a little help, so he was. And I knew you were the one could give him some strength!"
"Aye, Lady, ye know me but too well, I fear," Lord Wolf chuckled.
They stood together a while, feeling the sun warming their faces, dappled by leaves in the pleasant green space.

The Dark Lord Crookland, last heir to the Dragon Throne of Camelot and sole surviving apprentice of the the Merlin of All Britain, Taliesan, walked further into the darker reaches of the cavern, continuing to hear a strange mewling. "What in the name of Mary, Joseph, and all the Saints could be that racket!" he spoke loudly to his own person.....just then he happened upon a lady kitten, with three young calico's and one black tom nursing at her side. "Well, rain and hail in Beulahland" the Dark Lord muttered...."our resident mouser has gotten great with child and conceived :}" Catching the mother and her litter of four in the folds of his brown woolen robe, Crookland eased back towards the main keep of the cavern.

Upon crossing the entrance he saw Pellinore, blood creased on his brown, blood and dark stains on his double edged sword...but Quixote he did not see. Making a pallet near the edge of the Merlin's chest for the kitten and her brood, Crookland looked at King Pellinore in wonder....

"By the Holy Isle and her mother, what has happended to you Pelly...a simple tale I sent the both of you to tell, and you come back looking like a squire of 20, but without your companion?"

King Pellinore knelt on both knees, laying his great sword at the feet of Crookland..."Milord, sire...ill has found us again and our comrade Don Quixote is no more....he has met the same foul death as the lass's grandsire...and there was nought I could do for him, I come hither, seeking instruction at your command."

Crookland looked upon the once aged Knight, his hair still long, and beard still lengthened, but neither grey, but dark as the days of his youth. His armour, fitted around a strong and muscular frame, no longer flabby nor petualant, nor bursting at the seams. "Two wonders, nay three, have I seen this day....a mouser with kits, where kits should not be; an youthful squire where yet an aged King should kneel, and the loss of a companion who was and who should have ever been."

"Pelly?....rise....you know that formalities here are sparse, what kind of Lord could I be with only two servants and a lap full of kits to command?"

"Nay, dread Lord, you hold the Merlin's staff, and his trust in the end....I can bow no lower to do you justice." "As for my companion, he is no more...taken by that foul thing that took the lass's grandsire....we'd no opportunity to speak with her, no chance to make our case."

Pulling the now youthful looking Pellinore up by his hands, clasping a blackened sword, the old Lord intoned "Peace to you Pellinore...I know not what has transpired...perhaps time has passed longer for you than I; but only a moment ago the both of you stood before this crystal when I called the dragon's breath. I'd only time to meander through a tunnel and find a bunch of kits and return....and you give me news of a foul deed that took much longer than my short steps."

"Aye, milord" Pellinore answered. "Quixote has been gone a day times two, while I slept beside his grave. I was dead, or thought myself so, but awoke next to his tunneling pyre as spritely as a lad of sixteen."

That you have, Pellinore' said the Dark Lord " look, truly, into yon mirror....why I haven't seen you with this much vigor since....well, grinning wickedly, since we pillaged those two tavern lasses the Beltane before Arthur had his victory at Mount Baden."

Blushing deeply Pellinore replied "Your memory is far too sharp dread sire, we were youths then, with nothing more to conquer than the next flagon of ale or the next toss of a pretty head.....but now I tell you....what befell the lass's grandsire, has befallen Q, and how I live I do not know. As sharply as the leathern creature and that dark hooded figured wreacked havoc, as sharply do I kneel before you now in the vigor of my youth. There are strange things afoot, milord,...I can not comprehend them, i cannot see me spared while my companion lies in a tomb near the very center of the earth."

"Pelly, come now, it can't be that dire....are you quite sure that you and Q didn't have a bit too much ale and bedded a couple of winsome lasses???? One, which, of course, desired more from you than an stallion's experience, but the stamina of a foal??"


"No, dread lord, here as I am I know not, but Q is dead and a stinking heated hole is left where I built his pyre."

The dark lord moved towards the chest of th Merlin and retrieved his staff. Moving towards the crystal he invovked the sacred words, commanding the ball to show the gladed tavern where Pelly and Q where sent.

As the crystal cleared to a view of the glade, there was peace, and no disturbance. A hooded figure stood silently among the stones, while a few of the old fey folk danced in and around the ring of stones, a circle with no end, a end with no beginning, a beginning without substance, but contaning all. The Dark Lord was captured by the sight, as the fey wee folk moved in and out and between the circle of stones that surrounded the gladed tavern. Each pass made the stones tremble with power, but no pit did he see. No disturbance could he find....and no trace of Don Quixote Del la Mancha was apparent."

"Pelly, God's blood, are you speaking true...look insidet the crystal yourself...no maid there is, but there are no signs of battle, there is no pit, and the glade remains as undisturbed as the zodiac in its course."

Pelly looked in disbelief, his eyes not comprehending what his heart and soul knew to be true. Looking from the crystal to the dark lord, King Pellinore scrunched his eyes together once in disbelief and fell unconcious to the ground. The crystal, a millineum old, shattered with a tremendous crash, sending shards of glass about the cavern. The Dark Lord Crookland, now blinded, turned his back to the pedistal that held the orb, blood running in his eyes and pieces of shattered glass embedded deeply about his face. He stumbled and fell, his head striking the foot of the Dragon Throne, sending him into unconcieness.

The mother kit, and her brood, seeing the distress of their master, surrounded the figure heaped at the foot of the throne and licked his wounds...but no sound was made, not from Crookland, and not from Pellinore.

Lord Wolf stood within the circle, dark hood over his golden hair, booted feet planted firmly on the ground, arms outstretched so he took the position of the letter Y. His sickle-bladed knife hung from his belt in its leathern sheath; the faerie folk danced about the circle, now spiralling in and out between the standing stones, chanting:
"Fire, fire, fire!
Work my desire, higher and higher!"
The cone of power they were raising was fearsome to behold, shining white light formed of many colors. Pipes wailed and drums pounded, and now the chant took on different words:
"Air I am, fire I am,
Water, earth and spirit I am..."
The spiral dance was frantically weaving around the standing stones and Lord Wolf felt the power building, building, building, until at last he bellowed but one word in a powerful, Dagda-like voice:
"DOWN!!!"
The faerie folk, the dancers, all dropped where they stood, crouched to the earth, hands placed flat against the Mother's bosom. Lord Wolf had heard the sound of something shattering and a strangled cry in his head, but knew not the source of either sound. He puzzled over this while he grounded and centered, then dismissed it as one of those odd sensations he got from time to time.
At last, he stood up slowly and intoned these words to the faerie gathering in the Old Tongue:
"Cuirim fad beannacht na greine thu,
Cuirim fad beannacht na gealai thu,
Cuirim fad beannacht na reanna thu,
Cuirim fad beannacht na mhara thu,
Cuirim fad beannacht na De thu,
Cuirim fad beannacht na mBan-De thu."
Sunlight through the leaves dappled the circle as the fey folk slowly rose and moved toward the center to share in the cakes and ale brought by Lord Wolf and the old crone, who had proven to be a powerful High Priestess. But he still wondered at the shattering and the strangled cry. Perhaps he would find out later...

The Dark Lord woke to find bandages on his face, a mother kit at his side, and Pellinore...who was busy defending himself against the four maurading little kittens, a jet black caught in his beard, a calico clinging to each leg, and another climbing steadily but surely up his back. "Gadzooks Crookland, it's high time you awoke and called these little hellions off me," Pellinore spoke to his ancient friend,"I can't get them off long enough to get back into my armor, where I would atleast have that much protection from their climbing little claws"

The Dark Lord stroked the head of the mother kit, her purring increased as he pulled himself upright, wanting to laugh at Pelly's distress, wince from his still bruised and healing side and face, and still dazed by the loss of the crystal and Don Quixote.

The kittens dragging and tagging along, Pelly managed to bring a bowl of hot broth to Crookland, and a cup of warmed brandy mixed with various herbs. The Dark Lord pulled his bowl back quickly as the black kit dislodged and fell from Pelly's darker beard....and seemed leaner as well..."Pelly," he said between welcomed broth and brandyl,"there seems to be much afoot...did you have no chance to speak with the girl?"

"Nay, milord, catastrophe struck as soon as we made introduction...and I still don't know about Q...I awoke invigored and came back here. But this I do know master, yon crystal turn as black at this infernal kit" which had leaped once again into Pellinore's beard and was clinging for dear life.

"I don't know Pelly, I'm still dazed...it seems every step forward takes us further back, and with Q gone and...and the crystal shattered...I've no way to look for the girl again."

Pelly sat near the bed, relieved of his attackers who were now cavorting about the floor. "The Inn, master, she's sure to return there, or perhaps that glade."

"Well, two sound choices, but whichever you shan't go alone. There is no reason for me to stay behind with the crystal now gone, and Lord Arthur's throne is warded well enough to take care of itself. Methinks it is time I left the cave and went with you...if we find the girl then we still have a journey we must make."

"Tis a different world there now milord," advised Pelly, "you'll not like it, and I don't know how long we can stay in it. Q & I drew strength from the crystal to sustain us...I could feel us fade on occasion. The Inn is a safe place, as was that glade in keeping us whole, but other places...well, you know sire, it just seemed as though the world just passed through us."

"I've considered that as well Pelly, we'll have to take the Merlin's staff, and could no wise leave it behind regardless."

"Nor the serpent torque milord" Pellinore countered.

"That reminds me Pelly, have you ever noticed the way the torque seems to draw away whenever the Merlin's staff is laid within the chest? That has puzzled me...and so does the lass....have you...have you noticed anything familiar about her? Something in her hair and eyes?"

"Humpfph, her grandsire's were the same sire."

The Dark Lord mused as the dark brandy in his cup,"She reminds me of Igraine, Pelly, and those are Arthur's eyes..."

"Hah, well, now, it does seem you were addled after all....the Lord Artorius you know as well as I sired only one child... and damn his eyes."

"Quandum Rex Futuri, Pelly, the Once and Future King, despite his son....I know Modred was the only child of Arthur or for Morgan as well for that matter....but it's Mordred I've been thinking about...between all those years spent with the Saxons and the Danes, well....Mordred could have sired a child."

Pellinore sat dumbfounded. "Pelly...I know your dislike for the Prince, but he did bear the blood of Avalon and the Pendragon....and only a line like that could give the girl the talent she has. You've said yourself that she spun worlds with the pipe without the least idea of the power required to generate and sustain such a feat."

"Aye, that so is true milord," the old knight sadly remarked.

"Why so glum Pelly?"

"Well, Q had taken such a like to the girl, and the very sight of her charms the soul....I'd hate to think that anything of Mordred was in her."

"Ah, Pelly, don't let old feuds cloud your reason...and you know that Mordred and his mother both wanted the same thing we did...set to oppose them we were, but their goal was the same...just a terrible tragedy that their choices and ours were in conflict."

Getting up, the Dark Lord moved over to the chest, the kittens bounding along his feet, and raised the carved lid. He took the golden serpent torque and laid it on the bare stone...the kittens were mesmerized by the green jewelled eyes---and scattered in every direction has the Dark Lord struck the torque with the Merlin's staff-- a blinding flash and dull boom reverberated throughout the cavern, a blue aura enveloped the Dragon Throne, repelling even the dust that would have settled on it...

...and in the place of the torque of Avalon was now a small yellow adder, with deep green eyes.

The Dark Lord looked at the tiny serpent and asked "Can you led us to the lass?" The little adder brightened, raised and nodded it's small head, then climbed the staff and wrapped itself along the Dark Lord's right arm, it's body matching perfectly with the blue wode serpents tattoed onto the Dark Lord's arms and wrists.

Pelly pulled back his own sleeves, his markings the same but very dim "Tis been so long since my king-making that I had forgotten what I have worn so long," his eyes misting a little with recaptured memories. Crookland smiled rather shyly...."No kingdom for me, just a simple barony, but I too ran with the deer and toppled the King Stag" Then blushed as he remembered the young virgin priestess who came to him as the goddess, completing his druid rites. Crookland looked at the yellow serpent then reached inside his robe to pull out a small silver wheeled-cross, emblazoned with a celtic pattern. "Two religions made one," he murmmered," and still tragedy befell us all."

"Pelly!" he roared. "Quit playing with those kittens and start packing, we've a Quest before us."

Tears welled up in the eyes of the grand knight, a chosen Companion of the Round Table, "Aye, milord, that we do." The cavern then filled with the bustle of arrainging gear, packs, and provisions. Waving the Merlin's staff across the front of the cave, Crookland turned his face towards a rising sun, knowing the cave would seal, and beholding the first morning light his eyes had seen in twelve centuries.

Mounting their war horses and tethered pack animals, The Dark Lord called the Dragon's Breath...the mysts falling slowly over the Lord and Knight, a yellow serpent, and a mother cat with four kits purring contentedly in a satchel at Pellinore's side. The Quest had begun.

"Pelly? Close ranks" whispered the Dark Lord, "something's not right...we should be there now, with no myst present." The mysts had lightened, but the troupe was still concealed within its folds. Lord and Knight faced in opposite directions with the pack animals in between. The eyes of the yellow adder burned a bright green far outdistincing their size. The sound of great leathern wings beating against the wind began to fill the air.

"Ward yourself sire, that sound is an ill omen...'ware both it's spit and blood, it eats and burns like pitch without visible flame." Pellinore's sword hissed out of it's scabbard, marks still etched like acid along its length.

Crookland began intoning a ward around the troupe, the Merlin's staff producting an azure blue, not unlike the ward of the Dragon Throne. The yellow adder unwound itself from the Dark Lord's arm and climbed to the head of the staff, bright emerald reflections, like a green diamond, glittered within the ward.

The ward sizzled and crackled and bent inward like a bubble as the creature slammed headlong into it's aura. Animals reared casting the troupe in all directions. The Dark Lord landed with a hard thump, losing his grip on the staff, but reprieved by the tiny adder, which gripped the bend of the staff with it's tail and wound it's head and neck around the thumb of Taliesin's apprentice.

The creature struck again, head popping through the ward, shattering it. The mysts darkened as the creature beat backwards for the killing assault. Lord and Knight were speechless, shocked into seeing doom itself.

From Pellinore's bag emerged five great cats: a winged lioness that immediately sprang into the air and engaged the creature. Bounding behind her and attacking from four other points were one jet black and three calico panthers.

One of the pack animals and its burden were already dissolving, Pelly and Crookland regaining their mounts as the battle rose above them. Screeching mingled with roars as a titanic struggle ensued above them. Drops of the burning ichor began to fall like a rain...but rather than drenching and melting the troupe, each drop was countered by a green starburst coming from the eyes, nose, and mouth of a golden Dragon, whose wings beat the air immobilizing the drops as the starbursts consumed them.

With a boom both Lord and Knight fell from the mysts into clear air above a thickly wooded glade. Limbs cracked and shattered, leaves and spring foilage tore from boughs as the Lord and Knight and their mounts fell through the tops of the trees towards the ground.

The horses hit first with thuds, followed by metallic bangings as the Knight and Lord fell from branch to branch, their armor and breast plating dented but holding....then they too hit the ground.

Clattering last onto stone benches amid the stones fell the Merlin's staff and a golden serpent torque. Backing up to and diving behind the stone bar were a Musician, a Crone, and several fey folk, who were battered and covered with falling limbs, boughs, and leaves.

As the commotion settled, a dainty set of hands bent down over the resting place of the staff and the torque. In the left hand was a small delicate bubble pipe. As the right hand reached for the serpent torque it transformed briefly into a small yellow adder that climbed silently around the delicate arm, settling into place on the upper arm as the torque, it's emerald eyes glittered brightly in conjuncture with a set of stormy blue ones of the lass.

"That's the way, boys! Hold them back" "Colour bearer, to my position" "Regiment, Form Square!
"

The grey lines melted into four groups of three ranks, the first at full kneel with bayonet fixed to repel cavalry, the 2nd rank kneeling prepared to fire, and the 3rd rank standing over the 2nd, also primed and ready to fire. Major Crook's dappled mount, Chicamauga, pranced and dugged her heels into the soft earth.

"At 100 yards, Volley Fire, pre..sent: Fire by rank, fire at will!" The grey lines were lost in the cloud of powder and smoke, the smell of sulphur thick in the air, the blue lines hemming in on the grey square staggered and dissappeared amid the cracking gunfire.

"Steady boys, to the rear, in ranks, march!" Chickamauga pranced backward to give the front ranks room to fall back in order, the men, still formed as a square moved slowly towards the woodline where the rest of the line had fallen back too quickly, leaving the 13th Tennessee in the middle of the Union assault.

Pellinore looked down at the ashen face of his comrade, the Dark Lord Crookland's armor had been peeled off and he was now wrapped in blankets..an ugly blue and orange bruise covering the side of his temple....

"Regiment...route step, to the woodline....March!" The grey ranks peeled into the woodline, disappearing in the gloom...Chickamauga reeled towards the enemy line, rampant, front hooves pawing at the air and foam flying from his bit. The Major pulled his navy colt and squeezed off one round, taking a young federal lieutenant in the chest, then pulled the reins and headed into the woodline after his regiment....

"He'll live" said the Crone to a worried looking Pelly, "but the Goddess only knows what strange dreams have caught him."

"Aye, there is much of him that is pulled in more direction that one wise lady." Pellinore dipped the cloth again into a cauldron of simmering herbs, and laid it like a poultice against the angry swelling bruise.

Lady LaurelRose stood beside Lord Wolf and then took Pellinore by suprise by speaking "Don Quixote did I know, and you sir seem a gentle and caring sire, although dressed as a Knight Errant. But the one on the ground....something is not right with him...and you called him a 'dark lord'...is he then evil? Lord Wolf sat on a stone and began to strum a strange harp, half as tall as a good man, but taller than a fey one.

Pelly looked at the young lass, and wondered where he should begin..."Nay, not an evil one, though he knows lore both fair and foul, and a lore-wise Lord and adept in darkness he once was..he does not forgive himself, though all the Round Table would call him friend."

"Your bubble pipe, lass, the Dark Lord had instructed us to take it...I had not the heart to confront you, and, well, Q went in as a roaring lion, to have you quiet him like a lamb."

"The noble Quixote fell" said the lass to Pellinore "and Lord Wolf gleamed the damage and sent you a healing." "As we are all now here, why is it that you are here, and what would you have with my pipe?"

Pellinore again looked down at the ashen form, at a loss as how to answer. "The pipe, lass, has a powerful glamour....we wished it for a boon to free other of our companions." Haltingly, but clearly, Pelly told the small group of the last stand of Arthur and the Companion's of the Round Table, of entrapment in the fjord with Mordred and the host of Danes at them in triumph. How the Merlin called the mysts to freeze both armies before the powers they had invoked could rend both space, time, tide, and earth. How the Merlin ejected Q, the Lord Crookland, himself, and two tokens out of the freezing...how the staff led the three to a cave where the crystal and the Dragon Throne had been sealed in safe keeping, and...how over twelve centuries the three had scried and looked for the pipe, in hopes of freeing at least the Merlin, who might then free the rest.

At mentioning the encounter in the mysts while traveling to the glade, a fitful Crookland stirred, but did not wake.

The old Crone stepped forward and touched Lord Crookland's fore head with her finger. The tightness in his face eased and his breathing relaxed as he sighed deeply. "What did you just do?" Pellinore asked. The Crone smiled and winked at him and handed him a white peep stone. He shuddered with fear but could not turn his eyes away. He gasped as he saw Lord Crookland in the other world amongst the shadows.

"Damn you old Crone!" Pellinore shouted. "You think to delude me into believing that he does not sleep but his soul resides in the other world now?" Lord Wolf and LaurelRose smiled knowingly. The old Crone was using this as a teaching moment for Pellinore. He, too, must face his own fears as had Accasbel. Pellinore felt suddenly tired and closing his eyes, fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"We do not need to step into a bubble, LaurelRose, to know what happens next!" said Lord Wolf. He had come to know the old Crone very well and loved her in spite of how she appeared to others. He knew that she was in reality one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She chose to appear as an old Crone to test those she loved.

"Would you care to join me?" the old Crone asked the Wolf. She held out her hand for him and nodded to LaurelRose. They were communicating on a higher level and the pure heart of LaurelRose understood that she was to remain behind to watch the physical forms of Pellinore and Lord Crookland until their rebirth with the old Knight.

There was a great, blinding flash of light and the old Crone and the Wolf had gone on to the great city gates of Enan. The old Crone's form was gone and in its place was the Lady of Truth. Lord Wolf drew back in disbelief as her true self was revealed to him. He had felt things from the old Crone that he did not understand but he had never imagined that she would be such a beacon of light and beautiful truth.

"Are you ready to go within?" she asked. "You have come through many tests and will be allowed to see what lies beyond mortality and the shadows of darkness in the Other World that people fear in the guise of death." He nodded and she smiled tenderly at him. "Before I take you within you must promise to never tell others about who I truly am. You will only be allowed to remember the feelings and stirrings as familiar happenings of this life will be opened in time to you again. LaurelRose has traveled many times within with me. She understands the City of Enan."

"But, what ever happened to Accasbel? Was that only a bubble pipe dream that the old knight popped and destroyed?"

"No...he has not the power to tamper with another's spiritual quest. In fact, let me show you what has happened to Accasbel since his new birth from the shadows of the Crone's cauldron." Once again he was the Lord Fealty, noble and brave and at the side of the Lady of Truth. The white gates of brilliant light opened and they passed through as a portal to another realm. Had Lord Fealty continued to ride and ride, he would never have come to the City of Enan that he had seen in the distance.

“Come then”, the Lady Truth said. “We will follow this path and I will show you some of the things you have longed to know and to see.” The path they took seemed to be of small marble-like pebbles, snow-white in color. It was about eight feet wide and continued straight and glistening as far as the eye could see. To the right and left of them were beautiful fields of waving grain. They walked through these a long distance when they came to a beautiful forest, with lawn-grass covering the ground; with trees and shrubs of many sizes and kinds and of many different colorings, from a pale green to the deep green of the spruce and pine, several shades of silver and gold, reds, browns, blues, lavenders, fading into a light pink, all planted to harmonize with each other in size, color and kind, and by looking in a certain direction, one could see all colors of the rainbow.

As they were passing through the forest, Lord Fealty thought nothing could compare to its beauty - it was glorious. But as they left it behind and still walking on the same white path, they came into the most exquisite flower gardens wherein were small shrubs and all manner of plant life, beyond human understanding. The ground was all covered with many varieties of lawn-grass. For some distance, the grass was of one species but within this distance there were many different colors of grass which harmonized with the shrubs and flowers; another distance with another color of grass and flowers and shrubs to harmonize, and so on for hundreds of acres. There were flowers of all sizes and colors, placed in different artistic designs, such as diamonds, crescents, ovals, oblongs, squares, and many other odd shapes to add beauty and splendor to their surroundings. The flowers varied in size from those no larger than a pinhead to those as large as the crown in a man’s hat. The shrubs were gorgeous, all sizes and colors - many of them were pruned and kept trimmed to represent birds and animals and were very true to life, even having real diamonds and rubies for eyes.

The cactus plants were marvelous for they were trained and grew to represent animals and reptiles having eyes of precious stones. There was an elephant fully as large as any Lord Fealty had seen. One of the caretakers told them that it was thousands of years old. It was growing from the four legs in the ground and his tail, head, trunk, tusks, his little blue diamond eyes, and his big flat ears were perfect. The tusks were of vegetable matter, growing from the body and resembling the true ivory.

Lord Fealty was very much impressed with a wonderful flower tree. The trunk was about six inches in diameter and about three feet high before it began to branch out, then it branched into twelve or fifteen branches, resembling a massive vase or flowerpot. The tops of the branches were a little above his head and on each branch was a different color of the same kind of a flower, the flower as nearly as could be described it was a cross between a rose and a chrysanthemum, and from the base of each flower on the stem grew a very fine fern leaf with different shades of green on each branch to harmonize with the color of the flower in that branch. Its beauty excelled any hothouse combination bouquet I have ever seen.

Lord Fealty turned around to look at this beautiful sight, and stood in amazement and awe, the magnitude and splendor of its beauty and imagination of mortal man in beauty and splendor.
While he was viewing these sights, the caretakers were busily engaged in pruning, trimming trees and shrubs and cultivating the flowers and lawns.

The Lady Truth and Lord Fealty took the white path again and without a signal, so far as Lord Fealty could see, the caretakers, in great numbers began to file in military fashion ahead of them on the path. They seemed to have no leader. Lord Fealty asked concerning their discipline and the Lady Truth answered, “No man comes to this school unless he can discipline himself. They are going on to attend a class of instruction. An instructor meets them here at least twice a day unless they have trouble along some line and then comes to them or sends a man specially trained along the line of their trouble. All of those instructors are specialists and must bear all keys and powers of Glory as they teach the truth in the afternoon sessions.”

A massive high wall came into view. The path continued along the wall south for some distance and then turned east. At this turn was a small arbor in the wall, just large enough for a chair for the instructor to sit in. As Lord Fealty drew near the corner he noticed the men who were marching before him placing their tools against the wall and taking their places in front of the little arbor. After the men were all seated, the Lady Truth and Lord Fealty took a new path leading to the left and to a massive double door in the wall just to the right of the instructor. He was sitting in a comfortable chair in the arbor when Lord Fealty first saw him, reading a book, but as the men came up, he arose and greeted each in turn, still holding the book in his hand, opened and face out. Lord Fealty was anxious to know what he was reading and was watching the book rather than him. As the Lady Truth and Lord Fealty came opposite him, Lord Fealty could not make out what it was. Just as they were about to pass through the gates Lord Fealty's eyes met his eyes; it was one of the happiest moments of Lord Fealty's life, for this radiant young instructor was a dead ancestor. Lord Fealty called his name and stepped toward him. He had been watching Lord Fealty, but had made no advance toward him, and his smile would always remain fresh in Lord Fealty's mind. The Lady Truth took hold of Lord Fealty's arm and as he turned to her the scene changed.

Lord Fealty asked the Lady Truth, "Is that not my dear departed grandfather? The Lady Truth put her finger to her lips and said, “That is not a part of my program. I am only to show you what you have wanted to know. He is very busy teaching in the art of horticulture, and learning all truth and light. Now be content for all is well with him. You desired to know where Accasbel had gone onto."

Lord Fealty smiled at the thought of seeing Accasbel again. As they went further, Lord Fealty noticed that the homes were nicer, some of them having been painted. There were more signs of industry. Some parts were cultivated, some trees and lawns came into sight and some of the people looked happy.

The better class of people were more easily interested in religion and the instructors, now more numerous, showed signs of encouragement. All kinds of characters were to be observed among the throngs of people, by their countenances, homes, groups and communities; each individual finds his level.

As they continued walking, the scene was suddenly changed to one of beauty. There were trees, shrubs, lawns and flowers, beautiful painted and stone homes, gardens, parks and playgrounds, and many things to keep them busy at something and seemed to be more united and showed more co-operation in their communities and groups.

There were now an even greater number of instructors, more encouraged in their work as this class enjoyed the truth and were more eager to learn its teachings. Lord Feagin and the Lady Truth began to see large chapels for worship and many public places erected after the manner of stadiums, in the open air for people to sit and hear the truth taught, most of these being filled with large crowds.

“Nearly all these people were interested in religion,” the Lady Truth explained. “but it takes a long time to prepare them for the truth for it is so much harder for the spirit to overcome the weaknesses of the flesh without the flesh, even for these people, and they are just as particular in receiving members into the fulness here as they are on the earth.”

The streets were paved and wide, the houses were lovely and the further we went the more beautiful everything became. The parks and playgrounds were filled with children and young people who were happy and whose manner and habits in play were very becoming. There were, however, no children under the age of eight years. The customs and appearance of these people were improved as we saw no signs of the filth and dirt. We could see some of the best of the first class of people among the crowds of this place and could readily tell the difference by their appearance and manner. The Lady of Truth informed Lord Fealty that a mark in the form of a dress or mantle was placed upon them when they died, designating the life they had lived while on earth; a mark that could not be changed nor imitated in any way.

“Even though they may repent, progress in wisdom and knowledge, visit the better class, they are held in prison, and this mark or dress is the prison, and remain in that same station until they are released. No matter how long they have been repentant, they are held back and identified by that mark, until someone finds them as in genealogy on the earth, to prepare them to receive the fulness. They need to receive the fulness. This is the only power that can release them, but not until they have met all the requirements made of them here and accepted the truth, do they receive the same here and then the dress or mark falls off and they are released from prison and go on to enjoy progression to their highest level of good.

Lord Fealty's attention was drawn to a large and spacious library. "I feel as though I need to go within that building," he said. "I don't know why but I have this intense longing to go there." The Lady Truth smiled and they walked towards the beautiful library.

"What records do you wish to see?" the Lady Truth asked Lord Fealty. "I serve also as a record keeper and there is complete order here in our records."

"Could I find information on my family such as where they came from and who they are? Since I saw my grandfather and those imprisoned who cannot progress on, I have this deep desire to find them. Will this manifest also on a physical level?"

The Lady Truth hugged Lord Fealty and he knew instantly the things he had desired to know. "How did you do that? I thought I would search for hours in these records."

As he walked up a brilliant marble stairway with the Lady Truth they passed an open door. Lord Fealty felt drawn back. Inside sat Accasbel peering over a screen similar to a computer monitor but it was much more simple and no electronic devices.

"Greetings, Accasbel! What brings you here to the great City of Enan?" Lord Fealty asked. Accasbel looked up and smiled warmly when he saw the Lady Truth.

"I am studying the latest developments set to come forth in the physical realm in communications. I have found it very simple to find any information I need while sitting here as I simply transfer the frequency of my thoughts to this screen. I can instantly create a page of my own design, delete it or make changes as fast as I can picture the desired results in my own mind. The screen is simply a means to learn to focus one's frequencies."

Lord Fealty felt stunned. He knew how he instantly perceived his answers as the Lady Truth hugged him. He knew that her light had gone completely through him, piercing every part of his being. He turned to the Lady Truth and she perceived his thoughts.

"No, Accasbel is not dead!" she giggled delighted at the boyish curiosity he had conveyed to her. "He often visits with me as does LaurelRose and many others. Most are not allowed to remember being here in spirit. They awake with the feelings that they have experienced a very vivid dream and vague stirrings remain but are soon forgotten."

Accasbel turned to speak to the Lady Truth. "You were right about Quantum Physics being only as a kindergarten level of understanding. I can see why you are so pressed to share knowledge to raise one's frequency much higher so as to comprehend this technology."

Lord Fealty spoke, "You mean that not everyone will be able to use the very machine I have seen Accasbel using?" The Lady Truth simply looked into his eyes and Lord Fealty understood. "Why are you here, Accasbel?"

Accasbel had not yet learned to convey his every thought and desire as had the Lady Truth so he spoke aloud to Lord Fealty, "I, too, am searching for my family members as many records were lost or destroyed. I allow others the opportunity to share knowledge and understanding with physical means of the latest computer technology. I still have much to learn and am limited on how far I can travel within the City of Enan. I want to learn more so as to accompany the Lady Truth to even higher levels and realms than the City Enan."

Suddenly Accasbel disappeared from the library. Lord Fealty looked at the Lady Truth with a questioning look. "He was forced back to his body by his daughter needing him. He is still bound to earth and his body as are you Lord Feagin by the silver cord that is attached to you. Do you see it?"

Lord Fealty laughed at the thought of Accasbel doing a bungy cord leap into the City of Enan and then being pulled forcefully back to earth and his body by a physical need for his full presence.

"Lady Truth," he asked, "When will I return to my body and where were LaurelRose, Lord Crookland, Pellinore, and I?"

"You each had fallen into a deep slumber where you could lift out of the flesh and travel in spirit. The things happening are more real than the physical life you experience each day. It is a means in which you are able to overcome setbacks in your daily life, receive insights and new ideas, and to visit with loved ones who long to be found."

Lord Fealty felt a pull in his heart center and smiled as he returned to stand again with LaurelRose. It seemed like such a long time to have been gone yet it had been like he had never left. The old Crone was not with him.

LaurelRose smiled then asked if he had enjoyed his visit with Accasbel and the Lady of Truth. Lord Fealty did not need to answer verbally. LaurelRose already knew his heart. They sat and watched the two men and waited for their return from the Other World.

Pellinore looked at LaurelRose, The Crone, and Lord Wolf..."Do what you may to bring my master to comfort...he is known as a dark lord, as dark mysteries he mastered, and betrayed once upon a time both Avalon and Camelot...but all of us would give our lives for him now."

LaurelRose pondered the old knight's statements "What is the boon you desire, for Don Quixote I would have granted it, and now, also for you, but for that dark mage I shudder...is he truly safe?"

Pellinore answered with the tale of Arthur and the Merlin in their final conflict with Mordred and the Danes, and how they all lay trapped beneath the frozen mysts of the dragon's breath. How the staff and cloak of the Merlin, Crookland, Pellinore and Quixote were ejected from the disaster, and had spent the last twelve centuries in trying to acquire the bubble pipe to free their companions.

Laurel Rose thought hard, the Crone and the Wolf closed around the pale form of the dark lord, whispering cants and incantations that went deep into the abyss of time, to the era of the land of Ys, Atlantis, Westernesse, the land of wisdom that was drank by the sea.

The Crone turned and looked at Pellinore. "Why do you seek the bubble pipe when you can free your companions without it? And you are the key to the Dark Lord's release and have been all the time."

Pellinore looked puzzled. He had awakened again and it was as if the Crone and the Wolf had never left. The Wolf had already forgotten the visit with the Crone to the City of Enan but he kept having flashes of seeing Accasbel in a large library working at a very advanced computer screen.

The Wolf looked at the Dark Lord and then at the Crone. "Why do I feel as though there is someplace I need to go? Where is the Dark Lord, old Crone?"

Pellinore's attention turned fully upon the Crone. "What do you mean I am the key to the Dark Lord's release?" He eyed the old Crone suspiciously then turned to the Wolf. "Where is it you feel you are to go, Wolf?"

The Wolf thought a moment and a flash of a face and seeing the smile again pulled at his heart. He was feeling music and pulled his guitar out to put his feelings and memories into a song. As he strummed Laurel Rose began to sing to Pellinore and he listened intently to her words.

Every heart dreams of love,
A dream of one's true love,
Where one meets and knows
The one of her dreams.

Time is for learning
Of all life can give,
As we search our own hearts,
And we go deep within,
To a time, before,
Walking within,
Dreams come true,
In the valley of our dreams...

Love is discovered in so many ways,
Sharing and giving ourselves away,
We find our true self,
And we know of the love,
Dreams are made within one's self.
Dreams are for giving and sharing one's love,
Laughing and singing and testing of love,
Building trust in our hearts in all that we do,
In the valley of our dreams...

Ahhhh...valley of our dreams...
Time stands still until we know
How our dreams in time will go.

Time is a gift, for healing our hearts,
As we search our dreams, giving love without,
And we find the one,
Who we've known all about,
Time goes on
And time reveals
That the dreams are real,
Inside we feel...

Love is discovered in so many ways,
Sharing and giving ourselves away,
We find our true self,
And we know of the love,
Dreams are made within one's self.
Dreams are for giving and sharing one's love,
Laughing and singing and testing of love,
Building trust in our hearts in all that we do,
In the valley of our dreams...

Pellinore had tears come to his eyes as he sat listening, his heart ached inside and he could not deny his true feelings. LaurelRose continued singing...

Time stands still until we know
How our dreams in time will go.

Love is discovered in so many ways,
Sharing and giving ourselves away,
We find our true self,
And we know of the love,
Dreams are made within one's self.
Dreams are for giving and sharing one's love,
Laughing and singing and testing of love,
Building trust in our hearts in all that we do,
In the valley of our dreams...

Come with me,
Come and become set free,
As we join our hearts
Letting each fill the needs,
Living with the hope,
Living every dream,
That life presents,
Searching our hearts, in need...

Every heart dreams of love,
A dream of one's true love,
Where one meets and knows,
The one of her dreams...

The music faded and LaurelRose looked at Pellinore and spoke, "In the valley of her dreams..."

The Wolf stood up and kissed LaurelRose on her soft white cheek. They had become close friends and trusted one another. Pellinore looked at the old Crone again and implored, "What is it about you? Why do I feel this way?"

LaurelRose took Pellinore's trembling hand and put it upon her heart. "Pellinore, it is the heart that sings...it is the heart that breaks...and it is the music that heals as it is brought back to the abyss of time. What is it you fear most, Pellinore?"

Her eyes softened as she looked deeply into Pellinore's eyes and the tears fell openly as he sobbed deeply. "I do not want to be alone! I was the one to come back to time! Why? Why must I live? Why must everyone I love die or leave me?"

The old Crone held up her right hand in a sign that Pellinore recognized. His heart stirred deeply. "Crone, by what name are you known? I know you from somewhere, some other place, some other time?"

The old Crone spoke in a deep whisper, "Time is but a sleep and a forgetting of our true self. Why do you desire to bring the Dark Lord back?"

Pellinore's head pounded. He was trying to remember something, as if parts of him were missing. "I need to know! I just need to know what is missing from me!" The music had stirred feelings, deeply recessed feelings and his eyes shone with a resolute light in them again. "I desire to know the truth and to bring back not only the Dark Lord but Don Quixote as well."

The old Crone smiled warmly and touched Pellinore upon his shoulder and the scene shifted once again. He was in a dark and loathsome place and was uncomfortable being there. The Wolf and LaurelRose stood looking on at Pellinore.

Pellinore looked closely at the old Crone and cried out,"What is your name? You did not tell me your name!"

The old Crone smiled and the shadows danced as a light radiated from her in the darkness. "You would not believe me if I told you my name but you may call me 'Mother of Many'."

Pellinore felt somehow comforted by her words. He saw the Wolf smiling as he heard Pellinore ask the old Crone, "Do you mind if I shorten it to M.O.M.?"

The Old Crone laughed delighted at his question and imploring eyes. "Mom it is then!" Pellinore felt a warmth and light go through him that he had not felt in a very long time. A smile formed on his face and he forgot how forboding the place they were now in had felt.

The Wolf spoke aloud and voiced his concerns, "Crone, don't mean to cut you off but I am getting this feeling again." He took LaurelRose by her hand and started to lead her through the darkness and Pellinore hesitated a moment looking at 'Mom' for reassurance then followed the Wolf's lead.

Halt! commanded the Sentry and placed his musket primed and at the ready, the polished bayonet reflecting the brightness of a half moon.

"1st Lieutenant Wolf-Tone McWilliam, 1st Sergeant Pellas Stoutlance, Madam Maulestree, a seer from New Orleans, and the lady Hattie Mae Crook, betroth to your commander Dr. William Jere Crook, Major, Field and Staff, who now commands as a brevet Colonel the combine 13th and 154th Tennessee Senior Infantries.

"Well, that's mighty high sounding." said the guard, spitting tobacco into the dry leaves beneath him... "I can tell by your high speech that you are both Southron and Aristocrats...but it seems to me that that very kind got us into this hard forsaken mess, with weavels in my biscuits, chicory for coffee, and a Union minnie ball for my reward...never the less, I've never dishonored a Lady of the South, and I won't shame my poor mother by doing so now. Keep your arms in their place and I'll take you to Major Jere."

The small band following the picket about a half a mile through a wooded and mountainous part of the southern blue Ridge that extends towards Atlanta. Upon comming to the camp the picket entered the headquarters of the Major cum Commander and announced his visitors.

"Hattie, he rushed and swept the tiny strawberry blonde off her feet in a made rush and whirl of skirts, burying his goatee in the soft sweet smelling folds of her hair and throat, and then gazing deeply into the stormy blue eyes that were the center piece of her beauty. Forgetting himself and seeing other company, which he knew, the Major then became more formal, every bit the old Southron Planter cum Aristocrat.

"My Madame Maluana Mistree...my greetings and compliments, what brings you from the great city of New Orleans into this dire battlefield?"

"The Madam Seer responded, "That beast, Butler, has condemned any woman who will not bed nor greet a Yankee, as a woman of ill repute and prosecutes her as such, not regarding the rules of gentility. In truth, I rather bed a thousand rebels as a harlot with no pay as to have my hand touched by one of those Northern devils."

Lt. Wolf-tone McWilliams has been convelescing in Baton Rouge, after a Federal patrol made its way from Tennessee into the heart of Louisiana, doing railway damage, and was kind enough to escourt us. Hattie left Greenville SC and came to New Orleans to visit, as the Yankess have taken all off the area around Columbia and Spartanburg. All her brothers and cousins are in Confederate Service and there is no one to protect the ladies than the slaves. They've done well, but no telling how things will turn when the yankees offer them freedom, forty acres, and a mule."

"Well, glad I am to see you, and can make proper accomodations. You've just missed the worst...they replaced Uncle Joe Johnston with Gen. John Bell Hood of Texas...a brave man, but he lost an arm and leg at Gettysburg, and is not fully right upstairs. I had to lead my combined regiments of 1,200 men again a Union Brigade of 12,000 in open field...it didn't go well, and we retreated into Atlanta proper and burned our supplies there, to keep them from falling into federal hands."

Gwydion’s eyes opened quickly and he looked about. He was lying on his back in his bed and remembering the strange dreams he had been having. It had all been so real. Why did he always awaken just as he was becoming close to a woman? He looked about the room of his old southern plantation home. He was seventh generation and last living male descendent of a very old family line who had a very profound and colorful history.

Gwydion had always felt unseen others with him and strange things often occured but he did not understand it. He remembered the family portrait he had scanned to send to a friend he had met one night at Tir. She had described his great, great great grandmother to him as they chatted and had asked him why this woman had been so sad in her life.

Gwydion was curious as she described her interest in Genealogy and why she had even chatted with him in the first place. He pondered how the picture he scanned had shown the distinct image of a man in a white shirt and tie behind the family in the portrait. He sent it to his friend and she saw others, two generations clearly and the further the generations went back, the fainter they became. She had printed the photo, circled and labeled the other people, then scanned it to send back. The images of the past generations were not there!

He looked about the darkened room and sighed deeply. He tried to push the feelings down that kept trying to surface. He closed his eyes again and saw her. “Mom?” he asked. “Mom, what is happening to me?” He was once again with the old Crone who had told him her name was ‘Mother of Many’. She looked into his eyes and he felt comforted once again. “What is going on with me? Why do I keep having such crazy dreams? Are you real?”

The old Crone spoke to Gwydion, “Yes, I am very real. I have visited you many times and you keep pushing away the very things that you truly want in your heart. Why did you escape into the past? Don’t you see that you are meant to live in present time, the NOW?”

“But, I just can’t deal with my life right now,” he stammered. “It is too hard... too full of disappointments and pain. What else is there to do?”

“Haven’t you noticed you continue to experience the same things over and over? I will give you some insights that may change the entire course of your life if you choose to accept them.”

“Why do you say I escape into the past? Isn’t it good to know about my family and what happened to them? Aren’t they all a part of who I am?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But you are not understanding one thing. You will never heal your heart or the mistakes of past generations if you do not remain in present time fully integrated. What happens is you continue to return to past hurts and you relive them over and over and instead of releasing the pain, it intensifies.”

“How is that so?” Gwydion asked. “What do you mean remain in present time?”

The old Crone smiled deeply and replied, “Present time NOW is the only condition upon which you can make choices and regain your control from others. Some live in the past controlled by a domineering parent and past conditions even long after that parent has died. Does not matter how old the person, they are still allowing that control to manifest in their life.”

Gwydion fell silent and pondered the old Crone’s words. He wondered if he could stay in present time and heal as she had said he would. The old Crone spoke once again, “There is also the other condition that continues to control you and others. That of escaping into the future. Do you happen to know anyone who worries about things that have never happened and probably never will?”

Gwydion laughed to himself as she had caught him in his own practice of worrying about many things that had never happened. “So, how does that kind of escape control one?” he asked.

“Well, it diverts much needed time and energy that could be used productively in present time. Also, people always try to fulfill the very things they project. If something is in the past, nothing can change what has happened. The future is always the future. You can never determine the future as your day to day life is always present day happenings. The problem lies in one trying to fulfill their own desires without allowing things to happen. That does not mean you do nothing as it would be pointless to wait to harvest without first planting the seeds. Things must be done in their own season, according to natural laws or one will always remain miserable and very uncontent with his life.”

Gwydion smiled at the thought. He had been the one making choices to be miserable and lonely. He had been the one who had tried to harvest without even sowing the seeds and allowing ‘time’ to determine the harvest. His heart took on new hope with this one thought. He could admire the family he was from but he did not need to make the mistakes of the past.

The old Crone posed a question, “Why did you call up the Madam seer, Malauna Mistree with the others? Is there something bothering you about this character?”

“Well, yes...she made me very angry because she kept bringing up issues that were too painful! But there was something about what she shared that touched my heart deeply. I thought she was a liar and wanted nothing more to do with her but then I got one of her packages that she sends all over the world to people who are hurting.”

“What did she share with you?” the old Crone asked.

Gwydion’s eyes clouded and in a choked voice he said, “She shared her love of life, her love of her fellowman, her love of God with me. She shared why she was different. And she shared the music...music that is always from her heart.”

“And has she helped you?” the old Crone asked.

“Yes...she is always there for me when no one else is. She continues to offer her unconditional love and understanding when no one else will. She’s honest! And, I know she has touched many others in the same way. She has nothing to gain from what she does. In fact, she is most often hated and despised because of her honesty.”

“Now may I tell you some things about Malauna Mistree that she shares with very few people?” asked the old Crone. Gwydion nodded his head yes as he felt a lump forming in his throat. “Malauna Mistree has been very ill for the past three years. She knows she could leave this life and be in a much better place that very few will ever comprehend. She loves those like you so much that she is willing to forget the pain and suffering she endures each day to try to bring joy and happiness to others and lift their burdens and hearts.”

Tears trickled down Gwydion’s cheeks as the old Crone continued to speak, “She has come close to dying many times but her spirit is so valiant that she wills herself to live. It has not been easy for her, especially when others do not even try to understand what she is going through. She did once die but was asked to come back for two years. She knew then that she had permanent damage to all of her vital organs and that weakness would actually be her greatest strength. She was shown how many lives she had touched and how far reaching it went throughout the eternities. Each person has that opportunity in his or her own life to effect change in this world for much good or much evil.”

Gwydion wiped the tears from his eyes and asked, “Why would she want to help me? I am no one special and she singled me out to help me?”

“That is because she knows you from another existence before time and she knows your heart. She knows the magnitude of your being, that you are important to the outcome of many lives, even those ancestors who have gone on before. You must also know that she looks forward to the day when she will again make a choice whether to stay or leave this existence behind forever. The time grows short as she strives to complete her music and stories for others.”

Gwydion’s heart was breaking as he continued to listen to the old Crone. “She nearly lost her life again just a few short weeks ago. She was between realms for three weeks trying to decide whether or not to stay. She lost her child that she carried. She wanted very much to hold this baby in her arms and she loves to give life rather than take away life. It was a very hard choice for her to make as her heart always grieves deeply when she returns to mortality. It was decided by those in higher realms that she should live and continue to bless the lives of many with her presence.” Gwydion had not realized that she had sacrificed so much to put others before herself.

“What drew her back?” Gwydion asked. “Why would she want to continue living? There have been many times when I, myself, have wanted to be the one to die. Why? Why come back to the pain and heartache?”

“Because there are many who love her, one man in particular who has been a continual strength to her. She appreciates the love and encouragement others offer her when she becomes so beaten down. The physical suffering is nothing compared to the pain inflicted by other’s who have judged her wrongly. They, like you, have accused her of lying and other things, but she continues to love them no matter what they do or say. You have seen this in your own experience with her.”

“Yes, I have,” Gwydion drew a deep breath. “What can I do for her? How can I help her?”

“You can go on to be the best person you can be. You can go on to emulate the good things you see in her to many others. You can learn to forgive as well as allowing others to determine their own path in life. You can simply be the person she has always known. This would give her heart much comfort as she deals with the things taking place in her life presently.”

“How much longer does she have?” Gwydion asked.

“She knows the time set for her official release but she has told very few the actual date. She does not want others holding her here. It has to be her choice alone to stay if that is what she decides. Alot of what she sees happening now will determine her choice. To be honest with you, she is struggling even now to stay. She is putting things in order once again in her life and trying to make things right with those who have distanced themself from her. That is why I am here with you. She wants others to know the truth about her.”

Gwydion awoke in his bed once more, tears streaming down his face, pillow wet. The kits climbed up by him as if to comfort his heart. He did not want to believe what he had been shown. He wanted to deny that she really would leave him so fully. The deep grief he had shoved down for so long began to release with the cleansing tears. His heart ached and he wanted her to remain. Her love was different than any he had ever felt in his life. It was a pure, unselfish love made of giving and sharing. It was like the song he had heard LaurelRose singing in his dreams. Gwydion buried his face in his pillow and cried himself to sleep.

Pellinore looked at the lass "Will you add us, whether the Dark Lord arises from his slumber or not, I am bound to the Quest."

Laurelrose looked contemplatively at Pellinore "Why has it taken 12 centuries to make it to this point, the bubble pipe has never been hidden."

"Ahhh" moaned Pellinore, "I spake not to the Dark Lord, but before the crystal shattered that led our way I saw my sire's mother-in-law. She has been our advesary and kept it hid...I was forced into unconciousness to keep the Dark Lord from seeking her out. She attacked us again in the mysts, leaving us here, but these winsome kits transformed and battled on our behave."

"Why does she hate him so, being his kith and kin?" inquired the lass.

"There was a great battle between the grey ones and the blue ones with yellow bellies at a place named Aetlanta. The grey ones retreated, always winning the battle, but finally losing the war. The blue ones burned everything in site a hundred miles breadth until they reached the great sea that led to the other Aetlantis once upon a time."

"When the Dark Lord, then a MaJor among the grey ones returned home, his woman had taken her life, thinking him lost among the slain....her mother was a great priestess of the old religion, she blamed the dark lord and sent him away from his home to my time. There he learned every art possible to gain himself back to his own time, perhaps even before the failing of his wife. At one time, even, both Avalon and Camelot were betrayed by his choice to return home. Now we have passed that era some hundred of years...he watches his descendants in the great hall Crookland, still suffering under the curse of the mad woman."

Crookland stirred, the moon was quartering towards full and the kitten and mother were rested about him. The strangers and the lass and dear Pellinore were sleeping nearby.

He looked down at himself, shocked but not shocked by the old woolen cloak of the Merlin. He did not know in what manner he would be dressed, in the grey wool and french blue cuffs of the Confederate Infantry, or in gossamer robes resting in a garden of a wonderful city.

"Jumping Jupiters....I going to have the leave the gin behind this time :( " Pulling one of the kits closer, the Dark Lord returned to his slumber.

The Dark Lord awoke with the others breaking fast. "Pardon my slumber, it has been a rather rocky trip," Crookland smiled shyly. "I see by your faces that Pelly hasn't stolen your pipe, and that you have come to some sort of agreement."

The Lord Wolf spoke gravely "We do not discuss business during our repast...of that we will speak later...come now and refresh yourself." Crookland took a seat at the stone table, making every effort to look comfortable, but clearly blushing each time the Lady LaurelRose spoke or moved.

"Sire," began Pellinore, "The rider on the leathern thing...I believe it was Lady Yodwin."

Crookland winced at the name of the highpriestess.

"No need to look so harried Lord Crookland," said the Crone. "I've believe, from what Pellinore has told me, and from what I have gathered, that the serpent torque and your kits have put an end to that discomfort."

"It grieves me either way," Crookland said. "She was once a grand dame and gave birth to my one love." Crookland blushed again, not only noticing the resemblance of Lady LaurelRose to Igraine and to Arthur, but having dreamed of his last time in this world, how very much she looked like his dear Hattie."

"By your leave, master Wolf, please ease my sire's evident curiousity and lay out our plan for the Quest."

The Lord Wolf pushed aside his plate, poured some sand onto the stone table top, and began to map.

With the plans laid out, Lord Wolf and his fey ministrels began to sing:

"Come all ye young rebels, and list' while I sing, for the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame, and makes all part of the Patriot Game."
"My name is O'Conlin, I am turned sixteen,
My home is in Monahan, where there I was weened.
I learned all me life long cruel England to blame,
So am now a part of the Patriot Game."
"It's been twenty years now, since I wandered away, with the local battlion of the bold IRA,
So I laid down me bible to drill and to train, and take my own part in the Patriot Game."
"I lie here now broken, my body all old, and
think of those traitors who bargained and sold...
I wish that me rifle had given the same, to those
skiddlings who sold out the Patriot Game."

The small troupe laughed at the ditty and called for another. Lord Wolf began one which included a verse "...and she had a wooden leg, it was hollow down the middle....she tied it with a string and she played it like a fiddle. She played it in the hall...she played it in the alley way...she didn't give a damn, she had to play it any way...with a ringa dinga dong, a ringa dinga daddio, a ringa dinga dong rattin fair the daddio." "And she wouldn't go to bed, unless she had her chaimmy on; but when she on, she would go as quick as anyone, with a ringa dinga dong, a ringa dinga daddiyo..."

All the fey folk in tears and unable to play due to their mirth, Lord Wolf turned to a mournful Scots tune....

"Sound the peabrauch loud and high...
Pray John O'Groat's to the Isle of Skye...
Let all your clans, with battle cry, Rise and follow Charlie!"
"Hauchem faum faum faum, Hauchem faum faum faum, Hauchem faum faum faum....Rise and follow Charlie!"

"By dark locked shields they make their stand;
That small, devoted Highland band...they swore to fight, with heart and hand, and follow their royal Charlie."

"By dark Culloden's field of gore...hark how they cry, Claymore, Claymore....bravely they fight, can they do more? than fight for royal Charlie?"

"No more we'll see such deeds again....deserted now each highland glenn....and lonely cairns are o'er the land...that fought and died for Charlie"

"Hauchem faum faum faum, Hauchem faum faum faum, Hauchem faum faum faum....Rise and follow Charlie!


Pellinore's eyes, once grey now brown, filled with tears...remembering how the Companions of the Round Table had disembarked from their ships in full armor; King Lot's northmen sounding their plaintive bagpipes, urging the war horses forward into death's sure embrace. He remembered Arthur's white steed surrounded by a dozen Danes welding battle axes; Excalibur shining in the northron sun cutting through both steel and sinew, Gawaine, Gaweth, and Galahad punching through the lines to cover their fallen master...Excalibur rising from the ground, cover with the blood of a noble steed, Arthur's legs traped beneath its dying body...the Danes...the Danes...pushing closer... the three nephew's struggling like titans to cross the sea of steel and leather to ward their fallen king....

The Merlin, realizing all was lost, Danes and Northmen falling from every hill and crevice upon the host, sending out a ward to slow them, but being met, strength by strength by the striking wards of Morgana and Mordred....the Pendragon's banner falling, fluttering to the ground like a giant red and gold sheet....

Pellinore gasped as he came out of his trance, his heart nearly stopping with the disaster still burned into his heart and mind...the cold chill of the Dragon's Breath as the Merlin congealed it around both armies, freezing friend and foe----Quixote, Crookland, and himself being flung free, landing on the sharp frozen craigs of the fjord with nothing left but the Merlin's staff, his cloak, and a strange golden serpent torque...."how long, how long!" he gasped, struggling for breath. Lord Wolf stopped the merriment and the Crone rushed to Pellinore's aid.

His eyes glazing, maddened by the memories of his heart and muscle, he gasped again "How long...how long have we been here...here, here? Q! Master! How long?!?"

Coming back to some sense of reality, the Crone further eased him with a draught from a leathern bag. "I know not, Dark Lord, what the pair of you have endured for the last 12 centuries, but it must soon come to an end. Don Quixote, in the end, may be the fortunate one of your former trio...what do you propose? Well, only the Goddess knows what will be, but I say to you now, let the past be the past...let it be..the future turned out not all so dim as you all have imagined."

The Dark Lord Crookland looked down towards his feet, the four kits climbing into his lap whilst the mother lay at his feet. "What will be, will be, Mother, but the mantle has lain on our shoulders too long to ignore the Quest. We must go."

After Lord Wolf had outlined his strategy, LaurelRose gathered the entire troupe around here and slowly began to blow the bubble pipe. A shimmering water blue bubble with different colors of the prism moved about it like oil, the bubble growing with each breath until the entourage was encovered.

The dark Lord looked at the serpent torque on the lasses arm and briefly touched it with the Merlin’s staff…the little yellow adder appeared in its place, raising it small green eyed head at Crookland.

“Little one,”the Dark Lord began, “ can you lead us to the fjord, can you guide the bubble to where we need to be?”

The little adder nodded it’s small head, then crawled down the lasses arm onto the skin of the bubble. Pressing the small head through, gentle and slowly, the adder emerged from the otherside without breaking the enclosure.

Once outside the bubble, the adder began to grow into a great snail, the bubble being drawn around it’s body like a conch, green fire danced from its now long projected green eyes on their snailish staffs and the world began to dance around them in a menagerie of sight and sound. Feeling no movement within the bubble shell, nevertheless they moved with tremendous speed, and slipped quietly into the waters of the Atlantic.

The darkened world of the undersea fascinated them, boiling points of volcanic rock streaming up from the bed in different places with great red glow and numerous bubbles. Occasionally the carcass of an old ship wreck.

They feel into a slumber after a meal of sandwiches, not daring a fire within the bubbleshell. At what they could only gather was morning they noticed that they had approached large stone walls, separated by encircling harbors, ring within ring, while a serpent path wound up to a collonaded temple. Pellinore said that it must be Aetlantis, but there were no signs of writing or glyphs from which to hazard a better guess.
Both Knight and Lord did feel their blue woad serpent tattoes begin to tingle, becoming azure blue serpents that left their arms…they too left the bubble and travelled with the adder/snail around the outermost concourse of the ancient walled harbor. As the snail left the underground city the four serpents made their way up the drowned path to the ancient temple and were lost from sight.

Near what they gathered to be evening they came to the base of a island, passing it to the base of a larger island. Lord Wolf was the first to notice as they traveled around the base of the isle that it looked like a dragon that had lain down to rest. The old Crone cackled with mirth “Aye, you have seen the resting place of the dragon, from the top of his back you know him as Great Britain, but the old ones knew they slept, married and died safe atop the arms of the Dragon. Its slow breathing in allowed the waters of the Summer Sea to come in and surround the Holy Isle, Avalon, which the Christians now call Glastonbury. In the winter, as the Dragon gathered his breath the summer waters ran off into the sea. Now the dragon breathes so slowly and so shallowly that the waters do not return and there is no more summer sea, nor do the great fogs cover the lands like they did in the olden days. “

A great tear dropping from her eye, the Crone continued, “Aye, not since what the modern folk called the Second Great War has the dragon’s breath been so thick. The continuous bombing from the germanic folk on the continent well nigh woke the dragon, and in apprehension has covered his breath. Now only those with the sacred words can call the Dragon’s Breath thickly enough to pass between worlds.”

At the mention of the mysts of holy Avalon, Lord Wolf looked up...his eyes, mild and blue, gazed across great gulphs of time, to a time even before that of King Arthur, "Rex quondam rexque futurus"...
Across many centuries, he saw the hills of ancient Ulster, and upon one such hill, the walls of great Emain Macha rose tall; Emain Macha, where Conchobar mac Nessa ruled, awaiting the maturity of fair Deirdriu...challenges and arguments instigated by the mean-spirited Bricriu...and the deeds of one man, a brave spirit named Cuchulain. He could still see the boy who had once been known as Setanta in his mind's eye, as clear as if those 20 centuries past were only yesterday.
Lord Wolf had been a great bard in those days, entertaining up and down the length and breadth of Eruinn's green isle...many lifetimes past now, that was. Forward in time, and he could see mighty Tara, as it had stood, with its great chamber of 14 doors, the ard-righ Cormac mac Airt presiding over all, and the great hero Fionn mac Cumhaill with his Fenians in court...forward again, and Tara was no more, but the great king Brian Boru ruled over all, and was successfully driving the Norsemen from Ireland's shores, only to meet his fate in his tent in a wood near the fishing weir of Clontarf on Good Friday, 1014 C.E.

Misty were Lord Wolf's eyes...he saw these places as clearly as if they had been there only yesterday, and each of these lifetimes had seen him as a bard, a magickal musician from the woods of Eruinn, great as once it had been, and as fair Albion had once been, too, in the days of Arthur and Gwynhwyfar... What, he thought, would it take to make these places great again? And what would bring the return of the Celts? For Fionn, Arthur, Cuchulain...further back, Amergin...Epona...Cernunnos...all the gods of legend and history and all the heroes... Now when Britain, Ireland, Scotland and Wales stood in need of their ancient heroes, what would insure their resurgence?
Pellinore saw Lord Wolf gazing across the mysts of time, and knew what he was thinking.

Each of the troupe was silent as the bubble/shell was borne by the greatsnailed-adder around and beyond the resting place of the Dragon. Entering the North Sea vibrations began to shake the shell, bringing each of the Questor's from their own private trance....the Dark Lord looked at Pelly and the Bard and thought oddly to himself "Those two have shared something, and not just now, but perhaps a time or two before." Crookland wondered at the origins of the Bard, and of how little he knew of Pelly's origins other than descent from old Celtic Chieftains, who at long last by shear age of their line were due the honor of kingship, dragons themselves, under the Pendragon, the High King, the Dragon's Head. Whatever their revelry, what they were all experiencing was true....the Dark Lord looked down at his arms, seeing only the pale trace of the serpent tattoes in his darkened arms from the battle with the leathern thing, the only evidence that the Serpents of Avalon, and yes, that other ancient land, had ever rested on his limbs.

He thought of Tara, how it must have been long ago when Bin Baruch, Jeremiah the Prophet, had taken the daughter of King Hezikiah of Jerusalem and wed her to the High King of Eire. Poor Hezikiah, all of his sons and heirs slain before his eyes, then blinded and carried captive to Babylon. The Old Testament recording how Jeremiah had travelled north before the seige and taken the daughters of the King out of the land, to fulfill the Lord's command that the throne of Judah would be uprooted, but brought planted and brought up in another place.

Crookland thought of the La Fa'il Stone, the Stone of Scone, the Stone of Destiny, brought by Jeremiah to Tara...the pillar which Jacob had rested his head when awakened by the vision of the Stairway to Heaven...how Jacob wrestled and overcame and received his new name of Israel; and of his taking of the pillar stone and covering it with oil and blessing it as the place where he had met God.

That stone, carried by Jacob in all his years, finally coming to Egypt when his lost son Joseph brought them all in from the famine under the ruse. The same stone, marking each passing generation, from patriarch to patriarch, from the Famine to slavery in Goshen, and the Exodus from Egypt led by Moses....men carrying the sarchophogus of Joseph to lay him in the resting place of his fathers in fulfillment of his dying vision that he should not lay forever in the sands of Egypt. And the LaFa'il Stone, Jacobs Pillar, carried to the Promised Land with the Ark of the Covenant, the Judges of the land taking their oath upon it till Samuel anointed Saul the first King. Saul breaking faith with God and replaced with the gentle David, sworn as King of Israel upon the same great stone.

God had promised David that his line would always have a heir on the throne, even till the end of days. The Kings of Tara, mingled with the blood of David's line, carrying on the Throne of Judea though all the line the Babylonian host tried their utmost to destroy. The Kingship, returned to the celtic folk, who bore in their blood the line of Joseph and his sons Ephraim and Manassah, the final dispersment and mingling of the Lost Ten Tribes now governed again by a son of David. And David's Harp on the great green flag, and on the Crest of Erinn's fabled land.

The stone moving with Irish to the lands north of England which became the Scots, their own King Davids and heirs sworn to kingship on the same stone. The robbing of the Stone of Scone by Edward Longshanks and carried to Westminster Abby and resting under the coronation chair of England. All through the centuries each King of England sworn above the stone of Jacob, the stone of Tara, the stone of Scotland...and now, in this moderned age, returning to Scotland again for the future crowning of a king.

Crookland shuddered, the ancient wheel keeps turning, he thought, everything that was will be again...the vibrations against the shell increased in their intensity. Could this be, he wondered, why the North Sea was so turbulent in these days? In his own time among the Companions of the Round Table it had been so calm that the Danes found it quite easy to sail across in their shallow draft boats and raid the coast.

Could the great battle, even frozen in mid-conflict, still be causing such commotions beneath the waves? The shell began to vibrate with a greater intensity, the kits running as one back into Pelly's leather satchel, the Crone and the Bard both looking as one at the bubble/shell and reaching out their hands....they seemed to lend strength to the bubble walls, shimmers like oil on water skimming from their hands across the surface of the bubble, a prism of color and power.

The lass, Laurelrose sat at the feet of the Bard, her hand resting lightly on one of his tight fitting doeskin boots....calm and undisturbed, as if she knew the power of the world rested underneath her hand in the doeskinned boot.

The strength of the Crone and the Bard stabilized the bubble/shell, the vibrations still causing a queasy rippling effect, but no longer with the danger of bursting. Energy built up into the bubble wall gave one or the other a chance to rest throughout what they thought was probably night, but always requiring at least once of them to remain in physical contact. Pelly slept fitfully, the closer they came to the fjord the more reoccurring of his memory of the conflict, finally going into a slumber that transported back to the scene of battle.

Pelly relived the last moments of the fight. Lot’s sons had reached Arthur, forming a barricade around him until he could regain his balance on the area still slick with blood. Excalibur had wrecked fearful damage among the Danes, their footing precarious with slain and hacked limbs. Pelly reached Lord Arthur and Lot’s four sons. Moving quickly with the instinct borne of battlewise experience they formed three pairs, back to back, and slowly moved to where the footing was less precarious and atop a slight knoll. The Companions of the Round Table were renewed with vigor upon espying their monarch, the blinding flash of Excalibur moving light and effortlessly through the huge hulks of the Danish footmen. On the old Roman flag-ship of Marcus Aurealanus, the first Dux Bellorum of Briton, the Merlin wielded his power against both Morgana and Mordred who were casting strength into their overwhelming ambush of Camelot’s host. Crookland guarded the plank against the swirling mass of men, both Dane and Briton, to give the Merlin room to cast.

Crookland’s blade was light, but neatly severed both spear and long sword alike. Though a smaller version of the Danish sword, the temper of the blade was much greater, giving it greater edge against the softer rough steel of the 5th Century. There was no magic involved with his blade, but simply the superior steel working of the American South’s antebellum period. Elected as Captain of Company I, the "Forked-Deer Volunteers” of Tennessee’s 13th Confederate Infantry, Crookland had rushed into the Tyler’s station at the Mifflin Masonic Temple and grabbed the blade ceremonially used to ward ‘cowans and eaves-droppers,’ having no idea that he would ever use it for anything other than pointing a direction for his company to advance. Honed from the dull edge of the ceremonial use, the old masonic double-edged cross hilt sword never-the-less sharpened to a fine edge. The lightness, however, sent shock after shock through his wrist and arm against the heavier, but softer Danish blades. Crookland and the gang-plank both were drenched in blood, but the tilted slick surface gave the former Confederate officer a slight advantage against the attackers.

Pelly faced the flag-ship, watching the Merlin of All Britain and his apprentice. Though he loved the Dark Lord dearly, Pelly still regretted the ill-fated day that the Dark Lord had slain Lancelot. Though it settled the rising conflict among the Companions of the Table and ended the affair that the Lord Arthur had chosen to ignore, the Queen’s Champion was sorely needed this day. No one had the heart to take the Queen’s life or banish her from the city after seeing Arthur cradle Lance’s dying body in his arms. The Pendragon had lept from the stands upon seeing the killing blow. Crookland had stood with his head down in shame and sorrow with Lance’s blood on his blade. Arthur wept, and Lancelot’s last movement was to raise his lips to his monarch’s, and there he died. Knights who had once either openly or in secret had made accusations against the Queen and her Champion now stood silent. Even Mordred could take no delight in the end of the confrontation, merely walking through his former supporters and leaving for the continent, using his old connections amongst the Angles, Danes, and Saxons to raise the force the Pelly would see falling on the Companions of the Round Table like a sheet of hail. Though horribly outnumbered, every man and child of Briton large enough to raise a spear or a sword had followed the Pendragon into Danelaw and Kent, driving Viking and Saxon alike from the shores of Britain. Arthur, knowing that the battle must still be fought as long as Mordred could rally an army chose to take the carnage to the shore of the Dane and spare the Dragon further wounds. The old Roman galley that was his flag-ship rowed easily across the still waters of the North Channel, which would be the turbulent and treacherous North Sea of later centuries.

At Lance’s death, Morgan, with that old touch of hers, and her own heart bursting for her cousin, had taken the Queen’s hand to comfort her…using the craft to ease the Queen’s distress to a numbness. She did not know what power had sent the stranger to Camelot’s gates some fifteen years past, but she rued the day that Crookland had entered the college of Druids. Wary then, she knew now that things had somehow changed…she could not tell whether the change was for good or ill for the Dragon, but she sensed that the stream of time had now shifted to a different course. Morgan sent silent prayer to the Goddess, knowing that no matter what course a stream takes that it always runs to the sea and in same fashion the river of Time and the Will of the Goddess also passed.

Pelly watched as sheets of ice broke from the craigs of the fjord, splashing with deafening roars into the water. The conflict between the High Druid and the High Priestess was causing a great stress in the earth, the tone of the magic against magic making the hair on the arms of both friend and foe alike to rise, and an increasing hum began to overcome part of the noise of battle. The ground buckled and shook, and the remants of the King’s invasion were slowly gathering around the small mound where the Dragon Banner had been planted.

Cold air rushed in whirlwinds against hot blasts, creating pockets of fog, the Danes hemming in the host of Briton into a smaller area, cries of triumph and blood lust in their eyes they renewed their assault against the Companions with madness of a beserker.

Stone and ice were popping and chipping sending shards into both armies and ripping the rigging of Arthur’s battle fleet into shreds. Pelly saw Crookland look back at the Merlin in dismay as the old Druid began to undress. The Merlin was ancient, his grey hair and beard were always noticeably long and now trailed about him like banners. Even the hair about his manhood trailed about his knees in flutters and the ancient blue serpents tattoed on his forearms began to glow. The sight of the ancient one, fully bare against the blast, his arms outstretched in beckoning, the staff sending out slow blue tongues of flame from both head and heel…..Pelly began to feel dread creeping into his stomach as he recognized what he knew must be the Words of Power. Crookland had deserted the gang plank, footmen tearing at his robes and armor as he threw himself around his master’s feet, looking up at the Ancient Bard with tears of dispair in his eyes.

The Dragon….the Merlin was calling to the Dragon to awake, calling the Dragon’s breathe to travel a hundred miles across the sea to a strange land, and letting go of his casting that had warmed the Companions of the Table. Mordred smiled, increasing his call for the cold North winds of Danemark to discomfort his father’s host. But Morgan wasn’t smiling and began to pull at her son through the increasing blast of the artic air. Mordred, consumed in victory, his armies pressed nearly upon the Dragon Banner itself, howled in triumph. The Danes, overcome with blood lust were killing not only the host of Britain but anyone within sword or spear reach. They closed on the Table’s host like wolves, crying out in their Nordic tongue to Odin and Thor, calling for the Valkaries to carry their slain comrades to the Halls of Valhalla. No one among them but Morgan seeing what lay ahead.

From the east rolled in a heavy fog, the Merlin had brought the Dragon’s Breathe across the Sea and now both armies swirled in blindness to the mysts. The air was so thick with the cold fog that Pelly felt like he was drowning. The Danes were undaunted….they did not have to see to know that the host of Britain lay uphill, and upwards they pressed, howling and barking in their gutteral tongue.

Crookland had turned back against the Danes, driving them from the gangplank in the fog….he did not need to see to know that any flesh that his sword bit belonged to the enemy.

Before Morgan was obscured from Pelly’s sight, he saw her remove the golden serpent torque of Avalon, the badge of her office of High Priestess of the Holy Isle, and saw her toss it to the direction of the Merlin.

Pelly was gagging, the cold fog had turned into a cold rain that was so thick that water was sucked into the lungs of anyone who tried to breathe, the ground still bucking and shaking, shards of ice and rock cutting painfully through numbed and wet flesh. And cold…so damned cold… ice on his sword, ice on his armor, ice encrusting his eyelashes and beard…..only Excalibur glowed with enough heat to send the torrent steaming away from it. Arthur sluggish, sending the blade cutting vertically through the steel helmeted figure within reach and grasping the shaft of the Dragon Banner when the world suddenly exploded. Aura’s around the torque and the Merlin’s staff prevented them from coming in contact, but the subsequent blast gave the Merlin the one moment he needed.

Realizing that the conflict was rending not only earth, but the very fabric of time itself, Taliesin took the only course that avoided the total destruction of the earth. In the moment of the blast he lent his own power to that of Mordred’s and frost giants tumbled on them out of the north.

Pelly gasped for breath, his armor bent inwards against his back when landing on bare rock, constricting his chest. His comrade, Don Quixote, from De la Mancha, stumbled across him and cut the leather retaining straps with his dagger. Below them lay the Dark Lord Crookland, tears running down the black dirt caking his face and hair….the cloak and staff of the Merlin lying at his feet and Morgana’s torque in his hand.

Below them, where there were once armies and the fleet of all Britain in a fjord, was now a glacier….The Merlin had sealed both armies as the thickened watery breath of the dragon had turned to ice beneath the blast of Arctic wind.

Pelly woke inside the bubble/shell, disoriented and in a cold sweat…they were no longer beneath the sea, but sitting still at the bottom of a frozen ledge. Two hundred feet above them Pelly could still see in mind’s eye where the trio had landed twelve centuries earlier. The Quest had arrived.

A rare trip to venture into the realms of Muse. But, strange it seems that the writings of this one follow in rhyme and reason with those of another that I once upon a time have read. T'was the words of a Lass one who knows of Mystery and Love, among many things. I wonder to myself could this be the same, but know that I most likely wonder in vain for if it be, would never say her name.

The bubble/shell burst, and the snail returned to a small yellow adder, which prompt returned to Laurelrose, snuggling fitly about her upper arm and was once again merely a golden torque.

The travellers made their way slowly to the top of the ledge...to be greated by nothing less astounding than a multicolored pavilion, mounds of food on long tables and a knight cheerfully playing with a bevy of pleasant Harem girls.

"Q!!" the dark Lord shouted and begain to step further, only to have his arm caught by King Pellinore. "Sire, it cannot be Q."

"Why, Pelly, you've been brought from death's door often enough, why doubt now?"

"Tis clear, sire, that yon esquire is not Don Quixote De la Mancha....his armor isn't rusted." And at that Pellinore sat on a rocky craig and placed a wicked looking shaft into his crossbox.

The vision disppeared just as the arrow was nocked into firing position. The troupe could see areas of the ice that were nearly bulging with blue and red hues, and snap and crackle escaping, reminding the two original Questors where their lord and king must stand, and also that of the Merlin.

Going over to where the Merlin must be standing, the troupe took turns hacking away the ice...6 ft, 10 ft, 12 ft....

"My graces, sire, we'll never dig long enough to free the Merlin at this rate," doomed Pellinore.

"Ay, you are correct," said the dark Lord as he began pounding the ice with the Merlin's staff. Huge chuncks were blown out, and the ground began to hum and shake again with each blow growing stronger.

The bard, crone, and knight, wretched Crookland away from the hole, the power still huming but beginning to disapate.

"You disturbed the wards that lie here dark one; to free your companions in this manner would simple free the others as well, with both the land and sky torn to sheds in the process."

"You make sense,Lord Wolf, I was carried away, in my own despair to make things right, I would have made them worse...nay, even wrought the destruction of time itself. Methinks,"mused the dark Lord "that we have made this quest for nothing."

Pellinore, with tears deep in his eyes now turned to Crookland and spake "You've forgotten the lass...she brought use across oceans and continents in a day, an afternoon, and an evening."

"Perhaps that is the answer, Pelly. Lady Laurelrose, with you attempt to bubble my comrades from their tomb...the Merlin first, if you please?"

Sitting near the approximate stance of the Ancient Merlin, she began to blow a blueish bubble. The bard strummed upon his lap harp, which seemed to lend its energies to the bubble. Before long, naked and blue, stood Taliesin, Merlin of all Britain.

Crookland handed his master both is cloak and staff. "Well met, but what is your plan, even should we free the others?'"

"Why" began the dark Lord, "we go back before the battle starts and take their ambush to our advantage!"

"ahhh, my dear gentle one, you would break even time itself to save your friends and go home...but what has happened has happened and cannot be change," chidded the Merlin of all Britain to his former apprentice.

Both Pellinore and Crookland feel to the ground in tears, twelve centuries of struggle, just to have the law of time interdict between them. Meanwhile, the bard and the lass, along with a now restrengthened Merlin, began pulling out the suvivors of the Round Table. 380 of the some 9,000 that made the trip survived to be brought to the surface, among them the King and the sons of Lothian that stood with them.

Excalibur vibrated at the nearness of the other powers. The reunited group sat at meat that night, a large bon fire raise, and mused over their alternatives.

It was finally decided that the lass would re-create Camelot within one of her bubbles, where the host of the Round Table at least would feel at home during the rest of their natural lives. The lass would provide them women, green grass,servants, and an abundance of food for them, till the last were gone, or perhaps called, for some other great battle for Eire and Britain.

Arthur looked down at the dark lord as the bubble began to rise "Will you not join us, you have earned your keep" smiled the winsome king. But Crookland merely shook his head.

"My lady," began the dark lord, you cannot return me even to my own time which is much closer than their's."

Smiling shyly, the lass spoke "What is it that you most desire??" Crookland began to talk of the red clay and sandy hills of home, of dark oaks and hickories, and of dark figures singing sweetly and plaintively while harvesting the rich white field of cotton like so much snow...

Crookland was already in the bubble, walking down the dirt lane that ran through Middlefork Village Proper and in front of Crookland Hall. There, standing upon the stairs of the great porch was his beloved Hattie.....

Crookland looked at the gray woolen sleaves of his officers coat, neatly iron and pressed, but something mocked his memory of the wool....it once being brown and heady and threaded with many designs---he shrugged off the feeling, probably left during the delirium of recovery and wrapped his arms around his darling Hattie. The End.