A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 2

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 2)

 “Why dost thou desire truth?” the voice asked again.

“To give justice to a fellow pilgrim,” Oliver replied thinking of the old gypsy whose name he didn’t even know.

“How didst thou come to be here?” queried the voice once more.

“By following a map given me by that same pilgrim.” He pulled out and unrolled it from where he had hidden it beneath his jerkin. Turning around, Oliver showed it to the entire area, not knowing where the speaker stood.

“Very well,” said the voice. “Approach me.”

“Where art thou?” the knight asked in turn.

“I stand before thee, sir knight.”

Oliver looked before him and still saw only the Sentinel stone and the misty avenue. But it had changed. The mist or fog had, if anything, become thicker now seeming opaque. If there had been any hope of seeing anything before, it was gone.

However, the most striking change was the Sentinel. Where once stood a large boulder was now a flesh-and-bone man, tall and broad-shouldered. In all appearance, he resembled the rock from which he came. His mantle and raiment were blue-gray, the collars of which were greenish-gray like the moss that had encrusted the stone. Gray hair spilled from his head to his shoulders and his silver beard reached the center of his full chest. At his side sat a large black blade.

In moments, the knight took in this whole scene. His heart beat faster at the sight of his questioner but bravely strode toward him nonetheless, his gait and manner not betraying his growing trepidation. He could not imagine what this man wanted with him. Certainly, he had asked some peculiar questions but the knight could not determine whether the man meant him good or ill. All too soon, the two stood face to face.

A silence fell upon them both. Wind passed through the trees, whistling. Still the two remained silent. Tension rose ever so slowly as the knight tried to grapple in his mind the purposes of the man before him.

Suddenly, the Sentinel reached for his sword and swung it at Oliver. Caught in the web of his thoughts, the knight barely had time to react. Drawing his sword, he parried the Sentinel’s blow. The zing of their exchange resounded through the forest. Capell trotted nervously, adding his worried whiny to the air. But the two combatants remained locked, neither releasing his blade’s pressure upon the other. Once more the tension and silence rose together.

Oliver was more confused than ever. What had he done to make the man strike at him so? Had he done something wrong? Or not said the right thing? Perspiration beaded on his forehead from the effort exerted by both his body and mind. The strain in his muscles echoed those of his brain. No matter what combination of situations, answers and responses he thought of, the knight could make no sense of his opponent’s actions.

Again, without any warning, the Sentinel pulled out of their lock and swung once more. Staggering forward for not having anticipated the release, Oliver just barely knocked away the stroke lowered at him. Then the blows kept coming, giving him barely any time to think. With each encounter, the knight tried to understand the reason of his opponent’s attacks. But the more his mind rushed to find an answer, the faster came the blows.

Finally, he gave up trying to understand. His mind could no longer take the strain to which it had been subjected. Every idea, both reasonable and ludicrous, had been explored and to no avail. Even if he had tried, Oliver’s mind would have balked at thinking of his present situation any more. As his mind wearied, so did his body. Somehow, as his mind had raced, the battle grew more intense. The Sentinel seemed to grow stronger with every stroke while at each same blow, energy was sapped from the knight. At last, he could take it no longer.

“Holy Father, deliver me, thy servant!” Oliver cried aloud. With no more strength, he fell to his knees at his opponent’s feet.

The Sentinel held his blade aloft in preparation of giving the final blow. But he stayed his own hand. So they stood, one man standing and the other kneeling. Then, just as unpredictable as his first onslaught, the Sentinel withdrew from his fallen opponent. Sheathing his sword, he reached out his hand to the knight.

“Rise, sir knight,” he commanded. “Thou hast passed the test.”

Ready to accept death, Oliver was confused to hear the Sentinel address him so. Looking up into his opponent’s face, he was surprised to see a small smile creasing the weather-beaten face. Something glinted pleasantly in the victor’s grey eyes. Thinking and reviewing for a moment all that he knew of the Sentinel, the knight decided to trust him. Firmly, he grasped the outstretched hand and was pulled to his feet. Looking up into the Sentinel’s eyes, Oliver saw what looked like fatherly affection.

“I do not understand, sir,” the knight said at last, this simple statement summarizing his state of mind in reference to everything he had experienced with the once-stone man.

“Dost thou remember the lines penned upon thy parchment?” ask the Sentinel.

“Trust thy faith and not thy eyes. Be thou cunning, brave and wise,” recited Oliver, unsure of how this applied or how the Sentinel had come to know of that couplet.

“What didst thou believe that meant?” the Sentinel questioned.

The knight thought for a moment. He really had not given the couplet much notice other than as an interesting side part to the more intriguing map. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the faded ink upon the matted parchment in its gentle script. Nothing about it had particularly struck him as noticeable. The lines did not seem to make much sense together but individually were words of advice, the first Scriptural and the other good cautionary sense. At last, he shook his head and looked questioningly to the Sentinel to enlighten him.

“When thou didst face me,” the Sentinel began, “thou didst try to understand my movements by thine eyes. Through observation, thou didst search for victory. Yet, the more thou didst search, the more difficult it didst become to understand. Only when thou didst cry to the Holy One of Heaven didst thy salvation come.” The speaker shook his head mournfully. “Many a knight has fallen by my hand without once thinking to call upon his Maker.” Returning from his momentary reverie, he smiled down upon the knight. “But thou, sir knight, have earned the right of passage. Hand me thy map.”

Bewildered by everything the Sentinel had been telling him, it took a moment for Oliver to realize that the man was waiting for the map from the gypsy. Retrieving it from where he’d placed it in one of the saddle-bags, the knight handed it to the Sentinel. He could not fathom what the man of stone would do with the map. There was nothing more there beyond the point of the Sentinel and the beginning of the avenue. With immense curiosity, he watched his former opponent.

The Sentinel received the parchment with the deepest solemnity and handled it with more delicacy than one might expect of a man who had once been a boulder. Turning it corner to corner, he whispered a stream of words in a strange, unheard tongue that had once been spoken at the beginning of time but now only echoed in the hearts of the trees and earth. Then he brought the paper close to his lips and blew gently. Like flaking scales, small pieces of parchment flew away and revealed some more of the map.

Oliver looked on in amazement. Never before had he seen anything so wondrous. Handed the map, he looked to see the newly exposed area. Not much had changed but there, snaking across was a milky line that the knight rightly assumed was the avenue before him. It continued for a way without turn or off-shoot, finally ending in what appeared to be a sheltered glade. Like when he had first seen this magical map, he had no idea where this glade was or what it was called. And still there lay more unmarked parchment. He looked back to the Sentinel.

“What do I do now?” the knight asked child-like.

“Thou must continue, sir knight,” answered the Sentinel kindly. “Thou hast set thyself upon a quest for another and must complete it or forfeit thy honour.”

As if summoned, the face of the old gypsy glided like a specter before his eyes. For an unknown reason, Oliver was drawn to the man’s eyes. Wrinkled and weather-beaten, the gypsy’s brown eyes reflected great care and deep sorrow. The knight’s heart cried out in sympathy and longed to comfort his former guest. Determination rekindled to renewed vigor and he felt boldness once more run through him. Folding the map, he put it beneath his jerkin against his breast. Facing the Sentinel once ore, be put forth his hand.

“I thank thee, sir. Wilt thou take my hand in brotherhood?”

“That I will, noble knight.”

The two men clasped hands and no words were spoken for a time.

“But thou must take rest with me,” the Sentinel said at length, “for there is no protection or shelter in yonder avenue. In the morning, thou mayest continue thy quest.”

Gratefully, the knight accepted the Sentinel’s gracious offer. He followed his new host to where the Sentinel had once stood as a boulder. In its place was a small alcove of young trees, amidst which was just enough space for Oliver and Capell. Entering his home for the evening, the knight immediately felt its magical effects. A sudden drowsiness fell upon him. All the strain and exertion he'd made earlier that day demanded their dues at once. Lowering himself to the ground, Oliver saw Capell already soundly asleep, his flicking tail evidence of happy dreaming. He drew close to his stead and laid to rest against its side. Never before had sleep claimed this knight as quickly as it did in the man of stone's arbour.

The Sentinel smiled and took his place before his sleeping guests to protect them from any terrors of the night. Nothing would pass him that would pose any danger to their needed rest. As he kept his vigil, the Sentinel spoke many prayers over the sleeping knight, asking the beloved Saviour, His mother, and all the saints to protect and guide the knight on his perilous quest.

The sun rose the next morning dazzlingly bright, dappling Oliver and Capell in speckles of golden light. Rubbing his eyes, the knight propped himself up on one elbow and looked into the new day. The Sentinel still stood at the entrance, steadfast as the granite from which he came. Oliver got to his feet and stood beside his benefactor.

“Good morning, sir knight,” said the Sentinel turning to smile down on him.

“Good morning, Sentinel,” Oliver answered with a smile of his own. “Hast thou watched all through the night?”

“I hold a vigil for every soul who comes to me, whether he falls beneath my blade or rests within the arbour,” explained the Sentinel.

A small red-breasted bird alighted atop the Sentinel's head, creating a comical appearance with the difference between the large stony man and the tiny gentle bird. Yet it did not seem at all inappropriate either, as if the bird was meant to be there.