Nimueh's Gift

You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. These are the memories and melodies gathered from a lifelong sojourn on the path of the questing soul.

A sprig of mistletoe for the druid, and the potions begin to boil. So they gather for the weaving of spells, and when they leave it is as it was before. When they leave not a soul can tell.

'Tis all vainglory and stymied dreams Where Will-o'-the Wisp dances and gleams. When her charm upon the lost rings true The bogs and fens will have their due.

Goodly brave young Robin May you shoot your arrows straight and true. For if you do, when all is through A Kingly reward shall be given to you.

Flitting, fleeting, furtive to the light. Darkness is their domain, the endless claim of night.

These be gardes of lordes, pycked and seelected men of great and mightie bodies, crewell without compassion. The greatest force of the battell consisteth in them, chosinge rather to dye then to yeelde, so that when yt cometh to handy blowes they are quickly slayne or win the feilde.

All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one's hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e'en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat; anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsey that lay beside him.

In the waters below she reigns, That effulgent judge of souls. The sword she bestows Shall cast down its foes And bring Heaven's decrees to light.

Enlightenment comes glittering, Eternal in its transience And mercurial in its reign. Enlightenment flits by Never twice the same.

Come now my fellows, And make thine greatest haste! We ride to adventure, triumph, and ruin We set gleaming Avalon in our sights!

Down the dusty road he walks, winged helmet light in hand. In the warm dawn light he strides past the bard's lofty home and through the gates beyond. As he draws near, above the birdsong begins to rise the faint and contented whistling of the Menhir carver, punctuated by the judicious strikes of his chisel. A tune that went something like this...

So you seek the coveted Orb of Zot? Then submit to the power of Zin and purify yourself... submit to Zin and ascend. For only those pure in both body and mind may climb to such perilous heights, and delve to such Stygian depths.

No, I seek no battle, I assure you truly: Those about me in this hall are but beardless children. If I were locked in my armour on a great horse, No one here could match me with their feeble powers. Therefore, I ask of the court a Christmas game...