- The first chapter of Gawain and the Green Knight by Stefan Emunds -
Gawain’s eyelids quiver like butterflies in a thunderstorm. His brain is on fire. “Argh!” He shakes his head but stops at once. It feels as if his brain is loose and banging against the inside of his skull. “Swyve!” He pushes his forehead against a cold rock. “What’s that noise?” Fifty yards away, a river whirls fire, water, and stones into the air. It’s a ferocious, elemental wall, ready to obliterate anything that gets too close. The deafening clamor pumps up the pain in his head. “Where am I, by God’s bones?” His tongue is a lump of hot sand, his body limp as if bled out, prostrated on a rock. He summons a prayer and rolls over. A vast, flat stone desert boasts there. On the horizon soars a violet, oval mountain of perfect proportions. Raindrops are floating in the air. Awe adulterates his agony. “This is no common land. How did I end up here?” A few meters away, a horse snorts, weary, feeble, and twisted like him. From its mouth leaks thick, green saliva. “Were we poisoned?” He worms his way to the horse and leans against it. The horse’s skin shivers and it moans with appreciation. The horse's sweat smells like urine. He pats the horse, swipes through the air and wets his hand, then his forehead. “That’s better!” He does the same for the horse. “What happened to us?” An inky fog clouds his mind. He fumbles for his memories like a blind man who lost his stick and dog. Nothing. His spirit implodes into the void of his mind. “My God, who am I?” He shakes his head again, this time he ignores the painful throbbing. “Did the poison take my memory?” He looks down at his body. It is glowing with a mysterious, amber light. “Am I a ghost? Did I die?” He pinches himself and welcomes the pain. “I think I’m alive!” He bangs his fist against his chest armor and welcomes the sound. “I’m a knight!” He trembles his lean but muscular body into an upright position. He unsheathes his sword and tries it. He appreciates his body’s gracious movements. “I’m a skilled knight!” “On what errand am I?” “Who’s my king?” “Where are the other knights?” He bangs his sword against his chest armor thrice and exclaims, “I shall not lose heart!” His will is strong, but his energies dwindle. His body trembles like a bony marionette in the wind. He drops to the ground and lets go of the sword that takes a dive into the dust. He searches through the saddle pockets. Just food and water. Nothing that could indicate his identity. A huge ax is fastened to the saddle, sharp like a razor. “The ax of a giant!” He scratches the blond stubble on his head. “What now, horse? There’s no way we get through that mad river. Let’s head for the mountain.” He rallies himself and the horse to their feet. The stone plain is flat, vast, and denies calculation. “It may take weeks to get there. Food and water are good only for a day.” The horse snorts a sigh. The night sets in, and a brisk wind puts up a fight against the two. They bow down to the breeze and tremble towards the violet mountain, gathering a thin layer of ice. The hanging rain turns into hail that clangs against Gawain’s armor. He crosses himself. “God, no doubt my life is in your hands now!”
Gawain’s eyelids quiver like butterflies in a thunderstorm.
His brain is on fire.
“Argh!”
He shakes his head but stops at once. It feels as if his brain is loose and banging against the inside of his skull.
“Swyve!”
He pushes his forehead against a cold rock.
“What’s that noise?”
Fifty yards away, a river whirls fire, water, and stones into the air. It’s a ferocious, elemental wall, ready to obliterate anything that gets too close. The deafening clamor pumps up the pain in his head.
“Where am I, by God’s bones?”
His tongue is a lump of hot sand, his body limp as if bled out, prostrated on a rock. He summons a prayer and rolls over. A vast, flat stone desert boasts there. On the horizon soars a violet, oval mountain of perfect proportions. Raindrops are floating in the air.
Awe adulterates his agony.
“This is no common land. How did I end up here?”
A few meters away, a horse snorts, weary, feeble, and twisted like him. From its mouth leaks thick, green saliva.
“Were we poisoned?”
He worms his way to the horse and leans against it. The horse’s skin shivers and it moans with appreciation. The horse's sweat smells like urine. He pats the horse, swipes through the air and wets his hand, then his forehead.
“That’s better!”
He does the same for the horse.
“What happened to us?” An inky fog clouds his mind. He fumbles for his memories like a blind man who lost his stick and dog. Nothing. His spirit implodes into the void of his mind.
“My God, who am I?” He shakes his head again, this time he ignores the painful throbbing.
“Did the poison take my memory?”
He looks down at his body. It is glowing with a mysterious, amber light. “Am I a ghost? Did I die?”
He pinches himself and welcomes the pain.
“I think I’m alive!”
He bangs his fist against his chest armor and welcomes the sound. “I’m a knight!”
He trembles his lean but muscular body into an upright position. He unsheathes his sword and tries it. He appreciates his body’s gracious movements.
“I’m a skilled knight!”
“On what errand am I?”
“Who’s my king?”
“Where are the other knights?”
He bangs his sword against his chest armor thrice and exclaims, “I shall not lose heart!” His will is strong, but his energies dwindle. His body trembles like a bony marionette in the wind. He drops to the ground and lets go of the sword that takes a dive into the dust.
He searches through the saddle pockets. Just food and water. Nothing that could indicate his identity. A huge ax is fastened to the saddle, sharp like a razor.
“The ax of a giant!” He scratches the blond stubble on his head.
“What now, horse? There’s no way we get through that mad river. Let’s head for the mountain.”
He rallies himself and the horse to their feet.
The stone plain is flat, vast, and denies calculation. “It may take weeks to get there. Food and water are good only for a day.” The horse snorts a sigh.
The night sets in, and a brisk wind puts up a fight against the two. They bow down to the breeze and tremble towards the violet mountain, gathering a thin layer of ice. The hanging rain turns into hail that clangs against Gawain’s armor.
He crosses himself. “God, no doubt my life is in your hands now!”