The Quest

INTRODUCTION

Against the great panorama of the Middle Ages, when brave knights wore shining armor and rescued lovely maidens in distress, and castles loomed before one then disappeared in mysterious gray mists; where vital quests awaited those heroes adventurous enough to seek one; where the qualities of chivalry, honor, and loyalty warred with desire, greed, and dogma—a powerful novel emerged: Parzival, the tale of a simple, naïve boy who longs to become a knight and serve King Arthur.

Raised by an overly-protective and doting mother, Parzival is a thoroughly good boy. He is courteous, obedient, delightful to look at, and charming in every way. He does his duty as conscientiously as possible. He is, to a fault, desirous of being liked and, for the most part, he always does what he is told.

That is, until he encounters a group of knights for the first time. In an instant, he recognizes his heart’s desire: to become a knight himself. His mother, desperately unhappy at his insistence on setting off in his slain father’s footsteps, dresses him in Fool’s clothing, gives him a sway-backed horse that is unlikely to be able to travel far, and offers advice that she hopes will have him scurrying back home to her within a matter of days. Cheerfully, gratefully, but also stubbornly, Parzival kisses her goodbye and sets off.

Parzival asks for advice frequently, and takes the advice he is given literally. The innocent, foolish boy passes through many strange adventures, heartbreaks, fearsome battles, and dream-like encounters, before he is given the rare opportunity not only of finding Mumscheavelshe, the vigilantly-guarded castle in which the Grail is hidden, but the Grail itself, that mysterious vessel that is the source of unlimited nourishment to all who are in its presence, and yet causes such grief to those around it.

Failing to save the Fisher-King from the agony of his terrible wound, because he politely followed the advice of a well-meaning knight who had urged him never to ask questions, Parzival rebelliously disavows knighthood, society, God, and even his beloved wife, Cundrawamirs. He is now a rebel and a seeker and retreats into the forest. There he stays with an old Hermit in the darkest part of the woods, where he learns deeper truths than mere conventions can teach him: Know thyself and know the world.

Many years pass, and as Parzival seeks his way toward redemption, he proves himself noble, brave, loyal. He has hurt many people, through no fault of his own, but simply through ignorance and wanting to do the right thing. Now, by understanding his authentic nature and following his own heart, he is able to, one by one, make those wrongs right again.

By redeeming himself in this way, Parzival is given a rare second chance to ask the Fisher-King the all-important question, the question that will heal his frightful wound and be the salvation of the kingdom.

The story of Parzival is the story of every teenager. The quest that Parzival is on is the quest that life asks of each one of us as we navigate the tumultuous waves of adolescence in our search for our authentic selves, using honor, chivalry, loyalty, and love as our guides. Obedience to other peoples’ insistence on the right way to do things will no longer serve us—our actions must be made out of the depths of our understanding of our own hearts. Obedience to a god or religion, or to knightly rules and regulations, or even to a mother’s longing to keep one young and innocent and hold one back, will no longer work.

We are on our own—and it is up to us to meet the challenge.

I tell students on occasion that the experience of being a teenager is probably the most difficult they’ll ever have. They are surprised—for it is not so bad, generally speaking! They are eager, adventurous, longing to do well, and longing to be free of what sometimes feel like absurd constraints. But we are not talking about the tragedies and suffering that we all face as adults living on this planet: the time of adolescence is a time of tenderest awakening from a cocoon of acceptance and wonder to hard-earned insight and experience. In order to know the world, one must know one’s self—and learning to know one’s self can be tumultuous, delicate, brave, emotional, and even dangerous.

In the spring of 2011, during a three-week seminar in which a small group of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old students studied the story of Parzival, I tried to show them a different way of looking at literature, at the world, and at themselves. We read the tales out loud, or the students read sections at home at their leisure, and recounted episodes in the class. We discussed themes and images, history and legend. But, most importantly, each student was required to write his or her own stories. Like the tale of Parzival, each one is set against the thrilling medieval backdrop of jousting and castles and crusades and kingdoms and strange mythical creatures—but each is as fresh and original as the students themselves. In this volume we agreed to include all the stories the students wrote, since they all bring parts of the class into one glorious whole.

As a novelist, I believe that writing fiction is one of the finest ways of experiencing freedom. You can write yourself out of any situation, or make up conversations you might never otherwise be able to have, describe strange lands, meet interesting people, and all that limits you is your imagination. I wanted the students to experience that freedom from the constraints and assignments that are so often requested of them in writing class. I wanted them to turn their backs on the usual expectations life asks of us, just as Parzival retreated into the woods and remained with the Hermit Trevrizent in his hut for fifteen days.

I hoped to make our time together like that time of Parzival’s. I showed them mysteries that pervade the Parzival legend, and that I hoped would continue to pervade their own lives: the significance of imagery and archetypes. We studied the Tarot, and the essential archetypes of the major arcana, beginning with Parzival, the Fool. What do the swords, the cups, the wands, and the pentacles represent? Now the students know. When Parzival saw three drops of blood in the white snow, why was it three, and not four or seven? What do various numbers represent? What about color: what do you feel when you see red? Why was the Red Knight dressed all in red, from head to foot, and even his horse was red? What planet is associated with red? Now when the students see red, what will they know about themselves?

We looked at the symbolism of the stars, for when Saturn is in the sky at the time of the full moon, the fisher king’s wound gets so painful he shrieks in agony. What is it about Saturn that can bring such suffering?

We spent our classes in a circle in the serene sanctuary of an old church, sitting on the soft pale green carpet, with sunshine peeping through the high windows, or spring rain tapping lightly overhead. Some students brought pillows and blankets so they could be comfortable when we read out loud. During many of the classes, the students had Tarot chalice spreads in front of them so they could be mulling the imagery while we talked. They also drew during class, illustrating their stories or drawing their pictures of Parzival. The classes were quiet, serene, profound.

The students were encouraged to allow images to be absorbed in an unhurried, dream-like state. By relaxing every morning into a space where they could be comfortable, slow-paced, and each of them honored for who they were, and honoring each other’s thoughts and experiences, the students created stories that we decided we want to share with you.

Winslow Eliot, Teacher

Guomund and the Golden Princess

By O. G. Kress

Chapter 1

A long time ago, in a place not far from here, there lived, in a splendid palace, a great lord, the most excellent man—by which I mean the plumpest man—in all the country. He ate seven square meals a day, slept sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and the only thing he ever did was ride around the castle grounds and hunt little birds with his silver sling-shot.

But even with all his practice, he shot very poorly; he was so fat and heavy. As he grew daily fatter, he was at last obliged to give up walking altogether, and be dragged about in a wheelchair. The people made fun of him, and gave him the name of my Lord Roly-Poly.

Now, the only thing that lay heavy on Lord Roly-Poly’s mind was his son, whom he loved dearly, although they were not in the least alike. For the young Prince was as thin as an ermine. What vexed that great lord the more was that though the young ladies throughout all his lands plied their womanly arts as best they could to win the Prince’s love, he would have nothing to say to any of them, and told his father he did not wish to marry.

Instead of whispering sweet nothings to the girls at dusk, he wandered about the woods, whispering to the moon. No wonder the young ladies thought him very peculiar, but they liked him all the better for it; and, as he had received at his birth the name of Guomund, they all called him Guomund d’Amour.

What is the matter with you? his father often said to him. You have everything you can possibly wish for: a good bed, good food, and casks full of beer. The only thing you want, in order to become as fat as a pig, is a wife who can bring you rich, wide lands. So marry, and you will be perfectly happy.

I ask nothing better than to marry, replied Guomund, but I have never seen a woman that pleases me. All the girls here are pink and white, and I am tired to death of their eternal pale and rosy hews.

By my faith! cried Roly-Poly, do you want to marry a Zanj woman, and give me heirs as ugly as boars and as stupid as fish?

No, Father, nothing of the sort. But there must be women somewhere in the world who are neither pink nor white, and I tell you, once and for all, that I will never marry until I have found one exactly to my taste.

Chapter 2

Sometime afterward it happened that the Prior of the Abbey of Saint Edmund sent to Lord Roly-Poly a basket of oranges, with a beautifully-written letter saying that these golden fruits came straight from a land where the sun always shone. That evening Roly-Poly and his son ate the golden apples at supper, and thought them scrumptious.

Next morning, as the day dawned, Guomund went down to the stable and saddled his fine Arabian stallion. Then he went, all dressed for a journey, to the bedside of his father, Lord Roly-Poly, and found him smoking his pipe, awaiting his first meal of the day.

Father, he said austerely, I have come to bid you adieu. Last night I dreamed I was walking in a wood, where the trees were covered with shining golden apples. I gathered one of them, and when I opened it there came out a lovely princess with golden skin. She is the wife I want, and I am going to look for her.

Lord Roly-Poly was so astonished that he let his pipe fall to the ground; then he became so diverted at the notion of his son marrying a yellow woman, a woman shut up inside an orange, that he burst into fits of laughter.

Guomund waited to bid him good-bye until he was quiet again, but his father went on laughing and showed no signs of stopping. The young man took his hand, kissed it tenderly, opened the door, and was quickly at the castle gates. He jumped lightly on his horse, and was already a league away from home before Roly-Poly had ceased laughing.

A yellow wife! He must be mad! cried the good man, when he was again able to control his faculties. Here! Quick! Bring him back to me.

The servants mounted their horses and rode after the Prince, but, as they did not know which road he had taken, they went all ways except the right one, and instead of bringing him back they returned alone, one by one, when it grew dark, their horses worn out and covered with dust.

When the youth thought they could no longer catch him, he pulled his horse into a walk, like a sensible man who knows he has far to go. He travelled in this way for many weeks, passing through villages, towns, over mountains, across valleys and plains, but always pushing south, where every day the sun seemed hotter and more brilliant.

At last, one day at sunset, Guomund felt the sun so warm that he thought he must now be near the place of his dream. He was at that moment close to the corner of a wood where stood a little hut, before the door of which his horse stopped of his own accord. A shriveled old man with a white beard was sitting on the doorstep, enjoying the fresh air. The Prince alighted from his mount and asked leave to rest a while.

Come in, my young friend,’ said the old man. My house is not large, but you are welcome to what poor cheer I can afford you.

The traveler entered, and his host placed before him a simple meal, with a flask of ale. When his hunger was satisfied and his thirst quenched, the old man said to him:

If I do not mistake, you have journeyed far. May I ask where you are going?

I will tell you, answered Guomund, though you will most likely laugh at me for it. I dreamed that in the land of the sun there was a wood full of orange trees, and that in one of the oranges I should find a beautiful princess who is to be my wife. She is the one I seek.

Why should I laugh? asked the old man. Madness in youth is true wisdom. Go, young man, follow your dream, and if you do not find the happiness that you seek, at any rate you will have had the happiness of seeking it.

Chapter 3

The next day the Prince arose early and took leave of his host.

The wood that you saw in your dream is not far from here, said the old man. It is in the depths of the forest, and this road will lead you there. You will come to a vast park surrounded by high walls. In the middle of the park is a castle, where dwells an evil sorceress who allows no living being to enter the doors. Behind the castle is the orange grove. Follow the wall till you come to a heavy iron gate. Don’t try to press it open, but oil the hinges with this, and the old man gave him a small bottle.

The gate will open of itself, he continued, "and a huge dog that guards the castle will come to you with his mouth wide open, but just throw him this oat cake. Next, you will see a baking woman leaning over her heated oven. Give her this brush. Last, you will find a well on your left; do not forget to take the cord of the bucket and spread it in the sun. When you have done this, do not enter the castle, but go round it and enter the orange grove. Then gather three oranges, and get back to the gate as fast as you can. Once out of the gate, leave the forest by the side opposite the one you entered.

Now, attend to this: whatever happens, do not open your oranges till you reach the bank of a river. Out of each orange will come a princess, and you can choose which you like for your wife. Once you have made your choice, be very careful never to leave your bride for an instant, and remember that the danger which is most to be feared is never the danger we are most afraid of.

Guomund thanked his host warmly, and took the road he pointed out. In less than an hour he arrived at the wall, which was high indeed. He sprang to the ground, fastened his horse to a tree, and soon found the iron gate. He took out his bottle and oiled the hinges. The gate opened of its own accord, and inside was an old castle. The Prince entered the courtyard boldly.

He heard fierce howls, and a dog as tall as a donkey with eyes like torches came toward him, showing his teeth, which glistened like daggers. Guomund flung him the oat cake, which the great dog instantly snapped up, and the young Prince passed quietly on.

A few yards further on he saw a huge oven, with a wide, red-hot, gaping mouth. A woman as tall as a giant was leaning over the oven. Guomund gave her the brush, which she took in silence.

Then he went on to the well, drew up the cord, which was half rotten, and stretched it out in the sun.

Last, he went round the castle, and plunged into the orange grove. There he gathered the three most beautiful oranges he could find, and turned to go back to the gate. But just at this moment the sun was darkened, the earth trembled, and Guomund heard a hideous voice crying:

Baker, baker, take him by his feet and throw him into the oven!

No, replied the baker. A long time has passed since I first began to scour this oven with my own flesh. You never cared to give me a brush; but he has given me one, and he shall go in peace.

Rope, O rope! cried the voice again, twine yourself round his neck and strangle him.

No, replied the rope. You have left me for many years to rot in the water. He has stretched me out in the sun. Let him go in peace.

Dog, my good dog, cried the voice, angrier still, jump at his throat and eat him up.

No, replied the dog. "Though I have served you long, you never gave me any bread. He has given me as much as I want. Let him