The Questing Beast

My antecedents are unfortunate, it is true (diabolical! Shameful! Malignant!) But the blame cannot be heaped upon my feline shoulders. My mother was out walking in the woods one day and encountered a handsome gentleman with a tongue that could have parted the thighs of Lucrese. (With flattery). Yes, I am sure they know what I meant.

If he been merely a handsome gentleman, then I would not be here telling you this story. But Mother caught a glimpse of him in the stream they stood by, and it revealed his true nature to her (he was a demon. Bad. Wicked).

Not that his being a demon worried Mother. In fact, she found it quite exciting (or so Father told us later). They fell to on the riverbank, and I (I, I, I, we) was the result of that brief coupling. Once our fame had grown enough for people to gossip about us, some said Mother lusted after her brother, and she bargained with a demon for his love, (arrant nonsense!) which is ludicrous. Mother had only one brother and he coughed himself to death in his thirteenth year. (She slept with Father because she wanted to).

Forgive the constant interruptions. My nature is a divided (shared) one. I have the head and neck of some enormous serpent, and my cool snake’s brain holds sway over my being for most of the time. But my shoulders and trunk are those of a leopard (disdainful), my haunches those of a lion (vain) and my feet are stag’s hooves (skittish). My jumble of features is never quite in accord, but we manage well enough (true, true, true, we are most wise and cunning and courageous).

My (our)—very well, our mother’s hellish fetish found her out at our birth. She never thought to conceal her pregnancy, despite her pointed lack of a husband (little fool!) Yes, I will concur with that sentiment. So, I—we, my apologies—were born, with a voice like a pack of baying hounds (ironic). Yes, ironic. Happily, the midwives were so stunned by our appearance that they quite failed to kill me (us) and I—we—made our way to the sanctuary of the forest on shaking lion and leopard legs and deer hooves.

Mother got burned at the stake (a bad death). Forgive me if we are unemotional, it is the snake in us. Besides, we never knew Mother. I—the snake’s head, I—learned all this long after the event.

We slunk off to the forest, where we were quite at home and where we found sanctuary (for a short while). We loved the quiet forests, the peaceful hills, and encountered not a soul. Then the hunters came.

News of our birth spread, and the hunters followed apace. Some were, we admit, justifiably annoyed (we soon developed a liking for sheep and pigs). Others wanted the fame our death would bring (vain wretches!), others fancied themselves virtuous and meant to rid the land of our evil (puffed-up brats!) We are cunning, and evaded the hunters, or the leopard and the deer in us did (it was a nuisance! Lonely). Yes, it was a little lonely, but we prefer the solitary life.

(We met Father once). Yes, so we did. He was pleasant enough, though shifty and duplicitous. Our desire for a quiet life is the one thing we are all in agreement about (yes, peace. Stillness and silence). Father prefers to cause a ruckus. The only reason he visited us at all is that Sir Pellinore was pursuing us at the time and Father wanted to play with him.

Pellinore was the most persistent of the many who hunted us. He was a mediocre knight by the standards of Camelot, the greatest kingdom in the world. He was well-meaning (a decent fighter. Honest. Kindly). Any other kingdom would have considered it a boon to have him in its service.

But not Camelot. Camelot, under the reign of King Arthur, was overflowing with greatness. The King himself (the most valiant in the land!), the magician Merlin (wise beyond compare), and the company of the Round Table. There was Sir Bors, who had the strength of ten men, Sir Gawain (cunning!) whose trickster nature concealed a heart of great courage and integrity, Sir Galahad, pure and chivalrous (a bit self-righteous, if you ask us). And many, many more.

(Like Sir Lancelot). Ugh, why must you always dredge up Lancelot? The lion in me adored him, but I, the snake, perceive things differently, and to my black unblinking eyes there was nothing in him but spectacular good looks and arrogance. Besides, he was covetous (greedy. Selfish). Show him a woman with a ring on her third finger of her left hand and he wouldn’t rest until he bedded her.

But to return to Sir Pellinore. He had taken it upon himself to hunt and kill us, partly as a demonstration of his knightly prowess, partly because we had been eating someone else’s sheep (excellent mutton). The sheep belonged to a poor shepherd, and their loss would not have troubled most of Camelot’s knights – there is not much glory to be found in chasing after mutton stealers.

But Pellinore was kindly disposed towards peasants and beggars and orphans and the like (compassionate. A soft touch). When the shepherd came to beg for assistance, Pellinore volunteered to help, and Arthur agreed. The king apparently suggested Lancelot accompany Pellinore, but Lancelot had already promised his services to Queen Guinevere, escorting her to visit the King and Queen of Orkney.

(A good thing, or we would not be here telling this tale). Yes, yes, I’m getting to that. Pellinore was an accomplished woodsman and tracker, we will admit that, and once he had our trail we had to flee for our life. Killing Pellinore was not an option, although the leopard in us longed to rip out his throat (pounce, grab, close jaws, end of). Yes, but killing a knight of Camelot would have brought every other knight down upon our snakish head, and we would never have known peace again (true, our serpent head is wise).

So, things dragged on for a fortnight or so. Always we kept one step ahead of Pellinore, but no further. And he was dogged, determined, inexorable in his pursuit. His knightly honour was at stake.

We were getting quite worn down and dispirited when Father found us. (We didn’t know it was Father at first). He was disguised, you see, as a wounded doe. We tried to take a bite out of her, and she promptly turned into a handsome man and rapped our snout (that was cheating. Dishonourable). It was Father, of course he cheated. Now be silent for a little while and let me continue (apologies. Carry on).

Thank you. Father introduced himself and explained what he wanted, all in the same breath. He wanted to corrupt Pellinore, as a challenge to himself. We queried why he didn’t try the marvellously virtuous and gallant Galahad if he wanted a true challenge, and he explained, but we didn’t quite understand. (He said a fanatic latches on to one pole of morality as easily as the other and turning them around was no great labour). That was our deer self. It is silent most of the time, but it does seem to understand a great deal more than our other parts.

But to return to Father. He thought Pellinore would be a good challenge, as those thoroughly decent types are harder to seduce into evil than most humans. And he said if we assisted him, he’d make sure Pellinore would pursue us no longer.

We had doubts, of course. There was something uncanny about Father. (It was the eyes). It was. His eyes had a way of looking past you, as though you were distracting him from something much more important. (But we had few choices left).

So of course, we agreed to do as Father instructed us.

In retrospect, perhaps we are no wiser than Mother was.

* * *

Father informed us we needed bait, to lure in Pellinore. Not sheep—Father always liked to play with high stakes.

We went to the nearest village and snatched a child, as Father had bid us do. A little girl, with black hair and freckles on her nose. (The village women nearly killed us). Yes, those women were fearsome. We (foolishly) assumed the loutish youths scrapping on the village green would be the biggest threat, but they all screamed and fled when they saw us coming (milk-and-water weaklings!)

The village women were not nearly so meek. They chased us, screaming vengeance and waving knives and broomsticks, all the way back to the forest, where we managed to lose them in the trees. (Father thought it was funny). Yes, he was highly amused and that was when we first began to have doubts about his plan.

We didn’t hurt the little girl. We only wanted to use her as bait—well, Father did. He told us to wait until he came back with Pellinore. We curled up around her to make sure she didn’t run away and waited.

It was tiresome, waiting. (The child’s sobs were very unpleasant). So they were. We had no desire to harm anyone, not really. We only wanted to live in peace, and we were not sure how kidnapping this child would aid our desires. (Father had promised. We kept telling ourselves that). So we did, until someone—I think it was our deer self—pointed out that Father was a demon, and so his word was not to be trusted.

I think that was when we decided not to wait any longer, but to go and find out exactly what Father was up to.

We had to wait a while longer for the girl to finish crying. We tried to speak to her, but she only wailed harder (our voice is not soothing). Eventually she exhausted herself and stopped sobbing, and we told her we meant her no harm and if she would be quiet, we would go and explore.

So off we went, the girl riding on our back and looking much happier. It took us a little time to find Father, but the leopard in us is an expert tracker (even a demon leaves subtle signs). We found Father amid a circle of standing stones, having an intense conversation with a pale, resolute-looking Pellinore.

The girl and we kept silent and peered at the scene from behind one of the great stones thrusting towards the sky.

“It’s the only way,” Father was purring, eyes flicking up and down Pellinore as though he wanted to gobble him up. “The Questing Beast is devious beyond all measure. That child will surely perish if you do not agree to my terms. Your service, your being, in exchange for the child’s safe return and the power to kill the Beast.”

Pellinore was reluctant, we could tell. (Wise man). But we were confused by Father’s words. It was not what we had agreed. And what was this Questing Beast?

“What is the Questing Beast?” we whispered—or what passes for a whisper in our voice. We were lucky Father did not hear.

But the little girl did.

“I think he means you,” she hissed in where my ear would be if my head were not a snake’s head.

Her words took a few moments for my normally quick intellect to comprehend, but once they penetrated the fog of Father’s deception I was enraged. That is, we were enraged. The lion and leopard in us were roaring their fury and even our timid deer self was filled with ire and longed to charge Father with lowered antlers (if we had antlers).

“Come with us!” we said to the girl, and we strode forth from our hiding place.

“Father!” we roared. “You double-crossing scoundrel!”

The expression on Father’s face—oh, we shall remember it until the day we die! It was a priceless mix of outrage, shock and pure annoyance. Pellinore turned white as salt, but he drew his sword, nonetheless.

“You said if we lured in Pellinore you’d deal with him and let us live in peace! You said nothing about our getting killed!” we shouted. Father was totally unabashed, of course. He recovered from his shock and only smirked.

Pellinore was hovering nearby, his gaze flicking from Father to us. We realised quickly that only surprise was keeping him in suspense, and that the sooner we gave him something else to consider the better. We turned to the girl.

“Run to the knight!” we told her, and so she did.

“Take the girl!” we roared at Pellinore, and to his credit he scooped her up and ran for the edge of the woods. (Father got angry when we did that).

Yes, he was most infuriated. He shouted at Pellinore to come back, that only he could give Pellinore the power to kill the Questing Beast, but Pellinore ignored him (sensible man). Then Father turned his rage on us, and we felt the full fire of a demon’s fury.

For the first time, we glimpsed his true form.

(Do not ask us to describe it!) Hush now! His form defied true description in any case. It was not grand, or terrifying, or even unnatural. We can only describe him as a decrepit, broken-down, starved reckling. (What could Mother have been thinking?) Perhaps he was better-looking when Mother met him. But when we beheld him, we saw a man’s shape, twisted by suffering, haggard and wretched, with a few stray bedraggled feathers drifting at its back.

(But strong. So, so strong). Yes, for all his miserable appearance, Father was a demon and had the powers of Hell at his command.

(Luckily, we are half-demon ourselves). Yes, I think Father had forgotten about that. And so there we both were, locked in combat at the standing stones.

To this day, our four selves can recall little about that fight. To my snake’s mind, it is a jumble of images and slashes of pain and spikes of triumph as we land a blow (biting Father’s leg, striking him with our paw, he raking his claws down our side, blood—not sure whose, the sound of our voice, his shrieks, all muddled together). We cannot recall how we came to be lying on the ground, utterly spent and with knives sticking in us every time we moved. But we recall Father standing over us, livid, about to deal a death blow.

And we remember Pellinore hurling himself upon Father, driving him back, and the slash of his sword that severed Father’s left hand from his arm.

Then we recall only Father’s howls of agony, a sound like a thunderclap and Father disappearing (a coward at heart). Then the dark.

* * *

When we came to, it was to find Sir Pellinore and the little girl staring down at us. Pellinore still had his sword drawn but had refrained from using it while we were unconscious (honourable. Foolish. Both).

“If you mean to kill us, please make it swift,” we groaned.

“Don’t kill it!” piped up the little girl. ”It’s a nice monster.”

Pellinore groaned, rubbing at his eyes in weary fashion.

“I’ll never get things sorted out here,” he grumbled.

But he did eventually, and even somewhat to his (our) satisfaction. Pellinore asked us for the full story, and we explained about wanting peace and meeting Father and our (ill-advised) bargain. He was angry about our kidnapping the little girl (Margery). Yes, Margery, and we conceded that had been a wicked action, but we had not hurt her, nor had we intended to (despite what Father had claimed).

To conclude, we convinced Pellinore that despite our origins and our recent doings we were not an evil creature (just a bit… problematic). And he acknowledged that despite our theft of the sheep, we had never truly harmed anyone. (And we saved him from having to sell his soul. He was most grateful for that). As he should have been.

Our little conference ended in another bargain. Unlike the one with Father, everyone gained something of value (the best kind of bargain!)

Pellinore returned Margery to her family, where, due to her fortunate rescue, she became a kind of good-luck charm to her people and lived a happy and prosperous life. Pellinore returned to Camelot, bearing Father’s left hand with him. He explained to an awed King Arthur and his court that he had been on the trail of the Questing Beast (us) and had just saved a child from its ravening maw when it summoned a demon to attack him. He fought and defeated the demon, but the Questing Beast escaped.

(He was the hero of Camelot for once). Yes, he was. He told us later it was very nice, but he felt a bit guilty for lying. (Honest man). Also, he thought Merlin suspected something, but the magician never voiced any misgivings.

Lancelot did point out Pellinore had failed in his original quest (jealous! Bitter!) Everyone in Camelot thought that very unsporting and no-one would flirt with him for at least a week (Pellinore said he sulked like a child!) Pellinore was not downcast by his failure to kill the beast, however. He vowed to hunt it for the rest of his life, if needs be.

With Pellinore hunting us, no-one else bothered to and so we got what we most desired—peace (blissful!) True, it came at a price. Pellinore made us promise to steal no more sheep from poor people (though he didn’t object to our stealing deer off rich men). But we have lived well enough, here in our forest, listening to the birds and the wind in the trees, resting in the shade and swimming in the river.

We saw Pellinore every few years, and he gave us the news from Camelot (until it fell). Yes, Queen Guinevere was beguiled by Lancelot’s charm, alluring as dark honey, and everything went to hell (I told you he was charming!) Shut up, lion. Though in fairness that spoilt brat Mordred had a hand in its destruction too.

Pellinore survived Camelot’s fall, and then his years of kindness towards the peasants and poor people bore fruit. He retired to his family property, a manor house and seven thousand acres, and people flocked to him, to teach him how to manage and farm his land and make it fruitful and prosperous (and he would give us a whole ox when we visited!) That was very generous of him. By then he could afford to be generous. He married, and had a clutch of healthy sons and daughters, and died an old, happy man, with his family gathered about him.

(We sneaked in to see him one last time). So we did. He was very ill, but he laughed till he cried when he remembered his everlasting hunt for the Questing Beast, and what had truly transpired. He bade us live a long and content life, and we left. (Pellinore was our friend. We miss him, to this day).

Yes, we miss him. We have watched over his children, and his grandchildren, and great-grandchildren (Margery’s too). But we prefer the solitary life these days, and it is easier to attain, the world having relegated us to the pages of a storybook.

We never saw Father again (there was probably a reason for that). No matter. He’ll be somewhere about his business. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again.

As for us… we have kept our old name, the Questing Beast (although no-one hunts us these days). We feel it suits us. Perhaps someday someone will take up the quest again and try to finish what Sir Pellinore did not (would not. Could not).

But we will never have a friend (opponent? Ally?) as good as Pellinore. History has not been kind to him, but we know better. Perhaps someday, when King Arthur returns, we might be allowed to return too, and set the record straight. 

 

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About the Author

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Carys Crossen is a scholar, a writer, and a watcher (of films).

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