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  Swan Knight’s Son

  Book One of The Green Knight’s Squire

  A Tale of Moth & Cobweb

  John C. Wright

  Copyright

  Swan Knight's Son

  The Green Knight's Squire, Book One

  Moth & Cobweb 1

  by John C. Wright

  Castalia House

  Kouvola, Finland

  www.castaliahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Finnish copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by John C. Wright

  All rights reserved

  Editor: Vox Day

  Cover Art: Minna Erkola

  Version: 001

  FOR knighthood is not in the feats of warre

  As for to fight in quarrel right or wrong,

  But in a cause which truth can not defarre:

  He ought himself for to make sure and strong,

  Justice to keep mixt with mercy among:

  And no quarrell a knight ought to take

  But for a truth, or for the common’s sake.

  —Stephen Hawes (1523)

  Contents

  Chapter One: The Thirteenth Hour

  Chapter Two: The Wandering Moths

  Chapter Three: Town and Wood

  Chapter Four: Tough Training

  Chapter Five: Daughter of the Deep

  Chapter Six: The Lights of the Haunted Mountain

  Chapter Seven: The Glass-Knobbed Door

  Chapter Eight: Attic in Elsewhere

  Chapter Nine: Errantry

  Chapter Ten: Abominable Snowmen

  Awake in the Night Land

  City Beyond Time

  Other books by Castalia House

  Chapter One: The Thirteenth Hour

  1. The Midnight Walkers

  Gilberec Parzival Moth woke up, startled, when a large black raven landed on his chest at midnight. It was the night of the day before his sixteenth birthday. He was a tall boy, strong for his age, and his hair was an unusual shade of silver-white that he had never seen on anyone else. He usually kept it hidden, tucked into a Gamecocks ball cap he wore. His shirt and dungarees were simple, sturdy, worn, and patched.

  He sat up. The raven squawked and flapped in a flurry of black wings to the back of the park bench. It was dark out, and the moon was high and full, a warm evening in April. He could not see the clock tower overlooking the town square from where he was, sitting in the little bus shelter, but from the smell of the air, the cool of the breeze, and the positions of the stars, he knew it was the middle of the night. “What are you doing up at this hour, big guy?” he said to the raven. Ravens, as he well knew, were not nocturnal birds.

  Gil also had a black eye, a swollen lip, some small cuts on his face, and an ache in his ribs. He said, “Look like a mess, don’t I? Well, you should see the other guy. I didn’t mean to nod off. Mom must be worried sick. Don’t suppose you could go tell her I am all right?”

  But the raven merely hunched its shoulders, spread its wings, and flew up into the night sky, vanishing against the stars.

  Gil started to lay himself back down. “Darn ravens. Never do what you ask.”

  That was when he noticed how bright the stars were. Bright as when he camped in the wilderness. They should have been dimmer, washed out. He looked left and right. The streetlamp near him was not lit.

  He stood. He stepped out into the street. The small town of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, lay sleeping around him. No streetlamps anywhere were lit. No porch lights on any houses. No neon signs on any small shops. Even the traffic lights were dark.

  Just then, the bell in the clocktower above the town hall started ringing. Gil turned. Usually the clock face was lit. Now, it was dark. Gil had sharp eyes and excellent night vision, but he could see only a pale circular shadow in the darker oblong shadow of the tower. He counted the strokes of the bell. Ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen….

  Gil felt a cold sensation trickle down his spine. “Maybe it is just a mistake. A mechanical failure….”

  His voice sounded so unconvincing to his own ears that he snapped his teeth shut and told himself not to say anything more.

  That was when he saw a group of people. They were a block or two away, in the center of the lane, walking. Their pace was not quick, but slow and reluctant. No one carried any lights. They were walking toward him.

  Some instinct told Gil to move away slowly and to make no startling moves. He turned and walked across the square of greenery that formed the little park at the center of town. He passed underneath the tall pine which, in winter, was decorated with Christmas lights, but which now was dark.

  Opposite the town hall was an old abandoned church, built in the colonial days, built of gray brick, with narrow windows of leaded glass. A belltower was perched atop and faced the town hall clocktower from the opposite side of the town square park.

  Gil looked back. He saw men and women, young and old, walking in utter silence. Most were carrying burdens on their backs or in their arms. It was a strange collection: Gil saw a china doll, a gold clock under glass, an embroidered pillow, a jeweled necklace, a set of gilt-edged old books, a tray of silverware, a decanter of wine, a box of cigars. Many of the women had shining fabrics folded over their arms, silks and satins of expensive dresses. Several people were carrying portraits in frames. It was hard to see in the dark, at a distance, but everything he saw was finely-crafted or antique.

  2. The Forsaken House

  The door of the abandoned church behind Gil now swung open a crack. Gil was almost positive that the door had been nailed shut. Gil looked up at the moon. It was full.

  A soft voice from the darkness in the door crack said, “Enter.”

  Gil looked doubtfully at the dark church door and looked again back the way he had come. Gil saw the stream of silent walking people was being met by a second crowd of people, shambling with hesitant steps in from a side street. It mingled with the first group. Both were headed for the town hall.

  Gil now saw that all three of the big main doors leading into the town hall were open. He had never seen all three open before. There was a dim set of floating lights inside the town hall, like candlelights, or fireflies, or captive stars, moving and swaying, as if to music no one could hear.

  “Sanctuary is here,” said the voice from the church, very quietly.

  That was when Gil realized something was missing. He heard no insistent noises. Where was the chirruping that went on all night this time of year? Usually, it was as loud as a brass band. But now the air was utterly silent.

  Gil hurried up the gray stone stairs to the door and slipped inside. An unseen hand closed the door behind him. It was utterly dark in here, except for the tall, thin windows, high above his head, where the bright, clear stars could be seen.

  3. All Men Are Welcome

  A figure stepped in front of the window, so Gil could see the silhouette of a tall shape with a peaked hood outlined against the stars.

  Gil said, “I thought this door was nailed shut. Isn’t this church abandoned?”

  The hood nodded. “My task is to rebuild the old church. All men are welcome to enter by the door.”

  Gil said, “That’s kind of funny. There is a door in my place that sometimes opens on the full moon. Other times I cannot find it. Do you know about doors lik
e that? I see strange things some times. Hear them, too.”

  “What things have you seen?”

  “So can you open the door I keep seeing in my house?”

  “Not I. What things have you seen?”

  “About a week ago. Me and some boys from school were playing by the banks of the river. I looked, and I saw a barge on the water. It had black cloth draped over the bow and stern, and a black flag. There were girls in veils and black cloaks poling the barge, and they yelled and wailed and wept as they went. I pointed, but the other boys did not see anything. They saw mist on the water and heard birds screaming. One of them called me a liar, so I had to punch him.”

  Gil drew a breath, and his bruised ribs twinged, so he winced.

  The voice said, “You have been fighting again today.” There was a sad note in the voice.

  Gil said, “Yes, sir. That happens to me a lot.”

  The hooded figure took a step. From the sound of the footfall on the stone floor, he knew the man was barefoot. The starlight glinted on the crucifix hanging at his neck as well as the pale length of rope which belted his robe. Gil felt a sensation of relief and laughed.

  “You are a monk, aren’t you, sir? In that hood, I thought you were a ghost.”

  “Everyone is a ghost, my son. The ones who tarry on earth, like you, are still inside the body of clay their mothers bestowed.”

  At that moment, there came a scratching at the door. It reminded Gil of the sound his dog made when he scratched to be let in, but it sounded larger than a dog.

  A voice from outside said, “Open to me! All sons of Adam must bring their tribute forth!”

  The monk laid a warning hand on Gil’s arm. “Do not answer.”

  Gil whispered, “You said all men are welcome to enter by the door.”

  The monk said, “It is not a man.”

  The scratching came again, louder. “Open, open! Who walks abroad? It is the witching hour of the elf’s eve, and the goddess in the moon draws nigh the earth to spread her pallid madness and contagion! Who dares wake and walk? Who are you? Who is your father?”

  But the monk said to Gil, “Answer not a word.”

  The voice outside the door grew louder: “I smell sweat and living blood! Warm air passes out of living nostrils! I hear the thudding of a frightened heart! Open, I say, in the name of the Lord of Air and Darkness!”

  Gil whispered, “You said you were rebuilding this building. Where are the tools? Do you have a hammer or something I could use to bash in his skull? I think he just called me a coward.”

  The monk said softly back, “Peace! Your strength is a gift. Use it wisely, and do not shame the giver. Stay here. You will sleep until dawn, and I will keep the Winged Nightmare away. Do not fear. You will not walk in your sleep like the others. I will go and speak with the shadow.”

  The door opened a crack, and the tall figure stepped through. The line of moonlight narrowed, and the door slammed shut again. Gil said, “Wait! I can’t let you face that guy alone! Hold on!”

  But in the dark he could find no handle nor knob. His fingers felt a cold, hard knot in the wood, and he realized this was the head of a large spike that had been pounded through what felt like a bar across the door. He felt around and found other spikes. The door was nailed shut.

  “It’s impossible,” whispered Gil to himself. He sat down with his back to the door and yawned. A sudden fatigue washed over him, and he fought to keep his eyes open.

  4. The Yellow Wren

  Gil woke. Rays of dusty sunlight slanted in through the leaden windows. Gil now saw that the entire interior of the church was bare. There was a pale and cross-shaped patch on the far wall where the bricks were bright and unworn, and the dust there was less. A large rectangular hole had been dug through the stones where the altar had been torn out.

  He soon found he was trapped. The main doors and the smaller door in the chamber behind the altar leading into the vestry were both nailed shut. The windows were too high to reach and too narrow to squeeze through.

  Gil sat down heavily on the floor, sighing. The air in here was musty. He sat in the beam of sunlight from the window, and it struck his hair when he doffed his cap to mop his brow. His hair, though white, was not like an old man’s hair. It was a shining blend of silver and pewter and snowy hues, rich and lustrous, almost luminous. His eyebrows were dark and his eyes gray like a storm at sea. There were streaks of red in his snow-bright hair from where his scalp had been cut.

  A shadow flicked across his chest. There came a tap-tapping on the window. He looked up and saw the yellow shape of a little bird smaller than his hand. A wren was tapping on the window with her bill.

  The little wren pecked at a spot in the old, mottled glass, perhaps thinking it was a bug.

  Gil smiled. He lifted the baseball cap from his knee and spun it on his finger. “Look at that! Here is a strand of hair caught in my cap. I can give it to you if you get me out of here. I assume you want it for your nest.”

  He lifted a tiny, nearly invisible strand of hair. In the dusty beam, it almost seemed to glow like starlight.

  The little wren twitched her head to the left and stared at him from one eye. The bird yanked back, and dropped out of sight.

  Gil stared up at the empty window, wondering what he should do next. But then he heard a noise overhead, the fluttering of little wings. Down from the rafters flew the little yellow wren and landed on his finger.

  Gil said, “Wren? You get me in a lot of trouble, you know. Whenever people find out I know things I shouldn’t know, and I tell them a little bird told me, guess what? They don’t believe me! I get called a liar, and then…. Well, I cannot let them call me that!” He looked at his skinned knuckles and rubbed his bruises wryly.

  The wren groomed herself and looked nonchalant. She hopped to his other finger, the one holding the silver hair.

  Gil said, “Wait up! You need to help me get out of here first!”

  The bird cocked her head to one side, flew off his finger, and landed on a spot a few yards away. Gil rose and followed. The little bird hopped over into an alcove and rapped on the wood with her bill. Gil stepped after and saw a narrow door he had overlooked before.

  He pushed open the warped dark wood on creaking hinges and sneezed at the dust stirred up.

  “Bless you,” the wren said.

  “Thanks,” he replied automatically. Inside was a spiral staircase steep as a ladder.

  The wren said, “This leads up to the belfry where the churchbell once hung. From there, it is a short drop to the slate roof. It you don’t slip and plunge to your death, you can cross the gable to the rear, where a very large and friendly elm tree has branches waiting for you haply to climb down.”

  “Fair is fair. Here is your fee.” And he proffered the silver strand of hair.

  “However, you already missed the morning bus. You will have to walk home.”

  Gil groaned. It was a two-hour walk from here.

  The wren nodded sagely, “Things would be much merrier for you if you only had wings. Some other members of your family do, you know.”

  Gil straightened up. “What? What do you know about my family? Who has wings?”

  But the wren was already high in the rafters, the silver strand dangling from her beak. “Of her we never speak!” the little bird called back. And then she was gone, out of his sight.

  Gil climbed his way up the spiral staircase up to the empty belfry where no bells hung. He glanced through the hole in the floor through which no bellrope passed.

  But the view from here was fine and fair. He could see the school from which he had been expelled, and, across the street from it, the gas station in whose back lot he had faced and fought the most popular kid in school.

  Chapter Two: The Wandering Moths

  1. Ruff

  After three hours, Gil arrived home. It should have taken two hours, but he stopped and bathed in Pell Lake during the hottest part of the morning, then cut through the woods, and
stopped again at Tom’s Creek Primitive Baptist Church. He asked the pastor there if there was anyone refurbishing the old Anglican Church that fronted the town square, but the little old man knew nothing. Then he tramped up Church Road through the woods to the auto repair shop.

  He and his Mom lived in the second story above the garage, in a cramped apartment of rooms reached by some rickety wooden steps in the back, half overgrown with kudzu vines. The boards were warped with age and scruffy with fading paint, all but the top last four, which smelled of newly-sanded wood and gleamed with fresh green paint. Some weeks ago, when his Mother had received a healthy tip and things were looking up, Gil had bought a board, sawed it into four parts, and sought to replace the bad stairs, starting at the top. Without money for lumber and nails, the work was slow. Sometimes Gil wondered if the kudzu was the only thing holding up the staircase.

  There was a crooked old Cornelian Cherry tree that grew right next to the old garage. Its roots over the years had been slowly tearing up the sidewalk, so that the slabs of concrete staggered drunkenly, with grass and weeds growing between them. With every storm it threatened to drop a branch on the roof.

  The tree grew a bitter red berry the size of a cherry tomato called a cornel. Last night the tree had dropped a load of these cornel berries again, making little red bloodlike stains all over the stairs and door and the two windows on this side of the house. Mother liked the house kept as neat as possible, so Gil would have to get the ladder and scrub brushes to remove the stubborn stains.

  As he reached the top step, he realized two things. First, his latchkey was in his jacket pocket, but his jacket was in his school locker four miles away. Second, he did not remember what his mother’s hours were today. She worked a different shift on different days. She might be home an hour from now, or four hours, or even eight.