“Circus Cave Drawing” by Stephen Mead

“Circus Cave Drawing” is part of a short art film, “Sketches of Glory.” Watch it on YouTube.

A Thing of Many Facets
by Lillian Wheeler

When Guinevere came to her seeking guidance, Morgana concealed her amusement. The queen’s news was no shock to her; she’d long since sensed the tension and currents between the King of all Britain and his best knight. It didn’t take any magic art, just an astute eye and a clever ear. A hand held a moment too long. Eyes that searched the other out, and then dropped their gaze once contact was made, fearful of the connection they found there. A tone that ran through their speech like a thread, hinting at something dangerous, repressed and threatening to break out into the open.

She’d seen it in Tristan and white Iseult, too, a long time before poor King Mark suspected anything.

Now it was Arthur. Arthur, the young boy she’d guided through his initiation with the land, bonding in a ceremony of such wild power that even now it changed her inside to think of it, and it was hard to remain entirely in the mortal realm.

That boy had become a man, that man married to frail, lovely Guinevere. So beautiful that men sang her praises all across the islands. So pious that they extolled her virtues throughout the continent. So queenly that her fame had reached to far off Rome itself. Morgana didn’t see that when she looked at Guinevere. She saw a woman who was still little more than a girl. She saw a weak, timid creature, who latched onto anyone she considered a lifeline for her agoraphobia. Her husband, unfortunately, was not one such person. Morgana, for some reason, was.

Mostly, she didn’t mind. Granted, she often wanted to pick her up and shake her, until that beautiful fair hair fell from its clasps and she managed to force some spine into the girl. But mostly, Morgana pitied her. Guinevere’s fear of the world annoyed her, but she also had to admire the bravery Guinevere showed every time she faced her husband’s court, every time she faced the poorly concealed jealousy of girls her age, while knowing that Arthur cared first for his sword, and then his spear, and then for her.

Yes, Morgana pitied her.

So today, she was kind. Guinevere was worried she would never conceive. Arthur was a distant lord to her, as a husband patient but aloof. And after what she’d seen, she assumed he would become even more so.

Morgana could imagine the scene from what Guinevere had told her. Lancelot kneeling down in front of his king as he’d done so many times, blue eyes intense. Arthur’s hands on his head in a sort of benediction; Lancelot’s hands gripping Arthur’s hips. So much pent up passion that there was no choice but for it to explode. And then, Guinevere, walking in to her lord’s chambers only to hastily leave again, blushing. Guinevere, going back to her own rooms to sit alone, unable to wipe from her mind the image of her husband with the knight from France, the knight she’d been half mad for since his arrival at court.

She wanted to laugh, but she was being kind, so Morgana reassured Guinevere. With an optimism she didn’t feel, she told the young queen that everything would be alright. She would give her a philtre to ensure conception. It was little more than some herbs that had soothing properties and a mild aphrodisiac, but knowledge was power and Morgana was going to keep that power for herself.

Especially since she guessed her assurances of conception were false, though she couldn’t know for sure. Unlike the stories that were told of her, she couldn’t see into the future. But she could judge the actions of king, queen and knight, from what she knew of each. She could see the way her son looked at his uncle’s wife, only slightly older than him, and she could laugh, a bitter, ironic laugh, that it should come to her to mother Arthur’s wife, years after she mothered him.

Morgana felt old. Old and barren, giving away her fertility secrets to the young. Such was life, so she accepted it, adopting the role of crone before her time, and she mixed the potion for Guinevere.

As she passed it to Guinevere, worn, capable hands enfolding soft, pliable ones around the round belly of the cup, Morgana was again in the forest glade with the boy she’d helped raise, passing him the cup filled with the blood of his hunt, watching him transition from boy to man, and consummating that transition with him.

Not so strange after all, for everything in life is circular. Round like the womb, round like the moon and the earth and the sun. Interlaced and vastly complicated. Arthur understood this that night. Guinevere might understand this in time.

###

That autumn, the crops failed. It was a long, hard winter, and on midwinter’s night Arthur came to see his half-sister.

He sat by her just as he had so many times as a boy, when around the firelight Taliesin would tell stories to them both. Now, though, it was Arthur who talked. He came to his sister Morgana to confess because he saw how she observed the world of the court. Arthur alone of all the handsome knights and glittering ladies saw how she watched and learned, and so to Arthur alone her ideas were not magical. He had sought her advice before.

He told her now of Guinevere, and how he didn’t understand her. He loved her, but couldn’t show it in a way she could understand. And he told his sister of Lancelot, of how admiration had morphed into passion and then love. He hadn’t been strong enough to resist the love and devotion Lancelot had unhesitatingly given him, hadn’t been strong enough to deny the forces that were pulling them together.

Morgana nodded, and didn’t respond at all when Arthur added that she had probably guessed what would follow before either of the three players in this drama were aware of their parts.

And because she didn’t respond, Arthur continued. He told Morgana about one particular night when he and Lancelot had gone to his chambers late after feasting, intending to peruse some maps, but instead had been unable to resist each other in the candlelight. Guinevere had surprised them, but vanished as quickly and silently as she’d come, so much so that Lancelot had noticed nothing at all, and even Arthur doubted his own eyes.

He told her also of another night. As he and Lancelot were enjoying some wine in his chambers, Guinevere had entered, a cup smelling of herbs in her hands. He and Lancelot watched as she drank it, then advanced on them both, kissing first one and then the other. And before they quite knew what was happening, she was drawing them both towards his bed until they all three collapsed in a heady tangle, and then it didn’t matter who was who.

For one night, they could admit to everything, and nothing was wrong.

But after that night, all three struggled with continuing to hide their loves. The court had noticed, and rumours were spreading about Lancelot and Guinevere. Some must have noticed Lancelot and Arthur’s increased closeness.

Kay was sulky, Galahad and Gawain uncomfortable.

Morgana had to admit that, though she hadn’t known about the new understandings between the three, she had noticed the results. And when the king is unwell, the land is also.

Arthur had not forgotten. That was why he came. The land was barren, and his failures as a king and as a husband to Guinevere must be the cause. As his sister, Morgana always had advice.

This time was no exception. She’d given it much thought since the end of the summer, when it was clear that the harvest was going to fail. And she suggested now, to her brother the King of all Britain, that he glorify all of his knights so much that the wellness of the realm rested on them also. She couldn’t be sure it would work, but she could instantly see a spark in Arthur’s eyes. He would send his best knights on quests to prove their worth and bring glory to his reign and prosperity to his country.

The king was tied to the land, and would do whatever he must to maintain its wealth. Morgana knew that Arthur could not escape that, as she watched him leave in a swirl of purpose.

###

Events of the next years passed quietly for Morgana, though great deeds were done. She had a feeling she would be called on to act one last time before their story was over. But Morgana was tired, so for now she left the plotting and persuading to her sister. She observed as always, but avoided becoming involved. Instead, she watched as even during their own time the truth was perceived differently by everyone. It was as though their lives formed a story that was a gem, and each person took one of that gem’s many facets as Truth. But life is not so simple. Nothing is ever quite what it appears.

Read Lillian Wheeler’s blog at http://llwheeler.livejournal.com.