The Fisher King (BBC Somerset Short Story Competition)

This work was for a BBC Somerset competition, where they gave you the basics of what had to happen in the chapter and then whoever won got it recorded by known actors, one of whom I recall was James Purefoy. This was a long time before podcasting, which really needs decent internet to download or enjoy in real time, so the idea of having my writing read out seemed like something mythical. Now I could record this on my mobile and still have as many people listen to it. I don’t remember much about the detail, other than it was to do with West Country ghosts and ghouls or some such rhubarb, and it made me realise just how much I despise writing to somebody else’s constraints. Still, I gave it my best go, in a tense which I really, really hate using (third person singular? Who knows?) and it was probably as good as the bag-of-shit series I was writing for. I’m sure if you’re a Chris Stanley complete-ist you can find the other chapters online somewhere. I can’t be bothered looking, that’s how little regard I give this work.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FISHER KING

By Christopher Stanley

   Dag clears his throat, bathed in spectral light. The presence of the Punkies in their post-natural form gives him the air of a malcontent; an interloper. He seems not to belong to the party, as if his invitation were a private joke.

   ‘I have time enough for your procrastinations,’ says Gwyn, his eyes narrowing towards a crouching Dag, ‘but I fear you and your new acquaintances do not. Please continue.’

   Nick, Josh and Lena are stood four paces behind Dag, in a loose semi-circle. They are too fearful of the scene to come closer.

   ‘Forgive me,’ mumbles Dag at the ground. ‘but I’m frazzled by it m’self. Seems the powers-that-be are determined to forge ahead with they’m project.’

   ‘Excellent. And there has been…no defence for Sedgemoor Plain?’

   ‘There were protesters and the like,’ answers Dag, ‘but they’re always given over as madmen, your Lordship. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop ‘em doing what they’m planned.’

   Lena steps forward and tugs at the back of Dag’s jacket. Gwyn studies the elder man’s face, for signs of dishonesty. Behind him there is an indeterminate chatter, excitable and electrical.

   ‘Dag,’ Lena whispers. ‘Dag, what is this? What are you talking about?’ She looks up at Gwyn’s face. It’s impassive, lost in thought behind the sharp cheekbones and translucent skin.

   ‘Lena, I’m sorry. I just…’ Dag looks into her eyes, his pupils fading. ‘I’m so sorry.’

   Nick starts at a high-pitched screech coming from his mobile. Guinevere’s face is screwed up tightly, and she carries on screaming.

   ‘Enough!’ shouts Gwyn in exasperation. It seems like he is tired of having to control his charges; they are too childlike and mischievous for him to rule effectively. Guinevere stops abruptly, and from the image on the screen Nick sees her back away as if massively shocked, reminding him of a cowering dog.

   Gwyn paces around Dag in the watery half-light, slyly as if thinking.

   ‘So,’ he finally announces. ‘The Wasteland is nigh. Soon, I may be ruler of more than just this…’ His face takes on a sour turn. ‘…mob of children.’

   Josh looks quizzically at Nick, who in turn looks with concern at Lena. She seems to have lost all of her confidence with Gwyn’s musings, as if she already knows what Dag has done. For his part, Dag stares straight ahead, into the group of Punkies.

   Gwyn notices these discreet signals, and waves his bony hand towards the two men at the back.

   ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, speaking with relish. ‘You seem confused. You feel, maybe, that you shouldn’t be here! But,’ and he pauses dramatically, ‘it is imperative that stay. For you see, I could not accomplish anything without some…earthly help.’

   ‘But what do you want with us?’ shouts Nick, more angry than fearful. ‘Dag…that man, bought us together! Are we hostages?’

   Gwyn grins, showing black teeth. ‘You are not hostages, just…pieces of a puzzle I wish to remain incomplete.’ He has an unnerving habit of pausing often in the middle of a statement.

   ‘But we didn’t know we were part of a puzzle! We still don’t know! Let us go!’

   ‘I know.’

   It is Lena. She speaks without raising her head, ashamed to be in possession of all the facts.

   Gwyn grins another black-toothed smile.

   ‘What?’ says Nick. Dag even looks round, to confirm what she’s about to say. Nick flits his gaze from one to the other, judging reaction.

   ‘She said, she knows why you’re here!’ shouts Gwyn. ‘The trouble with you living people is that you never pay attention.’

                                                            ***

   ‘I study mythology as a hobby,’ confides Lena. ‘I attended night school for a while, and write pieces for the internet. One night, about a year ago, I had a reply to an article I’d written about the Arthurian legend.’

   Nick can sense where this is going.

   ‘It was so detailed, filling in gaps,’ Lena continues. ‘It was Dag. Dagonet was a pen name, but I don’t know what he’s really called. Soon, he invited me for a visit around historical sites, and I jumped at it. Soon, we started to find the dead patches.’

   Josh and Nick listen, nodding.

   ‘I immersed myself in books, magazines, websites. I racked my brain trying to find what I could, but it turns out the answer lay here, in the land of Arthur.’

   Nick is about to protest but Lena raises a finger. She is on a roll.

   ‘Have you heard of The Fisher King before?’

   Nick stirs up a faint school memory and replies ‘Isn’t that a T.S. Eliot thing? The Wasteland?’ Already, things are coalescing in his mind.

   Lena nods, and Dag does faintly behind her.

   ‘The legend says that The Fisher King rules over a dying land, and when he dies, the land will die too.’ She pauses, trying to remember accurately. ‘In Christian mythology, this will bring about the Last Judgement.’

   Josh looks confused, Nick curious.

   ‘The legend tells that the Fisher King will only be cured by a Grail. Galahad was sent to retrieve it, and it’s said to reside in a castle. Only within that castle will the Grail be found.’

   Lena is sweating slightly now. It is stuffy, even in the presence of the Punkies.

   ‘But what’s that to do with us?’ protests Josh. ‘Legends? Arthur? That’s centuries ago! No-one knows if it was true or anything.’

   ‘Oh, it’s true,’ spits Gwyn. ‘Can’t you see, the land around you is dying? The Fisher King is dying!’

   Josh is standing closer now, defiantly. ‘What’s in it for you? To kill people?’

   ‘My friend,’ sneers Gwyn, ‘have you ever taken control of these…creatures?’ He gestures behind him to the Punkies. ‘They are in torment, but they are much too young to understand why. All shall be judged at the demise of The Fisher King, and then at last I will preside over peace.’

   Josh looks ready to lash out, but Nick holds him back. Josh will punch nothing but air.

   ‘Your Lordship,’ says Nick, trying to find an equal ground. ‘This is no quarrel of ours. We can do nothing.’

   ‘On the contrary, Nick Corben…’ Gwyn lets the surname ooze from his mouth, to reap the desired effect.

   ‘How did you…?’

   Nick looks at Lena, and then Dag coughs.

   ‘Nick,’ he splutters. ‘Let me explain. I spent all me life ‘round here looking for signs of Arthur. I’m one of them “grail hunters” you find evr’y now and again in the paper.’

   Lena has her head bowed. Nick s trying not to look directly into Dag’s eyes.

   ‘One of those clues I spent my life searching for arrived in a church porch one rainy night last week. Course, I’d already done the easy bit for Gwyn. I got you here.’

   ‘You sent for me?’

   ‘In a manner of speakin’, yeah. Head-hunted you for a new computer firm.’

   Nick gulps as he realises. He is to start work in August, for Galahad Communications.

   ‘When I first found what Caer Sidi held, I had to bargain for my life. Many have ventured down here, and not come back out. I made a deal; my soul for yours.’

   ‘But why me? What do I have?’

   ‘It’s not what you have, it’s what you are.’ Gwyn growls, still stalking the floor.

   Nick shakes his head. What he hears is too confusing, too strange. A week ago he was a normal man, and now he is…wanted, required by something or someone. But that night at the church, he knows he was following a path. At the end, he found Dagonet.

   ‘Please enlighten him, Sir Dagonet,’ says Gwyn without emotion.

   Dag stammers before he begins. ‘The Fisher King, Nick, is a legend. He’s not a figure, per se.’ Even speaking Latin, Dag’s accent carries a pleasing burr. ‘A lot of them terms and legends have bin mixed up over the years. Like, the final resting place of Grail has many names, in Welsh and French for example, but they’m all similar.’

   Lena perks up. This is something she hasn’t realised until now. Dag takes a breath before answering Nick’s anxious expression.

   ‘It’s called Corbenic.’

    Josh hits on it immediately. ‘Nick Corben! Corben, Nick!’

   Gwyn glances at Josh, with anger in his eyes.

   ‘I’m afraid, Nick, you’ve been trapped,’ says Dag, wearily. ‘You hold the key to the Grail. You were brought to Somerset to find it, and heal the land.’

   ‘But you will be able to fulfil that task no longer!’ cries Gwyn, right on cue.

   ‘Let them go,’ says Nick, gesturing at Josh and Lena. ‘They’re no use now!’

   Gwyn stops pacing. ‘Apologies, Corbenic, but they stay too. Your male friend, who would help you find your designated place…and your female friend, the expert on the legend. If you stay, they must stay. The legend must come to pass!’

   Guinevere shrieks briefly in protest before reducing herself to a small white dot in the middle of Nick’s mobile screen.