Sir Gawain's Quest
The Wyrd Sisters sat outside their hut on a clear summer night drinking malt liquor. The air was quiet except for an occasional splash from the nearby loch.
“I’m craving a man right now, so I am,” Carla, the youngest sister said.
“I’ve been doing that longer than you, dearie,” Agatha, the oldest replied.
Bertha, the middle sister drained her cup and lamented, “I fear we’re destined to die virgins.”
“A fate worse than death.” Carla grabbed a jug and poured another round for her sisters. The malt liquor had been aged an entire night under a full moon.
The sisters were in their fifties and their undersized kirtles treated to burst at the seams from the rolls of excess flesh it struggled to contain. All had short salt-and-pepper hair that stood straight out as if washed with lacquer. Carla, in the fashion of the younger witches in the north country, let her nasal hairs grow long enough to be braided. Bertha used a herbal cream once a week that made warts grow. She had a fat, cucumber-colored one on the tip of a beak-like nose and a smaller, amber one on her left cheek. She called them beauty spots. Agatha stuck rabbit bones in her pierced ears.
“Weel, we ain’t gonna get laid sittin’ around drinkin.” Agatha was ever the practical one. “We need to find the author and get him to write us into another story. It’s the only way.”
“But how are we gonna do that? We don’t know where this author guy lives.”
“Mayhap, the Laird can help us out.” Bertha had trouble getting her cup to find her mouth. “He has a lotta informants.”
“Uww.” Carla moaned. “I ain’t sleepin’ with him. Better to stay virgin. I have standards, ye know.”
“Ye have a dirty mind,” Bertha said.
“Aye, “ Carla replied, “and proud of it.”
“Bertha may have the right of it,” Agatha said. “The laird is rich and has resources. Mayhap he can find out where the author lives.”
“Hmm,” Bertha said. “And perhaps he’ll pay us the ten silver pennies he owes us for the land he stole.”
Carla sloshed liquor on her kirtle. “You think the author will sleep with us? That would be right pleasant.”
“Aye, the word I hear is that he’s a good lookin’ laddie,” Bertha said.
“’Tis not what I meant. The answer to our problem is to find the author and get him to write another story with us in it along with a gaggle of virile lads romancin’ us.”
“‘Twould be a dream come true,” Bertha said.
“But wait!” Carla said. “What if the author won’t write the story?”
“Then we capture him and, if he won’t write us into a new story, we’ll force him to watch us strip naked.” Agatha drained her mug and held it out a refill.
“I can’t wait to see his expression when we do that,” Bertha said.
“So,” Agatha held a hand with one finger raised. “In the morn, we visit the Laird.”
“’Tis a long walk.” Bertha said.
“Pshaw!” Carla said. “We can get Nessie to carry us across the loch.”
❀ ❀ ❀
Gawain planned to search for the author in the far north. He didn’t fear the Scots because his father was the King of the Orkneys and ruled the islands and the northern coast of Scotland. His father had treaties with all the clan chieftains and Gawain knew each of them. Nevertheless, he had sent messages ahead telling the clans of his travels. Because of the clan wars in the west, he planned to go east of Loch Ness, a route he was unfamiliar with.
Gawain was short and bulky with dark hair and eyes. He rode out wearing a set of well-worn travel clothes, a red linen shirt, black breeches, a blue surcoat and a matching cape. He looked froward to see his da again. The old man had spies all over the land and would surely know if an author kept a homestead up north.
❀ ❀ ❀
Hecate, the patron goddess of witches, had given Carla a tadpole and ordered her to raise it. Once the tadpole had grown too big for the Wyrd Sister’s hut, Carla released it into the loch where it grew into large creature that terrorized the loch’s fisherfolk.
In the morning, the witches walked to the shore of the loch where Carla gave three short whistles. Within minutes, a long neck broached the water and Nessie squeaked in delight at seeing Carla. Nessie swam to the shore and held its head over the beach while Carla scratched behind its ear and gave it an apple to eat. She climbed up on the creature’s back and held out a hand to help Bertha and Agatha join her. Each held onto one of the many dorsal fins on Nessie’s back.
Carla pulled on Nessie’s right ear and it backed away from the shore to head into the loch. It sped across the water and reached the far ashore within ten minutes.
The sisters dismounted and climbed a small hill from which they could see the Laird’s steading.
“Remember,” Agatha warned the others, “We’re here seekin’ information. Don’t be rude to the Laird.”
“If he’s rude to us, I’ll turn him into a mouse,” Bertha said.
“You’ll do no such thing. Be pleasant to him for a change.”
“And here he comes.” Carla pointed to a lone horseman riding towards them.
“Why are you foul sisters on my land?” the Laird said as he rode up and dismounted. Laird MacMulligan stood with his feet apart, arms crossed and glared at the women. The laird was a richly dressed, beefy man. A claymore rode on his left hip and fat legs extended below a kilt that defied gravity by staying on the man’s huge belly. A dense black beard covered most of his face.
“We come in peace,” Carla said, “seekin’ information.”
“Information is valuable and I suppose you seek it free.”
“We’ll give you ten copper pennies,” Caral said.
“A pittance. But what can I expect from the likes of you three?”
“Test not our patience, lest you become a lesser creature,” Bertha snarled.
“I do not fear your spells since it is now a crime to cast a spell on the king or the lairds.”
“Since when?” Caral asked.
“Since your progenitor scared the bejesus out of King Malcolm.”
“Mum?” Caral asked.
“None other. She offered to become the king’s witch and to warm his bed. Naturally, he refused and ordered her out of the castle.”
Agatha chuckled. “Mum always was a bit of a cutup. To business. Give him the coins, Carla. We want to know if the author Hank Quense lives in the area.”
The Laird counted the coins before responding, “A scribbler of tomes? With a foreign name? Nay, there is no such in this parts.”
“And how can yu be so sure?” Bertha asked.
“I own the monopoly on the sale of parchment. A scribbler such as you describe would buy parchment by the cartload.”
Agatha pulled a face. “We find you in a rare good mood. May I ask why that is?”
“More valuable information? All right. I’m in fine mettle because the clans in the west are at war. That means more travelers will come this way to avoid the carnage and that means more customers for my inn in the village.”
The Laird mounted his horse. “Now begone. I’ve wasted enough time on ye.” He mounted his horse.
“Wait!” Agatha called out. “Where’s our money for the land?”
“Bah! The land was wasted when you lived on it. Now ’tis a productive farm that pays me a tithe. You sisters are fortunate I didn’t exile you to live with the bloody Brits.”
“Curses,” Caral sneered. “A wasted trip.”
“Not so,” Carla replied. “We must ponder the news about the war and the travelers. Mayhap, there is a glimmer of hope for us.”
“How so?” Bertha asked.
“Perhaps we can catch a lusty traveler and let him have his way with us.”
Carla clapped her hands.
❀ ❀ ❀
Gawain rode through a wooded area filled with ancient trees. The path, little more than an animal trail, was crowded with underbrush and branches. It was an overcast, chilly day and he had a premonition that trouble lay nearby. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and loosened it in its scabbard.
He heard a hag cackled, spun around toward the sound just as a large sack crashed into hs shoulder. The blow knocked him out of the saddle. He landed on his back and saw stars and blackness.
In a state of semi-consciousness, Gawain sensed someone remove his sword and another someone take his dagger.
“He looks virile enough,” a voice said.
“A bit short, but we shan’t be too fussy, I suppose,” a second voice said.
“Aye, he could be the answer to a maiden’s prayers,” the first voice said.
“Hush now,” a third voice said. “He stirs and will soon be with us.”
Gawain groaned and opened his eyes, looked around and shuddered. Three nightmarish hags stood over him. The sack swung over the path held up by a rope.
He started to get up when the one with his sword said, “Stay down, lest this sword prick thee.”
The oldest looking hag said, “You owe us a boon.”
Gawain pulled a face. “How so?”
“Whilst you lay helpless as a newborn bairn, we stood over ye to protect ye from wolves and bears.”
“Agatha has the right of it,” another hag said. “You owe us and we demand full payment. Who are ye?”
“My name is Gawain. I’m a Knight of the Round Table in Camelot.”
“Hark, a bloody Brit,” Agatha said.
“Nay, I’m from the Orkney Islands.”
“To business,” Agatha said. “These are my sisters Bertha and Carla. As repayment, we offer you a rare treat. We’ll go to our home where you can have your way with us, each in turn.
Gawain shuddered again. “Err . . . I’m . . . Er . . . onna quest. Yes that’s it. I’m onna quest.”
“Big whoop!” Carla said. “What’s that gotta do with repayin’ us.?
“Before I go onna quest, I take a vow of absence.” Gawain gave the hags a sheepish grin. “So, you see I have to resist your charms lest I break my vow.”
”Drat!” Bertha said. “Just our luck.”
“So wot do we do with him?” Carla asked after wiping away a tear. “Doesn’t seem right to just let him go. Not after all our hard work fillin’ the sack and gettin’ it up inna tree.”
“Aye, we should set him a task,“ Bertha said. “But what task?”
“Hah!” Agatha said. “This one has the look of a warrior. Mayhap, he’s someone who could force the Laird to pay us for our stolen land.”
❀ ❀ ❀
The next day, after walking through the village where people hurried out of the way of the witches, Gawain and the sisters climbed a hill to where the Laird’s house stood. Gawain wore chain mail and a helmet that covered most of his face.
As they neared the house, the Laird and three warriors came out of the door. The Laird stood with hands on his hips and shouted, “Begone! The lot of ye.” With a nod from the Laird, the warriors advanced toward Gawain.
“Listen up, ye old fool,” Agatha called out. “We’re here to collect our money for the land. Ten silver pennies it is.”
Carla and Berthe hooked arms and danced a jig.
“You’ll got no coins from me. Chase this rabble off my lands.”
One bulky warrior took the lead and the other two followed but spread out to take Gawain from either side. The lead warrior drew his sword.
Gawain stopped advancing and stared at the warrior. Finally, he called out, “Fergus? Is that you?”
The warrior stood still and glared at Gawain. “Aye, me name’s Fergus and who are ye to ask?”
Gawain dropped his shield and stuck the sword in the ground. He yanked off his helmet. “It’s me, Gawain.”
Fergus stuck his sword into the turf and ran forward. “Froggy!”
“Piggy!” Gawain hugged Fergus and swung him around.
Once Gawain released him, Fergus said, “Wot brings you here? With the Wryd Sisters, no less.”
“Your Laird owes them money for land he stole.”
“He owes everyone. He ain’t paid me in months.”
“Come home with me and I’ll tell my da to put you inta his palace guard. He pays what he owes.”
“Done. Let’s collect the money and be on our way.” Fergus turned to the other two warriors. “Go take a piss.”
When Gawain, sword in hand, reached the Laird, he said, “Ten silver pennies or I start taking off body parts. An ear is worth one penny. If I stab beneath your kilt, the debt is paid. What’ll it be?”
“Kill him,” the Laird ordered Fergus.
“I canae do that,’ Fergus replied. “We grew up together and are blood brothers, don’t you see.”
The Laird swore under his breath, opened a pouch and counted out the coins.
“Don’t put that away yet,’ Gawain said as he pointed to the purse. “Piggy, how much does he owe you.”
“Five silver.”
“Hand it over. Fergus is leavin’ with me.”
❀ ❀ ❀
Gawain’s father was sure he would have heard of an author if one was around since so few of his people could read or write.
After a stay of two weeks Gawain left to return to Camelot. Along the way, he passed the tip of Loch Ness and ran into the Wyrd Sisters.
“Are ye done with your quest?” Agatha asked.
Carla batted her eyes at Gawain while Bertha ran her hands down her kirtle.
Gawain grew wary. His horse sensed the change and stamped his hooves. “Alas, I was unsuccessful up north, so I’m traveling south to Eboricum to continue. My vow of abstinence is still in force.”
“Drat!” Agatha said.
“We’ll die virgins,” Bertha wailed. “I just know it.”
Gawain rode away. He felt sorry for the sisters, but not that sorry. Enough with searching for the author. Once he reached Eboricum, he’d look up Hild. She always had great stories to tell. Mayhap, she or one of her girls knew what really happened to Galahad.
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