The Greener Grass

Ralf stepped off the boat, dropped to his knees, and pressed his hands to the ground. Lush, green grass rubbed against his palms. His fingernails dug into rich black soil. This was good land. Fertile land. So different from the arid dustbowl of home. He could live a true life here, not a meagre existence. 

‘Is it everything you dreamed of, friend?’

Ralf snapped his head up to find a bearded man smiling down at him. The man looked old. Older than anyone else Ralf had ever met. He might even have been 50 or 60.

‘It’s amazing,’ Ralf said.

The man’s smile broadened and he held out a hand. ‘The name’s Owain. I heard that Captain Tillman was bringing in an outlander today, and thought I’d come welcome you. It can be overwhelming, seeing Avalon for the first time.’

‘You can say that again. Everything’s so… green.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

Ralf took the offered hand and Owain helped him up. ‘Come on then, lad. Let me show you around.’

He led Ralf up the grassy bank and toward a cluster of houses. They were well-made, sturdy things, formed from solid lumber and stone. A few even had glass windows. Back in Ralf’s home, such knowledge had been lost long ago. 

‘Is this one of your major towns?’ Ralf asked. It must have been, surely?

Owain burst out laughing. ‘Nymphwood? A major town?’ He laughed again. ‘No, son. This is just a small village. The capital city, Alfhaven, is hundreds of times the size of this place.’

‘Hundreds…’

‘Aye, but no need to think of that right now. Come and let me buy you a drink.’

Owain pulled Ralf into a large building he called a ‘tavern’. 

Inside, a crackling fire warmed the large main room, and several people nestled around tables. Owain led Ralf to a secluded booth and gestured for him to sit on a plush, padded bench, before calling something to the man behind the bar. 

A minute later, the smiling barkeep approached, holding two overflowing tankards. ‘Here you go, laddie. Nothing like your first taste of Nymphwood ale.’

Ralf simply sat there, his brain unable to process the comfort that now surrounded him. Plentiful firewood. Solid furniture. And ale! His grandfather had spoken of ale, but Ralf had never tasted it. There was an almost fruity aroma to the beverage, like the scent of summer, when food was a little less scarce, and safety a little more assured.

‘It smells good, but it tastes better,’ Owain said. ‘Take a swig.’ 

Ralf raised the tankard to his lips and poured. The taste was… well, he didn’t know how to describe it. He had no frame of reference. Back home, food had been for sustenance alone—and there was very little of that. Flavour was something that only the very richest and most fortunate could afford. 

But this drink, the same drink that was being enjoyed by numerous patrons in the room… it opened Ralf’s mind to a world of possibilities. 

A tingle of pleasure rushed across his mouth and down his throat. A warm, fuzzyness settled in his stomach. 

Ralf took another sip. And another. And another.

Soon, the tankard was empty, and Owain was chuckling. ‘Alright then, now that you’ve quenched your third, I imagine that you have quite a few questions about life here, which I’ll be happy to help answer. First things first—’

Trumpets blared outside the tavern.

Owain’s face fell. ‘Oh no.’

‘What is it?’ Ralf asked. 

‘The King is here. We have to go outside and show our respect. Bugger. We should have had more time to prepare for this.’ He seized Ralf’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me very closely. Whatever you see out there, you must not say a single bad word about the king, do you understand?’

‘Of course!’ Ralf may have been an outlander, but he still understood manners. He would never have dreamed of disrespecting a chief or elder—or frankly anyone stronger than him. He wasn’t foolish enough to insult the king of a land that had offered him refuge. 

Avalon was the last true kingdom left. The last bastion of safety and peace on the entire planet. Ralf would do everything he could to earn his place here. 

He followed Owain outside the tavern, to find the street lined with villagers. Slowly advancing along the road was a large palanquin, draped in red curtains and carried by four bearers. Another figure, draped in fine clothes and golden jewellery, strolled along in front. 

‘That’s the Royal Herald’, Owain said. ‘You should show him respect, too.’

Ralf nodded. He wondered why Owain kept a firm grip on his arm. At first, he supposed the man thought he was an ignorant oaf who needed carefull managing. But soon, he realised exactly why Owain wouldn’t let him go. 

The herald stepped toward the palanquin and pulled back the curtains, allowing Ralf and the villagers to set eyes upon their king. 

Ralf gasped. 

Inside the palanquin, seated on a golden throne, rested the best-dressed corpse Ralf had ever seen.

It was an old corpse, too. Decades-old, at least. The skin was ripe and dry, pressed tight against the bone. A few raggedy whisps of hair hung down from its head and rested against a golden chain and fur-trimmed coat. 

Nobody else seemed to make anything of this absurd, macabre sight. 

The villagers cheered and chanted, ‘Long live the king! Long live the King!’

Ralf turned to Owain. ‘That’s your king? But he’s—’

‘Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say it, damn you!’

‘I don’t understand. Your King is obviously mmmmppphhhh’

Owain had slapped a hand over his mouth 

‘Shut up, you damn fool! Come with me.’

Owain didn’t give Ralf the chance to refuse. He dragged the man down the street and into a small church that stood nestled at the end of the village square. Only once they were inside the building did he release Ralf’s arm. 

‘Can we talk now?’ Ralf asked. 

‘No! You can never say what you want to say. Not even to me.’

‘But why not?’

Instead of answering, Owain pointed to a stained-glass window that dominated one wall of the building. It depicted a tall, beautiful woman handing down a glowing orb to a much smaller, crowned man. 

‘Let me tell you a story. A hundred generations ago, the Lady blessed our land with a great gift. For as long as a Pendragon king sat on the throne, we would have prosperity. Our land would be green and fertile, our wells deep and cool. Our shores would remain safe from invaders and our people would know peace. But if the Pendragon line should end, she would take her blessing back.’ 

‘So if, hypothetically,’ Ralf said. ‘The last member of the Pendragon line were to die without leaving an heir…’

‘Avalon would become as hellish as the rest of the world, yes. Do you see now why we are so grateful for the longevity of our blessed King Bedivere, long may he reign?’

‘I do.’ And he did. The people of Avalon believe that they owed their miraculous prosperity to some ancient magic and that as long as they refused to accept the death of their king, that magic would remain. It was ridiculous. A kingdom needed a king, not a corpse. Without one, it would surely fall. Ralf couldn’t let that happen. Avalon was the last beacon of light in a world that had fallen to darkness. Ralf had to protect it. 

If the people would only accept a member of the Pendragon line, then Ralf would find them. How long had Owain said they’d ruled for? A hundred generations? There must have been plenty of illegitimate Pendragons running around, with the blood that the people demanded flowing through their veins. All he needed to do, was find one with a strong enough claim and Avalon would have the ruler it needed. 

*** 

Long years passed. Ralf rode from village to town, from town to city, and from city back to village. He must have crossed Avalon a dozen times or more, rallying people to his cause and searching for the heir he knew must be out there. It was a thankless task. Most people were terrified to talk of the death of their monarch, even in cryptic and hypothetical terms. So instead, Ralf tried a different route. He talked of the majesty of the Pendragon line, and sought out any who claimed to have had… special relations, with the family. 

Some people still realised what he was really playing at, and while many of these became actively hostile and drove Ralf from their homes, more than a few joined his cause. They never spoke about the plan explicitly. Never talked about searching for an heir to the throne, only about finding a lost child to bring pleasure to King Bedivere—long may he reign, of course. 

And then, one day, Ralf found him. A young boy. Probably no more than four or five. But his grandmother swore blind that she’d had quite a tryst with the old king back when he’d been a little more… well, alive. She didn’t use that word, of course, but Ralf got the idea. This tryst had happened precisely nine months before the boy’s late father had been born, meaning that Pendragon blood flowed through his veins. 

Naturally, Ralf hadn’t just taken the old woman’s word for it, but her neighbours had corroborated the story, even swearing that the boy’s father had been a spitting image of the king. 

That was good enough for Ralf. He and his followers took the boy and his grandmother to the capital, Alfhaven, where they loudly proclaimed the discovery of an heir to the throne. 

There was resistance at first. Some even tried to chase Ralf and his band of followers from the city. In fact, as more and more death threats came his way, Ralf was beginning to worry that he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake. 

But then everything changed. The Royal Herald came forward to support Ralf’s cause. Maybe they, like Ralf, had realised that the country needed a true ruler. Or maybe they were just sick of parading a rotting corpse around the kingdom for people to admire. Whatever the case, once Ralf had their backing, things began to move quickly. The death threats dried up, the opposition yielded, and a few weeks later, Ralf found himself standing on a huge stage outside the palace. 

The little boy he’d found, Gerald, sat on a comically oversized throne before him, clothed in rich velvets. A golden, jewel-encrusted crown perched on his head, though it had drooped down and mostly covered the boy’s eyes. Luckily, the crowd were far enough back that they couldn’t make out such fine details. 

The herald spoke in a booming voice. ‘Do you swear to uphold the honour of the Pendragon line and fulfil your duties as monarch with grace and dignity?’

At a nudge from his grandmother, the boy withdrew a finger from his nose and said, ‘Yes?’

‘Then by the power invested in me by the Lady, I name you King Gerald Pendragon, ruler of Avalon, defender of the people, and upholder of the Great Blessing. Long live the king!’

‘Long live the king!’ came the call from the crowd. 

It was the proudest moment of Ralf’s life. Avalon had a real, true king once more. Someone who would protect them from the dangers of the outside world—once he grew up a bit and stopped eating his bogeys, that was. 

***

It only took a day for things to start unravelling. News of poor catches from the fishermen arrived first. Then came word of the rot in the fields. After that, sails were spotted on the horizon—pirates. 

It didn’t take long for the people to blame their new monarch for the change in circumstances. Specifically, they began to blame the man who had put him there. 

Once the plague arrived, Ralf’s fate was sealed. 

The herald, in an effort to secure his own position, immediately turned on Ralf, blaming him for putting an impostor on the throne. Ralf barely escaped the capital alive. 

For weeks, he wandered alone in the wilderness, surviving on roots and berries, avoiding other humans wherever possible. But he couldn’t go on that way for long. Eventually, hunger drove him toward a village. Ralf thought it looked somewhat familiar, though he couldn’t quite place way. 

A party of men were working in a field just outside the buildings, no doubt attempting to salvage what they could of their harvest. They likely wouldn’t have much to share with a stranger, but Ralf had to try. 

As he neared the village, one figure broke away from the group and marched toward him, a shovel in hand. 

They must be coming to drive me off, Ralf thought. 

He readied himself to bow and scrape, hoping that pity would earn him a morsel of bread and a mouthful of ale. 

But the figure made no move to chase him away. Instead, it raised a hand and waved. 

‘Hello, friend. You look in a bad way. Come, let’s see if I can help.’

Ralf knew that voice. Owain. It was Owain. 

He raised his head and met the man’s gaze, seeing recognition light the villager’s eyes in an instant. 

‘You.’

The hostility in his voice was clear. 

Ralf cringed. ‘I take it you heard about the capital.’

‘I heard. The whole damn kingdom heard. Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone? We had something good here! It worked. And now, thanks to you, it’s gone.’

He hefted his shovel.

At that moment, Ralf knew he was going to die. The swing of the Owain’s would be the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him. 

But instead of lashing out, Owain’s shoulders slumped. He turned and strode away. 

‘Wait!’ Ralf called. ‘Aren’t you going to kill me?’

‘What’s the point?’ Owain replied. ‘We’ll all be dead soon, anyway.’