The Eleventh Hour

Those who wait to repent until the eleventh hour often die at ten thirty. What time is it now?

Little Plump Jo, the current Artisan in Residence in Malory Tennyson’s Cloudbank Cabin for Arthurian Studies had fallen asleep sitting up on her couch, early in the evening after a very busy day,

She was wakened by Imaginational Dabrowski, one of her five overexcitable Dabrowski Dog canine writing companions, who was tugging at the rug over her legs and barking urgently.

“Wake up! Wake up! Sir Bors is here arguing with Malory Tennyson. He wants to get you thrown out of the cabin!”

“She cannot write a battle scene to save herself and she cannot write a wound care description to save anyone else!” Sir Bors was shouting. “I do not mind that she is too prudish to write a graphic love scene. Some things are better left behind closed doors. It does mean that Lancelot and Guinevere have done no more than make soppy eyes at each other.

But really, Malory, she has no control over the story line. She needs to go, Malory!”

“Calm down, Bors!” Malory was saying.

“No, that writer is a danger to us all! She is worse than those Monty Python people! I do not know why you would even want to keep her here as an Artisan in Residence.”

Malory Tennyson knew exactly why he had granted an extension to Little Plump Jo’s residency. It was because of her writing companions and editors, the five Dabrowski Dogs. Because dogs hear a different range of sound, they could hear Malory when he spoke in his fictional dimension and they could also relate to all the Arthurian characters.

Malory had great hopes that Jo would eventually be able to write a modern retelling of the Arthurian epic tales under his direction.

Certainly her first attempt at telling the story of Lancelot and Elaine of Astolat had been a complete disaster. Elaine had rebelled against performing her role and Lancelot had died.

“She let Lancelot bleed out in the poplar grove, all unshriven! She did not arrange for Lavain to take him to the care and spiritual counsel of the wise hermit or bring me there to pray with him. No one gave him the last rites.”

“He was not supposed to die then. It was not his time. Every other time he has survived, thanks to Elaine’s nursing. And in the end, after King Arthur’s last battle at Camlann, Lancelot and Queen Guinevere have retired to separate monasteries for contemplation and penitence and they have both met good ends. In fact by some accounts he is reckoned as a saint. He is credited with healing Sir Urre of Hungary and others also; and driving out dark forces from the Dolorous Tower. When he died the Abbot said he was smiling and there was a heavenly fragrance in the room.”

“Yes, Bors, I know. I recorded it thus,” said Malory soothingly.

“I know my cousin was far from perfect,” Bors continued, “but he loved God and he tried to resist temptation. Pride was always a problem for him. But I would find it hard to be humble if I were the Queen’s Knight, the handsome darling of the court, undefeated in battle or tournaments.

The conflict between his loyalty to his best friend, King Arthur and his love for his lady, Queen Guinevere tore him apart. Personally I blame Guinevere, that ruiner of good knights – but it takes two to fall. Lancelot was like King David. He was deeply flawed but he was still a man after Gods’ own heart. And in spite of all his sins, he was granted a partial glimpse of the Holy Grail. That was more than most of those who set out on the Quest with us were granted.

He was just a man – a good man with faults. I prayed for him every day.”

“Yes, Bors, I know!” reassured Malory.

“At least nobody can accuse him of causing the downfall of the Round Table. If that happens there will be nothing to blame but Mordred’s ambition for the throne and clan rivalries. Mordred will have to invent some other source of scandal to ignite the situation. How is this Little Plump Jo going to manage that?”

“I do not know, Bors!”

“And what about his final wishes?” asked Sir Bors. “Did Ector de Maris give his eulogy?”

“No.”

“And was he buried at Joyous Garde?”

“No.”

“Why was he not buried there? His tomb was already in place, engraved with his name; and he always expressed that he was to be buried there. Why was he not buried there?”

“Because he is not dead, Bors!”

“Not dead?”

“No. You are right. It was not his time to die."

"So I granted Little Plump Jo an extension of her residency and instructed her to end the first book in her trilogy on a cliff hanger. The reader would not know for sure whether Lancelot was alive or dead. It would encourage readers to buy the second book to find out.”

“There has not been any explanation as to how he survived. Maybe there was an old peasant woman who found him in the forest. Maybe Lavain took him to the court of King Pelles, the lame Fisher King, who has skilled personal physicians from the East. Maybe it was a miraculous healing by the Holy Grail. Who knows? Maybe we will find out in a flashback sequence or maybe we will never know.”

“He has returned for the second book which tells the story of Elaine as she is now – the Lady Charlotte-Elaine, Lady of Shalott and entrepreneur owner of Charlotte’s Web Weaving,” concluded Malory. “But he entered her story at the point where Lady Charlotte -Elaine first saw him riding by her tower singing tirra-lirra, on his way to Camelot. He has been working his way valiantly through his Hero’s To Do List; but the incidents are happening in the wrong order or in the wrong context now.”

“So come to the Cabin tomorrow afternoon during the writing session, find out how you can help Lancelot appear at the right time for each of his tasks; and above all continue to pray for him every day!”