Quest for a Galahad

My good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,

My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.

“That was from Sir Galahad written by Alfred 1st Baron Tennyson in 1842,” informed Intellectual Dabrowski. “And that was what Malory Tennyson read out first. Then he put out a call for people to audition for the role of Galahad for the Fog Lake re-enactments.”

Intellectual Dabrowski and Psycho Motor Dabrowski, two of the five overexcitable Dabrowski Dogs, canine writing companions of Little Plump Jo, the current Artisan in Residence in Malory Tennyson’s Cloudbank Cabin, had returned from accompanying Robin Butler and Petit Oz Le Cure Hardy to The Tavern to watch Malory Tennyson searching among the local yokels for a Sir Galahad for his Fog Lake re-enactments.

“It was great!” said Psycho Motor. “All the young men in The Tavern stepped forward, heckling each other and elbowing each other in the ribs.”

“I could do that!”

“Yeah, right! Strength of ten? I don’t think so!”

“You wanna bet? I’ve carved more casques than any of you here!”

“Casks of wine, maybe!”

“But what exactly does ‘because my heart is pure’ mean?”

“Then Malory announced Round Two. At the bare minimum, you must be able to perform all the deeds and have all the spiritual attributes listed in the C’est Moi song from the musical Camelot with particular emphasis on

Succeed where a less fantastic man would fail.

Cleave a dragon in record time,

No matter the pain, he ought to be unwinceable,

Impossible deeds should be his daily fare.

AND

His heart and his mind as pure as morning dew.

He could easily work a miracle or two.

To love and desire he ought to be unsparkable,

The ways of the flesh should offer no allure.

“If you can say C’est Moi to that step forward. Otherwise sit down now.”

“Well, most of them still thought they could do all that, so he went on to Round 3.”

“You must be able to speak at least five languages, paint murals, compose music and lyrics for battle songs, laments and love ballads. You must be able to defeat a fully fit Sir Lancelot du Lac, in a fair fight, on a good day. As Sir Lancelot is currently unavailable, there will be auditions for this with Sir Gawain. If you have been beaten by Sir Gawain in the last two years, you can sit down now. And you must be a virgin and a teetotaler.”

“He lost a lot of the hopefuls after Round 3!” yelped Psycho Motor. “The Tavern was probably not the best place to search for a Galahad!”

“He still had a small group of eligible ones (or liars)” added Intellectual. “So, then he stipulated that they must have a mother named Elaine and not know who their father was. Several of them did not know who their father was; but none of them in that group had a mother named Elaine. Malory came away from The Tavern absolutely fuming!”

“Why does he need Galahad now? Is he going to do the Search for the Holy Grail reenactment next?” That was Petit Oz Le Cure Hardy.

“I think it was because I have failed him. Because of my injured leg, I will not be able to participate in the Fog Lake re-enactments for several months. He wants to replace me with a perfect version of me. I was the character Malory considered as himself” said Sir Lancelot.”

“Do you have a son, Sir Lancelot?” asked Robin Butler.

“No, but there is a prophesy that I will have a son with King Pelles’ daughter, the Grail Maiden, Princess Elaine of Corbenic.

Here shall come a leopard of king's blood, and he shall slay this serpent, and this leopard shall engender a lion in this foreign country, the which lion shall pass all other knights.

“Is that our Elaine?” asked Psycho Motor Dabrowski.

“Oh, keep up with the plot, Psycho!” growled Intellectual Dabrowski. “Our Elaine, Charlotte-Elaine, The Lady of Shalott and entrepreneur owner of Charlotte’s Web Weaving, is the former Lily Maid of Astolat and her father is Bernard of Astolat.”

“Where is our Elaine now? I thought her charitable organization Red Sleeve Care Services was managing Sir Lancelot’s care and that Lady Elaine had even opted to provided in person nursing for him.”

“She left to attend a weaving expo and has not been seen since,” said Robin Butler. “And her replacement, that cranky Old Peasant Woman from the Forest only showed up briefly. I hope another nurse comes soon, because the dressing needs to be changed or he will end up with the fever again.”

As if in answer to this requirement, King Arthur appeared with his personal physician at his side. “Morgan Todd will be caring for you now, Lance. No expense will be spared to ensure your rapid healing.”

“I do not have King Arthur’s Medical Benefits scheme membership.” Lancelot said.

“Not to worry. I have not instigated Medical Benefits yet since my return.” King Arthur replied. “Actually Morgan, I am not sure whether this is relevant -but – Lancelot is still in the previous iteration. He did not complete his story before I returned from my shortened long sleep in Avalon.”

“That does complicate matters!” Morgan Todd said, nodding his greying head sagely, as he inspected Lancelot’s thigh. “A severe fracture with a very nasty open wound. Is this the same wound I treated after his Trial by Combat on behalf of Queen Guinevere against Sir Mador de la Porte?”

“Yes, on the day The Glitch in the Fog lake happened.”

“I remember thinking at the time that this was a more serious wound than the usual scratch. Then he went missing and Queen Guinevere spent one thousand pounds of the kingdom’s money on mounting a search for him. But I would have expected it to be further healed than this by now. Has he done anything to aggravate the injury in that time?”

“Yes,” said Robin Butler “he drove a war chariot to Camlann to aid King Arthur in his final battle.”

“I did not get there in time to aid Arthur.” Lancelot said. “After that I should have gone to Amesbury to find Queen Guinevere and then to the monastery to repent and die; but the cart carrying the wounded brought me back here.”

“He may have to die in his iteration.”

“The Old Peasant Woman from the Forest prophesied that I would die within the year.” Lancelot said. “So maybe I should go to the monastery now and seek repentance and a good death. But I am less than halfway through my Hero’s To Do List for this iteration.”

“We will do what we can” Morgan Todd said, “but we may have to send you to Corbenic by litter to seek a miraculous healing by the Holy Grail.”

Malory Tennyson came striding in. “Ah Morgan Todd, I do not suppose you will be able to get Sir Lancelot back in the Fog Lake before next week?”

“Definitely not!

“Hmm, no. I didn’t think so. Little Plump Jo, What was the name of that author who had the program which created 3D images and likeability/relatability scores for characters?”

“It was I. Wright” replied Jo. “But it was not really him. It was an AI Bot and it was not a very good program. Mind you, I only had the One Week Free Trial version and could not do the 3D printing.”

“I really need a Galahad.”

“They are considering sending Sir Lancelot to Corbenic by litter. If he gets healed by the Holy Grail, maybe he could fulfil that other prophesy, kill the serpent, save King Pelles daughter, Princess Elaine, and beget Galahad at the same time!” barked Imaginational Dabrowski.

“I simply cannot wait for what may or may not happen then; and then wait another fifteen or sixteen years until Galahad is old enough. Things are happening at an accelerated rate in the Fog Lake since The Glitch. I need a Galahad now. I also need information about cloning services.”

That night the AI Botflies were back, pestering Sir Lancelot. Morgan Todd was called in and Lancelot requested that Little Plump Jo should also be called.

“They are not just swarming and droning and spying this time!” Lancelot said. “They are stealing – copying my features and my attributes and stealing my very essence!”

“This has happened before, you say?” queried Morgan Todd.

“Yes, before the Battle of Camlann.” Jo replied. “It seemed to be related to some research I was doing which involved using AI searches – long story – but Sir Lancelot was convinced that what he called AI Botflies (because they were like the botflies that attach to the hairs around horses’ fetlocks) were spying on him.”

“Was he feverish at the time?”

“Well, yes, probably; but it did seem to be more real than just that on several different levels.”

“This time they are stealing!” Lancelot re-iterated. “They are scanning my whole body (except my injured leg) and stealing my identity and my very life fluids.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Intellectual Dabrowski “Maybe they are really A.I. Botflies!”

Two days later Malory Tennyson came striding in with a character who seemed to be the exact replica of Sir Lancelot. He was tall and well built and had the same dark eyes and coal black curls.

“Meet Galahad – top of the range, finest example of a combination of cloning, character identity programming and 3D printing!” boasted Malory. “Even the flaws have been eliminated by manipulating the program!”

“That is absolutely uncanny!” exclaimed Little Plump Jo. “He is exactly like Sir Lancelot!”

“Yes, but better!” said Malory.

Over the next few days Little Plump Jo watched Galahad, thinking that she only knew which of the two was Galahad because Lancelot was confined to his bed. But there was something that just seemed Not Quite Right about the Galahad character. His speech seemed a trifle stilted and the content of his conversations seemed a bit repetitive; but it was quite subtle – not a blatant wrongness.

"Galahad does not express emotions as much as Sir Lancelot” Emotional Dabrowski observed. “Even when Sir Lancelot is trying to be very unemotional about something, I can usually gauge his underlying feelings. But I don’t get any sense of warmth from Galahad.”

“ He is Not Quite Right but he is not really Wrong either. In some ways it seems as if he is a bit TOO right!” Sensual Dabrowski declared.

“I wonder whether he has tried to sit in the Siege Perilous yet” barked Intellectual Dabrowski. “Only the true Galahad can sit in the Siege Perilous at King Arthur’s right hand and live to tell the tale.”

Charles the Armorer was the one who identified one of the differences between Lancelot and Galahad.

He had been working on modifying a litter to enable as comfortable as possible transport for Lancelot for the journey to Corbenic. He came to report on it to Lancelot.

“It is really great!” enthused Psycho Motor Dabrowski, who had been watching Charles work. “It is made to minimize jolting and has compartments to carry supplies and equipment for treating Sir Lancelot during the journey. It’s like an ambulance!”

“Ambulo -are-avi-atum - to walk” said Lancelot with a deep sigh and closed his eyes in prayer. He seemed to be searching deeply for a reserve of energy, courage and resilience. Then he raised his head, looked up and nodded with resignation.

“Yes, I understand. It is to be a pilgrimage, a walk of pain and penance, from here to the mountains of Corbenic. And this ambulance is to be as a support vehicle for me.”

“No, Sir!” said Charles the Armorer. “We do not expect you to walk. You will lying as comfortably as possible in the litter drawn by horses with your leg supported and cushioned with padding.”

“We will make the journey in short, easy stages,” Morgan Todd said, “and I will have everything I need to give you treatment on the way as needed.”

“Speaking of walking,” said Charles the Armorer “have you noticed that Galahad has two right feet?”

“I told you he was TOO right!” Sensual barked.

“I had not noticed that” Jo said. “That is a very distinguishing point but would not always be easy to notice. Could I ask a favour, Charles? Could you maybe put a dusting of gilt in Galahad’s coal black curls, like a sort of halo, so that we can tell easily which is which, when Sir Lancelot is back on his feet?”

“I would feel no guilt at all about doing that!” replied Charles.