Thomas Malory's Postcards from Prison

Newgate Prison, 1469

My ryght dere frende William,

Confynement shalle not mean the voyce of Sir Thomas Malory, knyght, be putte to sylence. It is sayd, a good man may not be cast adown! Though he be ymprysoned for armes taken unlawefully, extorcion, steelyng of horses and entente to slay. And enterynge wythout leve.

I thanke thee hertily for sendyng the quill, ynke and parchment. Despyte thys, the sum of these items doth not meete myn ambycion. Myn purpose ys not ful symple - I shalle not scryve but smalle lettres. Myn purpose ys a dreme of greteness.

Certes, I shall planne to flee thys prysoun, but yt seemes the gaolers shalle not thys tym be ybrybed. So whyle I devys to maken their wyll ful soft, I shall also take upon a grete labour: to joyne yn one fellowshyp the many cronycles of the moste worthy Kynge Arthur and Hys Knytes Ful Noble, of the Rounde Table.

I know not wherefore to begynne, but I truste God’s wyll to bequeathe upon me myn begynnynge, and atte thys tym, a ream of parchment woulde be moste convenyent. Thine haste woulde pleseth me.

And so I humbly teke myn leve, desyryng thou to remembre me yn thy prayeres.

Sir Thomas Malory, knyght

HMS Telos, The Labrador Sea, 1845

My dearest William,

I awoke this morning to a highly strange phenomenon - I seem to have been conveyed - by what means I cannot be sure - to a place most unfamiliar. Different quarters and a different year of our Lord, I am told. I am afraid to say I find myself amongst seafarers, who we know are not much noted for their lawful civility.

On waking, I stepped forth from my cabin, delighted to welcome an end to my confinement. At which point a rather humourless and imposing man, alarmed by the presence of a stranger, immediately ordered my apprehension, shouting something incomprehensible about “The Brig”. Well, without my bastard sword, I am quite impotent, my dearest William. I regret to inform you that even ships have prisons, and once again fate conspires to cage me.

I had not languished long in these uncomfortable circumstances when I received a visit from the aforementioned fellow, now revealed to be the ship’s Captain, one Rook by name. On explaining that I was Sir Thomas Malory, knight, he adopted an expression not dissimilar to that plagued King’s Serjeant who prosecuted me so harshly, and with considerable amusement. Suffice it to say, I did not take kindly to his sudden discovery of humour.

I asked where we were bound, hoping for an answer which might aid my mythic endeavours - perhaps we are making our way to some fabled land, an Avalon. Alas, I was disappointed to hear him utter the most prosaic sounding “Northwestern Passage”. This, to me, is the very definition of a functional and unromantic transitory state, not a destination, or a destiny. I must add, I am also bitterly cold.

I entreated Captain Rook to bring me my quill, ink and a generous amount of paper. He asked for what reason I needed such a quantity of a precious commodity. I explained my ambition to write the great Arthurian Legend.

‘Have you not begun?’ he asked me, with what I feel was an immoderate amount of scepticism.

‘It is true that I still await the Muse,’ I replied, attempting to impress upon him the nobility of my efforts.

‘Do you not have an embarkation point?’ he asked me. ‘Or a place to make port?’ His impudent questions betrayed what I already knew - that this man’s rough mind was anchored in the nautical.

‘You do not understand,’ I countered. ‘The chivalric exploits of King Arthur are manifold, they are complex - even conflicting in nature. One cannot simply wrest them into unity: a more patient hand is needed.’

He escorted me from The Brig through to the Captain’s Quarters. To say I was not impressed would make me a fabulist of the highest order. There stood a capacious desk upon which lay an astrolabe, surrounded by a host of strange and unfamiliar instruments both upon the table and adorning the walls. One device, which he explained measured the very weight of the aether itself, struck me as little less than sorcery.

‘The sea is a capricious mistress,’ he said. ‘And we navigate uncharted waters. Here -’ he held up a paper, ‘- is our mission.’ He held up further papers. ‘Our Admiralty charts, sailing directions. Our ephemerides and almanacs - we map the sky as surely as the sea. Not to mention our routine business, such as inventories and ship’s log.’

I looked at the bewildering array of documentation, loath to confess that I found the rigorous provisions of a rude seaman something of a marvel.

‘If your enterprise concerns the life of a man,’ he said, with an insinuating look. ‘I do not wish to oversimplify, but could you not begin with a birth, and end with a death?’

I made no reply to this suggestion, and certainly would not admit to this ruffian that I found it to be good counsel. Sailors may not be noble, but they are practical. I simply asked him once again if I might have some paper. The miserly fellow examined his inventory and permitted me but a single sheet, suggesting with some audacity that I could return to request another when the detail of my planned ambitions matched the need.

A most insufferable tar, indeed.

On one half I have written this missive, and on the other half I begin to set a course from Tintagel to Avalon.

I hope to write with more agreeable news soon.

Your most humble and obedient servant,

Sir Thomas Malory, knight

The Helios Belt, 2103

Mission day: 1 (for me, 583 for everyone else)

Two light years from Nerista-8

Fuel: 76%

Humidity: 23g/m³

Camaraderie: High

William,

Even amongst the infinitely distant stars, fellowship abounds.

I awoke in a realm I thought an impossibility. The space between Earth and heaven. I did not realise this at first, given that I was enclosed in my smallest prison yet: a box barely larger than the span of my arms. Not only this, but I felt a most unnerving lightness, like being in water.

My fellow travellers would later inform me that this is called “microgravity”, but William, by whatever name you know it, I was flying.

On waking, I shrieked. A slippery material encased me. Breaking free as swiftly as I could - which I can confirm was not swift, nor dignified - I exited the booth, to be confronted with four astonished faces.

‘Hang on to something!’ one cried, as I began to drift towards the ceiling.

It pains me to say that knightly dignity had deserted me in this moment, and I believe my own obvious terror annulled any threat I might have posed. These fellows kept their civility, clearly accustomed to this way of living. They steadied me until I’d calmed enough to talk.

‘Jeff,’ the first one said, extending his hand.

‘I shall not kiss your hand,’ I said, to which he smiled, appearing to take no offence.

He grandiosely informed me that I was on board “Axiom 5”, the name for this humming, grey chamber. Chrétien, the next, slapped me on the back and advised me to take a deep breath. Rhonda looked at me with wide eyes and told me I’d see sixteen sunrises a day. Marie just shook her head and muttered: ‘men’.

Any further introduction was interrupted by a sudden impact. William, a new terror awoke in me. The room shook as though we were under the hammer of some cosmic blacksmith. Lights flickered out, to be replaced by colder, dimmer, emergency bulbs. My companions, though clearly alarmed, were not overwhelmed. They leapt into action.

‘I’m on investigation,’ said Jeff, beginning to look around the vessel. ‘There’s damage to the generators,’ he called.

‘On it!’ said Rhonda.

‘I’ll do systems,’ said Chrétien.

‘Tell me what you need from the inventory,’ said Marie.

‘The misters are down!’ called Rhonda.

‘You - can you operate a mister?’ asked Jeff.

Without time to think, I strode behind Jeff into a side-room, in which grew several small plants.

‘The specimens have to stay wet. Just keep squeezing it,’ he said, handing me the misting device. I squeezed. It did not take me long to mist with confidence, and I set to work anointing the sacred plants. Jeff returned to his investigation.

‘Debris has taken out the fluxulator!’ he called.

‘Getting the chrono-wrench!’ shouted Marie. ‘Chrétien, you’ll need to reset the quantum flibbler.’

Chrétien started tapping away. ‘Polar or anti-polar?’

‘Try polar,’ called Rhonda. ‘Worked better for me this morning.’

‘How’s the misting?’ yelled Jeff.

‘Affirmative!’ I proclaimed, borrowing a term I’d heard on the boat, which felt appropriate.

The team worked seamlessly for another half an hour at least - passing suggestion and instruction between each other with dexterity and gratitude. They sought opinion, trialled, acknowledged uncertainty, and communicated progress - no errant knight acted the hero; all had a part to play in the restoration of the whole. It was an honour to mist in their presence. Once systems were stabilised, Jeff came to retrieve the mister, and me, to the sleeping quarters.

‘These specimens are treasures of our past, and vital for our future,’ he said. ‘They may have perished without your assistance. Thank you -’ and he paused, looked quizzically at me. I realised I had not shared my name on account of my previous shrieking.

‘Thomas,’ I said.

‘Thomas, I am grateful for your unexpected presence,’ he said, the others nodding.

That wondrous day, I did indeed see several more sunrises and sunsets, and in that time felt like these voyagers became my compatriots. They explained their quest: to explore the viability of cultivation in space. I explained mine: to craft my tale, and give to all noble men examples of many noble deeds, that they may see what is to be avoided and what is to be followed.

‘Only men?’ asked Marie.

I acknowledged a fair point, from a noble woman such as herself.

And so, as I drifted into rest, my once-slippery sleeping bag now seemed to me like satin. My pod no longer felt claustrophobic, but comforting. If fate sees fit to wake me here tomorrow morning, I would be glad to continue my quest amongst the stars.

This is Sir Thomas Malory, knight, over and out - for now.

The Un-place, Outside of time

To - someone? A name, once. A W-? I’m not sure. I cannot hold on to it. I cannot hold on to anything. I appear not to have hands.

This is not a room. No walls. Or walls I cannot see. A confinement - yes. There are only thoughts, and words, and the difference is very quickly slipping away from me. Thoughts and words, words and thoughts, interchangeable.

Where am I now? Who am I now? When am I now?

Alone.

Losing, losing, losing, now quickly - but not quickly. I cannot say; there is no before and after. Only now, and now again, and once again - now.

I can’t go on. I must go on.

Oh.

I don’t suppose I can do anything else.

I have spent too much time thinking and not doing - have I consigned myself? Perhaps I thought myself to have limitless time to fulfil… but what was it? I sense it somewhere in the background, as if it follows me. Something I wanted to do. Is this a cruel joke of my predicament?

I thought myself to be imprisoned, but here lies the endless narrative, the true prison of now, now, and now again.

This is the death of loyalty, of honour, of purpose, and yet nothing dies, so in the very next moment I must rediscover them all. It is a continuous loss.

I must quit this awful purgatory. I can’t go on.

I must go on.

Yours ever,

…

Who am I?

An Alchemical Laboratory in Florence, 1727

My Dearest William,

I awoke in Chains - Blessed, Blessed Chains! - on a Stone Slab, its chill sending an odd sort of Joy through my Being. To be restrained was a delight. My Hands regained their Firmness of Purpose: here is an Obstacle, now Overcome it.

The Chamber wherein I lay was circular and windowless: its only light emanating from a Fire’s Embers. Smoke stung my Eyes, yet through the Tears the Walls appeared to Glister even more brightly than the Stars I beheld aboard Axiom 5. The Room’s Circumference was lined with the Instruments of an Alchemist: a cluttered collection of Alembics, Retorts, Phials, Beakers and Aludels, so many crowding the Shelves that most were unreachable, and many of puzzlingly diminutive, or impracticably large, size, as if to administer Physic to a Brobdignagian.

In the centre of the Room stood a Philosophical Furnace, next to a large Table filled with a confusion of open Books and Implements: long-abandoned Distillations left next to others which steamed over Crucibles, amethyst purples, inky blacks, amber and ditchwater brown. In various sporadic piles lay Bundles of Herbs, Pyramids of Salts, and Filings which glimmered extraordinarily.

I could hear bubbling mingled with the occasional crackle from the Fire. A scarlet Substance in a Beaker boiled over, spilling onto the nearest Book - already spattered and well-thumbed.

Presently, a Fellow in a brown, hooded Robe, as stained as the Books, hurried into the Chamber.

‘Curses!’ he exclaimed, grasping the Beaker, his Fingers immediately scalded.

He plunged his Hand into a Bucket of Water positioned beside my current Abode. His Eyes, dark as Polished Marble, regarded me, and on realising that I was awake, he started, throwing back his Hood to reveal a Mat of Grey Hair.

‘I have ruined the Concoction!’ he shouted as if I were some Distance from him, though indeed we stood as inadvisably close as Guinevere and Lancelot. He shook my Chains with great Vexation.

‘Why must the Privy sit at such a Distance from the Laboratory!’ he lamented.

Eager to offer a Balm to his Countenance, I enquired as to his Name. This transpired to be an Error as it had the Result of further inflaming his Spirit.

‘MUST CORNELIO OF PONTE SPUTO INTRODUCE HIMSELF?’ he bellowed, Arms wide. ‘HAS IT COME TO THIS?’

Most conscious of the vast Amount of Glass on every Surface, I ventured some Reassurance: ‘I perceive that your Work here is … very great, Cornelio.’

‘None less than the Elixir of Life!’

Beloved William, his Tones were so Booming, I feared I should never hear you again. I wondered how his delicate Instruments had escaped ruin in the face of such clamorous Intensity.

‘It will be I,’ he cried, ‘who is first to achieve Immortality!’

I recalled my most recent experience and shuddered. ‘I would not advise that Eventuality.’

He was not listening.

‘And you - you shall be my next Test Subject. Had I not let that Serum boil over, I would have prepared for you my latest Draught.’

‘A devastatingly inconvenient Call of Nature,’ I said, thanking God for the Reprieve. Whether Potion or Poison, I desired Neither.

I endeavoured to make my Inquiry, as to how long another Batch would take to prepare, sound as incidental as I could. To my Dismay, he claimed it could be accomplished within a Day. I therefore expressed Meticulous Curiosity about his Process, and I must admit, it was not Feigned.

Cornelio imparted that he had laboured for many a Moon on his own Formula. Many of the Tomes strewn about were his own Work. He had hypothesised, devised, reworked, gathered knowledge, advice, sought counsel, and meditated on Notions which appeared from the Quiet Recesses of his Mind. I harboured Doubts there was a Place of such Silence, but kept my Thoughts to Myself.

I also did not inquire as to the Fates of his previous Subjects.

Despite my finest Efforts, eventually I could distract him no more.

He took a Pinch of the Glimmering Dust, heated it until Vapours arose, which he captured in a Jar of murky Liquid. He boiled this Mixture, adding Dried Leaves and a fragrant Powder which brought Tears to my Eyes. The whole Process was, at last, blissfully Silent. He gradually poured the Scarlet Liquid I had Earlier seen him spoil, and the Whole took on the Appearance of Molten Gold.

‘It must cool before It can be taken,’ he said. He handed me a Piece of Paper, before leaving. ‘Should you wish to… make Clear… your Affairs…’ he said.

His Confidence is unshaken, then.

It sits before me. I am quite afeared to partake of It, but yet, perhaps I have, within my Grasp, my Surest Chance yet of Purification.

I trust that you, William, shall One Day read these Words.

Yours, in Bondage,

Sir Thomas Malory, Knight

Newgate Prison, 1469

My ryght dere frende William,

Gramercy! I have retourned to thys lande, this fayre realme of England.

Myn gaolers sayeth they fered I had fled. But by my troth, I have no longer any wylle to escape.

I scryve onely to saye I am safe and full glad. Tym is passing shorte; myn quill doth werke atte spede to reveyle the Grete Cronycle of Arthur. I have an embarkacion poynte and a porte. Onne my traveles, I shall discurse wyth myn fellowes, strive joyfully wyth myn lymytacions, test myn formula - and meke deth ynto eternal lyf.

Yn common matteres, I am ryght glad to see that thou hast conveyed grete reams of parchment to myn chamber. Thine faith in my enterprys shynes lyk the sonne. Thou remeyne my moste beloved: the Bedevere to my Arthur.

Yn begynnyng my grete labour, perchance YF I were gylty of the offences layd upon me, this may clene the synne from myn soul.

Lest the elyxyr of lyf wrought no effect.

Yours, from the overflowyng welspring of confynement,

Sir Thomas Malory, knyght