Sir Galahad and the Tatterdemalion
A Lost Lost Tale of Sir Galahad
This tale is part of an ongoing series of The Lost Lost Tales of Sir Galahad, not to be confused with The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad that were discovered in the bust of St. Plagiarus. Read the full history of the discovery of these tales here.
One pleasant morning, Sir Galahad and his coal-black charger came to a sudden halt with a clashing, clanking, clattering CRUNCH.
What had they come across here in the shadowy depths of the Wild Forest? If such a question rose in your mind at the squabbalous sound of scraping scabbard, spurs, and salt cellars, you would be in error, for it was not a What but a Who. Well, say ye, who could be so fearsome as to inspire this cantankerous cacophony of hoof, huff, and harrumph? Well, now that the question has been put aright, I shall tell you who had put them awrong.
A child. Nay, not a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked cherub, but a tatterdemalion, woebegone urchin crying in the middle of the road. She wore a hood that would put a botanist in mind of a newly bloomed werewere-kokako mushroom. The lacing on her woolen kirtle would put an entomologist in mind of a featherlegged orbweaver web. The tears puddling around her goatskin boots would put a meteorologist in mind of a category three typhoon. Unfazed by the horse and rider’s startled appearance, she did not even lift her head when the knight had collected his wits enough to address her.
“Fair maiden, what troublest thou?”
Her troubles poured forth. Unfortunately for Galahad, her speech was garbled with weeping, and he couldn’t decipher a single word. The good knight dismounted from his snorting beast and removed his helm. His gesture seemed to momentarily subdue her sobbing.
Kneeling before her, Galahad reached into his pocket1, pulled forth a handkerchief (white, edged in pale blue lace, embroidered with the initials E.F.), and handed it to her. She reached out to accept the token and peered into the stranger’s ruddy face. Her shuddering sobs ceased. She pulled back her hood and wiped her last tears away.
“Sir Galahad of the Siege Perilous at thy service,” he began again, bowing his head.
The lass curtsied in reply. “Lissen. Lissen Toomey.”
Galahad cocked his head to one side.
Lissen frowned, “My name. You can call me Lisse.”
“Beg pardon, milady,” the knight apologized, “Pray tell, what dastardly woe hath befallen thee?”
Water welled up again in the child’s eyes, “I—I lost it.”
Galahad’s brow furrowed. His breast swelled. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.
“What hast thou lost, dear child? Thine family? Thine retinue? Thine kingdom?”
It was at this very moment that a most unexpected noise emanated from the dark and (formerly) silent forest.
MEW!
“My kitten!” Lisse gasped.
This revelation accosted Sir Galahad with the simultaneous emotions of fear and rage. Rage at the monstrosity of a world that would wrest kittens from children’s arms. Fear for the unspeakable horror that such a fate might force him to relate to this delicate innocent. Her cat had vanished; who could know to what rabbit trails it may have succumbed or by what shepherdless trees it may have been devoured? In truth, he could think of no adversary more dangerous than that most dreaded lure of all: Curiosity.
MEW! MEW! The wooded vale protested.
“Here kitty kitty,” cried Lisse, raising her voice and face to the leafy bower.
Sir Galahad was about to inform her that it was, alas, too late, when he noticed a quivering out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh! He’s stuck! There!” Lisse pointed.
The gallant knight rose to investigate. Above them in an ancient yew tree, two golden eyes glimmered down.
MEEEEOW!
Galahad cast his eyes about, searching for some practical help, such as a ladder or a catapult.
The girth of the great tree descried its towering enormity. Its bark was smooth as stone, impossible to climb, unless the climber happened to be equipped with needle sharp claws or a body like a coiled spring. Drawing his weapon, the tall knight could not even reach the lowest branch with the tip of his sword.
“Your horse?” peeped Lisse.
Thinking the child distracted, he did not at first realize that she was suggesting he employ his grazing steed in the attempt. Even once the idea occurred to him, he was leery of its wisdom. Since no wingéd chariot happened to appear, however, he felt he had no other choice but to try. He led the horse to the base of the giant trunk, where he clambered onto the saddle and awkwardly assumed the posture of a stunt rider. Balanced thus on his precarious footstool he clutched the branch above and hefted himself upon the limb that was thicker than a reasonably thick man (which Sir Galahad was not, thanks in part to frequent wandering and infrequent feasting).
Arms clasping, legs swinging, torso hugging, he finally found himself astride the coniferous appendage2. Below him Lisse clapped. He squinted into the shady canopy. The cat being the color of soot was no help. A flash of whisker caught his eye. As he reached for it, it scampered back, towards the end of the bough. Upon which end (Galahad shortly determined) the weight of a kitten was better suited than that of a mail-clad knight. He surveyed the area for nearby support and found none. Undaunted, he crept along the narrowing plank and sought to soothe the frightened creature with promises of cream and catnip. The kitten’s pitiful mews were cut short by the ominous creak of taut wood. The branch began to sway, and Galahad cast a final forlorn look back across the distance he had traveled from the sturdy trunk as he scooted once more toward the stranded animal.
Bowed under the load, the branch reduced its elevation to a height from which the kitten hazarded to leap down to its mistress.
“There, there, Betelgeuse, I’ve got you now.” Safe in Lissen’s clutches, the kitten purred.
A new problem (that of descent) was just presenting itself to Galahad when the situation took things into its own hands and a swift wind deposited him onto the miraculously mossy forest floor. Lying face down in the dirt had never felt so utterly divine. Solid as oak, warm as a mitten, pungent as old books. He basked upon the glorious, unwavering, hospitable earth and uttered a prayer of gratitude. Unto dust shalt thou return3.
“But Sir,” Lisse answered him, “You forgot my kite, please.”
(The kitten had wriggled free and frisked about in the underbrush, pouncing on moths.)
Brushing the leaves and twigs out of his hair and ears and the crevices of his regalia, the good knight looked up into the dimness again, and winced. A ribbon trailed down from the branch above the branch which he had recently vacated. A ribbon, fluttering in the very breeze which had sped him on his way. A ribbon indeed attached to a kite caught fast.
Sir Galahad took a deep breath. Once more unto the breach4. Er, beech. Er, yew. This time he had the bright idea to remove all of his heavy armor, under which he wore a flexible leather jerkin, tunic, and tights5. Lisse held the horse’s reins as he eased himself up with a new appreciation for the part of his brain that controlled balance and coordination6. The next higher level of branches could be reached by standing on the first. In his lighter, more agile state, the knight lost no time in inching along the shaft with the deftness of a gymnast. His feet gripped the beam below; his hands braced against the rafter above. He came to the trailing kite-tail, and with one hand firmly anchored, reached out with the other to tug it free. Gently though, so as not to tear it to shreds in the process.
Lisse leaped with joy.
At last7 the kite was loose, and Galahad sent it gliding softly to the mossy ground, where it was promptly pounced upon by the cat. Then the tree-born knight carefully slid down to hang and dropped once more into a tussock of grass with nary the slightest aplomb.
Lisse scooped up her kite. Ribbon, kitten, and maid twirled in a circle of delight. Galahad smiled at their cavorting as he turned to retrieve his pile of armor.
“Now,” sighed Lisse, “about my locket.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“The one they stole.”
“Who sto—?” Galahad was interrupted by a rush of wings and chatter in the treetops. He looked up into the dappled bower for the third time. There, amid a patch of blue in the forest roof, a pair of birds nested in the top of the towering yew. He groaned.
“The magpies.”
Sir Galahad’s unique panoply did in fact contain pockets.
The phrase bucking bronco originated as a mispronunciation of bucking branch oh!
Genesis 3:19
Henry V, Act II, Scene I
Layers are a highly recommended multipurpose wardrobe option when it comes to fashion, unpredictable weather, or meandering through forests.
cerebellum
like the arrival of a long-awaited letter from far, far away
Reagan Dregge loves names and words and stories. She once studied creative writing and theatre arts, but today she homeschools, writes handwritten letters, and salvages her own little house on the prairie.
Did you enjoy this tale? Find the original Lost Tales of Sir Galahad here!
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I love how Galahad literally "saves the cat" in this one!
Delightful, Reagan! “Once more unto the breach. Er, beech. Er, yew.” May have been my favorite part, but it was too hard to choose.