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I: The House of the Jabberwock
The picture hung above the polished mahogany sideboard of my grandfather’s study. It was all browns and sepias and dim shades of darkness. It showed a small stand of trees beside a lake, with the waters murky and wild and the trees tossed by the same troubling wind. There was no rain or lightning – this was the great breathless wind that comes just before the storm. I would stare at it for hours, waiting for the violent crash that never came.
As a young man, my grandfather had dreams of adventure, but he never had the nerve to put his dreams into practice. Instead, he took what was a commonplace enough scene, found a mere three days’ journey from home (as far as he dared go), and invested it with all his thwarted yearnings.
As a boy, standing before the picture, I would feel the whisper of those yearnings sounding in my own mind. There was something about that picture – an unexpressed, inexpressible desire, a sense of experiences and feelings beyond those that I knew. I would hear the silence as I stared, measured by the ticking of the great clock in the room and the rich smell of wax polish on the furniture, and in that silence I could just imagine the whistling of the wind by the painted lake.
And the desire would not be quietened, through all the long peaceful years of my childhood. It was something within me that had to find expression. Given no direct encouragement, it fed itself on two things: that painting; and the Quest.
For five hundred years the Quest has been ceremoniously handed down from father to son in direct line of descent of the House of the Jabberwock. No-one actually expects you to go out and seek the beast; no-one even knows where it can be found. It’s just a proud family tradition, carried out for no other reasons than its ancientness and its significance as a rite of passage.
I remember the ceremony, performed on my sixteenth birthday in front of all the household. I had been up since before dawn going over my part in it, striding up and down in the great hall where the ceremony was due to take place. My father and grandfather put my nervousness and eagerness down to the symbolic importance of the occasion. Little did they know the true cause of my excitement – that I intended to use this ceremony to turn symbol into actuality.
At last the time came. I waited alone on the dais as the common people began to take their places in the hall. They were all dressed in their best clothes, smelling dry and musty with long storage. They said little, clearly overawed by the importance of the occasion. They darted quick nervous glances at me, as if I were someone new and strange, and not the little lordling that they saw every day under the most commonplace of circumstances.
At last my father and the officers of the household arrived and took their places – my father with me on the dais and the officers just below. Since he had already conducted this ritual with my father on his sixteenth birthday, my grandfather did not attend.
When all was quiet and expectant, my father strode to the back wall adjoining the dais and took down the Vorpal Sword. He walked towards me, cradling its substantial weight in his arms. The sumptuous red and silver of the scabbard’s fittings glowed in the dim light of the hall. The massive simple hilt, bound in black, could barely be seen.
My father stopped and faced me, holding the great sword in both his hands, and intoned the half-meaningless archaic words:
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He then turned and offered the sword to me, hilt first, and asked: “Do you accept the Quest?” I could see the pride in his eyes. Here was his heir, about to accept the symbol of his heirship and thus express his commitment to the continuation of the House. Little did he know.
This was my moment and I was afraid. I steeled myself and took hold of the hilt. With hands that trembled a little, I slowly drew the sword out of the scabbard and held its weight aloft.
I had never seen it unsheathed before. Its shining plain silvery length was beautiful beyond description. It was not just the faint glow that emanated from it, but the sense of power and certainty that were somehow expressed through the simple reality of its existence. The unknown metal of which the blade was composed could, I knew, cut through almost anything with ease. The knowledge of that fact, physically embodied in the shining blade, gave me a fundamental sense of the solidity and certainty of the Quest. I felt, as I had never felt before, the desire to set out this instant.
Then I lowered the sword, grounding its point and resting my hands on the crosspiece, and I uttered the formal reply to my father: “I accept the Quest – until I should fulfil it or my son take it up after me.” My voice was quite steady.
Then with equally steady hands I sheathed the sword, and my father took it and replaced it on the back wall next to the carved stone head of the Jabberwock. Its goggling eyes continued to stare menacingly ahead, ignoring the entire proceedings.
The ceremony was over, and the crowd dispersed, murmuring their satisfaction at this sign of the stability and continuance of things. My father, having seen the slight signs of nervousness that I had displayed, went and fetched me a cup of wine.
“Easy lad,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder as I gulped it down. “You did well.”
Little did he and my grandfather realise just how heartfelt had been my participation in the ceremony. I had spent many hours of my youth reading the annals of our house, and knew it for a fact that I was entitled to take up the Quest in actuality on the day that I turned eighteen. No-one could stop me; it was simply assumed that I would never do such a thing. Here was my chance to realise what my grandfather’s painting had first set in motion – the idea, simply, of enlarged possibilities, the idea that life could be expanded beyond its given boundaries.
My yearning for adventure was the only thing that ever seemed to disturb the quiet gentle melancholy of my childhood. I grew up the only son, separated by birth from the other boys at the castle, and too far from neighbouring castles to befriend their lords’ sons. Perhaps it was this solitude that made me wish for things beyond my borders, not because I was lonely (for my father and grandfather were always there and always had time for me), but simply because the stillness and isolation were conducive to thought; they encouraged it and afforded it much opportunity.
Ours is a quiet House, this ancient dreaming fortress. The servants move unobtrusively along its stone passages, the drafts whisper in the corners, and even the men-at-arms drilling in the courtyard have a remote sound about them that only emphasises the silence. When my lessons, both physical and mental, were over for the day, I liked nothing better than to wander the dusty halls and rest aching body and mind in the stillness. And wherever I went, the Jabberwock seemed to be with me. Its head was carved over every gateway and archway and in almost every room besides; its statue was in front of the main entrance and the inner keep; and its likeness was embroidered on innumerable tapestries. I would stare at these images for hours, much as I stared at my grandfather’s painting, trying to guess what lay beneath the monster’s inscrutable face. It was inevitable that it should take a hold on my childish mind.
It was utterly familiar and yet always startling and strange: the great eyes, curiously unfocused, and said to be eyes of fire; the tendrils protruding from its face; the flat buck teeth; the bat wings and lizard tail; the wispy feathery hands; and the great killing claws on its feet. What manner of beast was this? Was it the pet of some great sorcerer, or did it have intelligence after the fashion of a man? Or was it merely a vicious brute? And what was the cause of the enmity that lay between us?
I asked these questions, and many more, of my father and grandfather, and every household retainer, but the answers were always vague. The Jabberwock, it seemed, had always been there, like the sun and the moon, and like the forest that surrounded the castle. Like these things, it was not to be questioned, but simply accepted. At first people smiled indulgently at my interrogations, seeing in them the quaint curiosity of a child. Later they became irritable, and I learned to keep things to myself.
I learned too, that more useful information was to be found in the scattered and disorderly archives of the castle. There was no formal library as such. Books and scrolls simply lay everywhere. Some were stacked with reasonable neatness in bookcases in many different chambers; far more lay in piles or singly on or under tables, chairs and even beds. Still more mouldered in storerooms – the mice had got to most of these and they were virtually unreadable.
At first my reading was haphazard; simply a desire for immediate information. Later it became more subtle and organised. I moved from direct references to the Jabberwock to reading any family history that could have even the remotest connection to the monster. In effect, this meant the entire chronicles of our House, which was useful, since it enabled me to hide the real focus of my research. My grandfather served as my tutor, which after the first few years meant ensuring that I busied myself with some sort of useful study of my own choosing. He was delighted at my reading, considering it to be thoroughly worthwhile, and indulged me in it. He even had the storeroom next to my bedroom cleaned out so that I could store books and scrolls there.
Although I was busy deceiving my father and grandfather throughout my childhood, I never felt any real guilt. They were tremendously kind and generous men, but somehow distant – reserved and quiet, withholding that innermost core of self, so that it seemed natural that I should do the same. I would have explained things if I could, but it would have been impossible for them to understand. To them, the castle was the world; there was no need to go elsewhere. I once asked my grandfather why he had never gone further than three days’ journey and he answered quite simply: “Why would I want to?” Whatever he may have felt in his youth, he was by now utterly tied to his home.
What I found out about the Jabberwock was both intriguing and frustrating. From an almost illegible and very old copy of a still more ancient document, I learned that Astreus, the founder of our House, whose name I bore, had had a brief encounter with the Jabberwock in the forest. It was no more than a moment of staring at each other, before the Jabberwock disappeared into the trees, but it was seemingly enough to persuade Astreus to settle on the very spot and to devote his life to finding and killing the monster – not to mention naming his House after it. In this he was singularly unsuccessful, never spotting the Jabberwock ever again, and so at the end of his life he passed the Quest on to his son and thus began the tradition. Other books told me that the first few generations after Astreus took the matter seriously, scouring the woods with great regularity, but the whole thing eventually dwindled to the ritual of my day. The monster was never seen again after that first time, but that one sighting was enough to provide the basis for all the images that adorned our home. And since our House was named after the monster, the Quest was preserved intact long after it had lost all meaning.
But I knew there was more to the Quest than just its place in our history. The Jabberwock was a gigantic powerful beast with an armoured reptilian hide. All that would work against it was a beheading stroke with the Vorpal Sword. I could not practise with that weapon, kept for purely (so everyone thought) ceremonial purposes, but I made sure that I trained primarily with a two-handed greatsword. All the arts of survival in the wild – woodcraft, foraging and hunting – I had imbibed quite naturally, growing up surrounded by forest as I did. As for the skills of human interaction with all the strange peoples I might meet on the Quest, I felt that my aristocratic breeding would enable me to deal with that, despite the isolated life that I had led.
Throughout my childhood and early youth, the Quest was to me something longed for but far off; something to be attained eventually but dissociated from the present. All that changed with the ceremony on my sixteenth birthday. My father and grandfather saw it as a rite of manhood, a sign that I was getting ready to take on the eventual responsibilities of ruling our House. For me, however, it was quite the opposite. It marked the near approach of the Quest, which was a release, however temporarily, from those same responsibilities. I realised, quite suddenly, that the Quest, and with it the abrupt end of my familiar life, was a mere two years away.
I realised too, that I did not hate that familiar life; indeed, in my own way I loved it. I loved its ease and peace and the way it gave me such certainty as to who I was and where I came from. However, I knew there was more to me than my home and what was expected of me by those who dwelt there. It was all too easy to surrender myself to the place. I suppose in the end I was just restless, perhaps simply because I was young.
And now the Quest assumed almost the quality of dread. It was something fearful, with an uncertain ending. Yet not for one moment did I think of relinquishing it. I had imposed it on myself, and the imposition had become a thing external to me, a sense of obligation that I could not shake. I would do it – out of a sense of adventure, out of a fear that it would be cowardly to do otherwise, but most of all because the Quest had become utterly part of me.
The matter of my deceit began to weigh heavily on me. Before, it had been light and distant, but now I was constantly aware of what I was doing, in all my interaction with my family. It saddened me to treat my father and grandfather thus, to watch their eager hopes for me as a stable heir and know that these hopes would be horribly dashed.
And then, a few months before my eighteenth birthday, my grandfather took a chill from the summer rain and died within a few days. I was at his bedside until the end, as was my father. One of the last things he said to me was this: “I am glad that I lived to see you turn sixteen. Now I can go in peace, with our House secure.” His words tore at my heart, and increased my guilt a thousandfold. I did not tell him the truth, of course, for it was not time and I wished him to die in happiness, albeit false happiness.
Now it was just my father and myself, and we did not speak much of my grandfather’s passing. Despite my increased guilt, my sense of obligation to take up the Quest did not alter. It almost became stronger, as a form of defiance. At least there would be one less person to disappoint.
On the day before my eighteenth birthday I sat in the apple orchard in the late afternoon and listlessly ate its fruit. The brown leaves of autumn lay in neat piles where the gardener had raked them. It was very peaceful and very beautiful. This place in its tranquillity was the very essence of my home. I looked all around me, preserving the memory to carry with me as a symbol of my life. Despite the beauty, I knew that I would go – perhaps because of it. There was nothing more to say.
The day of my birthday came at last in a bright clear dawning. Having only dozed fitfully through the night, I was glad when the sun woke me at last to this day of all days. There was a strange mixture of feelings: relief that the thing which I dreaded and longed for in equal measure was finally here; a sense of doom and terrible fear; and a light-hearted gladness and anticipation. I dressed and washed my face as if in a dream, where all was predetermined and unavoidable. I knew that if I was to survive this day and do what I had planned, then it was best to stay within the dream and be a little apart from myself.
I looked, for all I knew for the last time, on the familiar things of my room: the wash basin and the pitcher next to it; the bed and table and chair; the small window through which the early sunlight shone; and most significantly, the wall hangings embroidered with the image of the Jabberwock. Time to move towards that image and leave all else behind.
I continued in the dream throughout the morning, eating sparingly and saying little. This was a puzzle to my father, and not easily dismissed like the nervousness of my sixteenth birthday. At last noontime came, and the ceremony of the bestowing of the keys.
It was a simple ritual, conducted without words in my father’s private chambers. My father gave me a second set of the keys to the House, and then we shared a cup of wine. Somehow the fact that it was only the two of us made it harder.
I waited until the moment when he extended the keys to me in his hand, and then I spoke:
“I cannot accept the keys. I will take the Vorpal Sword and go on the Quest.”
My father paused in astonishment, his hand still extended.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Let us finish the ceremony.”
“I have spoken the correct words father. You know what happens now.”
And so he did. His job now was to bless the Quest and let me go. Utterly incredulous, he refused to do this.
“What silly joke is this? Take back what is said, and let us continue.”
“I will not.” I stood still, hands at my sides, staring at him.
“Very well,” he said after a long moment. “I will do what tradition requires, although I know this is some jest or fancy of yours. What do you mean to do, wander around in the wood for a few days and then come back saying the beast is nowhere to be found?”
“I mean to take up the Quest and to strive with all my heart to fulfil it, for as long as that may take.”
“This is foolishness, to go off alone like this. There is peril. You will endanger the lineage of the House. You will leave me alone without my son.” This last was said in the most pathetic of tones. It was as close as he could come to saying that he would miss me. “Very well then,” and he gave me his blessing. He was trapped by tradition. His love for the House and its ways meant that he had to let me leave it.
“I will return father.” But I did not know if that was true, for more than one reason.
“In a day or two, I am sure.” But there was a little doubt in his tone. After a moment he spoke again:
“But why are you doing this?”
“Because I must.”
We looked at each other in silence, mutually inarticulate.
“When will you leave?” he asked at last, acknowledging defeat.
“Now. I must go as soon as possible.”
“But we must help you prepare.”
“All is prepared,” I said brutally, and it was. I had stored all I needed in my bedroom. “Just bring me the Vorpal Sword.” I turned and left the room. It was easier to show no feeling.
My father did not follow me. Instead, when I came to the main entrance of the castle a little later, he was standing there with such of the common people as he had been able to muster. They looked mildly bewildered, probably convinced that I was merely leaving for a day or two, and wondering why they had been called.
My father gave me the Vorpal Sword in its beautiful scabbard, and watched as I fastened it across my back. Then he gave me a parting cup. “Goodbye my son,” he said as I slowly drained it. I felt very calm and cold.
“Goodbye my father,” I replied. I gave him back the cup. He set it on the ground and clasped my hands. He was pale and shaking. I did not want to look into his eyes.
After a moment, I let go of his hands and without looking back strode into the forest. The Quest had begun.