Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight

For a long time, the hermit was silent. But Parzival could not speak.

“We waited,” the hermit continued, “for the coming of this good knight. We nursed my poor brother’s wound as best we could, though nothing eased the pain. At times, the stench from the wound grew so terrible that we would carry him down to the lake so that the wind would carry away the odor. Those who saw him there thought he had come to fish. It was from this that people came to call him the Angler.

“After several years, I left Wild Mountain and came to this place to pray that the knight would hasten. My prayer was heard. A knight did come. The one I told you of earlier. Would to God that he had left my prayer unanswered. This knight was led to the castle, he saw my brother in his agony, but he did not ask the question. He left in shame.”

The hermit got to his feet. “Enough of these sad tales,” he said. “We must find nourishment for you and your poor horse. It is too bad that snow lies so late upon the ground. I have none of the fodder of Wild Mountain to offer, nor its rich foods. We shall have to gather bracken and yew tips to feed your mount and dig roots for our own supper.”

After prayers, they ate the humble supper the hermit had prepared. “Nephew,” he said. “Pray do not despise this food.”

“I have never tasted better,” Parzival answered.

They went out to where the horse was tied. The good man stroked his nose. “I apologize, my friend,” he said to the horse, “for your poor meal. If you were at home in Wild Mountain where you belong, you would be feasting now.”

At this, Parzival could hold back his secret no longer. “Dear Uncle, I have come to you in my extremity and you have received me with all kindness. Please, I beg you, do not cast me out now, or I will be completely without hope. I swear to you that I was wholly without evil intent, but that man who rode to Wild Mountain, who saw the Grail and the sorrow, and who still asked no question—I was that man.”

The hermit was unable to contain his grief. “What are you saying? Where were the five senses God gave you? How could you be in the presence of Anfortas’s agony and not cry out in compassion?”

Parzival covered his face and began to weep. “There is no hope for me. I have killed kinsman and mother and failed the quest ordained by God. I curse the day my mother brought me into the light!”

“Do not despair, my son,” the hermit said gently, laying his hand on Parzival’s shoulder. “Though every human voice should curse you and every human heart harden itself against you, the mercy of God knows no bounds. God himself will not abandon you.”

Then Trevrizent drew the grieving Parzival back into the cave and gently urged him to do penitence for his wrongdoing and to put his trust once more in God, , who creates and saves.

“But still, Nephew,” he said, “you have not told me how you came to be riding a horse from Wild Mountain. I pray that upon your other sins you have not stolen something that belongs to the Grail.”

So Parzival told him about the joust with the knight from Wild Mountain.

“You did not kill a knight from that castle!”

“No, Uncle, I saw him safely away, but my own poor horse lay dead and this warhorse I won by fair battle.”

His uncle was content. For a week or more, Parzival stayed there with Trevrizent, learning more of the mercy of God and the depths of his love. He was happy to share the roots and herbs that the hermit ate. He still did not know the way to Wild Mountain when he rode forth from that holy cave, but his heart was cleansed and full of hope.

Six

The Grail Ring

PARZIVAL did not know as he rode forth so hopefully from Trevrizent’s cave that the greatest battle of his life lay just ahead. An infidel king, whose ships lay at anchor in a nearby port, was riding out alone, bent on adventure. When he saw Parzival approach, the infidel raised his lance in challenge. This time, P

arzival was not mooning over drops of blood on the snow. He saw the strangely appareled knight at the same moment as he was seen. The two of them spurred their mounts forward and charged.

The infidel was amazed. Never had a knight kept his saddle under such a charge. Both knights renewed the attack, galloping toward each other again and again and again until the mouths of their great warhorses were afoam and both beasts too weary to continue.

The two warriors leapt from their saddles. It was Ither’s sword that Parzival drew from its sheath. He had left the sword from Wild Mountain with Trevrizent, for it seemed too heavy a burden to bear.

The infidel matched him blow for blow. Both helmets were badly dented. Both knights could feel warm blood flow beneath the cold steel of their armor.

At last, with one mighty stroke, Parzival brought Ither’s sword crashing down upon the infidel’s helmet. The blow toppled his opponent to the ground, but Ither’s sword broke off at the hilt. The blade went flying off into the underbrush.

The infidel jumped to his feet, his sword still in his hand. Parzival steeled himself against one last fatal blow. It did not come. Instead, his enemy spoke: “I vow. You are the kind of man who would keep fighting without a weapon. But how could I gain honor from such a victory? If we stop fighting now, you will lose no honor, for I swear if your sword had not broken, you would have made chopped meat of me. I propose a truce—at least until we can catch our breath and rest our bones.”

The weary Parzival nodded, and both men sat down against a grassy mound. The infidel spoke first. “Who are you, bold knight? It is not hard to guess that you come from noble parentage.”

When Parzival hesitated, the stranger went on. “No,” he said. “I have been discourteous. I will not force you to reveal yourself. But let me introduce myself to you. I am Feirefiz Angevin, king of many lands, but they are far from here.”

“You cannot be called Angevin!” Parzival said. “I am Angevin, heir through my father of Anjou.” As he spoke, he remembered something Cundrie the Sorceress had said that terrible day when she had cursed him in the presence of Arthur’s court. “Still, there is one other who might call himself Angevin. He lives in heathen lands, but he may be my brother. Sir,” said Parzival, rising to his feet, “if you would take off that helmet and let me see you, I could tell if you might be he. Don’t fear, I shall not attack you unhelmeted.”

The infidel laughed and stood up. “You could hardly attack me at all without a sword, unless you mean to wrestle. That would hardly be a fair fight, as, on your first hold”—he pointed his sword at the buckle on Parzival’s breastplate—“I could take my sword and part you flesh from sinew. Here,” he said, hurling his sword far into the bushes, “now we are even. Tell me about this infidel brother of yours.”