I
The night Arthur died,
it was cold and gray.
His wife stood near him,
holding his hand warmly,
while his children stood
against the wall quietly.
In the their home,
somewhere in American Midwest
the family trembled at his loss
and his brothers sat in the next room
waiting for nighttime to come.
They, too, held hands.
The quiet gray of the day
turned to shadows of evening,
and Arthur passed slowly into
slumber with a soft kiss
on his forehead and his lips.
Goodbye.
II
With the passing of the night,
they took him down to the river.
The mortal wound in him
was replaced with blessings.
In a boat, he drifted off into the water
and on toward a misty shoreline
wrapped in loose garment.
They sent him off
to the spirit who greeted him
on the other shore and
across the lake to the hallowed place.
And there he slept long before waking.
IV
“Eighteen hands for healing,” said the layman,
“And apples to your liking.”
“What of your purpose?
Your sojourn to the otherworld?”
Arthur spoke not a word, and trembled,
but he lay down on the concrete slab,
and guided himself to sleep again
as he laid to heal.
Eight of them, sisters,
came to him throughout the
days and tended his wound.
They used damp cloth and
whispered voices to remove
the ache of death from
his soul.
V
After many years he convalesced
with whispers and slumber,
and on days when he felt strength,
he ventured through the castle
and up to the crenellations,
peering out into the misty
daytime, but saw nothing.
Often the halls were quiet,
and the drafty air from outside
blew through the windows
but it was a warming air
that bothered Arthur little.
Sometimes, as he rested against
the walls and stone of the castle
he saw figments of men walking
along the shore and through
the castle halls.
The did not speak, and their
pallid faces did not recognize him,
nor he them, and when the fear
of them first abated, he then
welcomed their serene, somber sight.
But there was another shade that
moved about as if from nothing,
and he would see it from the corner
of his eye. Dressed in black
like death waiting in
the shadows.
VI
Soon, he was well again,
and the rot inside was gone,
and he found himself high atop
the castle a tower looking out.
There was only mist this high
and the layman would sing some
mornings and evenings.
“The island of apples, known as Avalon,
where never failing spring abides,
and She tends to the sick,
with herbs that heal all wounds.”
The voice of a woman
disturbed him and he turned
to see, and there a shadow
in the corner, said in ephemeral
tone and timbre:
“Love that is not returned
festers like a wound;
but where healing is found
in knowledge and wisdom,
a heart can grow whole again.”
The figure, just as it had come,
vanished from sight and left
Arthur alone in the tower.
VII
The layman
sent him with healing words
and without answer,
back to the shore
where a boat began
to appear from the fog
The castle’s shore
was misty, and somewhere
far off, the boat ambled toward
he and the layman.
“I know this place,” said Arthur,
“from when I was a child,
and my siblings played knights
in armor, riding in chivalry.
“I died under gray skies,
but as deftly as I lay slain
the soothing sky invited me
into the foggy mist.”
“I am beyond, but healed,” said Arthur.
“I know what I say is true,
as I have never felt such strength,
in my spirit nor my heart.”
The layman of quiet countenance,
could not respond,
and as the boat neared them,
arriving from hidden shore,
Arthur saw the shade and shadow
through the window in the tower.
In the morning misty light
the layman sang
if only to fill the silence
as Arthur watched the
swaying boat come to shore.
“Farewell to Avalon.
Farewell to the house of healing
which presented love
for those lost and revealing
their true hearts to us.
Farewell to Avalon
for good.”
As Arthur stepped to the boat,
he said back, “May I come
again into this place
of healing. This place
of love and remembrance.”
The ship, ferried by a single soul,
pushed off and into the mist.
The layman wondered about Arthur
as all others he had wondered
about through time.
The kings and castles
of Arthur’s memory
came to him in a flood,
and kneeling now,
hands clasped in prayer,
Arthur understood his travels.
He rose from the deck
and waved at the layman.
“Farewell Avalon!” he cried.
Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!
and the joy in his voice broke
as his heart and wound mended
together.
The boat sailed into the mists of the lake
and disappeared forever.
