OK, now we are all set, said the Blue Knight, loosening his great sword in its scabbard. The defenders of Az lined the battlements with all kinds of projectiles in heaps, rocks, boiling stuff and old cooking vessels, in readiness to shower any would be invaders.
They few also stood outside the freshly painted gates of the rebuilt city of Az or looked out between the crenelations above and viewed the countryside sweeping away into the early morning mists, birds flying up from disturbed woods. The trees, ancient and undisturbed since time immemorial, in the distance, rippled and swayed, indicating the arrival of something massive, possibly with a large shopping bag or a group of boisterous friends. The smaller creatures of Az, children and animals of company, moved aside into the longer grass, holding small sticks and digital cameras.
The Blue Knight in full ceremonial armour, blue feather in helm etc. looks out, holding the reins of his charger, also adorned in blue livery and metal plated cloths. His tail plaited and tied. The horse that is.
It must be huge, he say, as his charger shifts its mighty hooves, threatening to crush a passing creature, Look at the way the trees are thrust aside as it passeth. Perhaps it has very broad shoulders that force the forest asunder, some might even snap their trunks while trying to bend. Maybe it is pushing a great thunder chariot or war wagon, with golden shields fixed in place along the sides. Each shield depicting the victories and triumphs of past conflict and invasion. Or perhaps a great spirit, in league with the wind, is approaching and the winds that accompany are thrashing the forest canopy into a froth. Maybe.
Maybe, Sheba said, or perhaps it is employing tree shakers to give this appearance and trouble your imagination.
More likely an angry giant with a grudge has come to pay her disrespects and crush our newly painted gates. Should we prepare a great feast to assuage her anger? Not yet, not until we can see the whites of her linen.
I expect that it might be a troll of the mountain, whose war club does not fit between the boughs. Its club is fashioned of iron blasted from the troll’s cave, it has a leather handle made from the stretching of two cows hides, steeped in the mountain streams and cured in great pits containing bitter substances, which can also be used to deter ants and their unbreakable nests. The iron, mixed with ground down hooves of mountain goats, is melted in a massive stone vessel held floating above a fire, a fire so bright it can be smelt for three generations? Then at the final hour when the iron is liquid, like milk or shandy, the crucible was tipped slowly, light and sparks exploding, into a club shaped mould the size of a small ship. It is called Wopper and crushes everything in its path.
It might be a herd of oliphants, spooked by the sound of a startled rabbit, that are rampaging through the forest with nowhere to turn. Or a massive hoard of pigs, escaped from an industrial pig farm where the fences, mistakenly manufacture in water soluble plastic, melted in a storm of rain into an unsightly puddle. The pigs, at first unsure of themselves hung back and approached only slowly, dipping their dainty trotters circumspectly and, discovering no downside, made a mass dash for freedom, rushing headlong into the surrounding countryside and eventually being swallowed by the mighty forest.
Sheba, stationed high in the window opening of the highest tower, sent a message,
It might be a great rock, she wrote, rolled by the enchantments carved upon its rough surface at the behest of a wizard. He of disconcerting visage and puissant powers, that wishes to impress us so that we give him the position of wizard in residence. He might wear some long clothing that is hard to see and conforms to no known fashion grouping. He might carry a staff of gnarly wood which is older than himself which he found as a boy under the bed. But I’m only guessing at this point, until we can see more.
If I am correct, I should also like to be considered for the position of clever person in residence, She Sphinx may consent to be my lovely assailant.
Standing thus at attention was tiring and the children took to playing hit the thing with a stick and taking close up photos of insects. The boiling stuff on the battlements went cold and the old cooking vessels started to look useful once more.
Outside the gates, beyond the moat and portcullis, the Blue Knight’s charger was cropping grass and had taken off its heavy livery.
The Forest, still churning, now opened and a whirl wind came towards the city with sand and leaves swirling in a great spiral. It came to rest at the feet of the Blue Knight.
From within a voice, Hello I am the desert Djinn, mother of the Sphinx and purveyor of mystic activity, is she in? I would make a family visit.
The Guardians of the Cave 