Quick Survey: Everyone who follows Medieval poetry not assigned in a
college class to make you a better rounded person in between bouts of
stupefying bewilderment as to how such old writing written on simple
sheets of paper can make your brain feel as though it's being crushed
under a lead brick, raise your hand.
I thought as much.
For
those of you not familiar with the story I'm about to follow along and
simplify: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is considered a classic of
Arthurian Legend. It focuses primarily on the old "You lop off my head, I
get to give as good as I got" sort of story that seemed a bit too common in ye olden legends of Europe to be entirely coincidental.
"But
wait! This one is different." says the undead monk who wrote the
blasted thing and whom I shall henceforth refer to as Father
Sandwichbread.
"How So?" I ask, whilst slowly edging
toward the nail clippers I keep near my bedside just for this occasion.
"Sir Gawain shall not be decapitated unless, wait for it..."
Sandwichbread pauses, mostly to collect part of his left hand that has
spontaneously dropped off, leaving a rather mildewy looking stain on my
nice hardwood floor. "Unless he lies!!" Pausing for a second, I raise my
right eyebrow to express vague incredulity.
An awkward
silence ensues. "Maybe you should have a better twist than that." I
tell him gently, hoping he won't remember that he is in fact a proper
English zombie on American soil, which thus entitles him to the
unfortunately very real Ziplomatic Zimmunity. (Get it? Cause he's a
zombie. And everything involving zombies has to involve either extra
attention to decay or some obviously hackneyed insert of the letter Z
where it doesn't belong, like when the LAPD sponsored an episode of
Sesame Street. Can you spell 'force?' Yes we can! 'E-X-C-E-S-S-I-V-E!')
"Oh,
just go on with it." The newly undead Father sighs, unceremoniously
plopping his mouldering keister into my nice computer chair. So, with
little choice left to me, I begin the story. I mean, poem. I mean- "Get
on with it!!" Roars Sandwichbread, completely unaware of the metajoke he
unintentionally made.
Our poem begins with a brief
foray into Roman history, how old I-need-a-knee ("Aeneas!" Corrects
Sandwichbread.) and Romulun ("Romulous!" pipes up the increasingly
annoyed maggot receptacle.) all relate to a man called Happy Brutus. And
already, we're off to a ripping good start, making it clear that the
extremely masculine warrior race that 'bred there' (there being
Non-Roman controlled Britain) was founded by a man named after a person
whose name is a virtual whole-wheat substitution for the word traitor.
Mostly because trying to append the Americanism to the Shakespearean
phrase that spawned it, you make it sound more like an elderly waiter
clarifying a regular named Arnold's order.
In any case,
all the 'most chivalrous and courteous knights known to Christendom'
are all gathered at their good poindexter Arthur's place, mostly because
the man is literally King of all he surveys and in spite of his nice
guy personae, I would think most of them do remember that if they so
much as stare at him cross-eyed during this time period, he could have
them killed, or worse, exiled. No wait, scratch that, reverse it.
Evidently
the new year was rung in with gratuitous kissing on all parties
involved knight and lady alike. Except of course, Arthur. Since he A)
never seemed to realize that one of a royal line's primary functions is
to be sure to continue to exist also known as 'For Heaven's Sake, Why Is
There Not An Heir Yet?' Syndrome and B) never realized until God
literally spelled it out for him that some future author's poorly
written self-insert with no respect for the rules of decent writing
would have the entire plot change retroactively. Or to put it in simple
terms, Arthur does not yet realize that the supposedly beautiful and
loving Guinevere will be made to fall deeply, madly and inexplicably in
love with a 12th century Frenchman's idealized version of himself a.k.a Lancelot.
Now,
skipping past the lurid descriptions of English cuisine that even when
he was alive Father Sandwichbread knew no one would tolerate for more
than half a page, a slender giant of an alarmingly handsome man plated
all out in ceremonial armor that looks to have been bronze left outside
for a couple of decades enters the hall. I'm not kidding with that
description by the way, Sandwichbread sighed longingly just now when I
read the passage describing the beautiful, muscular but slender figure.
(All two and a half pages of it.) And at least now I have an answer to
the question of where she comes from.
Since
it is Yultide and the red-eyed Mossy Tin Man is apparently all for a
good game of sport, he challenges King Arthur's court if there is among
them anyone who is man enough to endure an insanely brutal and almost
certainly idiodic ritual known as Marathon Jousting. No wait, that
would've been the decision of someone who hasn't consumed vast
quantities of eggnog and has thus come to the entirely sober conclusion
that offering to go tit for tat except with beheadings is a reasonable
way of testing one's mental mettle and physical fortitude.
When
no one takes him up on this ridiculous 'test' that even the most
die-hard fraternity in the world would object to on the grounds of being
absolutely stupid, Moss-Shoulders scoffs and taunts the collective
round table. Arthur, rational, cool, level-headed chap that he is,
immediately leaps to his feet and offers to cut his filthy lying head
off for him. Deciding that this is no way to settle a possible dispute
with what is by now a fairly obvious supernatural or at the very least
inhuman guest, Gawain stands up; he claims that since he is a legacy
admittance to the round table, and a weak one at that, he should be the
one to strike the blow instead of their beloved King. The other knights,
moved by his courage and selflessness all insist that they must be the
one to deliver the fatal blow so that Gawain shall not stand alone in
the face of such potential death.
You thought I was serious didn't you?
Ha!
No. Instead they cheer him on like a bunch of rowdy football fans with
nothing better to do with their Thursday afternoons. Apparently, since
Arthur really couldn't be bothered to remain the least bit dignified,
they figure what the hey and so encourage Gawain to totally do it, it'll
definitely work out without killing you bro. Like, for reals!
As
promised, Gawain delivers the blow. And as promised, the Tin Man takes
it without flinching. "Also as promised, the Knight of the Green Chapel
tells Gawain how to find him and who to ask for!" Interjects
Sandwichbread, startling me badly as I smell the stench again after
having steadily ignored it for the past hour. A quick fabreeze spray to
the mouth has the rotted Father literally hacking and coughing his lungs
up on my dresser, but lets me get back to finishing this tale of people
with the worst case of genre blindness I've ever encountered.
After
countless days journeying to Wales upon his faithful steed Gringott,
who only gets named once they near the suspiciously convenient castle of
"Not Green Chapel," and heroically hunting down the wild animal
population in such a transparent effort to disguise the fact that he
didn't take any previsions with him when he dramatically rode off into
the wilderness from Camelot that the mere recounting of every not-human
creature he killed would take up even more time than it already has, he
finally reaches a place that claims not to be his destination, but is
close enough that Mapquest counts it as a win.
Three
quarters of a page dedicated to architectural admiration later, Gawain
is invited inside by the most creepily friendly bellhops this side of Disney.
Every single person in the castle is relentlessly jovial and so willing
to bend over backwards to accommodate Gawain that it almost seems as
though they know he might die soon...as if...they know something about,
say about a hypothetical mystical immortal knight, that he doesn't. But
that's just crazy talk right?
"Not at all-" Begins Father Sandwichbread.
"Don't
spoil it!" I admonish sharply, smacking his left knuckles with my
Emergency Disciplinary Ruler, and in the process accidentally knocking
them clean off yet again.
Gawain is introduced to the
most classic symbol of temptation, a dalmatian fur coat. No wait, that's
the most classic symbol of excess. He's introduced to the lord of the
castle's wife who is so pretty that, in spite of Gawain being as
virtuous as he is, he cannot help but think extremely uncomplimentary
things about her grandmother. The lord of the house knows that the Green
Chapel is only about two miles from where he lives, but tells Gawain
that he shall show him the way 'when the time is right.' That's an exact
phrase from the story by the way. And yet, Gawain still manages to
mistake his laughter for jovial instead of sinister.
And
as the huntsmen ready their bows for the coming chase the horn sounds
in the quiet. The bucks and deers alike lift their heads in nervousness,
knowing the fate that awaits them this day as the slings and arrows and
blades of men and fangs and calls of the hounds shall come chasing
after them; their natural born nemeses gleaming furs shining alongside
the won pelts of their former kinsmen adorning the merciless hunters
when-
Sorry, the pulseless Father was a bit of a
hunting enthusiast. But back at the plot, Gawain is startled by the Lady
of the house visiting him in bed. Literally, sneaks into his room and
sits on his bed waiting for him to wake up so that she might have the
'pleasure' of his strong, warm, attentive...company. Gawain being chaste
but more relevantly, not dense as lead, understands that he
cannot take her up on such a generous offer or else he'll either be
killed or worse lose his honor as an entitled lord of underfed serfs who
kills in the name of whichever family God claims gave them the Reader's
Digest Tips on how to Rule the Sovereign Nation. So he gives her the
absolute least thing that courtesy demands, which is a kiss. And which
would've gotten him accused of harassment nowadays. (Not exactly
unmerited either)
And as the hunters brought back
their freshest kills, the crimson life essence contrasting with the
darker mud that shone as the colors of a true victory, they bellowed
their triumph to the sinking sun in the sky. Rejoicing, the bellhops cut
open the stomachs, squeezed the gizzards to be sure of the coming
feast's freshness. They began their traditional making of the puns as
they slit the throat to the neck before attempting to pull the carcass's
stomachs out for-
And evidently Father
Sandwichbread never wanted to learn what actually went into the making
of a meal. Personally, I can't help but wonder if that sort of cooking
would actually make Rachel Ray and/or Martha Stewart genuinely
compelling.
Anywho, imagine the careful flirting and
fencing interspersed with frankly derailing descriptions of hunting and
feasting repeated for three days worth of time, and you have everything
leading up to the final confrontation between immortal and human except
for Gawain accepting a token of the lady in the form of a handkerchief
he didn't tell her husband about. "Tis sinful! Tis a lie no matter how
minor!!" Exclaims Father Sandwichbread before his head becomes
intimately reacquainted with the trashcan from whence it had been
urgently stuck.
The knight shows knicks Gawain's neck
on the third axe swing since that was the only time he was ever
dishonest with him, and so forgives his failings of the flesh and mortal
cowardice for not being willing to get his head chopped off by a crazy
rust-bucket tin man a few handles short of a tea kettle. And so the
Story of Mr. Truthiness ends, foiled by a square of silk smaller than
his hand as the Moss-Colored Tin Man is never heard from again,
presumably since the forest creatures decided to team up and hunt him
down since he lives in their turf for at least a part of the year.
As
Father Sandwichbread faded into dust, many thoughts and questions
filtered through my conscious mind. Why did he try to write it as an old
piece of poetry? Did he realize how the characters were presented? What
was that odd tinging noise I kept hearing in the fridge? And most
importantly, why was the heat in my room not working?
All those questions and more to be answered eventually, next time on Classy as All Git Out Literature!!!
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