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At first Parzival did not recognize her, for she had shaved her head and was dressed in the rough clothes of a peasant. “May I be of service to you, madam?” he asked.
“No, no one can help me,” the young woman said. “For I am grieving more each day. But where did you come from? This is the Land of Wildness and not safe for travelers.”
“I came today from the castle called Wild Mountain,” Parzival said. “I passed the night there in some splendor.”
The young woman looked startled. “You must be jesting,” she said. “No one comes upon Wild Mountain by chance. Only those who are meant to find it are brought to it. You are a stranger here. Perhaps you do not know then about King Anfortas the son of Frimutel.”
Parzival confessed that he did not know this king, so the young woman continued. “Anfortus is the eldest of five noble children. One is long dead, and three of them live on in misery. The fifth, Trevrizent, is a hermit, who has chosen the path of poverty for God’s sake. Anfortas, for all his wealth, lives in great pain. He can neither sit up nor lie down, neither ride nor walk. Even propped among his pillows, the agony is more than he can bear. If only you had been the one. If only you had seen him, you could have rid him of his suffering.”
“But I did see him,” Parzival said. “I saw the king and many wonderful and strange things there in Wild Mountain.”
“Why,” she said, “you are Parzival. I did not recognize you in the armor of a knight. Do you remember me? I am your cousin Sigune, whom you met on the road to Arthur’s court. I told you your true name. And since that day, you have been to Wild Mountain. Then tell me the good news. Tell me that the king is healed.”
“Can you be my cousin Sigune? I didn’t recognize you; you’ve grown so pale, and what has become of your beautiful hair? Come, Cousin, let me help you bury this knight.”
“There is only one thing on earth that could ease my pain,” Sigune said. “Tell me that the king is released from his. I see his sword bound at your waist. Dear Cousin, the marvels you have seen are nothing compared to those that are to come to you if”—she looked up into Parzival’s face—“if you asked the question.”
“What question, Cousin?”
Sigune’s pale face grew whiter still. “I cannot believe it. You were taken to Wild Mountain. You saw the marvels of that place. You saw the Grail itself and the awful suffering of its king—and you did not ask the question?”
Parzival was alarmed by the change in his cousin’s manner. “What question should I have asked? Tell me. I don’t understand.”
“Get away from my sight. I can’t abide to have you in my vision, you perfidious knight,” she said. “Have you no shred of compassion?” The woman was wild with rage. “You may live, but in the reckoning of Heaven, you are already dead!”
“Dear Cousin,” Parzival pleaded. “Please. I promise you, whatever I may have done, I’ll make amends.”
“Do you think to make the amends of a knight?” she asked, her voice cruel with sarcasm. “There are no amends for what you have failed to do. There is no longer need for you to follow the rules of chivalry. You were shorn of all knightly honor at Wild Mountain.” Sigune turned away from Parzival, her eyes on the pitiful figure in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that Parzival had to bend down to hear her words. “I will not, I cannot say another word to you,” she said. “Go. My only hope in this world is that I will never again have to look upon your face.”
Four
Under Curse
WHEN Parzival saw that it was useless to plead with his cousin, he mounted the sorrel and spurred him to a gallop, wanting only to leave this cursed place of sickness and death. But the farther he rode, the more the grief he had left behind crowded the narrow spaces of his heart.
No amends! How could that be? He had meant no wrong. Indeed, all he desired was to be a man of knightly honor and courtesy—to be a man of whom his wife, his mother, and his foster father, Gurnemanz, could be proud—and it had brought only disaster. Bathed in perspiration, Parzival took off his helmet and slowed his sorrel to a trot.
Suddenly, he saw ahead of him in the road a sorry sight. It might once have been a horse, but now the poor creature was nothing but bones with skin stretched over them, and the skin itself was near worn through. He recalled the nag his mother had given him those days long ago when he was a raw and happy boy. Why, that old mare would look like a mighty warhorse compared to this wretched beast.
Parzival had had no warning that there were another horse and rider ahead. Now he saw why. Every bell had been ripped from the sad beast’s saddle. Indeed, the saddle itself no longer fit the horse’s poor, swayed back; and more pitiful than the mount was the rider. It was a woman, but she wore no gown, only a tattered shift, belted with a piece of rope.
When Parzival came alongside her, she looked at him with alarm and covered herself with her arms. “Go away and leave me alone,” she said. “I saw you once before, and since that terrible day I have had nothing but misery on your account.”
“My lady,” Parzival said, “whatever I have done or left undone, since I have become a knight no one could say that I have ever been unkind to a lady.”
“You were most unkind to me,” she said. “You would have my ring and my brooch. And see what has become of me because of that.”
“Madam,” Parzival said, recognizing the duchess he had met on that day he left home in search of Arthur’s court, “let me cover you with my cloak and then I will make amends for this wrong I did when I was but a foolish boy.”
“Leave me,” she cried. “Or my husband will return and kill us both.”
In fact, the jealous Duke Orilus had already heard the sorrel’s whinny and was returning to see who had met his wife along the path. Quickly, Parzival put on his helmet and spurred forward to meet the duke. The poor duchess was distraught. As much as Parzival had wronged her and her husband had punished her unjustly, she did not wish either man to die on her account.
It looked as though someone was sure to die, the fighting was so fierce. Part of the duke’s fury was his own guilt that he had left his wife unprotected that time before when, as he thought, she had given a stranger her favors. Now he fought like the very dragons that adorned his shield. Parzival was his equal in fury, determined to make amends, at least for the childish behavior that had caused the duchess so much humiliation and pain.
They struck at each other with lance and sword, charging until both horses were in a lather. But neither man could unhorse the other. The duke, in desperation, snatched hold of a buckle on Parzival’s armor, but the strong young knight grabbed the duke around the waist, hoisted him from the saddle, and hurled him through the air as though he were a bundle of twigs.
Parzival leapt off the sorrel and raced to where the duke lay gasping upon the ground.
