As I plodded along upstream (up was out, right?) with a slosh-squish of wet sneakers in slime and sewage I noticed the current flow had changed.

As I crept back, I peered at the oozing filth and shortly reached the spot where the direction changed, where the in-flow must be. I felt along the curve of the tunnel, but there was no side tunnel. “What the Hell?” I asked nobody.

Nobody answered, “Not Hell.” I jumped up and cracked my head on the ceiling. The voice laughed and something flashed out from the tunnel wall to clatter to the ground. “It comes.”

Next, I was hacking, two-handed and striking sparks from the stone beneath the remains of its neck with the sword.

Voices reached me: “It is him,” fearfully; “He is returned,” hopefully.

His gnarled, leathery fingers touched the blood on my cheek. “Are you ready to seek it once more, Galahad?” A tear was on his breath, heavier than the crown atop his head. “Just once more, and we will earn our admittance to Avalon.” Sorrowing weariness settled on me.