The Cycle

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.

View this story's 4 comments.