Knight Passes, The Gathering

My mother loved her father dearly, and so she was always reserved in disclosing information about him. She kept many things just for herself, not hidden from examination, but rather waiting for just the right moment to pull back the veil and reveal a world that could only be understood when the tapestry of events was collected and finished. Today was that day.

The night had passed and the morning was grey and solemn. Misty was the air as the sun began to rise. Nothing unexpected had taken place; my grandfather was very old, the oldest of those that would gather here today. Each man had played his part over the years, and as they had not been in a very long time, they were all assembled. They were here to keep the promise, remembering their oath, and  fulfilling the covenant that had given all of them strength in the troubled times.

Hidden amongst ancient forest of oak trees, Spanish moss hanging low upon them, was a stone chapel. Four stone pathways led to another that encircled this sacred ground. By design, it was set off the road at some distance, only to be approached on foot, as to give those assembling time to prepare their hearts before entering this holy place. From the pathway to the south, you could hear the pipers playing the hallowed tunes of our people, low and mournfully.

Without any rehearsal, one hundred and forty-three men, their eyes focused, swords at their sides, uniformed in black, Argyle jackets, tartan kilts woven with threads of grey, light blue, crimson, and golden maze, silently made their way toward two large wooden doors at the entrance of the chapel. Carved on one door was the bloom of the magnolia, flower of our beloved homeland, and on the other, the bloom of the dogwood, symbol of our crucified and risen Lord. On the floor of the narthex was a brilliantly and devilishly painted dragon, and every soul was commanded to stomp on its head upon entry, symbolizing eternal victory over our enemies and enemies of our Lord.

After entering the chapel, eleven of the knights broke away to attend to other duties that I was not privy, only those of the knightly order had ever seen the inside of the chapel until this moment. As I was privileged to be his grandson, I was one of the first allowed to enter, though behind the rest of his children and my grandmother. Not until some time had passed were the rest of the mourners allowed to follow.

It was still cloudy outside, so the inside of the chapel was dark, the only light being from torches and candles. Yet, I could tell that it had been well crafted with a different assortment of wood and stone that are native to all the lands that now make up our homeland. Cedar, cypress, pine, oak, ash, and cherry fragrantly and beautifully made up a cornucopia of smells and sights that was other-worldly, like nothing my senses had ever experienced. I paused in distraction until my younger sister nudged me to my seat.

When everyone had entered and been seated, the doors to the chapel were shut hard, and the sound was as if thunder had clapped inside and bounced off the wood and stone. Then silence, so quiet you could hear the person next to you breathe. I waited in anticipation, not knowing what would happen next. Excited and frightened, I looked to my mother and grandmother for comfort, but they were emotionless behind veils of black lace.

A knight from an elevated pulpit heralded all to rise and kept silent. One hundred and thirty of the knights moved into their positions; fifty in the balcony, forty along the back near the covered stained-glass windows, four sets of ten took up positions in the aisles aligned to form Saint Andrew’s Cross. Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the doors from which we had all entered.

Once again, and with a deep and deliberate voice, the herald commanded the knight that had sealed and guarded the entrance to open the doors. And as he did, sunlight briefly entered the chapel. All heads turned toward the entrance, and all eyes beheld the eleven knights that had been missing.

“Who wishes to enter this sacred place!” boomed the herald.

In response, the lead knight soberly stated, “We are Knights of the Southland.”

“And why have you come to this hallowed place?” the herald demanded.

“Our brother has fallen, and we have brought him home.“

At that, the herald motioned them to enter.

You could hear the women start to weep as the procession entered. Five of the knights, three in the front and two in the back, held long pikes, at each step they struck the stone floors, paused, and crisply snapped their boots together. I have never heard a more solemn and intentional sound. Carried by the remainder of the eleven was the coffin that contained the mortal remains of my grandfather, a simple wooden coffin, brass handles, and draped in the once outlawed, but now celebrated, flag of our people.

My heart pounded as I watched the gathered knights as they unfurled all the flags of our new confederation, the banners of all the different orders represented, and the ancient flags of our ancestors from across the ocean. To say it was emotional would have been an understatement, it was more than that, it was regal, as befitting nobility, and it was for a man that was as common as his Southern drawl. Or, so I thought…

To be continued…