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Chapter Text

October 31, 1602
The Shore of Loch Ness, Highlands of Scotland

A tall, lanky man with a boyish face that contrasted sharply with his graying black hair and brown, careworn eyes trudged exhaustedly to the top of a small, rocky rise. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and scanned the black surface of the lake he had been following for the last several days. He adjusted his shabby cloak, pulling it tighter around his throat against the rapidly chilling late afternoon air. He gazed at the barren landscape, gratified to see that no other living soul to disturb his isolation. Indeed, he had not seen another human being since he left the tiny village where he had traded his labor doing some odd jobs for a destitute widow in exchange for some foodstuffs and the woolen cloak he now wore. She had also tried to press a few pennies into his hand in payment for the extraordinary amount of work he had done, money that she could clearly ill-afford to spend. He had protested at first, but when she insisted, he graciously accepted the payment, only to quietly leave the coins on the mantel above her hearth before taking his leave. He did not need money where he was going.

Bone-tired, he moved on. The name he chose to answer to nowadays was ‘Jenckyns’, and he was running from himself. After a few hundred more yards, he found a suitable-looking campsite, a small hollow amongst the large stones that lined this area of the vast lake. He noted with satisfaction that it would provide just enough shelter against wind or rain should any come during the night. He sat down on a large stone, his legs and back aching deeply from the many hours of walking over the rugged terrain.

Before his muscles could stiffen, Jenckyns turned his attention to preparations for the night. After clearing out the small hollow of debris, he gathered as much wood as he could find in the fading daylight and started a small fire for warmth against the coming night. He brought his bedroll, scrip and sack of food to the shelter and piled them on the ground. Deciding that he was too tired to eat, he placed the scrip in the hollow to use as his pillow and picked up the bedroll. Carefully he unrolled the rough brown homespun, revealing inside his most treasured possession—a rare sword of ancient Celtic design, the sharp, leaf-shaped blade miraculously forged of steel by the Women of the Lake in an age when fine steel had yet to be discovered by the most of the world. The very sword he had pulled from a stone many centuries earlier as a proof of his virtue, his nobleness, his purity and his innocence, in a time when he was known by a very different name. He pulled the sword halfway out of its bejeweled and gold-trimmed scabbard. More like the proof of my naiveté, my fanaticism, my foolishness, he thought bitterly as he rammed the blade back home.

He spread the blanket on the ground against the cold earth. He wrapped himself into the old cloak and lay down on the thin blanket with one hand resting on his sword and hoped—as he had hoped every night for the last several months—that the oblivion of sleep would come to him quickly this night. He was again disappointed when it failed to arrive. As soon as his head touched the scrip his mind immediately raced to the thoughts he strove hard to suppress during daylight hours. His mind replayed yet again the day he decided to leave the Library and go into self-imposed exile…

Chapter Text

February 4, 1602
London, England

Jenckyns had known Master Edwin for many, many years. Edwin was a humble, generous man with a mischievous and, at times, impious sense of humor. He owned a thriving bookshop and was a veritable font of knowledge regarding esoteric subjects. They had spent countless happy hours debating philosophy, theology, alchemy, literature and history over the years. They played chess regularly and attended the occasional production of the plays from Master Shakespeare. They even—on special occasions—got gloriously drunk together at the local public house. Master Edwin was nearly two feet shorter than Jenckyns, and they made quite a comical sight on those evenings as they staggered home, leaning on each other for support as they sang bawdy tavern songs at the tops of their lungs.

One damp and chilly winter day, as Jenckyns was browsing the markets for items or bits of information that might be of interest to the Library, he kept an eye peeled for his friend whom he had not seen in several days. He wasn’t at his shop, and the door had been locked, which was very unusual. Jenckyns hoped the old man had not taken ill.

He was drawn by the noise raucous cheering coming from one of the smaller public squares, and, curious, he joined the back of the crowd. Being exceptionally taller than most others of this age, he had a clear view of what he realized was a scaffold of execution. The spectacle of public executions disgusted Jenckyns, and he started to turn around to go about his business when he caught sight of a familiar face. It was Big Tom, Master Edwin’s manservant. Nearly as tall as Jenckyns, Big Tom was a large-boned, coarse, bull of a fellow, but he had a gentle heart and Jenckyns liked him. He made his way over to the big man and saw the distress on his face. Indeed, he was fighting back tears. An inexplicable dread suddenly filled Jenckyns. “Tom,” he asked urgently. “What is happening here?”

The man turned his shaggy blonde head, and as he caught sight of Jenckyns his face reflected even more anguish. “OH, Master Jenckyns!” He grabbed the taller man by the arm and pulled him away from the crowd. He leaned close and spoke in a harsh whisper lest anyone else overhear. “Oh, Master Jenckyns, ‘tis a terrible thing! Good Master Edwin—he is to be executed this day! For witchcraft!”

“What?!” Jenckyns could hardly believe his ears. “But that is utter nonsense!” he replied. “How could anyone believe such a thing of man good as he!”

“He was accused by Master Peters, the tailor. Master Edwin caught his boy throwing stones at the shop’s windows. He scolded the lad sharply for his mischief, and the next day the boy fell dread ill, nigh unto death, they say. The doctor could find no natural cause for it.”

Anger then twisted Tom’s expression as he continued the story.

“That is, not until the boy spun a tale of how Master Edwin had dealt harshly with him, said that he spake strange words as he glared, in a tongue the boy did not know. Then the doctor declared that the boy must have been bewitched. The authorities came and searched the shop and Master Edwin’s room for proof. When they found all of the books of magic lore and such, they took him away to gaol. They tortured him, even though ‘tis not legal to do so, in hope of gaining a confession. But of course Master Edwin would not confess to such evil as witchery! How often have you yourself, Master Jenckyns, heard him say that in order to fight Evil that a man must first learn of its many forms so as to know how to defeat it?” Tom was weeping now. “That is the only reason he had such books in his possession!”

Jenckyns put a reassuring hand on the poor man’s shoulder. “I know that, Tom. Continue.”

“They tried him yesterday without a confession, and found him guilty. They condemned him to death, though I meself gave witness that the tailor’s boy is naught but a troublemaker—I even give them examples of such. I told them the boy lied only to get out of a sound thrashing. But it did no good. And now the sentence is to be carried out.”

“In what manner?” Jenckyns could barely speak the words.

“He is to be hung, Master Jenckyns, and his mortal remains are to be buried in the pauper’s pit on Tyburn Hill!” The poor man could not keep the misery out of his voice. “Can you imagine it, Master Jenckyns? ‘Tis not enough that he suffer unjustly in this life, but now he is to be denied a proper Christian burial in unhallowed ground!”

Before Jenckyns could respond the crowd roared as the door to the prison opened and gaolers dragged an old man of over 70 years up onto the platform. His thin body showed the unmistakable signs of torture. He could not stand on his own so his captors left him in an ignominious heap as they prepared the noose. Jenckyns could not believe his eyes. Master Edwin was a kindly, wise and compassionate man, devoted to scholarship and to helping others as best he could with the knowledge he gained. How could this be happening?

“NO!” bellowed Jenckyns angrily. “I know this man! He is no more a witch than I am!” He started towards the scaffold—if he could only get his friend to the Library, he would be safe! “Stop! STOP! Edwin!” But Tom, strong as an ox, grabbed hold of his left arm and sharply pulled him back.

“Here, man, are you mad? Be silent! Do you wish to join Master Edwin on the gallows? There is naught we can do for him now, save pray that he die quickly and that the good Jesu will have pity on his soul.”

Big Tom continued to hold Jenckyns tightly by his arm. Together they watched silently, helplessly, amidst the raucous crowd as it jeered the hapless bookseller and howled insults. The condemned man was asked if had any final words, and in response he painfully pulled himself up into a quasi-kneeling position. He put his bloody and broken hands together, closed his bruised eyes and offered a prayer to God asking forgiveness for his executioners, was well as forgiveness for himself for any wrongs he had committed. As he opened his eyes, he saw and recognized Jenckyns. “I am sorry, Edwin, forgive me,” Jenckyns whispered numbly. The old man immediately smiled and slightly bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Jenckyns's hand moved involuntarily to cover his mouth as the executioners hauled their hapless prisoner onto a low stool and quickly slipped the rough noose over his head. His legs not being strong enough anymore to bear his weight, the gaolers held him physically in place. The executioner waited until the crowd had settled down and were waiting expectantly for the climactic moment. When he felt he had the mob’s undivided attention, the executioner dramatically kicked the stool from beneath the old man. The crowd shouted its approval with a deafening roar. Master Edwin swung slightly as his life was slowly strangled out of him by the hateful rope. As he died, people in the crowd continued to hurl insults and pelted him with stones and rotten vegetables and eggs.

The shaken Caretaker closed his eyes tightly in anguish against the barbarity. No, you must watch this hateful thing through to its end. It is the least you can do for a friend. he chided himself. He forced his eyes open and watched, stone-faced and numb, as the spark of life left Edwin’s body. It was over in less than five minutes, but to Jenckyns it felt like five centuries. When the executioner realized that the condemned was already dead, he signaled for the body to be cut down. As the assistants removed the body from the scaffold, Jenckyns took the silently weeping Tom by his arm this time. “Come, Tom,” he said softly. “I will not permit this to end here.”
He led the servant through the dissipating crowd to the edge of the scaffold, just in time to see the gaolers carelessly toss the body of Master Edwin into a rough cart. One of the louts ordered the sullen driver to take the body to Tyburn.

Jenckyns held his mounting anger and grief in check as turned and spoke to Tom urgently. “Tom, fetch the cart from your master’s shop to Tyburn. I will meet you there. Go, quickly!” Tom was puzzled, but he did as he was bidden and hurried off.

As the prison cart started its clattering drive through the streets of London, Jenckyns followed behind at a distance, his long legs easily keeping pace with the slow-moving cart. After an hour they were outside the city proper and headed through deceptively bucolic countryside. Within a few minutes Jenckyns could see the terrible three-sided gallows come into view, the infamous “Tyburn Tree”. Ravens and scavenging dogs scattered at their approach.

The rickety cart finally came to a stop a couple of hundred yards past the gallows, to the edge of a large pit half-filled with the rotting corpses of the executed. The cart driver, pulling a filthy scarf up to cover his nose and mouth against the stench, jumped down from his seat and carelessly dragged the body from the back of the cart and rolled it into the pit. He threw a scoopful of quicklime over the body, then climbed back onto the cart and whipped the sorry-looking horse into a fast trot back towards the city. Jenckyns approached the pit and peered over its edge. It was too deep for one man to try and retrieve the body. He would have to wait for Tom to help him.

As he waited for Tom and the cart, the churl in charge of the burial pit spied Jenckyns loitering about. Seeing such a distinguished, well-dressed man in this place outside of an execution day was unusual, so the man approached the stranger to discover his business. Jenckyns saw him coming and quickly invented an excuse for his presence.

“Ah, and you must be the groundsman!” he greeted the man jovially. “Just the man I need!” The keeper was taken aback briefly.

“Be there something I may help you with, m’lord?” he asked deferentially but keeping a suspicious eye on the stranger.

“I think so, my man,” said Jenckyns, forcing himself to sound disinterested. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jenckyns. Doctor Jenckyns. I am a physician…” Jenckyns let his words trail off pointedly. Bodysnatching was an unsavory business, but Jenckyns knew that many physicians and anatomists routinely robbed fresh graves or bought the remains of executed prisoners for subjects to study firsthand. Jenckyns saw that the groundskeeper understood the tall man’s unspoken request.

“Aye, sir, ‘tis a wondrous thing, the medical arts! I greatly admire them that’s practitioners, sir, and seek to help them in their works as much as is possible, sir!” The man smiled, revealing a mouth mostly empty of teeth.

“I am glad to hear it, my good fellow,” said Jenckyns jovially. He made sure the man saw the flash of the gold sovereigns that Jenckyns slipped from the wallet on his belt. “Such open-mindedness in these unenlightened times should be encouraged in all men,” he said, throwing in with a sly wink.

Greed lit up the man’s watery eyes and he cackled mirthlessly. “Aye, sir, truer words was never spoke…”

The Caretaker could now see Tom coming towards them with the horse and cart from the bookshop.

“Come along, there, Tom,” Jenckyns ordered his confused companion. Tom drove the cart up to the pit and then jumped down. Jenckyns turned back to the peasant and dropped the three gold coins into the dirty, grasping claw. “There you are,” he said. “A small gratuity for you. But…” Jenckyns seized the scrawny arm of the groundsman, nearly pulling it out its socket as the powerful man yanked him close in. The smaller man gulped and began to tremble as he felt a cold, sharp dagger blade pressed against his throat. Jenckyns’s voice suddenly took on an ominous tone and his gaze hardened to stone. “If I ever hear of you telling the tale of this exchange to anyone, I shall personally see to it that it is the last tale you ever tell. Do you understand me, villein?” Shocked by the unexpected change in temperament, the peon merely nodded his head quickly and swallowed again.

“Good,” said Jenckyns. “Now go, and see to it that our paths never cross again.” As soon as Jenckyns turned him loose, the man turned and ran back to his ramshackle shed. The Caretaker tilted his chin as he watched the frightened man disappear through the door, satisfied that the swine would keep his mouth shut. Indeed, after three crowns’ worth of drinking and whoring the fool probably wouldn’t even be able to remember his own name, let alone anything else.

“Let us go, Tom,” he said, turning back to his companion.

“Where to, Master Jenckyns?” queried the other man, utterly befuddled by what had just transpired.

“Back to the bookshop. We have a great deal of work to do, my friend.”

Chapter Text

As Jenckyns and Big Tom waited for the small hours of the night, they prepared the body of Master Edwin for burial in the churchyard of nearby St. George’s Church. It was forbidden for the remains of one convicted of witchcraft to be buried in the sacred grounds of a church, but Jenckyns refused to see his old friend receive anything but the honor of a decent burial given to his friend.

He and Tom first washed the wizened, broken body. Then they dressed it in the best suit of clothes Edwin owned. There was no time to procure a coffin—it would’ve aroused unwanted attention anyway—so they sewed the body up into the homespun shroud of a pauper. Before stitching the shroud closed, they placed into Edwin’s hands his most treasured book—a small, superbly illustrated Book of Hours.

Tom quickly finished sewing up the shroud. It was well after midnight as the two men gently carried their burden outside and through the deserted, shadowy lanes to the churchyard. They took the body to a lonely spot at the very edge of the yard. Here they silently dug a grave in the frozen earth. When it was deep enough, they laid the shrouded scholar into the ground and quickly filled the grave in again. After covering the freshly turned earth with leaves, stones and dead branches to hide the grave, they removed their hats, and Jenckyns softly intoned a traditional funeral prayer, In Paridisum:

May the angels lead you into Paradise;
May the Martyrs receive you at your arrival and lead you to the holy city, Jerusalem.
May choirs of angels receive you and, with Lazarus,
once a pauper, may you have eternal rest.

It wasn’t the burial their friend deserved, but it was the best they could do, and both men knew that Edwin would understand. As Tom gathered up the tools, Jenckyns instructed him to go on home and to bed, that he would tidy up inside the bookshop. Big Tom nodded tiredly and trudged off towards the small stable located at the back of the shop’s property.

Jenckyns quickly removed all traces of their having been in the shop. He didn’t know what would happen to the property, but he suspected that the shop and its contents would be confiscated soon by the authorities. After he was finished putting things away, Jenckyns took the opportunity to browse the collections of books in the shop. Edwin had some rather important works on all things magical, some of which were too potentially dangerous to leave lying about for ignorant government officials to find. He slipped as many of the rare tomes as he could find into various bags. When he had as many as he could carry, he staggered through the cold, black streets to the safety of the Library.

Chapter Text

After the Caretaker had deposited the books in the Library he went straight to his quarters. Without lighting a candle he dropped, exhausted, into his favorite armchair. He wanted to sleep, but his mind was far to wound up by the horrible events of the day just past. How did this thing happen? he silently begged the universe. How could this thing have happened? How could this awful, criminal thing have happened to such a harmless and good man? How could a man’s life be taken away so savagely and cruelly on the word of a ten year-old child? It was simply incomprehensible to Jenckyns. As he gazed at the pale white moonlight coming in through the window and remembered his friend, he was overwhelmed by his grief and confusion.

As he sat stone still in his chair, his dark eyes staring at nothing, his mind was suddenly flooded with other equally incomprehensible things that he had witnessed in the last several centuries. For almost a thousand years, Jenckyns had witnessed firsthand the horrible savagery that man could inflict upon his fellow man. Wars, plagues, famine, droughts, slavery, religious and political oppression—these were all bad enough on their own, but when one threw wild magic into the brew it became incomprehensibly sadistic and invidious. The Library strove mightily to keep it in check, but it seemed to Jenckyns now that no matter how hard they worked and fought to contain evil and malevolence in the world, there was always another plot to crush. No matter how many magical relics they recovered and stored safely in the Library, there was always another one that cropped up and had to be retrieved before it fell into the wrong hands. No matter how many wars they fought to avert, there was always another set to begin someplace else. No matter how many natural disasters they stopped, there was always another waiting to take its place. He had witnessed firsthand the deaths of millions of souls over the centuries and the permanent maiming of millions more; the millions of children made orphans; the millions of men and women widowed; the millions enslaved with no hope of regaining their freedom except through death—all with no end in sight.

And now this. This death—this murder—of one old man because a troublesome child did not want a whipping from his father. It was too much for the knight and his keen sense of justice to bear. The Best Knight in All the World had been unable to save Camelot. His celebrated virtue had been unable to save his friend, Arthur, from betrayal and death. His renowned purity had not kept his own father from turning down the path of Evil. His noble intentions had not stopped the suffering of millions of innocents throughout the centuries. He was unable to save even his dearest friend from a horrible and unjust death. Jenckyns’s spirit could take no more. The maw of human corruption and brutality was bottomless, and it was the height of folly to keep fighting against it in the face of such implacable odds.

“Forgive me, Edwin!” he whispered. Between ragged, heaving sobs, he repeatedly begged the forgiveness of all whom he had failed.

Chapter Text

February 5, 1602
The Library, London, England

The Librarian dismissed the Caretaker’s grief over the death of a simple merchant as self-indulgent mawkishness and ordered Jenckyns to stay in the Library. The Guardian, far more sympathetic to his loss, pleaded with him to stay and to allow them to help him through this crisis. He steadfastly refused. The Librarian thought the Caretaker was acting impulsively and somewhat childishly, and he sought to hold him in the Library by force, but the Guardian forbid it. “Let him be,” she said resignedly, for she knew very well how stubborn this man could be. “This is something that Master Jenckyns must see through alone. We cannot force him to accept aid before he is ready.” The Librarian merely snorted in irritation. The absence of the Caretaker would be a terrible inconvenience and bother to him.

Jenckyns packed a few clothes and some food into sacks. The one personal possession he took with him was the only one he arrived with when he came to the Library—his sword. When he was ready he went to the Library’s stable and saddled his horse, a mild-tempered but intelligent chestnut mare he had named Seren, which meant ‘Star’ in the old language. As he pulled himself into the saddle, Jenckyns realized that though he had been using the horse and tack for years, they did not actually belong to him, but to the Library. He pulled several gold coins from his wallet and placed them in the stable where they would easily be found, in payment for the animal, the tack and the food he was taking. He was left with only a few shillings then, but he didn’t care. He would earn his keep on the road.

Chapter Text

Spring, 1602

He left the city and rode aimlessly. He avoided the west and the southwest of the country, for those were the lands of Arthur and held far too many memories. He thought briefly of traveling to the continent, of leaving Britain altogether, but in the end he chose to ride north, into Scotland, into the Highlands, a vast, barren, wild land with few inhabitants. He could be alone there, away from the irredeemable morass of evil and savagery that appeared wherever Man existed.

His weeks on the road turned into months. When he needed money, shelter or supplies, he traded his labor for it. Outside of those times he avoided the company of others whenever he could. He often rode for days without speaking a word. He spent most of his nights in sleeplessness, unable to stop himself from thinking of Edwin, of Camelot, of Arthur, of his father and of his inability to change anything; his utter failure as a knight; of his foolishness in ever thinking that he could actually make a difference in the affairs of the world.

Sometimes he had encounters with thieves or brigands, but soon enough his appearance became so shabby and poor that they mostly left him alone, thinking he had nothing worth stealing—save the horse. One thief managed to make off with Seren one night while Jenckyns slept. He was initially upset the next morning when he discovered the loss of the only friend he had left, but he quickly quashed his emotions and resigned himself to the situation. He gathered up the things that he could carry on his back and started on his way, leaving everything else behind.

Chapter Text

November 1, 1602
Shore of Loch Ness, Highlands of Scotland

Jenckyns was jolted awake from a fitful sleep. He shot upright, his right hand instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword as he cocked his head here and there, listening intently for any sound. He heard nothing except the water of the lake gently lapping the shore a short distance away. Jenckyns could just make out the palest edge of the coming dawn on the eastern horizon through his bleary eyes. The waning crescent of the moon hung like a ghostly claw in the west. He must have been having another nightmare. It was a common occurrence now. Whatever sleep he managed to get was haunted by the cries of the dying: The cries of the men he had slain in battle; those dying of plague; those dying of starvation; the enslaved dying under the lash of their masters. He heard cry out as he was struck down in battle. He heard the reproaches of his father as Jenckyns allowed him to turn his back on Good and embrace Evil. He heard his friend, Edwin, cry out from his makeshift grave, demanding to know why Jenckyns had not come to his aid.

The shattered man started to settle back into his makeshift bed, when a plaintive, blood-curdling cry split the still, freezing air.

Jenckyns scrambled stiffly to his feet this time, sword drawn. His dark eyes scanned the dim landscape around him, straining to catch sight of any movement.

The unearthly cry came again, a weak, high-pitched squeal that began high and then slid steadily to a lower note towards the end. Jenckyns instinctively cringed inside at the unrecognizable sound. The cry came again; Jenckyns thought he could detect a note of—desperation? It seemed to be coming from somewhere further along the lakeshore.

For about a hundred yards further up the shore of the lake, Jenckyns followed the cries as quickly and quietly as he could in the dark, stumbling over the stony ground. The strange sound grew louder as he progressed. As he approached the water’s edge, the plaintive sound became an excited series of yips and screeches, accompanied by the sound of splashing in the water offshore. Jenckyns could see by the weak light of the stars overhead the dark outline of something moving.

The tall, thin man waded carefully into the icy water and inched closer to the thrashing object, his sword at the ready in case it attacked. When he was close enough, his eyes grew wide in astonishment, for there, entangled in what appeared to be an old fishing net, was a small water-horse, an increasingly rare animal he had not seen in the wild in centuries. It was the about the size of a wolfhound, with an elongated, horse-like head atop a long, swan-like neck. It had flippers rather than feet, and a serpentine tail. Oddly, when the creature spied Jenckyns, it immediately tried to move closer towards him with renewed piteous cries, having no apparent fear of the man. But the net held it fast in the water, almost completely submerged.

Heedless of any danger, Jenckyns’s heart was instinctively moved to pity for the poor struggling creature. It must have been here for some time, judging by how weakly it now struggled against the net. He moved slowly but steadily to the animal’s side. He raised his left hand very slowly so as not to frighten it. Water-horses were known to be rather skittish creatures. It moved its head towards him and nuzzled the outstretched hand; its head felt cold and slick. A surprisingly rough tongue licked his palm next—then Jenckyns yelped in surprise as the creature snapped its jaws shut, lightly nipping his fingers.

“Zounds!” he swore as he rubbed the smarting hand against his leg. He checked for damage. Finding all five digits in their correct positions and lengths, he eyed the creature warily as he pondered what to do next.

Jenckyns had never heard of water-horses living this far north before. He was most familiar with the ones found in Wales and western England, the ceffyl dŵr, and while this small water-horse bore a resemblance to those southern varieties, it had differences. Perhaps this creature represented a heretofore unknown Scottish sub-species? The idea caused a thrill of excitement to flutter through the scholar and researcher inside him.

The small creature wailed again, drawing the caretaker’s attention back to the matter at hand. It fought feebly against the netting again, trying to move closer to Jenckyns. It was odd how trusting and unafraid it was for a wild animal, and that bothered Jenckyns. What animal is not instantly afraid of Man? The answer came to him quickly: An immature animal, that has not yet learned than Man is to be feared. Upon the heels of that came another, much more alarming thought: Where is its mother?

Jenckyns stood up straight and scanned the entire area in the gathering light. He couldn’t see or hear anything untoward, but Jenckyns knew dawn to be a time of increased activity for many animals. The parents of this beast were certain to be larger in size--and far less friendly—than their offspring. It would be very bad for Jenckyns if he were to be caught ‘red-handed’ with their youngling.

He turned and headed quickly back for dry land. Despite his sympathy for the struggling animal, it was best to let Nature take her course. Besides, he was simply not equipped to care for such an animal, physically or mentally. The last thing he needed right now was a dependent of any kind.

The trapped creature immediately struggled to follow Jenckyns, trying wildly to free itself of the fishing net and crying in alarm. Jenckyns stopped in spite of his better judgment and looked back. The young animal instantly stopped struggling and stared at the man, its large, black eyes seeming to plead for his help. As Jenckyns stood there torn between compassion and common sense, the little creature, its eyes never leaving Jenckyns for a moment, lowered its head to just above the water’s surface, and produced a low, beseeching cry that cut the man more sharply than any blade had.

Jenckyns closed his own eyes and sighed deeply. He simply could not turn his back on this small, helpless thing. He could see from its condition that it would likely die soon if he did not intervene. “Very well,” he capitulated gruffly. The very least he could do was to cut it free of the fish net and allow it to try and return to its dam or sire, where ever they might be. He quickly waded back towards the little beast. Instantly it resumed its splashing and squealing, drenching the old knight with ice-cold lake water.

“Stop that!” he barked. “Stop that flailing about this minute! It is most unseemly!” The animal ignored him, however, and continued to thrash about, head-butting him in the ribs as he tried to cut it free from the netting.

“Stop!” Jenckyns ordered a second time. “Do you want an injury from my blade? Because that is exactly what you will receive if you do not hold still!” Jenckyns finally managed to cut the animal loose. He headed back to the shore, and the newly freed creature tried to follow, but its exertions against the netting had worn it down to the point of total exhaustion. It simply didn't have the strength to move anymore. It yelped in panic as it kept sinking below the water’s surface. Jenckyns turned at the sound and saw that it was in danger of drowning. Without thinking he waded quickly back and seized the animal around its middle, making sure its head was above the water, then carried it back to the shore. It lay limply on the ground, weakly struggling to move and breathing hard.

Jenckyns saw several large, bloody, raw-looking patches on the body of the animal and he moved closer to get a better look. He guessed that the rough material of the fishing net had rubbed these places raw, cutting into the flesh as the poor thing tried to free itself. Jenckyns grimaced at the wounds; the creature must be in terrible pain. “Those certainly want tending, my little one.”

He sheathed his sword and gently lifted the water-horse. He carried it to his makeshift shelter and placed it on the blanket. He fetched the small bundle of herbs and ointments he had brought with him from the Library’s apothecary in case Seren fell of ill or was injured. He removed a small box containing a balm made especially for cuts and scrapes. The tired creature gave no resistance as Jenckyns cleaned the wounds as best he could and then applied the balm. When he was finished he gave his patient a light scratching behind its jaws. “There now, my little one, does that feels better?” The water-horse only yawned weakly in response and laid its head on the ground.

As Jenckyns sat in the warm morning sun, he got his first close look at his ‘damosel in distress’. The water-horse had a smooth, fine dark charcoal-grey fur, like a seal, but much finer. Its belly was a lighter shade of grey than its back. He judged it to be a female, based on Welsh water-horses he had studied, and was much thinner than he guessed she was supposed to be. She had no claws, but he noted that her jaws were lined with dozens of sharp tiny teeth turned inward—perfect for catching fish. The long tail was slightly flattened and probably used as a rudder of sorts when the creature swam underwater. Jenckyns marveled at how perfectly adapted she was for living in water. He was always amazed—and even a bit humbled, sometimes— by how perfectly every creature was made for living in its particular habitat. And this creature had the added advantage of being able to move about on land as well the water, thus doubling her chances of finding food, he guessed. He wondered how large an adult of the species grew to be. It would be a great achievement to bring back a newly discovered specimen to the Library for further study…

Jenckyns upbraided himself sharply for his foolish thoughts. None of these observations mattered now; he didn’t work for the Library anymore.

He cleaned up the area and moved to the fire to warm himself and his frozen hands. The little water-creature tried painfully to hobble after him, but she was far too weak. As soon as Jenckyns sat down, she began whimpering mournfully.

She likely needs food, he told himself. He had a small amount of dried venison; perhaps he could make a broth out of it for her, if she would drink it. It probably wasn’t what she was used to, but it was better than nothing. He built up the fire and placed the venison into his small cooking pot. As it simmered, the aroma made the man’s stomach growl, but he ignored it. He was growing more and more concerned about the water-horse, despite himself. She had stopped moving and seemed to be having difficulty breathing now.

He dropped a few additional herbs and roots into the broth in an effort to make it even more fortifying for the little creature. After allowing it all to simmer properly, Jenckyns brought the pot over to the sick animal and lifted her listless head into his lap. He took a spoonful of the broth and carefully poured it into her mouth. She swallowed it, which greatly relieved Jenckyns. She took a few more spoonfuls and then refused to eat any more. He laid her head back onto the blanket and rubbed her neck, hoping it made her feel reassured. How is it that I always seem to find myself in this position? He thought ruefully. And why can I never simply turn around and walk away from them? He fervently hoped that she would not become yet another victim of his good intentions.

The caretaker spent the rest of the day tending to the water-horse, coaxing her to take some of the broth every few hours and putting more balm on her wounds. By nightfall he was exhausted, but she seemed to be making a recovery. She was more alert, but still listless. As darkness fell, she began to cry again, weakly, but continuously.

Jenckyns, moved to sympathy, sought to comfort her. “Shhhhh, hush, my little one,” he said gently as he stroked and patted her long neck. “You are safe and sound now, there is no need for you to be afraid.” To Jenckyns she almost seemed to be as frightened of being alone as a human child. A memory, many centuries old, came unbidden to him of his own separation from his mother at the age of seven years. For many nights early on he had cried himself to sleep. His aunt, the abbess of the convent he had been sent to, was a caring but harsh woman, and she had forbidden any of the other nuns to comfort the child, “lest he become soft and maudlin”. One nun, however, Sister Sioned, disobeyed the abbess. She came to his room several nights a week to spend a few moments with him. She told him stories of the old gods and heroes, and sang lullabies in their native tongue until he fell asleep.

Jenckyns lay on his back next to her and wrapped his long arm around the little water-horse. She snuggled her body up against the man’s, and wrapping her long neck around the back of his own, gently laid her head on his broad chest. Jenckyns marveled at how much she seemed to trust him. Perhaps she senses that I mean her no harm, he wondered. He instantly snorted derisively at the thought. Have a care, little water-horse, I seem to fail most often those who are closest to me, he thought bitterly to himself.

Forcing the his dark thoughts aside, Jenckyns gently stroked the whimpering grey head resting on his chest, and began to softly sing one of Sister Sioned’s lullabies to the little water-horse, hoping the sound of his voice would soothe her. Soon the two weary companions were fast asleep. Jenckyns passed the night peacefully, and did not dream.

Chapter Text

Jenckyns awoke early the next morning. He rose immediately to check on his patient. His right arm was stiff from having been in the same position around the water-horse’s neck all night, but he hardly noticed the discomfort as he gently removed her head from his chest. To his immense relief, he found that she had survived the night. She stirred sleepily as he moved her, and whimpered softly.

He put fresh balm on her wounds, which were healing remarkably quickly—too quickly for it to be the balm’s doing. Perhaps her kind has the ability to heal themselves, he thought. He then built the fire up again and reheated the remaining broth. When it was warm enough, he nudged her awake and was able to get her to take some more spoonfuls. She seemed much more eager to drink the broth this morning, and Jenckyns felt a surge of hope flutter through his chest. He stayed by the shelter all day, periodically checking her injuries and feeding her the rest of the broth. By that evening as he was settling in for the night, the little water-horse was up and moving about. Though still weak, she tried to stay as close to Jenckyns’s side as much as she could.

Remembering that he hadn’t eaten anything himself in over a day, and with the sick one making her recovery, Jenckyns suddenly felt ravenous. He turned his head to look at the grey head nuzzling his neck. “I wonder what I have left in the way of victuals, then, my little one? You have eaten all of my venison.” He remembered a small sack the widow woman had given to him just before he left. She never said what was in it, only that it was food, and Jenckyns did not ask. He had merely thanked her for it and went his way, and the small bundle was soon forgotten. It surely couldn’t contain much; she had next to nothing for herself, let alone anything to give away to strangers.

He opened the bag and peeked inside. He was delighted to find one dozen oaten scones—and a small earthen pot of blackberry jam! It was all the sack contained, and the scones were somewhat stale by now, but Jenckyns, who had a great fondness for sweets, never dreamed of finding such a treat. God bless you, Mistress McCracken! he thought heartily as he pulled out a cake and the jam pot. He slathered the scone with a goodly amount of the jam, his mouth watering in anticipation. He started to raise the cake to his lips when suddenly, with a soft thwoomp! sound—Jenckyns’s hand was empty and there was a loud smacking sound in his right ear. Jerking his body to the right, he saw the water-horse quickly swallowing the last of the scone.

They stared at each for a moment, then the water-horse gave a sharp squawk, and looked at Jenckyns expectantly.

“I suppose I should have seen that coming,” he conceded reluctantly. He reached into the bag and pulled out another scone. He started to spread some jam, but then stopped. Out of curiosity, he held the plain scone out to the water-horse in the palm of his hand. The creature’s tongue immediately shot out like frog’s, seizing the cake and in a flash drew it into the hungry mouth. Almost as quickly she spit the scone back out onto the ground. Jenckyns looked from the slightly mangled scone in front of him and then to the water-horse, puzzled. The little beast gazed back unashamedly, then emitted another sharp squawk. Why did she eat the first, but not the second scone? he wondered.

As if in answer to his unspoken question, the young water-horse turned her head and looked pointedly at the jam pot next to Jenckyns’s feet, then returned her gaze back to the startled man. Jenckyns cocked his own head in surprise and looked askance at his new charge. Again, she looked deliberately at the jam pot and then back to Jenckyns. He slowly reached for the pot, and instantly the water-horse became excited. She eagerly heaved herself forward, knocking Jenckyns over as she tried to get to the small jar of sweet, tasty jam.

Jenckyns just managed to hang onto the jam pot and prevent it from shattering against the nearby rocks. “Odds bodkins!” he swore in surprise. He snatched up the bag of scones as well and scrambled a safe distance away from the hungry youngster.

“Very well!” he cried. “Calm yourself! If it is jam that you want, ‘tis jam you shall have!” He loaded his knife with a small amount and quickly spread it over the previously rejected scone on the ground. As soon as the dark purple confection touched the surface of the bread, the water-horse was upon it, and with shocking speed devoured her hapless prey. She turned to look at Jenckyns again.

“Well!” said Jenckyns, his brow furrowing. “I see that I am not the only one here with a liking for the sweeter aspects of life.” He reached for another scone, and the water-horse began moving towards him excitedly. Jenckyns put his hand against the smooth dry chest to hold her off. Remarkably, she understood the message and sat still, her eyes never leaving his hands as he prepared another scone. It, too, was quickly gobbled up.

And so the bag was emptied of all twelve of the scones, save one, that Jenckyns meant to have himself. The water-horse, however, eyed the tasty cake greedily as he scraped out the last bit of jam from the bottom and sides of the jam pot. As he prepared to enjoy the scone, though, the water-horse lowered her head to the ground as she had in the lake, and again made a low-pitched, mournful whine, her large dark eyes seeming to radiate sadness. Jenckyns could scarcely believe his own eyes—the beast was actually begging for the last scrap of food he had!

He gave the creature a disapproving look through slitted lids. “And who is going to care for you if I die of starvation, you shameless glutton?” he demanded with mock sternness, knowing full well that it would take a very long time indeed for an immortal to starve to death. “You think perhaps a fairy will appear and do it?” he asked, waving his hands in the air to indicate the flitting of fairy wings. The water-horse only lowered her head further and whined again.

Determined to ignore her, Jenckyns raised the scone to his lips again and was just about to bite into it when a thought occurred to him: How many days had the poor beast been caught in that net before Jenckyns found her? It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, then, that she would be so hungry now. His sense of chivalry reproached Jenckyns then; with a deep sigh and a last longing look, he offered the cake to the hungry animal. She devoured the scone within seconds and looked expectantly at Jenckyns for another.

“I am sorry, my little one, but that is all I had,” he said resignedly. He picked up the empty jam pot, thinking to get at least get a taste of the jam, but no sooner did he have it in his hand than the quicksilver-fast tongue of the water-horse was stuck into the mouth of the jar, licking the interior clean.

“You are the very incarnation of voracity!” he said in his most disapproving tone of voice, but Jenckyns could not keep the small smile from creeping onto his face. He managed to dig up and roast a few cattail roots for himself that day. It wasn’t oat scones and jam, but at least they kept his empty stomach from complaining too much.

Chapter Text

So it went as the weeks turned into months, the months into years. As the seasons changed in the Highlands, Jenckyns was content to stay where he was on the deserted lakeshore, and the water-horse was content to stay with Jenckyns. He built a small, more weatherproof shelter out of the abundant stones that littered the shore of the lake, plugging the gaps between them with mud. He explored the area, noting landmarks and signs of game that might be caught and the locations of plants that would supplement his diet. In wintertime, food was sparse, so he was ever grateful for the fish the water-horse brought to her adopted caretaker every day or two. He relished the hot meal it afforded during those cold days, though one particular afternoon he found himself unable to even think of eating the gallon of whole minnows his friend regurgitated for him one morning. He stood staring at the pile of slimy little fish, hand over his mouth, and tried to keep himself from vomiting outright by distracting himself with the theory that the creature must have a sort of craw, such as some birds do in order to bring food back to the nest for their young. Carrying extra food in a craw would certainly allow the animal to retain its speed in the water, as opposed to carrying catches in its mouth, which would increase the drag...

Seeing the creature waiting for a response, he pulled himself together, pasted a wide grin on his face and thanked his companion profusely for the gift. As soon as she wandered off back to the lake, Jenckyns quickly scooped the nauseating mess into a hollow in the ground and buried them under a pile of dirt and stones.

Jenckyns spent much of his free time with the water-horse and studying her habits. She was a very intelligent, immensely strong animal, though mostly gentle with him even when they rough-housed, as though she sensed that he was somewhat more fragile than another of her own kind would be. She was also an incredibly fast swimmer and a very efficient predator in the water. In the beginning Jenckyns kept an ever watchful eye out for the sudden appearance of an angry parent, but none ever came. Perhaps the young of this species are born able to fend for themselves, he thought. Perhaps this one’s mother had died in some fashion. Or, worst of all, she had simply abandoned her infant. The idea made the man a little sad. Despite the irascible exterior he carefully maintained for the world, he knew he was, by nature, a nurturer, and orphans always pained his generous heart. I have proved my aunt correct, he thought with no little satisfaction. I have become soft and maudlin.

Jenckyns took to speaking to the water-horse in the old language he grew up with. He did it partly to stay fluent, and partly because it helped him mentally to distance himself from the present. It never occurred to him to name his companion. He only ever addressed her by the endearments ‘little one’ or ‘my little one’. Most days he was able to stave off the worst of his sadness and melancholy. He and the growing water-horse would often spend hours in fine weather sunning themselves in a grassy patch, Jenckyns leaning against her body and with her head close to him. He would tell her stories of Camelot, folktales he heard as a child, sing her ancient songs long forgotten by everyone else. He told her stories of people he had known throughout his long lifetime. He told her about Edwin and his tragic end. The water-horse listened to it all, nuzzling close to him whenever she thought she heard a note of sadness in his voice.

And there were some days wherein all he could do was sit and stare out over the lake’s dark, placid surface. For hours at a time he would remain motionless, remembering the past: All of the friends and loved ones that he watched grow old and die off one by one; the bitter split between his father and himself; the decisions and choices that he had made and thought were the right and just ones at the time, but which turned out to be disastrous and deadly for others; his fried, Edwin, and his terrible end. There were times when he bitterly cursed his fate as an immortal and how if forced him to witness and participate in so much misery and suffering. It all swirled and raced like a flash flood through his mind, drowning him in regret, sorrow and self-condemnation.

The water-horse always seemed to know when these black moods struck Jenckyns. In those times she was always next to him, her warm body quietly snuggled up to his, her head resting in his lap or on his shoulder, for hours on end, comforting him with her presence. The Caretaker, when he realized that she was with him, would often be overwhelmed by her pure, simple affection and devotion for him, and he could only press he face into her soft, velvet-like fur, and weep.

Chapter Text

February 13, 1605
Shore of Loch Ness, Highlands of Scotland

Very early in the morning, the soundly sleeping Jenckyns was prodded to wakefulness by a tapping on his shoulder. Chiding the water-horse for her astounding insolence, he swatted at the offender and rolled over, turning his back to her.

“Master Jenckyns! Wake up!”

Instantly awake, the former soldier smoothly pulled his sword from its scabbard and readied himself for action as he leapt to his feet. Before him stood a slight figure covered head to toe in a heavy, finely-made woolen cloak of darkest red and clasped at the neck with a large jewel-encrusted gold brooch. The hood was pulled forward against the frosty morning air, hiding the face of this wholly unexpected visitor. Quickly glancing around, Jenckyns could see no sign of the water-horse.

“Identify yourself!” he ordered. He hoped this stranger did not have others to back him up; Jenckyns was trapped on three sides in this campsite, and if there were too many of them he would be in a great deal of trouble.

The cloaked figure stepped back a pace or two, making a sound of disgust. Black-gloved hands pushed the hood back to reveal a middle-aged woman with slightly graying, strawberry-blonde hair done up in a single, thick braid and wrapped around her head.

“Ye gods, man, but you STINK! When was the last time you had a proper bath!?”

Sword arm falling to his side limply, Jenckyns gaped in pure astonishment. “Mistress Charlene?”

“Of course! Who else would go to so much trouble to search for your hare-brained self?” she asked acidly. “Though I do ask that the next time you have a crisis of conscience that you would run away to someplace warm and inviting. The south of France or Spain, perhaps; they are always pleasant this time of the year. And they are supplied with good food and wine.”

Jenckyns sheathed the sword angrily as he recovered from his shock at seeing the First Guardian of the Library, though she had long ago resigned from active duty in that post, along with her Librarian. The last Jenckyns had heard, she had been appointed to the governorship of the Library’s accounting house.

“If you have come all this way simply to insult and mock me, then you may go now”, he replied acerbically as he stooped and busied himself with building up his camp fire. “You have successfully accomplished your quest, Madam Guardian.” He stood up and gave the woman a low, mocking bow.

Charlene sighed deeply. Her next words were delivered in a more conciliatory tone. “I did not come to argue with you, Jenckyns. I came to take you home. To the Library.”

The man snorted in derision. “I have no home, now, madam.” He threw his arms wide and turned to indicate the entire area. “The world is my home now. This whole, entire, cruel, hate-filled, God-forsaken world.” He snatched up his sword and redrew it, holding the blade aloft in a heroic pose.

“I am the masterless knight-errant!” he shouted bitterly. “Have you not heard? I go about in the world upon a white steed, steel in hand and cloaked with righteousness to do battle with the Darkness! I go about in the world now with the boldness and courage that only ignorance and naiveté can bestow—bringing naught but destruction and death to the innocent.” Jenckyns then threw the sword to the ground and sat down on a nearby rock. He was not prone to such emotional outbursts, and he rubbed his grizzled, bewhiskered face in some shame and embarrassment as he regained his composure.

“Go back to the Library, Charlene,” he said tonelessly, staring at the ground. “Leave me be. Please.”

Charlene moved to Jenckyns’s side and lightly placed her hand on his shoulder. “Galahad....”

A high-pitched, screeching roar cut through the still air. Startled, the two humans turned towards the blood-curdling sound. Charlene was shocked to see a very large, black creature the size of a small cottage charging her and Jenckyns from the lake. It moved incredibly fast across the rocky ground, its long neck stretched flat in front, rows of thin, knife-like teeth visible in its jaws.

“Jenckyns!” she gasped. She glanced at the stone next to her, but the tall man wasn’t there. She looked back towards the monster, and saw with horror that Jenckyns was wildly running straight at the beast, hands in front of him, completely defenseless.

“Jenckyns! No! NO!” she screamed. She grabbed his discarded sword from the ground and ran after him. “Jenckyns!”

The moment the monster spotted the lanky caretaker, it immediately stopped running, its great bulk skidding to a halt directly in front of Jenckyns, and ceased its roaring as he placed his hands on either side of its great head and held it them there. Charlene, thinking to seize the opportunity, and raced up behind Jenckyns, sword high and ready to take the beast’s head off.

Jenckyns, directly between her and the huge monster, turned to face Charlene. “MOVE, Jenckyns!” she yelled. “I cannot strike!”

He shot one long arm forward and grabbed the wrist of her sword-arm, his face panic-stricken. “NO, Charlene! She did not understand! She thought you sought to harm me!”

Upon hearing the words, Charlene stopped struggling against his iron grip and gawked at her old friend. “What did you say?” she asked, utterly bewildered.

“She was only protecting me,” he repeated. He turned back to the beast and began scratching its giant head, talking to it as though it was a pampered child. “You meant no harm, did you, my little one?” He moved and pointed out Charlene to his “little one”. “And she meant no harm to me, either. She is also a friend.” In response, the animal produced a deep, rumbling growl deep in its throat that chilled the Guardian to the bone as it seemed to glare at Charlene suspiciously. Jenckyns immediately chided the thing for its ill manners.

“You had better give me the sword,” he said. She silently handed it over to him, which he then held up before the giant creature. “There, you see? I have defanged her.”

Seemingly satisfied, the water-horse sat back and made a loud purring sound. Jenckyns warmly patted the beast’s chest in approval, reassuring her that Charlene was not a threat to either of them. The water-horse then lowered her head to the ground; after a few jerking motions while making a gurgling sound, Charlene was horror-struck to see the creature regurgitate a rather large northern pike onto the sand at Jenckyns’s feet. She sat up and trumpeted before turning and moving back towards the lake.

“Ah!” said Jenckyns, his voice sounding pleased. “I see that breakfast has arrived.” He grabbed the slimy pike by one of its gills and started back to the fire. “Would you care to join me, Mistress Charlene?” he asked pleasantly as he passed her. Charlene’s face blanched as she quickly bent over and vomited.

Chapter Text

Half an hour later, after regaining her composure and some splashes of cold lake water to her face, Charlene rejoined Jenckyns by the camp fire. He had cleaned the fish and set it roasting over the flames. It smelled delicious, until she remembered where it had come from. She immediately felt queasy again, but she covered it with a brave face. “Are you feeling better?” he asked nonchalantly as she seated herself next to him.

“Yes. Thank you,” the Guardian replied flatly, forcing herself to look everywhere but at the roasting fish in front of her. They both sat in silence for several minutes, Jenckyns periodically poking the fire with a stick. “How can you possibly eat….that?” she blurted hoping to dispel the awkwardness between them.

“I presume that you are referring to the viscous material that coated it?” he asked blandly. “I found that it is completely harmless, merely a naturally-produced lubricant of some kind that assists the animal in—expelling—prey from its craw. It does not affect the fish in any way, I simply wash it off.” He poked the fire with the long stick, then turned look at Charlene. “I may look like I have completely lost my mind, but I assure you that I have not.”

“And, where did you find your new...pet?” she asked, changing the subject.

“AH, well, that is a story!” Jenckyns’s mood brightened immediately as he began to tell Charlene about the night he found the little water-horse close to death in the lake so many months ago. As he warmed up to the subject, sharing with the older woman stories about the creature and what he had learned from his observations of it, it became clear to Charlene that Jenckyns had developed quite an attachment to the beast, as much as it had to the caretaker. But, she reflected, that was Jenckyns; he loved animals. Charlene suspected he actually preferred the company of animals to that of humans. Animals gave their love abundantly and unconditionally, something that Jenckyns had had very little of from the humans in his long life. It was going to break the Caretaker’s heart to have to leave this creature behind when they returned to the Library…

“How did you find me?” Jenckyns asked suddenly. “Sounds travel far here, and I heard no horses approach.” In response Charlene pulled a small ebony box from her traveling scrip and held it out to him. The man took the box and opened it; inside was a miniature Celtic-style chariot of ancient design, hitched to two great black horses. It looked like a child’s toy, but the sight of it caused Jenckyns to gasp and his eyes to widen.

“The Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr?!” he exclaimed, thunderstruck. “The Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr? You stole one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain simply to hunt me down?!” The chariot was an ancient relic with the ability to instantly transport its passengers anywhere it was told to go. The Chariot, along with the other twelve Treasures, was considered to be powerful, and therefore potentially dangerous. They had all been gathered together by no less than Merlin himself and locked away by the sorcerer under the protection of formidable magical spells.

“Well,” the slight woman began archly. “As you so kindly pointed out earlier, I am the First Guardian of the Library. There are certain....benefits...inherent to such a position.”

“And does the First Librarian know about these inherent....benefits?” Jenckyns asked sarcastically.

Charlene had the good grace to react with discomfort at the mention of Judson. “He will. When I tell him. After we return to the Library.” Charlene busied herself with brushing invisible dust from her cloak.

The large, unkempt man snapped the box shut and handed it back to her. “Judson will wring your neck for coming after me,” he said simply. “You know how he feels about me as it is—my being around you—.”

“He is welcome to try to wring my neck,” she shot back hotly. “He will find that, even at my age, he has bitten off far more than he can chew. As for you and I, Judson does not dictate to me who I call ‘friend’, and it has ever been so!”

He smiled beneath his shaggy whiskers at the image of Judson quailing before a wrathful Charlene. He placed his rough, dirty hand over her soft, perfect pale one and squeezed it gently. “Thank you for your kindness, Charlene, and your—friendship. And your loyalty.” He released her hand, his smile fading as he went back to poking the fire. “But I am not worthy of any of it.”

The former Caretaker yelped in pain as Charlene slapped him sharply in the back of his head. Quick as lightening she snatched the stick from Jenckyns’s hand and stood over him, waving the smoldering end angrily in front of his face.

“ENOUGH, Galahad!” she snapped sharply. “Enough of your self-pity!” He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised the stick as though meaning to beat him with it. “And you will hold your tongue until I have said my piece!” Jenckyns nodded mutely.

“You are Sir Galahad, the Pure Grail Knight of Virtue, a lofty title with great responsibility, indeed—but it is only one title, for only one man, capable of doing only what one man is capable of doing in this world. You are not Sir Galahad, the Knight Upon Whom the Fate of the Entire World Rests and Who Can Do Anything and Everything If Only He Tries Hard Enough. You may be immortal, but you are not a god. Do you understand me?” Again, he only nodded.

Charlene dropped the stick and sat down next to Jenckyns. “I heard about what happened to your friend, Edwin,” she said gently. “I am sorry, Galahad, truly. But you cannot blame yourself. You could not have stopped it.”

“I did not even try, Charlene, not really,” he answered harshly.

“And what would have happened, eh? You rush upon the scaffold and save your friend from the gallows, and what next? The crowd overwhelms you and then hangs both of you, the accused witch and his sympathizer. And what would the crowd then do when they discover that you cannot be hanged? Hmm? They tie you to a stake and light it, only to discover that you cannot be burned to death, either. Then what? Because now they believe that you truly are in league with the Devil, and so try every method of execution upon you they can think of until they perhaps find one that works, however long that takes? In the meantime, your friend is still unjustly hanged to death, while you, for your trouble, suffer unspeakable tortures.”

“He was only the last straw, Charlene,” Jenckyns said quietly. “I could not save even one man from Evil. Then I think of Camelot, of my father, of all the millions who have suffered and died over the centuries because I did not do enough...”

The guardian took the knight’s face in her hands and turned it towards her own. She looked deeply into his dark brown eyes, full of sorrow and self-recrimination.

“You are not to blame for what happened to Camelot, Galahad. Nor to Arthur, nor to your father. They made the choices that affected their paths in this life, as did those who are responsible for the fall of Camelot. You are only human, Galahad. You cannot out-guess the decisions others make, you cannot save everyone, no matter how badly you want to.”

Charlene paused to let her words sink in.

“Do you truly believe that you are the only one who has ever felt this way,” she said softly. “You have always been wise beyond your years, Galahad. You already know better than that. We have all of us felt it at one time or another. Every Librarian, every Guardian. Even Judson. Even myself. You know that you cannot focus on the losses. Do not forget the losses, no, but do not focus on them; focus on the gains. Focus on the millions you have saved from harm, from Evil. You know that you must focus on the good that you do. You know that one man cannot outrightly destroy Evil, it can only be defeated whenever it is encountered. As long as Mankind is in the world, so will Evil be in the world. But a single person can choose to always do what is right and good. You are a good man, Galahad, and so long as you choose to do what is right and good—no matter how small the action, no matter the odds against you, even if it costs you your very life—the good that you have done in the past and will do in the future will always remain in the world and Evil is defeated. Evil cannot triumph over your goodness, Galahad, unless you choose to let it do so.”

Jenckyns put his hands over Charlene’s as he lowered his head. Despite his best efforts, a tear was able to slip from his eye and slid down his cheek. He took a deep breath and sighed wearily.

“If I am so wise, why did I not remember any of that on my own?” he asked wryly.

Charlene smiled. “Because you are as stubborn as a tinker’s donkey once you get a notion in that thick head of yours.” The insult coaxed a tiny smile from him. “Methinks, also, that the knight sometimes believes too much of his own legend,” she added pointedly. “Sometimes we are simply overwhelmed by the hopelessness, we all need simply to be reminded of the good,” she said. “Including me.”

Jenckyns could only nod in agreement. Everything that Charlene had said was true; remembering it was always difficult for him. “Promise me that the next time this happens, you will remind me of the Good before I waste years being a stubborn ass,” he said. “OW!”

He rubbed the back of his head where Charlene again slapped him, though much gentler this time. “What was that for?”

“Have you already forgotten your 'damosel in distress'?” she asked, pointing at the lake with her chin.

Jenckyns saw the water-horse galloping towards them from the lake, the water sheeting off of her back and sides. There was still plenty of water left on her body to soak Jenckyns to the skin as she nuzzled against him in greeting and he, in return, wrapped his long arms around her and patted her back affectionately. “Here is my little one,” he rumbled quietly, eyes closed and a look of peace on his face. Charlene was correct; at least he had not failed where this particular friend was concerned.

Oh, dear, thought Charlene as she looked on the scene. This is going to be much harder than I thought. Better to do what needs to be done sooner rather than later.

“Jenckyns, we need to go back to the Library,” she stated bluntly.

“Yes, I know, Charlene,” he said, still patting the water-horse and scratching her chest.

“Now, Jenckyns.” He stopped scratching and looked quizzically at Charlene.

“Now?” he repeated, puzzled. “Why? What is the urgency?”

“The Librarian needs your help,” she said. “He and the Guardian are leaving for the New World next week. He has had word of an Aztec artifact—the Macahuitl of Huitzilopochtli.”

Jenckyns knew of the war club. It was powerful piece of magic that granted whoever wields it the ability to conquer any and all of his foes, regardless of their numbers or strength. It had been used by the Aztecs to conquer and subjugate their neighbors. Somehow the conquistador Hernan Cortes had gotten his hands on the club and, in turn, used it against the Aztecs. Legend had it that human sacrifice was required each time the club was used in order to feed the magic it held. After the Spanish defeat of the Aztecs, the club had disappeared. Rumors said it been stolen by an unknown soldier of Cortes’s, but no one knew who for certain. Others said an Aztec priest had taken it back and now had it hidden until he could raise a new Aztec army to retake New Spain.

“The Librarian has heard that the club is now in the possession of another conquistador, and that he plans to move to the lands to the north of New Spain. He plans to use the club to help him conquer the peoples he finds there as effortlessly as Cortes used it to conquer the Aztecs, and to set himself up as a king in his own right. I do not think I have to tell you, Jenckyns, that if he is successful, it will mean the death and enslavement of hundreds of thousands of people. The Librarian needs your assistance in translating the Aztec codices the Library acquired to determine how to identify the club and how to neutralize it before this Spaniard can do more harm with it.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied. “Time is, indeed, of the essence.” He turned and regarded the water-horse critically. “Perhaps shipping the water-horse by sea back to the Library would be the most feasible and expedient method of transport. The river which feeds this lake eventually leads to the sea. She can swim that far on her own—and rather speedily, too. We can crate her in Inverness and take ship to London....”

“Jenckyns, no,” Charlene said quietly, putting her hand on the caretaker’s arm to get his attention. “We must go now. We will take the chariot.”

“The chariot? Well, as magical as it is, ‘tis not nearly large enough for us and the water-horse…” Jenckyns began.

Charlene sighed. “No, Jenckyns,” she said, with more force. “She cannot go with us. She must stay here. I am sorry.”

Charlene caught the briefest glimpse of alarm mixed with pain flutter across Jenckyns’s weathered face before he ruthlessly clamped down his emotions.

“Of course, Charlene, you are correct. Please forgive my momentary lapse in common sense,” he said stiffly. “Is there time for me to at least bid farewell?”

“A few moments, yes. I have to prepare the chariot.” Charlene turned and hurried away from Jenckyns as she pulled the box once again from beneath her cloak.

He turned back to the water-horse. She sat unusually still, her head cocked as she eyed his approach with something like suspicion. She knows something is amiss, the Caretaker thought. In spite of his growing sadness, he couldn’t help but feel some pride in the animal’s cleverness.

When he was close enough, she lowered her head to the ground, just as she had at their first meeting, and began to make the same low cry of distress as she had then. Jenckyns quickly closed the remaining gap between them and took the grey head into his ever-so-slightly shaking hands. He rested his forehead against hers.

“Hush, shhhhh, my little one! Do not cry so.” He spoke in low, soothing tones. “My clever girl, you know that I am leaving now, eh? You have been a good friend to me, my treasure—far better than most men have ever been.” He then pulled away just far enough so that she could see him, face to face. He held her head still as he looked directly into her large black eyes. His voice took on a hard edge.

“You cannot accompany me now, but I swear a solemn oath to you here and now, my little one—on my honor as Galahad, a Knight of the Round Table of Arthur, the Once and Future King of All Britain—I will find a way for us to see each other again. I shall not abandon you, my little one, and until I find that way, the sun shall not rise on a single day wherein I fail to remember you. Do you understand me?”

The water-horse gently butted her head against the knight’s chest as she gave a low, almost inaudible rumble. He wrapped his long arms around her neck and tightly embraced her. “Travel well, my little one,” he whispered as he fought back tears.

Jenckyns released his friend’s neck, turned and began to walk purposefully to the awaiting Charlene. He noticed that she had already stowed his gear in the chariot. Forcing his face into a blank mask, he climbed aboard the ancient chariot and stood next to Charlene. The monstrous black horses snorted impatiently, gouging the earth with their massive hooves.

“Are you alright, Galahad?” The Guardian had overheard everything. She knew then just how deep the bond was between these two, for Jenckyns would never take such an oath lightly. Indeed, she knew him to do so only once before in all the long centuries of their acquaintance. The older woman looked up at Jenckyns’s face, trying unsuccessfully to read it. He looked straight ahead, his voice firm, betraying nothing.

“Of course. Shall we go now? The Librarian can be an impatient man, as you well know.”

Charlene took up the reins, and with a last glance at Jenckyns, she snapped them against the horse’s backs. “Ho! To the Library!” she commanded the eager beasts. They immediately reared in unison and leaped forward. In the split second before the horses, chariot and riders disappeared, the water-horse raised her head to the sky and wailed in sorrow.

A large, hard, painful lump came to Jenckyns’s throat then, and his vision blurred momentarily as he tightly gripped the rail in front of him, but he did not look back as the chariot shot forward.

Chapter Text

February 13, 1605
The Library, London, England

In the blink of an eye, the chariot arrived in the Library’s stable yard, much to the surprise of the dozing boy who should have been busy mucking out the stalls. Charlene and Jenckyns stepped down from the chariot, the tall, shaggy, bear-like man with his gear slung over one shoulder. Charlene mumbled an incantation and held the ebony box open as the chariot and horses magically shrank and were drawn back into the box. She closed the lid and then turned to the stunned stable boy.

“If you breathe a word of what you have just seen to anyone, the next pen you muck out will be the wyvern’s, if he does not strip the flesh from your very bones and devour it before your very eyes first!”

The boy blanched and swore his silence to the Guardian. Jenckyns watched as the boy ran off, screaming.

“That was rather unkind,” he remarked tonelessly. “You know that the wyvern is terribly self-conscious as it is. He will be mortified to hear that you use him as a means of frightening small boys.”

Charlene merely shrugged. “You need to find the Librarian and begin your work right away,” she said. She looked meaningfully at the filthy Caretaker. “Though perhaps you can take a little time to make yourself more….presentable.”

Jenckyns looked down at the ragged, dirty clothes he wore and his grimy hands. “Ah, yes, perhaps you are right in that.” The current Librarian was a very fastidious man and could not tolerate filth, foul odors or dishevelment. “I shall tend to it right away.”

Chapter Text

July 13, 1607
The Library, London, England

Willimus Oswold Marmaduke was a dazzlingly brilliant academician and a fearless Librarian in the field. He had had a brilliant start in his early days, but as sometimes happened to a Librarian, he was quickly overwhelmed and broken by the responsibilities and power of the position. Outside the realm of academic knowledge he was a very weak-minded and insecure man, and he sought to hide this truth behind a façade of arrogance and self-assurance. He thought the best way to maintain control of the Library was through strict, authoritarian leadership and intimidation.

And now this same Jenckyns stood silently before the Librarian’s desk, waiting. The Librarian, who was busy working on a report summarizing his successful recovery of the Macahuitl of Huitzilopotchli, never stopped writing nor even glanced up to acknowledge the Caretaker’s presence. And he despised Jenckyns, seeing more experienced man as a potential competitor and a threat to his authority rather than an ally and a resource. The older man’s own quiet knowledge and confidence served only as an indictment against the Librarian’s own shortcomings, and it galled him no end.

He continued to write for several minutes. When he was done, he carefully replaced his quill, spread sand over the document to blot the ink, and then placed the document on top of a stack of other papers he had been working on. He rose from his desk and, as he walked around it towards Jenckyns, seeming to be lost in thought, he casually picked up his riding crop from a nearby chair and toyed with it absentmindedly. Jenckyns however, carefully watching the small man carefully the entire time, saw what was coming. He had just enough time to prepare himself before the Librarian struck him viciously full across the face with the crop. The Caretaker flinched involuntarily at the blow, but quickly regained his composure. He stood stock still and stared straight ahead. He felt a trickle of blood run down his face and beneath the collar of his shirt.

“How DARE you!” the Librarian hissed in fury. “How dare you to go behind my back and disobey me?!”

“Sir, I—“Jenckyns began, but Marmaduke silenced him by raising the whip again.

“NO, Master Jenckyns, say not one word to me, or I shall give you another taste of this crop!” he shouted, his face turning scarlet.

“Have you any idea, Master Jenckyns, how much inconvenience and cost your insubordination has caused the Library? A great deal, I can assure you, sir!” the Librarian struck his desktop with the whip, sending papers and implements scattering to the floor.

“Your absolute impertinence staggers the mind!” he continued shouting, his wrath now freed to run its course.

“I forbad you in the strictest terms—FORBAD you—to import that…that…MONSTER of unknown provenance and qualities into my Library—and what do you do? The very moment my back is turned, you dare to take it upon yourself to use a dangerous book of arcane magic and open a permanent portal between the Library and that filthy lake! The entire catacombs are now flooded with that foul, stinking water, sir! The Library has reconfigured itself to accommodate that monstrosity as well! It now considers that disgusting brute a permanent addition to the Large Animal Collection, and I cannot convince it otherwise! It is all simply too much, sir—I should have the thing killed immediately! And then I should have the contrarinous flogged out of you and banish you from the Library permanently, you insufferable cur!”

Jenckyns, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall, fought to control a surge of panic upon hearing the Librarian’s threat to kill the water-horse.

“It is my own fault,” the Librarian continued, as he stalked around the room, striking the side of his leg angrily with the riding crop. “I knew I should have gotten rid of you the moment I became the Librarian. Always skulking about the place, scowling and grumbling, lecturing and instructing me—ME, the LIBRARIAN—like a scolding fishwife! I should never have let the Guardian take advantage of my generous nature and sweet talk me into allowing you to remain. I should have driven you out of here for the perfidious viper that you are!”

Jenckyns took a deep, quiet breath and let it out slowly, mentally preparing himself for what he had to do next.

“I humbly beg your pardon, Librarian”, he began contritely. “I meant no disrespect to you, sir. Nor did I have cause to believe that the spell I used from Master Edwin’s book would cause so much damage to the Library.” Forcing himself to take on an air of cowed submissiveness in order to placate the Librarian, he continued. “I merely thought that such an animal might prove to be a valuable asset to the Library.”

The Librarian rushed back to Jenckyns and stood mere inches from his chest. The much shorter man had to put his head all the way back as he stuck the end of the crop in the Caretaker’s still bleeding face.

“I am the Librarian, here, Master Jenckyns, and I do not need an ignorant menial instructing me on how to organize and govern the Library or any of its collections!” Marmaduke shrieked. “I wanted no such beast within the confines of my Library and I made that perfectly clear! The collection has far too many of these nasty, bizarre creatures already, and they produce nothing of value that contributes to the Library’s mission, sir! They do eat the Library out of house and home, nothing more. And they are all so incredibly… filthy!” Marmaduke stalked back to his desk and threw himself into the chair.

Jenckyns was infuriated by the humiliating tirade, and wanted badly to put the pompous fool in his proper place, but for the sake of his friend he held his tongue and his temper.

“Again, I offer my most sincere apologies, sir,” he said in what he hoped sounded like a wheedling tone. “I am most grateful for your patience with me. It was foolish of me to think that I could control such powerful magic as though I had the abilities of a Librarian. It was most brazen of me, sir, and I can assure you most fervently that it shall never happen again.” Jenckyns paused a moment to collect his will before he could continue.

“I am also most grateful for your allowing me to remain in the Library, sir. It has become the only home I know now, and I am sorry for having abandoned you when I went to Scotland.” The Caretaker swallowed and forced himself to say the next words slowly and deliberately. “I am, of course, wholly dependent on your generosity and good will, Master Librarian, and I am most grateful for your benefaction. I beg your forgiveness, sir.”

Marmaduke turned and eyed the tall man before him. “You dare to beg my pardon, do you?” he asked, a note of haughtiness creeping into his voice. He lifted his fox-like face and laced his fingers together in front of his chest. “Is it not customary for one to be on his knees when begging for something?” He was delighted to see flash of anger in the older man’s eyes.

Jenckyns felt dizzy and his vision went momentarily dark with the rage that surged within him. He struggled to control his emotion, but he could tell by the triumphant glint in Marmaduke’s eyes that he had seen it. Very well, if groveling is the price I must pay, then I shall pay it in full, he thought coldly.

Silently, he lowered his long frame slowly to the floor. When he was upon his knees, he then clasped his hands before him in a gesture of pleading. His forced his gaze from the Librarian’s smug one by bowing his head halfway to the floor. His face throbbed in pain as he did so, and tiny drops of blood splattering onto the ornate Turkish rug beneath him. “I am indeed the most unworthy and ungrateful of servants, Master Librarian, and I humbly beg your pardon for my deceitfulness.”

Greatly mollified by the display of submission, Marmaduke turned away from the older man and pretended to study a sheaf of papers for many long minutes before he finally released the knight from his humiliation. “You are dismissed!” he barked.

Jenckyns bowed low in acquiescence before returning to his feet. As he turned to leave the Librarian’s study, Marmaduke called out to him. “One moment, Jenckyns. About that creature…”

“Yes, sir?” Jenckyns suddenly felt a chill.

“I want you to kill that it immediately.”

“Sir?” the Caretaker croaked.

“Yes, you. You used to be a knight, did you not? You are used to hacking things to bits like a Cheapside butcher. See to it at once.” Flush with triumph over the insufferable Caretaker, Marmaduke’s face had a smug look as he gave his orders. “I have decided that you can remain in the Library’s employ, but this will be a fitting punishment for you. Perhaps you will think twice in future before you dare to play at being something that is above your station.”

Jenckyns forced himself to bow low again. “As you wish, Librarian.”

Chapter Text

Jenckyns entered his quarters and went straight to the mirror to assess the damage to his face. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab the blood from the wound. He was shocked at the sight of a long, open cut that ran from his forehead, across his nose and onto his right cheek. He had not expected the Librarian to assault him physically he had never done so in the past, and it had caught Jenckyns entirely by surprise. It was already beginning to heal; fortunately he had an ointment in his quarters that would speed the healing process overnight as he slept, though he feared he would be bearing yet another a scar for the rest of his life.

As he rummaged around in a box for the ointment jar, Jenckyns couldn’t help but smile. It had cost him a great deal in terms of his pride and in terms of his blood, but his gamble had paid off handsomely.

The Caretaker’s smile grew even wider at the memory of his first sight of his friend after so long apart. He wasn’t sure if the spell he had found in Master Edwin’s book would work, but he had to try. It took many weeks of preparation, but he had managed to do it, though the flooding of the catacombs had been a bit of a surprise. But, he reasoned, at least now she had plenty of room to swim around. His friend was much larger now, a mature animal, but she had recognized him instantly and greeted him with an overwhelming joy. He knew that the Librarian would be furious when he returned from New Spain, but Jenckyns knew his enemy far better than the Librarian knew himself. A suitable display of repentance and submission and allowing Marmaduke to feel that he had put Jenckyns into his proper place was all that was needed—though it had galled Jenckyns to have to get on his knees before the nasty little toad and beg, even if just for show. But it didn’t matter now, Jenckyns had won this battle.

Though generally frowned upon by the knight’s code of conduct, he would baldly lie to the Librarian tomorrow and tell him that he had dispatched the illicit water-horse as ordered. He would show the pedantic man a sword covered in blood procured from the local butcher. He might even, for more dramatic effect, produce a cow’s heart and tell the supercilious worm that it was the heart of the beast Marmaduke had ordered executed. She would need to go back to Scotland for a time, at least until this Librarian died, but his little one was safe, now—that was the important thing. And since there was no way to reverse the “damage” he had done to the structure of the Library, they could come and go as they pleased, and thus stay in touch. He had fulfilled his oath.

Chapter Text

November 1, 2014
The Library—Portland Annex, Portland, Oregon, USA

Jenkins glared as Ezekiel Jones sauntered carelessly into the Annex, munching the last slice of the previous night’s BBQ chicken pizza with triple onions and cheese. He touted cold pizza as the ‘breakfast of champions’, but Jenkins doubted the other Librarians would share that belief, especially after the triple onions kicked in. “Mr. Jones, please stop your dillydallying and get yourself through the door! It will not stay open forever, and you all have to be at the Nazca Plains before midnight tonight if you want to discover the location of the quipu!”

Ezekiel stopped, spreading his arms in a gesture of inquiry and gave the older man a cock-eyed smirk. “Alright alright alright, Jenkins, settle petal!” he replied breezily. “No worries, mate; if we miss this one you can always just, dial it back up again, hey?”

The Caretaker was just about to deliver a cutting retort when Eve Baird stepped forward and grabbed Ezekiel by the shoulders and turned him to face the open door. “Let’s go, Jones! Time’s a’wastin’. We’ve got a long hike ahead of us and we need to move! Stone and Cassandra are already there.” She all but shoved the young man through the door before turning back to Jenkins.

“Thank you, Colonel! Now, do you have the box I gave you?” Jenkins asked anxiously.

Baird patted the pocket of her jacket. “Right here.”

The Caretaker nodded. “Excellent. Now remember—if you successfully locate the quipu, place it into the box immediately. Do not—and I cannot stress this enough—do not let the Librarians so much as touch it—especially Mr. Jones.” An ordinary quipu, which looked to the untrained eye like a hopeless mess of string, was a method used by ancient Andean cultures to keep historical records and communicate information through a complex series knots tied in its strings. They were usually made of simple colored thread, but this one—the Nazca Quipu—was different: Not only was it made of threads spun from solid gold, it was also said that one could actually travel back in time to any event it recorded by simply untying the desired knot. The Library classified all time-travel devices as dangerous, and Jenkins was worried that a solid gold time-traveling quipu in the hands of three very curious yet impulsive Librarians was a recipe for disaster. Whether the tale was true or not remained to be seen, but Jenkins always erred on the side of caution—hence the theft-proof box he had quietly given to Eve. It would keep temptation out of the Librarians’ way—especially Jones—until Jenkins had a chance to study the quipu and discover definitively what it could and could not do.

“Relax, Jenkins, I have it all under control. With any luck we should be back sometime tomorrow,” the Guardian reassured the anxious man.

“Fine, Colonel, I will look for you then,” he replied. Eve stepped quickly through the portal and was gone.

“Finally!” Jenkins breathed, relieved. “I thought they would never leave....” he muttered. He had a great of work to do today, and he was eager to get started.

The elderly Caretaker made his way to the kitchen. He removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and tied on an apron. He pulled several bowels, baking sheets, spoons, measuring cups, flour, sugar, butter, eggs and other ingredients. He spent the entire day mixing, rolling, cutting and baking, humming ancient tunes as he worked.

By late afternoon he had a gigantic pile of freshly baked scones. After they cooled, he packed them carefully into two large wicker hampers, along with a large thermos bottle of hot Darjeeling tea, several large jars of fresh Devonshire clotted cream and different varieties of jam. When the hampers were full, he placed them on a large hand cart, which he then pushed to the back door of the Annex.

Jenkins next went to his quarters. He freshened up a bit and changed into his best suit. He carefully combed his thinning, whitening hair, checked his pocket square and made sure his bow tie was straight. Tonight was a very special occasion, and he wanted everything to be just so.

He took a very large, thick woolen blanket from his closet and placed it on the cart with the hampers. When he had everything ready, he put on a long winter coat and fixed the location settings on the back door control mechanism. The door glowed to life and swung open. Jenkins grabbed the handle of the cart and pushed it though the doorway, being careful not to let it tip over.

When he came through the other side, he was in a very familiar spot on the shore of Loch Ness in the Highlands of Scotland. It was the same place where he had first met his now oldest and dearest friend, exactly 410 years ago this day. It was still a fairly deserted place, though there were more frequent signs over the years that other humans were regular visitors now. It was already night here, but Jenkins could still make out the remains of the little stone shelter he had built so many centuries ago.

He gathered a small pile of wood and lit a campfire within a circle of stones close to the edge of the lake. He spread the blanket on the chilly ground and placed the hampers on one end. Jenkins then sat down on a nearby stone and waited impatiently. The frosty air felt good on his face after having spent the day in a hot kitchen.

As the moon rose, there was a rippling in the surface of the lake. Jenkins stood up and straightened his clothes, adjusted his tie. A large smile transformed his usually stern and saturnine expression into one of pure happiness. The enormous head of a great beast broke though the surface of the lake, followed by a long, tree-like neck. When the creature spotted the nattily-dressed gentleman on the shore, she threw her head to the darkening sky and roared, displaying rows of long, sharp, dagger-like teeth.

Unfazed by the terrifying sight, Jenkins watched as the hulking form of the animal pulled itself onto the shoreline. She was no longer able to move about as easily on dry land as she had in her youth, but this was close enough. As he stepped eagerly forward, the huge black monster lowered her head to gently butt his chest in greeting, a deep rumbling purr sounding in her massive chest. Jenkins, heedless of the cold, dirty lake water that was certain to ruin his suit, he put his arms around her neck and hugged her tightly. “Here’s my little one at last!” he cooed to her in the old language. He took the large head in his hands and scratched beneath her jaw. “I’m so happy to see you again, my dear friend. I was beginning to think that you had forgotten our appointment!” She rumbled again, and gently head-butted him in rebuke, nearly knocking him over. Jenkins laughed, a sound that few ever heard.

“I know, I know—I was only teasing, little one! I know you would never forget our ‘anniversary’.” He turned and indicated the hampers on the beach. “Look, little one, I brought you a surprise to mark the occasion.” She already knew what was in the hampers. Even though they both traveled back and forth from the Library now for visits, Jenkins insisted on coming back to Loch Ness every year on this date, and he always brought her favorite treat—scones and jam.

Jenkins moved over to the blanket and lowered himself onto the ground slowly. He reached out and patted the spot next to him. “Come, little one, let’s spend some time together, shall we?” The water-horse moved carefully onto the shore next to the Caretaker, whom she now dwarfed in size. She flopped down on the ground and wound her great neck around the back of Jenkins so that her head was right next to him. He leaned forward and pulled the first hamper close. He opened it and removed one of his specially-made scones. It was the size of a dinner plate. He took a knife from the hamper and cut the scone in half. He then turned to his friend.

“What kind of jam would you like?” he asked politely. The water-horse made a familiar squawking sound, though now, from a mature animal, it sounded more like an explosion. Jenkins smiled, reached into the hamper and pulled out a jar of dark purple. “I pray for your sake that they never form a 12-step program for blackberry jam addicts,” he said as he spread the slices with the sticky confection. “Cream?” he asked.

His friend grunted in response, and he slathered a goodly amount of the rich clotted cream over the jam. When he was finished, he lightly pressed the two halves together to form a sandwich.

“Open!” he ordered. The jaws widened to again reveal rows of savage teeth nearly as long as Jenkins’s hand. Unconcerned, he tossed the scone into the maw. The jaws snapped shut and the water-horse purred with pleasure as she enjoyed the tasty delicacy.

Jenkins spent the rest of the evening preparing scones and feeding them to his friend. As he did, he chatted with her about recent events. They also reminisced about their past, and he told her stories of Camelot, folktales from his childhood and stories of people he had known throughout his long lifetime.

They talked about the young water-horses she had produced and how they were each doing. Jenkins remembered the day she entrusted him with her very first egg as though it was yesterday. In fact, she had entrusted all of her eggs to him for safekeeping. He had been touched by her faith in him, and proud to help hatch and raise the younglings. The Caretaker was indeed so proud of her and her offspring that one would have thought he himself was their father.

Eventually they became quiet, and as the moon moved to western horizon and bathed the earth with its pale light, Jenkins and the water-horse nestled together in the frosty November air, simply enjoying one another’s company. He began to softly sing an old lullaby, one that the large beast knew and loved well, just as much as she loved the man who sang it to her.

As his eyes grew heavy with sleep, Jenkins glanced over at the lightly snoring head beside him. The world now had labeled his friend a mysterious ‘monster’ to be hunted down and exposed to the world. Or they called her ‘Nessie’ and tried to turn her into nothing more than a silly tourist attraction. The world is still full of fools, he thought. They could call her whatever they liked and believe whatever nonsense they liked, it didn’t matter to Jenkins. They both knew the truth: The ‘damsel in distress’ that he saved so long ago, had, in fact, saved the knight, and for that he would always be grateful. She was his oldest, most faithful friend. He loved her dearly, and as long as Jenkins drew breath he would be devoted to her. To him she would always only be Fy mach i —‘My little one’.