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Dear Mam, Gaheris cut my hair.
And I don’t like it when other people decide how I look, have always shunned the fashion of the day, have let my hair grow loose and wild over my shoulders like moss and heather—But it’s alright when it’s Gare.
‘How short?’ he asked, and I gestured dimly at my ears, my chin, anywhere near my face; I didn’t know how to say to him that I didn’t mind much what it looked like, I only wanted it off. He hesitated for a second, examining me with a slight scowl. I knew he wanted to ask again but he knows me well enough to know what I mean, and there’s been enough shouting tonight, so Gaheris heaved the shears aloft and commenced cutting.
Mordred is seventeen now, the age I was when he was born. He has been knighted, a man in his own right now, no longer beholden to Lancelot or dead King Lot or me. He still does not bear much resemblance to any of the rest of us, with no reddish undertone in his hair and none of our pale skin that burns as easily as it freckles.
I wonder at it sometimes, Mam. It seems cruel, him having been so far lag the rest of us, having been left so long on Orkney alone with you, that he should not even have resemblance to mark him as being one of us. Then again, I suppose neither you nor I nor Mordred himself had any say in the matter, so it is rather unfair to blame any of us.
No, Mordred’s hair is chestnut, and his skin is tanned like leather. Perhaps the only resemblance that one can see is the tilt of his nose, very like Gaheris’ and somewhat like mine. Rather like yours and Auntie Morgan’s—or how hers used to be before she ensorcelled it—and the King’s. A family nose.
I see nothing of dead King Lot in him. Then again, I did not often look into his face. Even now, when I try to picture my supposed father, his face appears shrouded in a dark cloud that I cannot see past.
Enough. Mam, I am very tired. I know not why I thought to write to you, save that I have not particularly abstained from Kay’s libations tonight. Truly, I don’t know how he makes it, only that it tastes like being hit in the face and it makes me wild. A mere goblet of it encourages me to do mad things, such as momentarily kidnapping his Majesty’s horse to ride over the moors or picking a baseless fight with Griflet. Or writing to you.
Mostly I am writing so that you know that I have cut my hair, or rather, Gaheris has cut my hair, but whatever the case, my hair has been cut, and I rather think I like it. I am not sure, however. It’s short and very uneven; Gaheris did what he could with the shears pinched from the stables and then attempted to neaten it with his sgian. He did a shit job of it, but I don’t what I expected, seeing as he had nothing but sheep shears and a dull knife to work with and seeing as it was Gaheris after all.
I had an awful, awful row with him this night, Mam. I don’t know how we let it happen—I suppose I made some passing comment about Linet, and he took it to heart more than I meant him to. I only said that she was like one of our highland wildcats, and I stand by it. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see our Lady of Redland with rabbit’s blood on her chin and cheeks, and tufts of her unfortunate prey’s hair caught in her teeth. The resemblance even extends to her eyes, strangely green and brown and eternally glaring at me.
But Gaheris would take it badly, and before I could diplomatically extract myself from my own buffoonery, he had rounded on me with a ‘You think everything’s damned humourous, don’t you?’ And then I said things and he said things, and really, Mam, I think we both could have conducted ourselves better.
Perhaps the most regrettable moment was Gaheris informing me that I am an ‘unlovable cunt, and I hope you die in a fucking fire,’ or perhaps my own accusation that he had ‘certainly displayed your great adoration of your lady when you crawled into the bed of anyone who’ll have you,’ was even less admirable—It matters not the exact words that were exchanged, only that they were hurried, angry, and highly unpleasant, and that I stormed away with the intent of nursing my bruised mood alone, perhaps with some more of Kay’s concoction to really top the night off and ensure that I would awaken late, with a headache like I’d been stabbed in the forehead.
Only Gaheris followed me, likely out of the foolish notion my brothers have taken that I’ll do something desperate if left alone. And yea, they might not have struck too far off the mark, for indeed, if they do not leave me alone soon, I may do something desperate. Only I will not be the one flying from the turrets.
It seemed we’d had enough arguing for one night, for instead of continuing our row, we merely walked in silence until some of our mutual rage had burnt off. Only then did I start crying.
Truly, I’m surprised it took as long as it did. I felt a mist in my eyes when Mordred knelt before the King but I held it off for fear of embarrassing him. And the rest of the night was such a hurried thing with a laugh or a drink or a dance always to keep it at bay. There wasn’t time to remember that my littlest brother is not so little now.
I thought of myself at that age, and the thought only made me cry harder. Just to think of that horrid child, still half feral with his hair in knots, standing with his trousers rolled up in the ocean, salt drying on his skin. So determined to stay alive. So determined to keep the rest of them alive. The remembering of it is like a knife between my ribs, Mam. How cruel. How cruel that no one helped him.
Gaheris patted my shoulder with a rather clumsy approximation of comforting. It’s a damn good thing he and Linet don’t have kids; the man is not in possession of nurturing air. ‘Ach, man,’ he said. ‘It’s alright, I suppose.’ A lacklustre attempt, though I supposed I could appreciate the intent.
I blew my nose on my shirt collar, and Gaheris made a quiet noise of disgust. ‘When I brought Mordred here,’ I said. ‘We went to Papay first. Have I told you this?’ I asked because sometimes I find myself telling the same stories again and again, and this makes me feel old. But Gaheris shook his head, and I knew already; I knew that I never would have told anyone this story. There are some things I never want to bring home from Orkney.
We went to Papay, as you may remember, Mam. You were not happy about us going. He was only twelve, two years younger than the rest of them had been when I’d come to collect them. Somehow I’d been foolish enough to think that he would be alright alone—It was only two years, since Gareth disappeared. I was angry about that for a while, that Gareth had left without waiting for me to come and get him. I was so angry that I didn’t have time to cry for all that we thought he was dead, but then he wasn’t so I reckon it’s alright that I spent those years angry instead of crying that he was dead. It's alright. It’s alright. It’s alright, Mam. It’s alright.
So we thought that Gareth was dead, and Mordred was too young to be a squire but I came to collect him anyway, and we went to Papay, pretending it was only for a hunting trip. Perhaps Mordred thought that was all it was. I know you knew better. Whatever else, I will never accuse you of being foolish.
It rained horribly all three days we were there, and Mordred was frightened of me. I suppose it must have been frightening. He’d never had a father before, dead King Lot having gone off and died just a few weeks after he was born. I must have seemed a strange creature to him.
The hunting was absolute shite. We bagged nothing but a rabbit that we might as well not have bothered with and were thoroughly soaked through with freezing rains. I couldn’t even get a fire started, and it made me want to cry. I choked on my own tears, and we couldn’t cook the tatties so we ate only bread and cheese. I must have appeared solemn and angry. It was all I could do to keep from wading into the ocean, letting it lap over my head and wear me down till I was smooth all over like a seal or a perfect skipping stone. I wanted to be gone. I wanted to leave Mordred there. It was horrible, Mam. I was horrible.
I could not see him as one of my brothers. I was already gone when he was born, you understand. He was a stranger to me, such a silent, frightened child. You thought he wasn’t frightened because he didn’t fidget and shrink like Ag and Gaheris, but I was watching. He was always good at staying still, and he pretended to look people in the eyes but he was always looking to their foreheads or ears.
Every moment that I wasn’t too miserable to talk, I spent attempting to persuade him to come back to Camelot with me. I did not plead; I was too proud for it, even though I knew I could not leave him there. But I would sooner strike him on the head and tie him up, deliver him to Arthur as a prisoner, than I would beg and implore him to come along willingly. It would be losing to do so, Mam. It would be letting you win in having gotten such a strong hold on him.
He didn’t speak much, which was just as well because, even with my misery choking me, I had wells of words from which to draw. I spoke of glory and battles, of the great comradery to be found—I did not speak of how wise and just a ruler Arthur is, for I suspected that you had already swayed his opinion on the man, and who was I to combat your word? I had not been present for his childhood. I had never been of any use to him at all. What was he to think, when confronted with this brash, angry stranger telling him fairy tales of some far-away place? Small wonder if he was skeptical.
We slept in the paltry shelter afforded by a slate wall. I heard sheep in the distance, and the sound made me homesick for the place I lay in. The Orkney I miss no longer exists, Mam. I don’t know which of us to blame. I stared up at the clouds until it seemed that the world reversed, and I was buried in the ground. I felt sick and dizzy and cold.
‘If I do not wish to go,’ he said, so suddenly that I started, ‘may I stay here?’
I opened my mouth, and was stuck there. Mam, the answer was No. Of course it was. I should not have left him with you for so long as it was. I could not leave him for longer. Already, I saw how afraid he was, and how bitter. Angry at Camelot, and Arthur, and doubtless me as well. How could he not be?
He heard my silence, for I could not make myself speak. ‘Alright,’ he said, sounding as much a child of twelve as he was. ‘When do we leave?’
I could not offer him any comfort. We left two days later, as you may recall, peacefully. But Mordred’s heels dragged, and his face was often turned back towards the island and you, though he tried to hide it beneath subtleties. I watched him, and I could not tell him how I had weighed the two paths: To abandon him in Orkney and thereby destroy him and turn him into the same sort of bitter hermit that you yourself have become, or to bring him here and hope desperately that he would see the point of it. I could not tell him.
I told Gaheris a version of the events relayed above, though it was infinitely more tangled and nearing incoherent on account of the drink and the emotional strain and the fact that I was still crying quite heartily. He listened anyway, and we sat on the steps by the kitchen and watched the stars. It was a lovely, clear night.
‘He’s done well for himself,’ Gaheris said when I finally ceased my chattering. ‘You must be proud.’
Still crying a bit, I laughed. ‘What did I do? Ag’s the only one he’ll talk to most days. He and Gareth hunt together. He adores you and Linet, and he hardly even sees you. What am I? A strange imposter of a father.’
Gaheris kicked at me, which is the closest he gets to expressing affection. ‘You know what you did,’ he said. When I didn’t say anything, and continued crying, he added, ‘You brought him here, Gawain. None of us could do that. She wouldn’t listen to anyone else.’ I stared up at the stars. He did too. ‘You’re the strongest, Gawain,’ he said, voice breaking a little. ‘You’re the only one she’s afraid of.’
It’s not true, Mam. I know you’re not afraid of me. I’ve earned only a temporary reprieve. If you ever need me, I know that my whole life will collapse in on itself when you call me. Because I’ll come to you. How could I not? You’re my mam. I’m your son. I think the awful thing is that I’ll never be able to change that.
I only hope it’s me. I hope all your trouble falls on my head, because I have not done everything that I did—bringing each of my brothers here, raising them like my own sons, giving up every dream I’ve had of leaving Orkney truly in the past, fought and bitten and clawed to keep them well and safe—I have not done all this to let one of them fall back to you.
When my brothers die, it will be in battle for glory. Not for their lands or their lives. That is all I ask, Mam. That they will fall in some foolish quest for honour or a duel over a perceived slight or for the hand of a fair maiden. That’s all I ask.
Let the tragedy be spared for me. Let my work mean something. Tell me I did well. Tell me that every time I gutted myself by coming home, it meant that they will be well. I will take whatever my end is if it means they will be well.
I was following this line when I remembered that half-mad boy with the long hair. They tell me I am still him. I am not so sure.
I sat up too quickly, but a thought blazed into my head loudly enough to clear the fog. ‘My hair,’ I said. ‘Cut my hair.’ For there it was: I wasn’t standing knee-deep in the ocean anymore. I wasn’t the untamed lad of Orkney. I was as unlike your son as you allow me to be, and I had to cut my hair. I knew only one thing, and that was that I needed the tangled mess off my head.
Gaheris suggested I wait till morning when perhaps Guinevere or Bran could be persuaded to do it, but I suggested in turn that he shove it and find a knife. I knew, and it was so clear, and I didn’t have the damn time to wait for another plan to be made. I would have torn out my hair by the handful had he not coöperated.
After, my head felt amazingly light. I ran my hands through it and felt myself laughing. Gaheris showed me my reflection in the bronze mirror, but I didn’t give a fig what I looked like. I was laughing and crying and possibly screaming a little too, and Gaheris knelt by me in the chair and held onto me, less like he was embracing me and more like he was trying to keep my from flying away or beating my head against the wall until my skull split open.
But I calmed down eventually, and Gaheris has left now to let me lie in peace on the floor beneath my desk. It is very quiet here. Everything is very quiet. I think there are some loose hair clippings down the front of my shirt.
I thought to write to you because what else am I to do? Someone needs to inform you of the goings-on here and it is unlikely that anyone else will do it, though I understand Linet visits you now and again. Gaheris, I am told, keeps his distance. I ought to tell him that I would not be angry if he visited you, but I don’t like to lie to him.
Mam, your youngest son is a knight now, and your eldest has hair above his shoulders for the first time since boyhood. Things are changing, Mam. They’re not your sons anymore, but I still am. I’ve taken the others as my children, but who’s meant to be my father? My mother?
My mother.
Clearly, I don’t intend to post this letter to you. Or maybe I’ll send it back with Linet for a laugh. I doubt it, though. I don’t wish for anything that reminds you of where I am. If that means I’m a coward, or that I’m deluding myself, so be it. I have been fighting with you for as long as I can remember. I don’t know how to do anything else.
Mam, Gaheris cut my hair. It’s short now, choppily cut to the length of my chin, and it looks curlier, more flyaway. I look a bit like a dandelion head but so be it. I look different. I don’t look like the boy you knew in Orkney. I don’t. I don’t.
Your youngest son is a knight now. I got them all here. I got them all out, and they’re all alright. We survived this far, Mam, and I intend for us to survive a good while longer. All I wanted was to give them a decent life, Mam. Why does it anger you so? Are you still angry at me?
And now the sun’s coming up, and I’ll have to sleep through my best hours or wear myself out without realizing it, but either way, I’ll stop writing now because all is said, and it doesn’t matter anyway because I am not a child of Orkney anymore, but I’ll see you in Hell, which is another way of saying that I love you and I miss you and I am not coming home.
Your son,
Sir Gawain of Orkney