Concerning Grails Holy and Mundane

A Story by ACrownofSwords

If the Holy Grail were to be found in a Brooklyn antique store, it'd probably be this one.

The aspect of the street was unnaturally quiet, as though a gunfight were expected, but Eliot did not notice this. Eliot, as a general rule, attempted to believe the best of people and as a result failed to notice potential gunfights with alarming regularity. I had tried to cure him of this often near fatal flaw, but he is a shockingly gentle soul and I do not have the heart to push the matter. Still, I noticed the gunfight and did everything in my power to steer us as far away from any impending violence as possible. A difficult task, considering our quest, but I do try my best.

We were in Brooklyn and missing Byzantium. The winters here were cold and cruel, blowing down fire escapes and pressing snow against the rough bricks of tired tenants; the winds were harsh, rushing eagerly towards the churning and frothing grey of the ocean. Still, we went down street after street, heads bowed against the cold, fingers tucked into pockets, fingers remembering mail and the hilts of swords and twitching before clutching a few nickels and a swiss army knife. Keep moving. Questing for Grails isn’t what it used to be, you know. Check this attic, plunder this basement. No more jousts, no more princess, we haven’t even had a good dragon-killing since that time we ran afoul of Newton. Still, rules are rules, and as everyone knows, when looking for a Grail - especially a holy one - you can’t stop until you find it.

The antique store we ducked into was ancient and well beyond that terrible event horizon of a business that’s already under and about to be taken out back and shot. Dilapidated cabinets and counters held forgotten books and photographs, some grouped into vaguely related catagories and some piled into crumbling towers, reaching shakily towards the dirty light coming in from the high windows. The woman perched on a high stool behind the register wasn’t faring much better than the store, her once fine dress was faded and the lace was torn, her face was weathered and lined with the age and knowing, it was a face that had outlived her children, and her children’s children. If the Holy Grail were to be found in a Brooklyn antique store it’d probably be here. Eliot, I think, sensed this, and was trying to think of a polite way to broach the subject to the witch behind the register, who was grinning a wide-toothed grin and politely refusing to accept the politeness of his refusal to be direct. Eliot hasn’t been very direct since he started calling himself Eliot. If you ask me the whole Guinevere fiasco was a real blow to his self confidence.

I was in the corner feigning interest in some book or the other - probably something precious beyond worth if just the right collector would happen to come by - when Eliot begin to discover that the witch, whom I’ve been describing as a witch up to this point as an entirely thematic and tone setting device, actually was a witch. You know, of the spellcasting variety. I really should have seen it coming, but I suppose even witch-spotting is a skill that fades with time. You can imagine the ensuing conversation.

“Do you have the Grail?” He asked, as casually as one can ask someone if they happen to have the Holy Grail.

She gave a rather indifferent shrug,“Well I have a Grail” she said, “not sure if it’s the Grail.”

“You’re not sure if it’s The Grail?” He said, practically shaking.

“Well how the bloody hell should I know?”

It got worse from there, It always does. The ensuing duel was done in the manner of the witch’s choosing, in the yard out back with two rather regal flintlocks. I’d like to tell you that it was over in a flash - that the gunfight I’d so desperately attempted to avoid was a brief thing. And that is mostly true, so let us skip over the exquisite, apocalyptic circles they walked around each other. The locking of their eyes. The absurdity of them standing back to back - him well over six feet and her just above five. The way the world seems to cease - as if time was a pedestrian who just happened to be passing down the street but would now like to pause and observe who was killing whom - as they measured the paces. Another pause. The turn. The flash. Brutal, beautiful. The smoke cleared and the witch died and the grail was ours. Well. A grail. Nothing particularly holy about it, as we discovered; but nothing particularly unholy either. A decent mid-tier grail, a good starting point for anyone looking to begin a grail collection. We left the witch in the alley, and Eliot, gentle soul as he is, seemed rather upset about the whole ordeal as we made our way to the nearest station.

And as we sat in the rumbling darkness of the subway I found myself wondering where we would search next and where where we had lost it. Where had we lost everything? All the people were coming and going like flashes of lightning - ghosts of heat and blue electricity, bundled up in scarves and gloves and noses running red hot - it was too much for me. And what had they lost and where were they searching? The car jostled and screeched through the labyrinthine darkness and when it stopped the old ghosts crackled and sneezed and flashed away and I could barely stand to watch them without begging to follow.