[still told by Sir John]

I woke much earlier than I'd intended, because sunlight was flooding through the thin fabric of the tent, and the birds were all singing different tunes to try to drown out one another's voices. Arthur had already left the tent, leaving his mat and his sleeping-bag rolled into neat bundles. 'When am I?' I mumbled drowsily.

'Early June,' said a voice outside: the voice of the person called Cheiron whom I had met last night.

'Apart from June?'

'Mythological Britain, possibly any time between the 5th century and the Middle Ages, depending on who's telling Arthur's story. I'm from Greek mythology, myself, but I'm just visiting here. How are you feeling?'

'Better, I think,' I said. 'Last night, I thought I was going to go numb from the feet up, and, when the numbness reached my heart, I'd be dead.'

'Like Socrates,' said the voice, with a laugh. 'Well, it was pretty dark last night, but I don't think I got the chocolate and the hemlock mixed up. Socrates was part satyr, too, you know.'

'Are satyrs the ones with horns and goats' hooves?'

'No, that's fauns. Satyrs – the sons of Silenus – are the ones with horses' ears and horses' hindquarters. And I'm a centaur, which is like a satyr but with more legs, and an even worse reputation for riotous behaviour.'

I crawled out of the tent, blinking in the sunlight. We were camping in a large, grassy clearing surrounded by woodland, sloping down towards a stream. Arthur, slumped against a tree at the edge of the clearing, had probably got up early to read the Bible and say his prayers, but had fallen asleep again. Cheiron turned out to be a chestnut stallion, fifteen hands high at the withers, but, with the addition of a man's body down to the waist, over eight feet tall in total, and powerfully built. He was bare to the waist, and had curly golden hair and a reddish beard, matching his chestnut coat and the golden tail which was swishing at flies. I tried to remember what I'd learnt of Greek mythology, a long time ago. 'I thought centaurs were supposed to be wise and noble and valiant,' I said.

'Well, we're a mixed bunch,' said Cheiron. 'My friend Pholus was one of the gentlest people I've ever known, and very learned and philosophical, but then he wasn't a typical centaur. He was one of Silenus's sons, and all the rest of them were satyrs like their dad, and Pholus was a bit too quiet and sober to fit in with most centaurs or satyrs. I don't think poor old Silenus quite knew what to make of him. Mind you, Papa Silenus could be profound too, sometimes, and then came out with such gloomy pronouncements that he needed another drink to make him forget them! He was an ancestor of Socrates and of Aesop, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was your ancestor as well; you certainly look a lot like him. But as for centaurs – well, I've lived enough centuries to learn a fair amount, especially about healing. But most centaurs don't live long enough to be mature. Centaur adolescence lasts five hundred years, and during that time, I'm afraid we're such obnoxious yobs that a lot of us get killed before we've learnt wisdom.'

I wasn't following most of this, but I remembered what I'd wanted to find out. 'Am I dead?' I asked. 'Am I in Heaven or Hell? Or am I immortal, if I'm a satyr?'

'Hmm – there's no easy answer to that. You've died in your world, so you would be dead if you were back there, but you're alive here, because you're standing here talking to me. A Pythagorean might say you'd transmigrated; a Hindu might call it reincarnation; a Roman Catholic might say you're passing through Purgatory. I don't know what you'd call it.'

I shrugged. 'Oh, well, I don't suppose I'll be dead for long. My author's bound to change his mind sooner or later. He's always having characters apparently die and then turn out to be alive after all.'

'I'm afraid he really means it this time,' said Cheiron gently, kneeling down and putting his arm around my shoulders. 'Still, you've lived through three plays, and only been proclaimed dead in the fourth. If your author hadn't loved you so much, he could have killed you off within three scenes, let alone three plays. That's what all Coarse Actors want: to steal the scene in the first half, and be dead in Act Three and out of costume and in the pub by the interval.'

'Coarse Actors with only three lines to say want that. If they could be the star, they'd want to blaze on until they burnt themselves out, and if I'm not the brightest star of all, at least I'm as round as a planet. I bet you a thousand pounds my author resurrects me by the end of the week.'

'You haven't got a thousand pounds,' pointed out Cheiron. 'And I don't think your author knew what else to do with you. He couldn't go on writing you as a cheerful rogue who loves food and wine and sex and doesn't worry about anything else, when he'd seen your hopes shattered and your best friend coldly rejecting you. On the other hand, he couldn't make the two of you friends again, still clowning around together as if nothing had changed, because everything had changed. On the other hoof,' (Cheiron pawed the ground with his right foreleg) 'he could hardly expect the audience to take you seriously as a tragic hero, could he?'

'No, I'm not exactly the King Lear type,' I admitted. 'But if I'm dead and my soul's flown to the next world, why's it flown here in the same heavy body, with the same aches and pains? And why call it reincarnation, as if I'd been reborn as a tin of condensed milk?'

'If you're a relative of Socrates and of Aesop, I'm sure you'll find the answer,' said Cheiron. 'But in the meantime, I ought to give you a medical check-up. I'm afraid there's nowhere really private for it – I couldn't fit into your tent, and there wouldn't be enough light anyway – but if you don't mind being examined in the open air, I don't expect there'll be many people passing this way, early on Sunday morning.'

'I'm not embarrassed,' I said. 'But if you prick me with a needle and I flinch, it's not because I'm afraid of cold steel, only that I'm enraged at having no sword to defend myself. You've heard of heroes who fear death no more than a pinprick, haven't you? Well, I'm one of them; I hate injections just as much as I hate death!'

'I believe you,' said Cheiron with a smile. 'I've been tutor to some of the greatest heroes who ever lived – Heracles, Jason, Achilles – and any of them would rather have fought three dragons than had one tetanus vaccination. I'm afraid I will have to take a blood sample, but I'll try not to hurt you more than I have to. And it will hurt less if you can manage to keep still and not flinch.'

So I tried to bear staunchly while Cheiron examined me from head (I may have been the first man to have his teeth examined by a horse, and informed not only was I as old as I looked, but I needed several fillings) to toe (perpetually sore from either gout or French disease; I could usually pass off my slight lameness as an authentic war-wound, but not in front of a centaur who had been healer to the Greek warriors). At last he said, 'Well – would you rather I called you Sir John, or just John?'

'I don't mind,' I said. 'Jack, if you'd like.'

'Well, Jack, whatever illness finally killed you, obviously ceased when you died in your own world. But the bad news is that you've still got all the underlying problems, physical and psychological, that had weakened you so that it could kill you. I'll need to do some tests on the samples I've taken, but it looks as though you've got a couple of infections that should clear up with medicine, and I can make an ointment that should stop that rash from itching so much in the meantime. But, obviously, you need to avoid having sex until you're fully recovered.'

'Why?' I demanded. It didn't make much practical difference, as I didn't have any money to go to a brothel, and these days I tended not to meet women who'd sleep with me for free, but I wasn't going to be ordered around by a man who was half a horse.

'Well, it wouldn't be very kind to pass any diseases on to a woman who might not be able to get treatment in time, would it?'

'Oh, come on – if I go to a prostitute, I risk catching something off her, and she risks catching something off me – surely that's a fair exchange? It's an occupational hazard. Honestly, this is Health and Safety at Work gone mad! Anyway, apart from that, am I okay?'

'Other than that – and I'm sure doctors in your own world have told you this – what's mainly wrong with you stems from the facts that you eat too much, drink too much, and don't take any exercise.'

'No, actually they didn't tell me, because I never bothered turning up for appointments with doctors,' I explained. 'I'm very hard-of-listening to anything I don't want to hear.'

'Well, I'm telling you,' said Cheiron. 'Your blood pressure and your resting heart rate are so high that I'm amazed you've got any heartbeats left.'

'In that case, I don't plan to waste any of them on exercising. Especially when you've just banned me from the one sport I enjoy.'

'Don't worry, Jack, you'll be fine soon,' said Cheiron. 'I can mix you some medicines that should help, but for the time being, I'm afraid you'll need to be careful what you eat, and avoid drinking alcohol at all for now. You see, some of these medicines don't work if you're drinking.'

I turned pleading eyes on him: eyes that would have melted the hardest heart, except, of course, that of a doctor. 'You mean you've save my life only to make me healthy?'

'There are lots of reasons why Arthur and I saved you,' said Cheiron, 'and two of them are that I love you, and that you were destined to go to be with King Arthur when you died. Talking of Arthur, I'd better wake him up now.'

'Cheiron,' I said, 'you seem to know practically everything about who I am and why I've come here. Does Arthur?'

'No, and I won't tell him anything without your permission, unless it's a matter of life and death' said Cheiron. 'You can tell him as much or as little as you choose about your background, but I don't think he'd be very shocked by anything you told him.'

By this time, the king had woken up and was walking over to join us. 'Good morning,' he said. 'I'm sorry I'm not being a very good host. Did you sleep well?'

'I did until the birds started up. Are they always this noisy in the countryside?'

'They are at dawn. They all get up early to tell each other, "Clear off my berry bush!" and "Look out, there are two humans camping in the clearing!" and then they quieten down and go and find breakfast. Speaking of which, would you like a mug of tea and some porridge?'

Considering that Arthur had saved my life, it seemed churlish to point out that only three classes of creatures live on oats, and that I wasn't a horse or a Scot and didn't intend to be a prisoner again. So I said, as politely as possible, 'Well, that's very kind, but – you wouldn't happen to have bacon, sausages, and eggs, would you?'

'Not at the moment, no,' said Arthur, busy lighting a fire. 'It's hard to keep things fresh, travelling at this time of year, and as Cheiron's a vegetarian, I tend to eat what he does – there's less washing-up that way. Look at those goldfinches!' he added in an excited whisper. 'Aren't they beautiful?'

'Is it true that Merlyn turned you into a bird once, when you were a boy?' I asked.

'He turned me into lots of birds. The first time, he made me a falcon in the castle mews, because I was fascinated by hawks and falcons. Then I was a tawny owl, which was much more fun, because Merlyn had an owl who taught me to fly and took me to meet the goddess Athene. But being a wild goose was the best. I wish I could have married a goose, and stayed a goose all my life, migrating back and forth across the sea.' He fetched a pan of water from the stream, frightening the goldfinches, and threw them a handful of oats and some dried currants as an apology before he set the pan over the fire.

'It's a pity Merlyn isn't here now,' I said. 'If he could turn you into an eagle and me into a vulture and Cheiron into a hippogriff, we could probably fly back to Camelot in a day, instead of all this walking and camping.'

'I like walking,' said Arthur. 'And anyway, the being turned into animals was only when I was a boy. I enjoyed it while it lasted, and if it hadn't been for the lessons I'd learnt from fish and falcons and badgers, I couldn't have grown into the man who pulled the sword from the stone and became king. But if I was to be a king of humans, I couldn't go on being a bird or a badger or a grass-snake. I do miss Merlyn, though,' he sighed, handing me a mug of tea. 'Not because he could do magic for me, but because of the way he used to keep dead mice in his hat to feed his owl, and the way he grumbled when his spells didn't work, and the way he glared at Kay and me when we were being very obtuse and refusing to think – I just miss him. I know he'd always told us that one day he'd go away, but that didn't make it any easier when it happened. Sugar?' added the king, handing me a screw-capped jar.

The sugar came in little cubes, of the sort that ladies pick up with sugar-tongs and say, 'One lump or two?' I stirred three spoonfuls of lumps into my mug, which was less than I'd have liked, but still enough to make Arthur say, 'Go easy – that's all the sugar we've got left until tomorrow,' so I wondered why I'd bothered being polite.

'Would you like porridge with currants in?' he went on. 'That might taste more interesting than just plain oats.'

'Yes, please,' I said, defeated. 'Are you and Cheiron having some?'

'No, we need to head off to church in a minute. I think the birds have quietened down now, so if you're still tired, you can always go back to bed after breakfast.'