The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (15 page)

But then, on the mainland side of the
promontory the light of a candle gleamed, and then another and another, until
soon a seemingly endless procession of candles wound its way down the precipitous
wooden stairway and across the causeway. As the column of lights approached, it
disappeared now and then behind dark masses of cliff face. Slowly, unhurriedly,
it wound its way on and up towards the headland where Arthur stood by the Sword
in the Stone.

His mouth dry, a pulse
hammered the back of his throat as the ghostly procession of candles
approached. As the first candle passed through the castle gateway, he caught
the glint of armour and heard the tramp of marching men. These were no ordinary
footsteps, for the harsh and fearsome sound that echoed louder and louder in
the courtyard of the ancient castle was the clash of metal-clad feet on
flagstones.

As the first knight came into
view, Arthur saw that he was covered from head to foot in glistening armour,
his face concealed by a lowered visor. Ignoring Arthur, he went straight to the
stone, poured a drop of hot wax, and stood his lighted candle on it. Laying
both his mail-clad hands on the sword’s hilt, he pulled with all his strength.
The sword did not move. Turning to Arthur, he raised his mailed fist in salute,
then taking up his candle, walked on, making way for the next knight, who did
exactly the same as the first. One by one, the knights tried to pull the Sword
from the anvil, and one by one they failed. As each knight saluted Arthur,
picked up his candle and left the headland, another took his place. A moving
necklace of lights encircled the cliff tops beginning at the top of the
stairway on the land side of the promontory, down the stairs to the causeway,
up the cliff face, through the gateway of the castle to the Sword in the Stone,
descending by the path to the beach, where finally, in Merlin’s cave, the last
candle disappeared from view.

‘Arthur! Where are you? Wait
for me!’ But Arthur was nowhere to be seen, and Hector was standing alone by
the sculpture. Had Arthur really drawn the sword from the anvil?

If he had, there must surely be some rational
explanation for it. Hector was a powerful man, broadly built and muscular, fit
and strong for his age. He climbed onto the stone. Laying his hands on the
sword’s hilt, he tensed every muscle in his body, from the tips of his fingers,
through his hands and arms and shoulders, down into his chest and stomach and
thighs to the soles of his feet. Concentrating all his strength and all his
will, he leaned back and pulled, his face contorting with the strain. The sword
would not budge.

For a few moments he relaxed,
breathing deeply, feeling the power flow back into his muscles. Setting his
knees against the anvil, he pulled a second time. Again he pulled, and again,
and yet again, until the veins jutted from his neck like cables. The muscles in
his arms and legs and back ached. His hands burned like fire. The sword
remained firm and immovable, nothing could shift it.

Looking about him, Hector saw
that the sky was clear again. The storm clouds had vanished, and yet there was
no wind to blow them away. He heard Merlin’s voice, heard it as clearly as if
he were standing next to him. ‘The clouds will always part for Arthur.’
Suddenly he understood that this was the second sign prophesied by Merlin.
Thoughtfully he set off after his adopted son.

Near the bottom of the second
flight of steps, a man in an official looking cap and uniform stopped the
Hughes family, first Elizabeth and Keir, then Arthur, then Hector. He was
polite but insistent; they were to follow him to the office to talk to his
boss, it would not take long but there was a matter that had to be cleared up.
In the cramped room, the two boys and Hector stood in line with the man in
uniform, Elizabeth sitting on one of the only two chairs. Behind a grey
vinyl-topped desk covered with cigarette burns sat the man introduced as the
boss.

‘What’s up, Bill?’

Bill intoned without emotion. ‘These people interfered
with the sculpture – The Sword in the Stone.’ ‘Evidence?’ the boss demanded.
‘They was reported,’ said Bill.

‘Who reported them?’

‘A family. They ’ad to go, but
I got their name and address.’ Bill laid a scrap of paper in front of his boss.
‘That’s it there. Three kids and two adults. Quite disgusted the parents was.
Yobbo behaviour they called it. Said it was one of these two youngsters did
it.’ He nodded in the direction of Keir and Arthur. ‘One of ’em pulled the
Sword right out of the anvil and waved it in the air. Must ’ave damaged the
sculpture. Act of vandalism.’

The boss leaned back in his
chair and pressed the palms of his hands together. ‘Pulled the sword out and
waved it in the air?’

Bill nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Without even glancing at it,
the boss screwed up the scrap of paper on his desk. ‘Checked the sculpture have
you?’ he enquired.

‘’Ad to stop this lot, didn’t
I? ’Aven’t ’ad time to check it, ’ave I? But I will. I’ll check it now, if you
like.’

‘Don’t bother.’ ‘Why not?’
said Bill.

‘Because,’ said the boss,
emphasising his words, ‘those people did not see what they thought they saw.’

Bill scratched his head. ‘They
was categoric.’ He jerked his thumb at Arthur and Keir. ‘One of them lads
pulled the sword out.’

The boss shook his head.
‘There’s not a man alive could do that.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because there’s no sword to
pull out,’ said his boss triumphantly. ‘You can’t pull out what isn’t there,
now can you?’ His steep brows challenged anyone to contradict him.

‘But I’ve seen the sword a thousand times,’
protested Bill.

‘No you haven’t, Bill. What you see – what
everyone sees – is a hilt and a few inches of sword sticking out of an anvil.
So naturally you think there’s a sword inside the anvil. It may look as though
there is, but there isn’t. The whole sculpture is one solid piece of bronze. I
thought everyone knew that; the sword is an illusion. Just like the story of
King Arthur, if you ask me.’ Standing up politely he leaned over his desk and
extended his hand in turn to Elizabeth, Hector, Keir and Arthur. ‘Sorry you’ve
been troubled, madam, sir, young lads. Bill here was only doing his duty. I
hope there’s no hard feelings.’

Hector stirred himself out of
his trance. ‘None at all.’ ‘Amazing how gullible people are,’ said the boss,
shaking his

head incredulously, ‘even in
this day and age. You wouldn’t think we were living in the twenty-first
century, would you? There’s still a lot convinced King Arthur really lived. Not
that I’m complaining. Where would the tourist industry be without him?’

No one in the Hughes family
ever mentioned the disturbing events of that day again, as if not acknowledging
them would mean they never happened. Hector was the sole exception. He gave a
full account to Merlin, who showed no surprise at all. ‘Tell me, Hector,’ he
said, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, ‘do you have a logical explanation
this time?’

Hector shook his head
ruefully. ‘I wish I had, but I haven’t. I should have believed you five years
ago when Arthur saved my life. I should have known when the clouds parted for
that tiny baby. I’ve been a fool.’

‘Indeed you have not. It isn’t
easy for any of us to accept the things we do not understand.’

‘What does it all mean?’

‘It means,’ said Merlin
happily, ‘that the prophecy is fulfilled.’

Hector never doubted Merlin
again. He was immensely proud and a little in awe of Arthur, but from that day
on he had lost his peace of mind, fearing what the future might have in store
for his beloved adopted son.

 Summer was surrendering to autumn, and
already the air was heavy with the smell of fallen leaves and damp grass. Back
at Glastonbury after the summer vacation, Arthur was spending the weekend with
Merlin at his cottage. Arthur had never spoken of that day at Tintagel Castle
and the extraordinary affair of the Sword in the Stone, and Merlin had
carefully avoided the subject. What Arthur needed, he believed, was love and
nurturing, not challenging. The boy already had more than enough to cope with.

Supper was cleared away. A
fire burned in the grate, the logs cracking from time to time, throwing up
showers of sparks. Arthur and Merlin played Scrabble. From time to time the
magus muttered fiercely to himself and scribbled formulae on scraps of paper,
returning to the game as if nothing had happened. Virgil perched on Merlin’s
shoulder, eyes shuttered, hoo-hoo’ing softly whenever his master fondled him.
Seeing that Merlin’s attention was distracted from the game, Arthur lay on the
floor and gazed into the fire. For some reason he sensed sadness in the air. He
scratched Robbie’s tummy, stroking the dog’s ears and kissing him on the nose,
and Robbie made grateful noises in the back of his throat. Encircling his
muzzle was a ring of white. When had he grown old? Arthur wondered. The brown
eyes were shadowed with blue cataracts, the lithe body padded with plumpness,
the glossy coat dry and patchy. When had all this happened? Why hadn’t he
noticed it before? How old would Robbie be? Ten? Twelve? More? He wasn’t sure
and had never thought to ask. What did age matter anyway? All he remembered was
that Merlin had said something about taking Robbie over from a friend who died.

‘We humans are never ready,’
said Merlin, without looking up, ‘but animals are. They seem to know when the
end is near. What’s more they know there is nothing they can do about it, so
they just accept it. Very sensible of them.’

‘Robbie is fine,’ insisted
Arthur vehemently. ‘He’ll live another ten years, won’t you, Robbie?’ The black
Labrador had become an inseparable part of his life. He went to bed feeling
wretched and lay awake for a long time. Dreams disturbed his sleep. He could
not remember what dreams exactly except that Robbie was in all of them. Opening
his eyes the next morning, he was delighted and a little relieved to see the
old dog standing by his bed looking up at him, his tail wagging so furiously
that it wagged his stout body with it. If anything he seemed younger and more
active than he had the night before. What was wrong with Merlin? All that talk
of death. Was the magus feeling the passing years?

While Arthur washed and pulled
on his clothes, Robbie grabbed his shoes and disappeared under the bed with
them. Briefly he reappeared to help himself to a sock, and made off with that
too, all the time growling ferociously. Arthur grinned happily, and when
finally he recovered his shoes and socks, made his way downstairs, Robbie
trotting behind him, nudging the back of his ankles with his nose as if to
hurry him up.

Once outside the cottage the
Labrador ran off. Merlin was nowhere to be seen. He was an early riser, and
often took a walk before breakfast, so Arthur put on a windcheater and went to
look for him. He strode across the fields, the wind behind him, nudging him playfully
in the back. Occasionally he looked round, disturbed by the uneasy feeling that
he was being followed. In the distance, carried on the wind, Arthur could hear
Robbie barking. He turned. There was nothing to be seen but the corn swaying,
and in the lower meadow a drift of smoke. He walked towards it, slowly at
first, then faster and faster. Fear gripped his stomach as he caught the scent
of burning wood.

With his long white robes and
shoulder-length hair, Merlin might have been an Old Testament prophet, or a
philosopher in ancient Greece. On his shoulder was Virgil, unperturbed by the
flames. Arthur gazed into the fire as he had the night before in the kitchen,
except that these flames were Robbie’s funeral pyre.

‘When?’

Merlin put his arm round Arthur.
‘Last night. About an hour after you went to bed.’

‘But that’s impossible! I saw
him this morning. I couldn’t have imagined it, he was playing with me. He ran
off with my shoes and socks like he always does when I stay with you. You
remember that, Merlin, don’t you?’

‘I remember,’ said Merlin, squeezing Arthur’s
shoulder.

Arthur looked down at his
shoes. No tooth marks. He pulled up his trouser leg, left and right. No holes
in his socks, no marks of any kind.

‘He was there,’ he repeated
stubbornly, ‘I know he was.’ ‘He died around midnight.’

‘But I saw him, Merlin.’

‘I’m sure you did. Robbie
loved you. He wanted you to remember the many happy hours you spent together,
not just the last few sad ones. That was his gift to you. That was his way of
saying good-bye.’

The grief welled up inside
Arthur and sprang from his eyes. ‘But I don’t want him to be dead, Merlin.
Please don’t let Robbie be dead. You can bring him back, I know you can.’

Merlin bowed his head and
Arthur turned away to hide his tears.

‘There is nothing wrong in
showing your grief,’ said Merlin gently. ‘Quite the contrary, in fact.’

Arthur’s body heaved with sobs
as Merlin held him. After a while Arthur was calm. ‘Are you sure?’ He nodded at
the flames. ‘Are you sure that’s Robbie in there?’

‘Only flesh and blood and bone.’

‘What else is there?’ said Arthur bitterly.
‘I’ll never see him again.’ ‘The fire will burn all day,’ said Merlin. ‘What
the wind doesn’t take we shall keep. One day you will return Robbie’s ashes to
his master.’

Arthur was tempted to ask who,
if not Merlin, was Robbie’s master but the moment passed, the question was not
asked, and Merlin offered no explanation.

It was Arthur’s first
experience of death. It made him think about things he had never wanted to
think about before. He thought about Hector and Elizabeth, and how important
they were in his life. The day would come when he would lose them too; flesh
and blood and bone.

Then he had another thought,
every bit as disturbing. The parents he had never met . . . what if they were
to die without his even knowing them?

‘My parents . . . ’ he began hesitantly.

‘You mean Hector and Elizabeth?’ said Merlin.

Arthur shook his head. ‘The
others.’ He did not know quite what to call them, nor even how to think of
them. His real parents? No, real was not the right word. How could they be real
when they had played no part in his life? His natural parents? No, not natural
either. What was natural about parents who abandoned you?

‘Why did they give me away for adoption?’

‘That is a question you must
put to them. I can tell you how to contact them but you must decide if that is
what you want to do.’

It was a question Arthur had
asked himself a hundred times. During the weeks that followed not a day passed
when he did not think about the parents he had never met. Did he want to meet
them? Yes. Was he afraid to meet them? Yes. Would it change his life? Probably.
How would they react to him? How would he react to them? Did it matter? Did any
of it matter? Yes, of course it did. Whatever the consequences, he had to meet
them, if only to know why they had given him away. Even if it meant hurting the
two people he loved most in the world? Yes. Enough. He was thinking too much,
doing too little. He reached a decision. He would ask Merlin for their phone
number. He would call.

Igraine was sipping coffee and wondering what
to do with her afternoon; Margot and Morgan were married, Elaine had left home,
Uther was storming around being a politician. She had lots of friends, though
none very close, for she was not the sort of woman who cared to share her
secrets. Being on her own was what she had become accustomed to; it was a
condition she neither liked nor disliked. As with most things in her life she
had learned to accept it. When the phone rang she happened to be sitting next
to it. ‘Hello?’

There was no response. Someone
was there though, she could hear him breathing. A man. Her first thought was
that it must be one of
those
phone calls, a stalker perhaps or a sexual
pervert. Her voice a little unsteady, she asked timidly, ‘Who is it?’ Still
there was no reply. ‘If you don’t answer, I’ll put the phone down.’ Again that
unnerving silence.

Suddenly she was not afraid
any more. She knew. How she knew she could not tell. She just knew. Her heart
pounded against her ribs, her hands trembled, the handset slipped from her
grasp. For a few dazed moments she stared blankly out at the gardens. Something
white, a newspaper or a plastic bag, rose on a gust of wind and drifted by the
window like a spirit from the past.

Dropping on hands and knees
she searched frantically for the phone. ‘Oh God, let him still be there!’
Retrieving the phone from under her chair, she whispered into the mouthpiece.
‘Is it you?’ There was a click. The hum of the dialling tone filled her ear.

‘Arthur,’ she murmured. Laying
the handset back in its cradle, she clasped it to her bosom, swaying from side
to side, as if she were rocking a baby to sleep.