The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (19 page)

The cramp eased, both his legs
were functioning again. Bracing his knees, he jammed his toes against the dome
for leverage and support, easing the strain on his fingers. One last cautious
pull, and the top of his head was no more than a few hands’ breadths from
Keir’s feet. Panting, face and neck streaming sweat, he rested his cheek
against the cold metal. ‘Listen to me, Keir. I’m just below you . . . directly
below. Here’s what you do. You are going to ease down to me very, very slowly,
until your feet are resting on my shoulders. I have a good, safe perch here.
You’ll be fine. When you’ve done that, I’ll tell you what to do next.’

‘Can’t . . . ’ Keir whimpered. ‘Can’t move.’

‘Yes you can. You made it up
here. You can make it down. When I give you the word, relax your body and let
yourself go. Use the toes of your sneakers and the palms of your hands to
control your descent. Nice and gently, mind. I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Wait
for the word.’

Keir was in too much of a
panic to take in what his brother was saying. Before Arthur had a chance to
brace himself, Keir’s feet thumped down on his shoulders, and with them the
full weight of his two hundred pound frame. For a second Arthur held on, but
then his fingers lost their hold on the second ridge and they were sliding to
their death.

Out in the night he heard
someone call, ‘Elbows!’ He dug his elbows into the dome slowing his slide the
tiniest fraction. But it was enough, for in that moment his hands located the
first ridge, the same ridge he had used to pull himself up from the window. The
combined weight of the two men now hung from his fingertips. He would have to
let go. Now! Now! Was he directly above the window? If he was they had an
outside chance. No time to look down, no time for thought. If he had strayed to
one side or misjudged the distance nothing could save them.

He let go and his toes thumped
the lintel above the window frame. It was a reprieve. For how long? The tips of
his fingers were bleeding. Agonising pains stabbed his neck and shoulders. He
stood on his precarious perch, cheek pressed against the dome, chest heaving,
trying to work out his next move. Somehow he would have to find the courage to
abandon his toehold on the lintel. But how to get back through the window?
Above him he heard a sob of fear.

Relinquishing his hold on the
ridge, he anchored his hands round Keir’s ankles. They were linked now. If he
lived, Keir lived; if he died, Keir died. The instant he eased his toes off the
lintel he would descend in a free fall. With the dead weight of Keir’s two
hundred pounds on his shoulders, he would have to jack-knife his legs inwards
at precisely the right instant. If his timing was perfect the momentum would
propel him through the open window, and Keir with him. If he made the tiniest
miscalculation, they would plunge past the window to the courtyard below.

Closing his eyes, he prayed,
the prayer lasting no more than a few moments in which he hung poised like a
trapeze artist midway between life and death. He prayed to the God he imagined,
and to the stars and planets and galaxies wheeling in the orderly disorder of
the universe, he prayed to all those he loved, to Hector and Elizabeth, to
Merlin, Virgil and Robbie, he prayed to the friends he had known, and to the
parents he had not. And as if in answer to his prayer, there surged through his
body a feeling of such confidence that he knew with complete certainty that
Merlin was right – the power was truly his.

Opening his eyes, he took a
deep breath, slipped his toes off the lintel and jack-knifed down. With
stunning force he landed on his back, and in that instant of agony his spirit
left his body. Standing over him was a black-clad figure and a man in a long
white robe. As Merlin shook his head, Death turned away.

The weight on his chest was
suffocating. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the stone floor of the
gallery with the unconscious Keir on top of him. So great was the pain that he
must surely have broken every bone in his body. Everything hurt, his back, his
neck, his legs, his hands, his fingers, his head, even his eyeballs. But what
did it matter? He was alive! Gloriously and miraculously alive! He was not a
shattered corpse on the paving stones. Dear God, he was alive! Keir stirred.
Carefully, painfully, Arthur eased his brother off his chest. The physical
relief was enormous; he could breathe freely again. Rolling forward to a
kneeling position, he moved first his shoulders, then his back, then his legs,
arms and hands; nothing seemed to be broken. It was incredible; he was unhurt,
bruised and aching but unhurt. A hand touched his shoulder.

‘You saved my life.’

‘You nearly had us both
killed,’ said Arthur wearily. ‘What were you doing up there?’

‘I must have been drunk. I
would never have tried it if I’d been sober. I’m not that stupid.’

In the shadow of the library,
Arthur greeted Edward Campbell with a bear hug.

‘Thanks for that shout of
“elbows”. It was you, wasn’t it?’ ‘You’d have got down without it.’

Arthur grinned. ‘A lot faster, though.’ ‘You’re
a bloody hero.’

‘Nonsense.’

Edward offered Keir his hand.
‘That was quite a climb.’ ‘I didn’t make it.’

‘You didn’t do the dome but
you made it up the façade, and the North Face of the Eiger is one of the
toughest climbs in Oxford.’ One by one they shook his hand, looking at him, he
could have sworn, in that special way they looked at Arthur.

Saying goodbye to Arthur the
next morning, Keir was ill at ease, fearing his brother might have something to
say about the previous night. But in the end, it was not Arthur who said it, it
was Keir. ‘You know, don’t you?’

Arthur nodded. ‘The door at
the back of the library was forced, and the window underneath the dome was
open. It didn’t take a genius to work it out. You broke into the library and
used the stairs . . . then out of the window and onto the dome. You never
climbed the North Face.’

‘I could have done if I’d been
sober.’ ‘That’s not what you said last night.’

‘You’re not going to give me
away, are you?’ ‘No.’

Keir smiled sardonically. ‘No,
of course not. It would never do to tell the world your brother is a cheat, now
would it? It might stain your spotless image.’

‘I risked my life for you,’
said Arthur quietly. ‘I never asked you to.’

The enormity of the rejection
silenced Arthur. Turning his back on Keir he walked quickly away. Despite
everything Arthur still loved his brother and could not help wondering when and
where he would see him again. He sensed that Keir was neither as happy nor as
successful as he pretended, and he knew that sometime in the future destiny
would bring them together again.

The next morning Arthur was passing Blackwells
on his way to a tutorial, when he was momentarily blinded by a flash of
sunlight. For some reason he turned back, and there in the bookshop window was
a hologram of Merlin’s head.

‘Could you please appear?’

‘I have appeared,’ said
Merlin. ‘All of you, I mean.’

‘No time. Besides, I’m in the
Atlantic at the moment.’ ‘What do you want?’

‘To congratulate you.’ ‘For
what?’ said Arthur.

‘Come now, you know very
well,’ said Merlin’s talking head. ‘What is braver than overcoming your fears?
What is nobler than risking your life for your fellow man?’

‘You too, Merlin? You make me
sound like some kind of hero. And I’m not. I’m quite ordinary.’

‘Is that so? Well let me tell
you, young Arthur, you can’t escape your destiny by denying it. You can modify
it, you can tweak it a little bit here and there, but you can’t change it. In
the end you’ll just have to accept it. When you know who you are, that is.’

‘I know exactly who I am,’ protested Arthur.

‘Do you? Do I have to remind
you of the story of Oedipus? He also thought he knew exactly who he was. It was
prophesied that he would kill his father and marry his mother. So what did he
do? He escaped to Thebes thinking he could change his destiny by running away
from it. And what happened? He ran right into it. He killed his father, Laius,
king of Thebes, and he married his mother, Jocasta.’

‘I can’t believe I’m standing
in the street listening to a hologram lecture me on Oedipus. You’re too much,
Merlin.’

‘Do you acknowledge your
destiny?’ Arthur’s jaw set pugnaciously.

‘Do you, Arthur? Or are you as
stubborn and pig-headed as ever?’ The green eyes glowed.

‘Well . . . up there on the dome . . . when I
was praying . . . ’ ‘Yes?’

‘Something happened . . . I
never felt stronger or more confident.’

‘Never?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘Once, perhaps.’

Merlin’s hologram head beamed
happily through the window at his beloved protégé. ‘And when was that?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

The orbs flashed. ‘When was that?’

‘When I . . . when I drew the
Sword from the Stone.’ ‘Ah, so that was you, was it?’

A slight hesitation. ‘You know it was.’

The clouds obscured the sun,
and in that moment of transformation Merlin was gone, and Arthur was alone
again.

 With his student days behind him the time
had come for Arthur to make a decision about his future. What was he to do with
his life? Business did not appeal to him, nor did any traditional profession he
could think of. Somehow he did not see himself earning a living as an
accountant, a lawyer or a doctor. An idealist, the sort of young man who wants
to help his fellow men, he toyed with the idea of joining the Red Cross or some
organisation that helped the poor and underprivileged in Africa or South
America. However that would still leave him somewhat financially dependent on
Hector and Elizabeth and he had lived off his parents long enough. It was time
to start earning his keep, time to enter that real world Keir was always
talking about. Until he finally settled on a career he took a number of
short-term jobs – sales assistant in a clothing store, relief postman, hospital
porter, waiter in a restaurant. His earnings supported a modest lifestyle,
including the rent of a bedsit in South London.

More than once he had been on
the point of contacting his birth parents. Almost five years had passed since
he put the phone down on his mother – or at least he presumed it was her; that
was still on his conscience. Somehow he had not been able to summon up the
courage to speak to her, but the time was fast approaching when he would have
to do the inevitable.

Meanwhile, he did everything
he could to reassure the Hughes. ‘You are my parents, the two people I love
most in the world, and always will.’ Despite his assurances, Elizabeth could
not endure the thought that her beloved son might soon be embracing his natural
mother. He could tell her ten times a day that no one would ever take her place
but she would never believe him. Before Arthur could take the fateful step,
however, there were questions to be asked, questions only Merlin could answer.

‘Why did their marriage break up?’

‘There were financial
problems, I believe,’ Merlin responded cautiously. And then, seeing that Arthur
was not satisfied . . . ‘There may have been other reasons too.’

‘Such as?’

‘I can only tell you that
Godfrey Whittaker moved out of the house and was living in a small hotel in
Victoria. It seems he was chronically depressed.’

‘My poor father.’

Merlin made no comment. It was
his duty, as he saw it, to answer Arthur’s questions, not to give answers to
questions he never asked. If Arthur wanted to know who his biological father
was, he would certainly tell him. Much better, though, if he heard it from his
father.

‘When did my mother remarry?’ asked Arthur.

It was the first time he had
asked that question. Who could say what resentments Arthur had stored up
against his mother and step-father? ‘About twelve months after Godfrey died,’
said Merlin.

‘So soon.’ The implied censure
was clear enough but Merlin did not react. Abruptly Arthur changed the subject.
‘And my adoption? How did that come about?’

Merlin sent his mind searching
back nineteen years to the events of those momentous days. ‘You were two weeks
old. Uther asked me to find a good home for a baby boy.’

‘You didn’t try to change his mind?’

‘No, Arthur. It was something
that had to be done. A week later he brought you to my house and I handed you
over to Hector and Elizabeth who were very happy to adopt you. From the moment
they saw you they loved you. The rest you know.

Those are the facts.’

Sparse facts. There was
more, much more that he needed to know. Arthur took time off from work and
drove down to Ponterlally to be with his parents . . . if only they really had
been his parents, if only everything were as simple as that. In every important
way they
were
his parents, though he could no longer think of them in
quite the same way. He was so confused, so uncertain where he belonged, that he
could scarcely look them in the eye. It was unreasonable and unfair, and he
hated himself for it but the fact was that he was angry with Hector and
Elizabeth, as if somehow it was
their
fault they were not his real
parents, as if indeed
they
were the ones who had abandoned him. He could
feel his whole world changing, and that made him desperately sad.

Every morning he would wander
along the banks of the Lally to the spot near the stone bridge where he and
Keir had passed so many happy hours, Keir fishing, Arthur lying on his back,
dreaming. The moment he sat down, shoals of fish thronged the water’s edge,
reaching up their heads, mouths gaping expectantly. Scattering fish food on the
water, he stroked their snouts gently with the tips of his fingers. Thinking he
knew them, he greeted them by name, until he remembered with a pang that they
could not possibly be the same fish he had known all those years ago. Lying on
his back, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, head resting on clasped hands, he
watched white wisps of cloud drift across the sky, and dreamed the dreams he
had dreamed when he was a boy.

After a few days at
Ponterlally he decided not to contact his birth parents after all. The next day
he changed his mind again, and again the next, until he no longer knew what he
wanted to do. He was curious to meet them, if only to learn why they had
abandoned him, yet he was afraid to meet them too, in case they told him things
he had no wish to hear.

What sort of parents, he kept
asking himself, gave away their own child? Merlin had offered no reason, no
chronic sickness, no lack of material resources, no sudden catastrophe to
explain such a callous act. Why then had they rejected him? That was the
question he needed to ask them. Did he really want to hear the answer? Was
there some sinister explanation? Some genetic or inherent flaw in his own
character or body? Could it be that in some way he
deserved
to be
rejected?

Most days he would wander
over to the primary school

and stand leaning on the gate
imagining he was a child again. Nothing had changed, Arthur told himself,
everything was the same; the same battered old school building, with its red
brick walls, its grey slate roof, its smoke-blacked chimney stack, the same
playground with the same swings, the same climbing frame, the same rocking
horse and elephant and fire-engine he used to sit on, the same slide he used to
slide down. Those children he now saw dimly through the classroom window – were
they not his old friends? Was Keir not there too, eyes forever glued to the
blackboard? And was there not in that same classroom a small boy who saw
nothing of his teachers and heard nothing of his lessons, dreaming away the
hours tracking aliens from outer space, ready at a moment’s notice to challenge
a billion invaders in a shaft of sunlight?

If only he could stop time, or
even turn it back. If only he could stay in Ponterlally and be a child again,
be as carefree as he was then, for a year, a month, a week, even for one
single, precious day. Life was so much happier then, so much less complicated,
so much less cruel. Poignant memories flooded in on him, moving him to tears.
He longed to embrace his youth once more, but everything has an end. Time
present and time future had to be faced. He was a man now.

Suddenly all his doubts left
him and his mind was made up. One morning he came back from the river, hugged
Hector and kissed Elizabeth so fondly that she cried, partly from happiness,
partly because she too knew that the old life was over, and that nothing would
ever be the same again.