by Sword Stone Table- Old Legends, New Voices (retail) (epub)
He pulled on some pants and grabbed the bat, a crackle of energy shivering up his arm as he walked out of the hotel room, Excalibur dangling at his side. What was he doing? He knew and he didn’t know. He wanted to and didn’t want to at the same time.
Marcos Mordred had played with Umberto Reyes. They’d competed for the same spot, the same position. When Arturo’s father died, Marcos was slotted into the starting position. Marcos had struck out at the plate during that final World Series game. He’d lost the team’s last chance to hold on. To win the championship. It’d have been a swing Arturo knew his father never would’ve missed.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as he approached the elevator bank. He picked it up. Gwen.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, her voice husky and low from lack of sleep. “Did I wake you? You feeling okay before your first big start?”
“No, baby, no, having trouble getting to bed,” Arturo said, his finger hovering over the elevator’s down button. “How’re you? Everything okay?”
“I—I think so, I guess,” she said. “Baby’s kicking a lot. I just woke up with this strange feeling…this—I dunno, you probably think I’m crazy—this anxiety. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay.”
Arturo swallowed hard.
“I’m fine, Gwen,” he said, nodding, as if to assure himself, too. “Just taking a little walk to get my body tired so I can sleep. Be ready for the game tomorrow.”
“The playoffs,” Gwen said, followed by a soft whistle. “Who would’ve thought it, huh? Arturo Reyes, starting third baseman for the A’s with a shot at the series. You did it, honey.”
“Been a long road,” Arturo said, watching as his finger pushed the button, the gray circle illuminating. “Glad I have you by my side.”
“Always,” she said, sounding more relaxed. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”
Arturo promised her he wouldn’t, told her he loved her, and hung up. He stepped into the empty elevator and pushed the button for the third floor.
* * *
—
Arturo rapped his knuckles on the door. Tino Mordred, bleary-eyed and rumpled, answered. Arturo could tell Tino was confused. It seemed to take him a moment to get his eyes to adjust to the light—and to realize what he was seeing. Arturo Reyes standing in the hallway. With a bat.
“Artie?” Tino said, his brows furrowing slightly. “You okay, man? It’s late, yo.”
“I need to talk to you, Tino.” Arturo pushed past him and into the room.
“Can’t it wait?” Tino said, closing the door and turning around to face Arturo. “It’s three in the damn morning.”
Tino’s usual rah-rah cheer was gone. He was worried, Arturo could see. Afraid, even?
“Your dad…” Arturo started. “Was he ever a suspect in my dad’s death?”
“What?” Tino’s confusion seemed genuine, the word escaping his mouth like a car horn. “What are you talking about, bro?”
Arturo pulled out the crumpled paper from his pocket and turned it toward Tino. He knew it looked like the younger man was looking at his own, wrinkled, and battered reflection.
“This is what I’m talking about,” Arturo said, his voice cold. He felt his arm—the one holding the bat—pulsing, felt the familiar power seeping through him. But to what end? “This face look familiar to you?”
Tino squinted slightly at the paper, then looked at Arturo.
“Say what you gotta say, man,” Tino said. “My dad is not a killer.”
“There’s nothing else to say,” Arturo said. “Your dad benefited the most from my father’s death. Your dad matches this sketch. You tell me the rest.”
Tino shrugged, stepping back and letting a dry laugh escape his mouth.
“Benefited? You don’t know shit, son,” Tino said. “Benefited? My dad struck out that night and he might as well have died, too. Your dad became a legend—the ‘what if’ of the whole year, the whole series. My dad was the goat. The problem. ‘If only we’d had Umberto at bat.’ You know how often my father heard that? He took it to his grave. Might as well be on his gravestone—‘If only Umberto Reyes were buried here.’ ”
Arturo stepped forward. He could feel his grip tighten around the bat. Sweat coating his palm. He felt jittery—not just anxious, but wired, like some kind of dark energy was pulsing through him. He felt himself being pulled away—his actions and his own mind detaching from each other. And he was afraid.
“What is this, man?” Tino spat, motioning toward Arturo’s bat. “You coming in here armed and shit? Like you’re gonna take me out?”
Arturo didn’t respond. He took another step toward Tino.
“Unbelievable,” Tino said, shaking his head to himself. “You’re part of the cult, too. The cult of Umberto. The what-if squad, huh? Well, here’s the truth, buddy, the reality that comes from playing baseball in and out for years: Your dad? He would’ve struck out, too. He would’ve been a footnote instead of a legend. Getting murdered was the best thing that ever hap—”
Arturo swung hard, harder than he ever swung before—at a ball, at anything. The wooden bat connected with Tino’s shoulder, sending the other player spinning back, his body falling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet—crouched, defensive—a hand on his shoulder, protecting himself. His eyes wide and angry with surprise.
“Are you fucking nuts, bro?” Tino screamed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Coming in here…attacking me? Spewing nonsense?”
Arturo stepped forward, raising the bat to swing again, but Tino was too fast—he grabbed Arturo’s arm and pushed back, then yanked the bat out of his hands. In one swift motion, he took Excalibur and broke the bat over his knee—the adrenaline and rage pulsing through Tino Mordred snapped the wooden bat into three jagged pieces.
Arturo watched as the chunks of wood fell to the ground, seemingly lifeless—whatever energy or power he’d felt upon touching them, felt linger within him after…gone. Like a cloud of smoke dispersing with a gust of wind. Arturo’s entire body sagged. Tino, on the other hand, was shaking with rage.
“You stupid motherfucker, you messed up my shoulder,” Tino said, still yelling. “If I’m hurt, I can’t play—if I can’t play, I’m no use to this team. You just barge into people’s rooms to ruin their lives, man? What in the fuck is wrong with you?”
Arturo shook his head, as if trying to dislodge and wipe away cobwebs. Dust and clutter and shadows all scurried out of his mind’s eye. What was happening? He stumbled back.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” he said, one hand clutching his head, which was pounding now—the dry, cracked feeling you get after sleeping for far too long. His mouth felt ragged and bloodied, but he knew Tino hadn’t landed a punch. What was happening?
“Get the fuck out of here,” Tino said, still clutching his hurt shoulder. He leaned down and grabbed the crumpled paper: the image Arturo had clutched for decades, hoping to one day fit the missing piece into a bigger, much more dangerous puzzle.
But the image was gone. The familiar eyes and face and hair replaced by something else—something more generic and impossible to comprehend. The sketch looked like every other police sketch Arturo had ever seen, on TV or in real life. Like a blank, nebulous person.
He yanked the paper back from Tino.
“What? How is this possible?” Arturo said, his voice a husky whisper. “No…no….”
“That doesn’t even look like my dad, you fucking maniac,” Tino said, backing up. “Get out of here.”
So Arturo did, the paper stuck to his sweat-soaked hand as he ran to his room.
* * *
—
He dialed Jimmy as he stepped into his room, crumpling against the door as he closed it.
“Pick up, Jimmy, pick up,” he whispered. But there was no answer. Jimmy’s familiar jocular voice mail was gone—r
eplaced by a default robo-voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service.”
He tried a few more times but got the same confusing result. So he tried Gwen, ignoring the pang of guilt he should feel for waking her up this late.
She was immediately worried, the catch in his voice alerting her that something was very, very wrong.
“Have you heard from Jimmy?” Arturo asked. “I need to talk to him. Now.”
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah, yes, I can’t reach him, I can’t get—”
“Artie, what? Who’s Jimmy?”
Arturo dropped the phone, hearing it clatter on the hotel’s carpet. He could hear Gwen still.
“Artie? Arturo?” she asked, her voice muffled by distance and the iPhone’s tinny speaker.
He took a breath, crouched down, and picked up the phone. He spoke, though he knew what her answer would be.
“Jimmy Merlin, baby. You know him. My agent. My friend. Come on,” Arturo said. “The guy who saved my career.”
“Artie,” Gwen said, “I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about.”
Arturo felt the breath go out of his lungs.
“Jimmy,” he gasped. “You remember. He came into the diner that night—my last night in Hollow Falls. Friend of my dad’s? Please, baby, please—please tell me you remember.”
“Artie.” Gwen’s voice was careful, deliberate, as if dealing with someone on the verge of a terrifying breakdown. “Artie, take a deep breath, okay? I don’t know any Jimmy, Jimmy Merlin….There was no man that night, baby. The only person who came into the diner that night—”
“It was Jimmy,” Arturo said, his voice reaching a higher timbre—desperate, pleading. “Jimmy Merlin.”
“No, sweetie, I’m sorry, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a woman. She said she was a friend of your father’s and that she had his bat….Her name…”
“A woman?”
“Yes, she was older but refined, classy-looking.” Gwen sounded like she was straining to remember the details. “One of those ladies who never seem to age….She could pass for thirty, forty, or fifty….Her name…”
Arturo felt his chest clench as the words, at once unknown but also disturbingly familiar, left his wife’s lips.
“…was Morgan le Fay.”
Excerpt from Bleacher Report
Precipitous Decline Continues for A’s Reyes
TEAM PONDERS PLATOON AT CORNER TO PRESERVE SEASON’S MOMENTUM
Megan L. Pochoda | Athletics Beat Reporter
September 30, 2019
After a back half of the season that seemed almost storybook in its narrative, A’s 3B Arturo Reyes seems to have fallen down to Earth of late, kicking off the postseason with a series of lackluster performances that have put the once white-hot Athletics on a collision course with elimination against the overrated and injury-prone Boston Red Sox.
After years spent bouncing around various farm systems, Reyes’s rise to the Majors became the feel-good story of the season, especially in light of the 28-year-old’s baseball pedigree, as the son of slain Yankees’ infielder Umberto Reyes. But baseball is a marathon, and even the hottest of streaks often fizzle to an end at the most inopportune times.
“Sometimes bats are hot and sometimes they’re not,” said A’s manager Davey Falco. “We gotta work with what we have and take this game if we want to stay in the hunt. It’s not about one player—this is a team sport. We hope Artie heats up, and when he does, we have to be ready to support him.”
Baseball platitudes aside, Falco’s correct—if the A’s falter tonight against the Red Sox, they won’t have time to recalibrate: their season will be over. The decisive game five, tonight in Boston, will determine whether the A’s continue their Cinderella season and if the Arturo Reyes story becomes the stuff of legend—or a footnote.
* * *
—
The skipper’s office felt cold to Arturo. Like they were perched on a glacier instead of in a small enclosed space in an opposing team’s stadium. Falco’s expression was grim; his usually jovial features seemed etched in stone.
“Gimme a reason not to, Artie,” he said, a flicker of hope flashing through his eyes. “Otherwise, Mordred is in, and we hope he can connect a few times to save our asses.”
Arturo felt his shoulders sag, but he stopped them. For so long, he’d been pushed and pulled by what was around him. His father’s death. Other managers’ decisions. His own unwillingness to face up to the challenges in front of him. The bat. That damn bat.
But ever since his confrontation with Tino earlier that month, ever since Excalibur shattered over his knee, Arturo felt different. Awake. Not happy, no. How could anyone be happy with his batting average and with the entire team leering at him? But his eyes were open. And for once in his life, he felt like he was in control.
Gwen had been right, of course. There was no Jimmy Merlin. Arturo tried not to think about the implications of what it meant for him—for his mind—that he’d basically imagined him. He had no idea who this Morgan le Fay was or what she’d wanted. But he knew enough. He was smart enough to see that he’d been set up for a fall. But Reyes boys don’t fall so quickly, Arturo thought.
“I’m gonna play like hell, Skip,” Arturo said, meeting the manager’s dull gaze. “You have my word. I’m ready to win this for us.”
Falco nodded. That was all Arturo needed.
* * *
—
It’d been the worst game of Arturo’s life, and it wasn’t over yet.
He’d tried. He stuck to his words—to the promise he’d made to his manager. He did play like hell. But even with every effort, it still felt a few centimeters out of reach. A half second too slow on the swing. A half step behind the ball with his glove. And now, as they entered the ninth inning, the A’s were down two runs, five to three, with the weakest part of their batting order up to plate. Mordred, subbing in for their injured starting first baseman; Downer, their young and inexperienced center fielder; and Arturo.
Falco had motioned to him in the dugout. Arturo followed him into the tunnel that led to the locker room. The space was dark, long, empty. A void. Their whispered words echoed through the tunnel. Arturo knew what was coming. He wasn’t going to take the plate tonight. Not again. Not after going zero-for-three and making an unforced error. He shouldn’t have even had those three plate appearances, he thought. Had Tino Mordred decided to press charges, Arturo might not even be on the team right now. But getting another chance? Now? He didn’t deserve it.
He braced himself for the worst.
“You got one more chance, Reyes,” Falco said, not meeting his eyes, looking down the long path toward the field instead. “I shouldn’t let you have it, but I will. You know why? There’s something in you, kid. Something you let come out from time to time—not just know-how of the game, but energy. Your bat was popping like crazy when we called you up. But it wasn’t just the bat. It was you. You opened up and started to feel comfortable. At ease with this world, with this game—with yourself.”
Arturo started to say something, but Falco raised a hand.
“When you go up there, I don’t want you to think of anything else—about your batting average, about your dad, about this beef with Mordred…none of it,” Falco continued, his eyes now zeroed in on Arturo’s. “All that matters is that one at-bat. Nothing else will matter if you tank it, and nothing before will matter if you nail it. Think about that. This is a fresh start.”
Arturo hadn’t noticed the bat in Falco’s hand until now. The older man handed it to him.
“I’m not a superstitious guy, but I’ve been watching you make a mess of yourself since that old bat of yours broke,” he said a bit sheepishly as he handed Arturo the wooden bat. “So figured you could use a new one.”
Arturo grabbed the bat. It was ident
ical to the one he’d had before, Excalibur emblazoned on the side. But he didn’t feel anything when he touched it. No electric charge. No pulse of energy.
Yet somehow, in this moment, he felt comfort. It wasn’t about the bat, he thought.
He nodded as he gripped the handle. He could feel his eyes welling up, so he chose not to speak. Falco seemed to understand. He patted Arturo’s shoulder and started to make his way back to the dugout.
“This is your story, Arturo Reyes,” Falco said as he walked off. “Not your bat’s. Not your father’s. Yours alone. Finish it on your terms. The crown is waiting for us.”
Arturo blinked a few times as he watched Falco’s figure grow smaller in the tunnel. Watched as the letters on the back of his dark green jersey morphed slowly to form another, more familiar word. falco was gone, replaced by merlin instead. Before Arturo could say anything, the mirage had faded—things were as they’d been before. But Arturo had learned enough over the past few months to not question his senses. Not anymore.
Arturo started after Falco. Then he heard the voice. A woman’s, darkly melodic and taunting.
“It won’t make a difference, you know,” she said. “The old man’s trickery can only delay the inevitable.”
Arturo spun around, his eyes and senses trying to pinpoint the sound, but the only thing he saw was a cluster of shadows at the other side of the tunnel, leading to the locker room. He knew there was someone there, could make out a shape—but the dark tunnel prevented him from seeing her face.
“Who are you?” Arturo asked, trying to keep his voice calm. To hide the jolt of fear that possessed him.
“I’m the one dancing on the edges, dear Arthur,” she said, using the English approximation of his name for some reason. “The darkness you can’t seem to avoid—the misses, the mistakes, the stumbles and failures. I’m the watcher—the one that keeps you as you should be—as a failure, as a joke. It’s the least I could do, for Umberto’s son, after what happened. How he failed me.”