One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

  She closed her eyes, her shoulders slumped. "Please don't tell me this."

  "But there is one exception."

  "I'm listening," she prompted.

  "If the individual has a physical link to Camelot, it just may be possible to return."

  She glanced over at Lancelot, who was watching her intently. "What do you mean by a physical link?"

  "Well, this is where it gets tricky, and it seems even brainy Mel had a tough time with the translation. The link must be something vital to Camelot itself. Can't just be, say, an old shoe or something. It has to be an important item. There's a word here, I can't be sure because Mel scratched it out about a dozen times, but I think the key word is mystical. There is some sort of incantation you can do when you have the item. I'm going to see if I can get anything else from Mel hope I can do it without letting him know what's going on. I think I can bribe him with a corned beef sandwich at Katz's. Because, to tell you the truth, what I have now doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me. Anyway, that was the only solid information I could come up with."

  "A physical link," she repeated. "We need an important physical link to Camelot."

  Glancing over at Lancelot, she saw a slow grin come over his still-handsome face. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question, and he answered.

  "Ask Sam if the sword Excalibur would be suitable."

  "Oh course! Sam, how would Excalibur work?"

  "Holy Toledo, you guys have Excalibur?"

  "Well, it's in safekeeping right now. We suspected Malvern would try something like this. But do you think Excalibur could do the trick?"

  "Holy Toledo! Yes! I can't imagine a more powerful link. You guys really have Excalibur?"

  She laughed. "Yep. I brought it back as a souvenir."

  "Wow. Hey, listen, before you guys go back, before all this spell stuff happens, can I touch it? Just for a second?"

  "Of course you can, Sam. Absolutely. Oh, just a minute."

  Lancelot took the telephone. "Sam, hello. This is Lancelot."

  "Uh, good morning, Sir Lancelot."

  "Good morning to you, Sam. Thank you for all of your help. Just one question: did Malvern mention where he was staying? Any men's shelter, anything of that sort?"

  "Nah. Frankly, he seemed anxious to get out of the store. He should be back sometime tomorrow, though."

  "Sam, listen, I'll be there with you. You won't be alone the next time."

  "Thank you." Sam sighed. "Thanks. And I'll let you guys know if anything else seems promising, okay?"

  They ended the conversation, and she watched Lancelot as he replaced the receiver. As happy as she was about the information, part of her was filled with a kind of dread.

  Why couldn't he just stay there, with her, in her own apartment? He could find a place for himself. He could fit into her life-he already had, and completed it in a way she had never imagined possible.

  Before Lancelot, she hadn't known what was missing from her life. And now she knew.

  How could she ever live without him? For he alone belonged in Camelot. She belonged where she was.

  Again, she forced a smile. "This is wonderful, Lancelot. It really seems as if Sam is on to something."

  There was an eagerness on his face, and he nodded. "We'll be going back soon, Lady Julia. Very soon.

  She looked away, pretending to be busy with closing a drawer. "Well, I'd better call the locksmith to change the locks, then I have to get to the office."

  "Yes. I'm going back to Avalon, to the shelter. Maybe Bill can help me locate other shelters, and I can ask about Malvern. Maybe we won't have to wait until tomorrow to find him."

  "Yes" was all she could say.

  He reached out and touched her arm before leaving. And she stood alone in her kitchen, wondering again how she was ever going to survive once he left forever.

  How on earth could she learn to live without him?

  "Julie," Peg said as the front door opened. The locksmith had just left, and Peg had a bag under her arm. "I called your office, and they said you were robbed last night. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, Peg. I'm just fine."

  "Well, you look terrible."

  "Thanks. You sure know how to make a gal's day."

  "Did the cops catch the guy who robbed you?"

  "Not exactly." Julie hesitated.

  "What do you mean, not exactly? This is a straightforward question. Did the police manage to catch whoever broke into your apartment?"

  "No. Not really."

  Peg slapped her palm against her forehead. "You're trying to drive me nuts, right? Like the movie Gaslight. And here I went all the way to Long Island last night and endured a screaming Nathan to get this for you. I need it back this evening, by the way, or Nathan will have my hide." She tossed the bag onto Julie's couch.

  "What is that?"

  "It's the comic book. I want you to see how truly disturbed your pal is. So, let me get this straight the cops gave you no information?"

  "We didn't call the cops."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Lancelot and I agreed that it wasn't a good idea to call the police on this matter."

  "Lancelot and ..." she sputtered. "Okay, I'm going to try to remain calm.. And what I'm about to say will probably tick you off, but did you consider the very obvious possibility that Mr. Lancelot himself had something to do with your burglary? Thank God you weren't hurt. But Julie, get a grip here."

  "Lancelot did not have anything to do with this," she began. "Peg, thanks for dropping this by. Really. But I have to get back to the office."

  "No you don't, babycakes. You and I are going to complete this conversation."

  "Peg, I…"

  "Julie, I'm really worried about you."

  "Ugh. I do wish you'd stop saying that. I promise you, I'm just fine. And ..: "

  Peg, arms crossed, was scanning the living room when suddenly her mouth dropped open. "I don't believe this."

  "Huh?"

  She walked over to the chair where the Camelot books were stacked, the empty shopping bag on the carpet. "You went to Cauldrons & Skulls? I thought that place gave you the creeps."

  Julie shrugged. "I guess I decided to trust your judgment and give the place another try."

  Peg shuffled the books to read the titles. "Great. Camelot-Reality behind the Myth. Oh, and of course, the ever-popular Lancelot A Second Look. Julie, are you serious about this?"

  "You really don't understand the situation."

  "You're right. I don't. And I also don't know how it feels to believe a very much alive guy can also be a medieval knight, or to convince myself that I broke every known rule of physics and science and traveled back in time. Why are you smiling?"

  "It's just that, believe it or not, you sound exactly the way he did when I tried to tell him I was from the twentieth century. You two are really very much like." Then she stopped, the smile fading. "Wait a minute. I never said anything about me going to Camelot."

  "You didn't have to. It's obvious you somehow believe everything this guy tells you. You made a few comments that frankly spooked me. You're a smart woman, Julie. For you to be toying with a fantasy on this level is frightening. And another thing-I really think he may have slipped you something, some sort of hallucinogenic drug, for you to swallow without question all of these wild tales. I don't know how else to explain your behavior."

  "You think he slipped me a mickey?"

  "Julie, you need some serious help here."

  "Actually, I think your friend Sam from the store is going to give us a hand."

  "Sam? Don't get me wrong, Sam's a nice guy, but he's a little on the flaky side. Mel, now, he's the realist."

  "How can you go to a store like that and not begin to believe in their books, all of their potions?"

  "It's fun, Julie. I don't take it seriously, and it gives me-all of us, really-an idea of man's evolution. Before science, this stuff was a comfort, a way for people to deal with stuff that happens in li
fe. I don't go to Caludrons & Skulls because I believe in love potions. I go there because I find the very notion of love potions fascinating, in a primitive way. It's a break from reality, a mini vacation. But you've gone way, way too far."

  Julie stared at her friend for a few long moments. "I just figured something out about you, Peg Reilly. You really want to believe, don't you? For all of your pragmatic realism, there is nothing that you'd like better than to do something truly magical. Furthermore…"

  "Boy, are you ever off base, Gaffney." Peg dropped the books back onto the chair and turned toward the door.

  "No, I'm not! Oh, Peg, don't you see? It's all true! All of the magic and wonder is real. Let yourself believe, just for an hour or so, and you'll see."

  "I have to go now, Julie. I'll check up on you later and see when I can come by for the book."

  "Peg, come back! Really!"

  She slammed the door on her way out, and Julie smiled. "She really does believe," she said to herself. "Poor Peg."

  And then she got ready for work.

  Mel could not touch his sandwich.

  "All right, Sam. What's going on here? Why are you buying me lunch?"

  "Can't a guy buy his brother a deli sandwich at Katz's without it becoming a federal case?" said Sam as he tilted his head sideways to get a better angle for the overstuffed corned beef.

  "How can you eat that thing?"

  Sam chewed a few moments before answering. "I can eat this thing because after I went home last night, I didn't eat dinner. I can eat this thing because I Cuuldn't eat breakfast, either. That's how I can eat this thing. Do you want your pickle?"

  Mel glared, then tossed his pickle over to his brother's plate. "The last time you took me out to lunch was when you heard Tina was running around with that guy from the bowling alley. So forgive me it' l appear to be a little nervous here."

  "It's nothing like that." Sam smiled with his mouth full. "Ain't life grand?" Then he stopped, watching Mel's obvious discomfort.

  The deli was bustling, the steam rising from behind the counters, customers shouting their orders to the harried carvers, the constant tinkling and changerattling slide of the cash registers, all in the neonplastic interior with orange booths and chipped Formica tables.

  Someone dropped a tray, and neither of them jumped.

  "It's about those people last night, isn't it? The ones who looked like Lancelot and the Crone of Camelot. There's something going on with them, isn't there?"

  Sam ate half the pickle. "They were nice people."

  "Yeah, well, I thought they were a little strange. Too intense, if you ask me. Their faces, though. Man-dead ringers, weren't they? I've never seen anything like it," Mel repeated.

  A dapper old man in a Bavarian hat with a brush stuck in the side was passing when he heard Mel's lament.

  "Take half home," he ordered. "That pastrami's big enough for two meals. No shame in that." And then he went on.

  Mel did not even blink. "Sam, you're up to something, and it's not just my imagination, is it?"

  Finally, Sam put the sandwich down, gingerly, as the middle began to slide out. "No. You didn't imagine that."

  He looked at the sandwich, and suddenly he wasn't that hungry, either. Instead, he took a saltine from the bowl on the table and slowly, deliberately, pulled the red tag to open the cellophane. "Do you think there's a way to really get to Camelot, Mel?"

  "Aw, come on, Sam. We both know there is no Camelot, probably never was. You don't really believe in all of that stuff."

  "Yes, I do!" he shouted, and a few diners stared for a second, then went back to their meals. Sam looked down at the crackers, and instead of eating them, he carefully pressed the corners so they crumbled into the wrapper. "Okay. I just think it might be possible to go back there. And you, Mel, you know all of the secrets. You do all the translating, the studying." He lowered his voice. "So, you're the only one who really knows. We've never talked about this, but I do believe there is a Camelot. And I want to go dhrrr." He was finding it difficult to continue.

  "And then?"

  "And then maybe I'll be happy. Heck, it's worth it rhot, Mel."

  "Jesus. You've cracked up, you know that? You've rrriously cracked up."

  "Say what you want." Then Sam looked directly at Mel. "Listen to me, Mel. You have everything you want here. You've got Tina. You've got your work. You're about the most contented man I know."

  Mel steepled his fingers, waiting for his brother to continue. "I suppose."

  "Well, I have nothing. Half of a failing store, a few are customers I think of as friends and who forget I even exist the moment they leave the store. That's it. No girl, no real happiness. And I wake up in the morning, and do you know what I think?"

  Mel shook his head.

  "Every morning, I wake up, and one thought, one thought only, runs through my head. Is this all there is?

  That's it. A simple enough sentiment, but when it's yours, it's terrible for all of its simplicity. Tell me, Mel. Please tell me that this isn't it for me, this is not all there is. For God's sake, tell me there's more."

  For a long time, the two just stared at each other. Then Mel stood up. "I'm not hungry. We have a lot of work to do if I'm going to show you some of the special manuscripts."

  Sam took a last look at the corned beef and nodded. "Thank you." His voice was barely audible.

  They had begun to leave when the man in the Bavarian hat rushed to the table. "Boys! Boys! Come back! Take it home, there's no shame!"

  Sam looked over his shoulder. "You can have them, Pops."

  The man grinned. "Thank you, boys!" And hc wrapped up the sandwiches, dinner for the next two nights.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  The strange, unforgiving city was a little more familiar now to Lancelot. The constant sounds of car horns and sirens and drills blasting the pavertment, the smell of asphalt when the streets were heated Icy the springtime sun at noon, and always the peoplein every language imaginable and a few that weren't. All of these things were no longer so foreign to him, and he had learned to relish the welcome, relative silence of the basement of the church where the shelter named Avalon was housed.

  Bill was surprised to see Lancelot, simply because most people only helped once, and then with their conscience clear, their token good deed completed, they would studiously forget the shelter. Occasionally, they would allay their guilt with a check or two, but then even the checks would stop, and Bill would have to train new people who would, in all likelihood, follow the same pattern.

  "Lancelot." Bill grinned, his triangular face flushed with physical exertion. "Great! I can't tell you how much I need an extra pair of hands today. Wc have choir rehearsal before dinner, and these boxes have to be moved to make room for the chairs."

  "Choir rehearsal?"

  Bill nodded as Lancelot began to shift cardboard cartons filled with donated cans of food and assorted items of clothing.

  "It gives the people a sense of permanency," Bill explained. "No matter where we are forced to move to, the choir offers stability, community. It's something they do together, and it also lends a feeling of giving something in return. That's important to everyone. They may not be quite professional, but there is a quality to their singing that's really quite special."

  They were making room for chairs for that evening's rehearsal. "Besides," admitted Bill, "I have a degree from Juilliard. This is the closest I've come to doing anything I'm remotely trained for."

  Lancelot wasn't quite sure what Bill meant but pretended that it all made perfect sense.

  He'd been doing a lot of that kind of pretending lately.

  "Bill," he began as he stacked one box on top of another. "Do you know of any other shelters?"

  "Sure. Oh, could you put those more toward the window? Great." He pushed his wire-framed glasses back into place. "Other shelters. Yeah, there are lots of them."

  Lancelot moved the boxes, then stopped, flexing and relaxing hi
s right hand. It was bothering him today..

  "You okay?" Bill asked, watching as Lancelot returned to work.

  "Yes. Now, about those shelters…"

  "My grandmother used to have that problem," Bill continued.

  "Excuse me?"

  "With her hands, I mean. Whenever it rained, or was about to rain, her hands would bother her. And it's supposed to rain this afternoon. Guess that happens when we get older."

  That's why his joints were aching, he thought with mild interest. The dampness. It was going to rain. He recalled as a child an elderly neighbor used to be able to predict the weather in just the same way. If her joints gave her pain, it would rain, she would chant.

  He was becoming just like her, the old woman with the gnarled hands.

  Had Julia noticed the difference? She must have. The graying hair, the lines on his face. It wasn't simple vanity that bothered him. It was the knowledge that he was growing feeble, weaker. And if he became too weak and feeble, he could no longer be of help to anyone-to himself, to Julia. To anyone.

  As if to prove himself, he hefted two cartons of canned goods. But he put them down, his legs trembling, and just stared at the boxes.

  "Here." Bill smiled. "Let me help you." With little effort, he lifted the boxes. Bill, a skinny, pale young man, was able to do what he, Lancelot, could not.

  All Lancelot could do was nod his thanks and wonder what was happening to him.

  Unlike the other knights, he had never suffered from the physical strain of training and battle. Instead, it seemed to rejuvenate him, to make him stronger, to give him a firm sense of purpose. There was a pure joy in besting a mighty opponent, someone who had trained hard and whose skill and daring would defeat a lesser man.

  Now he was defeated by a box.

  And soon Julia would feel pity for him. He could not tolerate that. Already, he had seen a glimpse of compassion in her eyes that morning, but it had vanished quickly.