by Mike Ashley
A voice from the back of the crowd: “We did this once, already.”
Merlin glared at them all. “Do it AGAIN!”
Kay didn’t move.
Merlin scowled at him. “Put the sword back.”
He didn’t so much as twitch.
“Put the sword back.”
Kay’s eyes narrowed. “Make me.”
A single massive indrawn breath nearly sucked the leaves from the trees. Expectancy abounded.
Merlin took two steps to Kay. He leaned forward slightly. No one dared to breathe.
Very softly, Merlin said, “Put. The sword. BACK.”
Everyone on the hillside clapped hands over ears as the final word crashed through the forest. Trees fell. Lightning flashed. Camp dogs barked, while picketed horses squealed.
I, of course, didn’t, though I had to unpin my ears with effort.
Somewhat hurriedly, Kay went over and stuffed the blade into the rock. But his intransigence remained firm. “I get first crack.”
“Fine,” Merlin gritted. “First Kay, then everyone else.”
He stabbed a look at Artie. “You too, this time!”
Artie nodded glumly.
England’s greatest magician waved impatient hands. “All right. Let’s get going. We don’t have all day.”
Kay tried, and failed. Three times, in all, grunting and straining, sweat running from his red face. Then two of his friends caught him by either elbow and pulled him bodily away.
“Next!” Merlin called.
Everyone had a try. Lastly came Artie.
“It won’t work,” he muttered to us. “I tried this already.”
Merlin stuck his face into Artie’s. “Just DO it!”
Sighing, Artie wrapped both hands around the grip and yanked.
Nothing happened.
“Oh God,” Merlin breathed. “I’m ruined. I’m finished. It’s over. It’s done with. Finis—”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “He’s not done yet.”
But he was. Artie tried twice more. The sword didn’t budge.
“Keep your hands on the grip,” I said quickly. Then, to Merlin: “Your Voice of Pronouncement! Now!”
“What am I supposed to Pronounce?”
“And make some fog. Hurry!”
“Hell, fog’s easy.”
It was. Almost instantly, the forest was choking in fog.
“Hey!” someone called. “What’s all this, then?”
I shut my teeth on the grip and dragged the sword yet again out of the stone. “Here,” I mumbled to Artie. “Hold the blasted thing.”
“Again?” he asked wonderingly.
“The Voice!” I hissed at Merlin. “Britain has a king!”
Merlin began Pronouncing.
“For God’s sake,” I said desperately, “make the fog disappear! No one can see anything!”
In mid-syllable the fog winked out, leaving Merlin Pronouncing enthusiastically, me blinking owl-eyed, and Artie – dear, sweet Artie – clutching the sword.
“Whosoever-Pulleth-This-Sword-From-The-Stone—”
“Here,” someone said, “I didn’t see anything!”
“—Is-Rightwise-Born-King—”
“Not Artie!” Kay shouted. “My God, not ARTIE!”
“—Of-All-England!” Merlin finished. “The End.”
“Not yet,” I said aggrievedly.
“For me, it is,” he rasped. “I need a drink.”
“Artie didn’t do it!” Kay shouted. “It wasn’t Artie at all! I was standing right here – I saw—” He dragged in a wheezing breath. “Merlin’s HORSE did it!”
Heavy silence ensued. And Kay, who is not entirely a fool, realized what he’d said, what it sounded like, and what it might do for his future.
I selected that moment to bestow upon the earth my undeniably horsey essence in a noisy, lengthy stream.
Glumly Kay looked at Artie. “Long live the king.”
Very quietly.
As I knew he would, Artie came up to see me later. I stood hipshot in the moonlight, whuffing a greeting. I smelled oatcakes.
Artie untied a knot and held it out. I lipped it up gingerly. “Where’s the sword?” I asked, once I’d finished the cake.
“Merlin’s got it. He says he doesn’t trust me with it yet. He says I’d probably give it to Kay, or somebody equally unsuitable.”
“Well, you did once.”
“But don’t you see? I’m not suitable, either!”
“The sword says you are.”
“That sword says nothing at all! You pulled it out!”
I didn’t answer at once.
Artie nodded firmly. “Twice, you pulled it out.”
“Yes, well . . . you can’t very well expect a horse to be King-of-All-England.”
“You can’t expect me to be, either!”
“Too late, Artie. Merlin’s done his Pronouncing.”
“But I can’t be Whosoever-Pulleth,” he insisted. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“Rightwise,” I murmured. “And Artie – it doesn’t really matter that much. This is how things are done.”
“What things?”
“Important things. They happen the way people make them happen, and then other people sing songs and tell stories and write about them the way they wished they’d happened.” I twitched a shoulder. “It’s just the way life is.”
“I never wanted to be king.”
“Maybe that’s why you’ll be a good one.”
“Will I?” He brightened. “Are you sure?”
“Leave it to Merlin. He’ll see it comes out all right.”
Artie hooked an arm over my withers. “You’re the finest horse I’ve ever known.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to do something for you. Something grand and wise and kingly, so no one will ever forget you.”
“They’ll forget me, Artie. I’m only a horse, after all.”
Artie looked worried. “But you’re sort of the glue that holds us all together!”
I winced. “Let’s not mention glue, shall we?”
“All right.” He brightened. “I’ll name my firstborn son after you!”
I snorted. “After a horse? That’s not very kingly – and the son might object, once he’s old enough.”
“But I have to do something.”
It wasn’t worth arguing over. Besides, it would hurt nothing. Part of me was already on permanent loan. “Do as you will, then,” I said. “It’s Excalibur.”
“Your name?”
“Yes.”
Artie grinned. “I’ll see you’re never forgotten! I’ll see to it the name lives on forever and ever!”
“Artie . . .” But I let it go. “Thanks, Artie. I appreciate it.”
He hugged my neck tightly. “Excalibur,” he whispered. “A good name for a horse.”
“Go to bed,” I suggested. “You’ve got a full day ahead tomorrow.”
“I suppose.” He slapped me in farewell. “I’ll bring you an oakcake in the morning.”
He meant it, I knew. I also knew he’d already fed me the last of the oatcakes. “Go on,” I said, and nudged him very gently.
Waving goodnight, Artie went back to the camp.
“All right,” I said. “You can come out now.”
He came, drifting out of the darkness like a nightwraith. “So,” he said. “Excalibur, is it?”
“Yes.”
Faint accusation: “You never told me.”
“True Names contain magic. You know better than that.”
“But Artie intends to let everyone know it. It won’t be you, anymore.”
I twitched an ear. “It doesn’t matter, now. I have no part in the story. Let him use it as he will.”
Merlin stroked my nose. “We’ve made England a king, old friend.”
“Artie will do fine.”
Fingers drifted up beneath the forelock, then brushed it aside. The dark eyes so full of magic were bright in the moonlight
as he studied my forehead. “So that’s where it came from.”
I twitched a shoulder dismissively.
“Powerful magic, that. More than I’d risk.”
I shook the forelock back into place. “Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s over and done with.”
“I suppose so.” He patted me on the shoulder. “A good plan, old friend. Most assuredly, my reputation will survive.”
“And your name.” I swished my tail. “Artie – and England – will need you.”
“And Excalibur.” Which was no longer me.
Another pat, and then Merlin, who knew, was gone. I shook my head again, aware of a vague tingle in the place beneath my forelock where the sword-shaped blaze had been.
I gazed up at the waning moon. “A kingdom for a horse?”
No. I rephrased it.
A SWORD FOR ARTHUR
VERA CHAPMAN
There is no doubt that if there is one aspect of the Arthurian legend that captures everyone’s imagination then it is Arthur receiving his sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake. Arthurian legend sometimes links the sword in the stone with that of Excalibur. I have even seen one interpretation of the name being ex-caliburn, i.e. out-of-the-stone. Whether the two swords were one and the same or different adds to the fascination of the tale. Even Malory got them confused. You will find differing interpretations of the event in several stories in this volume. Here is the first, taken from Vera Chapman’s novel The Enchantresses (1998). Vera Chapman (1898–1996) was no stranger to Arthurian fiction although she was a latecomer, producing her first novel, The Green Knight, when she was already into her seventies. That and its two related novels were issued in a single volume as The Three Damosels in 1978.
Merlin came rowing the boat over the loch, on a calm sunny morning. He rowed in the way the southerners do, standing and facing the way he went, with the oars crossed before him, so he could see the lake-island of Nimuë coming into sight, and the gleam of the white walls of the little castle.
An older Merlin by some fifteen years, his thick black hair was now well powdered with silver, and glittered in the sunlight; his beard, still black, was now bushy and spade-shaped, his hair falling over his neck to meet it smoothly. His teeth flashed out sound and white, and his dark blue eyes were as bright as ever. But there was a look of stress about him, as if he was never free from thoughts of anxiety.
The approach to the island showed many changes since the morning when he had first brought Vivian there with the baby Arthur. Trees had been cleared away, others planted. Flower beds, bright with colour, bordered the marble walkway. All along the water’s edge, roses overflowed and shed sweet petals on the water; the rose briars made a thick screen, and quite hid the strong fence that ran along the water-line, not so much to keep intruders out, as to keep childish feet from slipping into the lake. A strong gate closed the landing place, but it was standing open now.
As he brought the boat alongside, a lovely little girl, about nine years old, ran down to meet him. Her black curls were like his own, but her eyes were green.
“Father! Father!” she cried in her clear shrill voice. “Oh, Mother – Father’s come!”
Behind her at the top of the steps were Mae, now grown fat and matronly, and Mari, Mae’s daughter, a sturdy lass of fifteen. Behind them came Vivian, the sunlight touching her red hair, slim and light-footed as ever. But the little dark-haired girl was more light-footed still. She had bounded up the stairs, and back down them again to Merlin, before her mother could so much as look below and smile at Merlin coming up to her. The little girl was dragging him up by the arm now, and babbling to him.
“Now you’re back we’ll have fireworks, and stories, and magic – Did you see Arthur? How is he?”
“Certainly I saw Arthur,” he said, chuckling at her. “Considering I spent the last six months teaching him—”
“Teaching him what? Magic?”
“Well, no, not much magic. Not more than he will need. You see, he isn’t going to be a magic man.”
“Not a magic man? What then?”
“Something very different – something better perhaps—”
“A knight? Oh, he’s to be knighted, then?”
“Why no – not a knight, or not yet. He couldn’t be that until he’s eighteen, you know. His foster-brother Kay is to be made a knight at Christmas. But Arthur – perhaps he’s to be something else—”
“I know! I know!” She jumped up and down in her excitement. “A king!”
At that moment they reached the top of the steps and were caught in Vivian’s embrace. Merlin was drawn into the welcome of his little household.
Blaisine, his only child – he gathered her into one arm and Vivian into the other. Blaisine – he had christened her so, after his old master Blaise, the great magician of Brittany. From her very earliest days she had shown herself full of strange powers. How could she fail to be gifted, with such parents? She had everything in her small way – the clear-sight, the instinctive control of the weather, the remarkable sympathy with animals, the healing hands – if Vivian had a headache, or Merlin himself, it was Blaisine’s cool little hands that soothed it away. She was a quick learner, picking up a great deal of the magical technique without really trying. Merlin, in spite of all misgivings, and his desire that she should be a normal happy child, could not refuse to teach her.
She was not really a solitary child, although she had never yet set foot outside her little island. There was Mae’s Mari, and there had been Arthur, the adored big brother. But now, since he was eight, Arthur had gone away to live with Sir Ector and Sir Ector’s two brothers, and his kind wife; and though he often came back on visits, the time between them seemed very long to Blaisine. Mae, though good-natured, could not share Blaisine’s thoughts, and more and more she drew in upon herself. Vivian watched her with understanding.
Blaisine chattered on to Merlin as they went up towards the house. “Father, look, there’s the place where the Little People were last night. They’re here most nights when the moon’s full. Do you know, Mae can’t see them at all, nor can Mari – aren’t they stupid? Arthur could always see them – can he still?”
“I daresay he can, my love,” Merlin replied, “but I don’t think they come around much where he now is – too many people. But there’s other things he’ll be able to see, in time.”
“Is he coming back to us soon?”
“Not yet. I’m afraid he’s going to be very busy. But we’ll all go up to see him at Christmas, when Kay is to be knighted.”
Blaisine clapped her hands and capered. “Oh, lovely, lovely! But I wish Arthur was to be made a knight as well.”
“You wait and see, my dear. Arthur’s turn will come . . . We want a sword for Arthur.”
“A sword? Oh, that’s easy. There’s plenty here hanging on the walls. There’s the one he used to play with.”
“Too small for him now! – No, we want a special sword for him – a very special sword – But here we are. Oh, by the Powers, here’s all the dogs – My slippers – oh, thank you, sweetheart, and you can take my cloak. It’s good to be home again.”
After supper, Blaisine recognized preparations that she was familiar with.
“Oh Father, you’re going to make magic tonight. Can I come in too?”
He put his hand caressingly on her head.
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart. Your mother and I are going to make magic, but it’s a not very nice magic. Not for you.”
“How do you mean – not very nice? You don’t mean – Black?”
“No, no – only rather frightening.”
It was dark as Merlin led Vivian along, into the depths of the castle.
“Take a candle,” he said, and his voice was deep and solemn, “and follow me.”
“Where are we going?” she said, and the candle in her hand shook a little.
“Down – a very long way down.” And he led the way down a stone stairway she had never descended before.
/> Although the little castle, above its foundations, was very compact, yet underneath there were cellars and vaults of unknown depth, extending down through the mount on which the house was built, and into the rock of the island – possibly deeper . . . In the fifteen years that Vivian had lived on the Island of Nimuë there were some of these into which she had never ventured. Of course there were wine-cellars and wash-houses and storerooms - this was Mae’s department, and Vivian did not go there much. But further down, she knew, were places where Mae did not go, nor anybody else. The entrance to them was enough for Vivian - she did not like the look, nor the sound, nor the smell, nor the feel of them. But here it was that he was inexorably leading her.
He halted for a moment, and set down his candle.
“We are going into a very dangerous place,” he said.
“Is it Morgan again?”
“No, not Morgan. For the moment the stars are against her, and so we must work fast, before the stars pass. I must have a sword for Arthur, and the keeper of the sword will not give it up easily.”
“Who is he, then?”
“You have heard people speak of Old Nick?”
“Why, yes – Old Nick – that is what some call the Prince of Darkness,” and she crossed herself.
“And yet they are mistaken. Some that have heard that name bestow it on the Evil One, almost in a jest. But there is Old Nekr, or Neckar, that the Northerners know. Some, far up in the northern isles, call him Shony, or Jonas. It is he that lives in the utter deeps, in darkness and slime, where everything goes that drowns and is decayed. He is not Neptune, nor Poseidon, whom the Greeks knew as the ruler of the waters, Jove’s brother, that shakes the earth. Neckar, or old Shony, is darker and more deadly. He should be subject to Poseidon, but he is a disobedient subject. Away down there in the slippery residue of drowned worlds Shony can evade all rule. His daughters are the Nixies, beautiful but deceitful. Shony himself has something of Proteus, for he changes and slips away and eludes those who would bind him. But we must go and seek him now.”
“Why must we?” She whispered as if afraid to disturb the silence down there.
“Because it is to him that all the lost treasures go that men cast into the sea, or lose in shipwreck. He hoards them, down there. And his treasure of all treasures is the sword that I must have for Arthur. The sword Caliburn.”