by Peter David
“Well,” Gwen said, trying to sound reasonable, “the magic had to come from somewhere. Could have come from God, right? With Jesus the intended recipient?”
“And what makes him any more or less worthy than any of the other recipients?”
“Well…I guess that’s where faith comes in. I don’t have an answer for you other than that.”
Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dismissed Ruehl out of hand. Perhaps I should be having this discussion with theologians. With the Pope.”
“Sorry if I’m not up to the challenge.”
He smiled at her wanly. “My dear Gwen…I know of no challenge that you’re not up to.”
“Why thank you, your Highness,” she said, and curtsied in a majestic manner. Then a thought occurred to her. “If you drank of the Grail now…you being healthy and everything…you’d be immortal, right?”
“Even an immortal could be killed, yes, but I would effectively be so, yes.”
“What’s stopping you, then?”
“Percival.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said patiently, “that I’ve given Percival instructions that if I should ever try it…he is to slay me.”
Gwen could hardly get the word out. “W-what…?”
“Or at least, he’s to try. I have no desire to be immortal, Gwen. I’ve lived longer than, by any rights, I should. Percival is more than just the Grail Knight. I have given him the responsibility that the Grail never be abused. That immortality not be doled out, like sweets after dinner. He takes that responsibility very seriously, and he’ll certainly try to take my head off if I endeavor to abuse the Grail’s gifts. That is his responsibility. That’s his curse as being the immortal of the Grail.”
“Wow.” She let out a low whistle. “I…had no idea.”
“Well, it’s not something that can be brought up in normal conversation.” He tapped the side of a bookshelf thoughtfully. “I’m calling Cook.”
“Cook? The Secret Service agent? Why?”
“Because I’ve endeavored to get through to Brady any number of times, and I’ve heard nothing. The number I have for him was put out of service temporarily…I’ve no idea why. And I want to know what happened with his wife.”
“Arthur,” Gwen sighed, “you know the odds were against its working. Why try to come up with something new to beat yourself up about?” Then she saw the look in his eyes and shrugged. “All right, fine. Do what you have to do.”
Arthur nodded and headed for a different room, where there was a phone. Right before he left, Gwen suddenly said, “Arthur…” He turned around and looked at her expectantly. “If drinking from the Grail can grant immortality…”
“Yes.”
“And Jesus was drinking from it at the Last Supper…”
“Yes.”
“Then doesn’t that mean that…maybe…” She was having trouble framing the words.
“Go ahead. Say it.”
“That Jesus of Nazareth might still be walking around today?”
“That, my dear”—he smiled—“is entirely possible.”
“Then…if that’s so…why hasn’t he said anything?”
“He may very well have,” Arthur pointed out. “And if he made too much of a fuss about it, he’s no doubt sitting in an insane asylum somewhere, committed by well-meaning individuals who were loath to let an obviously deranged individual walk the streets.” He saw her blanch at the notion. “I wouldn’t be concerned about it, my dear. I tend to think, if he’s out there, and has lived twice as long as Percival or I, that he’d be wise enough to keep a low profile. After all, if anyone’s learned the dangers of drawing too much attention to himself, it’s him, wouldn’t you think?”
“I certainly hope so.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “If only I had learned the same lesson, eh?” And he walked out of the room, leaving Gwen to envision the Messiah in a straitjacket, shouting that he had returned and why the hell didn’t anyone believe him.
ARTHUR, SEATED IN his study with the phone to his ear, listened to the ringing and was preparing to hang up upon receiving a voice-mail pickup. But then the phone was answered, and he instantly recognized the voice that responded with a brisk, “Cook here.”
“Cook,” said Arthur. “Are you free to talk?”
There was a pause, and Arthur could almost envision Cook’s brain processing the voice that was coming through his phone. Arthur was about to speak again, to prompt Cook’s recognition of him, when Cook spoke in a lowered voice. “Mr. President?”
“Once upon a time. If you need me to, I can call back at some later—”
“No. Good God, no. I’ve been hoping you would call.”
Arthur detected a note of urgency in his voice. “Has something happened, Cook?”
“Yes. It’s about Eugene Brady…”
“That’s who I was calling about,” Arthur said in surprise. “I…knew that his wife was ill, so I thought I would check up on her—”
“With all respect, sir, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. I know what you did. I know about the water from the Grail. Brady told me. He told me everything because he knew that I was one of the last people to see you and was hoping…well, he was hoping that maybe you’d check in with me. He needs to see you. Something’s happened.”
“What’s happened, Cook?”
“Long story short: His wife is fully recovered, and a businessman named Barry Seltzer wants to make you an offer that I, personally, think you should listen to.”
“Seriously?”
“Mr. President, there’s many things you can say about me, good and bad, but one thing I think we’re all agreed upon is that I never joke, ever.”
“And what sort of ‘offer’ does Mr. Seltzer care to propose?”
“I think you should hear it from him, sir.”
“Cook, I’m not in the mood for this. Tell me what’s going on.”
Cook paused, then said, “He wants to bottle Grail water and sell it to people all over the world.”
Arthur made him repeat it to make sure he had heard it properly, then let out a raucous, very unkingly laugh. “That,” he said when he was able to control himself, “is the most ridiculous idea…” Then, after a moment’s more consideration, he said, “Set up the meeting. This I’ve got to hear.”
CHAPTRE
THE FOURTEENTH
THE DINER WAS a real hole in the wall on the Upper West Side, one that had more than its share of disputes with the Board of Health. Handpicked by Cook for that very reason, it seemed unlikely that they would be disturbed there.
Naturally, Arthur could have simply had Seltzer come directly to the castle. But the king was suspicious of the circumstances and was disinclined to welcome just anybody into his unique home. So the unsuspecting diner was host to what was certainly one of the oddest, not to mention monumental, business meetings of the twenty-first century.
On one side of the table sat Arthur, Percival, and Gwen. They were not easily recognizable. Arthur, sporting an ensemble that no one would associate with him, was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses, with a pea green army coat draped around him. Gwen was wearing a black wig that covered her strawberry blond tresses, an oversized hockey shirt, and shorts. Percival was wearing a black Kangol hat, jeans, and a short black-leather jacket.
Opposite them sat Cook, who introduced the fellow named Barry Seltzer. Seltzer, in turn, had his aide, who apparently didn’t warrant a last name and was simply called Sal. Arthur didn’t have the slightest idea what to make of them. Seltzer was doing everything he could to keep his voice down, but the sheer weight of his enthusiasm was making that a difficult proposition.
“This could be the greatest boon to humanity ever! Ever!” Seltzer was rhapsodizing. “I don’t think you’ve even thought about the ramifications—!”
“Believe me,” said Arthur, “we’ve been doing nothing but considering the
ramifications, for months now. And I’m not entirely sure that you have done so.”
“But we have! Look, your Highness, let me spell it out for you. Thus far, I’m a small-time operator. I run a water-bottling plant in New Jersey. Inherited it from my father. We sell bottled water. Jersey Springs. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“Can’t say as I have,” admitted Arthur. “But don’t take it personally. Keeping abreast of the latest advances in bottled water has never been one of my priorities.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Barry. “We have a market share that you can measure with an eyedropper.” He made a loud, annoying, barking laugh, like a seal. “The point is, I have a vision. Can I tell you my vision?”
“Can we stop you?” asked Gwen.
“I am talking,” Barry continued as if Gwen hadn’t spoken, “about making Grail water available to the masses. According to Gene, you simply poured water into the Grail, then poured it out again, and poof. Magic properties of healing. Am I right?”
“That seems to be the case.”
“So all we have to do is take the Grail, make it the centerpiece of our bottling and processing facility…”
“No.” It was Percival who had spoken, and Arthur looked at him in surprise. “No, Highness,” Percival repeated. “It’s…it’s demeaning.”
“How is it demeaning if it’s helping people?” Cook asked.
“It’s demeaning because you’re speaking of something that is soaked in ancient magiks,” Percival replied. “You can’t simply take an antiquity of such power and trivialize it by making it a part of mass production.”
“Percival,” Arthur said, and Percival looked at his king expectantly, “I think we should at least hear him out.”
“My king, the Grail is in my charge to—”
“That was not a suggestion, Percival,” he said sharply. “I’m saying I think we should hear him out.”
If Percival was at all put off by the implied rebuke in Arthur’s tone, he didn’t let on. He simply nodded slightly, and said, “As you say, Highness.”
“Look…Percival…would you prefer ‘Sir Percival…’”
“Percival’s fine. Just,” and he winced, “not ‘Percy.’”
“All right, then. Percival…do you seriously think that if Jesus had access to the resources that we can provide, he wouldn’t have taken advantage of it? I mean, honestly!” He laughed. “What do you think his Apostles were if they weren’t guys like me? Just hardworking, ordinary Joes who are trying to get the word out to as many people as possible. That’s what I’m out to do, except I can get more than the word out. I can get the benefits of the actual Grail out there.”
“There’s a world of difference between words and what the Grail can provide.”
“No argument. But let’s look at that world of difference, Percival,” said Barry, leaning forward earnestly. “These are difficult times we’re living in.”
“I think it’s safe to say that, ever since the serpent kicked an apple Eve’s way, they’ve always been difficult times.”
“Fair point. But the difference is that, in the past, whenever people had troubles, it was…how to put it…their own troubles. It was the troubles of their families, or their immediate neighborhoods, or whatever. And sometimes those troubles would ease, and things would look up for a while before they turned to shit again…pardon my French,” he said to Gwen.
“Actually, the French would be merde, but all right,” said Gwen. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve heard worse.”
“Okay, fine.” He smiled. Then he grew serious again. “The difference is…the world has shrunk.”
“I’ve walked every side of the Earth. Trust me…it’s the same size it’s always been,” said Percival.
But Arthur shook his head. “No. I know what he’s talking about. Nowadays, everyone knows everyone else’s business. We’re certainly living proof of that, with that spy satellite taking pictures of us. I’ve had plenty of time to watch television in the past months that we’ve been holed up in the castle, and I have to say, there’s a sense of constant disaster and calamity that pervades the airwaves. A sense that civilization is just barely holding itself together. And the press is so busy focusing on, say, people blowing themselves to bits in the Middle East that they’re not telling us about genocides in even more remote countries. I was the president of these United States, I received daily briefings, and I can tell you that what you see on television is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of the horrors the people of this world are dealing with. And I think people sense that and they sense things are not only as bad as presented, but worse. They clutch faith like…like people from a sunken ocean liner clinging to life preservers. And the problem is, Percival, that although the faith can support you for a while…sooner or later, the freezing water, or sharks, or just simple exhaustion can still cause you to drown.”
“Well said, your Highness,” said Barry.
Percival looked at Arthur suspiciously. “Indeed, sire. You could almost be making Mr. Seltzer’s arguments for him.”
“I’d like to think you know me better than that,” Arthur said with a mild remonstration in his voice.
“It doesn’t matter who makes the argument,” Barry insisted. “The point is, faith is all well and good…as far as it goes. And there are plenty of people for whom faith is enough. But there are also people—plenty of people—who could use more than that. Who could use some answers. Who could use some practical help. And that’s what we intend to provide.”
“By profiteering off the cup of Christ?” Percival said, and turned to Arthur. “Highness, what makes him any different than the peddlers shilling their wares to the suckers in Palestine?”
“Well, to begin with…the cup is genuine,” Arthur pointed out.
“And what about the question of immortality?”
Seltzer looked from one to the other in confusion. “Immortality? What’s he talking about?”
“If one is in perfect health, apparently,” Arthur said, “the cup bestows immortality upon them.”
Barry rocked back in his booth, looking amazed and stunned.
At that moment, the waitress came over to take their orders. She did so in a bored and detached fashion, although she did look at Arthur a bit longer than any of them felt comfortable with. They ordered quickly, hamburgers all around, and waited until the waitress was out of earshot.
“Now the truth is,” continued Arthur, “we don’t know that of an absolute certainty. We know it happened for Percival. And we know that it sustains life indefinitely while it’s the Land and people are residing upon it…”
“The Land?” said Barry, looking confused.
“Never mind.” Arthur waved it off. “The point is, we are speaking of something ancient and, in many ways, unknowable. So it’s something that has to be considered.”
“Okay, well…this is a new wrinkle,” Barry said after a moment. “I mean…obviously you don’t want to go around turning the world’s population immortal. That’d be catastrophic.” Sal, seated beside Barry, simply nodded mutely.
Percival looked mildly surprised. “You understand that?”
“Well, of course I understand that.”
“I’d have thought that, as a businessman, you’d try to turn that to your advantage.”
“I’m a businessman second, Percival. I’m a smart guy first. And the smart guy in me says that providing people the water of the Grail in order to cure what ails them, or help them feel better about themselves…that’s one thing. But death is part of life. Death is what gives life its juice. Its immediacy. To say nothing of the fact that we’ve got enough overpopulation problems as it is. Can you imagine if no one died and people kept getting born? It’d be insane! The world’s resources couldn’t handle it. People cannot live by water alone, even if it’s water from the Holy Grail.”
Percival leaned back and regarded Barry as if seeing him for the first time. “All right,” he said slowly. “So how do you su
ggest we compensate for it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we can spike it.”
“Spike it?”
“Water down the water,” said Barry. “Have the average bottle of…I don’t know what we’d call it…”
“Grail Ale?” Gwen suggested, with a puckish look thrown toward Arthur.
“I like that,” Barry said, grinning. “We’ll toss some carbonation in to give it some fizz…”
“But it’s not real ale,” said Arthur. “You can’t name something after an alcoholic beverage if there’s no alcohol in it.”
The waitress came back with the drinks, and said, “Who ordered the ginger ale?”
“Me,” said Cook.
“And the root beer?”
Sal raised his hand slightly.
She put out the remainder of the drinks and all eyes turned to Arthur as she walked away.
“Fine, I stand corrected.” He sighed.
“Anyway, we’d have Grail water be only one of the ingredients,” said Barry cheerfully. “With any luck, it maintains its curative and restorative properties, but doesn’t pack the full punch of the undiluted water.”