The Secret of Excalibur

by Sahara Foley

  Absentmindedly wiping the snot running down her face with the back of her hand, she says with resignation, “That's how the official report read: Death from a boating accident. They even alluded to the possibility it was a hoax, because the bodies of the two missing boys, or the motors, were never found by their divers. And the accident happened in sixty feet of water.

  “Right after the accident, the University and the Historical Society forbade groups of more than six people to go out on the lake to do any research. Records from the present to several decades ago document that each time there are large groups at the lake for several days, there will always be more sightings. Almost like it's attracted to the large groups of people. The authorities denied what really happened, but by enforcing the ban, they're admitting that it's there. Don't you see, whether they don't believe it's real, why forbid large groups of people?” Ruth's yelling at the windshield, face red with anger and frustration, panting as if she ran a marathon.

  Whatever the hell she's talking about and whatever she saw that night had frightened her, and still does. For a second, I fear she's going to hyperventilate, but she finally calms, leaning her head against her hands on the wheel.

  “You okay, kid?” I ask with concern, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and gently pulling her close. She immediately breaks down into big, wracking sobs, shaking the whole car. Best to let her cry it out, I reason, softly rubbing her back.

  As I'm holding her heaving body, I notice far off in the distance what looks like a castle. In the heat waves, the building is indistinct, wavy looking, but it sure looks like an old castle to me. Or I'm seeing a mirage. Feeling Ruth stirring, I return my attention to her.

  Taking a deep breath, Ruth wipes her red-rimmed eyes. “I'm sorry for being distraught. The accident was long ago, but their deaths are still in my mind as if it were yesterday.” Now that she's purged herself, she's calmer. She glances up and says, “Oh look, the Lodge.” That castle is the Lodge? “Oh damn, Arthur, I'm a mess,” she says between sniffles.

  Squirming around, I take a handkerchief out of my back pocket, offering it to her. After drying her eyes, she blows her nose. With a shy grin, she starts the car and we commence our drive.

  My mind's swirling with questions. Why is Ruth so frightened? What had she seen that moonlit night? How had the boys died? How could two wooden rowboats be ripped apart? I want to ask, but she looks like she'll start crying again any second, so I quell my curiosity and decide to wait.

  After driving a mile-long curve, and up and down rolling hills, we see the lake. Now, that's one big sucker. The lake disappears out of sight into a distant mist. I comment that the lake is one big puddle.

  “Oh, you can't even see half the lake from here,” Ruth explains, “it's too big. In fact, the lake is more than eighty miles long and more than forty miles wide. I don't remember the exact dimensions, but I'm sure the Lodge will have some pamphlets.”

  We're now driving along the side of the lake. Whatever had been a road here before is long since gone, the only thing remaining are vague impressions in the overgrown road. We're swishing through weeds as high as the tops of the doors. The thicker weeds thump against the body of the car or bang on the undercarriage as we drive over them. Suddenly, we're invaded by a horde of flying insects, so Ruth hurriedly raises the top as we roll up the windows.

  Switching on the air conditioner, Ruth resumes her tour guide role. “Way over there, about thirty miles, is the river entrance that leads to the sea. And over there, behind those trees, is the inland river. That river runs all the way back across to the ocean. Long ago, the old sailing ships used to dock here. I've seen a few of the shipwrecks at the bottom of the lake. And right over there is where we were camped that night, and out in the lake,” she says, repeatedly pointing her finger at the windshield, “right there is where I saw it. Although I've been here frequently on mapping trips, it was my one and only time. But once is enough, don't you think?” she says sadly.

  Gearing down, she drives up on an arched, wooden bridge I have serious doubts about crossing on foot, much less a car. Looking at the wide, deep, slow-moving river with apprehension, I mentally prepare to Blip! the car away if the bridge starts to collapse. After much creaking, snapping, and groaning, we land safely on the other side. With an internal sigh of relief, I ask, “Why would there be an arched bridge out here? What purpose did it serve?”

  Acting as if driving over a decrepit bridge is an everyday event, she nonchalantly answers, “Well, my father told me that during WWII, the lake and river were used for military traffic. They'd unload the wounded soldiers and prisoners here. Then, by smaller boats, they went up the river to Angles, where there used to be a big prison camp and a hospital. POW'S were always trying to escape Angles, because occasionally, they'd find drowned prisoners in the lake and around on the seaside as well. I always wondered where they were trying to go. Why head to the sea? They sure couldn't swim back.

  “But Angles, the prison camp, and the hospital are all abandoned now. There's nothing out here for miles, except the Lodge, and a small village next to it, mostly fisherman. Not that many years ago, royalty used to come to Lake George for the summer. Back then, the Lodge was only a place for the rich. But it's not in vogue any longer, so neither the royalty, or the rich visit here anymore.

  “At one time, you either had to be from the royal family or have a high position in the government to stay at the Lodge. My father was a Cabinet Minister and a knight, so when I was a child, I was allowed to visit here with him every summer. I grew up on the local legends about the lake, but I never imagined I'd actually see any of it. You probably think I'm crazy, but I swear I saw it, Arthur. You believe me, don't you?” she asks with pleading eyes.

  Suddenly, I'm backed into a corner. I have no idea what she's talking about. Trying to cover my inattentiveness from last night at the pub, I stammer, “Uh, I'm sorry, kid; I don't know what you saw. You were pretty hysterical when you were telling me your story.”

  Ruth is steering though more weeds, following what's left of the road, and quietly says, “I saw the Lady of the Lake and she had King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, in her hand.”

  We ride along for several minutes before that bombshell sinks into my conscience, but when it hits bottom, it hits hard. “What?” I ask loudly, staring at Ruth with my mouth hanging to my knees.

  Ruth is holding onto the wheel like she's on a roller-coaster ride through an insane asylum. With a quivering voice, she says, “That's right. Just as the legend describes; her arm out of the water, the sword held high. Arthur, the sword cut those two rowboats in half, not wavering or even slowing down. And the Lady took those two boys with her. Forever, just as the legend says. That's why I was so terrified.”

  “Holy Shit, do you realize what you're saying? That's just an old legend. Hell, I've even seen the movie, kid,” I say with utter disbelief.

  “Maybe, but I saw the Lady,” she says defiantly. “She's here, or was at least that night. More than twenty of us saw her, including Dr. Tober and Gordy.” With a sarcastic chuckle, she says, “Believe me; I'd rather have seen the movie with you.”

  I sit staring at her in wonder, as we bump along. Lady of the Lake and Excalibur. That's why she has all those books on the subject, trying to dig up everything she can about the legend and possibly convince herself she's not crazy.

  A lightbulb pops on over my head. “Is that why you wanted to work at the Institute?”

  “Yes, after that night, I realized there was more to the legend than anyone knew, and I needed to know the answers. Most old legends are based on facts. I saw the basis for this one, and I'll never forget it. Ever.”

  We bump over a few more clumps of weeds, then a long row of dirt, which finally leads to a strip of smooth pavement. In one direction, the pavement disappears out of sight. In the other direction, the pavement runs up to the curving drive of the Lodge, about two miles away.

  Now that she doesn't have to concentrate on driving,
I open my mind and do a deep mental probe, then jerk back fast. The memory's there all right. I see what happened just as she remembered it. By God, that does look like a long slim, white arm holding a shining sword up, moving across the water. And the sword sliced the two boats right in half.

  I never saw this memory before, because unlike the rape and beating, which her mind recoils from in disbelief, she believes what happened. Completely and with every fiber of her being. To her, it's a part of her life, like her middle name, Judith, that she detests.

  After that deadly expedition, she and Dr. Tober have been searching for someone who'd be able to solve the mystery of what they'd seen that night, fifteen long years ago. Through the Institute, Dr. Tober and Ruth hoped to find someone with an ability to psychically probe the deeper depths of the lake and give them answers. They never told Dobie, but I wonder whether he already knows. I would bet, yes. Dobie doesn't miss much when he thinks it's his business. And so far, I haven't seen anything he doesn't consider his business.

  We travel up a long, curving drive and stop under a gold-embroidered, green, canopied archway, covered with yellow blooming roses. Waiting for us to stop, is a young couple. Smiling, they climb down the stairs to greet us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Merlin?” I affirm it's us, so they open our doors and introduce themselves. They're Mr. and Mrs. Grimes, the caretakers of the Lodge.

  “Mrs. Tabby Moynin telephoned; we have your suites ready, sir,” Mr. Grimes explains as he take our bags, and heads up the steps and inside.

  The lobby, or entrance hall, we step into is so enormous I think Moynin's Inn would fit inside this one room. Our footsteps and voices echo off the distant walls and domed ceiling. The highest point of the ceiling is forty feet high, painted with frescoes. Armored knights stand at guard everywhere you look, holding swords, lances, and shields.

  On the walls hang brightly colored, intricate tapestries depicting everything from fighting knights to unicorns. Ah, but the room has some modern touches. Right inside the door, next to an armored knight holding a lance, sits a new cigarette machine. Seeing the modern mixed with the old gives me a sense of deja-vu.

  We stroll to the counter, the newest addition in the room, and I sign the register. Mr. Grimes requests to see my passport, so I give him a slight mental nudge. He smiles warmly and thanks me. Ruth and Mrs. Grimes are talking and leafing through a rack of cards and pamphlets, so I doubt they saw our transaction.

  We follow them through a tall and wide, sweeping, arched doorway, and up worn, stone steps ten feet wide. Then, down a hall to a big solid-looking, wooden door that's rounded at the top and ten feet over my head.

  “Your room, folks, please come in,” Mrs. Grimes announces, pushing the door open.

  Our suite has four rooms. Two are enormous bedrooms, one a big kitchen, and the last room is the biggest bathroom I've ever heard of. The bathroom has one of those below-floor-level tubs, which resembles a small swimming pool, the kiddie pool type where moms hold their kids. Eight people could easily fit inside and still not touch. The small pool is made of smooth granite, like the steps leading into the tub and the bathroom walls. Aha. Over in a corner is a new shower stall and toilet. And strangely, there's a fireplace in the bathroom, almost as big as the one at the Inn. Inside the fireplace sits a heavy, black pot hanging on a swing-out, iron arm.

  I must've been staring with a stupid look on my face, because Mr. Grimes swings the iron arm out. “Years ago, when there wasn't any indoor plumbing, water was heated here for a bath. Servants would drop buckets off the balcony to the lake, fill the cauldron here, then pour the heated water into the tub. Over the centuries several of England's queens have bathed in this room. But, I prefer the shower. Although we've filled the tub,” he winks at me as he swings the iron arm back, “just to try it out.”

  His wife blushes and admonishes, “John, that's enough.”

  Back in the bedroom, he points to a basket. It's full of fruit, and next to the basket is a bucket with a bottle of champagne. “Compliments of the St. George Lodge, and if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ring us up. There's a grocery here, but we also offer room service from six to nine in the evening. We don't have morning staff for breakfast, but we always have tea or coffee in the club. That's our pub, and its open twenty-four hours, except the Sabbath, today, when it opens at 2:00 p.m.” Looking at his watch, he adds, “In fact, did an hour ago. We also have a small dry goods store in the village, and several bait and tackle shops. Mrs. Moynin mentioned you were of a mind to do some fishing, sir?”

  “Yes, sir, I thought I might. How has the fishing been?” I could read his mind and have my answer in a few seconds, but it's more polite to chit-chat.

  “Well, the fishing's been fair. Old Colly Dewhurst goes out every day and always comes back with some good-sized Whites. In fact, his cousin, Paul, caught the British Isles record White here in '62, and has come close to beating his own record since.” He's shuffling through pamphlets as he speaks, and now hands me several. Ruth already has about twenty of them in her hand.

  We talk for a few more minutes, then they excuse themselves and leave. As I close the door behind them, I notice no lock on the outside of the door. On the inside, there's a big, wood bar attached to the door, and it swivels into a set of old, iron brackets.

  “Arthur, which of these beds do you like? This one's a waterbed,” Ruth squeals with surprise as she bobs up and down with the flow of displaced water. She looks sexy and inviting as she's bobbling around. The other bedroom has a king-sized bed. Firm, but not hard. I prefer that to a mushy waterbed.

  She hands me her stack of pamphlets, uncorks the champagne, then finds two peaches in the basket and sits. Sipping my champagne, I read a pamphlet. The castle has a long and bloody history. Sir George, now a saint, died in this room, after he fought off a group of Germans searching for the sword.

  After the Crusades, and the death of King Arthur, the Queen awarded this lake and estate to St. George, to always protect the hiding place of Arthur's sword, Excalibur, and to defend their shores from any invaders. St. George kept a retinue of thirty knights, squires and servants, plus their families, with him. He had many battles over the years, until his death, at seventy-three. Imagine wearing armor, and swinging a broadsword at seventy-three. No wonder they made him a saint.

  According to the literature, he was a French knight that had come either with his cousin Lancelot, or at his request. George LaFleur not only proved loyal and fierce, but trusted explicitly by Arthur, and over the years, he was reknighted and later made sainthood. His last name all but forgotten now, George the Flower of France, had left his mark. He was also the person who allegedly took Arthur's sword and threw it into the lake. The lake we're at, and allegedly from the spot this small castle was built.

  Thinking back to what I saw when we arrived, I muse, if this castle's small, I can't imagine what a big one would look like.

  The legends contend that Arthur gave St. George the sword and ordered him to throw it into this lake, but St. George returned saying he could not, the first order he'd ever disobeyed. So, Arthur, mortally wounded, and trusting no one else left alive after the bloody battle, asked him as a friend. This request impressed George so much, to be friend to his King not just a loyal servant, that he did return and cast Excalibur far into the lake.

  He then reported an amazing sight to his dying King. After he threw the sword out, he said it sailed much farther than he could've thrown it, and as the sword slowly descended to the water, a woman rose from the lake, and the sword sailed right into her outstretched arm, and holding the sword aloft, she slowly sank below the surface. He knelt there praying for a long time. Guess you couldn't blame him.

  After he reported what he saw to Arthur, the King clasped his hand, smiled and died. Evidently, Arthur tried living long enough to hear his report, and knew it was true. Who would make up such a story? Certainly not the deeply religious St. George. So upon hearing that the deed had been done, and his try
st with the Lady of the Lake completed, Arthur died.

  I was so engrossed in my reading, I didn't notice when Ruth had left the room until I hear the toilet flush. She glides back out and lies on the bed, then covers up. Even as I watch her, she falls asleep. She can go to sleep faster than anyone I know.

  Nowhere in the pamphlets does it mention Arthur and his tryst with the Lady. But I remember from one of the books in Ruth's library, that Arthur once used the sword in a fit of rage, against Lancelot out of jealousy, and the indestructible sword had broken in two. The Lady came to Arthur from a river off a lake and ordered him to retake his kingly and knightly vows. He complied, so she repaired Excalibur.

  This place is steeped in all these old legends. But, you'd expect that here, it's a rich person's tourist trap. I wonder how many people realize that by keeping the legends alive, they're also implying they're true. Camelot, Merlin, Excalibur, and even the Holy Grail, are superstitions and legends that can never be proven. At the same time, as with many of the world's religions now, no one can absolutely disprove them either. So, they live on.

  Yet, I saw what Ruth had seen that night fifteen years ago. I saw a long, thin arm, and it held high a shining sword. The sword had sliced the two rowboats apart as they crossed the Lady's path, and the two boys had disappeared, forever. I've never heard or read of the curse Ruth mentioned, where if you're searching for or have sighted the Lady of the Lake, you'll die a horrible death. The curse could've been added over the years by the locals to spice up the legend. Ruth's right though, she saw the Lady of the Lake, and she's convinced of what she saw.