The Secret of Excalibur

by Sahara Foley

  That's where I come into the picture. With my psychic scanning ability, I should be able to locate every grain of sand in the bottom of the lake, if I try hard enough. Should I do that? What if I discover that it's some natural phenomena relative to this area? Would I be destroying something that's more than a legend? Kind of like killing Mother Goose to eat.

  Because of the size of the lake, the depths involved, and the fact that my scanning abilities are weaker and slower in water than air, I estimate it could take me a few weeks to complete my scan. It will also take all the concentration and energy I can muster. Is it worth that for an old fairy tale? And crazy as it sounds, I keep wondering, what if Excalibur is here? Held up in the hand of some fantastic lady who lives in the water?

  Hey Arthur, better take it easy on the champagne, you're starting to lose it. Next thing you know, you'll be patting your own hand.

  The rest of the pamphlets are about the local businesses, other tourist type information, and a few Grimes gave me regarding fishing. Oh, okay, a White is what they call a Walleye here, White Pike. And the fish we call the Northern Pike is the Gar Pike. The records are listed, and a P. Dewhurst is listed with a White that weighed in at nineteen and one-half pounds. Now that's a Walleye. It could be a good fishing trip, my favorite and only hobby. There's also a list of available boats for rent. None of the boats are less than twenty feet, except the smaller nonpowered rowboats. Like the old, heavy boats Ruth's group used? All the larger boats come with a crew. If you want to go fishing alone, you have to go in a rowboat, or bring your own boat.

  Of course, why not? Producing a boat would actually be easier than the box of china. I know a man in far-off Minnesota who owns the only nineteen-foot bass boat I've seen. The bass boat is equipped with every device you can imagine. He has a famous fishing show and uses his boat all the time. I won't be taking Ron's silver/gray fishing boat away, but yes, I can reproduce her, right down to all the equipment. It'll require the same amount of energy I use to teleport Ruth's car.

  I smile. Old buddy Ron would shit if he knew there's a duplicate of his prized Gray Ghost sitting out in the bay. I stroll out on the balcony, and there she is, bobbing gently at anchor, about twenty feet from the dock, the name Gray Ghost plainly visible on her sides. Yeah, old Ron would shit. I should send him a picture, he'd have a stroke.

  I sprawl long-legged in one of the brightly colored, padded patio chairs on the balcony, sipping my champagne, thinking. I often ponder what it would be like to live in a society where everyone has the same abilities I do. Would life be better, or worse? Would they, as I do, get bored and go off searching for things to amuse themselves? And while they're being amused, destroy whole ways of life? Just as the old Spaniards and other civilizations who conquered in the name of some God?

  It would amount to the same thing really. To subdue people because you can, which I doubt any God has to do. But man sure does, and has a long bloody history to prove it. I don't ever want to get that way. I can do or have anything I want. I don't answer to anyone, especially a government. Who can stop me? I do give some of these people a difficult time, but I don't consider it the same thing as conquering in the name of some God who can do it easier, and much less bloody himself.

  I hate it when I get introspective like this. But lately, like my anger, I seem to do it more frequently. Am I starting to change as my old friend had warned? Will I, one day, look down at people around me as no more than pests, or pets? Well, some are already pests. I'll have to keep myself in line. Try to live as I used to, before a rain gutter full of ice fell three stories and hit me on the head, knocking me senseless. Then, three days later, after my pounding headaches stopped, I set half a cigarette on fire because I couldn't find a damn light. As I stared in frustration at the end of my cigarette, trying to figure out how I was going to light it, the end of the cigarette burst into flames.

  The accident seems so long ago, so far away. Yet it happened only four years ago. When I realized not who I was, because I still wasn't sure of that, but what I was becoming, I left everything I knew and people I loved. I could destroy them in a fit of anger, something I never wanted to happen. So, off I went, and I've been wandering since then. Only in the past few months, I've been feeling a pulling to come to this country, almost a yearning, like homesickness. I've never been here but once, on a troop ship for only a few hours, and in a howling blizzard. Doubt that experience left me wanting to return, but here I am.

  Wandering into the bathroom, I hear Ruth snoring softly. I can't figure how she can snore lying face down, but she does. I re-cover her with the blanket, then go quietly out the door, turning the thick, wooden bar with my telekinesis. I bet the door has never been locked from the outside before.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Descending the stairs, the only sounds heard are my footsteps and a low mumbling echo coming from a set of big, double doors across the room. I head towards the door thinking this must be the club. It is, and it resembles a few thousand other bars all over the world. No antiques here, just a few stone and wooden beams. There's a big, new-looking bar with stools, and behind it, several hundred bottles of booze. A young, pretty, dark-haired girl in a red blazer is pouring from a tapper. Four big men, wearing stained dungarees, long-sleeved plaid shirts underneath and rubber boots, are sitting at the closest end of the bar, drinking from big glass mugs.

  Parking my rear-end on a stool towards the middle of the bar, glancing in the mirror facing me, I notice more people. Over behind one of the big doors rests our four escorts. So, they finally removed the dead tree.

  With a big, welcoming smile, the barmaid strides to me. Her blazer has the crest of St. George, and embroidered in gold over the crest is the name 'Alyce'.

  “Afternoon, sir, what'll you have?” she asks as she polishes the bar in front of me with a clean towel, then sets out a coaster with the St. George Crest, and a clean, amber glass ashtray.

  I order a whiskey soda, wondering whether bars in England can serve whiskey on Sundays. Guess so; she pours me a stiff one. I leave a few bills on the bar, and she takes one, giving me back some change. Since I don't care about remembering the monetary systems of other countries, I simply lay out bills and let them figure out the change. If I get cheated, so what? I can always get more money.

  Staring into the mirror, I hold my glass up in a toast to our four babysitters, and one, the boss named Relman, does the salute back to me. Leaning in my chair, relaxing, I listen to the boisterous arguing from the other men sitting at the end of the bar. The biggest man, more than two hundred pounds, is doing most of the debating.

  “Aw, go on man, if'n they was smugglers, how come every bloomin' one got caught was draggin' a bloody seine net full of fish? Sides, ain't been one of 'em buggers seen fer years, man, and if'n they come back, ain't gonna be daytime, and sure as 'ell not in no little plastic boat with names on it.” He takes a sixteen-ounce gulp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  “But Col, the boat's 'bout the right color so's ye wouldn't see 'er at night, and it sure ain't from round 'ere. And nobody saw 'er a come in either.” He seems pleased with himself for having all that information.

  “Pauly, ye been watchin' ta much of that damn telly. This 'ere's the eighties, man, and they uses 'em 'elicopters nowadays, not little boats.” He sips his mug down, then slams it on the bar saying, “C'mon girl, don't be dawdlin', get me another.”

  As Alyce jumps to get his mug, I say, “Alyce, why don't you get everyone in here one?” And I wave slightly to include our escorts.

  “Yes, sir, coming right up.” With a smile, she gets busy refilling mugs.

  The big man leans back, glancing over at me. We'd already made eye contact in the mirror, but he finally acknowledges that I'm present. She sets his mug up first, and he loudly declares, “Don't know if'n me wanna drink from a bloody yank, mister.”

  I'm getting ready to give him a mental push, when I hear the scraping of chairs, and the scuffling of feet. Glancing into the mirro
r, I notice our escorts are standing. The big loudmouth looks over at all the noise and glares as the four tagalongs hurry towards us, sitting at a table closest to the bar, halfway between the two of us.

  There's something familiar about this moron. More than looks, his attitude reminds me of someone. Aw shit, I think. Godzilla Barney Dewhurst and this is his brother, Colly Dewhurst. I read it there, in the clutter that's his mind. His brother called him today, telling him what happened, and that we were coming here. He warned his brother to stay away from me. Said I was the Devil's spawn, if he ever saw one.

  I can take this guy apart without moving a finger, but I don't want any trouble. But trouble always has a way of finding me anyway. So, I don't push him, nor do I react towards him, I sip my drink and ignore him. His friends won't touch their drinks until they see what he's going to do. He reaches for his mug and takes a sip.

  After Alyce gives the escorts their drinks, Relman says, “Thank you, Mr. Merlin.”

  Colly Dewhurst starts choking on his ale like he's going to die. He's coughing and choking away as his friends pound on his back.

  “Get offa me ye bloody fools, canna a man cough without ye tryin' to beat 'im down?” But in the mirror, he stares at me with narrowed eyes. My name must've registered from his brother.

  I finish my drink, then order another round. When Alyce brings my refilled glass, I ask her, “Alyce, how's the fishing been? Anyone having any luck?”

  She doesn't answer, instead glances furtively over at Colly. His stool creaks as he turns towards me, elbows on the bar. “So, ye fancy a little fishin' do ye?” One of his friends snickers.

  “Yes, thought I'd go out for some Whites.” I remove my smokes from my shirt pocket, light one, and lay the pack and lighter on top of the bar.

  “Then, ye'll be needin' a boat, lessen yer gonna row. And we four got the onliest ones ta be 'ad round 'ere, and they ain't cheap, yank.” The other three men guffaw in unison.

  “No, I have a boat already, and it's anchored in the bay,” I state nonchalantly, then take a drag from my cigarette.

  “Ye got that little, gray, plastic boat out there? That's yers?” the man Colly called Pauly asks me with a sneer.

  “Yes, she's mine. Why?” I lean back to look around Colly, but its Colly who answers.

  “Why? Why? 'Ell man, that little, plastic, toy boat ain't gonna stand-up ta the waves 'ereabouts. Ye'll be a swimmin' in yer first time out, ye will.” The four morons break out in loud laughter, slapping Colly on the back for his witticism. One of our four escorts jumps up and sprints out.

  “Mr. Dewhurst, your boat is only two feet longer than mine, so my boats not really that little is it?” I ask him snidely. Yes, I'm baiting him. So what?

  “Yank, them sides on yer little boat's only two feet 'igh. Mine's two, and Pauly's is two and a half, and we always get waves a rollin' over our sides. 'Ow ye gonna keep from bein' swamped out there, yank? Ye ain't, man.” Colly punctuates his declaration with a thump of his meaty fist on the bar.

  Our escort that sprinted out now comes rushing back in and up to Relman. Between gulps of air, he begins loudly whispering, “Yeah, about twenty foot and glass, silver/gray. Says 'Gray Ghost' on the side, and carries what looks like a state registration, Maine maybe, but no boat trailer anywhere.” Puffing, forehead shiny with sweat, he sits and takes a long drink from his glass.

  Relman looks ill as he glances up at me with beseeching eyes, “Sir?”

  Looking back at him in the mirror, I tell him, “Yes, Relman, the boat's mine, and the state's Minnesota, not Maine. She has a two-hundred-horse engine and can top out at ninety.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. Relman knows we didn't bring the boat. He's remembering his briefing with Dobie and Dr. Tober. They're here to report if anything like this happens to Dobie. But, to call in and tell the boss of MI6 that some guy materialized a Goddamn boat out of thin air? Dobie might send me back to Libya. I've had enough of that place while on assignment there the past six months.

  I turn around on my barstool. He's nervously fingering his tie, dreading giving his report to Dobie. “Relman, go ahead and call him,” I assure him. “He'll believe you, don't worry about that.”

  The club's quiet for a few minutes, and as I nurse my drink, from down the bar, one of Colly's friends says mockingly, “Ell, if'n he can stay afloat, he may even get a few little bitty ones.” They yuck it up at that remark.

  From what I see in Colly's mind, I know he's nervous about me and the four guys in suits being here. He knows we have to be connected with the government to be staying here, but one's a bloody yank. It makes no sense. He never pays any attention to the news, and never watches the telly, although his old woman sure watches the hell out of it. And his reading is so poor, newspapers are out of the question. The radio he listens to is the one on his boat, and that's for weather and shortwave only. The only news he hears is right here from his mates, or the few calls he receives from his brother, or his old woman receives from her sister. But damn whether I'll let a yank, or a few government lackeys bother me. By God, I live here, and I'm the boss around here. Just ask anyone. Now, how, does the yank know my name?

  Each time I touch this guy's mind, I come away feeling drained, like I've been shifting around in a bin of coal dust. I didn't touch his brother's mind, and I'm glad I listened to that little voice. Where the hell is it now?

  Pauly leans back and says to me, “If'n ye can keep 'er afloat long enough ta get there, ye'd be headin' fer the South shore, runnin' where it's about fifty foot, and trollin' fast. If'n ye want Whites, mister.” He takes a long pull on his mug.

  I flick the ash off the tip of my smoke. “If I did that Pauly, all I'd catch are Gar Pike. I want Whites, and they feed shallow and slow.”

  “'Ey, Colly,” Pauly says in surprise, “he ain't no beginner. He may even get a few.”

  Colly stares straight ahead as he speaks, “Yank, ye ain't gonna get nothin' with all yer fancy boat and fancy gear, cause we ain't got no fancy fish 'ere.” That remark must've been considered humorous to them, they crack up.

  Here I go again, I think, shaking my head, getting angry over nothing.

  “Mister, I'll make you a bet on that,” I challenge, tapping my fingers on my glass.

  He beams a broad, yellow, gap-toothed smile as he yells at Alyce. “Girl, get the slate, we got us a sucker 'ere.” She reaches under the bar, producing a chalkboard and piece of chalk, lying it in front of him. “Yank, 'ow much ye a wantin' ta lose?” he asks, licking his lips in anticipation.

  I glance over at Relman, who seems to have finally accepted the unexplained appearance of the boat. But he's still on high alert, waiting for any fast moves, or wrong words spoken.

  Lighting a fresh cigarette, I blow out a long stream of smoke. Meeting Colly's eyes in the mirror, I say, “Mr. Dewhurst, I'll wager you that within seventy-two hours, from six in the morning, that I can break your cousin's record for a White, and I'll back it up with five hundred pounds.”

  The silence is profound. I can hear the ice tinkling in my glass as I swirl it around on top of the bar, and the humming of a cooler as the compressor unit kicks on.

  The three stooges start talking over each other. “Five hundret pounds, me God, Colly, that's more'n we make in a bloomin' month, easy.”

  As he returns my stare, he says, “Ye 'eard girl, put it down, and I'll cover the bet meself.”

  “Father”, she implores, “Mother will kill you if you lose.”

  In shock, I glance from Alyce to Colly. Colly is her dad? Poor girl.

  “'Ey now, I'll be wantin' a part of that meself 'ere, Colly.” Pauly leans over and scribbles on the slate.

  “Men, I'll cover any wager you make, and I'll leave my money in Mr. Grimes' safe before I go out tomorrow morning, so go ahead.” I wave for another round, but Relman steps up to the bar with the money to pay for the round.

  Loudly muttering among themselves, Colly and his mates debate over how much money they ca
n take from the bloody yankee. The betting goes on, everyone betting against me, except our four babysitters. They make side wagers on me with the other men.

  Alyce is on the phone with Mr. Grimes who states he wants in on the betting too. He strolls in and sits by me. “Sir, do you mind whether I take part?”

  “Not at all.” I sip my drink, light another smoke, and silently watch as the wagers are marked on the slate.

  With Grimes, again on the phone, and the men already in the club, before the betting's done, the wager is four thousand pounds.

  “Uh, sir, you can cover this amount I trust?” Grimes asks nervously.

  “Certainly, sir.” I lay out a large wad of bills, as Colly's eyes bug out.

  Grimes counts out what's needed, assuring me my money will stay in the Lodge safe until the seventy-two hours are up. As he leaves, he passes Ruth at the doors, holding a big mug of steaming tea. She glides over and sits by me, then pats my leg.

  “Mrs. Grimes gave me the tea. She also told me about you making bets. Is that wise? I mean, well you know.” She arches her eyebrow at me.

  Sure I know. I'll cheat like hell.

  “Oho, so even yer woman thinks yer a bit daft,” Colly says with a snide chuckle.

  I talk telepathically to Ruth, *Meet Colly Dewhurst, kid. Godzilla's brother. Really.*

  She looks at me, then Colly, then up at the ceiling, and sighs what sounds like, “Oh God”. She hasn't noticed Relman, or his men, and I'm about to tell her, when a loud voice bellows from the doorway, echoes bouncing around the pub.

  “Colly Dewhurst, ye up ta yer tricks agin?”

  My eardrums flinch in pain at the high, grating noise that sounds like metal rubbing against metal. As I turn towards the doorway to see what's making the racket, I notice Colly and his mates slouched low on their barstools, staring into their mugs. That spine-tingling voice came from a stout woman, who looks as if she could be forty or seventy.