by Peter David
“Good. I’m glad you feel that way.”
Merlin snorted in contempt. “Are we going into the office? Or are you trying to figure out whether you should simply run off with your precious Gwen? Oh, don’t look so surprised, Arthur. There’s no way that woman can bugger matters that I haven’t already anticipated and—frankly—dreaded.”
“Then you’re living your life in fear, Merlin, which is a sad way to be. Pardon me if I don’t choose to do the same.”
Merlin said nothing, merely glowered, and Arthur opened the door, feeling for some reason that he had achieved a minor victory. What that victory was, he wasn’t quite sure. But it was something. He swung open the door and was slammed with a blast of noise that was like a living thing.
Phones were ringing, people shouting to each other. As he stepped into the waiting area, he saw to his shock that the entire interior of the office had been redone. The partitions between the small offices had been torn down, and now all the square footage stretched out like a small football field. Desks were sticking out in every possible direction; there were about a dozen in all. Each one had a phone, and there was a young man or woman on each phone. Arthur’s eyes widened as he recognized a girl from the crowd who had been wearing an NYU sweatshirt ... his first speaking engagement, of sorts. She was the first to glance up and see him, and she immediately put her phone down, leaped to her feet, and started applauding. Others looked around to see the source of her enthusiasm, and when Arthur was spotted, everyone else in the crammed offices immediately followed suit.
Arthur was dumbfounded, astounded, and flattered by the abrupt and spontaneous show of affection. He nodded in acknowledgment, put up his hands and said, “Thank you! Thank you all. You’re too kind, really.” He leaned down to Merlin and whispered, “Merlin, who are all these people?”
“Volunteers, mostly,” said Merlin pleasantly as he guided Arthur into his private office. “Some paid office workers. Word of you is getting around, Arthur. We’re going to have to start putting together a solid itinerary for you. Perhaps even explore a series of commercials.”
“The packaging of the candidate, Merlin?”
Buddy and Elvis bowed deeply as Arthur passed. “We saw the news thingy about you, Milord,” said Buddy. “You looked really sharp.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Arthur said briskly. “Now ... back to what you were doing.”
“We weren’t doing anything,” Elvis said.
Arthur glanced at Merlin, who shrugged, and looked back to them. “Yes,” he said encouragingly. “But you were not doing it so well.”
Buddy and Elvis smiled at one another, quite pleased to receive such a heady compliment.
Arthur and Merlin entered the office and Merlin sighed as he closed the door behind them. “I remember a time when you wouldn’t have wasted a second with such fools as those two.”
“I remember a time when you didn’t get your clothes from the youth department at Sears,” Arthur rejoindered. “Times change, Merlin.”
Arthur was in his office until eight o’clock that evening, going over plans and itineraries for the next several months. He noticed and appreciated the fact that Merlin was deliberately hanging in the background, letting him run the show without unasked-for advice. And he found his blood really pumping for the first time. The excitement was beginning to build as a plan was formulated. Arthur was fond of strategies, of form and substance. There was no time for the earlier, self-centered fears and frustrations of someone wishing that they were something they could never be.
Nevertheless he was glad when the day was over, for he had other things to do ... and other people to do them with.
THE CAB DROPPED him off in Central Park, and he made his way across, lost in thought. This night there were no interruptions from would-be muggers or helpful policemen. In the distance on one of the streets that cut through the park, Arthur heard the nostalgic sound of horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the road. By the rattle of metal he could tell that it was a horse-drawn carriage. He drew a mental picture for himself, however, seated proudly on a great mount, his sword flashing, the sunlight glinting off the shield he held and the armor he wore. It was an image to do him proud.
But it was just that—an image. A part of himself he could never recapture.
The castle loomed before him, and yet so lost in thought was he that he almost walked right into it. Everyone knew the castle in the middle of Central Park. A complex weather station was situated inside. Whenever early-rising New Yorkers’ ears were tuned to their radios, the statement that it was such-and-such degrees in Central Park came from the readings taken there, at Belvedere Castle. Yet a weather station was no longer the only thing occupying the castle.
Arthur walked slowly around the other side, looking for a certain portion of the wall that he knew he would find. And sure enough there it was, as it had been the other nights—a small cylindrical hole in the wall toward one stone corner. He withdrew Excalibur, reveling as always in the heady sound of steel being drawn from its sheath. Then he took Excalibur and, holding the hilt in one hand and letting the blade rest gently in the other, he slid the point into the hole.
With a low moan and the protest of creaking, the section of the wall swiveled back on invisible hinges. Before him was a stairway, the top of which was level with the ground in front of him, the bottom of which disappeared down into the blackness that was the castle—or at least an aspect of the castle. Arthur was never thrilled about the prospect of going somewhere he could not see, but he knew he was going to have to live with it. He entered the doorway, and the moment he set foot on the second step, the door swung noiselessly shut behind him. He was surrounded by blackness, illuminated only by the glow from Excalibur, which accompanied him like a friendly sprite. “My old friend,” he whispered.
He walked for a time, impressed as always by the total silence of the supernatural darkness. Then, several steps before the bottom, Excalibur cast its glow upon a heavy oaken door. He walked the remaining steps down to it and pushed. It yielded without protest, and he stepped into his castle.
He passed through the main entrance hall, with its suits of armor standing at attention like legions waiting for his orders. He entered his throne room and looked around in satisfaction. Everything was exactly as he’d left it, and yet he could sense, somehow hanging in the air beyond his eye but not beyond his heart, the presence of the Woman. He smiled, the mere image of Gwen in his mind’s eye enough to bring an adrenaline rush that made him feel centuries younger.
There was a painting hanging behind his throne. In it was a representation of Arthur at the Round Table. Seated around it was an assortment of knights clearly engaged in some deeply intense discussion. None of them really looked like the knights Arthur remembered—the depiction of him was recognizable only because of the larger chair. But that was all right, since the artist had doubtless created it centuries after the table and its members were part of the legends rather than living, breathing men.
“It’s very nice. I’ve been admiring it for some time now.”
Arthur turned and a grin split his face. Gwen was standing in one of the side entrances. She was wearing a simple blue tunic that hung to her knees, and gray leggings. The bruises from earlier had completely disappeared. She ran her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair and said, a bit shyly, “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself. Good to see you up and around. I admit, I was feeling just a little nervous.”
“And I was feeling a little guilty.”
“In heaven’s name, why?” He walked over to her and took each of her hands in his. It was cold in the castle, yet she felt warm.
“Because I haven’t been much of a guest. Most of the time I’ve just been sleeping and sleeping and sleeping.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because,” and she let out an unsteady sigh. “For the first time in ages, I feel ... safe.”
“Then I take your slumber as a compliment, and not any sor
t of commentary on my ability to be a host.” He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the dining room.
“I’m still having trouble ... believing this place,” she said slowly. “It’s like I’m in a dream. You live here all the time, when you’re not at the office? And ... and how ... ?”
“It’s Merlin’s doing,” Arthur told her. “He designed it to be a sort of ... home away from home. Oh, I have an apartment in the Bronx, for appearance’s sake. But this is where I prefer to spend my time.”
“Why the Bronx? Why not Manhattan?”
“A reasonably priced Manhattan apartment?” He snorted. “Some things are beyond even Merlin’s magic. Is your bed comfortable?”
“It’s unbelievably comfortable. And it’s so quiet here, but not, you know, quiet in a spooky way. Quiet in a friendly way. You can just lie back and listen to nothing, and enjoy it.”
She turned then and faced him. Arthur was amused to recall that once upon a time his Guinevere had had to almost crane her neck to look at his eyes. Now they were practically on eye-to-eye level. Arthur mused that if he disappeared into a cavern for another millennium, he would be a midget when he came out.
“Arthur, where are we?” she asked intently.
“Why, we’re right outside the dining room.” With a sweep of his arm he indicated the table, which was already set. As always there was enough food there to feed a regiment—where it came from, Arthur never knew. It was just there when he needed it. With the bounty available, sustenance for his “castle mate” had been no problem at all.
She shook her head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I once took a tour of Belvedere Castle, and I know for sure that there was nothing like this. Yet you say that we’re in that castle. I find it so hard to believe, and yet—”
“Gwen,” he said firmly. “I never lie. Not to you. Not to anyone. To lie is to diminish one’s own feeling of self-worth.”
“I know, but then ... how?”
“You saw how when I first brought you down here a week ago.”
“Yes, I saw the mechanics of it. But I didn’t understand. I mean,” she stepped away and shook her head in puzzlement, “I saw what you did with the sword, and the door swung open and the darkness. But none of it really made all that much sense or registered. I think part of me believed that I was actually dreaming.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“Why not?” she said reasonably. “After all, many of my daylight hours have been nightmares anyway. Arthur, I don’t understand how any of this works.”
“I told you. Magic.”
“But, that’s no answer. It doesn’t explain anything.”
Nodding slowly, Arthur crossed to his throne, pulling at his beard as he searched for a way to explain it to Gwen. He went up the two steps to the throne and paused there a moment. Then he said. “Gwen, how do you turn on a light?”
“What, you mean like when you enter a room?” He nodded. She looked at him suspiciously. “Is this a trick question? Like ‘How many Jewish American princesses does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“What?” he asked in utter confusion.
“No, I guess not. Uh, okay.” She leaned against the stone wall thoughtfully. “To turn on a light, you just flick the wall switch.”
“Right. And what happens?”
“The light comes on.”
“Yes, but why?” He leaned forward and regarded her with infinite patience. “Why does it come on?”
Now Gwen was confused. “Because you turned on the light switch. Arthur, if this is your idea of an explanation, it really sucks.”
“Gwen,” he said patiently, “what is it that makes the light go on when you turn on the switch?”
“Electricity, I guess. It makes the bulb come on.”
“How?”
She stamped a shapely foot in irritation. “Who cares? I’m not an electrician, for heaven’s sake. You turn the switch, and it activates some doohickey, and the doohickey feeds electricity into the what chamacallit, and the light comes on. It doesn’t matter to me so long as it works.”
“Precisely.”
“Precisely what?”
Arthur sat in his throne, looking bizarrely incongruous in his three-piece suit. “When Merlin arranged this little sanctum for me, he said it would be someplace to which I can return at night and feel that I belong, after spending a day feeling like a living anachronism. And he was right, that is how I do feel, despite my best efforts to acclimate to this odd little civilization of yours. Merlin was quite pleased when he put this together. He even tried to explain it to me—something about transdimensional bridges and relative dimensions in space and other nonsense. And I said to him about New Camelot exactly what you say to me about electric lights—who cares as long as it works?”
“But Arthur, you don’t understand!”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Odd, that’s just what Merlin said.”
“Electricity and lights—that’s all science. This is ...” She waved her hands around helplessly. “This is magic!”
“The only difference between science and magic, Gwen, is that scientists doubt everything and magicians doubt nothing. That’s why magicians get so much more done. And if scientists acknowledged that magic existed and put their considerable talents to discovering what made it tick, a great deal more could be accomplished in this world. But scientists have decided that magic does not and cannot exist, so naturally they don’t go out of their way to try and find the reasons for it.” He shook his head. “Very short sighted on their part.”
Gwen put her hand to her head and sat down in a comfortable armchair. “Arthur, you don’t seem to realize that I’m a rational human being. I don’t believe in magic. I don’t believe in things just appearing because you need them.”
“Oh no?”
“No.”
“That chair you’re sitting in? It wasn’t there a moment ago.”
She sprang from the chair as if propelled by springs. Her hands fluttered to her mouth, and her voice was a combination of surprise and hysterical laughter. “This is crazy!”
“Why?”
“Because I was always taught to be a very rational person!”
“Faugh!” Arthur said dismissively. “Rationality always gets in the way of common sense. Common sense tells you that no other explanation is possible for what you see. But when you try to rationalize the unexplainable, you run into problems.” And as she delicately tapped the arms of the chair, Arthur added in a softer voice, “Like us.”
She looked over to him and saw the way he was looking at her. She felt her cheeks color and looked down. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed.
“Arthur.” She looked up at him tentatively. “Arthur ... are you really him? I mean, the original King Arthur?”
“Yes.”
“But ... but it’s so difficult to believe.”
“Ah-ah,” and he put up a finger. “You’re rationalizing again. Didn’t I tell you how that gets in the way?”
“But if I believe what you’re saying,” she said, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, “then I would also have to accept the part about my being a reincarnation of your Queen Guin ...” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened in surprise. “You know, Arthur, my name—Gwen Queen—that sounds a lot like Queen Guinevere, doesn’t it?”
“By Jove, you’re right!” He sagged back in the throne. “Fancy that.”
They smiled at one another, and then Arthur stepped off his throne and walked slowly toward Gwen. She stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. He came very close to her, then paused and ran his hand gently across her face. She closed her eyes and sighed, and a little tremble rushed through her.
“Arthur ... we were married once, weren’t we?”
He shook his head. “No. We were married always.”
“But I hardly know you.”
“You’ve always known me,” he said softly. “We have al
ways been. We shall always be. Not time, not distance, not lifetimes can do more than momentarily interrupt the coexistence we are meant to share.”
He felt the softness of her hair, and she said, “Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“Have you really been locked in a cave for eleven hundred years?”
“Thereabouts, yes.”
She whistled. “You must be the horniest bastard on the face of the earth.”
The expression on his face did not change, but he said, “Gwen, would you mind waiting here a moment?”
“Uh ... sure.”
Arthur stepped back and went into another room. She pricked up her ears and heard the sound of pages turning. She heard him mumble “Horn ... horned ... hornet,” like someone skimming through a dictionary to find a word he did not comprehend. She stifled a desperate urge to giggle. There was a momentary pause in the page turning, and then she heard the book close. She fought to keep a straight face but felt the sides of her mouth turning up involuntarily.
Arthur came back into the room and faced her, looking deadly serious. “Gwen,” he said with great solemnity.
“Yes, Arthur?”
“You’re right.”
They both dissolved into laughter.
THEY SAT OPPOSITE each other at the dinner table, with the easy comfort in each other’s presence that it takes most couples years to achieve, if they ever do.
“I don’t know,” Gwen said, picking delicately at the drumstick she was holding in her small hands. “It’s like, my whole life, I’ve felt that ... that I don’t deserve happiness.”
“Guilt from another lifetime, perhaps?”
She moaned. “Oh, great. Other people, they get to blame it on their parents. My parents weren’t wonderful. I just figured I could pin it on them, which is sort of a grand tradition of modern man. But no, no, not me. I have to carry mistakes from a couple of centuries ago.”
“Mistake or not,” Arthur said calmly, with the air of a man who had long since resigned himself to things that once had pierced his heart, “my queen, Gwynyfar, and my best friend, Lancelot, did the only thing they could. Love is something so powerful that not even Excalibur could cleave it. My kingdom rose and fell on emotion. It could have been no other way.” In an offhand way he added, “And it was ten centuries, by the way. Not a couple.”