The Once and Future Camelot

by Felicity Pulman

  The bulletin had already started. “After a daring bank robbery that went wrong when the getaway car failed to start, the thieves were captured by police and are now under guard and awaiting trial.” The picture shifted to a view of a starry sky as the news continued. “NASA reports that a recently discovered asteroid belt located in deep space appears to be moving towards our solar system, but based on the latest data scientists predict that it won’t pose any threat to our planet. The Prime Minister said today …” The newsreader paused to look at a message that had just been handed to him. His face was grave as he faced the camera once more.

  “We bring you some breaking news. There has been an attempted strike on the Houses of Parliament where Members have been attending a late-night sitting. A plane thought to be on a collision course with these historic buildings was intercepted just a few minutes ago and has been shot down on the outskirts of London. It is too early to know how many casualties there are, but rescue teams are on their way, and we will bring you reports as they come in.”

  As the newsreader spoke, the picture on the screen moved from the studio to the site where the darkness was illuminated by the fiery wreck of the plane and the burning buildings around it, and for a few harrowing moments viewers heard the screams and sobbing of witnesses nearby. The sound was cut out as, unseen, the newsreader continued his report, while the scenes of destruction continued to play out in front of them.

  “Although no one has yet claimed responsibility, we believe that this is another strike by members of the Brotherhood of Islam. Security services in London are now on high alert in the belief that the suicide pilot was not acting alone, and that other attempts may be made to destroy these historic buildings which house our government and which represent all that we in the West stand for. The Houses of Parliament are now in lockdown, and security is also being increased throughout Britain in case other suicide strikes are planned.”

  “The river of fire,” Morgan whispered, mesmerized by the tragedy unfolding in front of her. Was Arthur involved in the lockdown? Was he safe? She was gripped with the fear that, after all, she might be too late. Scenes from her childhood filled her mind: Arthur learning to walk, while she held his hand and walked with him until, finally, he had the courage to walk on his own. Reading him stories, tickling his tummy to make him laugh. Playing with the puppy he’d been given for his birthday, while showing him how to be gentle with it while it was still so small, and how to look after it properly. She’d been fond of Arthur then, she remembered. Fond of him until she’d become conscious of who his father really was. The poison of that knowledge had put an end to her protective love and care for him and she’d blocked him out of her life thereafter. She felt a great sadness as she finally acknowledged the truth.

  Her attention was drawn to the screen as a sudden silence showed the newsreader perusing a new message that had been placed before him. With a grave face he turned to the camera once more. “It would seem that the attempted strike on the Houses of Parliament is part of a concerted range of terrorist attacks across Europe. Reports are coming in of multiple bombings and hostage situations across Spain, Italy, France and Germany. The USA is also under siege. We will continue with updates through the night as more news becomes available.”

  “Why don’t you go and see your brother?” Merlin suggested, as he stood up to switch off the television. “It might be better to talk to him face to face instead of on the phone.”

  Morgan wondered if he’d been reading her thoughts again. “Maybe,” she said. “He wasn’t such a bad kid really. But perhaps he’s meant to come to me here? Perhaps I’m meant to show him what I’ve been seeing in the pool?”

  “That makes sense,” Elspeth said. “I mean, you know what the story says, don’t you? Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam, rexque futurus, translates as: ‘Here lies Arthur, the once and future king.’ Some people still believe that he lies sleeping in the Isle of Avalon – or Glastonbury Tor as it might be – and that one day he will come again to save Britain in her hour of need. Or the world for that matter,” she finished thoughtfully.

  “You think that refers to Arthur, my brother?” Morgan’s tone was incredulous. “That’s ridiculous! It’s a legend, for God’s sake.”

  “You’ve just proved to us that it isn’t,” Merlin pointed out quietly. “There was an Arthur and Morgana before; there’s an Arthur and a Morgan now.”

  His words sent shivers of fear down Morgan’s back. “Is that what this is all about?” she whispered. “Saving London from the river of fire before it can happen?”

  “Maybe. But now I’m wondering if you should hold off contacting Arthur until we’ve found this secret passage through the garden, if it’s so important. Then you can show it to him when he comes,” Merlin suggested. “I’ve been looking through the grimoire and I did come across something that might serve our purpose. Of course, I wasn’t looking for just this sort of thing at the time, but here – see what you think.” He reached into the drawer once more and pulled out the book. He thumbed through the sheets of parchment until he’d found what he was looking for, then laid the book down in front of Morgan and Elspeth, with its written translation beside it.

  Morgan leaned over to have a look. “It says it’s a spell to make something unseen,” she said doubtfully. “And for it to work, you need to cast spells under a full moon, using wands of ash, oak and hazel.”

  “I have all of those in the shop,” Merlin said.

  Morgan kept on reading. “You must hold in your hand something of oak, and a crystal of amethyst, and recite a special incantation. Does this apply to a secret path too?”

  Merlin shrugged and Morgan looked down at the page once more. “We have everything we need, so long as we can find the incantations,” she said, trying to stifle her reservations about the path on which she’d embarked.

  “They’re here.” Merlin leaned over her and turned the page. “See.” He touched the place with his finger. “It’s not eyes of newt or toes of bat, or whatever the witches of Macbeth were on about. I reckon it might be a matter of going there with the three wands at the next full moon, and saying these three incantations in turn. I don’t know which incantation goes with which wand yet, but there might be some clues in the wording of each incantation. I haven’t studied them carefully enough to tell. But the big problem is: where is this secret passage to be located?”

  Morgan thought about it. “There’s one area that’s been something of a puzzle to me,” she admitted, as she jumped up to fetch her briefcase. “Look.” She extracted a photocopied plan of the garden and smoothed it out. “You’ll note that all the segments in the wheel of the garden are carefully laid out and are very functional. But there’s this sort of wilderness just here.”

  She drew her finger over the depiction of a bushy tangle to one side of the entrance to the garden.

  “It’s not terribly clear why these bushes are here. I assumed that they were blackberry brambles for the sisters to pick some refreshing fruits on their way into the garden – although fruiting bushes and canes and vines do have their own segment within the garden. But there are some brambles already there in my garden as well, and I’ve left them undisturbed so far. Now I’m wondering if they’re actually the secret way, but disguised?”

  “You’d get scratched to pieces if you tried to go through those,” Elspeth objected.

  “Yes, you would. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe there’s some way you can pass through the bushes if you know the right incantation, while putting off anyone who’s not meant to be there?”

  “I think you’re right!” Merlin’s beaming smile reflected the excitement of all of them. “All we have to do now is wait for the next full moon.”

  “The garden isn’t anything like ready yet,” Morgan said doubtfully. “But I’m afraid if we wait, we might be too late.” She gave a sudden, violent shiver. “A goose just walked over my grave,” she said, attempting a smile.

  “Never mind graves, it’s t
he living we’re concerned about.” Elspeth laid a hand on Morgan’s arm. “We’ll have to wait almost two weeks for the next full moon, but in the meantime can I suggest you make peace with your brother, and maybe talk things over with him?”

  Morgan took a few moments to think about it. “It might be best if I go to London rather than contact him out of the blue,” she said slowly. “If he laughs at me, if he won’t believe what I’m saying, then that’s the end of it. I’m not doing anything else about any of it, no matter what Marie, or Morgana, have to say to me. But if he listens, I’ll ask him to come to Glastonbury. I’ll show him the pool. Maybe he’ll also experience what I’ve been seeing; that should help to convince him. And if the secret way through the garden is ready by then, I’ll show him that too.” She paused. “I don’t know anything about his life, or where he lives, or even which area he represents, but I suspect he might get out of London for the weekend. As you know, the stately home is in Cornwall – so he may even go back there.” She wrinkled her nose up at the thought. “Parliament’s sitting at present, so I think it best if I go to London during the week and meet him there, on neutral ground, so to speak.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, I think that’ll be best. I’ll take a day or two off, and I’ll leave tomorrow – before I chicken out.”

  “Unless the place is still in lockdown?” Merlin said.

  “Unless it’s still in lockdown,” Morgan agreed.

  *

  Although she took a newspaper and some work to do on the train, Morgan found it hard to concentrate. The headlines and accompanying photographs of multiple terrorist attacks across the world, including the carnage caused by the downed plane in outer London made her feel sick to her stomach. In the face of this unfolding catastrophe, recreating a medieval garden seemed like a completely futile pursuit. She leaned back and closed her eyes. The clickety-click of the wheels on the line was hypnotic: should I, shouldn’t I, should I, shouldn’t I? The question ran in time to the rhythm, a question with no answer in the cold light of day. Without a glass of red to buoy her spirits, what she was doing seemed like insanity. Whatever Arthur might have thought of her before, once she spoke to him he’d surely be convinced he had a loony for a sister. Should I, shouldn’t I? Should I, shouldn’t I?

  I should, she thought, for possibly the hundredth time. After what I’ve seen, I can’t sit back and do nothing. But if Arthur won’t believe me, then so be it. Perhaps he won’t come again to save Britain in her hour of need after all!

  The thought gave her an odd feeling, but helped to stiffen her determination. Nevertheless her courage was low when, at the end of the journey, she presented herself at one of the gates.

  “Are you here for a tour? Because they only run on a Saturday while Parliament is sitting, and you have to book in advance.”

  “No. I’m here to see one of the Members of Parliament. Arthur Easterbrook.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” The guard eyed her suspiciously. Morgan assumed they were all still on high alert for trouble.

  “No, I don’t,” she said. Before he could say what he was thinking, she added quickly, “But I’m from Cornwall. He’s my local member.”

  “We-ell,” he drawled the word, sounding dubious. “It’s Friday. I suppose you can go round and queue at the Cromwell Green visitor entrance to see if you can get in to watch a debate in the Commons. You may be able to contact him once you’re inside. If you’re one of his constituents, you can ask for Westminster Hall and try your luck. But he may not have time to see you if he’s not expecting you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try my luck at the Hall.”

  Unexpectedly, the guard gave a wolfish grin. “You could be lucky. There aren’t so many people here today. Reckon everyone’s been put off by the alert last night.”

  Once inside the Hall, Morgan looked around in awe. It was huge. The carved wooden buttresses supporting the roof towered high above her. The stone walls were bare, save for a magnificent stained glass window at the far end. Her surroundings made her feel very small and insignificant. For the first time she began to appreciate the hundreds of years of history behind Britain, centuries of tradition that had seen kings come and go, and queens too, while this building had stood witness to fire and plague, war at home and the effects of wars in lands across the sea. People had made laws – and broken laws – here. Was this how Arthur felt? she wondered. Was his ambition to be part of this continuum, to contribute to it and, perhaps, to serve the people as well as himself?

  Nah, she thought. She had little respect for politicians. Why should she think her brother would be any different? Nevertheless, her palms were damp and sweaty as she put in the request, and then sat down to wait for her brother.

  It was a long wait, and he was full of apologies when he finally found her. “I couldn’t get away,” he said. She wondered if he was going to embrace her, but he kept his distance as she jumped up to meet him. Her first impression was somewhat disconcerting. Even though she’d seen him on television, her strongest memory was of a gangling teenager who’d shown every sign of turning into a prick just like his father. He was taller than she’d expected, and good-looking with it. But his face was guarded and she could hear his thoughts: anger, sorrow and a deep resentment.

  “You’re still angry that I abandoned you. And upset,” she said slowly, as memories unfurled in her mind. Arthur as a toddler, following her about. And how he had cried when, on finding out who his real father was, she had turned her back on him and refused to have anything more to do with him.

  He seemed about to speak, but she hurried on with her explanation. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I … I found out something about our mother that really upset me, but I shouldn’t have punished you when it wasn’t your fault.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” He sounded more puzzled than angry.

  Morgan hesitated. “I can hear your thoughts,” she said. “I’ve always been able to hear people’s thoughts.” If this was the first step to convincing him that she had other magical powers, so be it. It was up to him to decide whether or not he believed her.

  “I remember that you always seemed to know what was troubling me and how to cheer me up when I was a child,” he said slowly. She waited for him to say more, or even laugh at her. Instead he took her arm to lead her away. “I haven’t got much time, I’m afraid,” he said. “I thought we could grab a quick coffee in the café while we talk. I’m not quite sure why you’ve made contact after all this time, but it’s good to see you – I think. Are you in trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Morgan was quiet for a moment, assessing his offer. She thought it was genuine in spite of his surprise – and curiosity.

  “Let’s just order before we talk,” Arthur suggested. “What would you like?”

  As he queued at the counter, Morgan found an empty table and sat down. “I’m not in trouble, but I do need your help. At least I think I do,” she said, when he joined her at the table, carrying a pot of tea, some mugs and a jug of milk on a tray. She busied herself pouring the tea and passing the milk and sugar to him. Now that the time had come, she realized it was impossible to find the words she needed to tell him what had been going on, and at the same time convince him that she wasn’t crazy. After all, he hadn’t seen her for years; in fact he hardly knew her. What on earth would he make of her story?

  He eyed her; she could hear his uncertainty. It made her task even harder. “Is this something that I can help you with, or does this mean you’re also ready to make peace with our mother and my father?” he asked.

  “So you know.”

  Arthur gave a little huff of amusement. “Hard not to, given the family resemblance and his efforts to claim me as his son and heir ever since I was born,” he said. “But I have to tell you, I’m somewhat estranged from both of them myself now.”

  “I don’t care if I never see them again. I don’t suppose they care either.”

  “I think you’re doing them som
ething of an injustice. You should know they made every effort to find you after you ran away. They hired a private detective to follow your trail – I think he caught up with you at our – your – grandmother’s place, just before she phoned our mother to say where you were. I can tell you there were quite a few rows about it all, before they agreed to let you stay with her.”

  “I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me,” Morgan said.

  Arthur sighed. “Maybe. But … were you so unhappy at home? What made you decide to run away?”

  Morgan took a sip of tea, giving herself time to think before answering him. Finally she said, “I hated the school I was at, and I hated my life. I thought I could find something better, but that didn’t work out. Going to live with Gran was the best thing that could have happened to me.”

  “You made the right decision. You’ve done really well.”

  Although Arthur’s admiration seemed genuine, Morgan still distrusted him. “How do you know?”

  “There’s this wonderful tool called Google. Have you heard of it?”

  Swallowing a laugh, Morgan said, “There’s an even better tool called Virtuo: ‘be there when you can’t be there.’ Have you heard of it?”

  “Lance’s company. Yes, I have. In fact we’ve been in touch ever since you ran away from home. I know he was really upset when you refused to answer his calls. Even though he finally gave up on you, he always asked after you whenever we talked. Not that I could tell him anything, of course.”

  Morgan was silent, stricken by the thought that Lance would never know that she’d acted in his best interests rather than her own.

  “What a fantastic success he’s made of his life. Best thing he ever did was go to America,” Arthur continued.

  Best thing I ever did was not to stop him, Morgan thought sadly. “I believe he’s married now,” she said, rubbing salt into her misery.