by Paul Hindman
Rat whispered, “What kind of a princess lives in a basement?”
“Easy, kid,” I said softly. “Don’t forget, it wasn’t too long ago that you lived in a basement. And you might be a king.”
On a rickety end table stood two framed snapshots, one of Prince Balto holding the baby Lily. The other one was of a gorgeous, regal woman in flowing robes.
She had a sparkle in her eyes to outshine starlight.
“That’s my mom,” Lily said behind us.
She took the frame and pointed to a ring on her mother’s thumb. “See this?”
She replaced the pic on the table.
Reaching to her neck, she said, “This is the only thing I have of hers.”
She pulled a silver chain from behind her shirt.
Dangling from the chain was a swanky gold ring.
The one worn by Lily’s mom.
Even Rat came closer to see it.
“Whoa,” he said.
The ring was golden. But, deep in the gold, encircling the ring, slithered a finely etched silver dragon.
The dragon’s eyes sparkled brilliantly—two flawless diamonds.
“That’s swell, all right,” I said. “Fit for a princess.”
Lily sighed and returned the ring inside her shirt, then said, “Let’s go.”
She led us down a maze of hallways into a huge library.
Inside, we found an old man in an old black robe, scribbling away with a quill ink pen.
He didn’t seem much younger than 120 years old.
White hair spouted like foamy fountains out each side of his otherwise bald head.
On closer inspection, I noticed his white hair actually grew out his ears.
His face was lined all over, like fine print on newspaper.
Smack on this guy’s cheek was a gigantic wart.
The old guy looked up from his work and smiled.
“Lily!”
“Hi, Lord Feathergrimm,” said Lily. She turned to Rat and me. “He’s the head librarian. He knows everything.”
Lord Feathergrimm put down his quill, slapping dandruff and dust off his wrinkled robes.
Lily introduced us.
“And how’s your father?” the librarian asked.
Lily looked down and shook her head.
I patted her shoulder then said, “Well, Lord Feathergrimm, we’re here to get the skinny on the ghost.”
“The ‘skinny’?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “The scoop.”
“He needs more facts,” said Lily.
Lord Feathergrimm sat down, picked up his quill, and tapped his nose. “I’m quite unable to make sense of anything.”
I said, “The ghost moans about magic. Who would haunt Merlin’s Institute, looking for his magic?”
Rat said, “Don’t forget, last night the ghost was yelling about ‘the Sword’, too.”
“So the ghost wants Excalibur!” said Lily.
I asked, “Any chance King Arthur’s the ghost?”
Feathergrimm, startled, knocked over his inkwell, spilling puddles of blue ink over everything.
“Never!” the librarian stated, dabbing at the ink puddles with a handkerchief. “Arthur was a good man. Even if his spirit were haunting the Institute, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. His dream was to protect others. ‘Might for right, instead of might makes right.’”
“Huh?” Rat asked.
Lily explained, “It means the strong have to help the weak.”
Lord Feathergrimm dabbed his forehead with his ink-stained handkerchief. “Before Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone and became king, it was a dark and terrible time in Britain. Brutal knights roamed the land, taking what they wanted, doing as they pleased.
“Arthur changed all that. He got the knights to behave themselves and help folk in trouble.”
Lily added, dreamily, “And the greatest Knights of the Round Table became heroes: Sir Galahad, Sir Gawain, Sir Percival.”
Feathergrimm again dabbed his face with his inky hanky, unaware of the mess he made.
He continued, “At its peak, Camelot was a glorious realm of peace and plenty.”
I said, “But Arthur and Merlin had enemies, right?”
“Of course. There were terrible villains,” the librarian stated. “The Queen of Air and Darkness, called Morgan Le Fay. And Mordred...”
“Arthur’s only child,” Lily said softly.
“The Black Prince,” Feathergrimm said. “Mordred destroyed the Round Table. Then he and Arthur killed each other. The Final Battle. Camelot fell, and the Dark Age returned.”
Rat exclaimed, “How come King Arthur didn’t totally mow everybody down in one blow, if Excalibur is supposed to be this mega-super-powerful weapon?”
“I believe,” Lord Feathergrimm stated softly, “the king hesitated to use the Sword in that way. Especially against his own son.”
Feathergrimm sighed. He absentmindedly dabbed the spilled ink puddles on the desk, then dabbed his cheeks and neck.
“Dude,” Rat whispered. “Shouldn’t we tell him he looks like a blueberry with a wart?”
“Shh,” I said, then to Feathergrimm, “Fill us in on Merlin coming to New Yolk, Excalibur, and all.”
“Well,” Lord Feathergrimm began, “you know that Merlin lived in the age of Arthur, over one thousand years ago. He was young Arthur’s tutor and led him to the drawing of the Sword Excalibur.”
Feathergrimm said, his blue face dripping, “Just before Camelot fell, Morgan Le Fay defeated Merlin in a wizard’s duel, then trapped him in a crystal cave.”
Lily slowly stated, “It’s so sad. Merlin couldn’t help King Arthur. Arthur was killed, and Excalibur disappeared.”
Feathergrimm perked up. “Then, incredibly, the Sword Excalibur appeared on the shores of New Yolk, this little island (remember, Britain, too, is an island). Ten years ago.
“When the Sword appeared, Morgan’s spell was miraculously broken, and Merlin was released from the crystal cave.
“Learning that the Sword Excalibur was in New Yolk, he jumped the first cosmic whirlwind and swirled across the Atlantic, his entire Celtic castle in tow, and plopped it right here on 5th Avenue.”
I asked, “And the Sword means Arthur is back?”
“That was the prophecy, that Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, would return, when the world needs him most desperately.”
Lord Feathergrimm took his ink-drenched hanky and wrung drops back into the inkwell.
I said, “Merlin told us that Rat here is probably the new King Arthur.”
Feathergrimm knocked the inkwell over. “Have you drawn Excalibur?” he asked Rat.
Rat blushed. He looked grimly down at his feet and mumbled, “Don’t ask.”
I caught Feathergrimm’s eye and motioned ‘Zip it.’
Feathergrimm fingered a stack of wrinkled old ink-stained books. He flipped their inky pages and said, “I shall keep searching for the ‘skinny scoop.’”
Wishing Lord Feathergrimm luck, I held the library door open for Rat and Lily.
Out in the hallway, Merlin blocked our way.
“Time for class,” he stated, grabbing Rat’s collar.
“So, Mr. Merlin,” Rat said, squirming, “what about this Morgan Le Fay dame? She still around? And what about that Mordred guy?”
Merlin froze.
Rat said, “Like, maybe he’s the ghost that isn’t haunting your castle.”
The Magician shook Rat like a rat. “What’s that?” Merlin screeched. “‘Mordred,’ you say? Mordred was a misunderstood hero.”
Lily gasped. “But—” she said.
“You should learn more about him,” Merlin continued, glaring at Rat. “Your next lesson shall be history.”
I said, “But, I thought Mordred was a slimy snake-in-the-grass.”
Merlin glared at me. “What does a janitor know about great men of history? Get to work!”
The old dust-bag had just the job in mind: scraping boogers an
d chewing gum from under desktops the rest of the afternoon.
Ah, detective work.
Chapter 10
Another Ghost?
Again, we waited until dark to look for the ghost.
Lily tagged along, and we stalked through the hallways and cavernous rooms of the ancient joint called Merlin’s Institute.
Rat whispered, “Check out this door.”
It was shiny bronze, ornately carved, mysterious in the red glow of the hall torches.
“Go in,” Lily stated behind me. “Go on.”
Rat opened the heavy door and we walked through.
“Dude,” Rat gasped. “What the...?”
We stood outdoors, in full daylight, on a lakeshore at the foot of gargantuan granite mountains towering above.
A blue lake rippled in the golden sun.
On a stone floor facing the shore was...
A throne. A table. Banners hanging from stone walls. Shields, swords, and lances.
Lily walked through the display as if in a dream, whispering, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod...”
She reached out, brushing the table reverently with her fingers. “This is Arthur’s Round Table.”
Then there was a shimmering above the table. The glow grew and came into focus.
A wavy, misty guy floated just above us.
The guy wheezed, like a rusty Model T coughing to life.
Rat exclaimed, “Dude, how many ghosts do you have in this place?”
This was nothing like the terrifying Ghost Knight.
This was a shimmering weak old man.
The phantom’s hair looked like it was hacked off by a push-mower.
His chin was covered with ragged, uneven stubble.
The ghost wore dirty, older than old-fashioned underwear.
Then the ghost spoke. “Wart?” A wheezy whisper. “Wart? Is it you?”
The three of us couldn’t speak.
“Wart. Help me.”
Rat snapped out of it.
“The name is Rat!” he barked and raised the wand.
The ghost faded away.
We stood there a moment, looking at each other with very puzzled ‘hmmm???’ expressions.
Rat said, “Who do you figure that was?”
“Dunno,” I replied, “and I’m not sure we’re gonna learn anything soon. We should search for the other ghost.”
We returned to the grim torch-lit halls of the Institute. We gave it another two hours but turned up a total bunch of nothing.
Rat and Lily looked a little droopy, so we called it a night. We dropped Lily at the infirmary, to be near her dad. Rat and I headed for the basement.
“I can’t take it in the dorm,” Rat said. “Those princes are a bunch of whiners. Plus, Snotswarth keeps giving me the evil eyeball.”
There was a loud CLUNK down the hall.
Then a fierce mechanical whisper, “Careful, knucklehead!”
I perked at that and whispered, “Is it the ghost?”
We crept forward and peeked around the corner.
Two brawny armored guards lugged a big crate, squeaking along the floor.
We crept quietly after them.
They entered a large storeroom.
Rat and I peeked in and saw some of Merlin’s armored guards wrestling crates with crowbars.
One of them boomed out in a robotic voice, “Why’s da boss so hot on gatherin’ dese particular items?”
“I tole ya,” another boom-boxed back. “We’re gonna need all the serious armory we can get, for what’s comin’.”
“Yo,” a guard squeaked, “check dis one out.”
The goon in armor yanked an enormous two-handed axe out of a crate. The axe shined with some kind of weird energy.
Hot tamale! I pulled out my notebook to get some pics.
The guard swung the axe around. A jet of fire surged off the blade, blasting the plume of another guard’s helmet in flames.
“Oops,” the flame-thrower gulped and quickly tossed the axe on the stack.
The guard with the smoking plume-ash buzzed, “Why, I oughta,” and clanged menacingly toward the flame-throwing goon.
A guard growled, “Break it up. Dis ain’t no pillow fight. Da Boss said no messin’ wid dis stuff.”
“Yeah,” the squeaky guy squawked, “we gotta be ready when the kid pulls the Sword.”
“So,” one of the guards grunted as he lifted a huge crate onto another, “why can’t the kid pull the Sword?”
“Dunno,” robot-voice buzzed, “but I tink sump’n’s wrong wid ’im. Moronical or sump’n.”
Rat sputtered and raised the wand.
I grabbed his arm.
Rat grumbled, “But that moron called me a moron.”
“Drop it.”
As we crept away, I muttered, “What’s with all the scary weapons? I gotta bad feeling in the pit of my yolk. Can’t say I like it.”
Chapter 11
Pass de Dukes
Next morning, we stood in the hallway, just outside Lily’s basement apartment. I jammed my head in the janitor’s closet, trying to look busy. Somehow knowing what (or who) was coming next.
“Ah, Arthur, there you are.” Merlin appeared suddenly around the corner.
“The name’s Rat,” said Rat.
”Whatever you say,” Merlin said. “You’re the king.
“I’ve decided,” the old wizard said, “that what you need, Arthur, are better manners and a bit of culture.
“When you act more like a real prince, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble drawing the Sword. Come along.”
He glared at me and snapped, “Get to work!”
Firmly gripping Rat’s shoulder, he marched off.
Lily and I followed quietly.
I hoped Rat didn’t bite the old geezer. But, then again, I sorta hoped he would.
Merlin’s “bit of culture” turned out to be dance class.
I went to work polishing the wall-sized mirrors in the back of the class. My excuse to hang around.
Rat looked at his dance outfit and whispered harshly, “You gotta be kiddin’ me!”
Lily wore an old patched leotard and tutu.
The instructor wore a pink tutu around his broad and massive waist; dance tights of blinding purple; the cutest, most delicate pink slippers; and a gigantic armored knight’s helmet!
“Po-sis-shun, uh...”
Another goon with a mechanical voice.
He pulled a book from his waistband. He opened it to a page: “Exercise 23: Pas De Deux.”
He boomed, “ ...‘PASS De DUKES.’”
His voice again boomed, “‘Da Dukes.’ Is dat like, uh, ‘Put up yer Dukes?’” He chortled.
Another voice I could almost recognize, but couldn’t, electronic as it was.
‘Who are these guys?’ I thought, yanking out my notebook, and pressing ‘RECORD’ all in one move.
The gorilla in tights punched his elbow against a button on the wall.
Music blared out of large speakers, and the gorilla bounded around the dance floor, his helmet’s visor clunking.
The instructor bounced over to Rat and yelled, “Dance, ya brat!”
Rat glared at the instructor, then glared at me.
Then Rat danced a couple of crazy, awkward moves—and crashed right into the instructor!
The top-heavy teacher toppled like a sack, and his helmet popped off!
It was Knock-Out Louie!
The gangster.
Of the Potty Mouth Gang!
In a leotard?!
All of a sudden, like iron dominoes, every suit of armor I’d seen, or heard, in the joint fell into place.
Toothless Moe.
Lunky Larry.
One-Eyed Curly.
The Potty Mouth Gang.
“Royal” Flush’s outfit.
“Oi!” Knock-Out Louie yelped, and I recognized Louie’s regular, talking-gorilla Bonx voice.
The helmet lay at my feet.
I picked it up a
nd put it on. “Hey, Bub,” I squawked in an electronic buzz. “How ya doin’?”
I tossed the helmet to Louie. “Catch.”
This was big.
Maybe too big.
Maybe it was time to visit a certain cop.
The one cop tough enough to take out the Potty Mouth gang (and maybe grab Boss Flush), once and for all.
Chapter 12
No Flushing Flush
“But, Lieutenant,” I exploded, waving my notepad crammed with evidence in the air, “we can FLUSH ‘Royal’ Flush! You have to!”
Lieutenant Rosebriar snorted and huffed, his razor-sharp rhino horn dangerously zagging two inches from my face.
He snuffed, “‘I have to,’ ‘I need to,’ ‘I got to!’ This is all I get from the Police Commissioner. The Press!
“What I GOT to do,” Rosebriar bellowed, “is NOT mess with Boss Flush until I have an AIR-TIGHT case. No ‘Ifs, Ands, or BUTT-OWSKIs,’ Dumpty. We still don’t even know who Flush is.”
“But,” I persisted, “I think ‘Royal’ Flush is putting the squeeze on Merlin. Some kind of blackmail.
“Either Merlin coughs up, or The Armored Potty Mouth Tin-Can Goon Squad will personally squish him back to the Dark Ages!!
“Lieutenant, it fits. Merlin’s students are loaded. Most of ’em royalty.”
Rosebriar sat on the edge of his desk. I heard its familiar metallic groan and wondered how much longer it would hold up.
“So, you’re telling me,” said Rosebriar, “that one of the greatest wizards in history can’t protect himself from a few muscle-bound dopes? It doesn’t add up.”
“I got a feeling,” I started, but Rosebriar cut me off.
“Leave your feelings at the door, Dumpty.”
“You’re right, but it seems like the students are under lock and key. At the Institute.”
Rosebriar grunted. “Got a ransom note? Anyone file charges?”
“No, but listen.” I hit the notebook’s ‘PLAY’ button.
A gargling buzz: “Dat’s right! De udder way!”
Rosebriar snorted.
“Wait, that’s the wrong part!” I scrambled for another file. “What about this?”