The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot)

by Donna Hosie

  “What could be worse than them finding out I bunked school to go support Katie at those singing auditions?” I reply with a forced laugh. “I got grounded for three months, and Katie couldn’t even sing.”

  But my attempt at humour does little to pacify my little sister. She buries her face in the nest of blankets, draws her knees up to her chest and snuggles into her red sequinned bag. Her convulsing shoulders betray her, even though she’s stifling her sobs. Eventually, more through sheer exhaustion from crying than actual tiredness, she drops off to sleep. I stroke her face which is hot and clammy. That’s not a good sign. While I have weird dreams about being trapped in caves and enclosed spaces, I always know, even in the midst of the dream, that I’m going to wake up. A sixth sense of what’s real and imaginary. But Lilly has a medical condition that means she still can’t regulate her temperature properly. If it happens during the day she has fits, but if it happens at night, when she’s asleep, she goes into a terror: full-on screaming at the top of her lungs. And even though her eyes are usually wide open, she’s unconscious throughout the whole thing.

  I take off two of the blankets to cool her down and wrap one around her feet. I claim the other for myself. Then I sit at my desk, which is pushed up against the wall under the window, and rip a sheaf of paper from my English exercise book.

  Dad said he was going to tell me everything, but he needs to know the questions I want answered first. I glance at the chrome alarm clock. It’s already Saturday morning. Mum and dad must have gone to bed because their footsteps stopped just before Lilly dozed off.

  I don’t think they found what they were looking for.

  As the red pixels on the clock approach half past two, I finally have my list of questions, and half of my English exercise book is lying in a crumpled mass of paper balls on the floor of my bedroom. Questions that seemed important in my head appear so trivial when written down. I need to be strategic. My mother is already against me knowing anything. I have to play this like a game if I’m to get any answers at all. So I settle for five questions in total. Too many and my parents will think it’s an inquisition. Too few questions and my parents will think I’m not really bothered.

  I grab another piece of paper from the book. One more missing sheet is hardly going to matter now. In a thick-nibbed red pen, I write the final questions out in my neatest script.

  Question one – I want to know everything about my birth? TELL THE TRUTH! (The caps are for my benefit and a prompt for emphasis. I learnt that in drama.)

  Question two – What is the deal with the ring? (I had originally written ‘thing with the ring’, but that just sounded dumb, like a bad rap.)

  Question three – Why does mum freak out every time Auntie Titch comes to visit? (Which she totally does. It goes beyond hating her. I think mum is actually scared of her.)

  Question four – Does anyone else hear the ghosts? TELL THE TRUTH! (This one was crossed out and put back on the list several times, hence the reason why there is a forest crying somewhere because of the amount of paper I’ve used. It’s been mine and dad’s secret for so long, but I need to know if mum can hear them too. Are we special?)

  Question five – Why can’t I go to Tenerife? (Yeah, I know it’s childish, but it’s not bloody fair.)

  I read the list several times. My writing looks like little printed letters from a keyboard because I’ve never quite mastered joined-up writing. With the sleeve of my dressing gown, I rub the condensation away from the window again, but it immediately steams up once more. Someone could be looking in the window and I wouldn’t see them.

  Two o’clock becomes three. I can’t sleep, and not just because my sister is sleeping on my bed. I have a feeling, like an internal itch that I can’t get to, that is seriously bugging me. It’s the feeling I get before tests. The sense that the unknown is about to bite me hard.

  I stand up and stretch. My spine clicks in places where I don’t think it should be clicking. My ass is so numb it’s as if it’s been frozen. The time on the clock is becoming an obsession, but I’ve passed the point of tiredness. I have a second wind and its blowing through my entire body.

  Lilly kicks off the remaining covers and throws her arms out to the side. The horrible red sequinned bag slips from her hands. It’s old and tattered, but even though she loves new things, Lilly won’t part with it.

  I pick up the bag with the intention of placing it on my desk, but the second my fingers connect with the scratchy, tiny sequins, Lilly sits upright and starts screaming.

  It’s a full-on night terror. Her mouth is stretched so wide I fear the skin around it will split. The noise coming from her throat bleeds into my ears, which vibrate painfully as I try to wake her. Sweat is pouring in a torrent down her face, which is distorted like a Halloween mask.

  Mum flies into the room first, quickly followed by my father. I am pushed back against my desk in the battle for floor space. My mother is shouting at Lilly, trying to rouse her from the terror; my dad is reminding my mother of the instructions the last hospital specialist gave them.

  But Lilly continues to scream and scream.

  The room is getting hotter and hotter. I start swaying. It’s too enclosed. I need to get to the bedroom door but there are too many bodies in the way. Black shapes start to float in front of my eyes, followed by red flame and white light that turns pale blue. It starts to pulse.

  I bend over and attempt to put my head between my knees because I’ve seen people do that in the movies. It doesn’t work. The grinning cupcakes on my pyjama bottoms start to dance. They’re laughing at me.

  “Daddy…”

  My world goes black.

  When I open my eyes, I’m finally lying on my bed. Lilly is gone and so are half of my blankets.

  “We’ve called the doctor,” whispers my mother. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “For me or Lilly?” I croak. My throat is so sore it feels like I’ve swallowed nails.

  “Both.”

  Mum continues to stroke my hair away from my face. The bare mattress feels damp. I hope that isn’t what I think it is. My mother reads my mind as my fingers feel across the bed.

  “Your sister didn’t wet the bed, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s from the damp towels your dad used to bring both of your temperatures down. You were burning up, Mila.”

  I touch my forehead. If anything it feels cold.

  “I need to ask you something, Mila,” says my mother, continuing to whisper. “And I need you to be honest with me. It’s very, very important that you don’t lie.”

  My throat makes a noise. It was supposed to be an okay, but it sounded more like urghak.

  “Did you take the ring, Mila?”

  “No,” I rasp.

  “You must tell the truth, Mila.”

  “I am.” Just saying that hurt. Was I screaming too?

  “Mila, your father and I won’t be angry with you…”

  I pull away from my mother’s arms and shuffle down the bed away from her.

  “I didn’t take the goddamn ring. I haven’t even seen it.”

  My mother opens her mouth, but is interrupted by a knock on the front door.

  “And I don’t need a doctor so you can tell him to piss off.”

  My legs are shaking like a newborn lamb’s, but I manage to stagger out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. I knock over several of my mother’s perfume bottles as I lurch from side to side, just making it to the toilet in time. The awesome spaghetti bolognaise from last night’s dinner is not so awesome when it’s hurtling back the way it went down.

  Towels litter the wooden floor of the bathroom. I know I should check on Lilly but I can’t bring myself to move. Everything aches and stabs. I’ve never lost consciousness before. My panic attacks from the claustrophobia are always physical.

  But that was no ordinary panic attack. The cause was normal: too many people in my ridiculously small bedroom, but I saw flame and that same blue light that was pulsing from th
e wardrobe and out of the skylight when Rustin and I were walking home.

  I saw flames in that smashed mirror. I’m either losing my mind - which is entirely possible and probably hereditary when I think of Nana Roth - or that ring isn’t something that should be out of a bank deposit box.

  “Mila…Mila…let me in.”

  The handle on the bathroom door jiggles up and down.

  “What do you want, Lilly? I’m kinda busy in here.”

  “Mila…please…quickly.”

  I crawl across the floor and pull back the bolt. The door is quickly opened and shut as Lilly slips into the bathroom. She’s dressed in another set of gaudy pyjamas: burnt orange with turquoise love hearts. It does nothing to settle my stomach. I swear I can see the love hearts moving of their own accord.

  And she’s still clutching that damn red handbag.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Please don’t tell mum and dad,” begs Lilly, crouching down on her knees in front of me. The look on her face is beyond terror. Her skin is the colour of grey marble and the pupils in her normally bright blue eyes have dilated so much I can barely see any colour. She’s looks half-dead.

  “Don’t tell mum and dad what?”

  Shaking, Lilly unzips the red sequinned handbag and opens it. I swear, and she bursts into tears.

  “I saw it this afternoon when it fell out of her bag. I just wanted to try it on,” sobs Lilly. “But I heard her coming up the stairs before I could put it on my finger. I got scared. I was going to put it back in the wardrobe, I promise.”

  My fingers reach out and pull a huge blue stone ring from the handbag. It feels wet, but when I check my skin, there’s no damp residue. It’s bone dry. Too dry. Already my fingers have started to crinkle up like Grandma Scholes’ hands. The ring is sucking the moisture out of my skin. I drop it onto the bathroom mat and bend over for a closer look.

  The ring has a gold band. Not as thick as my father’s wedding ring, but thicker than the piece of diamond jewellery he bought our mother for their tenth wedding anniversary. It has no hallmark stamped inside the band, but something tells me that’s because of the age of the ring, not the quality. The gold is deep in colour, more orange than yellow, and the clasps that hold the blue stone are intricate. They look like claws. Talons.

  The blue stone is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s easily the size of a tealight candle, only oval in shape, not round. I brush my finger over the face of it and again it feels wet. I tap it. The surface is hard, but whatever is inside the stone is not because it’s moving in wispy shadows. I blow on it, and the stone immediately turns darker with a cobalt shading. Then it pales, from cobalt to cornflower to powder blue.

  “We have to put it back in the wardrobe, Mila.”

  Before I can reply, three sharp raps on the door make us both jump. The sound of tinkling chimes resonates through the bathroom.

  “Mila, Lilly, what are you doing?” asks our father from the other side of the door.

  Lilly has grabbed a towel and has stuffed it into her mouth. She’s so scared she can’t trust herself not to cry out.

  I put my fingers to my lips and sign to her to be quiet.

  “It’s okay, dad. I was being sick and Lilly just came in to check I was alright.”

  But now I see why Lilly is so terrified. The second my father started to speak, the ring started to pulse again with blue light.

  “What the…” I swear the last word in my head. I try not to swear too much in front of my little sister.

  Instinctively, I place towels up against the gap under the door to block out any light that may be visible to those on the other side. Lilly is backing away, but she knows she can’t open the door because then dad will see we have the ring.

  I’ll take it, I mouth to Lilly. You go.

  Lilly runs forward, throws her skinny arms around my neck and buries her head in my shoulder.

  “Get rid of it,” she whispers. “It’s scary.”

  “It’s a trick ring,” I whisper back. “Nothing to worry about.”

  But Lilly is frantic again. Another two voices have joined my father’s outside. A deep gruff voice that sounds like Santa, and a female voice that is a mixture of different accents.

  “The ring spoke to me, Mila,” whispers Lilly.

  “Mila…Lilly…is everything okay in there?”

  My sister and I swap looks. I don’t know whether to be relieved that mum and dad are now going to be distracted, albeit for different reasons, or terrified because now the number of adults searching for this ring has just doubled.

  I stuff it into the pocket of my robe. The pulsing has stopped. In fact, the ring has gone so pale the blue is almost white. After splashing cold water on my face, I unlock the door and push Lilly out ahead of me.

  “Well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”

  And I could say exactly the same thing about Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed, who are both standing there, staring at me as if they know exactly what’s just happened in the bathroom.

  Chapter Six

  Ghost Stories

  Auntie Titch is my dad’s sister. Like most aunts, she’s cool, but in her own weird way. She’s not the kind of aunt that will take you out for the day, get you high on candy, and then pass you back to your mother to nurse your sugar rush and the inevitable puking that comes with it. No. Auntie Titch is more…practical. She’s shown me how to fillet a raw fish (totally gross); she’s shown me which leaves in the forest are the most absorbent if you need to go to the toilet outside (even grosser); and I’ll never forget the time we all went to the local swimming baths with Lilly and her friend. My sister forgot her towel and thought the ‘towels’ in the vending machines were for drying yourself. While my mother’s friend, Ruth, wet herself laughing as the pad came apart all over Lilly and Josie’s faces, it was Auntie Titch who explained periods to Lilly. She then went on to describe to me how to make a temporary sanitary towel from moss and strips of cotton (way way way beyond gross), but as Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed spend a lot of time travelling and camping, I guess that kind of thing does come in useful.

  And judging by how bedraggled they both look now, I’d say Auntie Titch and Uncle Bed have been sleeping rough for weeks.

  “No hug?” asks Auntie Titch quietly. She puts her arms out and Lilly throws herself into them. Auntie Titch kisses Lilly’s head and then looks at me.

  “Arthur said you had a fit, Mila? How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. And I don’t need a doctor because it wasn’t a fit. I just felt dizzy. It’s good to see you, Auntie Titch. You too, Uncle Bed.”

  I embrace them both with one arm. My free hand is stuffed into my robe pocket as a plug. The last thing any of us needs is for the ring to fall out under the exertion of family welcomes, but as I pull away from Uncle Bed, he whispers in a low gruff voice.

  “If you find it, do not put it on.”

  Another incoherent noise hisses from my lips, like air being let out of a bicycle tyre.

  “We’ll talk in the morning, Mila. You must be knackered,” says Auntie Titch, with a smile that shows off just how cracked her lips are. “Are you sure about not wanting to see the doctor?”

  “She’s my daughter,” snaps my mother. She’s coming up the stairs with a bundle of blankets in her arms. “And I will say if she needs to see a doctor or not.”

  “We’ve been in the house ten seconds,” hisses Auntie Titch under her breath. “And already she’s starting.”

  “Divide and conquer, Arthur,” says Uncle Bed, and he raises one eyebrow at my father. He looks as if he’s going to steer Auntie Titch away, but my mother is now on the landing strip too, and six people is too much for me in such an enclosed space.

  “Going to bed. Need sleep,” I gasp, pushing my way inelegantly passed my aunt and uncle. The smell of horses isn’t doing much for my spinning head either.

  I shut my bedroom door and slide down it. My body becomes a barricade agains
t unwelcome trespassers. As much as I love my aunt and uncle, I’m totally over people right now.

  It’s getting close to five o’clock am. When was the last time I did an all-nighter? I’m going to pay for this once the sun comes up. I don’t do sleep-deprivation - it makes me cranky. With my mother and Auntie Titch already at each other’s throats, Avalon Cottage is going to need a Government alert issued for impending doom.

  I desperately want to take the ring out of my robe pocket, but I’m nervous. I’m not scared of getting caught with it. What’s the worse they can do? Ground me? Been there, done that.

  No. The reason I’m scared is because I don’t want to be alone when I do look at it again. Lilly must have felt the same sense of foreboding, which is why she came to sleep in my bedroom. The ring feels old, really old. When I touch it, I feel like I’m ageing with it. My skin visibly wilted when I held it. Even now, with it tucked safely in the pocket of my fleecy robe, I can sense something ancient and powerful. The kind of feeling you get when you’re in a cemetery or a really musty museum. It’s more than just ghosts. It’s foreboding.

  I crawl into my bed and curl up into a ball, as far away from the damp patches as I can. My dressing gown has a fleecy hood and I pull it up over my face. A rogue hair falls onto my face and tickles my skin.

  Body and mind combine and I fall asleep in seconds. The red pixels on the clock become moving miniature flames, but I don’t dream about enclosed spaces. I’m floating in a lagoon of warm blue water. The sky above is either reflecting its own colour onto the water, or the water really is that deep azure hue. I can hear the ghosts in the trees; they’re singing again. But the dream isn’t scary and I don’t feel threatened.

  I feel like I belong.

  I am unceremoniously awoken by my brat of a sister shaking me. The flames on the clock face have extinguished. In fact, there are no pixels at all.

  “What time is it, Lil?”

  “Fifteen minutes past eight,” she whispers. “Did you put it back? Quick, tell me before mum comes upstairs.”