The Ring of Morgana (The Children of Camelot)

by Donna Hosie

  With the exception of an oval-shaped ring on her middle finger.

  But it isn’t the ring that grabs my attention. It’s the boulder lying some ten metres behind her. It’s glistening black stone, although there’s no moon or even starlight to reflect down upon it. It’s Camelot stone. And placed at a forty five degree angle is the hilt of a sword.

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristle. I may not be as up to speed as Rustin on myths and legends, but everyone knows about the sword in the stone. It was a Disney cartoon I used to watch with my father when I was little. He used to find their version of Merlin hilarious.

  The Lady of the Lake starts to walk towards me; I instinctively step back. The water is now up to my thighs, and all of the bandages are dissolving away as the water continues to heal my broken body. A cloudy pool surrounds me, but it quickly disappears, leaving me standing in the cool dark water of the Lake of Avalon.

  “Get out of my sacred lake,” cries Nimue once more, stepping closer to me and further away from the boulder with the sword. Excalibur, that’s its name. Uncle Bed was the one who placed it in the stone. I heard him say it back in the tent. I must get to that weapon. Ceremonial sword play is part of the training when you reach black belt in Taekwondo. I haven’t done much, but I’ve seen my father. I’ve memorised his steps and the way the blade becomes an extension of his body. Nimue might hand over the ring if I have the king’s sword pointing at her.

  But first, I need to heal the remainder of my burnt skin. With a deep breath, I dunk my entire body into the cold lake. I open my eyes underwater. Black shapes, like long eels, are swimming all around me. They have no eyes, no mouths. They just twist and turn gracefully around my legs and arms, dipping and weaving through the cloudy white residue that comes from the remainder of the dissolving bandages.

  A scream sends a shockwave through the water. I’m thrown off my feet and dragged backwards through the water. The black shapes swarm over me, wrapping around my limbs, tugging and pulling me further and deeper into the water. The more I struggle, the tighter their hold becomes. Yet they’re nothing more than shadows, lurking in the deep. I try to pull one from my right arm, and my fingers drag through the water, as if there’s nothing there.

  I’m being dragged to my death by ghosts.

  My lungs are starting to burn. Pressure is building up in my head. My eyes are straining and I can feel the cold water starting to collect in my mouth. I can’t fight them, there are just too many.

  In rapid succession there are two huge splashes: one to my left, the other directly in front. Four hands grab me. The black shadows stop moving for a split second, confused by a trebling of figures in the water.

  I seize the chance to escape. As I break the surface, I gasp in the cold night air. Bile and water rise in my throat, some of it comes out through my nose.

  “Swim, Mila,” gasps Rustin. “Swim for the shore.”

  Melehan breaks the surface too, but he doesn’t stop to speak to me. His head immediately jerks to the shoreline, which is bathed in a pale blue light, as two figures stand close to the edge of the trees that line the lake. They’re locked in some kind of motionless battle. Each has their arms at a ninety degree angle, and each is covered by a separate transparent blue dome. One figure stands upright and victorious, the other is on her knees and is visibly wilting.

  It’s Freya.

  “Mother,” cries Melehan. “No.”

  His front crawl is strong and he overtakes both me and Rustin quickly. Splashing wildly, Melehan reaches the shoreline. Blue flames erupt from his fingers. They rebound off the dome protecting Nimue, like bouncing lightening.

  “You were supposed to be getting them away,” I gasp, spitting out water and bile. “Where’s my uncle?”

  But Rustin is gaping at me. “Your burns, Mila. They’ve gone.”

  My feet touch the sliding bank of the shoreline. On my hands and knees, I crawl out of the lake. The bandages have dissolved completely and I am left in nothing more than a small pair of briefs and a strapless piece of cloth that has been bound tightly across my chest.

  “Help Melehan and Freya,” I say, pulling myself to my feet. My skin has healed, but it still feels raw, like I’ve been scrubbed too hard.

  “What are you going to do?” cries Rustin. “Mila, what are you doing?”

  The only thing I can do, I think, as my legs start powering up the bank towards the boulder. The one thing I’ve been focused on since I saw Lilly, ancient and dying, in the castle of Camelot.

  I’m getting that ring.

  Melehan is firing flames at Nimue, but they’re having no effect at all on the protective dome she’s still encased in. She’s a bird of prey, erect and proud. The rim around the edge of her dome is thick with a shining blue light. The dome over Freya is barely a wisp of cloud, pale and colourless.

  Nimue has moved away from the boulder holding the sword, but she sees me running towards it. With a scream, the dome around her shatters, forking out across the lake like an exploding firework.

  “You cannot take the sword of the king,” she cries. “You are not worthy.”

  But Nimue is now unprotected. Freya is too weak to move, but Rustin understands immediately what I’m planning to do. Melehan’s eyes are still white as he remains under the power of the blue Gorian flame, but Rustin yells at him to keep attacking.

  There are a million things happening at once. Through the trees I can see bouncing balls of red fire. Knights are running towards us with torches. Freya is lying motionless on the ground and Melehan is blasting blue fireballs at Nimue. She’s dancing and dipping, dodging the flames with a mocking smile on her face, but Rustin takes the Lady of the Lake completely by surprise as he collides with her, rugby-tackling her to the ground. Small stones lining the shoreline explode into the air as the two crash down. A thin, winding trail of pale blue smoke starts to seep towards the lake from Nimue’s struggling body. It seems to be coming from her chest.

  “MILA,” screams a woman’s voice. I don’t recognise it at first, but then I see my aunt, rushing towards the shoreline with several knights behind her.

  But this is my choice. My sacrifice. The greater good and doing what is right. I’m sure I’ve heard my father say that phrase before too.

  In three strides I am at the boulder. It’s vibrating with a deep, low hum, but the sword hilt remains still. The sword is completely unremarkable, with nothing more than carvings etched into the small sliver of silver blade. I would have thought that the infamous sword in the stone would be covered in jewels or gold – it certainly is in the images I saw of it back at Camelot – and, for a second, I’m confused. Is this really the legendary sword of King Arthur?

  My dithering is ended by a cry from Rustin. Nimue has thrown him off. The blue smoke that was drifting from her chest to the lake is getting thicker. Melehan is lying motionless on the ground. His legs are bent at an angle and his feet are in the water. The smoke around Nimue is no longer going in the direction of the lake. It’s coming back from the water. The power of the lake is restoring her, just as it healed me.

  My aunt screams again. “MILA, STOP.”

  I ignore her.

  Trembling, as the vibrations of the black stone start to affect my own body, my fingers stretch out and clasp the sword. The hilt is warm. The heat travels through my hand and ascends my arm. In seconds, it’s reached my chest.

  I can hear Nimue screaming. My aunt cries out to Melehan to stop Nimue, but he’s still lying on the stone shoreline.

  Then a rapid set of images flood though my head. They aren’t my memories; I’m seeing thoughts and moments from the perspective of other people. I have become every person who has touched the sword through time. Their thoughts, their emotions, are mine. I’m my father, bravely wielding the sword in battle; I’m Uncle Bed, guilty and heartbroken, throwing the sword into the lake; I’m Queen Guinevere, nervous but excited, pulling the sword from on top of a round table; and I’m Nimue, forging the sword in blue fi
re.

  Nimue is so close I can physically feel her anger rippling in the air. In my head, I see her holding the sword aloft, but the voice I hear is my sister’s. She wants to go home.

  I pull Excalibur from the glistening black rock. It comes away with ease. I swing my body around one hundred and eighty degrees and slice the sword through the Lady of the Lake. The sword goes straight through her without meeting resistance. It’s like slicing through air.

  Nimue doesn’t cry out. She’s too surprised. Her body starts to dissolve into smoke rings, but instead of dispersing, they wrap around my arms and legs. I can sense tendrils of smoke around my throat and it feels like fingers throttling me.

  I swipe through the smoke, again and again and again. A ghostly face rears up in front of me and its mouth opens wide, as if to swallow me whole. I turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees and slice through the neck, as if to decapitate it.

  The Ring of Morgana drops with a heavy clang onto the pebbles.

  It’s time to hold it for one last time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  My Sister

  “Auntie Titch, where’s Lilly?” I shout. “Get me to my sister – now.”

  The men standing behind my aunt have their mouths open; dull-looking swords hang in their limp hands. Now the battle with blue flame has stopped, there is little light surrounding us, save for the swirling torches three of the knights are holding aloft. Red flame. I’m so used to seeing other coloured fire it’s the normal one that now appears strange.

  But nothing is normal anymore, least of all me. And I never will be again.

  “Mila, come with me,” cries my aunt. She turns to the knights. “Get the king – get Merlin. To the healing tent of Lady Lilly. Now.”

  The Ring of Morgana is lying on a flat grey pebble. It looks just like it did when I first saw it: a thick orange-gold band with sharp talons protruding to keep in place a large oval jewel. The only change is the stone is pearly white, not blue.

  Before I bend down to pick it up, I take one last look at the wispy smoke now floating above the water of the lake. It funnels up into a thin blue spout. Water is being sucked into the fast moving, tornado-like shoot. It lingers for a few seconds, before disappearing down into the dark water. Long black shadows fan out and swim away.

  Nimue isn’t dead - I’m not sure she’s the kind of spirit that can be killed - but she’s gone. For now.

  “Don’t put the ring on, Mila,” calls Rustin. He’s staggering towards me. Blood is pouring down the side of his neck from a large cut above his left ear.

  “Is everyone okay over there?” I shout back. “Freya...Melehan?”

  “Just go to Lilly.”

  With my thumb and forefinger acting like pincers, I carefully pick up the ring. It feels as cold as ice.

  “Mila, come with me,” says my aunt. She takes me by the elbow. “You...you...”

  “What?” I whisper, expecting to get told off for my duplicity.

  “You reminded me of your mother,” says my aunt quietly.

  I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.

  My father, mother, Merlin, and scores of other people are already in Lilly’s tent when my aunt and I arrive, flanked on all sides by knights. My mother gasps when she sees me; her slim hand covers her mouth. The first thing I notice is that her fingernails are ragged and chipped.

  “How did you...but you’re healed?” cries my father. All kingly pretence is gone as he runs forward and hugs me tightly. Then I feel my mother’s arms around me too, and it’s like being home.

  “What on earth did you think you were doing?” sobs my mother. “If anything had happened to you…”

  “Mind...the...ring,” I splutter, gasping for air. I still have it held in a pincer-like grip, but I don’t want it slipping onto my finger by accident.

  “Quickly,” calls Merlin, clapping his hands together. “Clear the tent. I will need space, fresh air and quiet.”

  “What’s going to happen?” asks my mother. “Promise me you know what you’re doing, old man.”

  “Lady Mila, you have shown exceptional courage thus far,” says Merlin, ignoring my mother. “I now ask a little more of you.”

  I nod, extricate myself from my father, and walk over to the raised bed where my little sister rests, like a statue on top of an ancient tomb. Everything about her is white, from her skin to her hair to the colour of the bedding she’s lying on.

  “You healed yourself in the waters of Avalon?” asks Merlin.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “A child born of king and sorceress,” mutters Merlin, starting to move his hands across Lilly’s supine body. “And now with the power of Avalon itself. Nimue did not foresee that.”

  Did you, I think to myself? Merlin’s face is lined and old, but it’s also impassive. He’s giving nothing away, of what he knows about the past, or future. I look towards my parents. They’re standing behind me at the foot of Lilly’s bed with their hands entwined. Please let this work, I start praying to myself. My father smiles at me with encouragement, but my mother only has eyes for Lilly.

  The flap of the tent rustles and all heads turn. Merlin mutters under his breath at the intrusion, but a warm sensation fills me up as Rustin, holding a damp, blood-stained cloth to his head, quickly strides towards me.

  “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, and I won’t,” he says. “And if one more bloody knight tells me to stay away…”

  His knuckles are bleeding too.

  My father nods. A faint flicker of admiration shines from his face. All complicate lies are forgotten as the few people remaining in the tent concentrate on the words now continuously pouring out of Merlin’s mouth.

  Red smoke is trailing from his gnarled fingers, making shapes, like hieroglyphics, above Lilly’s tiny, frail body. I want to ask what they mean, but everyone is so quiet and still. One of the two torches in Lilly’s tent extinguishes. I shift slightly as the smoke starts to wrap itself around Lilly.

  “Breathe in through your nose,” whispers Rustin, pre-empting my claustrophobia with excellent timing. His mouth is so close to my ear I can feel his lips on my neck. I’m suddenly very conscious I am standing here in just my underwear.

  I have to keep calm. Apart from Lilly, Merlin, Rustin, me and my parents, there’s also Auntie Titch now watching. As are two young women who are hovering just behind Merlin. They’re tiny and move with perfect synchronisation. Merlin doesn’t ask for the strange-looking plants they hand to him, but the girls seem to know exactly what he wants and when he wants it.

  “Lady Mila, step forward,” instructs Merlin. “Place the ring on the finger that is the gateway to your heart.”

  My mother makes a strange noise, like a yelp, and takes an involuntary step forward. It’s my father that pulls her back. I’m not sure, perhaps it’s just my own eyes watering, but my father looks as if he’s crying.

  “Please don’t make me summon the purple flame,” I beg, placing the ring on the fourth finger of my left hand.

  “That is your choice, for now and all days, Lady Mila,” replies Merlin. “This day, it is my fire and smoke that will cure Lady Lilly. Now take the hand of your kin, close your eyes and listen to my words very carefully.”

  I do as Merlin instructs. Lilly’s hand feels so fragile and delicate in mine. Her skin is dry like chalk. I can feel her veins beneath my fingertips, but I can also sense a faint pulse. It gives me hope.

  There’s nothing from the ring. No sensation. No beating pulse. I can barely feel it.

  Merlin starts saying words that are strange to me. I know I would understand if this was Gorian magic, but there are clearly other strands of the supernatural in this world.

  How many more will I come across in the years to come?

  “Your sister will now start drawing on your strength, Lady Mila,” says Merlin. “If she has strength herself to stop the descent to the other side. Give her something to hold onto, something to come back for. You must open you
rself to her.”

  My eyes are still closed, but I can see memories as clear as if I’m reliving them, here and now. It’s our last Christmas, just a few months ago. Lilly receives tickets to see her favourite singer in London. She’s so excited she starts screaming and jumping around the room. Grandma Scholes is laughing. The gift is from her and my grandad. Lilly is their princess.

  “You’re a princess, Lilly,” I whisper, squeezing her hand.

  The next memory that comes to me is Lilly and her best friend, Josie, at the swimming baths. No. I don’t want her to relive that. I try and push it away from my mind, but all I see is Josie and Rustin’s bitch of a mother humiliating both girls. Auntie Titch steps in and rescues them. Then something happens that I didn’t see the first time. My mother, shouting at Ruth, having a go at her for embarrassing her daughter. Her princess.

  Lilly’s fingers twitch in mine.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Lady Mila,” demands Merlin. “Give her more.”

  Jostling for remembrance next is the time I kicked Natalie Waite’s butt for bullying Lilly. My sister never saw any of this. It feels satisfying to relive it again.

  Merlin’s voice is getting deeper and deeper. I can see dark red shadows trying to filter through my closed eyelids. The smell of burning herbs is scorching my nostrils. The stench is like fried onions and the horse manure that Grandad Morgan puts on the roses in our garden. My sister and I hate that smell. If Lilly wakes up now, she’s going to want to go straight back to sleep again.

  A giggle. It lasts for mere seconds, but it’s enough to make everyone in the tent cry out.

  “MORE,” bellows Merlin, before he descends into more primal babble. There’s a sense of urgency in his voice now. The heat is getting more intense. I can feel tingling in my hands.