by Peter David
Goodwin bobbed his head slightly.
Shukin then turned to face the three journalists. "At the far left I have the first of the three journalists who will be posing questions to the candidates tonight. From the Amsterdam News, Mr. James Owsley-"
Owsley, black and proud of it, raised a fist midway in the air. Arthur immediately returned the gesture. Percy, in the audience, covered his eyes.
Shukin rolled merrily on, oblivious. "Next, from WNBC News, Ms. Sandra Schechter. . . ."
Schechter, a no-nonsense redhead, allowed a quick smile. "And, from the Village Voice, Mr.
Fred Baumann." Baumann tossed a wave at the audience and smiled lopsidedly.
"The rules for this debate have been agreed upon as follows,'* Shukin continued. "Our panelists will pose a question to a candidate on a rotating basis. The candidate will be given three minutes to answer. The reporter will be permitted one follow-up question, to which the candidate will have one minute to reply. The other two candidates will then each be permitted two minutes to respond to or rebut the candidate's response. With that understood, Mr. Owsley, I believe you won the coin toss backstage."
"Damned straight. Used my coin," muttered Owsley, provoking mild laughter. "Mr. Bittberg,"
he said, glancing down at his notes, "incidents of police violence, particularly in the course of arrests, seem to be on the rise. These incidents occur particularly in the apprehension of blacks, I have noticed. Yet in the overwhelming number of instances, subsequent investigations by the police have exonerated the officers who have committed the violence.
Are you satisfied with the manner in which these internal investigations are being performed, or do you intend to try and have stricter procedures implemented?"
Bernie paused a moment. His eye caught Moe in the corner, who gave him a thumbs-up and a slow nod. Taking a deep breath, Bernie turned slowly to face Arthur and said, "Before we go any further, I'd like to clear up something, Mr. Penn."
Quick off the mark, Shukin jumped in and said, "Mr. Bittberg, you are supposed to be addressing the questioners, not the other candidates."
"Oh, this is just something very minor. Mr. Penn, who are you, really?"
There was a confused silence as the three reporters looked at each other. Shukin cleared his throat loudly. "Mr. Bittberg, I don't understand. Are you claiming this is not Arthur Penn?"
"No no no," said Bernie quickly. "I am asking him to answer a simple question ... is your name Arthur Penn?"
Arthur smiled ingratiatingly. "Don't you like my name, Mr.Bittberg?"
But Bernie would not be dissuaded. "No, that's not the question. Is your name really Arthur Penn?"
Percy and Gwen were sitting riveted in their seats, Gwen chewing on her fist. Percy felt a cold sweat breaking on his forehead.
And Arthur did not flinch. "Is that really of interest?"
And now Shukin, an anchor for WNYW for twelve years, sensed that there was something brewing. "Mr. Penn," he said carefully, "you're not required to answer that. You're certainly not on any sort of trial here. But if it will," he chuckled pleasantly, "keep peace in the family..."
"Oh, very well. If you must uncover my deep, dark secret," said Arthur, "No. That is not my real name. It's shortened. My full name is Arthur Pendragon."
There was a mild laugh from the audience as Arthur said easily, "There, Mr. Bittburg. Are you quite satisfied?"
Baumann from the Voice, who had majored in English Literature, said, "Whoa! Great name!
Any relation to the Arthur Pendragon?" When he received blank stares from all around, he said helpfully, "You know. King Arthur. Cam-elot. That stuff."
Trying to avoid having his debate degenerate into a friendly chat, Shukin said, "If we could get back to the issue at hand-"
But Bernie's voice rang out. "Why don't you answer him, Arthur? Why don't you tell him? You are King Arthur, aren't you? You believe yourself to be the original Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, son of Luther-"
"Uther," corrected Arthur.
"Thank you. Uther. You are him, aren't you? Aren't you?"
Shukin rapped with his knuckles on the podium and wished that he had brought a gavel. "Mr.
Bittberg, you can't be serious-"
But Bernie, sensing victory, wouldn't ease up. He took a step forward, his voice lowering in intensity, and said, "He's the one who's serious. Go ahead. Look me straight in the eye 146
and deny that you are the one, the only, the original King Arthur of Camelot. That you're fifteen centuries old. That you've been in a cave all this time and that you've returned to us because 'you're needed.' Deny it!"
There was a long silence. Arthur and Bernie stared at each other, each refusing to lower their gaze. Each trying to stare down the other. And Bernard Bittberg felt the full intensity of the man who was King Arthur Pendragon, felt the strength of his anger, the power of his spirit and grim determination. And he lowered his gaze.
And slowly Arthur looked straight into the camera, and in a tone as reasonable as if he were announcing the weather, he said, "It's true."
Gwen gave a small gasp. Percy closed his eyes, and Ronnie muttered to himself, "It figures."
"Yes," said Arthur. "I am everything Mr. Bittberg says. I was trying to keep it quiet because, frankly, I didn't want to use unfair advantage." He stepped to the side of the podium, interlaced his fingers and leaned on one elbow as if he were standing next to a fireplace mantle in his study. "I mean, after all... a cheap politician is a cheap politician. But a king . . .
good Lord! How could anyone possibly fight competition like that? And a legendary king to boot! No, my friends. I felt it best to keep my true identity a low profile, so as to give Messrs.
Bittberg and Goodwin a sporting chance."
The audience members looked at each other, unsure yet of exactly how they were supposed to react. A generation raised on canned laughter and applause signs occasionally has difficulty when it comes to spontaneity.
"But the word is out," said Arthur morosely. "Mr. Bittberg, for whatever reason, has decided to slit his own throat at this late date by guaranteeing the election for me. Ladies and gentlemen, it is I, King Arthur who stand before you." His mood shifted and he smiled broadly. "But perhaps it's better this way, for now I do not have to make pretense of being a man from this day and age. I can speak to you as a man from the past. A man who has seen what the world was, and who has watched what the world has grown into." There was genuine wonderment in his voice. "Good Lord, when I think what life was like in the old days.
Only a few piddling centuries ago, my friends! A mere droplet in the great flood that is time, and yet look how far that droplet called humanity has gone! It's incredible. Look at yourselves! By and large you're better fed than my people were. Better dressed. Healthier. Longer lived. Smarter. Taller," he said, with some regret.
"Yes. I have returned. Some of you, such as Mr. Baumann here, might be familiar with the legends. That I would return when the world needed me. But you've taken that to mean that it would be in your world's darkest hours. Well I'm here, my friends, to tell you that is not the case. I am here to tell you that you stand on the brink of a golden age. A time of potential learning and growth that could make all your previous achievements look like mud on an anthill by comparison. And I think that perhaps you're all afraid of what you can accomplish.
It's more than you can believe. And so you toy with the concept of self-destruction on a global scale. But I am here to lead you away from that. You have all the answers you need, right within your grasp. And I'm here to bring a fresh perspective, and a fresh understanding, and the knowledge to help you pick and choose the right way to go. And together, my friends, together... we can make it work. No, I recant that. Because I've seen what was, and I've seen what is, and I tell you that it is working. We can make it work better."
The words had not been delivered in a bible-thumping style. Instead they had been said with the quiet conviction of a man who sincerely b
elieved every syllable of what he was saying.
Someone started to clap. Arthur didn't see who, but within seconds the entire studio was filled with the thunderous sound of applause. It lasted for a solid minute, and Arthur smiled through it. He didn't look at Bernie, or Archibald, or anyone at all in particular. He was looking at his mind's eye image of Merlin and thinking, Bloody hell, I should have done this months ago, eh, Merlin?
The director cut from the camera on Arthur to the camera on the audience, taking in the rousing and solid response.
Miles away, in New Jersey, Morgan Le Fey fumed as she stared at the TV screen. "I don't understand. It was perfect. My ploy of stealing Excalibur, that useless hunk of steel, succeeded in netting me my true goal, Merlin. Then with Merlin gone, Arthur should have become dispirited, demoralized. There was even my glorious fantasy that he would simply throw himself on his thrice-damned sword and end it all. Then the truth of his identity would be revealed on television before his precious voters, and he would be laughed out of politics as a total lunatic." She screamed at the television, "Stop your damned clapping! You're supposed to think he's crackers!"
Unsurprisingly, they paid no attention to Morgan. And then her eyes narrowed as she spied Gwen sitting there, her hands tight on her purse.
"All right, Arthur," she said in a low, angry voice. "If I can't take your ambition from you, I'll take your beloved Guinevere from you. Oh, you can't fool me. You may be angry with her now, but sooner or later you'll forgive her, like the moronic fool that you are. But I will take her from you, Arthur. On the eve of your would-be triumph, I will take her from you. And then I will use every sorcerous means at my disposal to bring your world crashing down!"
Sitting amidst the audience that applauded around her, Gwen watched Arthur and held her purse tightly to her. Concerned about what she was afraid would happen. Concerned about what she had to do.
Chaptre the Seventeenth
Rabbi Robert Kasman opened his door and saw an extremely scruffy-looking individual standing there.
"Yes?" he said cautiously, keeping care to have the chain lock in place on the door.
"Hi," said Chico. "I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow. I'm with Arthur Penn, and-"
"Oh, the king!" said the Rabbi. "Yes, yes, I saw your fellow. Oh, not on the actual day, because they had the poor judgment to have the debate on shabbos. But it was rerun enough, you can be sure."
"I can be sure," Chico said agreeably.
"I don't know what that crazy Bittberg fellow hoped to accomplish by trying to embarrass that nice man, particularly after he saved those two children. Imagine, trying to convince everyone that your man actually thought he was King Arthur. Imagine!"
"Imagine," echoed Chico.
"Of course, just between you, me, and the hole in the wall," said the rabbi, "it wouldn't matter to me if he really did think he were King Arthur."
Chico blinked. "You know, that's what lots of people have said to me."
"Well, Fm not surprised," said the rabbi. "I mean, we all have our own mishugas, right? New York has certainly had some genuine nuts for mayor. It would only be appropriate if we had a sincere nut for once. You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean."
"So." The rabbi leaned against the inside of the door frame. "What did you want to know again?"
Chico stared at him, then scratched his head. "I can't remember."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure when you remember you'll come by again."
"You bet."
The rabbi closed his door and went on about his business. Five minutes later there was another knock at his door. He peered through the peephole, frowned, and opened the door.
"Hi," said Chico. "I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow...."
The political commentator for PBS was saying, "You can see from Penn's presentation that he is using the King Arthur/ Camelot scenario as a metaphor for all that he intends to achieve. He has locked on to this entire 'view from another era' to help clarify and lend a certain degree of validity to his unorthodox approach to politics and the issues at hand."
"This being so," the commentator was asked, "it comes down to the question of what Bittberg's motives could possibly have been in giving Penn such an opening? Did he really believe that Penn was actually the Arthur of legend?"
"Whatever Bittberg had in mind, I can only surmise that it backfired spectacularly. It's hard to say what sort of response he expected, but it could hardly have been what he got- namely, what observers are already referring to as the Camelot speech."
The commentator was on tape. It was now being viewed, for the hundredth time, by a fuming Bernie Bittberg. He sat in front of the VCR in his office, feeling his innards broil as he watched tape after frustrating tape. The rest of the debate, Bernie thought, including most of his exceptional observations and responses, had been totally overshadowed by Penn's performance in the first five minutes. A performance that he, Bernie, had helped to cue.
There was a knock at his door, and Bernie called unenthusiastically, "Come in."
Moe entered and looked around in distaste. Crumbled memos and newspapers were scattered everywhere, as were half-drunk cups of coffee and several stale doughnuts. When Bernie saw who it was, his mouth assumed the frown that came to it so naturally these days.
"So. It's the turncoat. I haven't seen you since the night of the debacle-oh, pardon me, the debate."
"Now, Bernie-"
"You can save the 'Now, Bernie' bullshit! You're outta here, Mr. Brilliance. You and your genius idea."
"You went a little far," said Moe reasonably. "When it became clear that he wasn't going to crack immediately, you should have backed off."
"Backed off? Now you're giving me backed off! I go in there with guns blazing, and you leave me with no ammo. You said he'd come out and say he was some long-dead king."
"Well, he did," said Moe reasonably.
"Yeah, but he came off smelling like a rose! He wasn't supposed to do that!"
"Obviously he didn't read the script."
Bernie sighed and sagged back in his chair. "So where does this leave us?"
"You're asking me? I thought I was through."
"Oh, come on. How could I do that to one of the top seven P.R. hacks I ever knew?"
"I thought I was one of the top three."
"You're sinking fast."
"Wonderful." Moe circled the table slowly. "Where we stand now is in the hands of the voters. But I've been reading the polls pretty carefully, and everyone who's predicting a landslide for Penn is off base, as far as I'm concerned."
"You think so? You're not just bullshittin' now?"
"No, I'm very serious. A lot of people were suspicious of the Camelot speech. The more perceptive voters sense that Arthur really does have a screw loose. Add to that that there are a hell of a lot of people out there who vote along a party line. Asking a Democrat to vote for an Independent can be like asking them to switch toothpastes."
"Maybe," said Bernie. "Still, I wish that Penn were the Republican candidate. I think people would be even less likely to cross party lines to vote for him. Why don't you think that Penn tried for the Democratic nomination? If it were just him and Goodwin, they could be putting his monogram on the welcome mat to Grade Mansion right now."
"Because Arthur's an independent thinker. There's no way in hell that you'd convince him to go along any party line on earth."
"That might be his fatal flaw. If he allied himself more, he could have had it iced before the polls opened."
Moe shook his head. "Men like Arthur Penn always have to carve their own way in life."
"I've never understood that sort of thinking." Bernie leaned back too far in his chair. It crashed over backward, sending him tumbling to the floor with loud curses and bruised dignity.
"No, Bernie," said Moe, "I don't suppose you would."
It was several minutes before midnight.
Arthur sat in his dressing gow
n, staring out the window of his modest apartment, staring up at the moon. It was a cloudless night, and only a sliver of the new moon was visible, but there were many stars to make up for it.
Arthur chose a star and wished fervently on it, so fervently that he stood there for a full minute with eyes tightly shut. When he opened them he half hoped that his wish would be granted.
But Merlin had not materialized in his living room.
He paced like a caged panther. It was an incredible feeling of helplessness, not even knowing where to start looking for the kidnapped seer. Was he in New York? New Jersey?
The East Coast, the West Coast? Was he even in the United States? Arthur moaned and rubbed his temples. Merely contemplating the possibilities made his head hurt.
He turned and looked at the telephone. It sat there, inviting, so tempting. To talk to her for just a moment... That would be all he needed to patch together the relationship that had once meant so much to him. But obviously it hadn't meant anything to her, or she would not have made a mockery of it. But still...
He stood over the phone, the man decisive in all matters except those of the heart-a failing many men share.
In Queens a demon entered the apartment that Gwen De-Vere shared with an old college friend, Wendy Goldstein.
Wendy, fortunately enough, did not encounter the demon. She was off visiting her parents for a week. She did not know that a demon was going to come this night to attack her old friend. If she had, she might have stayed around to help out. Either that or she might have gone farther than to visit her parents in Pennsylvania-say, for example, her maiden aunt in Portland, Oregon. Either way, she was not home when the demon, clinging to a wall outside a window seven stories up in an apartment complex in Queens, paid his visit.
It was a different demon than the one that had abortedly stolen Excalibur. This one was about average height, with more humanoid features. It had several distinguishing characteristics however, such as dark green skin and fur, which covered its bottom half and back. It was baldheaded, with pointed ears and small twin horns projecting from its temples.
And it had a grimly determined expression on its face as it pried its fingertips into the small space between the bottom of the window and the sill. The demon got a firm grip and pulled upward. The window slid up, rattling and shaking, and the demon winced at the noise.