The Grail Quest (The Avalon Book 1)

by J. R. Rain

Of course not, a voice inside my head said. Because the sword is a fake. A ruse. A hoax to separate tourists from their hard-earned pounds.

  Anyway, I watched a great many people enter the tent with a smile on their faces, only to exit a moment later still smiling. Sometimes they shrugged or snapped their fingers. And every one of them seemed to enjoy the experience.

  Still. A scam was a scam. And I was sure this was one.

  Well, pretty sure.

  So we waited with the other chumps, and while we did so, I asked a few more questions. “Can we go back to the part where you mentioned remembering why you had returned here?”

  “Of course,” said Arthur.

  “Can you, well, elaborate on that?”

  “My reason for being here is very specific,” he said. “I’m not necessarily here to learn or to evolve my own soul, although that might still happen.”

  “Because you’re here to help,” I said.

  “Yes, exactly,” he said.

  The line moved forward a little. The wind picked up, whistling over my exposed ears. Luckily, I was growing my hair out, and my longish, rakish hair kept my ears mostly warm.

  “And the rest of us?” I asked.

  “The rest of you don’t remember why you’re here, which is kind of the point,” he said.

  “And what is the point?”

  “To re-discover yourselves, to re-discover God.”

  “Why do I need to re-discover God?”

  “You don’t. You can do whatever you want.”

  I turned to Marion. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

  She nodded. Of course she nodded. I’m sure that whatever her darling king said, she would agree to it. If he said pigs could fly, I’m sure she would have happily nodded about that, too.

  Okay, that sounded a bit catty, didn’t it?

  Marion said, “We’re born with a sense of separation from God for a purpose. One of our jobs here is to reconnect with God.”

  “To reconnect with God?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Which implies we were already connected,” I said, trying to kick start my brain into gear. “Or that I already knew Him.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Before I was born?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re saying I knew God before I was born?” Okay, now my head was hurting a little.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  I looked to Arthur for some help here, but he was looking up into the sky, whistling to himself. A merry tune, from what I could gather.

  The line before us continued moving; we shuffled forward obediently. Our conversation had attracted the attention of a few bystanders.

  “Are you implying that I’m reincarnated?” I finally asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’m implying that you have always been alive.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes.”

  “From the beginning of time?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Lord, my head hurt. Maybe there was a better way to pass the time in line. Maybe I should ask Arthur how Merlin was doing.

  Or maybe not.

  “Fine,” I said, plunging blindly forward. “Last question before my head splits in two: why do we need to reconnect with God in the first place? Why not be born with full knowledge of God? Heck, why be born at all? Why not just keep living in Heaven? It’s got to be better than here.”

  Marion looked at me patiently. “Only when we reconnect with God does true growth occur. Only when we awaken to Him do our souls evolve into something more than they were before.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “We are born with separation from God so that we may know separation.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “Seriously. Help me here.”

  “It means,” said Arthur, leaning forward, his breath smelling of chocolate cinnamon. “You cannot begin to know God, unless you have not known Him.”

  “But—”

  “Can you know up without knowing down?” he asked me.

  “Probably not, but—”

  “Can you know hot without knowing cold? Can you know good without knowing evil? Can you know love without knowing hate?”

  “No, but—”

  “So it is with God,” said Marion. “If you bask in God’s love for all eternity, then you will never have the experience of not knowing His love.”

  The line was moving again. We had attracted a few more listeners.

  “And why would I want to experience not having God’s love? I’m not exactly sure what God’s love is, anyway, but having it seems a lot better than not having it. And if given a choice I choose to bask in God’s love.”

  “Tis a good choice,” said Arthur.

  “But you’re saying I chose to come here, to earth, to experience not basking in God’s love.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “To evolve. To grow. To experience something new.”

  “And I had a choice to be born?”

  “Always,” he said.

  I was about to say something when Marion touched my arm lightly and pointed to the tent. “It’s your turn, James.”

  And so it was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My heart was pounding. I don’t know why. After all, what chance did I have of pulling the alleged Excalibur from the stone, especially with alleged King Arthur in line behind me?

  Still, I wanted to give the damn thing a tug. Why not, right? Fake or not, this was sort of fun. And I seemed to recall someone recently saying “life is supposed to be fun.”

  So I paid my five pounds to the guy standing outside the tent. The guy was wearing fake chain mail and a purple tunic. He looked miserable. He also looked silly as hell. Anyway, he handed me a green ticket stub and held the tent flap open for me. I was on my way!

  The interior was gloomy, made even more gloomy by the presence of a very large, gray-colored boulder. The boulder looked a bit like a massive brain. A giant’s brain perhaps. And jutting from the side of it was the gleaming hilt of a sword.

  I hadn’t been expecting to be so...impressed by the sword. The thing was utterly beautiful. Almost larger than life. And, if I didn’t know better, it seemed to glow and sort of pulsate, as if it were alive.

  Or as if your overactive imagination was on hyperdrive.

  Another fake chain mail clad worker was sitting behind a fold-out card table, bobbing his head to music pumped through iPod earphones. So much for avoiding anachronisms. Unless, of course, it was the first iPod. The iPodeth, perhaps. Maybe he was rocking out to popular minstrel R&B tunes of yesteryear. Dark Age classics about grog and ale and fair maidens, or dragons and sorcerers and how not to get your head chopped off.

  Anyway, the squire held out his hand and when I gave him my ticket, he said: “Pull with strength, pull with care, and perhaps, you’re the heir. Good luck, O Future King of England.” He sounded bored. He also sounded not very hopeful.

  “Um, thanks.”

  I turned and faced the boulder. A high-powered spotlight, similar to something you would see on a Hollywood set, illuminated the dark rock and glittering sword hilt.

  I’ll admit, I felt excited. Had I not been dreaming of King Arthur and Camelot and the Holy Grail?

  The hilt looked very old. The leather strap wrapped around the handle looked worn and battle-tested. How had the leather survived after all these years?

  The pommel, a shining steel ball that counter-balanced the blade, was badly worn, as if it had seen many battles. Maybe it had. The cross-guard, which protected the hand from the blade, was engraved in writing that looked vaguely English. Old English?

  Very Old English?

  The weapon itself was a massive broadsword, and eight percent of it was deeply embedded in the rock. Fake or not, I wondered how the heck that thing got in there. The blade showed signs of heavy use, but still appeared razor sharp.

  The worker leaned acr
oss the table and pulled out one of his earpieces. “Hey, mate. You gotta give it a tug and get moving. We’ve got a long line out there waiting.”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry, um, mate.”

  I turned back to the sword. The handle was tilted upward at about a forty-five degree angle. Perfect for grabbing and pulling. The rock itself—a massive chunk of granite that easily weighed a ton or two—was sitting atop a blue tarp. Nothing fancy here. Just a tent, a worker, and a rock with a sword in it.

  All to capitalize on gullible tourists.

  Well, this gullible tourist slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt with a certain amount of excitement, and as soon as I did so...

  Well, nothing much happened, unfortunately. No surge of energy. No blue sparks radiating up and down my arms. The sword didn’t hum with magic or do much of anything special at all. Disappointment flooded me.

  Still, the handle seemed a perfect fit for my hands. This gave me hope. I next positioned my feet in front of the rock, adjusted my grip slightly. Took a deep breath.

  And pulled that sucker with all my strength.

  The sword didn’t budge or shift or give any indication that it was coming free. I stopped pulling before I gave myself a hernia. Damn. Destined for a life as a commoner. Granted, a handsome and charming commoner with some writing skills, but a commoner nonetheless.

  I sighed and turned to leave, and that’s when someone let loose with a blood-curdling scream from somewhere outside the tent. The worker snapped his head around and yanked out his earphones. The scream was followed by what I was sure was the sound of metal hitting metal.

  And then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then bone hitting bone.

  Sweet mother of God, what was going on out there?

  The tent flap burst open and I yelped. Arthur appeared at the entrance, breathing hard and bleeding from a small wound in his arm. Through the still-open tent flap, I caught a fleeting glimpse of people running in every direction—but also of two men moving determinedly toward the tent.

  Both were armed with swords.

  “Excuse me, James,” said Arthur, as he brushed past me and headed straight to Excalibur.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’re going to need a ticket to do that,” said the worker behind me, and he actually stood and blocked Arthur from the sword. Then the kid caught sight of Arthur’s wounds—bloody rents in his sleeves and a cut lip—and the worker’s mouth literally dropped open.

  “You will step aside,” said Arthur in a low, even voice. “Better yet, I suggest you leave altogether. Would be better for your health.”

  The kid stared at Arthur. Arthur stared back. Someone screamed outside. The worker glanced nervously toward the closed tent flap, then back to Arthur. They stared at each other for another heartbeat or two, and then the kid dashed out through the tent flap without looking back. He was still running as the tent flap settled back into place, giving me snatches of the scene outside. Unfortunately, I also had a good view of the goons with swords, both of whom were now a good deal closer.

  “Um, Arthur, what’s going on?”

  “As they say in your physical world, James, there’s no time to answer.”

  He positioned himself in front of the stone. Outside, the crowd was still screaming, along with the sounds of running feet. I had a sense that the market was clearing, and clearing quickly. Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  “Where’s Marion?” I asked.

  “She’s safe,” he said, and wrapped his hands around the hilt, his long fingers gripping it tightly. There was sweat on his brow, I saw, and the knuckles of his right hand were bloody. The sound of bone hitting bone that I had heard earlier?

  What the hell was going on?

  Better yet, what the hell had I gotten myself into?

  More shouts outside. More screaming. I shied away from the tent flap, expecting two men to come bursting through at any moment. Two men with swords.

  Sweet Jesus!

  I turned back to Arthur...and my jaw dropped. Something was happening to him and to the sword. Something very strange and wonderful and mind-blowing—and not of this world.

  At least, not of the world that I knew.

  I’m dreaming. This can’t be real.

  I had joked about blue sparks earlier—but I had been close. Too close. They weren’t exactly blue, and they weren’t exactly sparks. Instead, green coils of crackling energy wound around Arthur’s hands and wrists like glowing neon tubes. Seemingly binding him to the sword.

  Arthur lifted his face to the heavens, mumbling something completely incoherent to me. As the green coils moved further up his arms, a man holding a sword burst into the tent.

  I squeaked like a dog’s chew toy. The man scanned the tent wildly, found me conveniently standing nearby, and his face twisted into something ugly. The man was dressed in light armor and leather boots and sported a sword that looked like it meant business.

  “Arthur...” I said, backing into the table.

  Did I mention he had a sword?

  But Arthur wasn’t even looking at me. Okay, he so wasn’t my new BFF anymore. In his defense, all of the man’s concentration was centered on the sword. In particular, pulling the sword free. Sweat poured free from Arthur’s brow as thick, muscular cords stood out on his neck. A vein popped out on his forehead, thick as an earthworm. He continued pulling, grunting. The muscles along his shoulders and upper back bunched together impressively and seemed ready to burst free from his sweatshirt. He was clearly pulling with all his strength.

  Sweet mama.

  And to my amazement—although I probably shouldn’t have been—the sword slowly, ever so slowly, started coming free. And as it did, more coils of green energy looped around Arthur’s hands and wrists, around and around, sealing him to the sword.

  He grunted through his clenched teeth: “Help me, James!”

  But he didn’t mean help him with the sword. No, he meant help him with the crazy-looking guy with a sword—a sword that wasn’t embedded in two tons of rock. A sword that was now raised and ready to strike.

  Is this really happening?

  Yeah, I think it is.

  I looked desperately around for anything that resembled a weapon. Nothing. And so I did the only thing I could think of: I hurled myself at the guy, yelling like a madman.

  Chapter Nineteen

  And promptly bounced off his thick, muscled arm, and flopped straight to my back.

  The guy, still holding his sword, looked down at me curiously. And then started getting a little pissed. I had certainly diverted his attention away from Arthur.

  Unfortunately, I had diverted it to me.

  “Arthur...” I said, scrabbling backwards, crab-like.

  “You’re doing fine,” said Arthur, grunting through clenched teeth. As he spoke, the sword slid out a few more inches. Or, as they say here in England, a few more centimeters.

  Focus, James.

  More screaming from outside, and now something else. Something that sounded like...

  A roar.

  Yes, a roar. As if a tiger had been let loose in the streets of Glastonbury. The terrifying sound came again, louder, vibrating up through the cobblestones, and up into my skull, rattling my brain.

  Somehow I suspected it wasn’t a tiger. Somehow I suspected it was something else. Something bigger.

  But I didn’t have time to think about that now. The goon was now bringing his broadsword down like a man chopping wood. Or like a man determined to cleave a skull in two. I dove to the side, under the card table, just as the sword came crashing down.

  I half expected the weapon to go through the table, but instead it wedged deeply into the particle wood. A portion of the blade appeared above me, through raining particle wood dust. The blade moved back and forth as the freak tried desperately to work it free.

  Outside came the roar again. Somehow louder. Somehow even more bone-chilling.

  What the hell was that?

 
; Grunting, the guy above me finally worked his sword free. As he did so, I did the only thing I could think of. From my position under the table, I whipped-kicked him, sweeping my leg low across the floor, and neatly swiping his own legs out from under him.

  The results were more than I could have hoped for.

  As his feet went in one direction, his broadsword went flying in the other. He landed hard on his back, air bursting from his lungs.

  I did not just do that.

  Across the tent, under the bright set lights, Arthur gave a tremendous heave—

  And pulled the sword free from the stone. I had a brief image of my crazy new friend staggering backward, holding the sword triumphantly, when a blinding flash of green light sent me hurtling through the air.

  Chapter Twenty

  I found myself lying on my back in the middle of the outdoor market, staring up into gloomy skies. As I stared, something very large and bat-like passed in front of the lowest hanging clouds.

  I blinked. Surely I was imagining things.

  Groaning, I rolled over to my side and stayed like that for a moment or two, my body aching in places it had never ached before. And as my senses came back to me, so did my memory. There had been an explosion in the tent. What happened to the tent, I had no idea. What happened to Arthur, I had no idea, either.

  I shook my groggy head, and that’s when I heard—and felt—the galloping of hooves. I turned toward the sound and immediately saw three men on horseback charging down the middle of the street, kicking up dust and rocks and holding honest-to-God lances.

  The street, thank God, was mostly clear of tourists. Unfortunately, I was lying in the middle of it, directly in their charging path.

  If I was dreaming, I wanted to wake up now.

  But I didn’t wake up. The horses were still coming and now a massive shadow was sweeping over the ground. Still on my side, I craned my head up around up toward the sky. The rain had stopped and there was a break in the clouds. Sunlight poured through, and as it did, some of it caught something very, very big flying just under the cloud cover. The sunlight gleamed off two massive, leathery wings.