“I don’t even have a last name, Arthur,” Lance went on quietly, fighting back the tears. Be strong, Lance! You’re First Knight.
Arthur was confused. “But, did you not sayeth thy name be—”
“Sepulveda?” Lance finished for him, nodding bitterly, eyes afire with lament. “Yeah, that’s the name they gave me at Children’s Services because….” His breathing almost stopped. “…That was the name of the street where I got left when that stranger didn’t wanna feed me no more.” His enflamed eyes brimmed with an impending flood, and his body began to tremble. “Arthur, I’m named after a fuckin’ street!” He clapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh, my bad, I’m sorry, Arthur, I know you hate cussing! I’m so sorry.” Those wide eyes begged Arthur’s forgiveness.
The king felt a heavy despondency well up in him such as he hadn’t experienced since Camelot crumbled beneath him centuries before. He fought his own body’s tightness and gazed compassionately at Lance. “Do not be sorry, my boy. Thy life hath been one I wouldst not wish upon my fiercest enemy.”
Forgetting for a moment the incident in the park, Arthur reached out a comforting hand and placed it upon the boy’s shaking shoulder. Lance recoiled at once, untangling his legs and leaping to his feet, almost falling back, eyes wide with terror, gasping for breath, shaking with fear, looking to Arthur like an animal caught in a trap.
“My apologies, Lance,” Arthur said, pulling his hand slowly back. “I had forgotten.”
Lance’s breathing gradually slowed, but his eyes never left Arthur’s hand, which now rested on the king’s own lap. “No, it ain’t you, Arthur, it’s me. I’m….”
“Doth thou wish to speak of it?” Arthur asked, his voice gentle and soothing.
“No!” Lance looked away and sat again on the platform, farther from Arthur this time. His heart remained in his throat, his stomach churning.
Arthur nodded. “As thou wisheth.”
Silence fell between them for a few moments, and then Lance began to cry, softly, and agonizingly. He struggled to hold back the tears, but they forced their way out. His voice sounded raspy and rough, like air passing through bones. “It ain’t just you, Arthur, I ain’t never told nobody. I been tryin’ to ferget it, ’cept I can’t.”
Arthur’s voice remained low and very soothing, his entire body still. “Perhaps to speak openly of this pain may lay it to rest.”
Lance refused to look up. His hair covered his entire face now, and he sniffled and gave in to more tears. His legs splayed outward, and his hands were clenched into tight fists, gripping the folds of his tunic like a lifeline. “It’s jus’ that… in this foster home when I’s small….”
“I am here, Lance.”
Lance fought his shivering body for control. His voice became small and uncertain, like the faintest whisper of wind through the leaves of a tree. “I was six years old when it started… the man… my foster dad… he used to come to my room at night and… he tole me that this was what boys did together and that he was doing me a favor by teaching me.” He gulped and shuddered. “He, uh, he tole me I really wanted it even if I didn’t know I did….”
He glanced hesitantly into Arthur’s gentle face, his wide eyes seared and desperate and without hope. He saw the compassion and understanding and then suddenly broke.
“He raped me, Arthur! He did it all the time, for three years! And he made me… suck his dick and… I… I wanted it to stop, but I didn’t stop it. He kept saying it was my fault, that I wanted it, and, oh God, Arthur, I must’ve liked it cuz I never ran away, not till I was nine years old when he started bringing his friends to my room and…. Oh, Arthur, maybe I did want it, maybe I’m queer like Mark and Jack and that’s why they make me so nervous! I mean, I hain’t never even kissed a girl before, though some’s tried, but I’m scared a them too. When I’m around them gay boys I feel things I don’t wanna feel.” His eyes peeked through his hair beseechingly, revealing the guilt and the shame pouring forth from his soul. “Oh God, Arthur, I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know what I am!”
He leapt at Arthur like a wild animal on the attack and flung his arms around the man, sobbing uncontrollably into Arthur’s tunic, his body shaking violently with pain and humiliation and culpability. Arthur gently stroked the boy’s hair, held him tenderly, and spoke soothingly into his ear.
“But I know what thou art,” he began, cradling and rocking the sobbing child gently. “Thou art Lance, my chosen First Knight, who shalt lead the children of this city in a triumphant crusade to right the wrongs that have been done to them. Ye were not chosen because thou favors girls or boys, but because thou doth already possess the qualities that make a true man—honor, loyalty, faithfulness, and compassion. These be the measure of any man, and ye art a better man at fourteen than many grown men I have known. That is what, and that is who thou art, my Lance.”
Arthur’s words penetrated Lance’s deep and throbbing pain and warmed his heart with their sincerity, but the sobbing continued unabated. The shaking continued. The purging continued. So much pain. Too much for any child to have to bear, Arthur knew. It had to go somewhere, and the king was more than willing to accept it.
They remained this way until Lance finally cried himself to sleep in Arthur’s strong, comforting embrace. Then the king gently laid the boy down, wiped the tears and snot from his face with one sleeve, and carefully covered him with several blankets. As he sat and watched Lance’s breathing become smooth and even, he ever so softly brushed the damp hair off the boy’s face. There were still lines of anguish drawn across his unblemished features, but slowly these eased themselves away as deeper sleep grasped hold of the boy and carried him off to the necessary Land of Forget.
Arthur knelt and bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Lord, thank ye for delivering unto me this lost one, and all of these lost ones. May I do right by your faith in me. Ye have set unto me a great and noble task. I ask only the strength and humility to achieve it.”
Then he lay down close enough to Lance should the boy awaken and need him, but not so close as to stir the horrific memories he’d only just expunged. After a time he eased into a fitful sleep.
When he awoke early next morning, or what he perceived to be morning since no sunlight penetrated the storm drains, Arthur instantly noted that Lance was not beside him and leapt up in fright. Concerned about the boy’s state of mind, he hurried down the nearest tunnel and suddenly pulled up short. Lance was just ahead, sitting beside little Chris, who slept soundly and snugly, his breathing soft and even.
Arthur approached quietly and knelt beside Lance questioningly. “Doth all be well?” he whispered so as to not wake the sleeping child.
Lance nodded, gently stroking Chris’s soft blond hair. Then he looked up at Arthur, his own hair tangled and matted with dried sweat, and met the king’s eyes with determination. “I’m gonna make sure what happened to me never happens to him.”
Arthur understood, and nodded, hesitantly reaching out to place his hand on Lance’s shoulder, pausing until the boy smiled gratefully. He lightly squeezed Lance’s shoulder to show his approval and then removed his hand.
“Thank you, Arthur, for last night, for listening, and for…,” Lance trailed off and looked away, hiding his shame from the king.
“For what?”
Lance shyly looked askance through his draping hair at Arthur’s face and whispered despairingly, “For not hating me.”
Arthur drew back, appalled at the notion. “Hate thee? Never.”
Lance’s face broke into an almost beatific smile, and he impulsively hugged Arthur. They remained that way for a moment, a moment Lance wished could go on forever. But then he pulled away, busily pushing the hair back from his face, and stood up to hide his embarrassment. Arthur stood as well.
“Sorry,” Lance said weakly, his voice soft with trepidation. “Better stop with all the hugging. I am supposed to be your First Knight, after all.” He shyly lifted his eyes to this man whom he idolized.
> Arthur clapped a solid hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed again. “And a finer one I couldst never hope to find.”
Lance beamed with pride.
“Come, lad, let us prepare for the day.”
Lance nodded and side by side they returned to the throne room.
By the time the underground residents had all risen and bathed and dressed and eaten, it was near eleven o’clock by Lance’s cell phone. Even the homeless kids seemed to have a phone these days—most, like Lance’s, were jail broken, and, like every other kid these days, he typically used it for texting, especially here underground, listening to music, or watching videos or social networking.
Most days, all the kids drifted in by noon to continue training, so Lance seldom sent out a blanket text. Sheesh, there were almost three hundred kids now, he realized! Hell if I’m gonna put all those names in my phone book.
Before weapons training each day, Arthur always allowed kids, especially newcomers, to tell their stories—who they were and what their lives had been like before joining the crusade. This day was no different. He looked majestic and almost larger than life on his throne with Lance seated in his own large, wooden chair beside him. The boy had brushed his hair and replaced his gold circlet, the remnants of the previous night’s purging removed for the moment from his soft, smooth features. The other kids all sat cross-legged on the ground or on blankets or stood along the periphery of the group.
Today’s group was huge, Lance noted, as he scanned the room. Maybe the whole three hundred, he thought. With one notable exception—Reyna had yet to appear. Lance had to admit, the girl was pretty obnoxious, but man, could she shoot! He’d love to put her in charge of the archers so he could focus on the swordplay. Wow, he suddenly thought to himself, I’m thinking like a real First Knight.
Arthur addressed the crowd as he did every morning, “Beeth there any among you who’d like to share thy story?”
Mark shyly put up his hand. He and Jack sat near the front. Having ditched their tight, streetwalking attire, the boys were now clothed like everyone else: baggy tunics, leather pants and jerkins, and a wrap for the head, which was necessary in Mark’s case to keep his mop of long, unkempt blond hair from obscuring his vision during practices.
Arthur nodded to Mark, who glanced at Lance and hesitated. Lance nodded as well, and Mark began. “I come from Washington, up north. My parents have money. No Bill Gates or nothing, but they’re pretty loaded. Nice house in the suburbs and shit.”
Arthur frowned, and Mark quickly corrected himself. “Sorry, Arthur. Anyways, I guess things was okay when I was little, but then when I was thirteen my folks caught me kissing another boy out in the pool house, and they freaked something crazy. Flat out told me they wouldn’t allow me to be gay, they wouldn’t have me embarrass them like that with their friends. I tried to tell them I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to be gay, that I always felt this way, that I was born this way, but they didn’t care.”
Lance suddenly felt ashamed of the negative attitude he’d initially shown the blond boy, especially given his own past and conflicted feelings. “So what happened?” He really needed to know.
Mark grimaced and shook his head, those huge blue eyes pooling with pain. “Didn’t want nuthin’ to do with that truth, or me. Kicked my ass right out the house and into the street, said they wasn’t gonna stand for no faggot son, and if I ever decided to ‘become straight’ I could come home. I was thirteen, man! Ain’t heard from ’em since. I hitched my way to Hollywood cuz, well, that’s where homeless kids go, or so I heard. Make it in the movies or some sh—crap.” He gave a tragic, hollow laugh. “That’s why you seen me on the streets. There’s no movies for kids, especially little fags like me. Just the streets. Last two years it’s all I could do to survive, ya know?”
Lance leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his heart tight with anguish and empathy. “What about the, you know, the drugs?”
Sadness settled over Mark’s soft, milky-white face. “Only way I could deal, Lance. Men using me all the time, doing whatever they wanted to my body.” He shivered at the memory, his breath halting in his throat. “Had to kill the pain somehow.”
Now little Chris, seated as close to Lance as possible without being up in the throne area with him, reached out toward Mark, took the older boy’s hand in his, and asked, “Mark, did yer mama ever say she wished ya’d never been born?”
Startled, Mark’s eyes widened, and he nodded painfully.
Chris’s small, round face echoed that pain. “That’s what my mama tole me too, ’fore she left me alone in that dirty ole alley and then never come back.”
Mark tried for a hesitant smile, squeezing the small boy’s hand gently before releasing it. Many heads nodded throughout the chamber. Sadly, parental abuse and neglect was a common element these children shared.
Lance squirmed with discomfort and sorrow, glancing at Arthur, who looked deeply troubled and sympathetic.
“What about ye, Jack?” the king asked cautiously.
Jack patted Mark on the back and said, “Kinda the same, ’cept I hitched here from Idaho. Same reason—couldn’t stay at home, so I came to Hollywood to be a star. Yeah, right!”
He stopped a moment as bitterness and anguish overcame him. Mark reached out to pat him comfortingly on the back, and Jack smiled gratefully.
“My folks weren’t super rich like his, but they didn’t want no queer-boy for a son, neither. Didn’t matter that I worked out and played football and all that ‘manly’ stuff. Hell, my dad accused me of playing sports so I could check out the other guys. He never even got that I did those things for him, cuz he wanted an athlete for a son.”
His whole body tensed, and he gripped the folds of his tunic, pausing before continuing. He turned his sad brown eyes up toward the king.
“I used to be quarterback, Arthur. I know that probably don’t mean much to you, but it’s kind of a big deal in football. But nothin’ I did was good enough.” He glanced at Mark and then toward Lance. “They was gonna send me to some ‘rehab’ place that was s’posed to make me straight.” He emphasized those last words with the finger quotation marks. “What bullshit! Oh, my bad, sorry, Arthur. Just like Mark said, I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to like boys.”
He paused and sighed bitterly. “Anyway, when they was going to send me to the shock treatment place, or whatever it was, that’s when I decided to split. But you wanna know the worst part? My dad tole me I was adopted, which I didn’t even know till then, and that he was so happy the faggot under his roof wasn’t his own flesh and blood. That was it for me, Arthur. I hitched over here, and Mark and me met on the streets, pretty near where you found us. That’s the only place in Hollywood for homeless gay boys to earn their keep. It’s either that or juvy.”
He dropped his eyes again in shame, stomach clenching. “So here I am, star quarterback to slut boy, just cuz my parents couldn’t deal.” He hated when he cried and angrily brushed a tear from his eye.
“Didn’t you like, hate doing all that shi—I mean, that stuff?” Luis asked, a look of disgust plastered across his acne-scarred face.
Jack just snorted. “What do you think? Old guys doing you while talking about how their kid gets all As in school or got a home run in his little league game?”
Luis had an expression of appalled revulsion on his face.
“I hate it, man!” Jack spit out. “I miss playing sports. But mostly I miss having a family, you know? I got no one ’cept Mark.” He dipped his head to hide the tears dropping into his lap.
Every muscle in Lance’s body froze as Mark and Jack shared their stories, and his own painful past welled up in his throat like bile. Slut boy. That’s what Jack called himself. Was that me too? Those words were a knife to his heart—they hit way too close to home.
Shoving his personal guilt aside, Lance impulsively leapt to his feet with purpose, gazing at Jack, looking for all to see the very image of youthful royalty. “Jack, look at
me.”
Surprised, Jack raised his head to behold Lance and marveled at how noble and beautiful the boy appeared, how big, despite his small stature. Even his gold circlet seemed to glow under the lantern light.
“You do not just have Mark for your family,” Lance stated loudly and firmly. “You now have me and Arthur and all assembled here. We are your family!”
The gathered kids broke into applause, and Jack’s face spread into an enormous grin of gratitude. Lance grinned back and ran a hand quickly through his hair, which made Jack laugh and feel warm at the same time. Mark threw his arm over Jack’s shoulders and pulled him close, assuring him with that simple gesture that he was not, and never would be, alone.
Arthur rose to stand beside Lance and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he spoke. “My First Knight beeth correct. We all be family here. Every life in here and out there doth be precious in God’s eyes, even if not so in man’s. But remember, my knights-in-training, the needs of the whole company be of greater import than the needs of the few, or even the one, myself included. No one beeth indispensable to our crusade. No one.”
He glanced at Lance, and the boy nodded his understanding.
“Does that include me?” came a familiar female voice from behind the assemblage. En masse, all heads turned to look at the tunnel behind them, and there stood Reyna, haughty as ever, dressed to kill, literally. She wore a full archer’s ensemble that looked hot on her taut figure: tight brown pants that accentuated her long legs, knee-high brown boots, long-sleeve, multi-pocketed, button-down jacket, and an archer’s glove on her right hand. Her silky long hair was braided and drifted down her back like a climbing rope. Slung over her left shoulder was an expensive-looking bow and quiver filled with arrows.
Within the group, the few girls scowled, but the boys, especially the older ones, gaped at her in open-mouthed awe, exactly the effect Reyna had hoped to achieve. She tossed a contemptuous gaze toward Enrique and Luis, sitting beside one another, mouths open like grouper fish, and then turned her attention toward Arthur.
Children of the Knight Page 9