Children of the Knight

by Michael J. Bowler

  “Fear not, young Mark,” Arthur assured him in a calm, soothing voice. “What thou hast done to thyself shalt, with thy strength and God’s help, be this night undone, and thy life will once more belong to thee.” Gently, he wrapped the blanket more securely around Mark, laid a cool, damp cloth across the sleeping boy’s forehead, and continued to mop his grimacing face gently.

  As the night wore on, Jack’s anxiety and fear gradually wore him down. He laid himself beside his beloved, never letting go of his friend’s hand, and finally allowed his own heart to rest as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  Arthur continued to rest Mark’s head in his lap and to hold the boy securely when he became agitated, to prevent Mark from flinging himself around and risking injury. Periodically, he dribbled a bit of drinking water between Mark’s lips, but otherwise he merely sat, cradled, mopped rivulets of sweat from Mark’s pale, pinched face, and prayed, his head bowed reverently.

  For his part, Lance had stayed away. He still felt… he wasn’t quite sure what he felt, but somehow it seemed there was a sudden gap between him and Arthur, a gap he didn’t understand, a gap that twisted up his stomach like a cramp. He tossed and turned in his bedroll, sleep eluding him.

  Finally, knowing resistance was futile, he rose quietly so as to not wake little Chris slumbering peacefully, as always, right beside him. He slipped a baggy tunic over his shivering bare torso and crept silently into the tunnel, where he knew he’d find Arthur… and Mark. He stopped and crouched low when they came into view. He didn’t want Arthur to see him. Why not? He didn’t even know. He just sat and observed the man sitting beneath a soft pool of lantern light gently cradling and ministering to… someone else.

  Someone who wasn’t him.

  Loneliness almost drowned him.

  Arthur gazed empathetically at Mark’s face as he toweled off the sweat. “There doth be many addictions, young Mark, to which a man may find himself enslaved. Most be of our own choosing, but some doth be put upon us by chance. Have no fear, young one. Despite thy past, thou dost always have a future here, with us.”

  Lance listened to those words, and knew Arthur meant them sincerely, just as he’d meant them when he’d assured Lance of his allegiance, when he’d cradled Lance in his arms and willingly soaked up his pain. I am part of something great, he told himself with a silent sigh, and Arthur is the greatest man I’ve ever known, so why do I suddenly feel so… empty? So alone again….

  Uncertainty raking across his heart like claws, Lance propped himself up against the wall. His thoughts drifted back to the aching pain of his childhood, to who he used to be, to what he used to be, and to who he’d become since Arthur appeared.

  Jack had called himself a slut boy for what he’d done out on the street. But how was Lance any better, any more pure? Hadn’t he allowed that man to… use him… that way, for years, without fighting back? Wasn’t he a worse slut boy than Jack could ever be? Did that word even apply to boys?

  Self-loathing clamped onto his wildly beating heart as he gazed through blurring tears at Arthur, with Mark wrapped in his arms. Did he even deserve somebody that good? Him, a weak little slut boy who’d never fought back and never done anything worthwhile in his whole life? He didn’t know why, but the loneliness returned in full, threatened to suffocate him with its smothering totality, and he began to cry softly and achingly, gradually crying himself into a restless sleep.

  WHEN Enrique and several others entered the tunnel around midday, they found Jack still asleep, clasping Mark’s hand in his own, and Arthur cradling the blond boy just as they’d left him the night before.

  “How he be, Arthur?” Enrique inquired, noting that Mark’s face looked flush, not so pale, no longer beaded with sweat.

  Arthur looked at him, weary, but undaunted. “Better, but not yet recovered.” He glanced down at the peacefully sleeping Mark, then back at Enrique. “Rouse the others and set about feeding them. Then you mayst commence further weapons practice. Hast thou seen Lance?”

  Enrique pointed toward the mouth of the tunnel, where Arthur took note of Lance curled into a fetal position, still asleep. Concern washed over him at the sight, but he did not show this to Enrique. “Let him sleep a bit longer. Thou mayst begin the training for today. I shalt join thee shortly. When Reyna arrives, she shalt direct the archers.”

  “Sí, Arthur,” said Enrique with a broad grin and hurried off, hopefully to find that Reyna had already arrived.

  Arthur remained as he’d been throughout the night, cradling Mark’s head and praying for the boy’s deliverance. Yet he found his gaze drifting over to the sleeping bundle that was his First Knight. He’d had hope that Lance had purged himself of his childhood demons, but realized now that was not true. How could it be? How could so much suffering vanish so rapidly? Even Merlin could not affect such a miracle.

  His own childhood had been pleasant and nurturing. He’d been loved by Sir Ector and all of the man’s household staff. What did he know of the pain and misery and intense loneliness that Lance, and all these others, had endured? He’d purposely selected these children for his new campaign because older people were too set in their ways. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, change.

  Such had been a great aspect of Camelot’s downfall—too much infighting amongst the men, all vying for greater position, all victims of false pride. Children, he knew, even such damaged as these, could yet be guided and molded into something better that he hoped would change this city and its people into something great. But they were children, he reminded himself, and he’d little experience with children in his previous life. Perhaps the Lady Jenny might be of help in understanding the hearts and minds of his children.

  His musings were interrupted by groans from Mark. The moaning awoke Jack, who stretched his muscular arms and shook the sleep out of his eyes as he realized where he was. “How’s Mark?” was all he asked, sitting up quickly, his tormented brown eyes anxiously searching his friend’s face for life.

  “He is better, methinks,” Arthur said in a tired voice, offering Jack a smile of hope.

  Arthur’s voice awoke Lance, who slowly uncurled himself and gradually pulled himself up into a sitting position, shaking the sleep from his eyes, wiping the remnants of pain from his cheeks. Seeing Arthur and Jack, he suddenly recalled how he’d gotten there, and his heart lurched, that blanket of loneliness still covering him like snowfall. He wrapped his arms around his knees and watched the scene before him unfold with roiling emotions.

  Mark stirred, and Jack’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. Mark’s bloodless face, strained from the ordeal, made the boy he loved look older than his fifteen years as those vague blue eyes drifted slowly open. He gradually focused, first on Jack, then on Arthur. Elation so overwhelmed Jack that he nearly kissed Mark in loving exhilaration, but fought back the temptation. Mark wouldn’t want that… would he?

  Don’t go there, Jacky! Mark’s alive and well, that’s all that matters!

  “How dost thy feel, Mark?” Arthur asked in that calm, soothing tone of voice.

  Mark’s eyes flitted from Jack’s grinning face to Arthur’s gentle look. “Arthur?”

  “Yes, lad, it be I.”

  Weakly, Mark gazed up at the man, confused. “You… you been with me all night?”

  “Aye, lad, and much of the day. Thou hast been quite ill.”

  Mark appeared bewildered and very unsettled, his voice shaky. “No one ever did… nobody ever did… nothing like that before….”

  Now Jack’s face fell, and his heart reeled. “I was here too,” he whispered sadly.

  Mark glanced at him and smiled, too weak to talk, but quickly returned his gaze to Arthur.

  “Save thy strength,” Arthur insisted, raising the water bottle so the boy could take a few sips. “Rest, now, young Mark, whilst I thank God for thy deliverance.”

  As Mark fell silent, Jack and Lance watched as Arthur bowed his head in prayer. The hearts of both boys felt heavy with pain, and though they di
dn’t know it, for the same reason—both felt they were losing someone they deeply loved.

  IN BOYLE HEIGHTS, Esteban and Jaime, and as many of their homeboys as each could round up, met before the wall displaying Arthur’s A symbol. “Pray for Peace in the Barrio” and the dove were still dominant, but the angry youths below it had no intention of praying for peace. They wanted war. It was what they’d been taught to do. They hit you, you hit ’em back! That was life in the barrio, not peace.

  Esteban and Jaime stood side by side as numerous other gang members, all under the age of eighteen, hovered excitedly around them. Old pickups and cars and low-riders packed the street expectantly.

  The two intimidating boys clasped hands firmly and bumped fists with dramatic flair. Both wore the requisite wifebeater to display their intimidating musculature, and Jaime had a bandana wrapped around his head.

  “Never thought I see us back on the same side, carnal,” Esteban told his former friend with a nod.

  “We gonna kick that guy’s ass, dawg!” Jaime replied loudly. “The others, they be comin’?”

  “Sí,” Esteban replied. “But you still the hothead, homie, so let me do the talkin’, ’kay?”

  Jaime nodded. “But if the guy pisses me off….” He left the threat unfinished, raising his .38 special to finish the sentence for him.

  Esteban eyed the weapon soberly and then turned to all those assembled. “Remember, no shootin’ ’less one a us says so. Comprenden?”

  The assembled gangsters, young and teen, armed with a variety of firearms, nodded their assent. Tonight promised to be exciting, and excitement was what they lived for, after all.

  ALL of Arthur’s nearly three hundred children were present, girls and boys. The girls flanked Reyna, outfitted in her full archery ensemble, longbow and quiver slung indolently over her shoulder. The boys wielding swords had girded themselves with protective armor: chain mail, chest pieces, helms, and shields. Much of the armor fit the young bodies awkwardly at best, and Arthur and Lance were administering last minute adjustments.

  The archers, key players in Arthur’s strategic plan, did not wear armor due to their need for agility and quickness. He recognized the risks, knowing the gangsters could fire randomly into the dark and inadvertently strike one of them, but he believed his children were as trained and ready as they’d ever be to take on this challenge.

  As Reyna adjusted the bows and quivers of several archers, Enrique and Luis popped up to flank her. Enrique spoke first, “You need any help, Reyna, I got yer back, no sweat.”

  “Ferget that fool,” Luis tossed in, causing her to look his way. “I’ll protect you.”

  Reyna laughed derisively. “More like the other way around, cholo boys.” She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, and they high-fived each other.

  Lance struggled to adjust his helm. When Arthur stepped forward to help him, Lance silently shrugged him off and stepped to one side to finish on his own. Arthur glanced at the others who were busy with last minute adjustments, then stepped to Lance and leaned in so the others could not hear.

  “Lance, thou hast been moody since we encountered the Lady Jenny last night,” he whispered. “You need fear not, lad, for she, nor anyone, shalt ever come between thee and I.”

  Helm half on and half off, a startled Lance turned to face Arthur, stunned that the man had somehow read his thoughts. He gulped with uncertainty. “They won’t?”

  “Nay,” Arthur assured him, placing one gauntleted hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ye doth have my word.”

  Lance dropped his gaze, embarrassed by his behavior and unable to face this good man. “I’m sorry, Arthur. It just be that you… that I never had….” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. Because he knew he wasn’t worthy.

  Arthur gazed at him in confusion. “Never had what, Lance?”

  Lance couldn’t say it. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Nothing.”

  “Art thou with me this night?” Arthur asked imploringly, his eyes studying the boy’s face intently.

  Lance smiled for the first time, reassured that he was still wanted and needed.

  “Truly, sire.”

  Arthur smiled back and then reached out to slip Lance’s helm the rest of the way over his head, adjusting the boy’s long hair so nothing obscured his vision. The boy grinned from underneath it and gave Arthur a big thumbs-up sign. Grinning back, Arthur returned the sign before turning to his assembled warriors, now prepped and ready and awaiting his orders.

  “Attention, my noble knights-to-be! Ye all know the plan. Reyna shalt position the archers, while Jack and Enrique wilt position our swordsmen. Most with swords shalt be near Lance and myself for added protection shouldst the need for hand-to-hand combat arise. After everyone is in place, Reyna, Jack, and Enrique shalt also flank me for our meeting. Be there any questions?

  Little Chris timidly raised one small hand. He wore a billowy tunic and looked like a frightened puppy.

  “Yes, Chris?” Arthur asked.

  “What shalt happen to me if thou don’t come back, Arthur?” The fear in that high-pitched voice touched Arthur deeply.

  The king stepped over to the small boy and gently lifted him into his arms so they could look at each other eye to eye. “Fear not, young Chris, for we shalt return to thee. Ye doth have my word as a knight and a king. Okay?”

  Chris beamed, his fear melting like morning dew. “Okay.”

  Arthur set him down beside a bedraggled Mark, looking pallid, wearing a loose tunic and drawstring pants, the effects of his inner struggle still plainly written across his soft, delicate features like so much graffiti.

  “Sure I can’t go, Arthur?”

  “After what thou hast been through?” Arthur scoffed. “Nay, Mark, though thy loyalty pleaseth me.”

  “I’d do anything for you, Arthur,” Mark replied earnestly, and he meant it too.

  Jack caught that look in Mark’s eyes, the tone in his voice, and a sudden chill wrapped itself around his heart.

  “Then care for this little one, Mark, for he is the hope.”

  He placed a friendly hand on Mark’s shoulder, and Mark gazed up at the man lovingly. “Godspeed, Arthur.”

  Jack put a hand on Mark’s arm, and the blond youth turned to him as Arthur moved back to the main group. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

  Mark eyed Jack uncertainly, taking in the armor and shield, the sword dangling from a sheath around his waist, and then threw his arms around Jack’s broad shoulders impulsively, hugging the bigger boy as though never wanting to let go. “Be careful, Jack, please. You’re my best friend, you know?” He pulled away and looked Jack in the face anxiously.

  It was a caring look, but not the look of love Jack so desperately craved, and his breath lingered a moment in his throat. Then he did what he always did when that pain seized his heart, as it did every time Mark looked into his eyes. He just pretended it was all good and grinned rakishly.

  “Jacky’s got this one covered. Nothing but a scrimmage. I’ll see ya later.”

  Mark smiled nervously and nodded.

  Arthur stood up on a chair and surveyed his assembled troops. They appeared so young, yet so eager, and they were as ready as they’d ever be.

  “Our destiny awaits. Let us go forth to meet it.”

  CARS and trucks bled their way into Griffith Park from every entrance that wasn’t locked or otherwise gated. Normal operating hours ceased at 10:30 p.m., so the gang members had to sneak into the park by whatever means necessary. To attract less attention, fewer cars were employed, which meant cramming each one with as many homies as possible. Much as Esteban wanted every homeboy he could get, even from enemy ’hoods, he and the other shot callers knew that too many bodies and too much movement would attract undue attention from the cops. The park area was patrolled periodically, and he and the guys wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.

  He’d talked a bit with Jaime but didn’t really know how the black gangs were thinking. Jai
me was a hothead and didn’t think all that much anyways. But Esteban, angry as he was at being “dissed” by this tagger guy, wanted to hear what the man had to say. What proposition did he want to make? And why all the races? That didn’t usually go down on the streets. Blacks and Samoans and even Asians were his enemies, just like Jaime and other Latinos from different neighborhoods. That was how it worked, that was all he’d known growing up, so what stupid-ass fool would try to get them all together? As his homie’s old Chevy entered the park proper, Esteban realized he was about to find out.

  A full moon cast an almost ethereal glow over the park and its environs. Arthur stood atop a platform within the Boys Camp area. Cabins surrounded them for summer camp programs, and this platform was center stage for talent shows and other gatherings. Darkness enveloped him. Ominous shapes of normally cheerful-looking cabins and teepees loomed in the shadows, and a cool breeze disturbed the branches of trees ranging from California oak to manzanita and wild sage.

  Rustling noises drifted in from the darkness, from all around him. To Arthur’s right stood Lance and Reyna, he wielding his sword and shield, while she had her bow cocked and ready. Both had braced themselves, eyes and ears attuned to every possible threat coming at them from out of the enveloping darkness.

  On Arthur’s left stood Jack, with a heavy broadsword gripped tautly in his well-muscled arms, and little Lavern, his own bow cocked and ready for action. Of the younger children, Lavern had proven the most adept and accurate with a bow and arrow, and he’d begged to be by Arthur’s side. Backing up this A-team of sorts were Luis and Enrique with their swords and shields, and several other archers named Sergio, Norman, Jose, and Sylvia, a small, usually quiet Hispanic girl, recruited by Reyna, who’d also proven to be a natural with the weapon.