Children of the Knight

by Michael J. Bowler

  Lance cried out and stumbled back, even as Jack pushed his way forward. Lance jumped in front, tried vainly to block the view, but the taller, stronger boy forcefully, but gently, lifted him to one side. Lance’s hand flew to his mouth. His stomach lurched. He thought he might vomit.

  “No,” Jack gurgled, shaking his head from side to side. “No. No. No.” And then he screamed. “Nnnnnoooooo!” and threw himself onto Mark’s lifeless body, hugging the boy he loved, cradling Mark’s head in his lap, and burying his face against Mark’s silent chest, sobbing uncontrollably, his chest heaving and hitching with unbearable sorrow.

  “I love you, Mark!” he blubbered into the dirty blue shirt, “I love you so much. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I never told you….” The tears cascaded down Jack’s cheeks to stain the light blue of the shirt like acid.

  Lance stood rooted in shock, tears streaming down his face, stunned that someone he knew, someone he loved, his best friend who he was supposed to have saved, was dead. Mark was dead! And he never knew. He never knew he was loved.

  Lance dropped to his knees and gently took Mark’s cold, lifeless hand in his, pressing it to his lurching chest, and sobbed along with Jack. They stayed that way for a long time. What did time matter anyway? The boy they both loved was gone, and he’d died without hope.

  Lance went numb after a while, numb with pain and guilt and remorse. I love you, Mark, he said in his mind. I should’ve told you before. And I should’ve saved you. You were worthy, Mark. I’m the one who’s not….

  He didn’t even know how long they stayed that way, Jack cradling Mark, him clasping the dead boy’s hand to his heart, except it was dark by the time he had no more tears left in him to shed, and finally recovered enough to call 911.

  When the paramedics and police arrived, he had to pry Jack off of Mark so they could take the body away. Even then, Jack desperately wanted to go with the coroner, with the body of his beloved, but was told he could not.

  “But you don’t understand,” he told the sympathetic, middle-aged paramedic tearfully. “I loved him. I loved him more than anyone in the world. And I never told him.”

  The small man with the pale gray eyes patted the grieving Jack on the shoulder, and Lance took his friend’s arm. “I’ll take care of him, now. Thanks.”

  They watched the coroner’s van pull away, and then Jack threw his arms around Lance in a crushing hug and let his pain and loss soak into the younger boy’s shoulder.

  An officer approached and asked some questions. Lance haltingly explained as best he could about Mark, about who they were, and how they’d come to find Mark’s… body. His voice choked on the word, almost couldn’t say it. Was that all Mark was now, a body?

  The officer, who recognized Lance from the TV news, patted the boy lightly on one shoulder before stepping away.

  Lance continued to support Jack against him while the police moved around them gathering evidence.

  Finally, after a time that had no meaning for them, the same officer approached. “Boys, you can’t stay here. I’ll—”

  “I’ll handle it from here, Officer,” another voice, gruff, yet somehow gentle, said in the dark. “You take off.”

  Lance didn’t look up as receding footfalls came to his ears. He and Jack remained locked in mutual grief.

  “Son,” the voice said softly, “I know you’re Arthur’s boys. Lance and Jack.”

  That made Lance turn his head and gasp. “Sergeant Ryan?”

  Ryan stepped closer, the sickly alley light making his weathered face appear even more drawn and haggard than usual. He looked rumpled and sad and lonely. “Yeah. I heard about this on the dispatch. I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Lance nodded, gently stroking Jack’s hair in a soothing gesture. The bigger boy had stopped crying, finally, but still held on as though drowning, and Lance was his life preserver.

  “I couldn’t save him, Sergeant,” Lance murmured, almost in a trance. “I couldn’t even save my best friend.” His wide eyes gazed imploringly at the gray-haired detective, causing Ryan’s own cold heart to lurch in his chest.

  “Let me drop you boys somewhere. This is no place to be on a night like this,” Ryan offered, not quite understanding, but sincerely wanting to help these kids.

  Lance nodded again, and arms still around him, led Jack to the detective’s four-door sedan, and Ryan opened the back door. Lance guided Jack into the rear seat and slid in beside him.

  And Lance silently held Jack’s hand along the way, absently staring at, without really seeing, broken pieces of pencil strewn randomly about the floor of the car. The boys remained silent and desolate, hands clasped tightly, unconsciously needing the physical touch of the other, flesh touching flesh, a reminder of life rather than death.

  No one spoke. Only the raspy engine noise and the uneven thumping of tires against pavement filtered into the car. Still enveloped within a haze of shock and remorse, Lance finally asked Ryan to stop at a deserted spot that he knew was close to the LA River.

  “You sure?” the detective asked after stopping the car, his head out of the driver’s window watching the boys exit and glancing uneasily at the shadowy, menacing squalor surrounding them.

  Lance turned his devastated eyes on the weathered, wrinkled face peering out at him. “Yes, sir. This will be fine. Thank you for your kindness.”

  Ryan nodded in return, unexpected emotions spilling over him. “Least I could do, Lance. Give Arthur my regards.” More reluctantly than he would’ve imagined, Ryan leaned back into the car and sadly drove off into the night.

  Lance led Jack down the embankment and along the dry riverbed to the storm drain entrance but balked at going in. He felt overwhelmed with confusion. Hurt cocooned him—hurt over Mark and over his relationship with Arthur. What could he even say to the man? Would Arthur blame him for Mark’s death because he hadn’t found his friend in time? Wasn’t that the quest he’d been given, and then failed so bitterly? He was the one in charge, Arthur’s chosen one. Hadn’t Arthur called him that on many an occasion? And didn’t Jack insist that Arthur was proud of him? But how could he be proud now?

  I let Mark die! I let my best friend die.

  No. He had to think. He needed to skate. That would clear his head. Yeah, he’d skate for Mark. He’d skate ’til he dropped. He’d skate until he could bring Mark back and make everything right again!

  Guiding Jack through the grate, Lance retrieved his skateboard, which he’d left behind when they’d embarked on their quest.

  “Jack, can you hear me?”

  Jack looked over at Lance, his eyes glazed with dried tears, his face riddled with shock and despair.

  “I can’t go in, Jack. I can’t face him. Or you. I failed Mark, man.” New tears doubled and then trebled his vision. “I’m First Knight, it was my quest and my job to save him, and I let him die! I gotta go, Jacky. I just gotta go. I don’t know where, but I gotta go!”

  He spun around and dashed frantically off into the night.

  “Lance, wait!” Jack called out and leapt forward to follow, but the receding scrape and roll of skateboard wheels against pavement told him the boy was gone.

  Broken and bereft, Jack slumped down onto a concrete balustrade.

  “Now they’re both gone,” he mumbled despairingly. “I lost ’em both.”

  The tears returned in force, and he buried his head in his hands, sobbing quietly, with only the forlorn sound of dripping water to keep him company.

  Chapter 11

  ARTHUR stood in The Hub and observed his young charges keenly. They had eaten dinner and cleaned up their trash. Now many practiced their swordplay or sat playing board games or texting on their phones or just chatting with one another. Jenny had returned to her home, and Arthur already felt her absence.

  But it was Lance on his mind, and Mark. Anxiety crept into his heart, and that dark shadow of doom that looked so much like Lance kept clawing at his soul, at his conscience, at his memories. He pulled out his cell
phone and glanced at the screen—no message from Lance. Or Jack. He’d texted Lance every fifteen minutes for the past hour, with no result. What could be wrong? Where could his… the boy have gone? And what of Jack? He, also, had not responded to his texts.

  Damn! This amazing invention that made it so easy to talk to anyone in the world at a moment’s notice sat in his hand, useless as a mute messenger boy from his own time. At least back then one was accustomed to not receiving an answer to a summons right away. He sighed heavily, realizing that he was acclimating to this era faster than he could ever have imagined—he already wanted everything to happen immediately, if not sooner.

  “Oh Lord, watch over me and these children ye hast given me,” he intoned softly, head bent as he paced.

  He heard laughter and glanced up to see Chris playing tag with Lavern and some of the other boys, laughing and jostling and running from each other as though the rest of the world mattered not. That much at least, he mused, had not changed since his own boyhood.

  So lost was he in his thoughts that when Arthur turned to pace back the way he’d come he nearly collided with a bedraggled and haggard-looking Jack, whose tunic was dirty and stained, his curly black hair disheveled, his face tear-streaked, his wide brown eyes orphaned of hope.

  “Sir Jack!” Arthur exclaimed in surprise, causing the other boys within The Hub to stop what they were doing and turn to look.

  Jack threw his arms about Arthur and hugged him like he never wanted to let go, his whole body shaking with despair.

  Arthur’s fears suddenly engulfed him. “Sir Jack, when didst thou return? Hast thou found Mark? Where is Lance?”

  Jack could not speak, continued trembling, struggled to find his voice, but could not regain control.

  Arthur led him to some chairs and sat the boy down gently while Chris, Lavern, and all the other kids gathered round in silence. This was the second time Chris had seen Jack cry. To him, Jack was practically a man and he had never seen men cry. He knew that whatever happened had to be really bad.

  Arthur sat cautiously beside him, gently placing one hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezing slightly. “Sir Jack? Tell me.”

  “Mark’s dead, Arthur!” Jack blurted out, his gaze locked on the floor.

  Chris gasped, as did the others.

  “What?” Arthur felt like he’d been pierced straight through the heart.

  Jack nodded through his tears, and Arthur lovingly cradled the boy’s head against his shoulder.

  “Canst thou tell me what hath happened?”

  “He OD’d, man,” Jack mumbled. “He died in a dirty stinkin’ alley, all alone.”

  Arthur didn’t understand. “OD’d?”

  Now Jack whipped his head up in fury. “Drugs, dammit, he went back to the fucking drugs!”

  The surrounding boys gasped again, and Chris began to cry softly.

  Arthur was stunned, his stomach knotting, his breath caught in his throat. “Dear God in heaven!” He paused, Mark’s letter replaying itself in his mind. “Because of me…. Oh, Sir Jack, did I truly give that impression, that I wouldst hate one of mine own?”

  Jack shook his head, tears overflowing onto his pants and turning the light brown dark. “No, and I told him that, but he was so ashamed for the way he felt. I told him it was okay….” He looked up at Arthur through tear-blurred eyes. “Oh God, Arthur, he never even knew how much I loved him. He was all I had!”

  Arthur’s own eyes welled up and blurred his vision. “Nay, Jack, thou hast me.”

  Jack continued to cry softly, and Arthur pulled him in, rocking him gently in his arms for a few moments.

  Suddenly, Jack’s words hit Arthur like a slap to the face—He never knew how much I loved him.

  He pulled Jack’s head away to look straight into the boy’s eyes, terror clamping onto his heart, doom choking his soul. “Lance, Sir Jack! Where is Lance?” His voice trembled with fear.

  Jack shook his head in confusion, swiping snot away from his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t know, Arthur. He was mad at you for saying something about carrying the banner.” Arthur flinched. “And now he blames himself, said it was his job to save Mark, and he failed you. He took off, Arthur. He just got crazy and took off!”

  He pulled away from the king and stood desperately, suddenly realizing his other friend was in trouble and needed him. “Oh God, Arthur, he was crazy upset. He might do something stupid. We gotta find him, Arthur, before….” He choked back a sob. “I can’t lose him too!”

  Arthur’s face reeked of guilt and shame, but determination grabbed his heart and pounded through him. “Nor can I.”

  He stood then and addressed the onlooking boys, all of whom stood frozen with shock. “As ye have heard, my noble knights, one of our own hath fallen, and we shalt pay him the honor that is his due when we can. For now, we must needs find Sir Lance! That be of the utmost import. Take thy phones and spread out about the city. Find him, and when you do assure him of our love and protection.” He’d almost said “my love,” but foolishly chose not to.

  There were mumbled, “yes, sires,” and accompanying bows and then the boys scattered to gather their knives and phones. Within seconds, only Chris remained, still in tears and gazing silently at Jack.

  Chris observed this older boy whom he idolized, Jack’s head bent in sorrow, tears falling to the floor like raindrops, and then ran to him and threw his small arms around the bigger boy in a tight hug of comfort. Jack gratefully hugged him back and just sat down to hold the boy tenderly, thankful for this precious gift, a little brother who loved him unconditionally.

  Arthur immediately pulled out his phone and typed in Jenny’s number. The kids had attempted to train him on features such as speed dial, but he could never get the hang of it. Her phone rang once, twice, and on the third ring she picked up. A frantic Arthur quickly informed her about Mark, and heard her soft crying over the line.

  Oh, how he hated and loved this invention all at once. He wished to be with her face to face, holding her in their mutual grief, but alas, time was of the essence. Briefly he told her about hurting Lance’s feelings and how the boy blamed himself for Mark’s death. He needed her to go to the skate park, and he would meet her. If Lance ended up anywhere tonight, it would be there. She agreed at once and hung up.

  Arthur turned back to Jack and Chris. “I go to seek Sir Lance. Sir Christopher, please take care of Sir Jack for me.” The small boy nodded, understanding now that his and Jack’s roles had reversed. Now the bigger boy needed him more than the other way around.

  Jack looked over Chris’s shoulder, a look of desperation in his eyes. “Find him, Arthur, and tell him how much I… need him.”

  Arthur nodded and hurried to saddle Llamrei.

  EUCALYPTUS PARK looked calm and peaceful in the moonlight, just the way Lance had always loved it. But tonight was different. The outside exuded peace, but inside of him turmoil raged. Even that new mural of him and Arthur mocked him. Already sweaty and tired from his hard ride to the park, he slipped into the skate park and attacked those ramps with a vengeance. He spun and rolled and flipped, daring himself to stunts more crazy and dangerous than he’d ever attempted. What did it matter? His friend was dead. It was his fault. Did it matter if he killed his own stupid ass? Hell no!

  Despite his best efforts to squelch the memories, Mark’s soft, gentle features kept intruding, flitting before his mind’s eye like a lawyer waving evidence of guilt before a defendant: Mark’s gentle laughter; Mark giving him the thumbs up sign; Mark’s huge blue eyes brimming with tears; Mark’s comforting arm around his shoulders; Mark giving him the fist bump; Mark silent and sad and brooding; Mark flashing that shy little smile; Mark’s angry eyes and pouty mouth when Lance had called him a fag; Mark offering him friendship and acceptance; Mark keeping his secret when he didn’t have to; Mark lying open-eyed in death, pain and unworthiness permanently etched onto his milky white face….

  Try as he might to hurt himself, Lance landed every jump
clean, retrieved his board perfectly after every flip, after every crazy-ass trick, and within an hour of nonstop skating had pounded the mountain of anger and guilt into a smaller, more manageable size.

  Drained and dripping with sweat, the knot of Mark’s death sitting in his stomach like an ulcer, Lance swatted his soaked and scattered Samson-like hair off his face as he despondently lurched across the park and stopped in front of the mural.

  Lance sighed heavily as he gazed at himself painted onto the wall before him. He spotted a Sharpie on the ground beside a trash can, scooped it up, and looked long and hard at the mural.

  At himself.

  And hated what he saw.

  The pen was almost dry, but it still worked.

  He tossed it into the can when he finished and wandered over to plop down heavily onto one of the swings.

  His swing.

  And that was where Jenny found him.

  Lance didn’t even glance up at her as she gingerly sat in the swing beside him, acknowledging her presence with only a slight shift in body posture. His eyes remained fixed on the retaining wall mural of him and Arthur. Now scrawled above it were the words “Youth Sucks.”

  Jenny followed his gaze and frowned at the graffiti. “I heard about Mark,” she began, uncertainly. “I’m sorry.”

  He said nothing. Just stared at those words.

  “Everyone’s out looking for you, Lance. We were all worried.”

  Lance just stared. “That’s me, you know. Holding the banner.”

  Jenny nodded. “I know. It’s a good likeness. Did you add the words above it?”

  Lance shrugged, but said nothing.

  “Arthur’s frantic with worry over you,” she offered.

  That got his eyes off the words and onto her face. “He is?”

  Jenny nodded. “You know he is. He told me about how he hurt your feelings. Oh, honey, he didn’t mean it. He was just distracted, like we all get sometimes.”

  Lance’s gaze returned to the mural and fixed on the image of Arthur. “I know. Jack told me. But….” He wasn’t sure he could admit it.