The Fire of Merlin (The Return to Camelot #2)

by Donna Hosie

  With my head pounding and black spots appearing before my eyes, I ran from the dining room. In the hallway I hesitated. Through the front door and out into the dark night, or upstairs to my bedroom?

  The tramp or Nimue?

  I chose to sit on the stairs. To my surprise, it was Tristram who came to me first.

  “Sir Bedivere said you had a fire in you, Lady Natasha, and yet again you have proven it,” said the tall, blonde knight, leaning casually against the balustrade.

  “If you’ve come to mock me, or make me feel stupid in any way, Tristram, then I would respectfully ask you to go to hell,” I said through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

  “I would not dare mock you, Lady Natasha,” replied Tristram. “You are a Knight of the Round Table, a formidable warrior, and I would cower from being on the end of your tongue, as much as I would fear the strength and aim of your knee.”

  Tristram lowered his head so it was just inches from mine.

  “You must pack, but travel light. We depart for the woods of Winchester tonight.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Cold Goodbye

  The tension in the house was unbearable. The air was thick and heavy with unspoken words. Instead of fighting like normal parents, my mother and father had removed themselves to their own sanctuaries: a wood-panelled study for my father; a darkened bedroom for my mother.

  Arthur was clearing away what was left of dinner when I went to find him.

  “Tristram says we’re leaving tonight,” I whispered.

  My brother nodded; he was scraping off untouched food into a big plastic container.

  “Have you heard from Slurpy?”

  Silence.

  “Have you heard from…Sammy?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to pack? Should we take extra food, just in case?”

  Arthur exhaled, and slumped forward onto the central kitchen workbench. He lowered his head into his hands and scratched at his scalp. He did this so often these days I was starting to wonder whether he had head lice.

  “What the hell have we got ourselves into, Titch? How did this end up happening to us?”

  “Perhaps it was meant to happen. Like fate or destiny or something.”

  Arthur raised his head, and I was astonished to see his eyes glistening. He wasn’t crying - my brother never cried - but he was on the verge.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been waking up and wondering if today would be the day when mum kills herself?”

  “What!”

  “She doesn’t live, Titch. She exists. Ever since Patrick died, she’s been nothing. Dad can barely stand to be in the same room as her, and you’re just as bad.”

  “That isn’t my fault.”

  “But you don’t even try, Titch.”

  “Is this your bullshit way of telling me you don’t want me to go back with you and the others?” I said. “Because it won’t work.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” replied Arthur sadly, “but is this honestly how you want to leave things with the two of them?”

  Our conversation broke off; we could hear footsteps in the hallway. Our father walked into the kitchen. He had a small, raspberry coloured wallet in his hand.

  “This is your passport, Natasha,” he said in a forced, calm voice. “So there’s little point in looking for it as I will be taking it with me when I leave tonight. If I have to take such drastic steps to ensure you continue your recovery here with your mother, then so be it.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Arthur.

  “I’ve been called back to Brussels,” replied my father. “The embassy car will be here in about twenty minutes.” He looked at me, as if daring me to confront him, but why would I bother? His relief at leaving was so obvious you could have painted the kitchen walls with it. In that moment, I pitied him. He was constantly running away, using his diplomatic job as the perfect excuse to remove himself from any situation he couldn’t control. My parents had closed minds with no admittance for anything beyond their borders of normality. A sadness wrapped itself around me, because my pity was rapidly turning into apathy.

  What if you never see him again?

  And I knew the answer before the question: I didn’t care.

  My legs took control of the situation, and launched me, rather ungracefully, over to my father. He flinched.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you and mum,” I said quietly. Awkward arms were raised, but it felt so wrong. Why was it so impossible for me to show any affection to my father? How could you live with someone for seventeen years and still be total strangers to one another?

  My father patted me on the back, and then, surprisingly, reached out to touch my long, blonde hair. It would have been affectionate – if he hadn’t wiped his hand on his pinstripe trousers immediately afterwards.

  “I’ve never been disappointed in either of you,” said my father rather officiously. “I just hope that one day, you’ll realise that this was for the best, for all of us.”

  And then he was gone. He had long been a shadow of the man that had taken us camping all those years before; before everything changed and the future of our family died along with Patrick.

  But eventually even a shadow will disappear into darkness.

  Arthur dived into his jean pocket and pulled out his buzzing, vibrating cell phone. It wasn’t Slurpy. He swore loudly.

  “They’ve taken her, Titch.”

  “Who?” I asked, not really caring.

  “Someone from Logres. Probably Nimue. If she was the person who did that to your neck, then what could she do to Sammy?”

  “She’s more than capable of looking after herself, Arthur,” I replied, as I thought back to the blue flame Slurpy had conjured in the druid tent.

  “But...” started Arthur, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his face as he stuttered.

  “There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?”

  Call it women’s intuition, but Arthur was deliberately keeping something from me. Something important. It wasn’t as if we told each other everything. The gross mess under his bed was proof of that, and quite frankly there were things I didn’t want to know. Yet Arthur always told me the important stuff. He was my brother and mother and father, all rolled into one. I would even go as far as to call him my best friend, although you would never hear me say that aloud. So I knew him, knew him better than anyone – even Slurpy.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Titch, because I do, you know I do. I’d trust you with my life; I have trusted you with my life. I would have been dead if you hadn’t come for me last year.”

  “Where is this going, Arthur? Oh God, you aren’t going to tell me you love me, are you?”

  My pathetic attempt to diffuse the tension worked a little, because Arthur smiled. Not the expensive-teeth smile, of course. In fact, it wasn’t even close to Bedivere’s attempt at an optimistic smile, but the corners of his mouth rose, just a little.

  “Make it up with mum, just in case,” said Arthur, flicking my forehead with his finger.

  “I will.”

  But we both knew that mum had self-medicated herself to sleep, and there was no way either of us was going to wake her, because then she would just get suspicious and call dad.

  I’d leave her a note. It was better than nothing. I was just too exhausted for another confrontation, and I was terrified they would go further than just taking my passport away.

  People get scared when they think an illness is in someone’s head because you can’t see the symptoms. I knew that better than anyone.

  We wouldn’t need passports where we were going, but I was certainly going to need other things, like soap, a razor and toilet paper for starters. Broad leaves are surprisingly absorbent, but a green-streaky butt wasn’t the look I would be embracing this time. As I threw the pink-handled blade of my razor into my rucksack, I had a sudden flash of inspiration.

&n
bsp; I knocked twice and then walked straight in. Arthur, Bedivere, Tristram, Gareth, Talan and David were crouched on the floor of Arthur’s bedroom, which was littered with sketches and diagrams written across Arthur’s math papers. Tristram was leafing through my Arthurian myths and legends book.

  “I want to borrow Bedivere for fifteen minutes,” I declared.

  Arthur groaned. “Not now, Titch. We’re working.”

  I kicked him. “I don’t want him for that, Arthur.”

  Bedivere was already rising to his feet. “We can only prepare so much against such forces, Arthur,” he said.

  “Oh, go on then,” sighed my brother, knowing a lost cause when he saw one.

  As soon as we were out in the hallway, Bedivere picked me up and nuzzled his mouth against my neck and ear. My toes curled up in my sneakers as my insides tickled.

  “Wait,” I said, reluctantly pulling away from him. “I want to do something while we have time.”

  I led Bedivere into a bathroom; it was the one Arthur and my father used, and so it smelt of deodorant and strong, overpowering aftershave that made my eyes water. The units were ceramic white and plain-looking, and the only decoration was a frayed rope that was hung on the cream wall with various seashells attached to it.

  “Sit,” I ordered, and Bedivere obeyed at once, perching on the edge of the curved bath, which glistened because it was never used – Arthur lived in the shower; my father lived in five-star hotels.

  I stooped down and foraged around in the clutter of one of the cupboards. It was quite staggering how many bottles of aftershave two men needed. Did they bathe in the stuff? Half of it smelt like bleach.

  Eventually, I found what I was looking for. I took the plastic cap off and squirted a big mound of white foam into my hand; it immediately doubled in size, oozed over the edge of my hand, and plopped onto the floor like spilt meringue.

  “What is your intent, my love?” asked Bedivere warily, leaning back slightly as I advanced towards him. “Is this more strange food from your land? I have yet to rest well from the feast Arthur called vindaloo.”

  “Definitely not,” I replied, laughing. I started to smear it around his stubble. “This is shaving foam, and I am going to show you how to shave without slitting your throat with a knife.”

  I showed Bedivere the razor and then sliced it down his cheek. It made a funny crackling noise, like sandpaper being rubbed against brick.

  “There, you try.”

  Very slowly, Bedivere started to shave. I filled the sink up with warm water and showed Bedivere how to rinse the blade. When he had finished, I rubbed some of Arthur’s shaving balm onto Bedivere’s smooth face.

  Then I kissed it all off.

  It would be my last act of 21st century normality.

  Arthur and I left with the knights at 3 a.m. It was freezing cold and wet. A squally wind blew in all directions as we trudged towards Arthur’s car. We had decided that Arthur would drive back to Winchester with the knights’ weapons, Tristram, Gareth, Talan and David; Bedivere and I would get a London black cab. Arthur had earlier withdrawn all of his savings in order to pay for it.

  We left a note for our mother. I couldn’t lie, even in writing, and so we left it brief. Arthur was clearly troubled, but I only felt guilty because I wasn’t feeling guilty. Arthur had mentioned Slurpy in the note, but he was now totally convinced someone had taken her. They had never managed to go this long without some kind of contact, either real or virtual.

  “Now, you remember where we’re going?” asked Arthur for the fifth time, as we reached his little rusty car. He lifted the trunk lid, and threw his backpack in first.

  “Yes,” I replied through gritted teeth. I was wet and cold and I didn’t like being wet and cold. My nose was streaming, and my fingers were threatening to drop off to frostbite.

  The wind whistled through the bare trees - it was almost musical.

  “Nimue and Merlin couldn’t have chosen to battle in the fricking summer, could they?” moaned Arthur.

  “It will be a sore loss to leave this time,” mused Talan, as Gareth and David climbed into the back seat. The knights had been offered some of Arthur’s clothes, but they had refused now that their own items were clean and dry. The exception was Talan, who was now wearing a dark green scarf - not because he was cold, but because he wanted a souvenir of the land of loud song.

  “I will not be aggrieved to depart,” said Tristram, with a surly look on his face. He had been in a bad mood ever since reading my book, something the others thought hilarious. Talan and David had stopped mocking once they realised they weren’t mentioned at all. Filled with superstition, they had to be reassured this book had not foretold their deaths.

  “We shall meet again very soon, Arthur,” said Bedivere, and the two slapped each other on the back.

  “I know I don’t need to say it, but...”

  “My life’s honour is bound to protect her, and I will,” interrupted Bedivere.

  And with that, Arthur’s little white car coughed into life and chugged away into the darkness of West London.

  It didn’t take long to find a black cab, although we had to show the Sikh driver the money before he agreed to take us to the outskirts of Winchester. While I was wearing a thick, cream cable-knit sweater with a roll neck, and a parka jacket, I still snuggled into Bedivere, who immediately wrapped his cloak around me.

  “Does it grieve you to leave your lady mother?” asked Bedivere.

  “Would you think less of me if it didn’t,” I replied truthfully.

  “Kinship can be a wondrous gift and yet a terrible torment in equal measure.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Bedivere? I’ve never asked you about your family before.”

  “I have a half-brother, Sir Lucan. We share the same father, Duke Corneus of Lindsey.”

  “Your father’s a duke?”

  Bedivere shrugged. He looked so young again, now that scratchy carpet had been removed from his face. I thought back to the hall of Caerleon when I had first seen Bedivere, clean shaven and hot as hell.

  Then an image of Lady Puke appeared out of nowhere - or at least my mental image of her (which wasn’t flattering) because I had never actually met Bedivere’s former fiancé.

  “Did you ever kiss Lady Fleur?” I mumbled, as the black cab started to pick up speed. We had reached the near-deserted motorway.

  “My lips graced her hand as a courtesy, but nothing more,” replied Bedivere, and he kissed my nose. “For truth I would have waited my entire life for you, Natasha,” he whispered.

  “So you haven’t had any girlfriends while we were apart?”

  My body clenched as it waited for an answer, but everything relaxed with one word.

  “No.”

  Silence.

  “And did you have any suitors?”

  I could have laughed. Suitors? I saw a psychiatrist, my parents and Arthur.

  “Definitely not.”

  The orange motorway lights blurred into one tangerine streak, as the rain continued to stream down the windows of the cab. The hypnotic cycle of the wipers, and the warmth of the cab soon lulled me into a late sleep.

  The world had turned blue. Not a deep blue like the Mediterranean Sea. It was pale, like shimmering ice. And it was cold, so very cold. I was lying down in a cave of ice, which cracked and shuddered with every slight movement I made.

  “Stay very still, Natasha,” called a voice. But it wasn’t my voice, or Bedivere’s. It wasn’t even Arthur’s. It was the old man, the tramp. He was standing high above me on the lip of a craggy rock. His walking stick was raised above his head, and one end was glowing orange.

  I felt the wetness beneath my cheek. It quickly spread to my clothes, but I wasn’t wearing my jeans and cable-knit sweater anymore. I was wearing soft brown trousers and a crimson tunic. The red cloth was turning darker and darker as the melting ice cracked and dissolved beneath my body.

  “Turn off the fire,” I screamed. “You�
��re melting the ice. I’m going to fall through.”

  Then a woman’s laugh pierced through the cave, and ice stalactites started to drop from the roof, shattering like champagne flutes all around me.

  A split, shaped like a lightning fork, sliced through the ice beneath me as the tramp raised his glowing walking stick, and orange flame shot from the end. It was aimed directly at me. I screamed, long and loud, as the ice ground gave way, and I started to fall into the darkness below.

  I woke with a start. My left fist connected with the cab driver’s head, slightly dislodging his dastar.

  “Is she awake now?” asked the cab driver. “She will not need the hospital?”

  My body felt like it had been stabbed with a million tiny needles. I could barely raise my head, but when I did, I realised I was lying on the leaf-strewn floor of the black cab.

  Bedivere, Arthur and Gareth pulled me out of the car. It was still dark, wet and very windy.

  “I’m not happy about this, not happy at all,” declared the Sikh driver stubbornly. “Why do six boys take a girl into the middle of nowhere in the dark and rain? I am not happy about this, not happy at all. I am thinking I will call the police.”

  “It’s okay,” I groaned, waving a hand feebly in the air. “He’s my brother, and he’s my boyfriend. We’re going camping. Please don’t call the police.”

  With huge effort, I opened my eyes. All five knights were now armed with their swords, and apart from two backpacks – mine and Arthur’s – we couldn’t have looked less prepared for a camping trip if we tried.

  Then the sickness arrived and I puked over one of the back tyres.

  Grumbling about druggies and drunks, the cab driver got back behind the wheel and drove off, leaving the seven of us soaked to the skin in the pitch black.

  “Which way now?” asked Arthur.

  “We follow the bells,” I replied, stumbling forward.