Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  Before him at his crowning borne, the sword

  That rose from out the bosom of the lake,

  And Arthur rowed across and took it—rich

  With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,

  Bewildering heart and eye—the blade so bright

  That men are blinded by it—

  Arthur paused, shifted his weight on the stone garden bench, and

  moved downward in the poem to his favorite line. “The old order changeth, yielding place to new,” he breathed, his lips moving without a single stutter.

  “Look at him!” came Morgan’s shrill cruelty from across the yard as he laughed and pointed, elbowing Kenneth and Tommy in the stomach. “The big oaf’s mouthing the words. What a moron!”

  “They ought to lock him up somewhere away from normal people,” Kenneth said.

  “He can’t read for anything.” Tommy sniggered behind his hand. “Why is he pretending to?”

  Movement from the left. Without warning, James shot out from behind the hedge, his sketchbook clutched to his chest with white fingers, cheeks pink from the morning chill. “Shut up!” he yelled right into Morgan’s face. “You shut up, do you hear me?”

  Each of the bullies’ faces flashed raw surprise. James hadn’t resisted them in years.

  “Morgan, you’re absolute rubbish at maths!” James raged on, his body vibrating with wrath, “and no one says anything about it. And you can’t spell a damned thing.” This he directed at Kenneth. “You leave Arthur alone. He hasn’t done anything to anyone, and we’re all sick of listening to you talk about him that way.”

  “Don’t tell me to shut up, you little fairy.” Morgan roared and lifted his fist.

  James braced himself for the blow, but it never came. A long, low wail rose from the trees in the direction of the village nearby, alien, mechanical, haunting. Arthur’s flesh trembled at the sound. It was the air raid siren.

  They stood frozen, their heads snapped in the direction of the undulating wail. After a few moments, Miss Pelles shot out of the side door and raced over to the dead fountain, around which the children had been playing or lounging about during their recreation time. “Everyone, inside immediately!” she shouted, gathering girls by their elbows and shoving them towards the mansion. “Head to the kitchen!”

  Some of the girls leaked instant tears as Miss Pelles herded the students back inside through their classroom, the boys’ dorm, down a hall, and into the dim kitchen, where the lingering smell of last night’s stew assaulted their nostrils, bitter and greasy. Mrs. Balin was there with Miss Ivaine and Mrs. Galhad, propping open the door to the cellar. They filed down the slippery, ancient stone stairs and huddled down beneath shelves containing jams, jellies, and pickled vegetables. The adults knelt on the other side, their backs to a vast rack of dusty wine bottles.

  They had only settled when the dull thuds began, moving ever closer. The girls clung to each other, and many of the boys drew their knees to their chests; they hid the fear on their faces. Miss Pelles crossed the narrow space between the adults and the students and wormed between two of the more hysterical ones, putting her arms around them. “Now now, don’t go to pieces.” She forced her words through a plastic smile. “Look, we’re in the middle of the country, there’s no way they’d waste bombs destroying an old country estate, now would they? No, they’re attacking the towns nearby I suspect. We should be perfectly safe.

  The children responded to her soothing tone, inhaling deeply to contain their sobs.

  “Now, Mrs. Balin,” Miss Pelles whispered in an effort to further lighten the mood, “what do you say we open one of those wine bottles and have a nip, eh?”

  Mrs. Balin pretended she hadn’t heard any of what Miss Pelles had said. “Pray, children,” she suggested, and knitted her own fingers together.

  As the planes came closer, Arthur could hear the whistle of the bombs before the impact. The jars and bottles rattled on the shelves with each hit. Sweat gathered at his hairline and under his arms, and his fingers ached as he clutched the King Arthur books closer to his chest.

  He heard a small, watery sigh from his side. There sat James, his knees drawn up, hands clasped around his ribcage. His eyes misted, but his mouth was set in a firm, grim line. His chin wavered as his fears threatened to unhorse him. Still, he kept his face up, illuminated in the light of the small lantern the cook held, his eyes hard and determined.

  The whistles and thunderous booms came ever closer. They could make out the whine of the plane engines, undulating as they flew closer and then away again. Arthur looked his death in the maw, and then fixed his eyes on James, who forced himself to look at nothing, to show no fear. The girls whimpered, Miss Pelles tried to joke, and the bombs fell.

  A strange calm crept over Arthur, and desires came to him in soft waves. He wanted to hold James. He wanted to cover his small body with his broad one in case any jams came flying off the shelves, in case there was a fire. He wanted to weave their fingers together. He wanted to kiss his cheeks to make the tears go away.

  There was a brief respite now, but James knew there would be another wave coming. There were more thuds in the distance. He crawled over to Miss Ivaine, who kissed the cross on a chain around her birdlike neck. “Miss, where’s the Baroness?” he demanded with whispery urgency. “Shouldn’t she be here, where it’s safe?”

  “She’s upstairs with Mr. Marlin, love,” the maid replied, putting a thin hand on his shoulder. “She’s far too old to climb down those stairs, and carrying her would give her too much pain.”

  “But if a bomb hits—” James turned, and locked his frantic green eyes with Arthur’s. They shared a silent understanding, green to green.

  Before Arthur was aware that he had moved, he found himself on his feet. He turned and thundered up the cellar stairs, pushed the door aside and burst into the kitchen. He ran, rounded corners, thumped up staircases, and flung open the door to Lady Barlow’s bedchamber.

  She sat by the window, as she always did, this time wrapped in a soft white blanket that billowed around her. Mr. Marlin sat close by, reading to her from Beowulf.

  “My lady, it’s not safe up here!” Arthur cried without introduction. “We must go downstairs—the bombing...”

  “Arthur,” Mr. Marlin began.

  The Baroness held up her hand, and he silenced himself. “My sweet boy,” she said, turning in her chair as he knelt at her side. “I shall never come down from this room again. I’m very old, you see.”

  “But the house could fall down on top of you.” Arthur cried.

  “Death comes for us all at one time or another, dear,” she replied, stroking his hot cheek with the back of her gnarled finger. “But you should return to your classmates.”

  “No. I’m staying. I can protect you. We can protect you,” Arthur said, indicating himself and Mr. Marlin. “I won’t let anything happen to you, my lady.”

  The Baroness turned to Mr. Marlin, a slow smile crept through the lines on her face. “It’s time, Mr. Marlin,” she said. “He is ready.” Mr. Marlin nodded, and rose from his chair, crossing the room to a tall object draped in white near the armoire that Arthur hadn’t seen when he’d rushed in. Mr. Marlin took hold of the sheet and whipped it away just as a particularly loud impact echoed over the countryside from the German bombing run.

  It was a suit of armor, with a chest-plate, greaves, gauntlets, and a helmet with a visor. The metal was pewter-colored, inlaid with intricate curling vine-like patterns of gold. It was so brightly polished that Arthur could see his face in the curves. The whistling, and the growl of the nearing propellers continued, but it became an unimportant, muffled drone in his ears. The armor was mythical. It was beautiful.

  “This belonged to my ancestors, generations back,” Lady Barlow said. “I’ve had Mr. Marlin pull it down from storage.”

  “Stand here, son,” Mr. Marlin suggested. Arthur obeyed; his eyes never left the metal that called his name. Mr. Marlin removed the chest and back plate fr
om the dress dummy and slid the piece over Arthur’s head. He buckled it into place with leather straps, and then affixed the gauntlets to his arms over his school jacket. Next came the greaves, and finally the helmet. Mr. Marlin guided him over to the vanity mirror so Arthur could see himself.

  Yes, he was a schoolboy with armor strapped over his knickerbockers and jacket, which might have looked ridiculous if his figure wasn’t so grand and imposing. His green eyes glittered from the helmet’s opening for a few moments before he clanked the visor down, drawing himself to his full height.

  “If you are to claim your destiny, Arthur Pendragon, you must unlock your voice,” the Baroness told him from her chair by the window. “This fight cannot be won without words. You are a symbol. You must become the Once and Future King.”

  “I will.” Arthur placed a metal fist in the palm of his other hand.

  “Then it is time.” The Baroness reached behind the curtain, and with every fiber of strength in her bony limbs, she lifted a longsword in a beaten leather sheath. This she held out to him on two hands. “Behold,” she said, “the sword that rose from the bosom of the lake.” She laughed, a silent hag’s chuckle. “Well, from the bosom of the attic, perhaps. This sword was forged in Venice in the 1600s, which makes it very special indeed, though not quite as magical as Excalibur. Still, I think, it will suffice.”

  The sword had a sloping, curved hilt, and a wide pommel, intricately carved with a leaf and vine motif that matched the armor. Arthur drew the blade out from the ruined sheath just enough to see how the metal glistened.

  “It hasn’t been sharpened in 100 years,” she said, “but Mr. Marlin was kind enough to make it glow.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Arthur put his hand over his heart.

  “Listen,” said Mr. Marlin. They both paused and cocked their heads just so.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Arthur said.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Marlin smiled. “It seems the ruckus has died down.”

  “I must admit I am a little disappointed,” the Baroness remarked with a wry smile. “Ascending to Valhalla on a cloud of bomb-dust would have proved quite entertaining.”

  That night, Arthur slept, long and deep with the armor wrapped in a blanket under his cot. The flickering images behind his eyes were of swords and stallions and green men and ghosts, noble damsels, beautiful knights and wicked villains, and the glowing cup of Christ.

  ***

  As he slumbered, so did James at his side, until James awoke to gentle hands on his arm. He stirred and turned on his back. He squinted in the dark. Mr. Marlin’s face loomed above him with a finger over his lips. He beckoned, and James pushed the scratchy blankets aside. They tiptoed through the side door and into the dim kitchen. A single candle burned on the stove and shadows undulated in the corners.

  “My lady needs something from you,” Mr. Marlin said. “It may seem strange, but I ask you to humor her.”

  “Of course,” James said. “Anything.”

  Mr. Marlin handed him a bundle of clothing, smelling strongly of bitter mothballs. James put the costume on over his pajamas, and Mr. Marlin helped him adjust the buttons, suspenders, and collar. Last came the old-fashioned cravat and aged cummerbund. They climbed the stairs in silence and stole down the corridors like thieves. James caught his reflection in a passing gilded mirror. He looked like a boy from a Charles Dickens novel, but a rich one, not Oliver Twist. And in a moment, he understood what he was to do.

  Nim lay in her bed, eyes closed, her hands clasped over the heavy coverlet that dwarfed her gnarled body.

  Mr. Marlin’s guiding hands paused him for a moment near the vanity, where he took up a comb and parted James' auburn hair down the middle, combing it to either side. He patted the boy’s shoulders and nodded.

  James crept to Nim’s side, and took her withered hand. She opened her eyes, and her expression melted into sheer joy, her dry lips crawled back from her teeth. “Matthew!” she whispered. “Sweet boy. Come to Mummy, darling.”

  Mr. Marlin helped her sit, and she wrapped her skeletal arms around James and kissed his forehead and his hair over and over.

  “I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have protected you. I love you. We shall be together again soon.”

  “I love you too, Mother,” James promised.

  “I know who you are,” she said after a time, releasing him and patting his hands. “Don’t think me senile. But the illusion was enough. Thank you, James.”

  Chapter 14

  The last week had been cold and damp, but summer struggled back for one last gasp, flooding the countryside with platinum light, every maple a bonfire. The schoolchildren wiggled in their seats, anxious for recreation time as Mrs. Balin droned on and on about maths. Many of the students had nearly nodded off when Mrs. Balin slapped her ruler down on Morgan’s desk. “Mr. Dredde,” she snapped, “perhaps you’d like to share what is so funny with everyone in the class?”

  He sobered quickly. “No ma’am.”

  “Stand up, boy, and solve the equation on the board,” she ordered.

  Morgan dragged his steps to the blackboard like a man ascending the gallows. After a few half hearted squiggles, he came up with the number 39.

  “Not even close,” Mrs. Balin said, a frosty coating on her voice. “As you see, you need to be paying attention during maths to improve your skills, which are woefully inadequate, as we have all just witnessed.” She paused, looking out over the room. “James. Come here and show Morgan how to do this properly.”

  “Yes ma’am.” James took up the chalk and solved it in less than a minute, careful to show his work.

  “Very good,” Mrs. Balin complimented, clasping her hands over her skirts. “Morgan, you’ve got a thing or two to learn about maths from Mr. Wilde.”

  James passed Morgan on the way back to his seat, and shriveled as the hateful daggers that sprang from his rival’s cold yellow eyes. A pit opened in his stomach.

  His dread matured a few minutes later when Mrs. Balin let them outdoors for recreation time. Most of the students flung their jackets aside and raced out into the glorious weather, but James descended the back stairs with reluctant wariness.

  Sure enough, they waited for him.

  “Oy, queerie!” Morgan thundered, and sprung out from behind the hedge with Kenneth and Tommy. “Think you’re so brilliant, do you?”

  James tried to run, but Tommy darted forward and caught his wrist, yanking him back. Kenneth savagely kicked him in the knee and pushed him up against a tree. Morgan slammed him in the gut with a clenched fist.

  “If any of you tattle, you’ll be next.” Morgan hollered at two girls as they snuck up the stairs to alert the adults of an attack twice as brutal as usual. They veered off and knelt next to the hedge.

  Morgan pried up a sizable rock from the dirt. “Open your mouth,” he snarled. “I’m going to smash out your bloody teeth!”

  A whimper of fear escaped James' lips, though he had vowed not to give them the pleasure. Then, the side door to the mansion opened, and a knight came out into the sun.

  James blinked rapidly and shook his head in disbelief. The metal- clad man clanked down the steps and charged for Morgan. The sword on his belt slapped against his hip. The sound of the armor alerted the bully, and he turned, tripped in surprise, but managed to keep his footing.

  A hush fell over the crowd of schoolchildren. Making no sound, the classmates crept up to watch a legend unfold.

  The knight drew breath into his lungs. “Let him go,” he ordered, his baritone rumbling through the metal visor.

  “It... it’s Arthur!” one of the girls called, recognizing a red patch sewn over the elbow of his jacket. “It’s Arthur in there.”

  “But... his voice,” whispered another.

  Morgan gaped for a moment, and then dragged back the shreds of his dignity. A cruel, blistering laugh spilled from his lips. “What the hell do you think you’re doing dressed like that? Playing pretend like
a little toddler?”

  “Let him go,” Arthur commanded, stepping closer. “I’ll not warn you again.”

  “Shut up, you stupid git.” Morgan heaved the rock in his hand at Arthur with all his might. It clanged harmlessly off of his chest plate.

  “Yield,” came the cool voice from beneath the visor. “Now.”

  Kenneth and Tommy shared a hurried glance, and then dropped James, who sank to his knees. Together, they rushed toward Arthur, fists raised.

  Arthur let the blows fall. They could not hurt him. They tried to push him over, to rip the armor from his body, but he was as immobile as a mighty oak. Raising one hand, he clanged his gauntlet into Tommy’s nose, bloodying it, and tripped Kenneth into the dirt. They slunk away without another word, abandoning their leader.

  The knight turned to Morgan, and drew the sword at his side. It caught the afternoon sunlight, sending piercing beams into the eyes of his foe. Morgan squinted, and held up a hand, and then fell back onto the ground. He scrambled through the dirt to get away.

  Arthur dropped the tip of the blade over Morgan’s throat and let it hover there as a threat. Morgan froze, panting like a terrified rabbit.

  “You will never hurt James again. Ever,” Arthur said. “If you put a hand on him, you’ll answer to me.” He turned to the rest of the class. “That goes for all of you.” He nudged Morgan with his shoe. “Now run away, coward.”

  Morgan rolled and got to his feet. With one last wrathful glance, he sprinted off into the old orchard.

  Arthur nodded, and turned back to James, who stood by the tree. He clanked a few steps closer, and knelt, driving the end of the sword into the dirt so that it stood on its own accord.

  James took a few tentative steps forward, reached out, and lifted the helmet from Arthur’s head, spilling his black curls everywhere. He fell to his knees, tucked the helmet under his arm, and kissed Arthur’s forehead, and then, after a deep breath, his lips.

  They grinned at one another and stood up. Arthur towered over his slight-framed friend. “Wherever did you get all of this?” James asked, running his hand over one of the gauntlets.